102 The Message About the Vertical Bamboo Flute of the World (1/2)
Chapter 102: The Message About the Vertical Bamboo Flute of the World
Translator: TransnEditor: Transn
Ning Que did not know that he had missed another huge opportunity, and, of course, he did not know some Divine Talisman Master saw his grass script on a piece of account book ripped by him in the brothel, which produced two famous calligraphy notes, Wooden Rubblings of Yan and Chicken Soup Calligraphy. Today, he still was an unknown young boss in Lin 47th Street, and an ordinary but diligent student in Academy.
He woke from a drunken sleep the next morning and drank the bowl of chicken soup which perhaps was warmed up again and again, frowning. Then, he stopped Sangsang who was preparing to wash the pot and bowl. He looked at her black face and said seriously, ”Last night, I drank too much because I was so happy. I didn't have time to tell you because I passed out.”
Sangsang looked up, raised her thin eyebrows, opened her bright eyes, and asked with curiosity, ”Young Master, what makes you so happy? I've never seen you drink that much.”
”I think I've discovered a method to understand those books in the old library of Academy.”
Ning Que extended a finger and shook it before her nose on and on, smiling and then said, ”Although it's just a glimmer of hope, it's hope after all. I think if possible, I must seize the chance.”
The so-called hope was a casual denial of despair. Because denial was casual, it would not last for a long time. As a person who was played by destiny, Ning Que knew this better than anyone. Alas, hope tended to become disappointment, then despair. The more hope you had, the deeper regret and pity you had as well.
Whether the cultivator in the mountain of the Yan territory, or the examiner from Military Ministry, or the mild old man Lyu Qingchen in the journey, or the selection round for the course of magic skills during the academy entrance exam, he experienced the hope that had been ruthlessly stamped out over and over again. Therefore, he became calmer and calmer and even numb. As for entering the magic cultivation world, he never gave up hope in his heart, although he seemed to not care too much for outward appearances.
Because he knew if he wanted to survive in the world and live well, serve his revenge, and leave his name in history on this black and fertile land called the Tang, he must enter that world. Once he gave up all hope, his end was not disappointment, but despair.
To seize the faint hope, Ning Que adjusted his mental state into the most generous and positive one. He would leave Chang'an by carriage early in the morning and ride the carriage back to Lin 47th Street late at night. In the morning, he always felt sleepy when he learned six courses. After the third bell rang, would he jump from his seat with high spirit, rush out of the study room and into the canteen, chew and swallow two meals slowly, take a walk surrounding the lake, then climb up the library over and over and read books without a stop.
He sat near the west window and read calligraphy while enjoying the sunshine. He disassembled every character on the book into strokes with Eight Strokes Calligraphy of Yong, and then he learned the trend and meaning of those strokes carefully, and forgot their meaning deliberately.
The female professor still wrote the Hairpin-style Small Regular Script quietly near the east window. Her bun was undone, the splendor of Spring reflected on her smooth bob that was just over ears, which made her look gentle and silent. She did not give any directions no matter how sincere Ning Que was.
Some afternoon several days later, he read half of the Primary Exploration on Ocean of Qi and Mountain of Snow. The characters were disassembled into thousands of strokes, and then reorganized into thousands of character Yongs with different shape and meaning, which cost almost all his energy.
Ning Que rubbed his fatigued eyes, and then silently turned his head to look at the thickening green leaves out of the window. He knew it was no meaning if he forced himself to read. Even if he consumed all of his energy, he just could understand more meaning from Talisman Master who transcribed books, which provided no help for him to enter into the Initial State.
To his disappointment, the notes, left by the mysterious instructor, on the paper in the middle of thin book never showed again, not even some words. It seemed like he just disappeared.
The chirping of cicada that annoyed students in Academy for a thousand years rang again in this afternoon without any warning. Ning Que quietly listened to the chirping of cicadas out of the window for a long time, and then he turned around suddenly, closed the thin book on his knees, and began to meditate with eyes closed.
The characters on the book were disassembled into strokes with Eight Strokes Calligraphy of Yong. Then he forced himself to forget the meaning of the character. Therefore, even if the number of characters was large, he could manage to stay in the corner of his mental world quietly. However, once he began to meditate on these strokes, the complex strokes would become dangerous.
On the first day, when he watched the character and forgot the meaning, he felt that his Psyche Power had nowhere to go. He knew if he forced himself to meditate, it would be very dangerous. Therefore, he did not try it again these days. But he could not accept the fact that the hope he had barely just seen was slipping away. As such, he must try it again at the moment.
He closed his eyes and sat near the window with crossed legs. He seemed to be like a statue without moving a little bit. A little hot Spring breeze blew from the west window to his thin blue clothes, wrinkling it. The waves on the chest of his turquoise robe slowly rose, and then fell flat, over and over. It seemed to have come alive. It was a pity that the waves could not continue, so the life slipped away in defeat.