Chapter 87: The Book Enthusiast

(At exactly midnight, the story will be released. I hope all brothers and sisters will come and support it!)

After entering the bustling city of Suzhou, Wang Fu was still shaken, cursing his luck and exclaiming that he never expected to encounter a snake in the depths of winter—let alone a monstrous serpent of such terrifying size.

When things take an unnatural turn, there must be some evil afoot.

Because of this, he questioned Chen Jianchen several times, asking whether that snake had become a demon; Chen Jianchen only replied vaguely that he wasn’t too sure himself.

In truth, he dared not say for certain.

Or rather, even if he had been sure, what difference would it have made? Given the current circumstances, there was no way he could trek over mountains and ridges to hunt down a demon. He wondered whether the authorities would seek out an expert to deal with it—most likely, as usual, they would post a public notice and offer a reward, just as they did when calling for hunters to rid the mountains of tigers.

Upon entering Suzhou, they found an inn and settled in. Yet, that very night, whether from fright or some other cause, Wang Fu came down with a high fever. The servants hurried out to fetch a physician, who prescribed medicine and said he would have to rest for two days before making a full recovery.

To suffer such a mishap just upon arriving—Wang Fu nearly wept in despair. The journey he had planned with Chen Jianchen had to be postponed.

But while Wang Fu was bedridden, Chen Jianchen was not one to sit idle. After informing Wang Fu, he stepped out of the inn alone, intending to wander about and get a feel for the local customs and scenery.

Suzhou was far larger than Jiangzhou, and even more prosperous. Despite the cold of winter, the streets bustled with endless streams of people. The city was filled with pavilions and towers, small bridges over flowing water, suffused with the delicate, lingering charm characteristic of the southern river towns. One could imagine, in the drizzling rains of early spring, walking the lanes beneath a paper umbrella—how delightful that must be.

"Within books lie golden houses; within books dwell beauties as fair as jade…”

Suddenly, the clear recitation of a student drifted from up ahead. Looking closely, Chen Jianchen saw a man dressed in an old, faded scholar’s robe, a worn book clasped in his hands. He read aloud as he walked, nodding and swaying, entirely absorbed, oblivious to the passersby and their stares.

Despite the cold, he wore only thin clothes; the left shoe on his foot had a hole, through which his big toe protruded. The man looked utterly destitute.

“Look, there goes that book-madman again…”

“Such a pity—I've heard his family ran out of food this winter. Poor old mother of his…”

“What can be done? He’s read himself into a stupor. They say his family’s collection of books could fetch a good sum, but he’d rather starve than sell so much as a page.”

“Haha, otherwise why call him book-mad? Those books were his late father’s treasure, dearer to him than life itself. Sell them? He won’t even let anyone touch them!”

The people on the street pointed and whispered about the disheveled scholar—some shook their heads in pity, others in disdain.

Hearing these conversations, Chen Jianchen’s curiosity was piqued. After some inquiries, he learned of a truly singular scholar.

This man’s surname was Zhang, given name Huanyun, styled Yuzhu—a native of Suzhou and scion of a scholarly family. His ancestors had once held high office, but, having been upright officials, had passed down little wealth through the generations, leaving only a house full of books.

Zhang Huanyun was well-read and wrote excellent essays. At eighteen, he passed the county-level examination, and every year at the annual and provincial exams, he ranked among the very best. But, as if fate resented his talents, he had sat for the provincial exams many times, never once making the list.

His father died young, leaving him and his elderly mother, who was incapable of work, to depend on one another. He himself had no talent for earning a living; year by year, their household grew poorer, until everything was sold off—save for his beloved library—and their lives neared destitution, with barely enough to eat.

A more practical person, facing such hardship, would have found a way to profit from his learning. As a scholar, Zhang Huanyun could easily have earned money if he had applied himself. Yet he rarely set foot outside his gate, spending his days and nights buried in books, reading without cease through winter and summer alike. He cared nothing for marriage; even when relatives or guests came to visit, he would barely exchange a few words before turning away, lost once more in his books, reading aloud.

Who, in such a situation, could endure being a guest? They would soon take their leave.

Yet Zhang Huanyun was not solely fixated on becoming an official; he was utterly convinced by the ancient adage: “Within books lie measureless grain, within books lie golden mansions, within books dwell beauties as fair as jade!”

He had good reason for such belief. Once, while reading, a sudden gust of wind blew away one of his scrolls. As he chased it, he found it had landed in an old cellar, where, beneath rotting grass, he uncovered a cache of decayed grain—long inedible—dating back to a time when the site had served as a granary.

Zhang Huanyun immediately believed the book itself had guided him, thus proving the saying “within books lie measureless grain.”

On another occasion, while sorting through his family’s ancient collection, he found, on the thirty-eighth page of an old volume, a portrait of a beautiful lady, exquisitely cut from silk brocade. The painting was so finely wrought, the features so vivid, it seemed almost about to come alive.

At the sight of it, Zhang Huanyun was both astonished and delighted, recalling at once the phrase “within books dwell beauties as fair as jade.” The more he gazed, the more entranced he became.

Henceforth, he set the portrait on his desk each day, admiring it endlessly, to the point of forgetting to eat or sleep. At night, he often dreamed of meeting the lady, of tender love and lingering affection, a fascination beyond words.

His aged mother, seeing his obsession, tried in vain to persuade him; all she could do was sigh in sorrow. In the end, the old woman was forced to lean on her cane and beg for food on the streets, each day bringing back a meager meal for her son, now past thirty.

It is said, “white-haired folk burying the black-haired is the greatest sorrow”—but what of white-haired folk having to provide for the black-haired? What greater helplessness and misery could there be?

Hearing all this, Chen Jianchen was filled with indignation. What use is a bookworm like Zhang Huanyun, no matter how many volumes he consumes? He excels at neither scholarship nor commerce, accomplishes nothing of worth, yet lives off his seventy-year-old mother like a parasite—utterly useless.

Wait!

A sudden inspiration flashed through Chen Jianchen’s mind as he pondered the nearly absurd stories he’d just heard. Could it be that the portrait of the lady, hidden within the old book, had become sentient—a spirit? Was it she who nightly appeared in Zhang Huanyun’s dreams, ensnaring his heart?

Such a thing was not beyond belief. Animals could become demons, plants and stones take on spirit, so why not a portrait of a lady?

With this thought, Chen Jianchen quickened his pace to catch up with Zhang Huanyun—resolved, in his heart, to intervene in this matter.