The Company

Chapter 21: Ting Gui Ink

The Doctor laboriously set the heavy camphorwood chest on the floor, then leaned against the wall gasping for breath. "This should be the last one, right? My back is killing me..."

The Boss glanced at the dramatically complaining Doctor and said mildly, "You volunteered to help."

"Yeah, yeah, I brought this on myself," the Doctor smiled wryly. What was the saying about thankless tasks? This definitely qualified. He happened to have the day off today and had come to the Dumb Shop to pass the time. When the Boss mentioned it was the sixth day of the sixth lunar month—traditional book-drying day—how could he not help? It wasn't right to just stand by and watch the Boss do all the work.

The Doctor looked at the Boss's slender frame and decided it was more reliable for him to handle the heavy lifting.

Despite his complaints, after catching his breath, the Doctor regretted not bringing a mask. Using a cloth to wipe away the thick dust from the camphorwood chest, he covered his nose with one hand while unfastening the lock with the other.

A cloud of dust billowed out, but surprisingly carried with it a rich fragrance of ink and books.

The scent of ink refreshed the Doctor, making him less concerned about the dust. Unlike ordinary book ink that often carried a faint musty odor, this fragrance was initially rich and aromatic yet not overpowering. Upon closer sniff, it revealed a lingering, profound quality with layers of intertwined scents. The Doctor couldn't resist leaning in to search for the source of the ink fragrance. "Why is this chest different from the others? Could there be an ink stick inside?"

"No, this chest mostly contains manuscripts rather than thread-bound books," the Boss replied, putting down the book in his hands and walking over. He carefully took out stacks of manuscripts from the camphorwood chest, spreading them out one by one to dry in the sunlight.

"You even have manuscripts here!" the Doctor exclaimed with interest as he moved closer to look. He didn't dare touch these delicate items carelessly, not after having accidentally broken bamboo slips from the Classic of Mountains and Seas before. While moving chests was fine, he feared that if he tore even a single page, some mythical beast might pop out. Looking around, the Doctor realized this was his first time seeing this small courtyard within the Dumb Shop's inner chambers. Square bluestone pavers occasionally hosted a caterpillar or two, which the Boss carefully avoided when placing books. At noon, sunlight fell directly into the courtyard, making it perfect for drying books. Surprisingly, the Dumb Shop's collection wasn't large—even with the chest of manuscripts he'd just brought out, the books hadn't filled the entire courtyard.

"Boss, is this all that needs drying?" the Doctor asked skeptically. He wouldn't have been surprised if there were more books—what surprised him was how few there were! The Boss had lived for thousands of years—how could he have collected so few books and manuscripts?

The Boss blew dust off a manuscript, carefully inspecting it while saying calmly, "Books are difficult to preserve. Even Song and Yuan Dynasty thread-bound books are rarely seen on the market now. Most of my collection is stored securely in vacuum-sealed conditions for better preservation. As for what I keep here... this is all."

Hey now! What was with that suspicious pause?Although standing in the sunlight, the Doctor suddenly felt a chill run through his body. Based on his understanding of the Boss, only artifacts he didn't trust would be kept on his person. Did that mean these books were all problematic?

The Doctor immediately froze, not daring to move a muscle. But then he reconsidered - weren't all the artifacts in the Dumb Shop problematic? Hadn't he been visiting frequently anyway? What was there to fear!

As he pondered this, the Boss took out a stack of manuscripts from the box. The rich scent of ink and paper he had smelled earlier wafted over again, making the Doctor unconsciously lean closer. "So fragrant... why is it so aromatic?"

A faint smile appeared on the Boss's handsome face. "You want to know?"

The Doctor nodded eagerly. "Are you going to tell another story? I love listening to stories."

But the Boss's gaze fell upon a caterpillar crawling laboriously across the nearby bluestone pavement. After a long silence, he murmured softly, "Do you know how caterpillars cross rivers?"

"Ah!"

II

Qing Dynasty, Third Year of Shunzhi Reign (1646).

"...We need to prepare for the young master's Zhuazhou ceremony. Are all the items ready?"

What's that noise? So loud... Xi Mo drowsily opened her eyes. She felt like she had been sleeping for a very long time - was it years? Or decades?

"We're still missing the Four Treasures of the Study! The master told me to find a set from the storage room. Make sure to find small, delicate ones that a baby can grasp."

"I remember there's an inkstick... Ah, here it is."

