Establishing the family requires upholding the law and practicing benevolent discipline.

The ink pellet before her was far from refined—rarely seen at such a size, about as large as a palm, its surface uneven and rough, devoid of any gilded patterns. If one looked closely, tiny fingerprints could be found upon it, as if it had never been polished; even the mold used to shape it seemed not to have closed tightly, resulting in a misshapen, unsightly form. The quality of the ink itself was mediocre; the soot was not finely ground, rendering the whole piece dull and devoid of luster.

Yet this unshaped ink pellet was kept with utmost care, wrapped in fine silk cloth without a hint of mold, resting quietly inside a precious box of golden-threaded nanmu wood—its container far more valuable than the ink pellet it held.

Gu Fei’s eyes were unreadable, her hand hidden within her sleeve slowly tightening as she gazed at the ink pellet before her with a complex emotion she herself could hardly name.

She had intended merely to view the auction at Little Mo’s Ink House and leave, but Mo Yuhua had intercepted her, and after a few words, she now found herself seated in the elegant garden hall at the rear of the ink factory. Mo Yuhua, like a proud host showing off treasures, had brought out all the cherished ink pellets from the collection for her to admire. Each was a masterpiece, even those being auctioned outside had duplicates here in the hall.

Amid such a wealth of fine ink, that coarse pellet—barely more than an unpolished lump—stood out glaringly, placed in the most exquisite and valuable box, like the difference between a jewel and a mere stone.

Yet Gu Fei’s gaze could not move from it. She barely heard Mo Yuhua’s words as he spoke across from her. Her vision shifted stiffly; she watched his lips open and close like a fish mouthing in water, while her mind was awash with shooting stars, from blazing white light to quiet extinction. Memories buried deep within her, faded like ink-washed paintings, slowly surfaced and were bathed anew in sunlight, tinted with vibrant color.

These were the few warm memories Gu Fei possessed.

“No, Fei, you’re doing it wrong. The deer horn glue must be stirred this way to melt…”

“Fei, you’re amazing—you can tell by scent just how much musk to add…”

“This is the first ink pellet we made together—it must have a name…”

...

Mo Yuhua’s eyes shone with a mercury-like gleam, as if scattering light across the floor. His expression grew ever more fervent as he looked from the rough ink pellet to Gu Fei, waves stirring restlessly within him. He opened his lips, unable to restrain himself, and called softly, “Fei…”

Yet whatever else he wished to say was swallowed by Gu Fei’s raised hand, words tumbling like stones in his throat, unable to emerge.

Gu Fei raised her eyes; in a blink, her dark pupils, larger than most, held only cold indifference. Her upturned eyes brimmed with disdain; she sniffed lightly from her delicate nose and said, “Young Master Mo, surely you didn’t bring me here just to show me this?”

Her slender jade finger pointed to the coarse ink pellet, and the ridicule on her face deepened, her gaze at Mo Yuhua tinged with mockery. “Everyone knows that ink craftsmen dislike heavy, large pieces. This pellet is as big as a palm, thick as an ox’s tongue, difficult to blend and prone to cracking. All your other ink pellets are top quality, yet this one is already cracked at the edge, and you put it among them—its inferiority is clear, its flaws obvious. This is nothing short of humiliating yourself!”

Such a phrase—humiliating yourself—made Mo Yuhua sit upright at once. The joy on his face vanished instantly, replaced by surprise, anger, disappointment—a multitude of emotions swirling together, darker than ink.

Gu Fei seemed not to notice. Her smile was sharp, chill as broken ice and scattered snow, and she even covered her mouth with her hand, not particularly elegantly, to stifle a yawn. With a hint of apology, she said to Mo Yuhua, “Forgive me, Young Master Mo, but I am not well and very tired. I’ll take my leave now.”

Mo Yuhua seemed about to protest, but pressed his lips tight, not uttering a single word, merely nodding to Gu Fei.

Kuma stepped forward, casting a wary glance at Mo Yuhua, and wheeled Gu Fei away.

Mo Yuhua stood by the door, unmoving for a long while. He watched as Gu Fei receded into the distance, no longer concealing his feelings; obvious sorrow crept across his handsome features like vines, finally settling into the lifeless stillness of an ancient well, betraying no ripple.

As for Gu Fei, leaving the ink factory, Kuma intended to take her to the Gu family’s shop, but Gu Fei shook her head, sighing with exhaustion. “No need. Let’s go straight home. Tell Manager Shang that today’s auction is cancelled, sort out the orders for scented ink placed yesterday, send them to Gu Zhong… There’s nothing for us to do for now…”

Kuma turned the wheelchair, moving slowly. She watched the bustling crowd and sensed a deep loneliness emanating from Gu Fei—not the loneliness of being misunderstood, but the kind that comes from comparing the happiness others possess, and the happiness she once tasted herself, with the present, where all has changed and nothing remains the same.

“Miss, that ink pellet…” After some consideration, Kuma finally voiced her question.

Gu Fei replied without hesitation, “Many years ago, I made it together with Mo Yuhua—it was the first ink pellet I ever crafted. I never expected he’d keep it. I thought…”

She did not finish her sentence, or perhaps she did, but her voice was so faint that the wind scattered it like fine sand.

Kuma was startled, “Miss, did he recognize you?”

Gu Fei nodded. She leaned her head against the wheelchair back, squinting up at the deep blue sky overhead, its hue spreading boundlessly like a plague no one could halt. “Of course he did. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have placed that ink pellet among the others for me to see. He didn’t reveal the truth outright—he was cautious, trying to test my reaction, to see if I would acknowledge him.”

Kuma understood. “If you had accepted the ink pellet—even without saying a word—Mo Yuhua would have believed you wanted to reconnect. But you said what you did, calling it humiliating, and you weren’t talking about the ink pellet, but about Mo Yuhua himself, right?”

Gu Fei tugged at the corner of her mouth, attempting a habitual smile, but the expression was painfully strained. “Yes. Naturally, I meant him. He is the son of Mo Yan. No matter how close we once were, that fact cannot change. And Mo Yan and I… we are enemies now.”

At this, even Kuma was at a loss for words. She took in the expression on Gu Fei’s face, wishing to offer comfort, but knowing that any such words would be powerless.

Gu Fei allowed herself only a moment’s indulgence in sorrow before composing herself. She rubbed her brow, and seeing the Gu family’s gates ahead, said impassively, “Since it cannot be changed, whatever happens, I shall accept it.”

No sooner had she spoken than they were only a few yards from the house, where, outside the gates, Gu Zhong stood with his hands behind his back, clad in fresh robes, beside the bowed Manager Shang.

At the sight of Gu Fei, Gu Zhong’s voice thundered, “Wretched girl! How dare you? You’ve embezzled the shop’s silver—today I’ll enforce family law and see you properly punished!”