Chapter 13: If One Day My Lofty Ambition Is Fulfilled

“Son-in-law, what happened to you?” Caiyun, seeing her young master sitting in a daze on the chair, with a blood-stained jade pendant in his hand, hurried over to ask.

“Oh dear, sir, you…” Why was this son-in-law so troublesome? He had just gotten better, and now he was covered in blood again.

Lu Jin didn’t want to speak; he simply wanted to be left alone. And don’t ask who “Alone” is.

So much for the promised “never to deceive me”—were they all just playing with him?

Damn this so-called inheritance; his wounds had already healed, yet nothing had happened.

“He’s lost his mind again,” Caiyun grumbled inwardly as she quickly helped Lu Jin tidy up.

With nowhere to vent his frustration, Lu Jin felt the greatest disappointment in life was hoping in vain for nothing—he was about to explode.

“Caiyun, bring me wine!” he shouted.

Caiyun glanced up. “Sir, there’s no wine in our courtyard.”

“There’s not a single drop of wine in this vast Shen Mansion?” Lu Jin asked in disbelief.

“Sir, everything in our courtyard is rationed monthly. Where would there be wine?” She thought to herself, if he’s already losing his mind without wine, who knows what he’d do if he had some—maybe burn the house down.

Lu Jin was speechless.

He had no idea he’d been so easily tricked by a maid. He truly thought he couldn’t get any wine, and now, after such disappointment, he felt even more dejected.

He got up and wandered to the bookshelf, leafing through some books, hoping to escape the gloomy mood. But everything he flipped through was full of formal, archaic prose.

The shelves held the equivalent of Confucian classics from his previous life—collections like “Annotations of Lord Puyang” and “A Hundred Questions of the Confucian School.” Who could read such books? They were all similar to the moral classics he’d known before; not much difference.

What kind of books did the original owner study? What classics were required for the scholar’s examination? Not that it mattered—he couldn’t pass anyway; that path was closed to him. Thinking about it further was pointless.

“Caiyun, isn’t there any novel or something like that here?” Lu Jin turned to ask the maid.

“What is a novel?” Caiyun looked utterly confused, racking her brain for the answer. She’d never heard of such a thing—was she just poorly educated?

“You might call them storybooks. Are there any storybooks?” Lu Jin explained.

“Oh, you mean storybooks.” Caiyun’s expression relaxed. This young master always used words she’d never heard before—storybooks were storybooks, what was this “novel”?

“But sir, aren’t you a proper scholar? You read storybooks too?” Caiyun asked, full of curiosity.

Which part of him looked like a proper scholar? The original owner, perhaps, but certainly not now!

“I pride myself on reading broadly, embracing all knowledge,” Lu Jin replied. “Don’t look down on storybooks—they too contain wisdom about life. We should take the essence and discard the dross…”

Caiyun thought, you might be right, but in any case, we don’t have any.

Lu Jin crouched down to rummage through the brush pot beside the desk, curious about its contents.

He actually found some calligraphy and paintings. He unrolled a piece and examined it; it was a calligraphy copy of a poem called “Autumn Banquet by the River.” The script resembled running script from his previous life—meticulously structured, upright and balanced, with an elegant, unrestrained style and a certain strength in the brushwork. There were talented people in the Great Liang! The poem was decent too, though a bit sentimental—literati always loved to be dramatic, just like himself.

On the back was written “Fu Qiu Yusheng”—whether that was a famous person or just a name, he didn’t know, but it was certainly unusual. He couldn’t tell if it was an original work or a copy.

Lu Jin kept looking, grumbling to himself, but the more he saw, the more he liked what he found.

When it came to calligraphy, he preferred Old Wang’s work—he’d imitated him the most in his previous life, admiring the elegance and freedom in his lines. None of these pieces seemed to match that style.

He unrolled a landscape painting next—“Rippling River and Mountains.” It was much like the traditional paintings of his former world: profound and evocative, the kind you could stare at and feel yourself ascending to immortality.

With so many mundane worries—well, mostly, he admitted to himself, because he was too attached to the world—he had no desire to become immortal just yet. He rolled the painting back up and put it away.