Xi Mo felt the box that had confined her for so long being opened, and long-missed sunlight streamed in. She squinted, not quite accustomed to the light.

"How ugly! Such an unattractive inkstick?"

"But this one is small enough! And I recall the gift-giver saying this is a Tingui inkstick made by Li Tinggui of Southern Tang during the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms period! Priceless! It's just that there aren't any carved patterns on it - they say it was made during Li Tinggui's early period. Fortunately it's from his early period, otherwise it wouldn't have survived until now!"

"Alright, alright, never mind the inkstick's history! At least it's an inkstick, let's get it ready..." The box was closed again. Xi Mo felt herself being jostled around inside the container. Though it didn't hurt, it was starting to annoy her.

Ugly? Was she really ugly? She was the very first Tingui inkstick in the world! Well, it was true that when her master had crafted her, he hadn't yet developed good ink molds, resulting in her irregular shape rather than the standard square or elegant form of other inksticks. But was it really appropriate to speak so bluntly in front of a lady?

Xi Mo didn't have long to complain before she was bathed in sunlight once more. This time, she noticed various items arranged around her - seals, scriptures, brushes, paper, inkstones, abacuses, coins, account books, jewelry, flowers, rouge, food, toys, and more - covering an entire bed in a dazzling, countless array. From the other study implements near her, she could tell this was a wealthy household. Not everyone could afford Xuanzhou paper, Duanzhou inkstones, and Zhuge brushes. Combined with her, the Tingui inkstick, this truly represented the world's most precious set of the Four Treasures of the Study.Among all these items, only she had cultivated a spiritual essence. Though the other objects were exceptionally precious, they remained mere objects. She, however, was the first inkstick her master had ever crafted. When the master mixed the soot and binders into a paste and pounded it thirty thousand times in an iron mortar, he poured too much expectation into each strike, granting her a sliver of consciousness the moment she was completed.

Thus, Xi Mo was born, though from the very beginning, she was cast aside by her master.

Being unwanted didn't matter; Xi Mo remained serene. This way, she wouldn't be given away, sold, or used. Over the following decades, covered in dust in a corner, she watched her young master follow his father's footsteps to create the renowned Shezhou ink, and witnessed both master and father being granted the imperial surname Li by Emperor Li Yu of the Southern Tang, later renamed Li Tinggui. The world knew that "gold is easier to obtain than Li's ink," but in the end, only she—crafted while her master still bore the surname Xi—survived. Thus, she named herself Xi Mo.

Later, her master's fame surpassed his father's, and the world-renowned Li's ink gradually became known as Tinggui ink.

Then, eventually, her master died.

Xi Mo still struggled to adapt to her long life, yet she knew she was different from other objects. Over centuries, she changed hands multiple times. Though unsightly in appearance, her quality was exceptional. Identified as Tinggui ink, she was now worth a fortune. She last saw sunlight when gifted to the Hong family, she recalled? The head of the Hong family at the time didn't care for her, casually locking her away in the storeroom.

Trapped in a Brocade Box, what could she do but sleep? She'd rather be discarded in a corner like before.

Speaking of which, had she slept another long stretch? Why had people's attire changed so much? Women seemed largely unchanged, but why were men's foreheads half-bald with a large braid tied behind?

Xi Mo watched in astonishment as a group of richly dressed men and women surrounded a jade-like little boy and brought him forward. Ah, yes, this was a Zhuazhou ceremony—where a one-year-old chooses items to predict their future and temperament.

What could a mere one-year-old understand? Xi Mo watched skeptically as the boy was placed on the bed.

"Sheng'er, take whatever you like," a radiant woman said with a warm smile. Her hair was neatly styled in a matron's bun, her eyes bright and teeth pearly white, adorned with pearls and jade—likely the boy's mother.

Encouraged, little Sheng'er began selecting from the array of items. When his grape-like, dewy eyes glanced her way, Xi Mo couldn't help but feel a flicker of anticipation.

"Humans are inherently good at birth." The younger the child, the more they perceive mysteries adults cannot. Xi Mo watched as Sheng'er scanned the room once before decisively crawling toward her on hands and knees. Before she could prepare, she found herself lifted by a pair of chubby little hands.Xi Mo stared blankly at the little infant right before her—soft, pale, and looking as fragile as a porcelain doll. She watched almost dazedly as this porcelain doll beamed a wide smile at her.

No one had ever smiled at her with such purity before.

