Chapter 8: The Spy – Boundaries Between Men and Women

Hearing this, Lin Xihe clutched the fan tighter against her chest. “Don’t talk nonsense, this is clearly mine.”

“There’s a tooth mark on the left fan rib,” – from when Lin Pinyan had teased a horse with the fan – “and the fan surface was painted by me.”

Lin Xihe lowered her head for a closer look, and sure enough, there was a distinct bite mark on the fan rib.

The brat had hit the mark.

It wasn’t the system.

So the ugly, dark-faced creature painted on the fan surface was actually her?!

Clues rapidly connected in her mind: Little Fatty had painted the fan and given it to Wen Zhixu, and then this fan had fallen from the sky…

Then there could only be one culprit.

The other side of the courtyard wall was the Wen residence – this fan must have been thrown over by Wen Zhixu!

So he had seen everything! Including her foolish act of chanting “hello system, I’m your host” to thin air?

No wonder he hadn’t made a sound – he was probably holding in laughter until he was internally injured!

In the bronze mirror, the girl’s face turned from red to pale, before finally darkening completely.

“Sister, could you plead with brother-in-law for me? About the repair costs – could he make it cheaper?”

“You want me to plead with him?!” Lin Xihe’s fists clenched.

Lin Pinyan hadn’t come empty-handed – he had come bearing treasure. He produced a copper object shaped like a circular plate, raised in the middle, with a red cloth knot tied between the two pieces.

“Sister, this is for you.” When asking for favors, one must first offer gifts.

Emerging from her shame and anger, Lin Xihe focused her gaze and saw that what her cheap younger brother was handing her was a pair of cymbals.

She recognized these – in Journey to the West, Sun Wukong had been trapped in golden cymbals for three days until they melted. When she was young and visited her hometown with her parents, she’d seen them used at village funerals – when the suona sounded, the cymbals would clash dramatically.

However, this pair before her was small and exquisitely crafted, more like a child’s musical toy.

As mealtime approached, maids served several appetizer dishes, including Mountain Family’s Three Crisps. Lin Pinyan kept serving Lin Xihe the tender bamboo shoot tips until only some small mushrooms and scattered wolfberry shoots remained in the dish.

Instead of eating immediately, Lin Xihe casually picked up the small cymbals and clanged out a rhythm, casually humming the tune of “Nunchucks” with its “hehe hahei” refrain.

“Sister, you’re amazing!” The little fatty’s eyes shone with admiration. “My mother always forces me to learn this – can you teach me?”

“…” Lin Xihe was momentarily speechless. Wasn’t this something anyone with hands could do?

Seeing her disbelief, Lin Pinyan took the cymbals and tried a rhythm himself, failing to hit a single beat correctly.

“I can never get it right, so my mother hits my palms with the Xia Chu.”

Lin Xihe’s gaze toward the little fatty held newfound sympathy – so ancient times had their version of “music lesson victims” too.

Lin Xihe: “You’re not cut out for musical instruments. Try other talents – all roads lead to Rome anyway.”

“Mules and horses?” the little fatty repeated.

Sighing at the difficulty of communicating across eras, Lin Xihe patted his sturdy shoulder: “Xiao Lin, just focus on your studies. Wouldn’t it be fine if you placed first in the imperial examinations someday?”

Lin Pinyan immediately fell silent.

Seeing his reaction, Lin Xihe thought to herself: If you can’t get into Tsinghua or Peking University, at least aim for a first-tier university. Worst case, spend some money on a private college – any diploma will do.

She softened her tone to comfort him: “Top scholar might be too ambitious, but passing the provincial exams would be fine too.”

Lin Pinyan: “…”

Time seemed to freeze, and the delicacies on the porcelain plate were completely forgotten.

Lin Xihe raised her eyelashes: “Not doing well in your studies, huh?”

Lin Pinyan nodded sheepishly, pulling a crumpled sheet of xuan paper from his sleeve. “Fuzi made me copy the ‘Biographies of Merchants.’ Could you help me with a few copies, sis?”

