Chapter Forty-One: She Is Coming Out, Unashamed and Bold!

“Unmatched in poetry and prose, brilliant beyond compare. Ming Su's husband is truly extraordinary,” Lin Bingqing smiled at those around her, no longer anxious or afraid.

“Indeed, indeed,” Wu Wanjun nodded repeatedly, her gaze lingering on Han Fu, who conversed with ease, and she spoke from the heart, “Sister Ming Su is truly enviable.”

“If you like him so much, why not become a concubine?” Gu Huazhao teased, provoking a glare from Wu Wanjun.

A moment ago, the three of them had been worried, but now, with the clouds parted and the sky clear, Han Fu had dismantled Zhao Ziqian’s scheme with only a few words. His plot foiled, the three finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Wu Wanjun turned and saw Wang Luohe looking sullen, and couldn't help but say, “Someone’s been gloating all this time, but now she must be sorely disappointed.”

Wang Luohe shot her a sidelong glance, silent, only letting out a coquettish snort from her nose.

“Hmph.”

Lu Zhiyu had been frowning for some time, a certain question circling relentlessly in her mind.

Han Fu’s presence at the Lotus Garden’s literary gathering was entirely due to her arranging for her brother, Lu Ziyuan, to procure an invitation. Zhao Ziqian’s scheme today was clearly premeditated. As the one who delivered the invitation, suspicion naturally fell on her.

But Lu Zhiyu had nothing to do with today’s sordid business; she had simply been captivated by Han Fu’s poetic talent and sought a single meeting.

She had been used... Realizing this, Lu Zhiyu pressed her hand to her forehead, a wave of anger and dizziness surging within her.

“No, she’s about to come out…” Lu Zhiyu panicked, turned, and hurriedly left.

Han Fu stood tall as a pine, a faint smile on his lips, utterly ignoring Zhao Ziqian’s ashen face. He bowed to Wen Qingjuan and said, “Might I borrow brush, ink, paper, and inkstone? I’d be grateful if you would oblige me.”

Now that the truth was plain for all to see, arguing further would be pointless. Rather than continue to assert his authorship, it was far more satisfying to strike while the iron was hot.

To remain composed and unperturbed in the face of peril, and to untangle a crisis with such calm—the more Wen Qingjuan saw of Han Fu, the more he valued him.

So young, yet so shrewd—if not for the stigma of being a son-in-law living with his wife’s family, his future would be limitless.

Of course, Wen Qingjuan did not look down on Han Fu for that. Today’s events were enough for him to be regarded with true respect.

Hearing Han Fu’s request, Wen Qingjuan nodded cheerfully and ordered his attendants, “Quickly, fetch them.”

The servants obeyed and quickly departed. Wen Qingjuan looked toward Zhao Ziqian, his eyes dark with anger.

Though today’s gathering had only just begun, Zhao Ziqian had already ruined it.

Once the dust settled, there would be no way for it to continue.

Therefore, even knowing that Han Fu’s calligraphy was unlikely to be well-intentioned or particularly good, Wen Qingjuan was still willing.

Better to watch Han Fu write something novel with his own hand, and find some consolation, than to disperse in discontent.

“Zhao Wenhao’s injuries are not serious—he can depart after receiving the calligraphy,” Wen Qingjuan said gravely.

Zhao Ziqian’s hope for a quick escape was dashed. He stood in place, trembling with anxiety, his eyes wide with terror.

At that moment, every gaze upon him made him even more uneasy, and he wished he could disappear into the ground.

***

The three esteemed scholars sat in silence, occasionally glancing at Han Fu with eyes full of admiration.

Such cunning and presence—truly astonishing. Talents like him were rare in the world.

“May I ask, Master?” A scholar suddenly stepped forward, bowing deeply. “Han Fu’s calligraphy has received your high praise, so it must be exceptional. I am Mao Jiangping, a member of the Calligraphy Society, and a devoted lover of the art. I have long been eager to see it. Might I beseech you to allow us a look?”