Her master despised her for not being perfect enough, many people detested her ugly appearance, and others saw her as a rare commodity. Only this little boy smiled at her so simply.

Xi Mo's touched feelings didn't last long. Before the surrounding adults could even begin their stream of auspicious words, everyone watched in surprise as the baby swiftly put Xi Mo into his mouth.

"Waaah!" An earth-shattering cry pierced the air. Covered in drool, Xi Mo was silently tossed back onto the bed.

She should have known better than to place too much hope in a one-year-old child!

Xi Mo knew her scent carried the distinctive musty odor of an inkstick. Even if Sheng could sense her unique spiritual quality different from other objects, this smell was simply unbearable.

But knowing was one thing—seeing how Sheng, who had just been holding her like a treasure, was now enamored with a box of rouge, Xi Mo couldn't help but feel disgruntled.

Hmph! This brat is only one year old and already knows about eating rouge! What will he be like when he grows up? No wonder his father is so angry...

Fifteen years later.

"Sheng cousin, is this inkstick the legendary one?" asked an elegant young woman curiously.

"Yes, this is the legendary one," replied a handsome young man with a helpless expression. He had an oval face, delicate features, and an elegant demeanor that exuded the grace of a young master from a noble family, captivating anyone who saw him. The young woman beside him bore some resemblance to him—fair as jade, dressed in a lake-blue gown with moonbeam patterns. Having reached adulthood, she wore two jade hairpins with plum blossom designs, enhancing her flower-like beauty and radiant charm.

This handsome young man was Hong Sheng, the eldest son of the Hong family, and the young woman beside him was his cousin Huang Hui. They were close in age, with Huang Hui being just one day younger than Hong Sheng, so they had grown up together and shared a deep bond. Today, Huang Hui happened to hear about Hong Sheng's Zhuazhou Ceremony (a tradition where a child chooses an object to predict their future) from his childhood and insisted on seeing the famous Tingui Inkstick.

Xi Mo sat quietly on the desk. Since the Zhua Zhou ceremony fifteen years ago, she had left her life in a box and was sent to Hong Sheng. Of course, this was only because Hong Sheng's rigid father refused to accept that his son had chosen rouge and insisted that his son must study for the imperial examinations to bring glory to the family.

In truth, this idea was utterly impractical. Having observed Hong Sheng for fifteen years, Xi Mo sighed silently. Over these years, she had been placed on Hong Sheng's desk, watching him study the "Three Character Classic," "Standards for Being a Good Student," attend clan school, and read the Four Books and Five Classics. She understood him better than anyone else in the world—this eldest son of the Hong family was simply not cut out for the imperial examinations! Forcing him to write eight-legged essays would be nothing short of torture!Hong Sheng's greatest delight was mingling with his sisters and female cousins at the Hong Family Estate in Hangzhou's Xixi wetlands, where they composed poetry, painted, and exchanged verses in joyous gatherings. These young women had even established the "Plantain Garden Poetry Society," celebrating willow catkins in spring, lotus flowers in summer, begonias in autumn, and wintersweet blossoms in winter. For respectable young ladies to gather for such amusement was utterly unimaginable to Xi Mo—in her experience, well-bred maidens never ventured beyond their inner chambers, with some never even leaving their embroidery towers before marriage. She was certain this women's poetry society must have been the first of its kind in history.

Hong Sheng was immensely popular among these gentlewomen. The four prominent families—Hong, Huang, Qian, and Weng—were distinguished clans in the Qiantang region, allowing young men and women to interact without excessive formality. The Hong family boasted generations of scholarly tradition and centuries of prestige, with Hong Sheng's father holding a seventh-rank official position. His maternal grandfather Huang Ji had served as Minister of Justice and currently held the prestigious titles of Grand Secretary of the Wenhua Hall and Minister of Personnel, making him a pillar of the state. Though Hong Sheng knew that achieving success in the imperial examinations would secure his family's legacy, he found himself utterly disinterested in studying the Confucian classics—no matter how he forced himself, the texts simply wouldn't stick.

"Cousin Sheng, is this truly an inkstick made by Li Tinggui?" Huang Hui gazed down at Xi Mo with keen curiosity. She had long noticed the inconspicuous inkstick on her cousin's desk but only learned its significance during a family banquet, where it was mentioned as an amusing anecdote—this was the very inkstick Hong Sheng had grabbed during his one-year-old fate-selection ceremony, only to discard it disdainfully. The story was so delightful, yet no one ever spoke of it, likely because Uncle Hong's rigid temperament made him fly into a rage whenever it was mentioned, eventually silencing all discussion within the estate.

