Chapter 2

In the Northern Vast Seas

Although I had guessed he probably didn’t know any spells, Fu Chenzhi didn’t even bother to ask what I thought. He simply, with complete confidence, began grinding ink, dipping his brush with deliberate movements. Where on earth did he get that unwavering self-assurance? 

Moreover, the way he sat upright, exuding an air of calm arrogance as if he viewed all beneath him, carried an unmistakable hint of condescension. 

At the Master’s instruction, the rest of us students picked up our brushes to start writing, but Fu Chenzhi—like a tiny, stubborn turtle that had lived for a thousand years—was still leisurely grinding his ink. 

I guessed that, since Fu Chenzhi hadn’t even heard of Suzhao Ode, he probably didn’t even recognize many characters. Yet, he kept up that perfectly composed façade. Truly, Han people are different from other mortals. The tales of them being artful deceivers, scheming opportunists with faces as deceiving as ghosts—these descriptions weren’t just fictional embellishments from books. 

Before long, the Master let out a sigh from the back of the room. “Quite good, quite good.” 

No need to guess whom he was talking about. Along with the other students, I turned my head to look. We saw him standing next to one of the students, lifting the boy’s writing sheet and wearing a smile as bright as a blooming chrysanthemum. “These characters are truly refined and elegant, forceful yet graceful. It’s as if I’m seeing the spirit of King Xijian himself.” 

You see, our Master has a peculiar trait as a teacher—he never compliments anyone. If he says something is “passable,” that’s already the highest praise a student could hope for. Thus, the child sitting beneath that piece of paper was, quite tragically, once again the victim of his barbed sarcasm, shot full of metaphorical arrows. 

Even from a distance, I could see the characters on the page scattered and uneven, tilted this way and that. Yet, every stroke was bold and resolute, much like the wild, untamed hair of the one who wrote it. 

That boy was tall and broad, with slightly tanned skin and his arms crossed over his chest. At the moment, he was grinning so broadly that his eyes disappeared, revealing a mouthful of gleaming white teeth, as if he truly believed he was being showered with sincere praise. “You flatter me, you flatter me,” he said. 

That boy was the son of the Marshal of Military Orders. 

It’s said that at his birth, during his zhua zhou ceremony, his parents laid out the most prominent items before him: the sharp Frost-Spine Sword, the Four Treasures of the Study, ceremonial military headgear, and fine robes. Yet, ignoring all these, he crawled through numerous obstacles, climbed onto a chair, and grabbed hold of a golden dragon peach meant for decorative purposes. 

This dragon-slaying golden peach originated from the southern islands. Its skin was golden and covered in spikes. Once cracked open, it released an unbearable stench, a smell so foul that, according to legend, it could cause dragons to fall from the sky. That’s how it earned its rather embarrassing name. 

At the time, others had merely treated the peach as an exotic item to be admired and gifted to the Marshal of Military Orders. No one had seriously considered opening it. But this boy, using every ounce of his strength, smashed it open on the ground, dug out the flesh, and ate it with relish… 

Seeing this, the Marshal of Military Orders thought his life’s prospects were ruined and, in utter despair, gave the boy a refined name in the hope that he might find redemption in literature and emulate the models of the Three Sovereigns. As a result, whenever anyone heard the boy’s name afterward, they would either burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter or nearly faint from shock. 

Yes, his name was Hanmo (Brush and Ink). 

And just like now, upon hearing his casual “Not at all,” the Master almost had a stroke. He unleashed his ultimate move: “Hanmo, you’re punished to copy The Lonely Crane Anthology ten times today.” 

Hanmo, who had been laughing mid-sentence, suddenly froze. “Why?” 

“Because I said so! No need for a reason!” 

“You yourself always say, ‘If you strike the drum, you should have a reason.’ Now you punish me without even striking the drum or giving me a reason? I absolutely refuse!” 

The Master, both exasperated and amused, replied, “It’s ‘if you persist, you must have reason; if you argue, you must have logic.’ What drum are you talking about? For getting that wrong, copy it twenty times!” 

Hanmo, still adamant, declared, “No, I definitely heard you say, ‘strike the drum.’ This is not my mistake.” 

The two were locked in a heated argument, and while we were all used to such scenes, a sound of amazement suddenly arose from the back of the room. Turning around, I saw a crowd gathered around our desk, all focused on Fu Chenzhi’s writing. 

By now, Fu Chenzhi had already filled an entire page with regular script. His characters were neat and as orderly as clouds, and I found myself momentarily stunned. His handwriting reminded me of Father’s. But then I thought again—something was off. Father, as the King of Suzhao, was also the foremost calligrapher of our time. How could I possibly compare this delicate little bun to him? 

