Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Hidden Dragon

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Dinner ended in an atmosphere of warmth, and after sharing some family talk, everyone retired to their rooms.

The villa Chen Jianchen had purchased included a rear courtyard with four side rooms. Of these, Chen Jianchen occupied two: one as his bedroom, the other as his study.

Calling it a study was a stretch, for there were hardly any books inside. Nevertheless, it was the first true study Chen Jianchen had ever owned. Back in Jingyang Village, his study had been so cramped that half of the space was taken up by his bed, hardly deserving the name of a study.

Now, the humble days were behind him; he had finally bid farewell to his cramped existence.

—In the spacious study, a single scroll hung in the center of the wall, bearing only one character: a large, bold "Righteousness."

Chen Jianchen had written it himself, and the character radiated a sense of integrity.

Hanging such a character here was meant to guard the household.

In truth, the righteous energy imbued in calligraphy depends greatly on the integrity of its medium; if the scroll were damaged, its power would be greatly diminished, perhaps lost entirely.

Therefore, one must take care in mounting it as a scroll to ensure its proper preservation.

The night passed without incident. The next morning, after a quick breakfast, Chen Jianchen returned to the academy. But just as he reached the gate, he was met by Wang Fu, who came rushing out to greet him.

Spotting Chen Jianchen, Wang Fu seized him by the arm, excitement shining in his eyes. "Liuxian, come! Your humble brother will take you to meet someone."

"Who?" Chen Jianchen asked, puzzled.

Wang Fu laughed, feigning mystery. "Just follow me, and I promise you won’t be disappointed! I’ve spent a great deal of effort tracking this person down."

Chen Jianchen pursed his lips. "If you don't tell me, I won't go."

Wang Fu rolled his eyes. "Liuxian, you truly are no fun. Very well, I’ll be frank. This is a recluse, a legendary figure known in the martial world as a dragon whose head may be seen but never its tail. His name will surely ring in your ears like thunder—it is none other than 'Zhuge Wolong.'"

The name Zhuge Wolong was indeed legendary, and Chen Jianchen was well aware of his reputation. He was a remarkable man, famed in scholarly circles. In fact, Zhuge Wolong was not his real name but a pen name.

It was said that he possessed vast erudition and extraordinary talent, well-versed in both the heavens and the earth, knowing nearly everything. Yet, despite his brilliance, he sat for the imperial examinations from the age of twenty all the way to seventy, never once succeeding. His life was one of hardship and drifting half his days untethered.

After repeated failures, Zhuge Wolong finally became disillusioned and turned his bitterness toward the world, dedicating himself to writing, focusing on tales of ghosts, fox spirits, and other strange beings, weaving stories rich with drama, romance, and legendary flair. His representative works included "Travels in the Studio of Subtle Observations" and "Orchids, Bamboo, and Plum."

Rumor now had it that Master Zhuge was in seclusion, composing an epic new work called "A Dream of Stone," which, once completed, would surely set the world ablaze with copies flying off the shelves and paper in Luoyang growing scarce.

Of course, all these works were strictly forbidden by the imperial court.

But the more they were banned, the more popular they became, stirring hearts and inspiring endless secret recitations and hand-copied editions. In the various reading halls, it was said: "A life without reading 'Orchids, Bamboo, and Plum' is a life where all other books are read in vain."

Such was his influence.

Though Chen Jianchen had not read the fabled "Orchids, Bamboo, and Plum," he was quite fond of "Travels in the Studio of Subtle Observations." In its pages, he glimpsed echoes of another peerless classic, and it certainly deserved the praise, "Ghosts and foxes with true character, wit and satire turned into art."

Thus, Chen Jianchen was eager to meet Zhuge Wolong, and so he followed Wang Fu.

Their conversation along the way was mostly idle chatter—most of it Wang Fu’s, who was so excited he could hardly contain himself, as if going to meet a great idol. He babbled incessantly about how, no matter what, he must persuade Master Zhuge to let them see the manuscript of "A Dream of Stone" before anyone else.

After walking for the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, Wang Fu stopped before an ornate building.

Chen Jianchen looked up and was taken aback: the Birdsong Pavilion!

The name was whimsical, but in truth it was a renowned brothel in Jiangzhou. Though Chen Jianchen had never visited, he’d long since heard of its fame.

In the Tian Tong dynasty, it was common for scholars to frequent such establishments; many even considered it a mark of culture. This was because many of the courtesans were skilled in poetry, music, chess, and painting. Setting aside their lowly status, some of the top courtesans could rightly be called talented women.

Thus, not all the literati came merely for pleasure; many came for conversation—though, more often than not, conversation led to other things...

Zhuge Wolong was here?

Chen Jianchen was a little surprised.

It was still early, the dawn just breaking. The Birdsong Pavilion was silent and still, its residents doubtless lost in their fragrant dreams.

Wang Fu, clearly familiar with the place, struck up a conversation with a roguish-looking houseboy. With a quick flash of his hand, he slipped the man a hefty silver ingot.

Pocketing the silver, the houseboy’s smile curled his eyes into slits. He promptly led Wang Fu and Chen Jianchen inside, winding through several corridors before stopping at a secluded rear courtyard. Indicating one of the rooms, he whispered, "Master Zhuge lives inside. You mustn’t tell a soul."

Despite his words, his expression suggested he wished the whole world knew—if every day brought a few more generous fools like Wang Fu, he’d soon be rich.

"Is Master still abed?" Wang Fu asked.

"He’s already up—most likely drinking again," the houseboy replied. "But let me warn you, every morning he drinks heavily and goes on drunken rants."

Wang Fu offered his thanks, and the houseboy hurried off to attend to his other tasks.

Wang Fu and Chen Jianchen stepped forward, but before they could approach, bang—the door burst open. An elderly man, thin and white-haired, staggered out, clutching a jug of wine.

"If a man spends his days in comfort, the very strands of his hair are a disgrace; once fallen from grace, his writings are full of flaws. Standing aside, gazing at the world, one finds no home beneath the heavens. The bold roam the world, but fate is fickle and talent is resented by fortune. Who, throughout history, has suffered more than I?"

His voice was aged and mournful, tinged with anger.

The reference to "comfort" was an old story—once, a scholar named Liu, while sitting for the imperial exams, would not allow the words "joy" or "fall" to be spoken in his home because of their inauspicious sounds, preferring "peace and health" instead. It was much like gamblers avoiding certain words for luck. Yet, in the end, Liu did not pass. When the servant went to check the results, he returned and announced, "Master, you are healthy."

"Master Zhuge?" Wang Fu called out, delighted.

The old man’s steps faltered, his eyes foggy with drink. He glanced at the two and asked, "Who are you? Why are you here?"

He was clearly drunk beyond measure, his tongue thick, his words slurred. As he moved, his foot caught on a stone, and he nearly fell—only to be caught at the last moment by a strong, steady hand.

Chen Jianchen’s hand.