Chapter 27: Ping’er Steals the Manuscript, Brothers Quarrel!

A gust of wind swept through the corridor, sending the manuscript pages fluttering noisily. Han Fu reached for the paperweight and pressed down the four corners. However wildly the western wind raged, it could no longer disturb even a fraction of a page.

His gaze drifted over the writing desk to the round table. There, a dark green invitation lay quietly—it had just been delivered by Cui’e from the main house. Han Fu had been so absorbed in his writing that he’d simply let her leave it on the table; now, with his work finished and a moment to spare, curiosity stirred within him.

He walked to the table, picked up the invitation, and examined it before opening it.

“Lotus Garden Literary Gathering—Admit with This Invitation.”

The thirteenth year of the Xiaokang era, sixteenth day of the ninth month.

The handwriting was upright and vigorous, full of force and character. Whoever penned this invitation was clearly accomplished in the art of calligraphy.

“A literary gathering? Why would they invite me?” Han Fu’s brow furrowed as he pondered. It was true that he had gained fame for appropriating poetry, but he was now a son-in-law by marriage—a status held in contempt by most. Those willing to associate with him were, besides the lowly riffraff of society, likely only those who were truly above worldly concerns and unbound by convention.

By rights, such a gathering should never have sent him an invitation specifically.

He considered the matter for a moment, but the reasoning eluded him. With a shrug, he tucked the invitation into his robe and decided not to dwell on it.

At that moment, Binger entered the room.

“Sir, it’s almost time for the noon meal. You should go to the main hall; the young mistress is waiting for you in the courtyard.”

“Very well.” Han Fu nodded, stepped around Binger, and left the room.

Binger did not follow. She glanced around briefly, then hurried to the writing desk. On either side of the desk were stacks of paper: one, a single sheet; the other, a pile—all weighed down by paperweights.

Her eyes fell on the stack of manuscripts. The title “Nie Xiaoqian” caught her attention, and the densely written characters that followed piqued her curiosity even further. But she set it aside for now and instead focused on the single sheet.

It contained only a few lines, easy enough to read at a glance.

“Like a Dream. Last night, the rain fell sparse and the wind blew strong; deep slumber could not dispel the lingering trace of wine… Do you know, do you not? The green should grow lush, the red should fade.”

Softly she read it aloud, her eyes lighting up with delight and a secret sense of joy.

“So this is a lyric written by the young master—so graceful and lively, with a delicacy of feeling as fine as a woman’s, and the handwriting is unique as well. The young master truly is remarkable…”

She folded the page with pleasure and tucked it into her sleeve, intending to present this lyric to Baili Mingsu as requested.

That done, Binger’s eyes returned to “Nie Xiaoqian.” The title made her all the more curious. As she read, she found herself increasingly drawn into the story; before she knew it, she was utterly absorbed, oblivious to everything outside.

“Husband, were you practicing your calligraphy this morning?”

On the way to the main hall, Baili Mingsu walked alongside Han Fu, a gentle smile on her lips.

“Yes,” Han Fu replied with a nod and a smile. “It’s been so long since I last picked up the brush that I feared I’d forget how to write altogether if I didn’t practice.”

“I’ve already asked Binger to fetch a piece of your calligraphy for me. You won’t mind, will you?” Baili Mingsu’s bright eyes turned to Han Fu as she spoke.

Han Fu shook his head. “If you’d like to see them, by all means, take them all. It matters little to me.”

He spoke sincerely—after all, those writings were meant to be read by others, sooner or later.

Baili Mingsu nodded at his words, gazing at his profile. “Thank you, husband.”

“There’s no need for such formality between us,” Han Fu replied with a laugh.

Her heartstrings stirred, Baili Mingsu smiled without replying. After a moment, she asked, “What did cousin want with you this morning?”

“Nothing much.” Han Fu shook his head; there was no need to reveal everything. After a pause, he added, “He merely warned me not to wrong you. Otherwise, I alone would answer for it.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie—there was indeed a hint of that in Zhou Yuanshan’s words.

Baili Mingsu was briefly surprised; her eyes fluttered, then she smiled lightly. “So that’s how it is.”

Clever as she was, she did not truly believe it, but since Han Fu would not say more, she did not pursue the matter.

The two chatted amiably, unaware of a shadowy figure trailing behind.

In the main hall, the tables and chairs were neatly arranged. One maid after another brought in dishes, filling the table with delicacies that whetted the appetite.

