The Xue Residence.

Even in the depths of midwinter, there were no small number of people waiting at the side gate of the Xue Residence, anticipating the scraps of discarded paper that the household set out each day. Some wore servant’s attire and carried calling cards, waiting to deliver them to the household on behalf of their masters.

A young manservant came out carrying a bundle of paper, and those waiting surged forward at once to snatch and scramble. Passersby did not find this at all unusual — for among these scraps of paper, one might find a piece of calligraphy Xue Shi had written in an idle moment, or his remarks on some essay. With great fortune, one might come across half a discarded draft of a poem or painting. Even a brief moment of insight gleaned from any of these would be of considerable benefit.

So every morning, at the tail end of the hour of the Dragon, whenever the manservant came to toss paper scraps into the bamboo basket by the side gate, it meant these were Xue Shi’s discarded drafts. Even one smeared black with ink was eagerly seized upon — one never knew what one might find.

Now one might well ask: in a wealthy household, discarded drafts and calligraphy practice sheets were typically destroyed on the premises — burned, so that they would not circulate outside and cause some kind of trouble. But the Xue household was different, tossing them out freely. Were they not afraid of inviting trouble?

The reason was that Xue Shi believed: if a discarded draft could bring insight to even one person, that was a meritorious deed — a good thing. After all, every person’s understanding was different. Some might find sudden clarity from a single word or phrase, and if they could put that insight to good use, so much the better.

Of course, if someone received such a scrap and intended harm with it, and Xue Shi found out — he would dare to argue, dare to rage, dare to make an enemy of them, and dare to destroy them.

Had anyone truly been that foolish? There had been one — someone had once snatched half a piece of verse, altered it slightly, and passed it off as his own brilliant work at a poetry gathering, garnering great admiration. When Xue Shi learned of it, he publicly and severely condemned the plagiarism, and that person had since ceased to exist in any recognizable form in society.

So if one wished to plagiarize those discarded drafts, it was best not to let Xue Shi find out — otherwise, one was guaranteed to have no dignity whatsoever in scholarly circles.

Naturally, the Xue Household was not truly foolish. What was thrown out was harmless refuse of no consequence. Any truly important discarded materials that could stir up trouble went directly into the brazier and became ash.

And if anyone truly tried to make trouble with those scraps, Xue Shi would flatly refuse to acknowledge them. What of it — just because there was a smear of ink, it meant it was his? Where was the proof? Handwriting could be imitated — why, his four-year-old grandson could imitate his calligraphy. It was clearly just a child playing around, not to be taken seriously. Don’t believe it? He would write one right now for you to compare — believe it or not, the choice was yours.

In short: Xue Shi was a man of vast learning and profound erudition, but he was also a rascal without a shred of shame, and there was nothing to be done about him. That scholarly mouth of his could curse for three days and three nights without repeating itself.

At this moment, Xue Shiyong was in a state of collapse. He could not understand it himself — having lived more than half his life without incident, already a grandfather, how had he suddenly fallen into such misfortune? And it was not just him — everyone in his household was either sick or injured, and nothing was going right.

At first he assumed the whole family had fallen ill together because of the cold weather. But when he nearly choked to death just drinking water, it could no longer be explained by cold weather alone.

Choking would have been bad enough, but the violent coughing had thrown off his balance, and he lurched forward directly into the corner of a table.

“Hiss.” Xue Shiyong sucked in a sharp breath of pain, and glanced at the book boy applying medicine to his forehead. “Lighter.”

The book boy quickly complied, his hands growing even more gentle.

“Master, Official Zhao has arrived,” the Xue Residence’s head steward came in to report.

Xue Shiyong’s body gave a slight stiffening, and his brow furrowed as he said with some irritation: “Show him in.”

Zhao Kun was his closest friend from their school days. He himself had no taste for the murky currents of officialdom — after serving in the Hanlin Academy for a few months and making full use of the imperial library’s collection, his father had conveniently passed away, giving him cause to observe mourning. He never sought reinstatement afterward, and instead went to work as a teacher at an academy, eventually becoming the Headmaster of Luning Academy.

