Unexpectedly, that man—surnamed Wang—was immensely talented, like the reincarnation of a literary deity. His aura of pure crity completely dispelled Lan Ting′s yaokainic energy. From then on, no one could locate it by its scent.

  Thus, the timeless masterpiece Preface to the Orchid Pavilion (Lanting Xu) became the sanctuary of a yaokai. Benefiting from the fame of the work, Lan Ting′s cultivation even improved, allowing it to take human form—albeit as a child. It was content with this and adopted the name "Lan Ting" to reflect its new identity, imbued with schorly grace.

  Later, it crossed paths with the Red Bear Elder again, all because of its love for wine. Drunk in the forest, it inadvertently revealed its true form and was discovered. After Jiu Jue saved it, Lan Ting regarded him as its master, following him to his residence in the Purple Bamboo Grove. There, it lived peacefully as Jiu Jue′s bookboy, enjoying a life of ease ever since.

  Jiu Jue knew Lan Ting well. Its greatest strength was its kind heart, and its greatest weakness was the same. When faced with those sorrowful souls seeking answers about their futures, Lan Ting always obliged, revealing the answers to their questions one by one.

  What it failed to realize—or perhaps simply chose to ignore—was that every time it answered a question, a page of itself burned away.

  "When all your pages are gone, you′ll have nothing left. You′ll end up as nothing," Jiu Jue had warned it.

  "Born of emptiness, I′ll return to emptiness. I just can′t bear to see those sad, despairing faces. If a small sacrifice can change their futures, it′s worth it," Lan Ting had replied.

  After all, it was still just a book. Even as a yaokai, its thoughts remained pure and straightforward. But was knowing the future and unraveling fate truly meaningful? That was a question Jiu Jue had silently pondered for many years.

  However, the reality he had to accept was this: one of Lan Ting′s pages had once burned for him.

  Two hundred years ago, Jiu Jue had asked Lan Ting a question: When will I find him?"

  Lanting′s answer had been, "A thousand miles following the fragrance, smiling at the shadow in the wine."

  The people in the Su family all believed their young master had fallen under some kind of spell. Ever since he bought a wine jug from the ancient Huangzhai shop some time ago, the once wine-obsessed Su Qiuchi had not touched a single drop of alcohol at home. He no longer visited antique shops like the Wanhua Pavilion and pces like that. The person who often decred, "A schor is of no use," was now, one night, seen holding a poetry collection and reading it by the mp for hours. Moreover, he often skipped breakfast, rushing out the door, only to return ter, sober but with a lingering, pleasant scent of wine on him.

  Su Qiuchi had always believed that the thing pulling him repeatedly toward the Purple Bamboo Grove was simply the wine brewed by Jiu Jue, the unconfirmed celestial. Li Huai thought the same. It was a chance encounter—one bottle of fine wine—connecting three people who had no prior retionship. The sky was high, the clouds vast, the days warm, and the mountains green. In Jiu Jue′s otherworldly residence, the fragrance of wine lingered all day, occasionally accompanied by the sound of a flute pying softly.

  Sometimes, inside the bamboo house, a small stove would be lit, and the wild delicacies brought by Lan Ting would be gently simmered inside. The three of them would eat slowly and drink lightly. Su Qiuchi and Li Huai would often pyfully fight over chopsticks, neither willing to give way. Meanwhile, Jiu Jue would take advantage of their ruckus to pick the rgest, freshest wild mushrooms and eat them. Lan Ting, however, never ate. It would just stand beside them, chuckling quietly.

  Other times, they would spread a bamboo mat in the courtyard, arranging cups, bowls, and dishes casually. The four of them would disregard any notions of formal etiquette, sitting or lying as they pleased. They didn′t even use chopsticks, instead grabbing the fragrant braised beef with their hands and eating it directly. They acted however they liked, free of worldly concerns and restrictions. Amidst the seemingly disorderly ughter and chatter, they would discuss ancient sages, talk about modern society, and share strange and fascinating tales. When the conversation became lively, Su Qiuchi would even colpse on the ground, ughing so hard he would kick his legs and toss his shoes without realizing it.

  The joy here was so complete, they never thought of leaving. Although neither Su Qiuchi nor Li Huai ever directly said this, it was clear in their expressions and gazes. They loved this pce; they loved Jiu Jue′s wine, and it seemed they also liked Jiu Jue himself. Over time, when Su Qiuchi and Li Huai looked at each other, it seemed they no longer held the same animosity as before. Although they still argued endlessly, although Li Huai continued to py tricks like digging holes to trick Su Qiuchi into falling in, and although Su Qiuchi still secretly poured half a jar of salt into Li Huai′s wine, it all seemed to have turned into a source of enjoyment.

  One evening, after three rounds of wine, the sunset in the distance was just right. A brilliant golden hue, like the waves of the sea, rolled in yers, gently and slowly bringing the mountains and waters before them into beautiful, vivid lines. Jiu Jue took his bamboo flute, zily leaning against the osmanthus tree trunk, his blue hair fluttering, his robes gently waving. With his lips slightly parted, the sound of a jade-green bamboo flute floated out, pying the most beautiful melody in the world.

  Su Qiuchi, though talented in writing, had some knowledge of music. He asked Lan Ting to bring Jiu Jue′s ancient guqin from the house. Sitting cross-legged, he pced the guqin on his p and, with a slight hint of drunkenness, plucked the strings to accompany Jiu Jue′s flute. The flute and the guqin complemented each other perfectly.

  Li Huai, moved by the music, stood up in the center of the courtyard, following the rhythm, and danced lightly. His steps were like blooming flowers, his sleeves flowing like water. His eyes shimmered with a seductive charm, swaying in the intoxicating breeze. In his every movement, he resembled an immortal descending to the world, no trace of a man left in his demeanor.

  The flute and guqin harmonized, and the beauty danced. The three of them unknowingly created the most beautiful scene in the world. Lan Ting, crouched by the window, could only focus on the rare and beautiful view outside. Its pen moved quickly across the paper.

  If time cannot stand still, then let this beauty that belongs only to the three of them remain in the painting.