Zhou Yuanshan sat upright, two seats to his right sat his primary wife, Zhou Qinshi, who was soothing the ever-restless Zhou Qing, whose eyes were fixed on the food.

Between them, two empty seats were reserved for Zhou Xinyi and his wife, who had yet to arrive.

To Zhou Yuanshan’s left sat Zhou Yuantou, bored and propping his chin in his hands, lost in thought.

Beyond him were three more empty seats, placed for Baili Mingda, Han Fu, and Baili Mingsu.

When Han Fu and Baili Mingsu entered, this was the scene that greeted them.

“Greetings, elder brothers, greetings, sister-in-law,” Baili Mingsu said, stepping forward to pay her respects.

As the husband and a son-in-law, Han Fu naturally dared not be presumptuous and followed suit with a respectful bow.

Zhou Yuanshan’s expression softened, and he nodded. “Be seated.”

“Mingsu,” Zhou Qinshi called with a smile, beckoning her to sit beside her.

Zhou Yuantou, with his chin in one hand, gestured to the seat next to Baili Mingsu, indicating for Han Fu to take it.

Zhou Yuanshan was stern and serious, not one for idle talk. Zhou Yuantou, on the other hand, was easy-going and uninhibited, indifferent to decorum.

Han Fu thus reaffirmed his impression of the two; as for Zhou Qinshi… well, she loved dumplings, but he did not dare to ogle his sister-in-law.

“Well, everyone’s here—were you all that hungry?”

No sooner had they sat than Baili Mingda bounded in, glancing around.

Zhou Yuanshan shot him a look, then lowered his gaze with a snort. “If you have the nerve, try behaving like this when mother arrives.”

“Heh…” Baili Mingda straightened immediately, scoffing, “I have no wish to argue with you.”

“Coward,” Zhou Yuantou remarked blandly.

Baili Mingda ignored him, looking unruffled.

Han Fu had met Madam Zhou before; she was kind and gentle, warm-hearted and approachable. Yet the three Zhou brothers seemed to fear her as if she were a tiger, a fact Han Fu could never quite comprehend.

As he pondered this, he felt his sleeve being tugged. Baili Mingda leaned over and whispered, “Brother-in-law, best not bother with them. One’s addled by books, the other by martial arts—neither has much sense. If not for my unmatched divination skills and insight into fate itself, I’d have left them behind long ago, or else we’d be at odds constantly.”

Though his voice was low, everyone at the table could hear clearly.

Han Fu could only reply with an awkward smile, unable to agree outright.

Baili Mingsu and Zhou Qinshi went on with their own conversation, as if used to such talk.

Zhou Yuantou cast a mocking glance, chuckling softly.

Zhou Yuanshan snorted, “If you persist with your fortune-telling, don’t claim me as your cousin when you’re out in the world.”

“And why should I mention you?” Baili Mingda retorted, lifting his chin. “Besides, I’ve stopped reading those divination texts.”

Zhou Yuantou looked surprised, scrutinizing Baili Mingda as if he could hardly believe it.

Zhou Yuanshan’s expression eased, a faint smile appearing. “That’s good, then. Read more history and classics instead. It may be late, but it’s better than wasting time.”

“Who would read that stuff?” Baili Mingda scoffed. “I’m studying the art of physiognomy now.”

Zhou Yuanshan’s smile froze. He snorted angrily and turned away, refusing to speak to him.

Zhou Yuantou burst out laughing and shook his head in silence.

There was a clear sense of rivalry among the three brothers.

From this brief exchange, Han Fu could tell that the brothers’ irritation with Baili Mingda stemmed not from dislike but from his obsession with fortune-telling, which they found exasperating.

Indeed, he thought, without the talent of a charlatan but with a heart determined to fathom fate—he could understand Zhou Yuanshan and Zhou Yuantou’s feelings.

Yesterday’s wedding was a joyous occasion, with guests present, so the brothers had kept their feelings in check. Now, at this family meal, their true selves were on full display.

Yet in his own heart, Han Fu remained preoccupied with the art of survival on the battlefield.

He turned to Zhou Yuantou. “Cousin, when you have time, perhaps you could spar with me a little.”

Zhou Yuantou replied indifferently, “I’m rather busy these days. Another time, perhaps.”

Han Fu thought to himself, as expected—yesterday’s offer had merely been a polite gesture over drinks, not to be taken seriously.

He would have to think of another way. In these troubled times, such skills were essential for survival; he must find a way to learn them.

“Ahem…”

Zhou Xinyi’s soft cough echoed from the side hall, and everyone quickly rose to their feet.