The woman who once graced the second position of the secondary list of the Rouge Evaluation, known for her literary talent, was the young prodigy Wang Chudong. Ranked only below Xu Weixiong in the secondary list, she once penned the celebrated work *The First Snowfall in the Eastern Wing*, after which she vanished like a clay ox sinking into the sea, her former brilliance gone. Once, her words could make all the romantic novels of the era pale in comparison. Even the empresses of Tai’an City and the late Princess of Jing’an, who died in a tragic love suicide in Xiangfan, were known to have read her work. Her charm captivated countless noble daughters across the land. The Confucian scholars of Liyang, however, breathed a sigh of relief, thinking perhaps she had finally ceased to “corrupt the world” with her pen. Only the Wang family of Laoshan Mountain, the guardian of the spring deity, knew the truth: for the past two years, their young mistress had had her heart set elsewhere. No matter how fierce the wind or how heavy the snow, she would always go to the lakeside teahouse for a brief respite, gazing east or north without a fixed purpose. In the past, whenever she was troubled, a quick game of polo, football, or a swing ride would lift her spirits. She could swing so high it seemed to reach the second floor, leaving even bold men in awe. But now, she had become reserved, often sitting on the swing lost in thought. Only when she realized the swing had stopped would she gently lift her toes to set it moving again.
Her personal maids, who were close to her despite the difference in status, knew the reason and harbored resentment toward the dashing young man who had stolen her heart years ago. They tried to encourage her to write more poetry, even suggesting she compose a few verses that might be dismissed as “minor works” or “poetic leftovers.” They knew countless readers across the land were eagerly awaiting her return. But she simply ignored their pleas. Especially now, in the cold of winter, she would mutter something about hibernating like a dreamless sleep until old age. The only things that remained constant were her daily trips to the lakeside for a distant gaze and her brief visits to the study, where she would flip through a few pages of a book before yawning and claiming to be sleepy. Even when a maid brought her a writing brush and prepared the ink, she would find countless excuses to avoid writing.
Was this truly the same Wang Chudong who once boldly declared, “Before I write, clouds and rosy mists carry me to meet the sages, immortals, and Buddhas; after I write, the wind is clear and the moon is bright, and heaven and earth, ghosts and gods, come to bow before me”? Fortunately, her father, who had long since amassed a fortune, never held it against her. Even when noble families of equal standing came to propose marriage, he politely declined each one.
As the golden twilight fell upon Laoshan Mountain, people were both descending and ascending its paths. Down below, a boat carried away Wang Linquan, the richest man of Qingzhou, who had recently withdrawn from the secret salt and iron trade in the Huai region. He was filled with emotion, his eyes brimming with tears. Up above, a young nobleman with streaks of gray in his hair made his way toward the mountain, unknowingly arriving at the boudoir of Wang Chudong. When one of the maids saw the clear-eyed man, her irritation inexplicably vanished. Yet something about him seemed different from before. Once, he wore a white robe with jade sash, exuding charm and elegance. His phoenix eyes shimmered with a watery allure, enough to make any maiden’s heart flutter. Now, though he still carried a certain charm, it had softened, replaced by a quiet familiarity. The man raised a finger to his lips, signaling silence. The steward who had guided him had already informed him that the young mistress was still lazily “hibernating.” The steward respectfully turned back at the courtyard gate, saying little, but the maid noticed the deep fear in his eyes as he stole glances at the nobleman—like a mouse seeing a tiger, not just a cat. In the warm hall where the floor was heated by underground flues, only three maids were inside. The other two, hearing the sound, quietly approached. Seeing the man, they were surprised but pleased. He asked for a pot of Spring God Lake tea, one without the scent of earth or wood, and prepared it himself, pouring each cup without troubling the maids. Even the first brew, usually discarded as inferior, was clean and fragrant. He poured a cup for each of them, making the three young women, all of refined and scholarly temperaments, feel flattered. Yet his tea-making was clumsy, and though the three noticed, none dared to comment.
After finishing the tea, the young guest glanced at the sky. One clever maid offered to wake the mistress, but he asked if he could wait in her room instead. The three exchanged glances, then smiled and nodded in unison.
Pushing the door open quietly, Xu Fengnian entered. The maid helped close the door and then tiptoed away. Xu Fengnian took a seat by the window, the fading sunlight filtering through the gauze curtains. Unlike the opulence of Laoshan Mountain, the young woman’s boudoir was simple and elegant. On the table, aside from the Four Treasures of the Study, there was only a delicate “Linglong” carving made from an old bamboo root—a series of nested spheres, about eight or nine in total. Xu Fengnian placed his finger on the Linglong and pushed it a few inches across the table, making little sound. There was a stack of small, colorful letter papers on the table, in shades of apricot red, swan yellow, and copper green. The topmost one bore three crooked characters: *Huaihuang Ji* (Collection of Amber Yellow). Xu Fengnian had only learned after his last visit to Laoshan that this Wang Dongxiang was a literary genius, but her handwriting seemed surprisingly poor. Seeing it with his own eyes now, he realized it was indeed like earthworms crawling on paper. Yet beneath *Huaihuang Ji*, there were other small notes, equally poorly written, filled with fragments of unfinished verses and poems. These were not to be underestimated. Some were grand and heroic border ballads, others like the murmurs of hermits. Only rarely did they speak of the sorrow of a secluded maiden.
