Becoming a literary master starting from the story of Minglan

In another secluded corner of the mansion, Sheng Changfeng's courtyard was like stagnant water.

The door was tightly closed, and a strong smell of medicine mixed with an atmosphere of despair permeated the air.

The room was a mess, with broken porcelain shards, scattered books, and overturned tables and chairs.

Sheng Changfeng slumped on the cold floor, his back against the foot of the bed. His right hand, which he used to write and play music, was now wrapped in thick, dirty white cloth, hanging limply at his side, like a useless piece of trash, a cruel brand.

On the table and the floor, countless crumpled and torn pieces of paper were scattered, bearing his crooked, illegible handwriting, which he had painstakingly written with his left hand—his desperate cry and silent accusation.

Although he forced himself to go to the ancestral hall a few days ago to plead for Lin Qinshuang, he had never truly gotten over the matter. The fact that he had ruined the matter was like a huge boulder pressing him down into an abyss, leaving him no room to breathe.

"Woooooooo..."

Sheng Changfeng suppressed his sobs, his whole body trembling violently as if all his bones had been removed, like a candle flickering in the wind.

With a series of whimpers like a dying beast, he suddenly stood up and, with his only remaining, intact left hand, frantically swept everything off the desk in front of him!
The inkstone shattered on the ground with a dull cracking sound, and the black ink splattered like filthy blood, staining the ground and his utterly broken and hopeless future.

He curled up again in the mess and cold ink stains, staring at the deep, boundless night outside the window, too weak to make a sound. Only silent tears mixed with despair streamed down his face...

The night was so dark it was almost impenetrable.

An inconspicuous blue cloth carriage, like a ghost, silently drove out from the most inconspicuous side gate of the Sheng Mansion.

The wheels rolled over the silent stone road, making a monotonous and heavy "roll" sound that sounded particularly jarring in the empty night. Several burly, expressionless old women surrounded the cart.

Inside the carriage, in the shadows of a corner, huddled a withered, ghost-like figure—Lin Qinshuang.

She had been in a coma for several days, looking extremely haggard. Her once meticulously maintained face was now deeply lined with wrinkles and filled with a deathly gray aura. The wound on her forehead was covered with a dark red, ugly scab. With each bump of the carriage, her cracked lips would occasionally twitch unconsciously, emitting a few broken, indistinct groans, but they could no longer stir up any ripples.

After a lifetime of scheming and maneuvering, clinging to the highest branches of society, all he got in return was a leaky woodshed in a desolate farmhouse in the western part of Bianjing, far from the city's bustling lights, and the rest of his life spent forgotten, despised, and decaying within that small space.

Minglan stood alone in the shadows of her courtyard corridor. The night wind, carrying the chill of early spring, fluttered her plain-colored skirt, making it rustle.

She watched silently as the small blue cloth cart carrying Lin Qinshuang disappeared completely into the endless darkness at the end of the long street, like an insignificant black dot. Her face was expressionless, devoid of joy or pity, only filled with a bottomless loneliness.

After a long time, so long that the light from the lanterns under the eaves was about to go out in the night wind, she slowly, slowly turned around and walked towards her room, which was lit by warm candlelight.

The moment she pushed open the door, the flickering candlelight illuminated her profile.

The corners of his mouth seemed to curve upwards very slightly and shallowly. The curve was so subtle as to be an illusion, so quick as to be a delusion, that it vanished into the boundless night behind him before it could even take shape.

Linxi Pavilion is finally completely quiet.

……

Zeyutang.

The candlelight was bright, and the desk was piled high with classic texts and scriptures.

Sheng Changquan sat upright at his desk, his brows showing the weariness of days of studying, but his eyes were sharp and calm, like a deep pool or an ancient well.

There was a very light knocking sound from outside the door, three long and two short.

"Enter."

Sheng Changquan didn't even raise his head; his voice remained steady.

A sharp and efficient figure silently slipped in; it was Xu Changqing.

Dressed in a close-fitting outfit, with a restrained aura, he respectfully clasped his hands in a fist and palm salute to Sheng Changquan: "Young Master, the matter has been settled."

Sheng Changquan put down his pen, looked up at him, and asked in his eyes.

"The Lin family has been taken to the western suburbs estate. As you instructed, they've been placed in the woodshed, guarded by two old women, both of whom are our people—clean-hearted, tight-lipped, and ruthless." Xu Changqing's voice was extremely low, each word clear. "We've also placed people inside and outside the estate. From now on, that estate is an impregnable fortress. What the Lin family can hear, see, or pass on can only be with your permission. Even a fly flying in would have to report it first."

