Chapter Fifty-Seven: An Encounter

(Finally, I’ve made it onto the recommendation list—my first time ever. With the first, can the second be far behind? Here’s the third chapter, still hoping for your support!)

Today is Mother Mo’s birthday, so Chen Jianchen returned home for dinner—the gift was already purchased, a silver hairpin, finely crafted. Though not made by a master artisan, it was delicate enough.

These days, Chen Jianchen’s calligraphy has soared in demand. Among the consignment authors at Snowmud Studio, he’s begun to make a name for himself. Every piece he creates is highly sought after.

Especially his poem “Twilight,” which has garnered him considerable fame.

Fame and fortune—fame comes before fortune. Especially under the political system of the Tian Tong Dynasty, reputation is paramount. With the aura of renown, one’s efforts often yield twice the results. Thus, for the sake of a spotless reputation, many scholars spare no expense.

Of course, the demand for Chen Jianchen’s calligraphy is closely tied to his own skill. His characters, honed through persistent practice, have reached a level of mastery.

He studies diligently and dares to innovate, gradually forming his own style.

Moreover, every time he writes, the content is either a concise warning or a famous verse—unlike most, who copy passages from the Four Books or the classics.

This is a significant difference.

You could say half of what he sells is his own brushwork, and the other half is the talent of poets past.

The two complement each other, his style stern and distinctive. Even at higher prices, people prefer his work, rather than choosing those mediocre calligraphies.

The market for calligraphy is actually quite large. Many households purchase pieces from time to time—either to cultivate taste and decorate their homes, as gifts, or for the value of collection, hoping to sell them at a high price once the artist becomes famous.

With Chen Jianchen’s calligraphy in high demand, Manager Li naturally treats him differently, greeting him enthusiastically and urging him to write more—ideally a dozen pieces a day, so they could both make a fortune.

But Chen Jianchen would never heed such advice.

Calligraphy is art, not mere copying, and cannot be mass-produced. If one seeks quick profit through careless work, it’s nothing less than killing the goose that lays the golden eggs, destroying one’s future.

So, he continues at his own pace, even holding himself to stricter standards—if he’s dissatisfied with a piece, he tears it up and throws it away.

A gentleman must be strict with himself!

Thus, he manages to produce a satisfactory calligraphy every three days or so, consigning it at Snowmud Studio, and over time, selling a fair amount. Most of the proceeds go toward repaying debt. Although Wang Fu says there’s no rush, even hinting there’s no need to repay at all, Chen Jianchen firmly refuses. Friendship is friendship, but accounts must be clear; what is borrowed must be returned.

After repaying his debts, Chen Jianchen’s funds are rather meager. To buy the birthday hairpin for his mother, he nearly spent all he had. But he felt no regret—compared to what Mother Mo has given him, what is this small hairpin?

It’s hardly worth mentioning.

Who says the heart of grass can repay the spring sun?

Perhaps it’s just so.

The sun was setting in the west as Chen Jianchen walked lightly down the street, heading toward his new home at the eastern end.

As he passed a crossroads, he saw a carved sedan chair parked in front of a fabric shop.

Chen Jianchen glanced unintentionally, just as a young girl emerged from the shop.

She was tall, her clothes flowing, her face free of any makeup, fair and clean, her brows elegant as distant mountains, her eyes bright—not autumnal, but even more so, full of wit and grace, delicate as willows, displaying a beauty so breathtaking it could suffocate.

Chen Jianchen felt a vague sense of familiarity. The girl caught sight of him and suddenly called out in a crisp voice, “Chen Jianchen, what are you doing here?”

This address was entirely outside conventional etiquette, leaving those who heard it stunned—it was unexpected, especially from such a girl of noble bearing.

It was almost shocking!

There were many people in the street, and they all turned to look.

A flash of recognition lit up Chen Jianchen’s mind, and he blurted out, “Nie Xiaoqian, so you’re here!”

He realized only after speaking that it was inappropriate.

Nie Xiaoqian smiled, her charm in that instant outshining even the sunset. She said nothing more, climbed into the sedan, and was carried away in another direction by two bearers.

Chen Jianchen watched the sedan vanish, his heart filled with mixed emotions: time passes, things change, people come and go, yet some things seem unchanged. A chance encounter, a simple greeting, and suddenly time overlaps without flaw.

What are you doing here?

So, you’re here too...

Had he always been searching for such a meeting deep in his heart?

Chen Jianchen suddenly sighed.

Since coming to this world, so much has changed; his past and present lives have blurred and merged, now inseparable.

Whether Zhuang Zhou dreamed he was a butterfly, or it was a fleeting dream of yellow millet, both are lives suspended between dream and reality, seeking only some true meaning of existence.

The sunset’s glow warmed Chen Jianchen’s body as he stood lost in thought. Suddenly, a maid came running toward him—he recognized her as Nie Xiaoqian’s attendant.

The maid hurried over, cheeks flushed, caught her breath, then respectfully offered a salute and said, “Young Master Chen, my lady asks you to write a piece of calligraphy.”

Chen Jianchen asked, “Write? What should I write?”

The maid replied, “My lady didn’t specify. She just wants you to write whatever you wish.”

Is that so?

Chen Jianchen seemed to understand.

The maid added, “Young Master Chen, please, I’ll return and attend to my lady now.” With another salute, she ran back. Clearly a maid from a distinguished family, her manners flawless. Her mistress, however, seemed to treat etiquette as a set of shackles, always seeking to break free when given the chance.

Chen Jianchen stood in silence, then suddenly burst into loud laughter, paying no heed to the startled looks around him, and strode home.

Inside, Abao was already busy.

It was her foster mother’s birthday, and she wouldn’t let Mother Mo cook; everything was managed by herself. Though young, she could summon remarkable energy.

Mother Mo herself couldn’t stay idle, weaving cloth in her room. Even after moving to the city, she hadn’t abandoned her craft—besides passing the time, it helped support the household. She was used to working, unable to sit still.

“Mother, I’m home!”

Chen Jianchen pushed open the door, his heart already tranquil.