Elio’s notes: Hi guys! Sorry for the delay. Was out of town to take care of something. I managed to translate while traveling. Here are three chapters for this story. Enjoy!
The man gave a start, as if he had not quite processed what he’d just heard, and stared blankly at Ning Xuan. Ning Xuan, however, acted as though he saw nothing at all. He calmly returned to his seat, casually picked up one of the remaining two volumes, and resumed his furious scribbling—unleashing both his boundless skill in sketching and his equally unrestrained imagination.
Seeing Ning Xuan’s clear attitude of “I’m busy and have nothing to say to you,” the man did not press him with questions, nor did he object or refuse. Instead, he obediently picked up a brush and began writing in earnest, as though he truly meant it.
In truth, Ning Xuan had only spoken offhandedly. The book he had tampered with was so defaced that even its original author might not recognize it anymore. Tossing it over had merely been meant to make the man back off—or quietly leave. Yet to his surprise, the man actually lowered his head and began copying it seriously.
Though Ning Xuan’s hand never stopped moving, he couldn’t help lifting a brow and sneaking a glance. He had assumed the man was only putting on an act—but instead, every stroke was precise, every character written with convincing fluency.
“You… can recite this book?” Ning Xuan asked in astonishment. Faced with pages marred into near unrecognizability, the man could still restore every missing character as though nothing were amiss.
“More or less,” the man replied indifferently.
“…Just who are you?” Ning Xuan’s expression sharpened with wariness. Someone who could wander freely through the courtyard in the dead of night—and possess such literary knowledge—was certainly no ordinary figure.
“What do you think?” the man replied lightly, as though making casual conversation, seemingly oblivious to Ning Xuan’s probing gaze as he idly doodled and wrote.
“…”
Ning Xuan remained silent.
Sensing something amiss, the man stopped writing and looked up. Meeting Ning Xuan’s vigilant, almost wolf-guarding gaze, he couldn’t help but laugh. Setting down his brush, he spread his hands innocently and shrugged. “As you see—just a humble guard of the estate.”
“…”
Ning Xuan still said nothing, his expression plainly reading: Believe you? Not a chance.
The man sighed, as if lamenting his own fate. “What can I do? The decline of one’s household isn’t something I alone can decide. Once upon a time, I was a young master of a wealthy family—well-versed in the arts, skilled in both letters and arms.”
At this, Ning Xuan’s wariness instantly turned into a wave of nausea. He looked the man up and down, then shook his head with a teasing smile. “Then pray tell—what is the honorable name of this once-talented young master, equally accomplished in the four arts and martial pursuits, who has now fallen into misfortune? Though half the blame lies with you, you did help clean up part of my mess. So if one day you happen to lose an arm or a leg again, I might have someone send you a few taels of silver as charity.”
“Yi Hua,” the man replied with a grin. “And may I ask—what should I call this benefactor who may one day deign to lend me a helping hand in my destitution?”
“Ning Xuan.”
“Like rosy clouds gathering, dyeing the sands between one’s fingers; casting off the dust of the world, finding repose upon a pavilion…” Yi Hua murmured thoughtfully. “Ning Xuan—a fine name.”
Ning Xuan sighed, utterly bewildered. Perhaps this was the generational gap between modern and ancient minds—especially when dealing with someone so steeped in classical learning, always ready to flaunt a verse or two.
Though clearly unwelcome, Yi Hua continued unabated. “So, what did you do to get punished with copying texts? Who came up with such an inventive method of discipline?”
“Nothing of the sort.” Ning Xuan couldn’t be bothered to explain.
“Then you must be quite idle. Where do you serve, to have such leisure to copy books here?” Yi Hua pressed on, undeterred.
Veins throbbing at his temple, Ning Xuan forced himself to remain calm. “If you’ve finished that one, then copy the remaining book as well.”
Yi Hua shrugged in boredom but did not object. Setting aside the one in his hand, he picked up the final volume and flipped it open.
Silence once again settled over the library, broken only by the soft rustle of brush against paper and the rapid turning of pages.
Turning pages? Ning Xuan frowned slightly. Across from him, Yi Hua flipped through the book at varying speeds, occasionally letting out soft exclamations—sometimes of surprise, sometimes of sudden understanding.
“Wow—so that’s possible?” Yi Hua suddenly exclaimed, clearly struck by something.
Ning Xuan, however, acted as though this were entirely unremarkable and ignored him completely.
“Hm? Why is this part smudged? Such a crucial section, and I can’t even see what it is.” Yi Hua muttered regretfully.
“That’s because I accidentally ruined the book, so I have to redraw and restore it!” Ning Xuan snapped, his patience fraying. He had no idea what the man had been doing all this time.
“Redraw it?” Yi Hua blinked, momentarily at a loss. He glanced at Ning Xuan’s barely restrained irritation—veins bulging at his temple—then at the book in front of him. “That… doesn’t seem quite appropriate. I wouldn’t mind, but the finer details… if they lack spirit, it won’t do.”
Damn it! Ning Xuan cursed inwardly. It’s just copying characters—what “spirit” are you even talking about? Does he think this is calligraphy?
“Then switch. Take this one—I’ll take yours.” Too exhausted to argue further, Ning Xuan only wanted to finish quickly. His eyelids were already drooping with sleep.
“This… still doesn’t seem right.” Yi Hua hesitated, wavering.
Without another word, Ning Xuan snatched the book from in front of him and tossed his own half-finished one over. He dipped his brush in ink, but when he turned back, he froze—unable to bring himself to make a single stroke.
Line after line intertwined, forming two entwined figures. Disheveled garments hung half-loose, fingers interlocked, dark hair flowing in wild abandon. The depiction was exquisitely detailed—so vivid that even the folds of fabric and the expressions on the figures’ faces, caught between pain and pleasure, were rendered with startling realism. Even the sheen of sweat upon their bare bodies seemed almost tangible.
Only at the most intimate point where the two bodies joined did the image blur—indistinct, yet suggestive enough that one could infer the rest from the converging lines.
At the top right corner of the page, three characters were neatly written:
“Riding Position.”
In an instant, all of Ning Xuan’s drowsiness vanished without a trace.
He stared at the illustration, stunned, as though all the blood in his body had surged straight to his head. A roaring dizziness filled his mind; his face burned as though it might burst into flames. The fingers pressing against the page trembled uncontrollably, his palms slick with sweat. He didn’t dare lift his head to look at Yi Hua across from him.
Recalling everything that had just transpired, Ning Xuan felt both mortified and furious.
A glance at the book’s spine revealed four bold characters: “Secret Arts of the Bedchamber.”
Though such “spring palace” illustrations were considered forbidden in the modern world—printed only in secret—in ancient times they were an open secret, privately relished by many. What noble household lacked one or two such volumes? Indeed, those well-versed in such arts were often praised as refined and romantic gentlemen.
But for Ning Xuan, this was nothing short of a shock.
Not to mention, he had always been a well-behaved youth—he hadn’t even watched so much as an adult film in his life. And now, having just arrived in this world, he was confronted with explicit depictions of intimacy between men—and in such a position, no less!
The image overlapped vividly with fragments of the previous night—one still, one in motion. Under the moonlight, bodies swayed and entwined; breath came in uncontrollable, intoxicating gasps. The memories he had only just managed to suppress surged forth like a breached dam.
Paired with the illustration before him, it all came alive with terrifying clarity.
Beside the drawing, densely packed annotations filled the margins. Upon closer inspection, they were instructions—detailing the techniques and essential points of executing the “riding position.”
Ning Xuan felt the world spin.
Futile Devices Scans 
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