Chapter Twenty: The Mysterious Pattern

Zhang the Fatty returned to normal, and Feng Yuan finally breathed a sigh of relief. By now, night had completely fallen, and the three of them were grumbling with hunger. So, the trio set out together to find dinner.

As for Feng Fugui and his companions, Feng Yuan no longer cared. If they died, so much the better. The three of them had always bullied the weak and oppressed women in the village, never doing a good deed in their lives. If they perished, it would serve them right.

When they returned after dinner, it was already past nine o'clock at night. Feng Yuan took out twenty taels of silver and handed them to Hu Xiao, entrusting her with their living expenses. After all, they couldn't dine out every day—it was too extravagant. They needed to be more frugal, as earning money was no easy task.

"By the way, young master," Hu Xiao said, "while I was tidying the study again today, I found a picture. I'm not sure what it is, but it looks rather unusual. I've placed it on the desk in the study for you."

Feng Yuan nodded. "Alright, I understand. You should get some rest now."

With that, Feng Yuan made his way to the study. He didn't give much thought to Hu Xiao's words; after all, a mere picture didn't interest him. Now, if she had found a banknote, he would've rushed over immediately.

Right now, Feng Yuan's mind was occupied with thoughts of writing his novel. He'd had a good income today, so he was determined to write as much as possible tonight in hopes of selling it tomorrow.

Last night, he had been deeply unsettled by the disturbances from the second courtyard. Now that Feng Fugui had taken away that painting, presumably along with the evil spirit, he could finally settle down and write in peace.

Entering the study, Feng Yuan laid out paper and prepared ink. He picked up his brush, dipped it in ink, and was ready to begin. At that moment, he noticed a square piece of yellow silk on his right—a little larger than a book, neatly covered with various patterns.

This must be the picture Hu Xiao mentioned, he thought casually. He reached out to move it aside, but the patterns caught his eye.

"What is this?"

Feng Yuan studied the images with curiosity. The silk was of high quality, durable and favored by scholars for painting and calligraphy. Yet, instead of calligraphy or a painting, the silk bore a series of simple sketches—an extravagant use for such fine material.

Still, if someone had gone to the trouble of drawing on silk, it was no ordinary thing. Feng Yuan put down his brush and examined it more closely.

These were not one continuous image, but a sequence of smaller scenes—almost like a comic strip.

The first showed a person collecting a drop of tear from a cow’s eye, then smearing it onto his own eyes. In the next, his eyes shone as he noticed golden lights floating around him, like tiny tadpoles.

In the third scene, golden lights appeared on various objects—a vase, a painting, a tree—whether living or inanimate, all bore these specks of light, more or less.

The fourth picture showed the person seated cross-legged, making a series of strange hand gestures. Images five through twelve depicted him continuing these gestures.

As he moved, the golden lights surged into him, revealing a network of meridians and acupoints on his body. The golden lights followed these channels and gathered at his dantian, forming a luminous pattern.

By the thirteenth image, his body was covered in black grime, as if expelling filth.

In the fourteenth, his physique suddenly became robust and powerful.

From the fifteenth to the eighteenth, the man stood in a courtyard, moving his hand in those same gestures. The golden glow in his dantian shot out from his palm, striking a tree as thick as a bowl with enough force to break it cleanly.

"What is this? An internal cultivation diagram?" Feng Yuan wondered, frowning. It looked remarkably like the internal energy techniques described in the martial arts novels of his previous life.

If that were true, it would be wonderful—he'd always dreamed of becoming a martial arts master. In this era, martial arts experts did exist, but not everyone had the means to train. As the saying went, 'the poor study literature, the rich practice martial arts.' Only wealthy families could afford such luxuries; ordinary folk were too busy struggling to survive and lacked the opportunity to learn.

Now, however, Feng Yuan had that chance. He was no longer worried about food and his health was poor; practicing martial arts would be perfect for strengthening his body and defending himself.

"I just don’t know if it’s real," Feng Yuan mused, studying the sequence several more times. He doubted it was fake—no one would waste silk for a mere prank. He decided to try it out tomorrow.

Carefully, Feng Yuan put the silk aside, then picked up his brush and began writing his novel.

Once he started, time slipped away unnoticed. He wrote until his hand ached, finally stopping to find he'd penned over twenty thousand characters. His arm, shoulder, and neck throbbed with pain, and he was drenched in sweat—summer nights were sweltering, even after dark.

Running out of ink, Feng Yuan set his brush aside and stepped outside to stretch his limbs.

The moon hung high, bathing the courtyard in silvery light. Judging by the hour, it must be after midnight—he’d written for at least four hours straight. The lamp in Hu Xiao's room was already out; she must have gone to bed.

Feng Yuan moved around the courtyard to loosen up, glancing toward the second compound. It was pitch black, nothing stirred. He breathed easier; it seemed the evil spirit truly had been taken away by Feng Fugui. Tonight, he could finally sleep in peace.

He went back inside, took some clean clothes, and headed to the well. Setting his things down, he stripped off his sweat-soaked garments and grabbed the wooden bucket. He lowered it into the well, intending to fetch water for a bath.

Earlier, as Hu Xiao hadn’t slept yet, he’d felt embarrassed to bathe. He had planned to buy a large wooden tub for bathing indoors but had forgotten—he’d have to remember tomorrow. Otherwise, it would be inconvenient for both him and Hu Xiao to wash. He wondered how the little maid managed her baths at night.

With a splash, the bucket hit the water and quickly filled. Hauling it up, he poured the cool water over himself, feeling the summer heat wash away in an instant.

Soon, he had finished his bath and returned to his bedroom. Sleepiness washed over him, and within seconds of lying down, Feng Yuan drifted off.

At that moment, the door creaked open just a crack—a beam of moonlight slipped through. A small, limping white fox squeezed inside and made its way toward Feng Yuan’s bed…