Though Hong Sheng saw no shame in having chosen rouge during his fate-selection, even he dared not provoke his father's wrath and generally avoided the topic. Seeing his cousin's interest, he picked up Xi Mo and explained with a smile: "Indeed. The front bears the characters 'Xi Nai,' while the back shows 'Geng Shen'—the hallmark of Li Tinggui's work. Tinggui inksticks are hard as jade with rhinoceros-horn grain, smooth-textured with lacquer-like luster. They're lightweight when lifted, produce clear ink when ground, emit fragrance when smelled, hard as jade, silent when rubbed, and leave jet-black marks that endure for millennia. This piece is said to be among Li Tinggui's earliest creations—plain in appearance but superior to ordinary inksticks."

A spark of amusement lit Huang Hui's eyes as she teased: "It certainly feels lightweight, fragrant, and jade-like! But I wonder if it grinds clearly, rubs silently, and produces jet-black ink?"

Hong Sheng immediately understood her subtle hint to test the inkstick. Though not an unreasonable request, even this free-spending young man hesitated. Though he'd never valued it highly, the inkstick had remained at his side for fifteen years since childhood, and he'd never considered using it. Yet under his cousin's hopeful gaze, he threw caution to the wind and nodded.

Even if it was a priceless Tinggui inkstick, grinding just a small amount to please his cousin couldn't hurt, could it?Huang Hui was overjoyed at these words. She deliberately washed her hands, personally fetched clear water, poured a little into a Duanzhou inkstone, took the Xi inkstick from Hong Sheng’s hand, lifted her sleeve with one hand, and began grinding it slowly.

Her jade-like hand, holding the Xi inkstick, was delicate and fair, with slender fingers. It should have been a beautiful scene of "a green-clad maiden presenting the inkstone to hasten the writing, a red-sleeved companion adding fragrance to accompany reading." Yet, as Hong Sheng watched, an indescribable sense of melancholy washed over him. What exactly was amiss?

Huang Hui ground the ink for a long while—so long that Hong Sheng began to feel reluctant—when she suddenly looked up and remarked strangely, "It’s said that Tinggui inksticks remain intact even after soaking in water for three years. It turns out to be true."

The moment Hong Sheng touched the Xi inkstick, he was momentarily stunned. An inexplicable wave of emotion passed through his heart. When he regained his composure, he saw Huang Hui watching him with curiosity and smiled casually, saying, "This inkstick has a spirit. Ordinary poems wouldn’t even catch her eye!"

Thinking Hong Sheng was teasing her, Huang Hui couldn’t help covering her lips with a light laugh. "Then, cousin, you’ll have to create a masterpiece worthy of this inkstick in the future!"

Outside, the flower shadows layered heavily in Hong Garden. The Xi inkstick curled her lips slightly. Having maintained her existence for so many years, she had naturally cultivated some advantages. One of them was that she could not be dissolved by water unless she was willing.

A monumental work that could make her willingly dissolve into ink for transcription? Even if such a work existed, she absolutely refused to believe Hong Sheng was capable of writing it.

III

Qing Dynasty, Kangxi 12th Year.

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

She had been by his side for twenty-eight years. She had witnessed his astonishing talent emerge in his youth—famous in literary circles by fifteen, and by twenty, he had already composed numerous poems, lyrics, and songs that were widely sung throughout Jiangnan, enjoying a time of great popularity.

She had also seen him and his cousin Huang Hui naturally marry, strengthening family ties, watching them harmonize like lute and zither, treating each other with respect. She saw him journey to the capital to study at the Imperial Academy, yet he never obtained an official post, instead running about to make ends meet. He even abandoned the imperial examinations, earning his parents’ disapproval, and was expelled from the family, reduced to such poverty that even meals became a struggle.

She knew that Huang Hui’s precious jewelry and splendid robes had been gradually exchanged for pawn tickets. Even when she swapped them all for simple wooden hairpins and plain cloth dresses, Huang Hui never uttered a word of complaint. But now, they could no longer guarantee their basic sustenance. So, the Xi inkstick truly did not blame Hong Sheng for selling her.

Back when they were expelled from the Hong family, the proud Hong Sheng had taken very little silver with him. He hadn’t taken a single piece of the gold, silver, antiques, or paintings from his room—only her, who had always rested on his desk.