The main list of the Rouge Evaluation ranked women solely by beauty, with diverse tastes among men. Many disputed the rankings, arguing that the courtesan Li Baishi was placed too low and that a certain unnamed woman from the Nan Palace, unseen by most, had no right to be ranked above Chen Yu. The secondary list, however, was more just. Xu Weixiong, the princess of Beiliang, Wang Chudong of Spring God Lake, and Yan Dongwu, now the crown princess and a noted female scholar, were all considered rightful inclusions with little dispute.
Xu Fengnian flipped through the colorful papers one by one, then reversed the order and read them again, finally placing *Huaihuang Ji* back at the top. After neatly stacking the sixty-odd notes, he leaned back in his chair and gazed out the window. On Spring God Lake, Xuan Yuan Qingfeng had recently taken the Arena by storm, killing six seasoned martial artists in a single day. The next day, no one dared to challenge her. On the third day, three more renowned experts faced her, only to have their heads crushed. Such a martial leader was abhorrent, far from the ideal champion the martial world had hoped for. Yet, with this act, Huishan Guiniugang gained fame across the land. Strangely, the more ruthless Xuan Yuan Qingfeng became, the more divided opinions grew. The old generation of martial artists mourned the loss of honor, while the younger ones were eager to see what would come next. Many whispered that only a woman as cold and merciless as her could hope to defeat the bandits of Zhulu Mountain. Xu Fengnian wondered what the future of the martial world would look like. If the great heroes of the past were still alive, what would they think?
His thoughts wandered to the fox fur cloak she had taken from Beiliang to the southern lands when she left. If she had truly severed all ties, she would never have left it behind. But since she refused to be a caged bird, Xu Fengnian had no choice but to feign magnanimity and go along with her wishes. If they ever met again, who knew if she would be an old woman with silver hair? He also recalled his first journey through the martial world, when he was at the bottom, looking up in awe. By the Luo River, there had been a figure who lingered in his heart, but now, that memory had faded. The second time, he had looked down from above, surveying the world with detachment. He turned his head and glanced at the bed, remembering the time they had ridden the giant turtle across the lake. Back then, he had not imagined that he would one day travel to Beimang, survive, and return to inherit the rule of Beiliang, following in his father Xu Xiao’s footsteps, continuing the legacy of guarding the northern frontier.
The last rays of sunlight faded, and the evening deepened.
A loud *slap* came from the bed. The young woman, still groggy from sleep, had slapped her own face in irritation, sitting up with a mix of anger and confusion. The warm floor flues, heated by countless coals, had allowed mosquitoes to survive the winter, tormenting her endlessly. She loved sleep, and every morning was a battle with these winter pests. The maids could never wake her, but the mosquitoes always succeeded. Wrapped in her embroidered quilt, she growled and chased after the mosquito that had bitten her, only to give up in frustration. Unable to bear the cold outside the covers, she muttered that even a mosquito had managed to escape her legendary “Spiritual Finger,” and so she would let it live—for now. Then she burrowed back under the quilt and fell asleep again. Perhaps realizing how undignified this was, she mumbled to herself for a while before finally peeking out from beneath the covers, her gaze drifting toward the brightest spot on the desk. The sight left her momentarily stunned, her long, clear eyes filled with unspoken sorrow. She pinched her cheeks hard, the pain jolting her awake. Still groggy, she began to dress, retreating into the warm quilt several times before finally stepping out, barefoot but wearing socks, after more than half an hour. Her feet touched the wooden floor, which was not cold, and as she finally came to her senses, a trace of the great literary elegance of Wang Chudong returned. Sitting gracefully on the chair, she stilled her breath, ground the ink, and lifted the brush. But after writing just one stroke, she was defeated by her own handwriting, which she found hideous. Her spirit sank, and she sighed in frustration, resting her chin on her hand, preparing to flip through the notes. Suddenly, her eyes widened. On the *Huaihuang Ji* page, a small line of text had appeared—besides the date, there was now a line that read, “Visited here.” The handwriting was leagues better than hers.
Wang Chudong burst out of the room, not even bothering to grab her warm fur coat, ignoring the calls of her maids. She ran all the way to the lakeside dock at the foot of the mountain.
Her socks were now filthy.
Wang Linquan, who loved his only daughter more than anything, hurried down the mountain in panic, his face filled with worry.
Wang Chudong turned to the old man, tears welling in her eyes as she cried, “I’ll never be lazy again!”
To everyone’s surprise, Wang Linquan smiled instead of comforting her. “If you keep this up, who will dare to marry you?”
Wang Chudong sniffled, her delicate nose twitching, on the verge of tears.
Suddenly, someone behind her gently lifted her by the armpits and turned her around. Her feet landed on the person’s shoes. He smiled and said, “Only I would dare.”
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