CHAPTER 382: CHAPTER 307: ASKING FOR YOUR HELP

Several days passed in the blink of an eye.

During these days, there wasn’t much to trouble oneself with, whether at the martial enforcement agency or elsewhere. Chen Yi was happy to enjoy the leisure; he would just visit the agency briefly, exchange greetings with Luo Nanwu, and then return home.

Around the New Year, affairs in Jianghu often increased, but most were trivial matters, barely worth bringing to attention. Usually, the various government offices were enough to handle them, and it rarely required the involvement of the martial enforcement agency. Even when it did, the tasks were typically managed by the officers below the secretary level.

As for how these affairs were handled, they were quite different from the tales told by street storytellers. The first reliance was naturally on connections, followed by government authority, then financial resources, and lastly martial prowess.

There is no such thing as castles in the air in this world. Anyone qualified to enter the martial enforcement agency had to be a Fifth Grade Martial Artist, at the very least Sixth Rank. And for one’s martial arts to reach such levels, it was inevitable to navigate through myriad human interactions, benefit from the assistance of influential figures, and build relationships. Among the ten officers of the agency, their network of connections practically spanned the entire capital region.

Thus, it was natural and unsurprising for You Xu to have known Chou Gang, and when Chen Yi killed You Xu, it was only to be expected for Chou Gang to involve himself seeking revenge.

If someone in the capital were to reveal Chen Yi’s act of killing Chou Gang, it might even drag quite a few others into the vendetta.

Even with Zhou Yitang present, these people couldn’t pose a real threat to Chen Yi or those around him. Still, the constant harassment—like insect bites—was dreadfully irksome, and one couldn’t rule out the possibility of being caught off guard someday.

With no official duties to attend to, Chen Yi remained at home. Yet his days were not idle. Each morning, under Zhou Yitang’s watchful guidance, he practiced martial arts with Yin Tingxue and then trained in Yin Sword Mountain’s sword techniques himself. Afterward, he would talk briefly with Zhou Yitang—usually for no more than a quarter of an hour. As his wife from a past life, she seldom gave much in response. After that brief conversation, she would retreat to her guestroom to continue recuperating in seclusion, reappearing only in the evening. Such routines inevitably stirred feelings of melancholy, but Chen Yi rarely let such sentiments bother him unnecessarily.

After lunch, Chen Yi was much freer, a time Yin Tingxue feared most. Her husband, satiated and comfortable, could easily turn his thoughts to other desires. The young lady had calculated that if he indulged once in the afternoon, it would take her at least an hour and a half past curfew to recover her strength. But he often came back for more at night, leaving her exhausted. Her entire day would thus be wasted. Forced to find alternatives, she eventually managed to persuade him otherwise, but what did she persuade him to do instead?

She decided to read books to him.

As his concubine, the young lady, left with nothing else to do when Chen Yi was frequently not home, had read countless books, ranging from the Four Books and Five Classics to abridged collections of Liaozhai stories. All these books had been purchased by Chen Yi and stacked high in the study, nearly filling it. Yin Tingxue had read through sixty percent of them, mostly novels and folk tales. From the stories, she encountered a myriad of characters and situations. When reading, the girl was very quiet—even when reaching the most touching parts, she simply wiped her tears in silence.

Now, she was reading those books to Chen Yi. When listening to her, Chen Yi, too, remained silent. Only after she finished one volume did he discuss the story with her.

The young lady was strategic in her reading. At the start of the afternoon, she would read captivating novels and folk tales. Gradually, after half an hour, she transitioned to obscure and challenging Buddhist scriptures. Hearing these, Chen Yi grew groggy and had to retreat to his bedroom for a nap, finally giving Yin Tingxue some peace to attend to her own matters.

As for her "own matters," they mostly revolved around reading books herself. Occasionally, she engaged in weaving and embroidery, played archery games, or entertained herself with leaf cards. Whether or not she found the activities fun was secondary; what mattered most was the sense of freedom.

Everyone cherishes freedom, but each person’s idea of freedom varies. For Chen Yi, being free meant spending time with others around him. For the young lady, it was staying home alone, basking in the security of a family’s presence.

After several such days, the rain suddenly arrived. The closer it came to the New Year, the rarer the rainfall became. Light, overcast skies hung above, dimming the mansion’s light. Water cascaded off the green-tiled eaves, and the faint smell of damp earth lingered. Dressed in a pale yellow outfit, Yin Tingxue cradled the Peony Pavilion in her arms, preparing to read it aloud to Chen Yi. But Chen Yi, for some reason, gazed fixedly southward for a long while, until suddenly he pulled out some xuan paper, saying he wanted to write a letter.

If he wished to write a letter, so be it. As his concubine, Yin Tingxue swiftly prepared the paper, ground the ink, and even breathed a gentle puff on the brush tip to arrange the bristles.

Despite his insistence on writing a letter, Chen Yi held the brush poised over the xuan paper for quite a while, unable to bring himself to write anything.

Ink splattered onto the desk, forming scattered spots.

Yin Tingxue looked at him quizzically, puzzled over why he hadn’t started. Could he be planning to compose a florid essay masterpiece in one sitting?

"I don’t know how to write a letter," Chen Yi finally said after a long pause, blurting out his struggle.

Yin Tingxue burst into laughter, covering her mouth with one hand and clutching her stomach with the other. She laughed so hard she nearly stumbled to the ground.

Chen Yi cast her a glance and said, "Is it that amusing?"

The little fox immediately stopped laughing, quickly shook her head, folded her hands neatly before her chest, and softly comforted him not to get upset.

Chen Yi didn’t argue with her and instead resumed staring at the blank xuan paper. With nowhere for the brush and ink to land, his frustration lingered.

Saying he didn’t know how to write a letter wasn’t entirely accurate. After all, he could write characters, but he couldn’t compose proper classical Chinese prose.

He wasn’t uneducated, and in the distant past had undergone nine years of schooling; there was no way he’d be considered uncultured. But classical writing was an entirely different matter—completely beyond his expertise.