At that time, she was glad he hadn’t abandoned her. And now, the Xi inkstick was glad she could be of help to him.

He had allowed her to see the world for twenty-eight years, rather than languishing in loneliness inside a box. For that, she was content.

The Xi inkstick gazed at Hong Sheng, his face now weathered by hardship. Dressed in coarse cloth, he no longer resembled the elegant nobleman of his youth. Life’s harshness had smoothed his edges, and his once-handsome features were now tinged with desolation. In his eyes lingered reluctance as he repeatedly picked up the Xi inkstick, caressed it in his hands, set it down, and then hesitantly picked it up again.Actually, selling her for money was truly nothing to fuss about. Xi Mo surveyed this antique shop—the space was pitifully small, yet two Han Dynasty Changxin Palace Lanterns burned brightly at the entrance. On the counter, the Bo Shan incense burner was actually filled with kyara aloeswood, a rarity worth ten thousand gold per sliver. The Southern Tang’s last emperor had once gifted her master a single piece, which he treasured so dearly that he divided it into several uses. Yet here, it was left to burn so freely—such a wasteful extravagance! And as for the various antiques displayed in the Curio Cabinet, Xi Mo was even more astounded. In such an understated yet luxurious antique shop, she ought to live quite comfortably.

But then—lying in Hong Sheng’s palm, feeling his infinitely tender caress, an emotion that seemed capable of tearing her soul apart gradually welled up from the depths of her heart. What in the world was this feeling?

"Welcome to Dumb Shop, esteemed guest. Are you here to sell something?" A clear voice rang out as a very young man emerged from behind a jade screen. With fair skin, pale lips, and handsome features, he was dressed in ancient Qin-Han era attire. The wide-sleeved, form-fitting Wrapped Robe accentuated his slender waist, while the black straight hem draped elegantly at his feet, exuding an aura of refined nobility. Hong Sheng’s sharp eyes noticed that as the man moved, a vividly embroidered crimson Dragon was faintly visible inside his sleeve.

Hong Sheng’s eyelids twitched. Aside from royalty, who would dare embroider a dragon on their clothing? Instantly, he grew suspicious of the friend who had recommended this antique shop—was this meant to help or harm him?

As if reading his thoughts, the man raised his sleeve openly for Hong Sheng to see and smiled. "This is theatrical costume."

Hong Sheng was taken aback, only then noticing that the man before him had not shaved his head but instead wore his hair long.

Since the Manchu conquest, the decree of "keep your hair and lose your head" had been strictly enforced, with exceptions only for monks. However, actors performing in period dramas were permitted to wear former dynasty costumes, and some even grew their hair for roles—loopholes the authorities tacitly overlooked. Though actors belonged to the lowest social class, Hong Sheng felt no contempt for them. Even if he doubted an actor could afford to run such a shop, he respectfully extended the inkstick in his hand. "I wish to sell this ink."

The man didn’t take it but merely glanced at it before smiling faintly. "Ting Gui ink? Remarkable that it has survived to this day. I advise you to keep it with you."

Hong Sheng was inwardly astonished. With just one look, the man had identified the ink’s origin—truly perceptive. Yet, licking his dry lips, he replied bitterly, "To be frank, I’d prefer not to sell it, but circumstances leave me no choice."

The man observed the calluses on Hong Sheng’s right hand from years of writing and mused, "Even if you sell it, how long will it sustain you? A year? Two?"

Hong Sheng knew it was only a temporary solution. No matter how valuable the Ting Gui ink was, living in the capital—where every expense was exorbitant—would eventually return him to his current plight. But... he thought of Huang Hui, forcing smiles while growing thinner, and could only sigh in silence. As a man, he felt ashamed for failing to provide for his wife, let alone speak of such hardships to others.

Today was Huang Hui’s birthday. At the very least, he wanted to take her to Tianranju for a taste of their hometown cuisine.

As Hong Sheng wallowed in self-reproach, the man suddenly asked, "Can you write operas?"

"Naturally, I can." Hong Sheng replied hastily after a moment’s surprise. In his youth, during idle moments at the Hong family estate, he often wrote operas for the household troupe, earning frequent scoldings from his father for neglecting his duties. But why was the man asking this?

"Let me introduce you to someone. Write a few operas for him—this is an advance payment." As if handling a trivial matter, the man pulled several banknotes from the counter.Hong Sheng stole a glance and found that even the smallest denomination made his heart race: "This..."

