Reborn Song Qingshu: Besieging Bright Peak at the Start

The members of the Ming Cult were all quietly enjoying their tea in the hall.

The tea was freshly brewed pre-rain Longjing, served in a delicate porcelain cup that had been clear and bright after the rain. The tea soup was emerald green and clear, with a delicate and fragrant aroma. Everyone was attentively enjoying their tea and taking a break.

But that guy, somehow, had left the little maid who served him tea by his side, and was now smiling and talking to her.

The maid was only fifteen or sixteen years old, with a round face and almond eyes. She was quite pretty, and at this moment, she blushed bright red under his gaze, and lowered her head as if she wanted to bury her face in the tea tray.

But that person wouldn't give up. Holding a teacup in one hand and tapping the table lightly with the other, he uttered some nonsense like "The sky is blue waiting for the rain, and I am waiting for you." His tone was refined yet lazy, but his eyes were so mischievous that it was hard to tell whether he was joking or serious.

The young maid was at a loss, unsure whether to stay or leave. She only knew that this handsome young man was her master's honored guest and she absolutely could not afford to offend him. So she stood there blushing, like a frightened rabbit.

Seeing this scene, Zhao Min felt a tightness in her chest, a feeling she couldn't quite put her finger on.

She didn't know what she was angry about. What did it matter to her who that guy was joking and talking to?

But seeing him smile so smugly at a woman made him furious.

She told herself: This is her manor, her maid, her territory. This person is harassing her maid on her territory, of course she has to intervene.

Yes, that's it.

"Xiao Cui, go downstairs."

Zhao Min spoke, her voice as cool and composed as ever, a polite and generous smile on her face, as if it were just a routine matter.

Xiao Cui felt as if she had been granted a pardon. She hurriedly bowed to Song Qingshu and retreated with the speed of the wind.

Zhao Min withdrew her gaze and turned it back to Song Qingshu. The smile on her lips became even more dignified and reserved, but her tone was sharp and veiled:

"Just now I heard Young Master Song discussing poetry with my maid. He spoke verses like 'The sky is blue waiting for the rain, and I am waiting for you,' and he was truly a man of great talent."

Young Master Song comes from the prestigious Wudang family. Master Zhang of Wudang is a man of profound learning, and Young Master Song is also a man of both literary and martial talents. Presumably, Young Master Song is even more accomplished in calligraphy.

Since I have been unable to obtain Master Zhang's calligraphy today, I wonder if I might have the honor of requesting Young Hero Song to leave behind a piece of his calligraphy, so that my humble Green Willow Manor may be honored?

These words were spoken in a grand and dignified manner, and their sincerity was impeccable. Anyone who heard them would feel genuine admiration.

Those present were all high-ranking members of the Ming Cult, each one more astute than the last. How could they not have seen through the "confrontation" just now?

Miss Zhao is setting a trap for Young Hero Song. Aren't you known for your smooth talk and eloquent words?

Alright, then let's see what you're really capable of.

She was certain that this carefree scoundrel was not very learned and deliberately wanted to see him embarrass himself in public.

The members of the Ming Cult looked at each other, their eyes filled with a hint of anticipation for a good show.

When these two get together, it's like a grand opera performance, with scene after scene unfolding, even more exciting than a storyteller's tale.

Song Qingshu, however, remained unhurried and slowly placed the teacup in his hand on the table.

He looked up at Zhao Min, the smile on his lips faint yet resolute, like a bottomless pool of water, making it impossible to see what was hidden within.

"What's so difficult about that?"

He stood up and addressed the servants standing in the hall in a loud voice:

  

"Bring me paper and ink. I happen to have a poem here that I would like to give to Miss Zhao as a token of my appreciation."

All eyes instantly darted back and forth between him and Zhao Min.

The servant swiftly fetched the brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, and was about to step forward to grind the ink when Song Qingshu raised his hand to stop him.

He stretched out his slender fingers, picked up the pine soot ink block, but instead of putting it into the inkstone, he turned around, faced Zhao Min, held the ink block in his palm and handed it forward, his gaze calmly falling on her face.

"Miss Zhao."

His voice was neither too loud nor too soft, but loud enough for everyone in the hall to hear clearly, with a hint of a smile in his tone.

"Could you grind the ink for me?"

Zhao Min was stunned.

