14. Spilling Ink

Yizhou, lying south of the Rong River in the Great Yin, had been renowned since ancient times for its abundance of pine and cypress, verdant through all seasons. It was often called Little Ink Capital, famed far and wide for its Yizhou ink. The city bustled with merchants, its riverways offering convenience, and though the quality of its ink sticks could not rival those of the Grand Capital, the variety available in Yizhou surpassed all others, thanks to the constant flow of traders.

It was now the hour of Si, and the streets were lively. Most with a mind for bustle were out and about.

Gu Fei, her face veiled, wore a simple moon-white long dress. Though she was a slender young woman in her prime, she could not walk unaided and sat in a wheelchair, needing someone to push her along. Their slow progress drew many curious glances.

“Young Miss, where would you like to go?” Aunt Ku asked softly from behind, glancing at the web of flagstone lanes, uncertain of Gu Fei’s intentions.

Gu Fei’s fingertips rested habitually on her knees, rubbing in circles as she replied without so much as blinking, “To the Ink Market at the East Gate.”

The East Gate Ink Market of Yizhou was, apart from the Grand Capital, the most comprehensive in all Great Yin. Countless small ink workshops thrived here, each displaying their wares in vibrant competition. Naturally, the quality of ink varied greatly.

Gu Fei observed at the entrance for a while and soon noticed several vendors in short jackets moving about with a furtive air. If they spotted someone dressed as an outsider, they would gather in twos and threes, chattering eagerly about their goods.

If the customer was knowledgeable, they would be guided to genuine ink shops. A successful transaction would earn the vendor a small commission for brokering the deal; if not, they simply moved on.

However, if the customer was ignorant of ink and had brought no expert along, these crafty vendors would, upon seeing interest, lead them to a quiet corner, surreptitiously produce an ink case, and, revealing just a sliver, claim the ink stick within to be a treasured family heirloom.

Such tricks were nothing more than one-off swindles meant to deceive the unwary. Even during inspection, these sly fellows would have switched in a top-grade ink stick beforehand, making it impossible to spot any flaws. By the time money changed hands, the fine ink would have been secretly swapped for a poor-quality stick, unbeknownst to the buyer.

Those who bought such ink off the street, thinking themselves lucky to have stumbled upon a windfall, never realized they were the ones being duped.

Gu Fei watched for just half an hour and saw at least two or three fall victim to these schemes.

She curled her lips in a faint smile, thinking to herself, Human greed—pitiful and lamentable in equal measure, unworthy of the slightest sympathy.

“Let’s look around,” Gu Fei said, her eyes narrowing, her tone uncharacteristically light.

Aunt Ku obeyed, steering clear of the thickest crowds. She ignored the hawkers with their shoulder poles and baskets, entering only proper shops as they passed.

After visiting several, Gu Fei had formed a general impression of Yizhou’s ink trade. Their craftsmanship was no match for the ink masters of the Grand Capital, but Yizhou’s unique ink varieties and dazzling colored inks were unmatched elsewhere.

She made no outright refusals, having Aunt Ku politely decline the eager shop assistants, preferring to examine everything herself.

When they reached the middle of the market, Gu Fei glanced up by chance, and her gaze met a three-story pagoda with upturned eaves, bells hanging under the corners, and a grand vermilion doorway. Even without measuring, one could tell this exquisite building was the largest and most imposing in the East Gate Ink Market. A signboard edged in gold bore four flowing characters: Little Mo Ink House.

In that instant, Gu Fei’s hand, resting on her knee, clenched tightly. She gripped the thin shawl on her lap, her already pale face turning almost translucent. A crimson fierceness surged from the depths of her dark eyes, roiling into a cold and ruthless glare.

In the blink of an eye, Aunt Ku noticed Gu Fei’s change and exclaimed, “Young Miss, calm yourself!”

Worried, she placed her hand on Gu Fei’s thin shoulder, gently applying pressure.

Gu Fei took a deep breath, her lips beneath the veil nearly breaking the skin with the force of her bite. “I know what I’m doing.”

Hearing this did nothing to ease Aunt Ku’s concern.

Gu Fei flexed her fingers, then turned her gaze on Aunt Ku. Her irises, larger than most, were black as night, making the whites seem even starker—a striking contrast that could draw one in as if into a marshy whirlpool, never to resurface.

This was the one unforgettable feature on an otherwise unremarkably delicate face.

A shadow of a sneer played at her lips, unseen by any. She lifted a slender, pale finger and pointed at Little Mo Ink House. “Aunt Ku, take me inside!”

The prefix “Little” before “Mo” made the origins of Little Mo Ink House clear to all. Every child in Yizhou knew it was a branch of the renowned Mo family, the century-old ink-making clan from the Grand Capital. Their ink sticks, whether in form or texture, were unrivaled by the countless small workshops of Yizhou.

Though there were no formal rankings, in the hearts of Yizhou’s people, Little Mo Ink House was the city’s premier ink-maker. Even as a branch, being of the Mo family from the Grand Capital made all the difference.

As Aunt Ku pushed her inside, drawing closer, Gu Fei became all the more composed and rational—a chilling self-control, as if she had split into two selves. One watched coldly as the other struggled in endless, lightless hatred, yet nothing could shake her composure.

The grand triple-doored entrance was striking, with carved columns and a steady stream of well-dressed, wealthy patrons coming and going. Inside was a spacious hall lined with tall wooden shelves—ink balls, ink beds, and ink cases displayed separately for easy inspection and pairing at sale.

Gu Fei straightened her back, her demeanor solemn. She had Aunt Ku slow the wheelchair, stopping by the shelf of ink balls to examine them closely.

“You have a sharp eye, miss. This ink ball is called Peach Pit Inkstone Style, unique to Yizhou. Made from soot of century-old Huangshan pines, fired in Yizhou kilns and crafted by Master Feng Pu Yu of our ink house. There are only two in all Yizhou…” a clever assistant eagerly introduced.

Gu Fei paid him no heed. She studied the ink stick shaped like a split peach pit, about four inches long, hard and glossy, with delicate inscriptions on the surface. The exposed side was slightly concave, mimicking an inkstone.

Few knew what Gu Fei had endured during her ten years in the Mo family in the Grand Capital. To quote Mo Qingge, her talent was exceptional; the Old Madam of Mo had even invited renowned ink-makers to personally instruct her, and she had unfettered access to the Mo family’s library of ink-making texts. Countless rare ink formulas were engraved in her memory.

The Old Madam often said she was to be the chief ink-maker of the Mo family’s future, the very pillar upon which the family would rest.

Thus, not only did she understand ink, she excelled at its making.

So with a mere glance, she recognized the Peach Pit Inkstone Style as top-grade, its unconventional form making it more a collector’s treasure than a practical tool.

Her gaze drifted, and Aunt Ku, understanding, pushed the wheelchair forward.

The second ink ball was more conventional—a rectangular stick with a golden landscape painting on top, though inferior to the peach pit design.

After examining several in succession, Gu Fei had a clear sense of the quality in Yizhou’s ink houses. She picked up a stick of middling quality, inspected it, then abruptly hurled it to the ground. With a sharp crack, the ink ball shattered into pieces, and the entire hall fell instantly silent.