Chapter Forty-Three: Half a Face

The sunlight was warm and gentle, and spring was finally beginning to reveal its delicate charm—birds singing, flowers fragrant, a languid sense of ease settling over everything.

Chen Jianchen was in class, listening attentively as Old Master Liu, the calligraphy instructor, explained the essentials of brushwork. Old Master Liu, well into his sixties, was thin and tall, dressed in a robe faded to white from countless washings. His spirit was keen, and his voice, as he recited, had a rhythmic cadence, rising and falling with emphasis:

“Handwriting is like a man’s character: it should be upright, not crooked; firm, not scattered; it must have backbone, a spirit within…”

Chen Jianchen listened intently. Of all his subjects, calligraphy was his favorite. It was one of the Six Arts, and thus greatly esteemed; moreover, it suited his personal taste.

Yet, the so-called “Six Arts” in this world were not those he remembered—they had replaced “Rites, Music, Archery, Charioteering, Calligraphy, Mathematics” with “Classics, Rites, Music, Virtue, Calligraphy, Mathematics.” The physical disciplines of archery and charioteering had been discarded. In short, the prevailing scholarly atmosphere disdained martial training as crude and unrefined, unworthy of being counted among the arts. This, too, was an effective tool the court used to polarize society and maintain its rule.

Chen Jianchen, having lived another life, saw through it all. He observed with cold detachment, doing what he must—he still exercised daily, regardless.

Beyond that, he chose his arts wisely. “Classics, Rites, Virtue”—most of it was hollow and insubstantial; “Mathematics” was so elementary it scarcely warranted a glance. That left “Music and Calligraphy” as his focus. Music encompassed song, dance, poetry; Calligraphy included both writing and painting. In his previous life, Chen Jianchen had some interest in these arts, though his skills had been unrefined. Now, having crossed into this world, he found the perfect opportunity to study them in depth. What’s more, the “True Chapter of the Three Accomplishments” also required proficiency in these areas. As the Master said: “Let the ink reveal strength, let the brush transmit the spirit.” In the “Establishing Words” realm, the core abilities and righteous energy all had to be expressed through pen and ink.

At present, Chen Jianchen had condensed his righteous energy and entered the Dao, reaching the initial level of the “Establishing Words” stage. But he was only at the threshold; the path ahead was still long.

Studying calligraphy and painting allowed him also to practice the “True Chapter of the Three Accomplishments”—two birds with one stone. Unfortunately, calligraphy and painting classes were only held once every seven days, far too infrequent. It was much like his high school days, where music and physical education classes were too rare and often usurped by other lessons, leaving students with little more than “self-study.”

So whenever the calligraphy and painting class convened, Chen Jianchen listened with utmost concentration. He often sought out the master with questions, and in his free time, he practiced tirelessly. With his keen insight, agile mind, and diligent effort, he had achieved modest success, even beginning to develop his own style by blending his previous life’s knowledge. Several of his works had earned the master’s nod of approval: “Not just the skill of a craftsman, but a touch of spirit—unbound by convention.”

Mastering calligraphy and painting was an invaluable skill, a foundation upon which one could build a reputation. If he became renowned, a celebrated master, glory and benefit would follow. In truth, this was Chen Jianchen’s carefully prepared fallback. Brushwork and the “True Chapter of the Three Accomplishments” complemented each other perfectly—why not pursue it?

When class ended, the students dispersed. Wang Fu hurried over to Chen Jianchen’s side. “Liuxian, do you have time to go into town with me? I need to buy a few things.”

He looked forward eagerly to the upcoming fifteenth of March, when he would finally see the female students of Qingxue Academy—most especially Nie Xiaoqian, the brightest jewel among them.

“I’m afraid I can’t, Fǔtái,” Chen Jianchen replied. “I have to practice my calligraphy.”

Wang Fu looked crestfallen and had to go out by himself after requesting leave.

After lunch, Chen Jianchen stayed in his room to practice. The pleasant thing about the academy was that classes were held only in the morning; afternoons were entirely one’s own, so long as one didn’t leave the grounds. Whether gathering with friends to discuss the classics or shutting oneself away to study, all was permitted, provided the rules weren’t broken.

Most often, Chen Jianchen found himself alone. He had been enrolled for some time, but among the hundred or so fellow students, he remained something of an outsider, never quite fitting in. Only Wang Fu was an exception.

It wasn’t that Chen Jianchen was antisocial; rather, most of his classmates were men in their forties or fifties, staid and severe, making conversation difficult and common ground scarce. It was better to be alone, practicing his calligraphy or studying the “True Chapter.”

Knock, knock, knock!

A hurried rapping sounded at the door. Chen Jianchen frowned, set down his brush, and opened it to find Wang Fu standing outside, flushed with excitement.

“Liuxian, guess who I just saw on the street?” Wang Fu burst out.

Chen Jianchen chuckled. “I’m not a sage—how could I possibly know?”

Wang Fu could barely contain himself. “It was Nie Xiaoqian, the beloved daughter of Prefect Nie!”

Chen Jianchen’s interest was piqued. “Did you speak to her?”

Wang Fu’s face fell. “No, she was sitting in her sedan, with guards beside her. I didn’t dare approach such a lady.”

“Then how can you say you saw her?”

Wang Fu straightened. “Ah, but just then a breeze lifted the sedan’s curtain, and I seized the moment to look. Even though I only glimpsed half her face, she was breathtaking.”

Imagining the scene, Chen Jianchen couldn’t help but laugh. Wang Fu insisted, “Liuxian, you haven’t seen her. I guarantee, if you did, you’d be even more astonished than I was—might even lose your appetite. She’s incomparable, like a figure from a painting.”

Chen Jianchen could only shake his head. He had no doubt about Nie Xiaoqian’s beauty, but with time and space so altered, all identities were uncertain, everyone a stranger.

As they spoke, Wang Fu’s expression darkened. “But when we go out for the spring outing in ten days, I doubt we’ll have a chance to speak with her.”

“Why is that? Is she particularly proud or does she have strict rules?”

Wang Fu shook his head. “Not at all. But she already has a protector—Wu Wencai, the only son of the former prefect, Lord Wu. Their families are old allies, and the marriage was arranged from childhood… Wu Wencai is also a student at our academy. He’s been absent due to some affairs, but I hear he’ll be arriving any day now.”

Chen Jianchen’s brows lifted imperceptibly.

Wang Fu went on, “Think about it—both the Nie and Wu families are powerful. If we offend their children, we’d be courting disaster. There’s no harm in admiring from afar, but to approach them would be reckless. I’ve also heard that Young Master Wu is notoriously arrogant—a difficult character. When he arrives, you should be careful, Liuxian.”

Chen Jianchen replied calmly, “Thank you for your warning, Fǔtái. But you know me—I never go looking for trouble.”

Wang Fu nodded in wholehearted agreement. Indeed, throughout his time at the academy, Chen Jianchen had always kept to himself, focused on his studies, never embroiled in any disputes.

Of course, what Wang Fu didn’t know was that Chen Jianchen’s words had an unspoken addendum: I don’t seek trouble—but I won’t let anyone trouble me, either.