At these words, many scholars turned to Qian Yu, their faces full of longing.

“That would not do.” The draft was in Qian Yu’s hands, and he glared at them. “The manuscript is not mine—how could I lend it out without permission? And with so many of you, if it were damaged in passing, who would take responsibility?”

With that, Qian Yu lowered his head to admire the calligraphy, content.

Mao Jiangping was instantly at a loss for words, realizing Qian Yu had no intention of sharing. Though his conduct was unreasonable, his logic was sound—they could only accept it.

The scholars turned helplessly to the owner of the manuscript.

Han Fu smiled, “No need to worry. Once I have presented my calligraphy to Zhao Wenhao, you will all be free to view it as you wish.”

The crowd could only nod in reluctant agreement.

A short while later, the Wen family’s attendants returned, followed by others. One carried a brush rack, another an inkstone with paper and ink, and four lifted a table. Six people in all, they bustled in, moving swiftly.

Once nearby, they set up the table, spread the paper, poured water, and ground the ink in one seamless flow.

Truly the servants of a great house, far superior to those of any other, Han Fu secretly marveled.

“Master, the ink is ready,” reported the attendant, bowing.

“Very well,” Wen Qingjuan nodded, then stood and smiled. “Han, my boy, come show us your skill.”

The familiar address of “my boy” made many scholars envious. Though it sounded informal, it was a mark of closeness and the Wen family’s approval.

Qian Yu and the other two scholars also rose and gathered around the table, waiting for Han Fu to begin.

Han Fu, calm as ever, chose a suitably sized brush, dipped it in ink, gathered his focus, and wrote in running script with a single bold sweep.

Laying down the brush, Han Fu smiled, “I fear my humble skills may make you laugh.”

The four scholars gathered by the table, while the others craned their necks in vain, unable to see even a stroke.

Meanwhile, the four scrutinized the writing, their brows furrowing in puzzlement.

“The calligraphy is excellent, identical to that on the manuscript.”

“But what do these seven characters mean? I cannot quite make sense of them.”

“Strange, so strange. I have read countless scrolls in my life, yet never encountered this phrase.”

***

“I am unworthy of the title of scholar, for I do not know its meaning either.”

“The first four characters can be barely inferred, but the last three are utterly confounding.”

The four exchanged bewildered glances, their eyes blank.

On the paper, seven large characters stood boldly:

“Do Not Disturb the Jade Lotus, Qiao Liwa (c m)”

Qian Yu said, “We must ask young Han for an explanation.”

Sun Anmin shook his head, “No rush. There are many bright minds here. Let us first test them.”

Xu Shi nodded, delighted. “A fine idea.”

Sun Anmin turned and smiled, “Come closer, all of you, and see for yourselves.”

The scholars were overjoyed and hurried forward.

Not all, however—some hung back, uncertain whether to advance or retreat. Most of these had just aided Zhao Ziqian, while a few had mocked Han Fu earlier. They felt like fishbones stuck in their throats, but compared to Zhao Ziqian, their discomfort was minor.

Two Wen family servants stepped up, each holding an end of the sheet, displaying the calligraphy to the scholars.

At a glance, the crowd was stunned.

Qian Yu asked, “Who among you knows the true meaning of these words?”

No one answered; clearly, none did.

After a moment, the crowd looked even more bewildered and began murmuring among themselves.

“The structure of the script is unique—I’ve never seen or heard of anything like it, yet it’s both beautiful and powerful. No wonder it won such praise.”

“It is a style entirely its own—truly original…”

‘Do Not Disturb the Jade Lotus’—does that mean not to shake the green lotus flower? But what does ‘Qiao Liwa’ mean?”

“Qiao Liwa, Qiao Liwa… What could it possibly mean?”

In the crowd, Wu Ziyong made rapid hand signs. Liu Shilin and Tong Le, close friends of his, immediately understood his signals.

“What marvelous calligraphy! Given time, he will surely become a master. But why—why did he choose to become a son-in-law in another’s household? It pains my heart so…”