C6 The Sorrow of the Country

"Philistine..."

A long while later, a cold rebuke echoed through the house, followed by silence. It appeared that Lau Mingzhu also felt a sense of shame in associating with Lin Han.

Lin Han shook his head, indifferent to Lau Mingzhu's scolding. He had even less interest in the so-called Mid-Autumn poetry contest. Yet, the approaching Mid-Autumn Festival stirred something within him. Their conversation had ended on a sour note, and Lin Han chose not to bother Xiaoqin, instead retreating to the solitude of his room.

The Mid-Autumn Festival was a time for family reunions, but for Lin Han, a stranger in a strange land, there was no possibility of returning home. In this unfamiliar world, what meaning did the Mid-Autumn Festival hold for him?

Upon hearing Lau Mingzhu mention the festival, Lin Han felt his interest wane. He had assumed that as a contemporary person, he wouldn't experience the melancholy of being an outsider. With modern communication tools like WeChat and QQ, he never imagined a day when he wouldn't even have the privilege of reassuring his family of his well-being.

This thought provoked a desperate urge to vent within Lin Han. It was as if he had a lump in his throat that needed to be expelled for relief. His mood grew agitated, and his eyes scanned the sparsely furnished room until they rested on a simple bamboo table, complete with ink, paper, brush, and inkstone—the four treasures of the study, none missing. Perhaps Lau Mingzhu, recognizing him as a down-and-out scholar, had spared no expense in this regard.

Lin Han had never expected to use such an archaic writing tool as a brush in his lifetime, but in that moment, he was driven to express his inner turmoil. He set aside his reservations and began to grind the ink with clumsy determination, resembling a man possessed.

Ink smeared his hands and clothes. Under normal circumstances, Xiaoqin would have gladly assisted with such a task, but Lin Han was beyond such considerations now. He had to manage on his own.

Before my bed, the moonlight glows, its luster like frost upon the ground. Gazing at the moon above, my thoughts turn to my distant hometown.

In that world, even a five-year-old could effortlessly recite "Quiet Night Thoughts." Lin Han, staring at the less-than-perfect moon, penned the verse, his emotions finally spilling over. He wasn't one to wallow in sorrow, but the strangeness of this new world had taken its toll.

Looking up at the bright moon, then down in contemplation of home, Lin Han never imagined the poem's words would so vividly capture his own experience. He glanced between the moon and the lines he had written, his heart awash with a tumult of emotions.

"How perfect it would be to have wine at this moment," he mused, understanding at last the ancient poets' fondness for drink... wine... wine...

With a burst of laughter, Lin Han grabbed handfuls of paper from his desk, crumpling them into balls and tossing them aside. He laughed wildly, thrice, before collapsing into a deep slumber on his bed.

...

Ever since his brief exchange with the young lady yesterday, the Young Master had secluded himself in the study. No one knew what had gotten into him. Then, late at night, he let out three bizarre laughs, followed by silence. Come morning, he emerged before everyone, nonchalant, with ink stains all over his hands and body.

Xiaoqin gazed at Lin Han with her bright, curious eyes as she cleaned her teeth the way he had taught her. She wondered if all scholars were like this, or if perhaps the Young Master had been so thoroughly scolded by the young lady that he'd been left in a daze.

Lin Han appeared oblivious to Xiaoqin's puzzled look, his mind preoccupied with the stroke of genius from the night before. Thankfully, his mental library was well-stocked; otherwise, he'd be left with nothing but theoretical musings.

He had tasted the local wine before—dark yellow and turbid, more akin to juice than any proper wine, let alone fruit wine. After just one sip, Lin Han had spat it out. But last night's epiphany had sparked an idea. With the world's wine so unpalatable and his mind's library at his disposal, why not brew a fine wine himself? With so many connoisseurs in the world, could this not pave the way to wealth?

Reflecting on this, Lin Han couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement. His usual worries about the Mid-Autumn Festival seemed to fade away. After coming to an agreement with Lau Mingzhu last time, the Lau family no longer restricted his movements. Lin Han easily slipped out of the Lau Residence and set off on his adventure.

"Where is Young Master Lin?"

Shortly after Lin Han had left, Lau Mingzhu finished her morning lessons. Typically, Lin Han would be either playfully teasing the maid Xiaoqin or engaging in some odd and baffling activities. His absence today was unusual and somewhat unsettling for Lau Mingzhu, who had grown accustomed to his daily antics. She spoke with a furrowed brow, a sign of her discomfort.

"Miss, are you asking about the Young Master? He left early this morning, looking quite amused. You should have seen him, Miss. He's such a clumsy scholar, getting ink all over himself..." Xiaoqin's eyes sparkled with mirth as she paused her work to share the story with Lau Mingzhu, her laughter revealing charming dimples.

Xiaoqin served as Lau Mingzhu's personal maid, typically attending to her needs first and foremost. Even though Lin Han and Lau Mingzhu were married in name, and Xiaoqin could technically be considered Lin Han's maid as well, her loyalty remained with Lau Mingzhu. Lin Han, a notorious layabout raised under the Red Banner, certainly didn't expect otherwise.

Lau Mingzhu had no intention of involving herself with Lin Han beyond what was necessary, and the thought of Xiaoqin working for him was out of the question. The idea of him covered in ink was almost laughable.

Covered in ink? Him?

Lau Mingzhu was taken aback, disbelief flickering in her eyes. Although Lin Han bore the title of a scholar, he had recently spent more time tinkering with peculiar inventions than practicing his calligraphy. Actually, since waking up, he hadn't touched pen and ink at all...

Lau Mingzhu had resigned herself to the idea that Lin Han was content to be a freeloader in the Lau household, a pretty face living off their charity. But now, she wondered, had he finally seen the light? Or was Lin Han's memory loss beginning to mend? The thought left Lau Mingzhu feeling unexpectedly conflicted.

"Cough, cough. Since he's committed to putting in the effort, it's only right that I support him. Xiaoqin, once you've finished your tasks, please tidy up the study. Consider it a form of support for him..."

With those words, Lau Mingzhu turned and departed. Shortly thereafter, a graceful figure could be seen dancing in the Lau family's backyard. Her slender form was anything but frail; each movement she made was powerful and impressive. Had Lin Han been there, he would have been utterly astounded...

Regrettably, he was busy scouring the marketplace for carpenters and blacksmiths to advance his entrepreneurial endeavors. Thanks to the initial profit he had made through Lau Mingzhu, Lin Han was feeling quite confident.

If he could just construct the distillation apparatus, it would mark the start of his journey to wealth.

Meanwhile, Xiaoqin entered the study with a joyful heart, ready to clean up the chaos left behind from Young Master Lin's frenzied activities the previous night.

A crumpled piece of paper tossed aside piqued Xiaoqin's curiosity...