The student who had gasped in admiration was a budding prodigy. He stared at Fu Chenzhi’s writing in thoughtful silence for a while before finally saying, “The handwriting is beautiful, but if he can’t even manage basic water-controlling techniques, what will he do in future spellcasting classes? Such a pity—his talents will go to waste.” 

Another student sneered, “So what if his handwriting is good? He’s just a mere mortal. How could he study alongside us? I don’t even know how he got into the Xuanshu Hall.” 

“Shhh, the Little Princess is sitting right beside him. She’s been quite protective of this mortal. Be careful, or she’ll hear you.” 

“What’s there to fear? The Little Princess has always been fickle. She’ll tire of him in two days. By then, let’s see who still sides with him.” 

Fu Chenzhi’s patience was remarkable. No matter what they said, he remained calm, focusing on his writing, as if he heard nothing at all. 

Annoyed by his lack of reaction, the group of students snatched the book he was copying. “Stop writing. Even if your handwriting is flawless, the Little Princess won’t care about you. Why bother pretending?” 

Fu Chenzhi replied coolly, “I’m not writing it for her to see.” 

I had originally planned to help him, but his words landed squarely on my face, making me reconsider. Leaning back lazily, I decided to watch from the sidelines. 

The student persisted, “Oh really? Then what else can you do? Can you compose poetry?” 

Fu Chenzhi frowned slightly. “Compose poetry?” 

The student laughed smugly and pulled a small booklet from his pocket, tossing it onto the table. “I wrote this. Can you do that?” 

The booklet contained a poem: 

When will the stars appear? 

Drinking wine, hunting deer at night. 

A drizzle falls in threes and twos, 

While six and five plum blossoms fade. 

Though it wasn’t the finest poem from the Xuanshu Hall, it was a decent work among us children, enough to make the boy a little proud. I couldn’t help but feel a bit anxious for Fu Chenzhi. 

He scanned the poem a few times, glanced at the students, then at me, before calmly picking up his brush and writing a few lines. 

When the others leaned in to see, they all fell silent. 

The boy who had written the poem stammered, “W-what does this even mean? This must be some lowly mortal’s verse—it’s so vulgar we can’t even understand it!” 

At that moment, a withered hand reached out and took the paper from Fu Chenzhi. 

Fu Chenzhi seemed unwilling to stir up trouble. He looked up at the Master with wide, watery eyes that held a hint of worry, looking rather pitiful. 

The Master stared at his poem for a long time, spending more time on it than on an entire essay. Finally, he said slowly, “In calligraphy, it’s said that hiding the brush’s edge preserves its strength, while exposing it gives life to the character. Look at these strokes—each one like a stylus carving into sand. The hidden edges are even, but the strength penetrates the page, achieving both vigor and spirit. Fu Chenzhi, though you are young, your talent is exceptional. Yet, with so many thoughts in your heart, I fear…” 

The Master’s evaluations of students were usually brief and cutting, often just four words like “astonishingly ugly,” “terrifyingly bad,” “like a dog’s bite,” or “utterly hopeless.” But this time, he spoke at length, which was highly unusual. 

Fu Chenzhi opened his small mouth, delicate like cherry blossoms, but couldn’t utter a single word. 

The Master continued, “As for this poem, its meaning is self-evident. I won’t comment further.” He placed the paper back in front of Fu Chenzhi, tapping it twice with his knuckles before turning away. 

On the paper was written: 

To the north lies the vast sea, impassable to swim. 

Beneath the stars, a fair maiden, unattainable to seek. 

Gazing far across the nine heavens, my neck grows sore. 

Cloud dragons and wind tigers, Yanzhi returns. 

I reread the poem several times, understanding only its surface meaning without grasping its deeper significance. Even years later, before he left Suzhao, I never fully unraveled it. 

At this moment, all I knew was that Fu Chenzhi truly had some skill. I set aside my earlier irritation and gave him a small smile. “A true master hides their strength. I’m sincerely impressed. I am Luo Wei—pleased to meet you.” 

He returned my smile and, like an adult, cupped his hands in greeting. “Princess, I’ve long admired your name.” 

I looked him up and down. “Such a cute little bun. Doing that gesture—is this your way of acting coy with me?” 

In an instant, his expression reverted to the frosty one from before, as cold as an ice sculpture. 

Little did I know that, just a few hours later, I’d find myself unable to call him a “bun,” address him by name, or tease him so casually ever again.