Chapter One: The Scholar

As the end of the year drew near, a sweeping snowstorm arrived. Heavy clouds blanketed the sky, and thick snowflakes descended like the Milky Way pouring from the heavens. Icicles hung from the eaves, and tree branches were adorned in shimmering white. The creek outside the county town gleamed clearer and more transparent beneath the snow’s pristine cover.

Within the city, townsfolk stepped out in thick, warm clothing, braving the swirling snowflakes. Their boots crunched upon the snow, leaving deep and shallow footprints across the white expanse.

Standing beneath the corridor eaves, Qi Xiu gathered his blue-gray cotton robe tighter, hands folded within his sleeves as he looked up quietly at the goose-feather snow drifting down before him.

It had been two years since he arrived in this world. Outside, laughter, firecrackers, and the excited steps of children echoed. Qi Xiu’s gaze flickered.

He was not of this world.

Two years ago, a car accident had thrust him into another’s body, granting him life anew in this place.

“Another New Year is upon us,” he murmured, breath forming a frosty white cloud, sighing softly.

Two years had passed, and he wondered how his parents, far in another world, fared. He was not an only child, but when he died, his younger brother was just six; his parents, graying early, must have mourned for long.

Knock, knock, knock—

As Qi Xiu gazed at the swirling snow, lost in memories, the wooden door outside the courtyard was suddenly rapped.

“Is Mr. Qi home?” called a clear, bell-like voice.

Shielding himself against the wind and snow, Qi Xiu came to the door and opened it.

Outside stood a girl of eight or nine, garbed in a bright red cotton jacket and carrying a wooden basket.

“Xuan’er, what brings you here?” he asked.

“Mom asked me to bring this to you, Mr. Qi,” the girl said, struggling to lift the basket. “She also wants to ask you to write a couplet for our family for the New Year.”

Taking the basket, Qi Xiu lifted the red cloth covering it, revealing a whole basket of freshly steamed buns and a dozen eggs.

The original owner of Qi Xiu’s body was a poor scholar. An abandoned infant, he had been raised by an old teacher. At sixteen, his foster father passed away, leaving only a few coins and this modest house, barely enough to keep out the elements.

Fortunately, though weak, he had learned fine calligraphy from his foster father. Thanks to this skill, he copied letters for neighbors, composed couplets for festivals, and wrote elegies for the departed, earning just enough to survive.

“Understood. Tell your mother I’ll bring ink and brushes over soon,” Qi Xiu replied, gently pinching the little girl’s cheek, smiling as she bounced away.

Returning inside, Qi Xiu stored the buns and eggs in the cupboard and locked it. He then went to his bedroom, placing ink, brush, and inkstone into his handmade cloth pouch.

“The ink’s almost gone. Demand for couplets will be high these days; I’d better buy another flask when I have time,” Qi Xiu muttered, shaking the nearly empty ink bottle, brows lightly furrowed.

Just half a month ago, a string of murders occurred along the trade route outside Baohe County, causing many trade caravans to avoid the area. Prices in town had soared; ink that once cost three coins a flask now sold for five, almost double, and Qi Xiu—whose savings were dwindling for various reasons—felt the pressure.

“Hopefully things will improve after the New Year,” he thought.

Packing his supplies, he tied his faded cotton scarf around his neck, tightened his sleeves, and stepped out into the wind and snow.

...

“Uncle Qiao, the couplet is finished. Please take a look,” Qi Xiu said, setting down his brush and unrolling his sleeves, gently smoothing the red paper on the table.

“Excellent, truly excellent! I’d wager your calligraphy is the best in all Baohe County,” Qiao Yong exclaimed, puffing smoke from his pipe as he admired the couplet.

“Uncle Qiao, you flatter me. My writing is average at best, not as good as you say. And please, just call me Xiao Qi—not Mr. Qi. I have no official title, and don’t deserve to be called ‘sir’,” Qi Xiu replied modestly, tidying up his ink and brush.

“Nonsense, I have a keen eye—you have great talent, just not your time yet. Here, take your payment,” Qiao Yong insisted, handing Qi Xiu a string of copper coins.

“Thank you for your kind words, but this seems too much…” Qi Xiu began, surprised by the amount and wanting to return it.

“Keep it. It’s the New Year, and you live alone—it’s not easy. Buy yourself something nice,” Qiao Yong said, blocking Qi Xiu’s gesture.