His old friend, on the other hand, delighted in navigating the tides of official life. The two of them did not always share the same views on governance, but their friendship was exceptionally deep. When he had gone to offer condolences at Zhao Kun’s family for the passing of the old patriarch, he had mentioned in passing the string of misfortunes at home — without going into much detail. Yet Zhao Kun had come to seek him out afterward, urging him to have the Feng Shui of his household examined.

Bah! A gentleman does not speak of prodigies, force, disorder, or the supernatural — Xue Shiyong had always found this sort of superstitious nonsense most irritating, and he had exploded on the spot. If word got out, would it not mean that he, the distinguished Headmaster of an academy, was dabbling in ghosts and spirits?

But Zhao Kun had said something about believing in possibilities rather than dismissing them outright — that there was no such thing as a household falling into misfortune for no reason, and what was the harm in having a master take a look? If nothing was wrong, everyone would be at ease. If something was wrong, it was best to address it early.

Xue Shiyong had very nearly grabbed a broom to chase him out and be done with their friendship, calling it no different from a curse — but his wife believed it, and she had gotten into a fierce argument with him over it. After all, their most beloved eldest grandson had been ill for nearly a month and had grown thin as a reed. If something truly happened to the child, she would fight him to the death!

Cowed by domestic authority, Xue Shiyong had given in with grumbling, calling her a fearsome old tigress even as he capitulated. Fine, let them look — it wouldn’t cost him any flesh.

Now that Zhao Kun had truly arrived, his temples began to throb with a dull, persistent ache.

He had a feeling nothing good was coming of this.

Zhao Kun soon came into view — but trailing behind him was a girl. Did the Zhao Family have such a frail-looking young miss?

“Oh, Lao Xue — what happened to your head?” Zhao Kun saw the gash on his forehead, swollen and red as an egg, and looked somewhat astonished.

Of all the things to bring up.

Xue Shiyong gave a grunt. “Bumped it carelessly. And who is this girl?”

“Come, come — let me make introductions. This is the Ninth Young Miss of Marquis Kaiping’s household. You can call her Ninth Miss.”

Xue Shiyong’s brow knitted together. Marquis Kaiping’s household — that would be someone from the Lang Family.

Though he and the Lang Family were not without any dealings whatsoever, neither were they closely acquainted. After all, noble military families and refined scholarly houses were of two minds — the former scoffed at how the latter put on airs of noble poverty, while the latter looked down on the former’s arrogance in wealth. The two had always been somewhat at odds.

And now Zhao Kun had specifically introduced a Lang Family member to him — and what’s more, a young, green-behind-the-ears girl?

Xue Shiyong gave a restrained nod and looked at his old friend. What was the meaning of this?

Zhao Kun quickly added: “She is also the little master I mentioned.”

Xue Shiyong’s mouth twitched. “Pardon — what did you say?”

He must be getting on in years and losing his hearing, he thought. What little master? Zhao Qining, you wretched man — you’d better not have brought a child here to make a fool of me!

“Ninth Miss has some learning in the Five Elements and Feng Shui, isn’t that right.” Zhao Kun looked at Lang Jiuchuan, his stern face full of trust.

“Literary aura — what a dense and vigorous scholarly atmosphere. He’s practically a manifestation of the Star of Literature descending to earth!” Jiangche squatted atop Xue Shiyong’s head, breathing in deeply with relish. Literary aura — if it could absorb this, it would gain further depth on its path toward becoming a divine beast.

But as it breathed and breathed, Jiangche let out a yelp and reeled back, spitting repeatedly. “It reeks — did he fall into a cesspit? How is this literary aura so filthy and polluted? Ugh…”

Lang Jiuchuan looked at Xue Shiyong and said: “The literary aura is present, but Xue Shi’s literary fortune is not only dissipating — it has been contaminated and defiled.”

Xue Shiyong’s face darkened immediately. Listen to this — what kind of talk was this? A perfectly fine young lady of a marquis’s household, and she had gone off to become some kind of charlatan?