Bai Lan was unfamiliar with most of the rest of the estate, but he had some memory of the study.
The study backed onto a bamboo grove and leaned against a plum garden on the left. Several windows offered different views.
Inside, it was as he remembered. The tall bookshelves were filled with texts. One wall displayed long scrolls and gold-leafed calligraphy—some by Ning Muyan himself, some by historical masters, and some by his teachers.
The study’s owner usually wore fine clothes, standing at the desk, either slightly bent over a painting or sitting upright in the grand chair writing. He worked seriously, enjoying silence, almost unaware of the outside world—a world unto itself.
Bai Lan glanced at the young man, who was engrossed in reading, seemingly unaware of his presence.
Seeing him so focused, Bai Lan tiptoed carefully, placing the just-warmed tea on a clear spot on the desk. He was about to offer it when he noticed the book in Ning Muyan’s left hand was Bai Tou Yuan, the right hand held Shuang Shuang Fu, and he was flipping through San Sheng Yin.
Bai Lan froze. He hadn’t read these books, but judging from the titles, they weren’t serious historical texts or classical works—more like the romantic stories popular with young masters and ladies, commonly sold at markets.
He bit his lip. Here he was, awakened before the rooster, and Ning Muyan was reading this in the study?
He didn’t dare speak bluntly, only said, “These books look different from the others in the study.”
“Are they?” Ning Muyan closed the book without moving an eyelid. “Just some private collections, rarely shown to anyone.”
“I see. Such hidden books are quite unique; they remind me of the volumes sold by peddlers at the market.”
Ning Muyan’s eyes flicked slightly. “The production is different, but the books themselves are ordinary. They’re collected because of their content.”
“I understand,” Bai Lan said with a smile, eager to learn. “May I know the names and content of these books, so I can study them later?”
Ning Muyan tactically sipped his tea, brow furrowed. “Qi Sun Zi, Sima Fa, Wei Liao Zi—some military strategy texts. Once you can read, I’ll find some good books for you.”
Bai Lan grinned inwardly—Ning Muyan was bluffing, taking advantage of his lack of literacy!
“Thank you, Young Master. Do you enjoy reading these books yourself?”
Ning Muyan paused. “Not at first, but by chance, I came across them during a difficult time—they helped me endure it.”
Bai Lan almost rolled his eyes. What a story!
“All right. Your spot is over there. Go ahead and take a look.”
Bai Lan followed the direction. Next to the main desk was a small study table with a round chair, complete with a cute pair-of-mandarin-duck cushion.
He sat down and saw the desk fully equipped: ink, brush, paper, inkstone, and a few neatly stacked beginner books—Qian Zi Wen, San Zi Jing, Zeng Guang Xian Wen, You Xue Qiong Lin, Sheng Lü Qi Meng—all standard entry-level primers.
The more serious the books, the more Bai Lan scoffed at the erudite Ning Muyan. Probably while he diligently studied, Ning Muyan would sneak off to read those romantic novels.
Soon, Ning Muyan came over, opening the Qian Zi Wen. “We’ll start with literacy. Today, learn eight characters.”
He laid out prepared cards from the desk—large copies of the first five characters of Qian Zi Wen, much bigger than the book, for easier recognition.
“Heaven, Earth, Mysterious, Yellow, Universe, Time, Vast, Wild.”
The clear, elegant voice made Bai Lan repeat them automatically.
“I’ll have you review a few times, then we’ll switch places to test if you truly remember them.”
“Mm.”
Bai Lan glanced at Ning Muyan’s flawless, pale face, feeling a warm current in his chest.
Though still wary of Ning Muyan’s schemes earlier, seeing such careful preparation and patience—even more than estate school tutors—made him briefly feel that these lessons, though redundant, were worthwhile.
After several rounds of teaching, Ning Muyan returned to his own seat. Bai Lan shuffled the cards repeatedly, glancing surreptitiously at a poetry book nearby. Half an hour passed before he finally said, “Young Master, I’ve memorized them all.”
Hearing this, Ning Muyan looked up and beckoned him over. Bai Lan quickly ran over with the cards.
Ning Muyan took the cards but didn’t test him with them. Instead, he pointed to the characters in Bai Lan’s earlier writing for him to recognize.