After rummaging a long time, Lu Jin found no figure paintings. He’d wanted to see how people were depicted in this world—did they, like with landscapes, focus on spirit over form?

He stood up and glanced at the table, noticing a brush rack with several brushes hanging from it. He picked one up; it felt well made—the Shen family had good taste.

“There’s paper, at least, right, Caiyun?” If she said there was no paper, he’d stop being the son-in-law on the spot, consequences be damned.

“Are you going to write, sir?” Caiyun was surprised. This was a first—she’d never seen him pick up a brush.

She drew a roll of paper from a drawer in the bookshelf and spread it out on the table.

Looking at the blank paper, Lu Jin realized he didn’t know what to write.

Calligraphy was nothing to fear; in his previous life, it had been a basic skill, nothing extraordinary, but certainly presentable.

He dipped a brush in ink and wrote the character “Eternal,” then “Clear.” Not bad—his hand was still steady.

Lu Jin continued scribbling whatever came to mind. Caiyun watched in silence, appalled—such precious paper, and he was squandering it, scribbling all over, even writing over the top of previous characters. A perfectly good sheet, ruined.

He crumpled the ink-covered page and tossed it aside.

“Caiyun, you can go now. This ink will last me a while.” He always felt constrained with someone standing by.

The little maid pouted, reluctantly leaving. She’d been dismissed!

At last, Lu Jin felt an odd sense of comfort returning.

Considering his current situation, his thoughts drifted far and wide.

No special cheat for this transmigration, no memories from the body’s previous owner, stuck in the cage of the Shen family, in a world he didn’t understand. All of it made him feel suffocated.

A wave of negative emotions surged forth—he wanted to cut open this world with a broadsword, to split Jiangzhou in two, just to vent his frustration.

Thinking of Jiangzhou, Lu Jin remembered someone: in Shi Nai’an’s novel “Water Margin,” the leader of Liangshan, Song Jiang, was also sent into exile in Jiangzhou—a dark time in his life.

It was also in Jiangzhou that Song Jiang, alone with a cup or two of wine, leaned on the railing, drinking, gazing at the wind and the world, filled with grief. After getting drunk, he vented his sorrow by inscribing a poem called “Song of the West River Moon” on a tavern wall.

Here he was, in a place also called Jiangzhou, with the same kind of gloom. So be it—he’d borrow those two poems. And if Song Jiang ever had the chance to transmigrate, may he never accept imperial amnesty again; it was even worse than being married into a family. Let these verses encourage them both.

With that thought, Lu Jin calmed himself, pulled over a fresh sheet of paper, steadied his brush, and without pause, wrote two full pages. He let out a long sigh.

Examining the calligraphy, he saw that the brushwork flowed like drifting clouds and running water, completed in one breath, the overall momentum fierce, as if a murderous spirit leapt from the paper.

Damn! When did his handwriting become so impressive? Lu Jin was genuinely surprised.

Just as he was admiring his work, he heard a sound at the door.

“Sir, Sister from Plum Garden says the Master wants to see you.” A young maid called from the doorway, eyes darting nervously over him.

Lu Jin was puzzled. Since coming to the Shen family, he’d never met his supposed father-in-law. Why summon him now?

He quickly rolled up the freshly written calligraphy, tucked it into the brush pot, and walked out.

In the little garden, Caiyun, tending flowers, hesitated but didn’t follow.

She went back to the study to tidy the brushes and ink, and her eyes quickly caught the newly rolled-up paper in the brush pot.

Curious about what he wrote, she unrolled it on the table. Even on the slightly stained paper, a sense of killing intent seemed to leap out—the characters wild and unrestrained, surging with power.

On closer look, there were two poems:

“From youth I studied the classics and histories,
Grown, I possess cunning and schemes.
Like a fierce tiger lying on a barren hill,
Claws and fangs hidden, biding my time.
Unlucky, branded on both cheeks,
Sent in exile to Jiangzhou.
Someday, if I can avenge my wrongs,
The river at Xunyang will run red with blood!”

“My heart in Shandong, my body in Wu,
Wandering by river and sea, sighing in vain.
If ever I fulfill my soaring ambitions,
I’ll dare to laugh that Huang Chao was no true man!”