"Ha!" In the little courtyard, Xu Qian lobbed a diamond-shaped dart with a loose flick, not really aiming. It struck the red heart of the wooden post dead center, twenty paces away. Not because his throw was special. No—because his luck was absurd.
"There is definitely something wrong with this body of mine..." Xu Qian muttered.
His luck was too good. In a month he'd picked up one tael and two qian of silver total—half a month's salary, enough to feed a family of three frugally for three months. And the strangest thing: a qian every single time. That stopped being "luck" and became something else.
No need for a detective to tell me this is fishy. "System, Daddy? Come out, stop playing hide-and-seek," Xu Qian probed. The System ignored him. After a month of a hundred attempts, the truth was clear: there was no System at all.
Fancy that—a guy who'd never won even five yuan on a lottery ticket in his life, now a golden child of fortune. But golden fortune dies young... Xu Qian laughed bitterly. The original owner had certainly never had such luck; if he had, Aunt would've worshipped him like an ancestor, and the family could've lived off his pocket change.
"This gift from nowhere fills me with unease..." Xu Qian sighed. "I'll just have to take it one step at a time."
Today was a day off. Xu Qian vaulted the one-zhang-tall wall and went to his second uncle's for breakfast. The little courtyard had once housed the Xu family's old steward; a wall separated it from the main house. When the steward died, the yard sat empty—until Xu Qian quarreled with Aunt and, in a huff, moved in.
The original owner was stubborn; he cooked his own meals, while his uncle would occasionally climb the wall, jug in hand, to drink with him. The new Xu Qian saw no reason to carry that burden—and eating out threw money away. Wasn't listening to songs at the pleasure house better? Mostly for watching the girls in sheer gauze shake what the ancestors gave them.
The inner hall.
Aunt, in a dark-red wide-sleeved gown, saw Xu Qian come in, pursed her lips, and went back to her porridge.
Aunt wasn't some noble's daughter. Her father had been a modest scholar, and she'd been raised amid ink and paper, able to see reason. Saved by her unlucky nephew's goodwill, she couldn't chase him away. For this nephew who once insisted "don't bully the young for being poor" and now proved... useful, she kept one eye open.
The little dumpling stood on a round stool, her breakfast spread before her—three pork buns, two dough sticks, pickles, and a big plate of congee.
"Big brother..." she called out indistinctly.
"Why isn't Cijiu here?" Xu Qian asked. Cijiu was Xu Xinnian's courtesy name.
"Shut in his room writing poetry," said Second Uncle.
Xu Qian sat down. Lü E served him congee, six pork buns, pickled radish, and tofu pudding. A martial artist in Essence Refining ate far more than a normal man; at his uncle's level, Qi Refining, the appetite settled back down.
Only half-full... Xu Qian glanced at the little dumpling: "Lingyin, how about you share a pork bun with big brother?"
Everyone looked at him. The youngest girl cared about nothing in the world but her food; whoever snatched from her bowl was her mortal enemy.
"No!" The little dumpling spread her arms like a hen shielding her chicks.
"Hold on, your big brother won't let you lose out." Xu Qian set a pork bun on her plate. "These four buns—we both get a share, right?"
Xu Lingyin bobbed her head.
"And shouldn't we split them evenly?"
She tilted her head, thought, then nodded.
"You get two buns, big brother gets two buns, then big brother gives you half a dough stick. Don't you come out ahead?"
"Mhm." Led along, Xu Lingyin felt she'd made a killing and beamed.
Xu Lingyue: "......"
Second Uncle looked at his nephew: (¬_¬)
Aunt snapped: "How could I have raised such a dimwitted daughter? You're driving your mother to an early grave!"
The little dumpling felt deeply wronged. She'd clearly earned herself half a dough stick, so why was Mother scolding her?
Just then, Xu Xinnian walked in, muttering to himself, eyes unfocused, sitting to breakfast while lost in thought.
Aunt let out a breath, ignored the silly youngster, and fussed over her gifted son: "Xinnian, why are you suddenly writing poetry? Everyone has strengths and weaknesses. Don't mind the gossip."
