17. The Ink Maker and the Master of Ink (First Update)
Gu Fei listened closely, faintly making out that the conversation inside was about ink appraisal. Her eyes flickered as she turned her head and asked Mo Cheng, “Fifth Uncle, what are they doing in there?”
Mo Cheng’s mind was still lingering on what Gu Fei had just said, so he paid little attention to anything else. Glancing over, he replied, “It’s the Ink Appraisal Gathering at Little Mo Ink Workshop, held once every ten days.”
At his words, Gu Fei’s eyes brightened, ripples shimmering within them like the endless depths of jade. “If Fifth Uncle doesn’t mind, I’d like to see it for myself.”
Mo Cheng nodded and casually beckoned a servant, instructing him to lead Gu Fei inside, saying he had business to attend to.
Gu Fei watched Mo Cheng’s figure disappear at the stairway. The corners of her lips curled upward, revealing a trace of enigmatic amusement, gone in the blink of an eye, as though it had never been.
The servant led her in with a smile. The room from which the lively chatter came was the largest on the second floor. Upon entering, Gu Fei saw a gathering of people seated, sipping tea. In the center, two rows of tables faced each other, nearly every table adorned with various ink cakes. At the head stood a man in elegant robes and a jade crown, hands clasped behind his back, with a young boy beside him grinding ink.
The servant found Gu Fei a seat with an excellent view and quietly stood aside to attend her. Nurse Ku, ever adept, immediately rewarded him with a couple of gold nuggets, making the servant beam with delight.
At that moment, the boy finished grinding the ink, stepped back, and the man gracefully lifted his wide sleeves, dipped his brush in ink.
His movements were slow and deliberate. After soaking the brush, he stood with eyes half-closed, composing himself for some time before pursing his lips and writing on a sheet of white paper in one smooth motion.
Gu Fei’s hand gently stroked the armrest of her wheelchair, her gaze drifting over the ink cakes on the tables. Only when the man finished his writing did her eyes settle on the sheet of inked paper.
“This ink cake, judging by appearance alone, is jet-black and glossy as lacquer. The ink is light and thin; when used, the strokes gleam, settling on the paper like mist and clouds, with a subtle amethyst luster—a fine ink indeed.” The man leaned in to inspect the dried writing, pronouncing his verdict.
The boy respectfully presented the sheet to each guest in turn. After viewing it, all voices agreed with the man’s assessment.
The entire scene was rife with extravagant praise and mutual flattery.
When the sheet finally reached Gu Fei, she pinched a bit of the dried ink between her fingers, rubbed it, then brought her hand to her nose for a sniff, and instantly let out a cold laugh.
It was not loud, but in the midst of the chorus of adulation, it rang out clear and sharp, jarring to all present.
The man turned his head toward Gu Fei. His features were striking—sword-like brows, star-bright eyes, a straight nose, red lips—radiating nobility tinged with arrogance. At that moment, he smiled politely, asking, “Miss, do you have a different opinion?”
As soon as he spoke, the whole second floor fell silent, all eyes shifting back and forth between them.
Gu Fei took the silk handkerchief from Nurse Ku and wiped her fingers, not even bothering to raise her eyes. “A mere firefly’s glow—worthy only of an ink maker, not a true Ink Master.”
Between an ink maker and an Ink Master lies a world of difference.
One merely crafts, regarding ink making as a livelihood at best. The other creates and innovates, leaving a legacy for generations.
The moment Gu Fei spoke, the atmosphere grew heavy. The man was momentarily stunned but kept his smile. “Oh? And why does the young lady say so? Please, speak freely.”
Since things had reached this point, Gu Fei was unruffled. She picked up the paper with two fingers and, in an offhand manner, blew gently across the surface. “The calligraphy is fine.”
But there was no turning back. She continued, “Within a quarter of an hour, the ink spreads and the edges turn mottled—evidence of impure ink. When rubbed, it feels coarse and sticky, betraying rough workmanship.”
She paused, then released the paper, letting it flutter to the floor. “Within seven days, these characters will lose their luster and darken. How can one call this ink bright and luminous with the glow of amethyst?”
Gu Fei’s voice was not the usual clear, birdlike tone of most women, but lower, with a lingering, sanded quality. Yet her words fell with the sharpness of shattered ice, leaving everyone in the hall ill at ease.
“Where did this girl come from? How can Little Mo Ink Workshop allow such a lack of decorum, letting just anyone in to appraise ink—a pursuit most refined!”
“If you know nothing of ink, best keep quiet…”
“Do you think you can insult Young Master Feng so easily…?”
A chorus of protests erupted, lively and heated.
Gu Fei only sneered and said clearly, “In ancient times, Zhongjiang’s ink was praised as dark as lacquer. It was said, ‘the brush is the spear, the ink is the armor’. But today, in Great Yin, none can compare to the masters of old. All is empty flattery, which offends those who truly love the art.”
Her words were severe indeed. Even Young Master Feng, who had maintained his composure, now wore a dark expression.
He fixed his gaze on Gu Fei, as if trying to see through her veil. “Such boldness, Miss. Why not show us what ink is worthy of being called Zhongjiang’s ink?”
Zhongjiang’s ink—once praised as black as lacquer—had long since become a lost formula. For centuries, none had ever claimed to reproduce it.
Gu Fei lifted her chin, her unforgettable eyes clear and bright, an unmistakable hint of mockery at their corners. “Young Master, are you mad or simply muddle-headed?”
Her words were pure derision. “What is Zhongjiang’s ink?”
As the room, and especially Young Master Feng, grew ever more sullen, she continued, “Only ink made by the great master Zhongjiang himself could be called Zhongjiang’s ink. Even if someone today replicated it perfectly, it would never be Zhongjiang’s ink—because there will never be another Zhongjiang.”
Her rhetorical challenge left the room utterly silent. Gu Fei’s reasoning was compelling: Zhongjiang was a master without peer, and even if his ink could be recreated exactly, there would never be a second Zhongjiang—so how could it be called Zhongjiang’s ink?
And yet, upon reflection, there seemed something strange in her words, though none could quite put their finger on it.
When no one spoke, Gu Fei signaled Nurse Ku to wheel her forward. She moved to the table where the young master had written, picked up one of the ink cakes, and examined it from end to end, tapping it lightly with her finger and smelling it before returning it to its stand. “This, then, is made by Young Master Feng Li Zhi?”
Feng Li Zhi felt thoroughly embarrassed, especially under the scrutiny of Gu Fei’s gaze. Reflected in her dark pupils was his own splendid attire, and it seemed to him as though all present were laughing at him. His face was grim. “Indeed, it is my work.”
Gu Fei nodded, carefully feeling the ink stick from top to bottom, then tapped it lightly, brought it to her nose, and finally placed it back on the ink stand. “I suppose, in this ink cake, you’ve added a touch of cinnabar for that faint violet glow, perhaps some sandalwood to deepen the hue, and musk for fragrance. But do you realize one thing, Young Master?”
[End of excerpt.]