“Well... thank you, Uncle Qiao,” Qi Xiu replied, warmth blooming in his chest as he packed his things and bid the Qiao family goodbye.

Walking home, Qi Xiu paused beside the butcher’s shop.

It was the New Year; today, he would treat himself to meat.

Touching the coins in his pocket, he felt more secure and approached the shop. The butcher, Liu Sanjin, scraping his cleaver with a sharpening rod, grinned when he saw Qi Xiu.

“Mr. Qi, what a rare guest! Still two taels of meat?” he teased.

Qi Xiu, with his tight budget, ate meat at most once or twice a month, and only ever bought two taels at a time. Liu, always poking fun at his frugality, greeted him the same way each time.

“Yes, same as always—two taels, sliced thin,” Qi Xiu said, unmoved, counting out ten coins and placing them on the counter.

“Alright, honored guest—two taels of lean meat, sliced,” Liu called loudly, chopping off a palm-sized piece, slicing it finely, and wrapping it in oil-paper for Qi Xiu.

“Thank you,” Qi Xiu said quietly, taking the meat and leaving.

Watching Qi Xiu walk away, Liu sneered and spat.

“Poor scholar, what’s the point of fussing? So skinny you’re like a bamboo pole—aren’t you afraid the wind will blow you away?”

...

Returning home with the meat, Qi Xiu brushed snow off his shoulders, lifted the copper kettle from the stove, and warmed his frozen hands over the coal fire.

As warmth seeped into his fingers, he put the kettle away, went to his bedroom, and took out his ink and paper, arranging them on the table.

He laid out a sheet of slightly coarse paper.

Exhaling deeply, Qi Xiu lifted his wrist, dipped the deer-hair brush in ink, and touched it to the paper.

His movements stirred the air, like ripples on water.

The inked characters appeared, clear and orderly.

[Calligraphy: 99.1%]
[Cooking: 7.6%]

His pupils reflected the ancient, mysterious script; Qi Xiu touched his nose and smiled wryly.

Compared to other transmigrators, his golden finger had arrived late—only a month ago, during a sleepless night spent writing, did it awaken.

Its function was as simple as its appearance: whenever he earnestly pursued a task, insight would pour in ceaselessly. With each stroke of the brush, he gained understanding and improved with the next.

In just a month, his calligraphy had advanced more than in the entire previous year.

“To perfect my calligraphy, I’ve used more lamp oil in a month than most people do in three or four,” Qi Xiu thought, lips pursed as he eyed his nearly completed mastery.

Determined to discover what happened when proficiency reached one hundred percent, he devoted every spare moment to practice. To save ink, he used water for daytime practice, but at night, lamp oil was a considerable expense.

“Heaven help me—may the dozen flasks of lamp oil not be wasted,” Qi Xiu thought. With mastery nearly complete, he decided to push it to perfection that very night and see what effect would emerge.

The night deepened.

Outside, wind and snow grew fiercer, the gale howled, and gusts seeped through doors and windows, making the oil lamp flicker precariously.

“This year’s snow is truly heavy,” Qi Xiu remarked, glancing at the snow that had fallen without pause all day. He rose to close the doors and windows, keeping the cold from disturbing the lamp.

“Let’s begin.”

He flexed his fingers, straightened, and picked up the brush.

In the snowy night, alone by candlelight, the room was filled with the faint fragrance of ink as Qi Xiu sat at his desk, focused intently on his calligraphy.

His brows furrowed slightly, eyes locked on the inked paper, wholly immersed in his writing. Each stroke was full of strength and rhythm, executed with precision and never slackening. His breath was gentle yet firm, in harmony with the pace of his writing.

As character after character took shape, streams of insight flooded Qi Xiu’s mind.

Time passed unnoticed.

Just as he finished a vigorous stroke, Qi Xiu’s hand paused; his eyes grew distant and unfocused.

An ineffable, obscure aura seeped from within him.

A torrent of knowledge surged through his mind like a breached dam, gradually spreading through his body.

After a long moment, Qi Xiu recovered, gazing in a daze at the white paper on his desk.

A thread of gold, barely perceptible, flowed subtly within the ink.

...

“Ha ha ha!!”

Late at night, his sudden laughter scattered startled birds and woke the neighbors!

Lights flickered on house by house.

People, bundled in cotton coats and furious, poked their heads out and cursed loudly:

“Who’s making a ruckus in the middle of the night? Are you mad?!”

...