Xu Xinnian's gift lay in political essays; poetry was his weak point.
"Cijiu, when will you break through Enlightenment and reach the eighth rank, Self-Cultivation?" Xu Qian asked suddenly.
Xu Xinnian walked the Confucian path. The White Deer Academy, founded by the great disciple of the Confucian Sage twelve hundred years ago, was every scholar's dream—and the only academy left where the Confucian path could be practiced.
Its ninth rank, Enlightenment, only sharpened memory—reading a page at a glance—but left you a five-bucket weakling in a fight.
"No clue yet. My masters say it must be realized on one's own," Xu Xinnian shook his head.
"Use the Enlightenment realm as a reference," said Xu Qian. "How did you achieve it?"
Xu Xinnian recalled: "Recite the Sage's classics flawlessly and make them your own. That is Enlightenment."
Recite flawlessly... make your own... The first demanded patient memory; the second, insight. Like the martial path's Essence Refining—years of tempering. Xu Qian nodded thoughtfully.
"So does Self-Cultivation also mean tempering your physique?" asked Xu Qian.
Xu Xinnian considered it. "A scholar of Self-Cultivation knows no fear; every word and deed can persuade and stir others to fight. I'm trying to work backward from what it manifests to deduce the method."
"And did it work?"
Xu Xinnian pretended not to hear, and turned to his mother: "An elder of the Academy is heading to Qingzhou to take office. Tomorrow the disciples will send him off with farewell poems." He looked troubled: "I haven't written mine yet."
Xu Lingyue said softly: "Second brother has no gift for poetry."
Aunt shot her a glare: "Your second brother is gifted in every way. Poetry was simply something he never put his mind to."
Second Uncle scratched his head: "Just scribble a few lines. That verse you blurted out the other day had real spirit."
"Kuh-kuh-kuh..." Xu Qian laughed.
Xu Xinnian's mouth twitched, and he stiffly changed the subject: "That elder is a great scholar, brilliant at poetry. Those seeing him off are all disciples with real talent. Besides reverence, they're out to build connections—win his favor and the benefits would be many."
Well, well—he's finally thinking about networking. Xu Xinnian was proud and aloof, forever quoting "a gentleman's friendship is plain as water." But this latest crisis taught him the value of a good quid-pro-quo. As eldest, Xu Qian felt gratified.
An elder great enough to make my proud cousin court him so hard—must be a big shot... Aunt grew anxious: "Whatever shall we do?"
Xu Xinnian sighed: "Mother, a fine essay is heaven-written, caught by a lucky hand. Poetry is the same. Had I befriended this literary senior back then, perhaps I could've gotten you out of prison, instead of finding no one to plead for us."
Aunt's face clouded. No one cared more about her son's prospects than she did. A true great scholar had principles; silver and gifts wouldn't work. You had to appeal to his tastes, make him feel you were worth knowing.
Second Uncle's brow knit: "Your maternal grandfather was the same—could write essays but had zero gift for poetry."
Aunt bridled: "What are you implying? That it's my father's fault? Xinnian got into the provincial examination all thanks to my Li family, because he took after me. Look at Lingyin—she takes after you, and she's still not past her first reader."
Xu Xinnian and Xu Lingyue took after their mother, with a beauty that made others jealous. The little dumpling, with her father's features, was adorable but a touch dull. Second Uncle was speechless.
"Now that's not right, Aunt," Xu Qian objected. "By that logic, you're saying we Xu folk are genetically dim-witted?"
Aunt didn't understand "gene" and sneered: "If you'd had any head for books, you wouldn't have taken up martial arts."
If even the prickly Second Son was willing to court this elder, his standing must be high. His connections are my connections—I should lend a hand. Xu Qian's mind raced through the immortal farewell verses of his past life. Trading a resource for a favor costs nothing. Before long, he had it. A poem.
Xu Qian bit into his pork bun: "Poetry, is it? Today I'll show Aunt we Xu folk are all talents."
His only worry was whether the poem might be almost too good. The poems that make it into textbooks, he knew, are all immortal masterworks.