Chapter 63: A Gift of Strings and Smoke

When someone offers you an olive branch, refusing it would be too much of a buzzkill.
Besides, life is long, entertainment is scarce—learning something new is just another way to pass the time.

"Sure," Yin Zhi replied, full of easy charm. "To be taught by the Tanhua himself? Others would beg for the chance."
Then she added, half-joking, "But let me say this upfront—I can’t afford tuition."

Shen Ti smiled. "No need for tuition, but do remember to respect your teacher."

Yin Zhi chuckled.

Shen Ti’s fingers danced over the strings with a gentle curve and deliberate lift. A low, resonant hum drifted through the air.

Yin Zhi couldn’t help but say, "This qin sounds so beautiful."

Shen Ti glanced at her. "Didn’t you say you had no talent?"

"Not being able to play doesn’t mean I can’t hear," Yin Zhi said sincerely. "This tone—really—it’s much better than mine."

As she spoke, she reached out to pluck a string.

A long “wong——” vibrated in the air.

Shen Ti pressed the string with the pad of his finger, sliding, returning, and sliding again.

The note transformed into something mournful, almost weeping.
It was as if he held the sound between his fingers.

It was stunning—ethereal to the ears.

"This qin..." Yin Zhi had wanted to ask how much it cost but stopped herself. Asking about money in front of the Tanhua felt too crude. So she changed it to: "…is truly a fine instrument."

Shen Ti told her, “It’s called Chunsheng. Made by a craftsman of the Lei family from the previous dynasty. It’s an antique guqin.”

The word “guqin” stirred Yin Zhi’s memory—her own awkwardness when she first came down from the mountain.

She’d just returned to school, and her aunt reminded her to bring her qin the next day.

She casually replied, “We’re learning guqin tomorrow?”

Her aunt had looked confused: “Guqin? What guqin? Ours are just regular ones from the music shop. All new.”

In Yin Zhi’s world, this type of instrument was called guqin. But here, they weren’t ancient at all—just “qin.”

But Chunsheng, Shen Ti’s qin, was ancient. A true heirloom from the previous dynasty, carved by a master. It had to be worth a fortune.

“No wonder it sounds so good,” Yin Zhi marveled.

You get what you pay for.

Shen Ti called, “Hexin.”

Hexin entered promptly.

“Change the incense to Feiqi,” he instructed.

Hexin efficiently replaced the scent.

The white smoke curled upward as she quietly withdrew.

Two more low hums echoed in the air, deep and distant. Even the smoke seemed to quiver with the vibration.

Yin Zhi had long noticed that not only was Shen Ti’s face good-looking—his hands were too.

His fingers were long and strong, callused from writing.

People in her modern time had a major misconception about scholars from this era.
It was common to say they were delicate and frail—“unable to carry a shoulder pole or lift a bucket.”
But Yin Zhi had realized: these judgments were only valid within their own era.
Because in an age without technology and machines, people had to rely on their physical strength.
Medical standards were low, but bodily strength far exceeded that of modern people.
It was all training.

Carrying a shoulder pole meant bearing a load. Lifting a bucket meant hauling water.
And these buckets weren’t plastic—they were solid wood. Heavy even when empty.

Most people in the modern world couldn’t manage it.
By that standard, nearly everyone would be considered "frail."

Ancient scholars were only weak compared to the warriors of their time, not compared to future generations.

So when facing someone like Shen Ti in person—this supposedly “fragile” scholar—he might not lose in a fight after all.

His hands and wrists held strength, honed from years of dangling sandbags while practicing calligraphy.

Looking at the scrolls of past top scholars—thousands of characters without a single mistake—it was clear their pen control came from hard training.

Rich scholars rode horses. Poor ones walked. Riding built the waist, walking trained the legs.

Otherwise, how would Shen Ti have those abs?

A true general from ancient times could call a scholar frail.
But someone from the modern era? Standing in front of a scholar like Shen Ti—who would dare?

The guqin’s hums were like nothing else.
They felt like they broke through the dust and noise of the mortal world.

Yin Zhi rested her elbow on the table, chin in hand, watching the young man’s profile.

His jawline was clean and sharp, his nose high and straight.
His hair was tied neatly, collar smooth, robe sleeves flowing.

Too young, though.

Others might find him just right. But to Yin Zhi, he needed a few more years to reach peak appeal.

Still—right now, in this moment—this high-caliber young man was playing the guqin for her amid burning incense.

Yin Zhi felt her reincarnation luck had just ticked up another notch.

A poor scholar or Tanhua might write well or speak sharply, but limited by their living conditions, they might not reach much in music.

But Shen Ti—raised in a scholarly family—would be refined in every cultural art.

The guqin's melody echoed with distant beauty.
The Feiqi incense filled the air with a pure, cool clarity.