"Keep this Tinggui inkstick well. She will bring you excellent inspiration." The man smiled faintly, his phoenix eyes narrowing with an air of profound mystery.

Qing Dynasty, 31st year of Kangxi's reign.

Xi Mo sat beneath the candlelight, quietly watching Hong Sheng as he wrote furiously.

Unbeknownst to her, she had accompanied him for forty-seven years, watching him grow older year by year, observing how his once youthful and handsome face gradually bore the marks of passing time, yet increasingly radiated wisdom and maturity.

Hong Sheng truly accomplished his magnum opus—the widely popular masterpiece "The Palace of Eternal Life." When this opera premiered, it even caused streets to empty as crowds flocked to see it. The imperial court also staged performances, and troupes like Juhe Troupe and Neiju Troupe in the capital gained fame for their renditions. High-ranking officials and royalty took pride in inviting troupes capable of performing "The Palace of Eternal Life," and for a time, Hong Sheng enjoyed unparalleled prominence in the capital. During that period, he became the sought-after guest of nobles and officials. He achieved what he had set out to do—Huang Hui no longer needed to redeem the pawned gold and silver jewelry herself, as others willingly returned them. Though Hong Sheng never passed the imperial examinations, his name became even more household than that of a top scholar.

However, as success often sows the seeds of downfall, Hong Sheng unwittingly became entangled in the vortex of power struggles, falling victim to the conflicts among the princes. During the mourning period for Empress Xiaoyi, a performance of "The Palace of Eternal Life" led to his impeachment and imprisonment merely a year after his rise to fame. Fortunately, Emperor Kangxi did not pursue the matter severely, only revoking his status as an Imperial Academy Student and forcing him to leave Beijing and return to his hometown in Qiantang.

"Cousin, the night is deep and the dew heavy. Rest early." Huang Hui entered the study, holding a bowl of soup. After returning to Qiantang, she had once again removed her hair ornaments, wearing only a simple sandalwood hairpin, embodying modesty and simplicity. Though the same age as Hong Sheng, she appeared much younger. Whether in times of extreme poverty or great fame, she never complained nor grew arrogant, always maintaining a gentle smile. Even now, as they faced more difficult circumstances, Huang Hui never uttered a word of complaint. After selling their house in Beijing, she followed Hong Sheng back to Qiantang without hesitation.

Xi Mo couldn't help but glance at her.

Perhaps Xi Mo was jealous of her. Though she herself had been by Hong Sheng's side from the beginning, it was his wife who had consistently supported him. Yet, faced with such a perfect woman, she had to admit that Hong Sheng was fortunate to have married her. The two had grown up together as childhood sweethearts and shared a deep marital bond...

Xi Mo watched as Hong Sheng took the soup bowl, drinking contentedly while speaking softly with Huang Hui. The warm scene resembled an illustration from a book.

Having someone by your side makes even the hardest times bearable... Xi Mo suddenly felt that her own life, though long, was mostly filled with loneliness and darkness.

Huang Hui collected the empty soup bowl, urged her husband not to stay up too late, and left the study. Hong Sheng, holding a Huzhou brush, paused over a blank sheet of paper, lost in thought.Xi Mo had grown accustomed to Hong Sheng's absent-minded trances, often emptying her own thoughts alongside him, contemplating nothing at all. In truth, during countless such moments of silent confrontation between the man and the ink, Xi Mo always felt that Hong Sheng could somehow perceive her presence.

"Xi Mo... ever since returning from the capital, you seem preoccupied..." After prolonged silence, Hong Sheng had developed a habit of murmuring to Xi Mo. Huang Hui had noticed this several times, chiding him for his foolish devotion. Yet he needed someone to confide in, even if it was just an ink stick that couldn't respond.

Xi Mo was taken aback. She had become used to Hong Sheng's eccentric bursts of conversation, his tendency to utter inexplicable things to her. But this time... he didn't seem to be rambling nonsensically...

"Are you regretting my demotion back to my hometown? Actually, this is for the best, Xi Mo. I was too foolish - staying in that devouring place would have consumed me whole eventually." Hong Sheng smiled wryly. The capital's splendor had dazzled him, and the success of "The Palace of Eternal Youth" had nearly paralyzed his creative spirit.