“Sis, please, just a few.”

“Sis~” Lin Pinyan poured Lin Xihe a cup of fragrant perilla soup.

Facing this ancient chubby version of a cute little boy’s sweet talk, Lin Xihe pinched her thigh: Lin Xihe! You’re a genuine successor of socialism—hold your ground!

Seeing Lin Xihe unmoved, the child fished out a round box the size of a jewelry case from his other sleeve.

He muttered softly, “This is what my second brother…” Worried she might not understand, he emphasized, “Your future husband caught for me—a Han Tiao. I’m giving it to you.”

Noting his reluctance, Lin Xihe leaned in. “What treasure is it?”

Inside the delicate round box lay an insect gleaming with a metallic sheen.

“Ahhhhhhhhh!!!”

Insects were Lin Xihe’s Achilles’ heel, and chaos ensued.

Amid the commotion, she became convinced: Lin Pinyan was a spy sent by Wen Zhixu to mess with her!

“Qingwu, see him out!”

Maids and housekeepers promptly stepped forward, “escorting” the young master out by both arms.

“Sis! Sis! I’m sorry…” His cries faded down the corridor.

The second day of her transmigration.

Lin Xihe was “blessed” with a system blunder. Instead of a cheat code, she got a heap of fright.

As she prepared to return the book Lin Pinyan had left behind, a slip of paper fluttered out.

[Fifty copies. If not done by tomorrow, don’t come to school.]

The signature was scribbled, seemingly Fuzi’s name.

“Fifty copies?” Lin Xihe flipped through the book. Such a long text, copied fifty times? Was that old man even human!

Sharp-tongued Lin Xihe pinned her hopes on her chief assistant—Qingwu, who aside from her impressive appetite, was practically all-capable.

Just fifty copies—many hands make light work! Her gaze swept over the housekeepers and maids in the room, brimming with confidence.

But then, the loyal Qingwu whispered, “Miss, I don’t know how to write.” The others nodded silently.

After a moment of silence, Lin Xihe gritted out, “…Bring me a brush.”

The original host had been simple-minded, never learned to write, and there wasn’t even a proper desk in the room.

The housekeepers bustled about, moving the writing tools to a spacious Eight Immortals table, but the young mistress took one look and shook her head. “How can I write at a dining table? I need room to work!”

The group then moved to the stone table in the backyard.

The sunset glow faded quickly; the windless night enveloped Lin Xihe in a circle of flickering candlelight.

Struggling to recall remnants from elementary calligraphy class, she trembled as she drew each stroke. Sweat dripped down her cheek, blooming into an ink flower on the paper.

Qingwu watched anxiously, itching to help.

A newly lit candle had already burned halfway, yet only a few more characters—”the sounds of chickens and dogs are heard”—had been added to the page.

She stole a glance at her mistress’s calligraphy—crooked and messy.

Ahem, these characters… were uniquely ugly. Even Qingwu, ever protective, racked her brains but couldn’t conjure a single word of praise.

“Traditional characters are so hard to write!” Lin Xihe shook her sore, numb hand. “Qingwu, quickly find me a good brush!”

“Miss…” Qingwu hesitated. The truth hurt: even with the finest brush in hand, her mistress’s strokes would still scuttle sideways like a crab.

“I deliberately wrote it poorly,” Lin Xihe said with an air of mystery. “When parents help their children with homework, the worst thing is having handwriting that’s too neat. Otherwise, the teacher—ah, I mean Fuzi, that old man—might get suspicious and punish the child by making them rewrite it a hundred times. What would we do then?”

Qingwu reminded her, “The young master has been practicing calligraphy since childhood. I’ve heard from the servants that when he’s serious, his handwriting carries remarkable elegance.”

“…” Lin Xihe fell silent. In ancient times, calligraphy was a basic skill everyone had to master!

Never mind, she’d just wing it!

She directly grabbed three brushes, arranged them in a row, and employed the long-lost “elementary school punishment copy efficiency mode,” writing three lines at once.

