Although I had guessed he probably didn’t know magic, he didn’t ask what I thought, and confidently ground ink and dipped his brush—who gave him such confidence? Moreover, the way he sat straight and looked down on everything revealed a subtle arrogance.

When the master required all students to pick up their brushes and write, he was still like a thousand-year-old turtle, slowly grinding ink.

I guessed that since this Fu Chenzhi hadn’t even heard of the “Ode to Suozhao,” he probably didn’t recognize many characters either. But he sure put up a tight enough front. Han people are indeed different from other mortals—the books weren’t making it up when they called them crafty profit-seekers with human faces and ghostly hearts.

Before long, the master was already sighing from behind: “Quite good, quite good.”

I didn’t need to guess to know who he was talking to. The other students and I turned our heads together and saw him standing beside a student, shaking the other’s writing practice sheet with a face full of blooming chrysanthemum smiles: “This calligraphy is truly elegant and refined, penetrating three layers deep. This old man seems to see the shadow of the previous king Xijian.”

You must know that our master has a habit when teaching—he never says anything good about anyone. When he says “passable,” it’s already the highest praise for a student. Therefore, the child sitting under that writing sheet was truly unlucky, being sarcastically riddled with arrows once again.

Even from far away, I could see the characters on the paper scattered and crooked, leaning every which way, yet each stroke was decisive and resolute, standing proudly erect like the writer’s grass-like hair.

That child was tall and sturdy with slightly dark skin, arms folded across his chest. At this moment he was laughing so hard his eyes disappeared, revealing a mouthful of snow-white teeth, looking as if he’d truly received great praise: “I dare not, I dare not.”

This child was the son of General Marquis.

It’s said that when he was born, his parents had him perform the first-year grabbing ceremony. He ignored the most conspicuous Giant Frostblade, the Four Treasures of the Study, ceremonial caps, and brocade hats, crawled over numerous obstacles to a chair, and grabbed a Dragon-Slaying Golden Peach.

This Dragon-Slaying Golden Peach originally came from islands in the South Sea. Golden in color and covered in thorns, when cracked open, it smelled so terrible that legend says it once fumigated dragons right out of the sky, hence earning this shameful name.

At the time, others had merely presented this Dragon-Slaying Golden Peach to the General Marquis as a curiosity to admire together. No one thought to open it. But this child used all his brute strength to smash it on the ground, dug out the flesh, and ate it with relish…

Seeing this, the General Marquis thought his life’s great cause was doomed. Heartbroken, he gave him a distinctive name, hoping he could “wield brush and ink to flourish literature, following the model of the Three Emperors.” Therefore, whenever anyone heard this child’s name, they either laughed until they fell over backwards or foamed at the mouth—that’s right, he was called Hanmo.

Just like now, hearing those two “I dare not”s, the master nearly foamed at the mouth in anger and released his ultimate move: “Hanmo, today you’re punished to copy the ‘Collection of Separated Cranes’ ten times.”

Hanmo’s laughter stopped halfway: “Why?”

“I tell you to copy, so you copy! No reason needed!”

“The master himself said, ‘Hold your drumming, speak with reason.’ Making me copy punishment without drumming or reasoning—I refuse!”

The master didn’t know whether to laugh or cry: “It’s ‘Have good reason, speak with logic’! What drum are you talking about? You can’t even get this phrase right—copy it twenty times!”

Hanmo argued vigorously: “No, what I heard was ‘hold your drumming’—this is not my mistake.”

While the two were arguing irreconcilably, by rights, we should be quite used to this. But inadvertently, I heard exclamations from behind. Turning around again, I found our desk surrounded by people, all watching Fu Chenzhi write.

I saw Fu Chenzhi had already written a full page of regular script, the characters neat as clouds. Looking at it made me momentarily dazed, actually reminding me of Father King’s calligraphy. On second thought, this wasn’t quite right. Although Father King was the Suozhao monarch, he was also the contemporary Saint of Calligraphy. How could I compare this tender steamed bun to him?

The child who had exclaimed was a Little Talent. Looking at Fu Chenzhi’s writing, he fell into thoughtful silence for a while before saying: “The characters are beautifully written, but he doesn’t even know basic water-channeling techniques. How will he manage future Daoist Arts classes? What a pity—unable to make full use of talents and abilities.”

