Relieving worries and solving difficulties

The two young men returned to the academy. Over the past few days, Zhang Ling had been mulling over the scene in the imperial study where the emperor, using a painting, had subtly trapped him. No matter how much he pondered, it seemed impossible to avoid it. A man from Chenliu told him that Prime Minister Xiao Qinhe, under covert investigation, maintained distant relations with the Ministry of War and the nobility, rarely interacting with them. These seemingly trivial clues aroused the emperor’s suspicion. The border conditions were harsh; even seasoned veterans struggled to endure. As was customary, the front lines and the regional garrison would rotate personnel periodically for rest and recuperation. Yet, those connected in some minor way to the prime minister began to be transferred to the capital at staggered intervals. This made the naturally suspicious emperor suspect that the prime minister harbored rebellious thoughts.

The following month was Prime Minister Xiao Qinhe’s birthday. As usual, the academy shared a candid relationship with the court. Thus, when high officials held birthday banquets, they would send invitations to the academy. Song Qingtian informed his disciples that attendance was voluntary, no pressure applied. Although most politely declined, some persisted, even taking pride in receiving invitations from the academy’s students. After all, those embarking on official careers, like Ma Pingchuan, found great benefit in such connections. The man from Chenliu urged Zhang Ling to seize the opportunity to infiltrate the prime minister’s residence and steal correspondence related to him.

While practicing flying needles, Zhang Ling racked his brain. Even if he managed to enter the prime minister’s residence—never mind the skilled guards—he was utterly unfamiliar with the layout. All high officials’ mansions were vast estates; getting lost inside was hardly an exaggeration.

He chose to work at a long table, a habit he had maintained for some time. Now, bent over the desk, he tried hard to push these troublesome thoughts aside. There was still a month to go. Regardless of other matters, he resolved to improve his skills. When the time came for covert operations, even if discovered, he would have a better chance to escape.

At the edge of the long table lay twelve silver needles. The rest of the space was arranged with the four treasures of the scholar’s desk, with the inkstone placed centrally.

According to treatises on controlling objects with the mind, to divide one’s attention while manipulating objects, one must first learn to multitask: to do two things simultaneously, then more, and finally to unify all into one. This art, though considered a fringe practice by martial elders, laid the foundation for later mind-controlled swordsmanship. After consulting various books in the library on the subject, Zhang Ling finally found a few simple and reliable methods. Yet what seemed easy in theory proved a different matter in practice.

He held a brush in each hand, writing on two sheets of paper at once. At first, he practiced writing the same character with both hands. This was manageable, and after a day of practice, he became proficient. However, when he attempted to write different characters simultaneously, his strength did not follow his will. Writing simple characters was slow but achievable. Yet after several days, he made no progress storing the strokes in memory. Characters ranged from one to as many as 172 strokes. Though such complexity was rarely needed, with over eighty thousand characters, and about seven thousand commonly used, their combinations and strokes were countless. Mastering each character’s calligraphy was a fantasy, and this frustrated Zhang Ling greatly.

Despite the difficulty of dual-handed calligraphy, after mastering a few characters, Zhang Ling would attempt to control needles with his energy. Without concern for smooth manipulation, he could already lift five flying needles simultaneously. Controlling two needles at once was much more satisfying than before; with skillful use, two needles could be deadly.

After several hours, Zhang Ling relaxed his breath and glanced at the lychee tree newly planted in the courtyard. The mountain climate was spring-like all year round, suitable for such trees. He still regretted uprooting the ginkgo tree. Its golden leaves in autumn were beautiful, but his frustration from the calligraphy practice had caused him to snap, violently pulling at the ginkgo until he uprooted and broke its roots. Replanting it would likely fail, so he replaced it with a lychee tree, reasoning that taste outweighed beauty.

As he stared at the lychee, out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a white object moving past. He immediately recognized Chen Ke’er’s arrival.

The girl rode a white bear—naturally Chen Ke’er—though the bear was not from the far north but a brown bear afflicted with albinism. It was not expected to survive long but had been brought to the academy as a cub by a master and disciple a century apart in age. Named White Ball, the old dean nurtured it with unique internal energy and medicinal herbs, which had allowed it to grow strong. Despite its bulky appearance, it was far stronger than a second-rank martial artist. When Song Linjie first teased the beast with a chicken leg, he suffered greatly and was mocked by academy students for a long time.

Though Chen Ke’er could not speak animal language, she communicated with birds and beasts as if with people. She patted White Ball, who understood and crouched to let her down. The girl then hopped over to the long table and met the young man’s gaze. There was no hint of the shyness lovers might display.

Chen Ke’er smiled and asked, “Still practicing calligraphy?”

Had it been a stout man, Zhang Ling might have snapped back, calling her blind or asking if she was stating the obvious. But with her, he couldn’t bring himself to reply like that. He nodded, a little discouraged. “Yes, but the results are minimal. I’m thinking of switching methods—maybe drawing circles with one hand and squares with the other? Or practicing different martial arts with each hand?”

Chen Ke’er squeezed beside him, knelt at the desk, arranged two sheets of paper, and took two brushes from the stand. With flowing strokes, she wrote two intricate characters, "Ying" and "Fei." Setting down the brushes lightly, she pointed at her work and smiled proudly. “See? I followed your method and learned it in a day. It’s not that hard!”

Zhang Ling’s face flushed with embarrassment, forcing a bitter smile. “Are you here to help or to discourage me?”

Chen Ke’er explained, “It’s not really difficult. If it were someone else at another academy, it probably wouldn’t take long. The problem is you. Calligraphy requires a calm mind. When your heart is restless, you must quiet it. If you have worries, resolve them first. Without inner turmoil, you can focus on the task at hand.”

Zhang Ling pondered deeply; she had hit the mark. The emperor’s task was truly difficult. Sneaking into the prime minister’s residence would make anyone nervous, leaving little room for peaceful calligraphy or martial arts practice.

The girl leaned close and whispered, “There’s a poetry gathering on a pleasure boat in the city tomorrow. Want to go together?”

Zhang Ling asked back, “You want to go, don’t you? Well, it’s just right—I have some things I can’t figure out and could use a break.”

Chen Ke’er stood up, laughing. “It’s settled, then. I’ll come find you tomorrow.”

She grabbed the curious White Ball in the courtyard, swung onto its back, and slowly strode out. Both of them swayed their heads gently, looking carefree and at ease.

After the girl left, a sudden idea struck Zhang Ling. He recalled someone with extraordinary hearing. He would make some explosives himself and throw them into the prime minister’s residence, creating a loud disturbance in the empty house. Then, that person could capture the scene with brush and ink—a perfect plan.

Zhang Ling laughed triumphantly but did not realize his joy was premature.