Chickens and dogs hear each other’s sounds…

Chickens and dogs hear each other’s sounds…

Chickens and dogs hear each other’s sounds…

It was just fifty copies for punishment—enough to satisfy Fuzi. If there were any issues, she could just have her cheap father smooth things over.

.

Separated by just a wall, in the backyard of Yinquan Pavilion at Wen Country Duke Manor.

Wen Zhixu was taking a stroll after his meal to aid digestion.

His personal attendants were out searching for birds: Wen Qi was going door to door asking about the Emerald Phoenix’s whereabouts, while Wen Ba had gone to the bird shops in the market.

Only the loyal dog Mo Hu remained lying at his master’s feet. Suddenly, Mo Hu pricked up his ears—voices were coming from next door.

Without even lifting his eyelids, Wen Zhixu said, “Stop listening. Next door is a den of fools. Go back to your doghouse.”

But Mo Hu insisted on listening! He darted to the base of the wall, his whimpers full of urgency—this was clearly the voice of the benefactor who had given him steamed buns!

A meal given in kindness should be repaid with a spring of gratitude! Mo Hu barked furiously toward the top of the wall.

Wen Zhixu thought, This is bad.

Sure enough, from the other side of the wall came a young woman’s clear, sharp scolding: “Whose dog is that, barking wildly in the middle of the night!”

The scolding wasn’t loud, but it made Mo Hu tuck his tail between his legs in grievance: “Woof… whimper.”

Two years ago, Wen Zhixu had gullibly trusted a Persian merchant and spent a fortune on a dog claimed to be a tiger-lion hybrid capable of hunting blind bears. As a puppy, its body was covered in brown and black patterns, resembling a small tiger.

Unexpectedly, after raising it for a while, its fur color faded, and it ended up looking no different from a common stray. Wen Zhixu began to suspect he’d been cheated, but Mo Hu had an astonishing appetite. One day, it placed its front paws on Lin Pinyan’s shoulders, scaring the little tyrant so much he wet his pants.

Back then, Wen Zhixu still held a sliver of hope. Seeing how rapidly his beloved dog was growing, he thought it might actually be capable of hunting.

But during last year’s spring hunt, Mo Hu didn’t just fail to confront a black bear—it trembled at the sight of a wild hare. Wen Zhixu finally gave up all hope, exclaiming that he’d been thoroughly duped.

Since things had come to this, and he was the one who had chosen the dog, he had no choice but to spoil it.

Now, his precious dog was stubbornly digging at the soil, whimpering and whining, desperate to go see Lin Xihe.

Whoosh—something flew over from next door, hitting Mo Hu squarely on the head. He whimpered twice in grievance but still managed to pick up the “weapon” in his mouth and run back to his master to tattle.

“Serves you right,” Wen Zhixu said, frustrated by his dog’s lack of ambition. “Trying to beg steamed buns from her? I’ll get you some tomorrow.”

The object that had flown over was a crumpled piece of xuan paper. Unable to resist his curiosity, Wen Zhixu reached out and smoothed it flat.

Chickens and dogs hear each other’s sounds…

Chickens and dogs hear each other’s sounds…

Chickens and dogs hear each other’s sounds…

The characters were scrawled crookedly, like a child’s first attempts at tracing, with no sense of order.

Chickens and dogs hear each other’s sounds…?

Wen Zhixu compared the lines, his brow furrowing: “…Chickens and dogs hear each other’s sounds?”

The paper was filled with heavily distorted characters, their structures bizarre, as if the words had been simplified by removing complexity.

This was definitely not something an ordinary person would come up with, and the further he looked, the more absurd it became.

By the end, the writer had clearly run out of patience and had started drawing pictures of chickens and dogs instead.

A chicken and a dog were locked in fierce combat on the paper, creating quite a lively scene.

Wen Zhixu felt his temples throbbing as he watched, completely unable to comprehend Lin Xihe’s methods.

