Hong Sheng was very popular among these well-bred young ladies. The Hong, Huang, Qian, and Weng families were famous prestigious clans in the Qiantang area, so interactions between their young men and women weren’t bound by so many rigid rules. The Hong family had been scholarly for generations, a century-old prestigious family, and Hong Sheng’s father was even a seventh-rank official. Moreover, Hong Sheng’s maternal grandfather Huang Ji had served as Minister of Justice and was currently a Grand Secretary of the Wenhua Hall and Minister of Personnel—truly a pillar of the state. Hong Sheng knew that if he could achieve success through the imperial examinations, he would contribute to his family’s continuity and provide additional security. However, he truly had no interest in reading poetry and the classics, and no matter how he forced himself to study, he couldn’t absorb anything.

“Cousin Sheng, do you think this ink is really Tinggui ink?” Huang Hui looked down at Xi Mo with curiosity written all over her face. She had long known there was always this piece of ink on her cousin’s desk and had seen it before, but because it was unremarkable, she had never paid attention. Today at the family banquet, when it was mentioned as a joke, she learned this was the ink her cousin had grabbed during his zhuazhou ceremony before disgustedly throwing it away. Such an interesting story had never been mentioned before—it should be because Hong Sheng’s father was too rigid. Every time this matter was brought up, he would fly into a rage, and over time, no one in Hong Garden dared mention it.

Hong Sheng didn’t actually think there was anything shameful about grabbing rouge during his zhuazhou ceremony, but even he didn’t dare touch his father’s sore spot, so he generally didn’t mention it either. Seeing his cousin’s curiosity now, he casually picked up Xi Mo and introduced her with a smile: “Yes, the front of this ink bears the characters ‘Xi Nai,’ and the back bears ‘Geng Shen’—these are the marks of Li Tinggui’s works. Tinggui ink is hard as jade with rhinoceros patterns, rich and smooth texture, lustrous as lacquer, possessing the characteristics of being light to lift, clear when ground, fragrant when smelled, hard as jade, silent when rubbed, black as lacquer when applied, and preserving truth for ten thousand years. This ink is said to be Li Tinggui’s earliest creation. Though it doesn’t look very attractive, its quality already surpasses ordinary ink blocks.”

Huang Hui detected some interest and said with a charming smile: “This ink does indeed have the characteristics of being light to lift, fragrant when smelled, and hard as jade. I just wonder if it’s clear when ground, silent when rubbed, and black as lacquer when applied!”

Hong Sheng understood her hint and knew his cousin wanted to try grinding the ink. This request wasn’t excessive, but even someone as profligate as him couldn’t help hesitating. He had owned this ink since childhood and though he didn’t particularly value it, it had been by his side for fifteen years without him ever thinking of using it up. But when he met his cousin’s expectant gaze, Hong Sheng stopped caring and nodded.

Though it was priceless Tinggui ink, grinding just a little bit to make his cousin happy should be fine, right?

Huang Hui was overjoyed upon hearing this. She specially washed her hands, personally fetched clean water, poured a little into a Duanzhou inkstone, took Xi Mo from Hong Sheng’s hands, lifted her water sleeves with one hand, and slowly began grinding.

The jade hands holding Xi Mo were tender and white with delicate fingers. This should have been a beautiful scene of “green sleeves holding the inkstone urging essay writing, red sleeves adding fragrance to accompany reading,” but watching it, Hong Sheng felt an inexplicable melancholy. What exactly was wrong?

After Huang Hui had been grinding for quite a while—long enough that Hong Sheng was starting to feel reluctant—she suddenly looked up and said strangely: “Legend says Tinggui ink won’t deteriorate even after soaking in water for three years. It turns out that’s really true.”

The moment Hong Sheng touched Xi Mo, he was startled as an indescribable stream of thoughts was transmitted to his heart. When he came to his senses and saw Huang Hui looking at him curiously, he smiled freely and said: “This ink has great spirituality. If it’s just ordinary poetry drafts, she wouldn’t even deign to look at them!”

Huang Hui thought Hong Sheng was teasing her and couldn’t help covering her lips with a smile: “Then Cousin will have to create masterpieces in the future to be worthy of this ink!”

Looking at the heavy flower shadows outside Hong Garden, Xi Mo pursed her lips. Having maintained her existence for so many years, she had naturally cultivated some benefits. One of them was that if she wasn’t willing, she couldn’t be dissolved by water.

A masterpiece worthy enough to make her willingly transform into ink for transcription? Even if such a thing existed, she absolutely didn’t believe Hong Sheng could write it.

Qing Dynasty, Twelfth Year of Kangxi Reign

Xi Mo lay quietly on the counter of an antique shop, watching Hong Sheng who was about to sell her.

She had spent twenty-eight years by his side, watching him display amazing talent in his youth, becoming famous in literary circles at fifteen, and creating many poems, essays, and lyrics by twenty that were widely sung throughout Jiangnan, becoming all the rage.

She also watched him naturally marry his cousin Huang Hui in a perfect match, watched them live in harmony like musical instruments in tune, and watched him rush to the Imperial Academy in the capital for studies, only to receive no official position and struggle everywhere for food and clothing. He was even cast out by his family for abandoning the imperial examinations, becoming so impoverished that even eating became a problem.

