Chapter 9: Selling Calligraphy

Early in the morning, Jia Cong went to Wenhán Street; on usual days when he finished class at the clan school, he would pass by here, but back then he had no money and never entered the shops filled with the scent of ink and paper.

He walked the length of the street, bypassing the grand stores with lavish furnishings—big shops exploit customers, a truth unchanged through ages.

He found a modest-sized shop, its tools all bearing a fresh, new air, as if it had just opened.

The shop had few customers; only a young man stood behind the counter calculating accounts, and an old man slowly swept the floor.

As Jia Cong stepped to the doorway, the young man behind the counter set down his abacus, smiled warmly, and came forward to greet him.

“Young master, are you looking to buy a book? Though our shop has only just opened, we carry all manner of texts—examination classics, character dictionaries, obscure writings, miscellanies, and popular tales—feel free to choose.”

The young man seemed like the shop’s front-facing clerk; he showed no trace of condescension despite Jia Cong’s youth, his demeanor sincere and his speech fluent, instantly winning favor.

“I’m not here to buy books. I noticed many calligraphy and paintings on display—does your shop also sell them? I have three pieces I’d like to consign.”

The young man saw Jia Cong holding three scrolls of Xuan paper, looking somewhat childish, his robe faded from washing, the cuffs showing visible mending stitches.

Clearly, the child came from a poor household—otherwise he wouldn’t come to consign calligraphy—but his eyes were calm and gentle, radiating an unusual steadiness that made one dare not underestimate him.

The two-percent commission fee was fair, so Jia Cong unfolded his three pieces and laid them on the counter.

Yet in his calm, gentle gaze, there shone an unshakable confidence, as if not a trace of deceit lay within.

His posture—standing on a stool to write—looked comically childish, yet the young man had already dismissed his doubts.

An expert needs only one glance to know true skill; as soon as Jia Cong picked up the brush, an aura of mountain-stillness and abyss-depth emerged from the boy, leaving the young man momentarily stunned.

The young man’s face filled with astonishment; he instinctively studied Jia Cong: “You say this… is your own work?”

Jia Cong wrote on the Xuan paper: “In stillness, osmanthus petals fall; at night’s quiet, spring mountains lie empty. The moon rises, startling mountain birds; their calls echo through the spring ravine.”

The counter was too high for him, so he placed a stool sideways beneath his feet, achieving just the right height.

“Mine.”

The calligraphy on the paper was warm, ancient, and simple, elegant and unrestrained, with a unique grace—unlike any script he’d ever seen—and already bore the spirit of a master.

Without real skill, one couldn’t survive here.

Even so, the young man still felt doubtful.

He assumed such calligraphy required years of relentless practice; Jia Cong was barely a child—how could he possess such mastery?

Jia Cong wasn’t offended; he picked up the brush before him, his eyes scanning the room.

Such bearing should not belong to a child—the young man felt a flicker of surprise.

Thus, this young man was not only well-versed in literature and calligraphy, but also possessed keen discernment in art.

He had opened a bookstore on Wenhán Street, the heart of Jingcheng’s book trade, where competitors clustered thickly and competition was fierce.

He recognized the paper Jia Cong held as premium Xuelang paper—expensive stuff, far beyond the reach of a poor household; altogether, the boy carried an air of strangeness.

The young man suddenly realized, and immediately laid a fresh sheet of Xuan paper on the counter.

“Our shop accepts consigned calligraphy and paintings—we take a two-percent commission upon sale. May I see the pieces you wish to consign?”

The moment the young man saw the calligraphy on the paper, his eyes widened.

“Excellent script—truly exquisite! I’ve never received such refined calligraphy before, young brother—whose master wrote this?”

The script matched exactly the three pieces he had just seen.

Had he not witnessed it himself, he would never have believed such profound, masterful calligraphy could come from this child.

No wonder the boy had radiated an unusual aura from the moment he entered—back then, he’d already struck him as peculiar.

And the presence he exuded while writing? Only years immersed in calligraphy could cultivate such depth.

Yet at such a tender age, to possess such astonishing calligraphic mastery—could such a person truly exist?

“Young brother, your talent is astonishing. These three pieces—no, four—my shop will buy them all at fifty taels each. Are you satisfied?”

Though Jia Cong’s calligraphy was extraordinary, he was still an unknown child, his value far below that of established masters.

The consigned works in his shop all came from artists with some reputation, yet even those rarely sold for fifty taels.

