The man visibly started, staring at Ning Xuan as though he had not quite processed what had just happened. Ning Xuan paid him no attention. He returned to his seat, casually picked up one of the two remaining books, and resumed writing furiously, putting his boundless talent for copying by hand—and his imagination—to full use.
Faced with Ning Xuan’s unmistakable I’m busy, and I have nothing to say to you attitude, the man neither questioned nor refused him. Instead, he obediently picked up the brush and began writing with every appearance of competence.
In truth, Ning Xuan had only said it on impulse. He had ruined that book so thoroughly that even its original author might no longer have recognized it. Tossing the hopeless volume at the man was merely meant to make him admit defeat—or take the hint and leave. Ning Xuan had never expected him to genuinely lower his head and begin restoring it.
His own hand never stopped moving, but curiosity made one brow rise as he leaned over for a look. He had assumed the man was merely pretending, only to find him seriously writing stroke by stroke.
“You… memorized this book?” Ning Xuan asked in astonishment. The pages were so stained with ink that they were almost unrecognizable, yet the man could smoothly turn every mysterious black blot back into a complete character.
“More or less,” the man replied without concern.
“…Who exactly are you?” Ning Xuan immediately grew wary. Someone who could wander freely through the residence in the middle of the night and was also well versed in literature could not possibly have an ordinary background.
“Who do you think I am?” The man seemed entirely oblivious to Ning Xuan’s suspicious scrutiny. He continued idly writing and drawing as he answered in a tone fit for casual conversation.
“…” Ning Xuan said nothing.
Sensing something unusual, the man stopped writing and looked up. Ning Xuan was watching him with the vigilance of someone guarding against a lecher. Amused, he set down his brush, spread both hands in innocence, and shrugged. “Just as you see. I’m only a guard in the residence.”
“…” Ning Xuan remained silent, his expression plainly saying, Say whatever you like. I still don’t believe you.
The man sighed helplessly. “A family’s decline is hardly something I could decide for myself. I was once the son of a wealthy household—accomplished in music, chess, calligraphy, painting, literature, and martial arts.”
Ning Xuan’s suspicion instantly transformed into nausea. He looked the man up and down, shook his head, and drawled, “Then may I ask the honored name of this former wealthy young master, once accomplished in music, chess, calligraphy, painting, literature, and martial arts, whose family tragically fell into ruin? You may be half responsible for this mess, but you’ve at least helped me clean up part of it. If misfortune strikes again and you lose an arm or a leg, I’ll know whom to send a little relief money to.”
“Yihua,” Yihua answered with a smile. “And what should I call the generous benefactor who intends to offer me charity whenever I fall into poverty?”
“Ning Xuan.”
“Green clouds gather, staining the sand between one’s fingers; the clamor of the mortal world is cast away as one leans against the railing,” Yihua murmured thoughtfully. “Ning Xuan. A fine name.”
Ning Xuan sighed, completely lost. Perhaps this was simply the generation gap between modern and ancient people—especially when dealing with one of those scholarly types who could not resist quoting poetry and showing off his learning.
Despite the complete lack of encouragement, Yihua continued talking. “What did you do? Were you punished by being made to copy books? Whoever came up with that was certainly creative. It’s quite a novel punishment.”
“Nothing of the sort.” Ning Xuan could not be bothered to explain.
“Then you must be remarkably idle. Where are you assigned that you have enough free time to sit here copying books?” Yihua pressed on, entirely undiscouraged.
The veins at Ning Xuan’s temple throbbed, but he forced himself to remain calm. “When you finish that one, copy the last book too.”
Yihua shrugged in boredom but did not object. He put aside the book he had been working on, picked up the final volume, and began flipping through it.
Silence returned to the library. Only the soft scratching of brushes against rice paper and the rapid turning of pages could be heard.
Turning pages? Ning Xuan wondered. Across from him, Yihua flipped through the book at an uneven pace, sometimes quickly and sometimes slowly, occasionally releasing a sigh of surprise or sudden enlightenment.
“Wow. You can do that too?” Yihua abruptly exclaimed. Ning Xuan had no idea what he had seen, but by then he was used to the man’s behavior and ignored him.
“Huh? Why is this part smeared? It’s the most important section, and now I can’t tell what anything is.” Yihua muttered with obvious regret.
“That’s exactly why I have to trace and restore everything! I accidentally smeared the books!” Ning Xuan exploded, wondering what Yihua thought he had been doing all night.
“What? Trace it?” Yihua seemed genuinely taken aback. He glanced at Ning Xuan’s violently throbbing temple, then back at the volume before him. “That… might not be a good idea. I personally don’t mind, but the details inside… If you fail to capture them properly, the result won’t have any spirit.”
Damn it! He only has to copy a few characters. What spirit is there to capture? Does he think this is a masterpiece of calligraphy?
“Then switch with me. Give me that one and take this.” Ning Xuan’s eyelids were already drooping. He had no strength left for unnecessary conversation and wanted only to finish quickly.
“That… might not be a good idea either,” Yihua replied, still hesitating.
Ning Xuan snatched the book from before him and tossed over the volume he had only restored by a third. He dipped his brush into the ink, turned back to the page—and froze, with no idea where to begin.
Curving lines rose and crossed over one another, forming two entwined bodies, disheveled half-open robes, clasped fingers, and long black hair streaming through the air. The illustration was astonishingly lifelike and exquisitely detailed. Even the folds of the clothing and the figures’ expressions—caught somewhere between pain and pleasure—had been rendered with striking realism. One could almost see the beads of sweat clinging to their naked skin. Only the crucial place where their bodies joined had been smeared beyond recognition. Although the details could no longer be distinguished, the lines converging around it still made the original image easy enough to imagine. Three neat characters stood in the upper-right corner: Riding Position.
Every trace of Ning Xuan’s drowsiness vanished. He stared at the picture in disbelief, feeling as though all the blood in his body had reversed direction and rushed straight into his head. His face burned as if it might explode. The fingers pressing against the page trembled, and sweat gathered in his palms. He did not even dare raise his head to look at Yihua. Remembering everything they had said and done moments earlier, Ning Xuan was overcome by shame and fury.
He glanced at the spine. A few bold characters were written there: Secret Arts of the Bedchamber. In modern times, Spring Palace illustrations were considered forbidden material and had to be printed in secret. In ancient times, however, everyone knew they existed and privately discussed them with great enthusiasm. What prominent household did not possess one or two such books? People even praised noble young masters proficient in such matters as charming men of the world. For Ning Xuan, however, it was nothing short of an assault upon his senses. He was an exemplary young man who had never even watched an adult film, yet shortly after arriving in this world, he had stumbled upon Spring Palace illustrations depicting sex between men—and the page in question was the riding position!
Elio’s Notes: “Spring Palace illustrations” (春宫图) is a traditional Chinese euphemism for erotic pictures depicting sexual acts, techniques, or positions. “Spring” is commonly associated with romance and sexual desire, while “palace” lends the expression a more refined and indirect tone.
The illustration overlapped horribly with everything he had witnessed the night before. One scene had been still and the other alive: bodies entwining beneath moonlight, accompanied by uncontrollable gasps that stirred the heart. Ning Xuan’s frantic work had finally pushed those memories aside, only for them to burst free like floodwater through a broken dam. Combined with the illustration before him, the scene became almost unbearably vivid.
The picture was surrounded by marks, and beside it ran a dense line of tiny characters. Looking more closely, Ning Xuan discovered that they explained the essential techniques and secrets of performing the riding position. The whole world seemed to tilt beneath him.
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