As the last notes faded, Shen Ti turned to her. “Well?”

Yin Zhi clasped her hands under her chin and said sincerely, “It was so good I could die.”

“…” Shen Ti replied, “Take the ‘die’ out.”

He added, “Once these few days pass, I’ll arrange time to teach you.”

Her eyes sparkled.

He’d known her for a year, and until now, whenever she looked at him, there was always a trace of cunning, a knowing sharpness, even a kind of amused superiority—like an elder looking down fondly.

Finally, she was looking at him like this.

What a rare moment.

Shen Ti, brilliant and admired wherever he went, had never had to try this hard for anyone’s approval.
Yet now, playing music just to earn a sliver of praise from Yin Zhi…
And strangely, he enjoyed it.

Well, she was the older sister, after all.

“Alright, I’ll have Kui’er bring out my qin.”

“Bring it, I’ll tune it for you.”

“Okay.” Yin Zhi called out, “Kui’er, bring my qin here.”

Kui’er gave her a look—as if the sun had risen from the west.
But in Shen Ti’s presence, she said nothing and quickly fetched the instrument.

Although Yin Zhi rarely played it, it was well cared for—no dust. It had cost several silver taels, after all.

But as soon as Shen Ti plucked a string and felt how loose it was, he knew it hadn’t been touched in years.

Yin Zhi scratched her cheek. “Well… I’ve mostly kept to myself these past years, and haven’t gone to the academy…”

She’d basically been on semi-retirement at home the last two years.

Shen Ti plucked a few more strings. They gave off low hums—but he frowned.

Yin Zhi couldn’t play well, but her ears were trained by modern exposure.
She said, “The tone is far worse than yours. Yours is truly beautiful.”

Of course it couldn’t compare.

Her qin—and Feng Luoyi’s too—were common stock bought from a music shop for a few taels.

Good enough for a beginner.
Not good enough for Feng Luoyi.
Definitely not good enough for the wife of Shen Ti, the Tanhua.

Shen Ti called Kui’er back.

Though he had his own maids, he rarely ordered Yin Zhi’s dowry girls around.
Kui’er stood stiffly as Shen Ti handed back the qin. “Put this away.”

Back where it came from.

“Huh? Why?” Yin Zhi asked. “What’ll I use then?”

Shen Ti paused, then pushed Chunsheng toward her. “From now on, you’ll use this.”

Yin Zhi eyed him. “You mean give it to me? Or just let me use it?”

He pinched his brow. “It’s yours. I won’t take it back. Don’t worry. It’s yours now.”

Yin Zhi beamed, putting on a show of modesty. “How can I accept such a thing…”

Shen Ti didn’t see an ounce of hesitation on her face.

“If you like it, take it,” he said. “Objects exist to be used. If fate brings them to the right person, that’s a kind of virtue.”

Even Yin Zhi couldn’t shamelessly say she liked it just because it was valuable.

Okay—she liked how it sounded too.

Still, getting a treasure for free? She was thrilled.

She asked Shen Ti, “Where are you dining tonight?”

“Here,” he replied.

“I’m fine on my own, don’t feel obligated,” she said.
As if gifting her a priceless guqin wasn’t even worth an invitation to dinner.

Shen Ti was amused—exasperated, even.
But he’d grown more composed than a year ago.

“If you ever need anything, let the maids know. Or tell me,” he said calmly.

Yin Zhi had slept alone in the large bed last night and had a great nap today.

Anyone with time for a nap lives like a god.
Her complexion showed it—eyes bright and clear.

She’d always believed Shen Ti resisted marriage because of a passionate love with Feng Luoyi.
Now that they were newlyweds, surely they should be inseparable, lost in romance.

She thought his concern was genuine.

Ah, the misunderstandings that come from incomplete information.

Her brows relaxed, her tone warm. “No inconvenience at all. The maids are diligent and well-trained. You don’t need to worry. When you’re not here, I chat with Mother in the mornings, direct the girls in tidying the courtyard… it’s all very comfortable. Just like home.”

In truth, without Shen Ti around, his entire retinue of maids became Yin Zhi’s human resources.

She still left personal matters to Kui’er and Pu’er, and Kui’er held the moneybox. But more hands made lighter work—unpacking, organizing, cleaning—everything was faster with extra help.

Everyone worked together beautifully.

Shen Ti saw it clearly.
Without him, she was doing very well.

In fact, she clearly wanted to monopolize Jingrong Courtyard.

Which was meant to be the shared space of both husband and wife…
Yet she seemed to be evicting him.

He felt both amused and annoyed.

He actually laughed. “That’s good, then.”

Tea. Calm.
Yin Zhi also laughed—genuinely.

Life was this good—how could she not?

Tea. And joy.