She knew Huang Hui’s precious jewelry and gorgeous robes had been pawned piece by piece. Even when everything was exchanged for simple hairpins and plain cloth dresses, she hadn’t complained once. But now they couldn’t even guarantee basic sustenance. So Xi Mo truly didn’t blame Hong Sheng for selling her.

When they were expelled from the Hong family, proud Hong Sheng hadn’t taken much silver, not even taking half of the gold, silver, fine objects, antiques, or calligraphy and paintings from his room—only bringing her, who had always sat on his desk.

At that time, she was happy he hadn’t abandoned her. And now, Xi Mo was also happy she could help him.

He had let her see this world for twenty-eight years instead of spending them lonely and isolated in a box. She was already content.

Xi Mo looked at Hong Sheng, whose face was now weathered. He wore plain cloth clothes and no longer had the elegant bearing of a noble young master. Life’s cruelty had worn away his sharp edges, and his handsome features were filled with a defeated expression. At this moment, his eyes showed reluctance as he repeatedly held Xi Mo in his hands, stroking her, putting her down, then hesitantly picking her up again.

Actually, selling her for money really wasn’t a big deal. Xi Mo looked around this antique shop—the storefront was pitifully small, but two Han dynasty Changxin Palace lamps burned at the entrance, and the Boshan incense burner on the counter was actually burning qinan agarwood. This type of agarwood worth ten thousand gold per piece—the Southern Tang’s Emperor Li Yu had once bestowed a piece on her master, who had treasured it so much he divided a small piece into several uses. Yet here it was being burned so casually—truly wasteful! Looking at the various antiques on the hundred-treasure cabinet, Xi Mo was even more amazed. In such a low-key yet luxurious antique shop, she should live quite well.

It’s just… lying in Hong Sheng’s palm, feeling his infinitely cherishing caress, what was this emotion gradually welling up from deep within her—something that could almost tear at her soul?

“Welcome to the Mute House. Are you here to sell something, sir?” A clear voice rang out as a very young man emerged from behind a jade screen. He had fair skin and pale lips with handsome features, but wore ancient Qin-Han dynasty clothing. The wide-sleeved, tight-bodied wraparound deep robe outlined his slender waist, with the black straight hem elegantly hanging by his feet, his entire being emanating an air of noble refinement. Hong Sheng’s sharp eyes noticed that as the man moved, one could vaguely see a lifelike crimson dragon embroidered on his sleeves.

Hong Sheng’s eyelid twitched. Except for imperial family members, who could embroider dragons on their clothes? For a moment, he began to doubt the friend who had recommended this antique shop—was this helping him or harming him?

The man seemed to know his thoughts and instead raised his sleeve openly for him to see, smiling: “These are theatrical costumes.”

Hong Sheng was startled, only then noticing that this man hadn’t shaved his head but kept long hair.

Since the Manchus entered the pass, they had issued strict orders to “keep the hair but lose the head”—monks were exempt, but everyone else had to comply. Actors could wear previous dynasty clothing, and some could even keep long hair for performances. These were loopholes that could be exploited, and the authorities turned a blind eye without strict prohibition. Though acting was considered a lowly profession, Hong Sheng had no intention of looking down on the other party. Though he didn’t think this shop could be opened by an actor, he still respectfully handed over Xi Mo: “This humble student wishes to sell this ink.”

The man didn’t take Xi Mo but only glanced at her before smiling: “Tinggui ink? For it to have survived until now is truly remarkable. I advise you to keep it by your side.”

Hong Sheng was inwardly shocked. This person could identify Xi Mo’s origins with just one glance—his eye for quality was truly exceptional. However, he licked his dry lips and smiled bitterly: “To be honest, this humble student doesn’t want to sell either, but circumstances force me—I really have no choice.”

The man looked at the calluses on his right fingers from years of holding a brush and pondered briefly: “Even if you sell it, how long can you last? One year? Two years?”

Hong Sheng knew this was only a temporary solution. No matter how valuable the Tinggui ink was, staying in the capital where food, clothing, and necessities were all extremely expensive, he would sooner or later return to his current predicament. But… thinking of Huang Hui’s forced smiles and increasing thinness, he could only smile bitterly without saying more. As a grown man, he couldn’t even take care of his wife and was making her suffer with him. Just thinking about such things made him feel guilty, let alone speak of them to outsiders.

Today was Huang Hui’s birthday. He thought he could at least take her to Tianran Restaurant and let her eat hometown food once more.

While Hong Sheng was lost in self-blame, he suddenly heard the man say: “Can you write theatrical scripts, sir?”

“Naturally I can.” After a moment of surprise, Hong Sheng hurriedly answered. Years ago during leisure time at the Hong family, he often wrote scripts for the family’s theater troupe to perform, earning countless scoldings from his father for not attending to proper business. But why was the other party asking this?

“Let me introduce you to someone. Write a few plays for him—consider this advance payment.” The man acted as if he had accomplished something trivial, taking out several bank notes from the counter.

Hong Sheng stole a glance and found that even the smallest denomination made his heart race: “This…”

“Keep this Tinggui ink well. She will bring you good inspiration.” The man smiled slightly, narrowing his phoenix eyes with an air of unfathomable mystery.