Thus, the price he offered was already quite generous.

Seeing such astonishing skill in one so young, he was certain Jia Cong would become a major figure in time—no doubt at all.

To acquire his work now meant getting ahead of everyone else by years—this was rare merchandise indeed, so he offered without hesitation.

Jia Cong had endured enough hardship lately; without money, he often went to sleep hungry, and he understood the value of silver better than most.

The day Aunt Zhao sold his couplets, she earned only ten taels—already more than half his monthly allowance.

Now, one of his pieces could sell for fifty taels—he was stunned. Happiness came too suddenly; he would never again go hungry.

“I want twenty taels in silver. The rest, convert into banknotes.”

Jia Cong wouldn’t be foolish enough to carry two hundred taels of silver home—if word reached Lady Xing, it wouldn’t take long before she came for it.

Banknotes were easier to store; with this sum, even if he received not a single cash coin as allowance, he and Zhi Shao could live comfortably for years.

With a few years of relative peace, he would find every way to study and pass the examinations, securing a title—his only viable shortcut.

Only then would he have a place in the Jia household, even the right to leave and live apart.

Then he could escape the abuse and control of Jia She and his wife—they’d find it far harder to manipulate him again.

And he’d gain space to build his strength; when the Jia clan’s great house finally crumbled, he’d have the power to protect himself.

The young man took two ingots of silver from the counter.

He also took four small-denomination banknotes, totaling one hundred and eighty taels.

The young man smiled broadly: “I see your signature reads Jia Cong—I’ll presume on familiarity and call you Brother Cong. I’m Xiao Jindong, the shopkeeper here.”

“If you wish to consign more calligraphy, come to me—I’ll give you a fair price. Here’s your twenty taels in silver, and these are banknotes from Huanming Bank—they can be cashed at any branch across the Zhou realm.”

Jia Cong saw the banknotes were already split into small denominations—convenient for both spending and storage; Xiao Jindong handled things well.

He glanced at the shop’s bookshelves and said, “I’d also like to buy a set of the Four Books—they’ll be useful.”

Xiao Jindong took down a brand-new set from the shelf: “This is the newly released vermilion-printed, pine-ink edition from Yuwenxuan—worth twenty taels, the finest Four Books on the market.”

A scholar’s future depended half on the Four Books; though high price was justified, twenty taels for a set was absurdly expensive.

Jia Cong flipped through it—the paper was snow-white and supple, the ink black and fragrant, key annotations marked in vermilion, exquisitely printed; it was worth the price.

He placed the twenty taels of silver on the counter, picked up the books, and turned to leave.

Making money was fast—spending it was faster.

Xiao Jindong smiled and pushed the twenty taels back to him: “Today, receiving your calligraphy is my honor—I give you this set as a gift. May you soon pluck the osmanthus from the Moon Palace.”

Jia Cong refused several times, but seeing Xiao Jindong’s firm insistence, he ceased his politeness—it was his first true friend outside the Jia household.

He asked Xiao Jindong to keep secret the fact that he had sold calligraphy today, and though puzzled, Xiao Jindong readily agreed.

Though Jia Cong signed his name on the scrolls, he had been raised since childhood in the Eastern Courtyard; few outside the Jia household knew him.

Even if someone familiar with the Jia family bought his work, they couldn’t immediately guess its origin.

So as long as Xiao Jindong kept quiet, Lady Xing would never learn he had made a small fortune.

Watching the boy leave with a bundle of books, the old man who had been sweeping the shelves walked over to Xiao Jindong’s side.

Squinting at Jia Cong’s retreating figure, he muttered under his breath: “That boy… looks familiar.”

“Uncle, what are you saying?”

The old man glanced at Xiao Jindong and suppressed his unease.

He looked again at the calligraphy on the counter, his eyes filled with fresh astonishment.

“You paid two hundred taels for these? Jindong, you’ve made a fine deal.”

Xiao Jindong laughed: “Uncle, just watch—within a few years, this boy’s brush will command a thousand taels per character.”

The old man gazed at Jia Cong’s distant figure, thoughtfully asking: “What’s the boy’s name?”

Xiao Jindong, admiring the calligraphy in his hand, replied casually: “It’s written right here—Jia Cong. He’s a son of Rongguo Prefecture.”

The old man’s eyes flashed with sudden intensity; he whispered: “From Juede Lane… Rongguo Prefecture…”

(End of Chapter)