"I promised you I'd write a masterpiece for the ages." Hong Sheng reached out to caress Xi Mo. After years of handling, the ink stick had become smooth as jade, its texture so exquisite it was hard to put down.

"I've accomplished nothing in my craft, my life half-wasted in destitution, having experienced all the partings and reunions, joys and sorrows of this cold world. Those sisters and cousins all shared the same tragic fate - thousands of beauties weeping as one. Even my cousin, who lost her mother young, though she married me, soon saw her father pass away, accompanying me through this turbulent life..." Hong Sheng murmured, his words tinged with self-reproach. The Hong family had once been distinguished - during the Southern Song dynasty, three generations produced ministers and scholars renowned throughout the land. But in his generation, implicated in the Revolt of the Three Feudatories, their estate was confiscated, his parents exiled to military service, his sisters dying one by one of despair. Even returning to his hometown meant facing the abandoned Hong Garden.

"Ultimately, nothing remains but a vast expanse of whiteness..." Hong Sheng sighed mournfully.

Xi Mo watched him pick up his brush again and slowly write: "In this busy, dusty world, having accomplished nothing, I suddenly recall all the girls I have known, considering each in turn, I realize that all of them surpass me in behavior and understanding. Why is it that I, a man with real dignity, am actually inferior to these women? This is a day of great regret that serves no purpose... At this point, I wish to record all the memories of my youth, my days of silken luxury and rich feasts, my ingratitude toward my father's and brothers' instruction, my disregard for friends' advice - all my faults leading to this present state of having achieved nothing and being halfway through life in destitution - compiling them into a book to show the world..."

Being an ink stick with spiritual awareness, Xi Mo could sense all works written with her ink. Over the years she had perceived countless classics, but this novel Hong Sheng was writing particularly captivated her. The male protagonist was born with a piece of jade in his mouth, inscribed with the character for "nation." The jade bore eight characters, similar to the Imperial Jade Seal known as the Heirloom Seal of the Realm, symbolizing the Han dynasty's mandate. In the second year of Shunzhi's reign, an uncertainly identified "crown prince" had been beheaded in the capital. Xi Mo remembered - Hong Sheng happened to be born in the second year of Shunzhi's reign. And grabbing rouge during the one-year-old Zhua Zhou ceremony? Wasn't this character essentially himself?Could this person still harbor thoughts of opposing the Qing and restoring the Ming? Looking at the Kings of the East, West, South, and North mentioned in his writing, it clearly alludes to the four non-imperial princes of the early Qing dynasty. The Northern Prince of Peace in the text is none other than Geng Jingzhong, the future Prince of Jingnan—the only one among the four non-imperial princes to inherit the title. She still remembers that Geng Jingzhong was also a close friend of Hong Sheng. The two had feasted and drank together in the capital during the eighth year of the Kangxi era, and she had even met him a few times. The Northern Prince of Peace in the book, described as not yet twenty, handsome, gentle, and humble in temperament, is truly a replica of Geng Jingzhong.

Now, the character Tanchun in the text, who is hinted at marrying far away to become a princess consort, should be Hong Sheng’s sister. She indeed married Geng Jingzhong, traveling three thousand miles by boat to Fujian to become a princess consort.

Hmm, in the text, both Daiyu and Baochai are cousins of Baoyu. Which one is Huang Hui? It must be Daiyu, right? Huang Hui also lost her mother at a young age, and her father, who held a high official position, died young as well...

Xi Mo’s emotions surged as she quietly accompanied Hong Sheng, watching him pen his life story stroke by stroke, infusing his blood and tears into every phrase, each word a gem.

Qing Dynasty, 43rd year of the Kangxi era.

Xi Mo felt somewhat unsettled. Cao Yin, the Commissioner of Imperial Textiles in Jiangning, had gathered renowned scholars from the north and south for a grand gathering, exclusively seating Hong Sheng in the place of honor and staging the entire The Palace of Eternal Youth. It was said the performance would last three full days and nights. But by her calculations, Hong Sheng should have returned from Jiangning long ago.

Before he left, she had overheard the conversation between Hong Sheng and Huang Hui. Hong Sheng intended to bring the manuscript of The Story of the Stone with him this time. Cao Yin was his good friend and often published works for impoverished scholars in the Jiangnan region. He wanted to ask Cao Yin to publish this The Story of the Stone.

It truly was a monumental masterpiece, but unfortunately, it remained unfinished.

Xi Mo felt her unease stemmed from not having seen any chapters beyond the eightieth for several days.

