Futile Devices Scans

Ignoring Ning Xuan’s unfriendly tone entirely, the man kept his easy smile, rose briskly to give up his seat, then calmly sat down in the place Ning Xuan had originally occupied.

Ning Xuan found himself stifled. He had thought his attitude would drive the man away—who would have guessed that in this day and age, what one should fear isn’t someone with a good temper, but someone utterly shameless.

Fuming, he plopped down onto the wooden chair. His back shot upright, teeth nearly grinding to dust as he swallowed the cry of pain that almost burst out—heaven knew just how much it hurt to slam down like that on a hard wooden stool without so much as a cushion!

“Hey, brother, don’t just sit there idle—bring me my brush, ink, paper, and inkstone…” Left with no choice, he grudgingly shifted to the other side. All his tools were still in front of that stranger he had only met once. He hadn’t wanted to speak, but after shooting the man looks for a while to no effect, Ning Xuan cursed inwardly, No awareness at all. No wonder he’s just a courtyard guard.

Taking back his things along with the half-copied manuscript, he lowered his head and began writing furiously, stroke by stroke tracing those ghostly scribbles—strange, yet oddly familiar.

Calm returned once more. Within the library chamber, one could clearly hear the crackle of the oil lamp and the faint rustle of brush against Xuan paper, as though Ning Xuan were the only person in the room again.

“…May I ask, do you need something?” Ning Xuan looked up, his face blossoming into the most gentle, amiable smile imaginable. His tone was soft and courteous, as though afraid of startling the man who had been sitting across from him all this time, silently watching with that ever-present grin.

The man propped his cheek in one hand, smiling so broadly his eyes nearly narrowed to slits. Yet the moment he met Ning Xuan’s smile, he froze slightly, saying nothing.

A dark shadow gathered between Ning Xuan’s brows. Veins throbbed faintly at his temples, and the corner of his eye twitched—clear signs that his patience was nearing its limit.

Smack!

His palm slammed violently against the fine sandalwood table. Freshly ground ink splashed from the inkstone in innocent arcs, and Ning Xuan shot to his feet.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” he roared, his bright black eyes seeming ready to spit fire.

The man didn’t even twitch an eyebrow. He sat there as steady as a mountain, one hand supporting his chin, the other resting on the table, tapping rhythmically.

“Nothing much. Just looking.” He spoke lightly, glancing around the room as if to prove his point, before his gaze returned to Ning Xuan—meeting those dark eyes with an innocent expression, though a glimmer of cunning light flowed beneath.

Ning Xuan nearly choked on his anger. He was a man—he didn’t mind women clinging to him, but a man eyeing him like this? That was something else entirely. And what kind of shamelessness was this, calling blatant staring “just looking” with such righteousness? This was the same man who, upon their first meeting, had told him to go look in a mirror and wash his face! Sure, the fellow had a handsome face—sharp brows, bright eyes—the kind that would be wasted if he didn’t work as a courtesan. But that hardly meant Ning Xuan would let it slide.

Just as Ning Xuan was about to speak, the man straightened up, still wearing that pitifully innocent look. With his freed hand, he casually pointed downward. Following the gesture, Ning Xuan looked—and immediately let out a wail.

Damn it all!

The manuscript that had only been slightly smudged moments ago—nearly complete—had turned into a splattered ink painting in the blink of an eye. Heaven knew how much time and effort he had poured into copying that book he had absolutely no interest in. He had gone hungry, endured backaches and leg cramps, forcing himself to sit here stroke by stroke to “cultivate his temperament.” And now, in an instant, the dawn he had been waiting for had become a setting sun—utterly bleak.

“Well… I don’t know what to call you,” the man added helpfully, “but you might want to keep your voice down. If someone hears, they might think I did something to you. After all, in a prince’s residence, aside from the masters, even if everyone knows about certain things, they’re not meant to be seen in the open.”

Those words were nothing short of pouring oil on a blazing fire. Ning Xuan, already burdened with old grudges and fresh anger, now had to deal with this absurd situation—and this guard who seemed determined to make things worse.

He stepped forward and grabbed the man by the collar, glaring down at him, teeth clenched. “You haven’t done anything to me?! I spent the entire night copying that book—and you’ve ruined it!”

Ning Xuan cursed himself for being soft-hearted. He had thought the man was some lost servant and had wanted to lend a hand—only to invite a disaster into his space.

The man, however, looked like he disagreed but couldn’t quite say it under Ning Xuan’s pressure, opening his mouth only to close it again.

“If you’ve got something to say, spit it out! Otherwise, get the hell out of here!” Ning Xuan growled, keeping his voice low with effort. He had no time to play riddles with a stranger.

The man paused, as though making up his mind, then said innocently, “From beginning to end, I’ve been sitting here without moving. That book of yours—it was your own palm that did it. What does it have to do with me?”

That only made things worse. Ning Xuan felt his liver ache from anger—he’d truly brought this upon himself.

“Then shut up!” he hissed, enunciating each word.

Defeated, he sat back down, staring at the ink-blotted mess across several pages. A bitter smile tugged at his lips. There was no fixing this—he wouldn’t even know what to rewrite. If Xiao Tang found out, he’d skin him alive. Glancing at the two remaining books beside him, Ning Xuan felt as though the world had gone dark.

Suddenly, a spark lit in his eyes. He lowered his head slightly, subtly tugging at his stiff expression.

“…Do you know how to read?” He looked up, flashing a dazzling smile that seemed to outshine even the lamp, so bright it almost hurt to look at. The hope was slim, but it was worth a try—perhaps he could turn this man into a decent laborer.

No response.

The man stared blankly at Ning Xuan’s radiant smile, unmoved.

Damn it, why act so deep right now?!

His brow twitched, the smile warping before he forced it back into place. “Can you hear me?” He waved a hand before the man’s eyes. “If you can, nod your head, alright?” His tone was coaxing, like a wolf in grandmother’s clothing.

The man responded quickly.

And that response instantly set Ning Xuan off again.

“Damn it! You can hear me, so why pretend you’re deaf?!”

The man replied innocently, “Didn’t you tell me to shut up?”

Ning Xuan lunged forward, grabbing his collar with both hands—

Calm down… calm down… I still need him. If he turns out useless, I can beat him later!

Taking a breath, he “gently” smoothed the wrinkled front of the man’s robe, forcing his expression into something presentable. With strained patience, he asked again, “Do you recognize characters?”

“I do,” the man answered.

Ning Xuan looked him up and down. “Are you… busy right now?”

The man shook his head. “Not busy.”

Seeing his utter lack of awareness, Ning Xuan exploded again, “Then why are you still standing there?!”

He tossed the ink-splattered manuscript and brush in front of the man. The smile vanished completely. Standing straight with one hand on his hip and the other pointing at the book, his phoenix eyes widened—he looked every bit like a shrew in full scolding fury.

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