Wen Kexing stilled for a moment, then came up to glue himself to him, smiling cheekily and unabashedly, “Ever since I decided to cling to you, I’ve never touched anyone else.”

Zhou Zishu said with an insincere smile, “Many thanks to the Valley Master for his deep love. I’m very sorry, but I didn’t decide to cling to you, ‘Valley Master’.”

Wen Kexing thought for a while, and seemed to find it reasonable, so he nodded and said, “That’s true--although, while you can meet clandestinely with people as you like, I can also listen in on your liaisons in the bedroom anytime I like.”

Zhou Zishu said, “Valley Master Wen, do you know how the word ‘shameless’ ought to be written?”

Wen Kexing said brazenly, “When it’s time to be shameless, one should be shameless.”

Zhou Zishu lowered his head, and used all of his might to uncurl his fingers from a fist. Yet his five fingers seemed to be heartsick for one another and kept gathering, tremoring with the desire to have a go at the face of this person in front of him.

So he forced himself to look away from that face of Wen Kexing’s, and turned around to leave in a huff--even forgetting to ask for his coin pouch back.

Chapter 36: No Regrets

There was an elderly man in the corner, whom the kind waiter didn’t chase away. The old man’s body was like it had shrivelled up in water, his face full of wrinkles, dressed head to toe in old and ratty cotton robes, his sparse whiskers disheveled. His hands were pressed together palm-to-palm as he knelt on the floor, bowing continuously to those who passed. A chipped bowl was placed beside him.

Zhang Chengling peeped at him, his ears full of Cao Weining’s sophisticated musing. “...They say the scent of chrysanthemum comes from the bitter cold[15]…”

“That’s not right, Cao-dage, chrysanthemums bloom in autumn, is autumn that cold?”

Cao Weining coughed. “Most of these poets sigh over things not worth sighing about, contributing nothing useful to society. They’re a generation of loafers who compose boring things about nature in their libraries. Being unable to tell which season chrysanthemums blossom in is typical of them!”

“Oh, they’re really a bunch of slacking bookworms who don’t know anything, ahahaha…”

When Cao Weining and Gu Xiang started to discuss the beauty of the four seasons and poetry, they could drive a person to insanity. Zhang Chengling tolerated it for as long as he could, and when he finally could not bear it any longer, he dug out a few copper coins, walked downstairs, and bent to put them in the old beggar’s bowl.

The old man rambled, “Good philanthropist, thank you, philanthropist, may the most merciful and compassionate Goddess of Mercy protect you…”