How infuriating! Didn’t he know he hadn’t finished this month’s new chapters? How could he wander off like this and not take her along? This was no way to delay a manuscript!

Yet, time passed so quickly. It seemed like only yesterday he was that dashing, elegant young man, but in the blink of an eye, he was already an old man nearing sixty.

Human life, it seemed, was incredibly fleeting...

As Xi Mo lost herself in these thoughts, she suddenly heard Huang Hui’s heart-wrenching sobs.

“Xi Mo... Cousin... Cousin, on his way back, passed through Wuzhen... He boarded a boat after drinking... fell into the water and drowned...” Huang Hui was dazed and disoriented. Knowing that Hong Sheng often spoke to Xi Mo as if she were real, she instinctively did the same in her grief and isolation.

Tears streamed down Huang Hui’s face as she struggled to accept the tragic news. She had been with her cousin for so long that she had come to believe they would never part.

"In the heavens, we wish to be twin birds flying together; on earth, we wish to be intertwined branches." A decade ago, she had even prepared a shared burial plot for the two of them, never imagining this day would come so soon.

Xi Mo watched silently from the side. Human life was indeed fleeting, like the dazzling fireworks she had seen during the New Year—gone in the blink of an eye, vanishing without a trace.Why did her heart ache so much? What could she do for him? Was she to continue living through those long and lonely years? "No, I can't just follow him yet. The only manuscript was taken by my cousin, but there are still his drafts at home. I must transcribe a copy for him..." After a brief moment of sorrow, Huang Hui firmly wiped away her tears. She had always been such a woman—poverty couldn't make her bow her head, nor could hardship bend her spine. Even after all these years, she remained unchanged.

When she regained her composure, she realized she was holding an irregularly shaped inkstick in her hand. Its appearance was unremarkable, even somewhat ugly.

Imitating Hong Sheng's usual habit, Huang Hui gently traced the patterns on the inkstick with her hand and said slowly, "Xi Mo, I still remember the playful words my cousin said back then. Now that he has written a masterpiece for the ages, will you stay with him?"

Yes. This was their promise.

Xi Mo smiled faintly.

Four

"Is this... the manuscript written with ink made from that Ting Gui inkstick?" The Doctor looked down at the papers in the Boss's hands. The ink on them was as dark as lacquer, even emitting a refreshing fragrance. "But that's not the point, is it? I remember the author of Dream of the Red Chamber was Cao Xueqin, right? What does this Hong Sheng have to do with it?"

"Hong Sheng went to the Cao family before he died, and the drafts were left with Cao Yin. Later, the Cao family faced a series of troubles, and Cao Yin never had the chance to publish the book. Perhaps Cao Xueqin stumbled upon the manuscript among his grandfather's belongings. It resonated deeply with his own life experiences, so he 'spent ten years revising and editing it five times' rather than writing it from scratch over a decade. However, the last forty chapters might have been entirely his own work. Because of the Palace of Eternal Youth incident, Hong Sheng stopped using his real name on manuscripts. Over time, as the work passed through generations, people came to believe Cao Xueqin was the true author." The Boss sorted the manuscripts into stacks and laid them out on the bluestone slabs to dry. For a moment, the courtyard was filled with the scent of ink.

"That can't be right... This doesn't make sense..." The Doctor clearly couldn't accept it.

"The book is filled with so many details of Jiangnan—how could Cao Xueqin, born in Beijing, have experienced them? And how could he write such a monumental work at twenty? At twenty, he claimed to have lived half his life in destitution? He was the Cao family's only son—where did all those sisters come from? During the Yongzheng era, when literary inquisition began, how would he dare to write something so anti-Qing and pro-Ming?" The Boss fired off question after question, leaving the Doctor, who had never been strong in history, utterly bewildered.

"But why hasn't anyone debunked this? You know about it, so why..." Seeing the Boss's half-smile, the Doctor trailed off. How could he have forgotten? If even Qin Shi Huang could be labeled a tyrant in history, what was so impossible about misattributing the authorship of a novel?

Wisely, the Doctor didn't press further. But as he lowered his head, he noticed the caterpillar still inching slowly across the ground and remembered the question the Boss had asked earlier.

"Oh, right, how does the caterpillar cross the river?"

The Boss glanced at the manuscript in his hand, its ink as fresh as if it had just been written, and smiled slightly. "By becoming a butterfly."

(End of Chapter)