Sheng Changquan nodded slightly, his face expressionless, as if he had merely dealt with a trivial matter. "Very good. As for the estate..."

“It’s quite a coincidence,” a glint of light flashed in Xu Changqing’s eyes, “it’s near the village where the young master of the Jiang family and the young lady of the Cheng family live. They’re separated by a river, looking at each other from afar.”

Sheng Changquan tapped his fingertips lightly on the table, lost in thought. "Understood. You may leave now. Thank you for your hard work." "Yes." Xu Changqing bowed and left as quietly as he had come.

Sheng Changquan picked up his pen again, his gaze falling on the open book.

Outside the window, the night was deep, seemingly capable of swallowing everything.

Chengxi Manor, Lin Qinshuang's prison, Jiang Xingzong's refuge, and that somewhat special little girl, Cheng Shaoshang... The threads of fate, unnoticed by anyone, quietly entangled him. A very faint smile appeared on his lips, vanishing in an instant.

……

Western suburbs.

The hustle and bustle of Bianjing City was kept out by the heavy city walls.

The cold wind, like a whip wrapped in ice shards, lashed the bare fields and low-lying villages. Not far from the remote Sheng family estate, across a winding, serpentine ditch covered in thin ice, a few houses were scattered.

Two of the small courtyards, which were not far apart, appeared particularly lonely.

In a slightly tidy farmhouse courtyard, Jiang Xingzong, wrapped in a worn cotton robe, was studying diligently at his desk, using the faint daylight filtering through the window.

The room was simply furnished with only a bed, a table, and a stool. Some farm tools and firewood were piled in the corner, and the charcoal in the brazier crackled and popped, dispelling the biting cold.

Jiang Xingzong was an upright man who did not want to rely on the power of the Sheng family. Therefore, even though Sheng Changquan intended to help him, he still restrained himself and kept to himself. During his spare time at the academy, he lived alone in this secluded courtyard. The rent was low, and he was far away from the hustle and bustle of the city, which was perfect for burying himself in his studies.

Although the winter is cold, having books to keep me company makes it not so hard to get through.

The neighboring courtyard, which appeared more "magnificent," was actually "rotten inside."

That's right, that's the Cheng family courtyard.

Inside the room, Cheng Shaoshang, wrapped in thin old clothes, huddled on the cold kang, clutching the only relatively warm quilt in her arms. Her lips were turning blue from the cold. Beside her was only a little maid named Lianfang, who was also shivering from the cold.

"Girl, have some hot water to warm yourself up."

Lianfang held a simple, coarse earthenware bowl, the water inside emitting faint steam.

The two women, mistress and servant, had been sent here for quite some time. Apart from a few old clothes and a bag of coarse grains, they had almost nothing. The "elders" of the Cheng family, under the guise of letting her "reflect on her mistakes," were in reality no different from abandoning her. They even severely cut back on the charcoal for winter and the thick clothing she needed.

If it weren't for Sheng Changquan's help a while ago, Cheng Shaoshang would probably have died long ago.

Cheng Shaoshang took the bowl, and only when his cold fingertips touched the bowl did he feel a trace of warmth.

She sipped her hot water, her gaze passing through the window covered with tattered hemp paper as she looked out at the gray sky.

These days were harder to endure than she had imagined.

Lacking food and clothing, cold and lonely, if it weren't for her resilient character and the lotus pods to rely on for survival, she probably wouldn't have been able to hold on long ago.

The image of the young man named Sheng Changquan that she vaguely saw during her unconsciousness flashed through her mind again...

Appearing like a god, saving her from danger—that meager amount of money and medicine was insignificant in the eyes of the Cheng family's wealth, but for her at that time, it was a lifeline in the snow.

This favor weighed heavily on her heart, and she always felt she had to repay it.

"Lianfang, tell me," Cheng Shaoshang's voice was slightly nasal and cold, "what is that sixth young master of the Sheng family doing right now? I heard the imperial examinations are about to begin..."

She was out of touch with the world and only vaguely heard from Old Man Liang that the young master of the Sheng family would also participate in this year's imperial examination.

Lianfang shook her head: "This servant does not know. But a person like Young Master Sheng must have a bright future."

She paused, then lowered her voice hesitantly, "Young lady, you always think about repaying favors, but right now... we can barely take care of ourselves."

Cheng Shaoshang pursed his lips and didn't say anything, but he wrapped the quilt in his arms even tighter, his eyes becoming more and more stubborn.

Debts of gratitude are the hardest to repay, and also the hardest to owe. (End of Chapter)