Bai Lan thought to himself that this tutor was sly, strict in his methods—but not difficult for him.
Seeing Bai Lan pause briefly on each character but pronounce them all correctly, Ning Muyan’s lips curved slightly. “You have some talent for learning.”
“Really?” Bai Lan scratched his head. It only took him half an hour to recognize a few characters, and this was praise? Ning Muyan’s expectations really were modest. “Maybe it’s because I’m just starting out. I can remember a few things quickly.”
“That’s right.”
“So, am I done for today?”
Ning Muyan shook his head slowly. “There’s still time. I’ll teach you to write two more characters.”
“W-Write more?”
Ning Muyan stood and spread out some white paper on the table. “If you study diligently in the morning, you won’t need to come in the afternoon.”
Bai Lan immediately rolled up his sleeves and offered to grind ink. “Which characters? From what we learned today?”
“I’ll teach you to write a name.”
Bai Lan nodded eagerly. Learning to write one’s own name was a basic step in any child’s literacy.
Compared to learning characters, Bai Lan actually looked forward to this. Not because Ning Muyan had been praised by the emperor for his calligraphy, nor because his writing was sought after by scholars—but because Bai Lan’s own handwriting was atrocious. Practicing wouldn’t hurt, especially if he wanted to avoid ridicule when writing prescriptions as a future physician.
Ning Muyan picked up a purple-hair brush, dipped it in ink, and wrote with a fluid grace. Bai Lan couldn’t help but watch, captivated. Ning Muyan’s tall, elegant form, the commanding yet effortless aura around his movements—it exuded the rare refinement of a cultivated noble.
“Done.”
“Huh?” Bai Lan snapped back to attention, nervously turning his gaze to the paper. On the sheet lay three bold, ink-dark characters. He hesitated, then asked, “Is this… my name?”
Ning Muyan neither confirmed nor denied, simply standing silently behind him, hands behind his back.
Bai Lan bit his lip. No response meant a tacit yes. Staring at the characters Ning Muyan, he thought: “…Wait, what?”
“Every beginner starts by learning their name. Even a short name can be the hardest to write well. Once mastered, it’s more than enough.”
Bai Lan forced a strained smile. Sure, that made sense—but why teach him Ning Muyan’s own name first? To show off how unique it was, or just to tease him?
Seeing Bai Lan’s expression, Ning Muyan lowered his head slightly. “What’s wrong?”
Bai Lan forced a laugh. “Nothing, just… didn’t expect my name to have so many strokes. It looks… difficult to learn.”
He sighed. “I wonder when I’ll be able to write it well. Maybe tomorrow…”
“You’ll master it if you practice diligently. No need to give up before starting.” Ning Muyan cut him off before he could make excuses, dipped the brush in ink, and placed it in Bai Lan’s hand. “By this morning, you must learn to write these three characters. Don’t worry about perfection, just be able to form them.”
He added, “If by lunch you still can’t, the chef won’t send the purple-perilla fish to Tianmendong today.”
This was unbearable!
Bai Lan gripped the brush and began copying the three characters. “Ning” was straightforward, and in a few strokes he had it. Bai Lan’s handwriting was never neat, and out of a stubborn desire to irritate Ning Muyan, he made it crooked. Finally, he tilted his head innocently. “How is it?”
“Like a chick scratching the ground,” Ning Muyan replied bluntly.
Bai Lan’s face fell. So direct, and yet teaching something so… practical.
Just as he was muttering complaints inwardly, a warm hand grasped his right hand holding the brush.
Bai Lan’s eyes widened. Ning Muyan had stepped close behind him, one hand on his waist, leaning over from behind, guiding from his neck down: “Keep your back straight, hold the brush steady, control the strokes smoothly.”
Their hands moved across the paper together, breathing life into the previously stiff characters.
Bai Lan felt surrounded by the calming scent of incense, his breaths shallow, cheeks flushed. At this moment, focusing on writing was impossible—he could only hold still, his hand steadied by Ning Muyan’s guidance.
Was calligraphy always taught with such care? Wasn’t this treatment too much?
“Don’t get distracted. Focus.”