She looked at the hand spread out in front of her, with distinct knuckles, long and fair, holding a piece of half-worn pine soot ink in the palm.

Then she looked up and met the man's smiling gaze.

That gaze wasn't frivolous, nor was it ambiguous, yet it possessed an inexplicable magic, as if it were quietly waiting for her to do something unusual.

As a princess of the Great Yuan Dynasty, she was born into a family of noble birth and had always been the one to grind ink for others. No one had ever dared to ask her to do such a servant's job.

Reason told her that, given her current status and her previous deliberate attempt to make things difficult for him, she could easily refuse, or even say with a smile, "Young Master Song is too kind; there are servants here to attend to you."

But when she looked into his eyes, her legs seemed to have made their own decision.

She took a step forward.

Then the second step.

When she came to her senses, she was already standing in front of the table, reaching out to take the piece of pine soot ink.

The moment her fingertips touched the ink block, she clearly felt his fingers glide across her palm very lightly and quickly.

The force was as light as a feather falling on the water, yet it carried a scorching heat that burned from the palm all the way to the wrist.

The sensation was fleeting, so quick it seemed like an illusion, yet so clear it sent a shiver down her spine.

She almost screamed, and only managed to hold it in by digging her nails hard into the web of her hand.

She suddenly raised her head, wanting to glare at the man, but only saw his calm and composed back.

He had already turned around to lay out the paper, his movements calm and focused, as if everything that had just happened had nothing to do with him.

Zhao Min gritted her teeth.

She found that whenever she encountered this guy, her mind would be thrown into turmoil.

She silently warned herself: Zhao Min, wake up!

She took a deep breath, then another, suppressing the turbulent emotions surging within her heart, regaining her composed demeanor, stepping forward, rolling up her sleeves to reveal a section of her fair, jade-like wrist, and began grinding ink.

The ink stick slowly rotated on the inkstone, emitting a fine and even rustling sound.

She kept her eyes down, focused on the movements in her hands, deliberately avoiding looking at the person next to her.

But that person just stood quietly beside her, neither laying out paper nor holding a pen, but simply standing with his hands behind his back, his eyes smiling, staring at her intently, his gaze gentle and frank, without the slightest concealment.

She could even feel his gaze travel from her eyebrows to the tip of her nose, and then from the tip of her nose to the fingertips of her grinding ink, unhurriedly, as if he were savoring some pleasing scenery.

Her ears started to burn again.

She unconsciously increased the pressure when grinding the ink, as if she wanted to grind a hole in the inkstone.

Once the ink was ground to the right consistency, Zhao Min took a step back, her expression unchanged, except that she gripped the fan a little tighter than usual.

Song Qingshu then withdrew his gaze, and as he took the inkstone from her hand, his fingertips inadvertently brushed against the inside of her wrist. Before Zhao Min could glare at him, he had already turned back to the table.

He picked up his brush, dipped it in ink, lightly scraped the edge of the inkstone with the tip, and then made the first stroke on the paper.

The moment the pen touched the paper, his entire demeanor suddenly changed.

The jovial scoundrel from just moments ago seemed to have vanished in an instant, replaced by a serene and composed scholar, oblivious to his surroundings.

With a light flick of his wrist, his brush moved like a dragon and a snake, each character's beginning and ending strokes perfectly executed, exuding an indescribable air of elegance and grace, as if a gentle breeze and bright moon existed between the lines.

The ink spreads on the rice paper, each character flowing like clouds and water, each stroke carrying a natural and harmonious charm.

Zhao Min stared blankly at his profile, momentarily forgetting her original intention of grinding the ink.

In no time, a poem appeared on the paper.

Song Qingshu put down his pen, took a step back, examined the paper with satisfaction for a moment, then raised his head, his gaze passing over the still-wet ink on the paper and quietly landing on Zhao Min's face.

Zhao Min lowered her eyes and looked down.

With just one glance, the calm that she had just painstakingly managed to maintain was stirred up again, turning the world upside down.

The ink on the Xuan paper was not yet dry, but each stroke was already imprinted in her eyes as if carved by a knife:

We first met by the willows in Ganliang; her blue robe concealed her beautiful face.

Qing Shu raised her eyes, her heart stirred, and she secretly erased all thoughts of the past.

He reined in his horse, turned around, and glanced lightly; the wind tousled his temples, drawing people's attention.

In that instant when our eyes met, that single glance felt like an eternity.