Another student said, “What’s so great about good handwriting? He’s just a mortal—how can he study alongside us? I don’t know who stuffed him into the Xuan Academy.”

“Shh, the Little Princess is right there, helping this mortal quite a bit. Be careful, she doesn’t hear you.”

“What’s to fear? The Little Princess always loves novelty and tires of things quickly. After playing with him for two days, she’ll get bored. Then let’s see who still takes his side.”

Fu Chenzhi’s patience was quite good. No matter what they said, he continued practicing calligraphy on his own, turning a deaf ear.

Seeing he did not react, those students became somewhat displeased and snatched away the book he was copying: “Stop copying. No matter how beautifully you copy, the Little Princess won’t take you to heart. Why put on this act?”

Fu Chenzhi said calmly: “I’m not copying it for her to see.”

I had originally wanted to help him, but who knew he’d throw out such an answer to slap me in the face. I lazily leaned back and decided to stand by and watch. The student said, “So what? You can only copy anyway. Can you compose poetry?”

Fu Chenzhi frowned: “Compose poetry?”

That student laughed smugly, took out a small booklet from his pocket, opened it, and threw it in front of him: “I wrote this. Can you?”

The booklet contained a poem:

When do bright stars appear?

Raising wine to shoot deer at night.

In scattered light rain,

White plum blossoms in groups of five or six.

This wasn’t the best poem in our Xuan Academy, but among us children, it was already considered fine work. No wonder he was a bit cocky. I couldn’t help but break into a cold sweat for Fu Chenzhi. He took the poem and scanned it several times, looked at it, then looked at me, picked up his brush, and wrote several lines with flowing strokes.

Afterward, everyone crowded over to look, and the entire group fell silent.

The poetry-writing student stammered even more: “Wha—what does this mean? This must be poetry from you mortals—vulgar, we don’t understand it!”

At this moment, a withered hand snatched away Fu Chenzhi’s paper.

Fu Chenzhi probably didn’t want to cause trouble. He looked up at the master with watery eyes showing some worry, appearing rather pitiable.

The master looked at his poem for a long time, taking as long as it would to read several literary compositions, before slowly saying: “Speaking of calligraphy, people of the time say to hide the brush tip to contain the spirit, expose the tip to release the spirit. Look at these characters—the brushwork is like drawing with an awl in sand, even and tip-concealed, yet penetrating through the paper with ultimate spiritual mastery. Fu Chenzhi, you’re still young, and having refined thoughts is good. However, with so many ideas in your mind, I fear…”

The master’s evaluations of students were always concise and cutting, usually four characters hitting the painful spot directly, like “extraordinarily ugly,” “frightening ghosts and spirits,” “like dog gnawing,” “soul-scattering.” But this time he said so much—truly abnormal.

Hearing this, Fu Chenzhi opened his cherry blossom petal-like little mouth but couldn’t say a word.

The master continued: “As for this poem, it’s even more obvious at first glance. This old man won’t comment further.” He placed the paper back in front of Fu Chenzhi, tapped his knuckles on it twice, and walked away.

The paper read:

North of the Han Sea, one cannot swim.

The virtuous lady beneath the Dipper, one cannot seek.

Gazing high across the nine heavens, my neck aches.

Cloud dragons and wind tigers, Yanran returns.

Reading this poem repeatedly, I only understood its surface meaning but didn’t grasp its true underlying significance. At least, not until many years later, when he left Suozhao, I still hadn’t completely understood it.

At this moment, I only knew that this Fu Chenzhi indeed had some ability, so I cast aside my displeasure and smiled slightly at him: “True masters don’t reveal themselves. I sincerely admire you. I am Luowei, pleased to meet you.”

He returned my smile and cupped his hands like an adult: “Little Princess, I’ve long admired your reputation.”

I looked him up and down: “Cute steamed bun, making this gesture—are you acting coquettish with me?”

He instantly returned to his previous ice sculpture expression.

No matter what, I could never have guessed that in just a few hours, I would find it very difficult to call him a steamed bun again, or address him by name directly, much less casually tease him.