Chapter 39

Chapter 39: Formations on Paper

Shen Tang stared at the line. “This is the encrypted word-spirit?”

She’d seen it in Qi Shan’s scrolls—along with a note. It was a military formation word-spirit, designed to deceive and trap. If your opponent couldn’t spot the trick, one careless step and you’d walk straight into it.

Breaking it wasn’t impossible, though. The key wasn’t the first line—it was what came after. If you pulled back, maneuvered, kept your formation intact, and refused to get split and scattered, you could find the true shape of the enemy’s arrangement.

Or, simplest of all—crush them with overwhelming force.

Qi Shan’s face remained grim. “It looks like it.”

Shen Tang leaned in. “So how do we crack it?”

Qi Shan looked at her. “How would I know?”

His mouth said one thing. His eyes said another.

Shen Tang choked. “If you don’t know, Yuan Liang, I definitely don’t. Are we just going to stare at each other until it solves itself?”

Qi Shan didn’t answer. He only watched her, silent and steady.

Shen Tang’s gaze slid away.

The quiet stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until she finally muttered, voice small despite herself, “Yuan Liang… did I cause trouble?”

Of course she had. She’d gone out to earn money and somehow stepped into a mess like this. She hadn’t expected the male courtesan’s paper to hide a secret, let alone a rare encrypted word-spirit.

And Qi Shan—damn him—was clearly hiding something too.

She hated that.

Qi Shan finally snorted. “You call this trouble?”

His lazy air peeled back, revealing something sharper underneath. He stacked the papers neatly, leaving only Shen Tang’s crude stick-figure draft untouched. “I came to Xiao City knowing it was muddy water. If I feared a little trouble, I wouldn’t have come.”

He smiled, thin as a blade. “I’m not afraid of stepping into the game. I’m afraid I can’t even find the door into it.”

He was here to stir things up, not to live quietly.

And Shen Tang’s mishap had dropped something useful straight into his lap.

“Sleep early, You Li,” he said, already turning away. “Come get the painting tomorrow.”

Shen Tang stared after him, only catching the edge of his robe before it vanished.

For a long moment, she couldn’t speak.

Then she swore. “Damn it.”

So what if he knew more than her?

…Fine. Knowing more really was impressive.

She slumped backward and lay flat on the wooden floor, staring up at the beams, thoughts burning themselves in circles.

Annoying. Infuriating. Unfair.

The more she thought, the angrier she got—until she couldn’t stand it anymore.

She sat up hard, grabbed her stick-figure draft, and fixed her eyes on the blank space of the paper. She closed her eyes and replayed what Qi Shan had done, gathering literary qi into her palm.

The moment her literary qi touched the page, the room blurred, as if reality lost focus.

Her awareness slipped into a strange space—empty heaven and earth, yin and yang tangled together. Just as she tried to pull herself out, a grid lit up beneath her feet like a massive board.

In the distance, a vague shadow stood waiting.

Who is that?

The thought barely formed before her body felt heavy—then her awareness snapped back into her flesh. The page before her held the same line again:

“From the front, a range; from the side, a peak…”

Her heartbeat steadied. She tried again, this time prepared.

The board returned. So did the shadow.

This time, she could make out more: a tall, thin young man. His build resembled Qi Shan’s, but his presence was different—more worn, more tired, like something had hollowed him out.

His face was swallowed by darkness. He didn’t speak.

When Shen Tang appeared, he only lifted his right hand and flicked open a folding fan.

Shen Tang tensed, ready to draw the Merciful Mother Sword—only for a huge black disc to form above the board.

With a sharp crack, it slammed down.

War cries erupted. On opposite sides of the board, two towering cities rose—one black, one white. The black and white stones transformed into countless tiny soldiers, surging into a brutal clash.

The battle was already at a boiling point. Victory was close—one way or the other.

Shen Tang swallowed. What was she supposed to do now?

She made a random move.

The young man answered immediately.

The stone hit the board and became black soldiers charging forward. Her white soldiers were cut apart by black cavalry, split into isolated pockets, helpless and doomed.

A few breaths later, Shen Tang jolted back into her body.

Her face cycled through disbelief, rage, and the urge to smash something. She forced herself not to flip the table only because there was no table left to flip.

So this wasn’t some simple passphrase.

The “encryption” was the other side setting the board—arranging troops and laying a dead game.

And the “decryption”… was stepping onto the board and breaking it.

Shen Tang glared at the paper like she could burn a hole through it.

Once didn’t work. Fine. She’d try again.

Next door, Qi Shan sensed the surge of Shen Tang’s literary qi. His brush paused, and a drop of ink fell and spread into a small blot.

He glanced at it, brows tightening, but he didn’t change the paper. Instead, his mouth curved in a faint, unreadable smile.

He’d drawn erotic paintings before—some blunt, some subtle, for both men and women. Even after years without touching a brush, his hand loosened quickly, as if the skill had been waiting in his bones.

By the time the eastern sky began to pale and a rooster cried, he had the painting finished and dried.

He packed it away and stepped out to deliver it.

The person behind this was clearly not interested in the painting itself—the point lay elsewhere. The picture only needed to exist.

As Qi Shan opened the door, he saw a familiar figure outside.

“Young Master Shen?” he called.

Then, as if it were any other morning, “Up so early?”

Shen Tang turned, eyes shadowed and sharp. “Wouldn’t you know whether I slept at all last night, Yuan Liang? Where’s the painting?”

Qi Shan handed it over. Then, without any preface, he said, “Whoever set that formation is a real expert.”

A half-baked beginner like Young Master Shen breaking it would make countless Literary Heart strategists clutch their chests and spit blood.

Shen Tang stared. “You broke it?”

Qi Shan shook his head. “No.”

He took in the dark bruises beneath her eyes and the heat still clinging to her. Not breaking it was normal. There was no need to burn herself alive over it.

He spoke like it was obvious. “You should learn to be calmer.”