.

“Hey, why did the dog stop barking?” Lin Xihe tossed down her brush. “Qingwu, who lives next door?”

Qingwu shook her head: “It’s been empty since Madam Wen left the estate.”

How could there be a dog in an empty house? Remembering her part-time job at a pet cafe during her previous life’s studies, Lin Xihe’s heart tightened—she hoped it wasn’t a stray dog trapped inside. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she nimbly scaled the rockery.

Qingwu nearly fainted at the sight—her young mistress was climbing the rockery again! She almost choked: “Young mistress! I beg you, please don’t get your head stuck again!”

Lin Xihe didn’t pause, her feet lightly finding footholds on the protruding rocks as she steadied herself. The moment she peered over, her gaze directly met a man in the neighboring courtyard.

An acquaintance.

Without thinking, she raised her hand and cheerfully called out: “Hello~”

Moonlight filtered through the clouds, suddenly revealing a monkey-like silhouette atop the rockery. Wen Zhixu’s pupils flickered.

“Tch, putting on airs like some young master, how rude,” the shadow grumbled.

Wen Zhixu recognized the voice.

At that moment, he understood completely: absurdity—that was Lin Xihe’s fundamental nature.

The night breeze gently blew as moonlight finally broke through the clouds.

Lin Xihe’s eyes shifted and landed on Mo Hu. She happily waved: “Hello, little black!”

“Woof woof woof!” Mo Hu wagged his tail so fast it became a blur.

Lin Xihe glanced at the man and lightly laughed: “See? Even the dog has better manners than you.”

Her words drifted into Wen Zhixu’s ears like tiny nails pressing into skin—drawing no blood, yet stinging sharply.

Having been addressed with respectful language since childhood, no one had ever been so impertinent in his presence.

Lin Xihe was the first.

A servant reported: “Second Young Master, the hot water is prepared at the perfect temperature. Would you like to bathe?”

As Wen Zhixu prepared to leave, his peripheral vision still captured the figure on the rockery. What kind of noble lady was this? She was clearly the wildest monkey on the mountain.

This Lin Xihe… how could she be so unaware of propriety? The separation between men and women—she showed no change in expression upon hearing about bathing! What improper behavior!

The young woman’s gaze remained utterly frank, without any attempt at concealment.

Then her voice came flooding over: “Aren’t you going to bathe?”

Wen Zhixu’s fingers abruptly clenched. Not only was she unaware of propriety, but she dared to pursue the matter?

Seeing him standing like a wooden stake in the opposite courtyard, Lin Xihe casually remarked: “Are you and that chubby kid close friends?”

Lin Pinyan constantly chattered “Second Brother~” and “Brother-in-law~”, wishing the entire city knew he and Wen Zhixu were the best of friends.

Close friends. Wen Zhixu had never heard such an expression. After a moment’s consideration, he asked: “Meaning… companions?”

Lin Xihe: “Pretty much.”

He was an ancient man, yet he could comprehend modern slang from a thousand years later.

Lin Xihe couldn’t help but examine him more closely. Moonlight outlined his upright posture, while lantern light from his servant’s hand illuminated his face, revealing clear and handsome features. If this were modern times, he’d be the standard atmospheric handsome guy.

Her disappointment about time-traveling to ancient times lessened somewhat. In her delight, the words slipped out: “Close friends means good bro.”

Wen Zhixu indeed looked utterly confused: “Good pineapple? What does that mean?”

“Good friends,” Lin Xihe vaguely covered. “Sorry, my tongue slipped.”

The night deepened with heavy dew, and the young master’s patience was wearing thin.

“Hey don’t go! You know how to write, right?” The girl on the rockery raised her arm and shouted.

To think he had studied under Master Xie, yet was asked “Do you know how to write?”—an absurd feeling surged within Wen Zhixu, who nearly laughed aloud.

He solemnly bowed toward his mentor’s residence and declared, “This humble Wen began practicing calligraphy at three, under the tutelage of Xie Yan.”