Chapter 1: Chapter One: The Ink Brush Writing Realm

Lu Fang, half-asleep and half-awake, felt as if he were trapped in utter darkness.

His mind was foggy, thoughts sluggish; his body could not move, his mouth could not speak, his eyes could not see, and even his sense of the outside world was faint and blurred.

It was as if this body did not belong to him.

This sense of “detachment” filled him with restless anxiety!

Faintly, he heard footsteps approaching; his wrist was lifted, as if someone were taking his pulse.

Then came a conversation—the voices sounded like two elders speaking.

“Master Xu, why has my young master not awakened?”

“No danger to life—it’s merely exhaustion from overwork. I’ll prescribe a remedy to restore him.”

“Then do as you say. My young lady is away inspecting the estate and has not returned; should anything happen to the young master…”

Lu Fang heard a few words through his haze, then, utterly drained, fell asleep.

After an unknown length of time, he suddenly felt his foot drop into empty air, jolting him awake with a start.

“So it was just a dream!”

Lu Fang had just begun to relax when he realized something was wrong.

He felt utterly drained, his head heavy, as if he’d spent the entire night performing fourteen times, his body completely hollowed out.

With great effort, he sat up from the canopy bed—and froze.

The bedroom was ancient and elegant: a painted screen of a beauty walking in spring, a rosewood eight-immortal table and master’s chair, delicate and refined porcelain artifacts scattered everywhere.

“What’s going on! Where am I? Why am I sleeping here?”

Lu Fang strained to recall what had happened last night—suddenly, a flood of unfamiliar memories surged like a tide, flashing before his eyes in rapid succession.

Sorting through the memories, Lu Fang realized he had been reborn—he had crossed over into the body of a man in this world who shared his name: Lu Fang.

Lu Fang, courtesy name Xunge, twenty years old, orphaned, with a younger sister and a house, was the head of the Lu family in Pian County, Jiangzhou of the Great Zhou Dynasty—a scholarly merchant lineage.

At three, he cursed. At five, he fought.

At seven, he vowed to become a scholar (because his sister said girls loved scholars).

At fourteen, he sneaked off to listen to courtesans sing for the first time.

At fifteen, he listened to courtesans sing.

At eighteen, he still listened to courtesans sing.

At twenty, his sister locked him in the house.

Lu Fang cried, threw tantrums, and even tried hanging himself—but no one paid attention, so he gradually quieted down.

Since then, he grew thinner day by day.

Outsiders assumed it was from overstudying.

Only Lu Fang knew it was because a beautiful woman accompanied him every night.

On a dark, windy night, Lu Fang was lying in bed, happily reading, when a beautiful woman walked in through the door.

He’d thought it strange at the time!

The door had been locked from the outside—how had she gotten in?

The beautiful woman claimed to be the daughter of a martial school, betrothed but still awaiting marriage; she had long admired Lu Fang’s literary talent and could no longer bear her affection, so she boldly came to visit him at night.

Seeing her sit shyly on the chair, demure yet dignified, her eyes like spring water gazing at him with admiration and reverence.

Lu Fang felt as if insects were crawling over his skin; his heart raced like a wild horse unleashed, desperate to gallop away.

He indulged in the delusion that this beautiful woman had recognized his true worth!

He tossed his few lingering doubts ten thousand miles away, dug a hole, buried them, and even stomped on them twice before leaving to pack the earth tight.

For about ten days.

Lu Fang slept during the day to restore his spirit; each night he bathed, changed clothes, burned incense, swept the bed, and waited quietly for the beauty to come and learn “knowledge.”

Afraid his sister might hear whispers and ruin his good fortune, he kept it secret from everyone.

Until last night, just before he died, he finally realized: there had been no beautiful woman to attend him—her tenderness was an illusion.

He saw clearly—it was a hideous ghost, draining his yang energy.

He hadn’t even time to scream before his legs stiffened and he was dead.

“...”

Lu Fang mourned the former owner—he supposed the original Lu Fang had been killed by a demon, and he had been reborn in this body.

But he worried: what if the demon discovered he was still alive and came back to claim his soul?

From the memories, Lu Fang learned that in this world, there were Confucian scholars who could “condemn with words and brush,” Daoist True Persons who summoned heavenly thunder, Buddhas with countless wondrous methods…

Demons and barbarians coexisted with humans.

Ghosts were undeniably real.

Ghosts were malevolent spirits.

Ghosts existed—and could be destroyed.

Confucians, Daoists, and Buddhists could all eliminate them.

Confucians cultivated boundless righteous qi; ghosts, upon seeing it, were blinded and could not harm them—it shone like blazing light.

The Great Zhou Dynasty was founded on Confucianism and also revered Daoism.

Daoist methods for capturing ghosts were officially certified and trustworthy.

Buddhism had methods of transcendence, but in this world, Buddhism was a state power and forbidden from establishing temples in the Great Zhou.

“Strange!”

As Lu Fang sifted through the memories, he suddenly noticed something odd: the ghost—the beautiful woman—had been subtly probing for information: What treasures did the Lu family possess?

Uh… ha! The original Lu Fang had actually shown the “great treasure” to the beautiful woman—he really was a talent.

As Lu Fang was torn between amusement and dread, a new fear struck him: Confucians with righteous qi who could exorcise ghosts were always aloof—even if offered silver, they might not come.

Worse, he didn’t know anyone in the household—he had no way to even find one.

“Buddhism?”

Lu Fang shook his head like a rattle drum—there was no way to find a realized monk in the household.

“Daoism?” Lu Fang frowned, hurried out of the bedroom, and looked up at the sky—judging the sun’s position, it was around four in the afternoon.

To summon a Daoist from the “Yuyang Mountain · Lingdu Temple,” a round trip would take three or four hours—he feared he wouldn’t make it in time.

Was he to pray that the demon, believing him dead, wouldn’t return tonight? That was too reckless with his life.

“Someone—”

Lu Fang opened his mouth to call for help—when suddenly, thunder cracked beside his ear, a distant, ethereal voice descending from the heavens:

“Heaven and earth are defined by characters; brush and ink shape the cosmos. Gather countless idle books and elegant collections, and within their pages, the Dao manifests—this is the ‘Ink Brush Writing Realm.’”

“Ink brush… brush ink… ink and brush—”

Amid the lingering, far-reaching sound of the word “book,” Lu Fang’s head lolled and he fainted.

Lu Fang seemed to have dreamed.

In the dream, heaven was ink, earth was ink; a colossal brush, radiating ancient aura, stood between them like a divine pillar holding up the inked heavens and earth.

The giant brush swept freely through the air—Ink Brush Writing Realm.

As each character formed, the inked heavens and earth trembled violently.

Pop… pop…

Books shimmering with spiritual light suddenly appeared out of thin air—some as small as a palm, some as tall as a man, others as massive as mountain peaks…

The books frolicked through heaven and earth, flying, diving, spinning, jumping, shaking their heads, performing iron mountain leans, and even fighting each other.

What were these?

They were clearly mischievous children at play, breathing life and color into the lifeless, inked heavens and earth.

Suddenly, the giant brush above swept left and right—unruly books were seized by an unknown force and pulled to the opposite side.

In the center of the inked earth, a seven-colored horizontal line appeared, separating Lu Fang from the books.

The seven-colored line stretched endlessly, seemingly infinite.

It felt like magic, like a barrier—preventing the books from crossing over, and Lu Fang from crossing to them.

As Lu Fang trembled with unease, a book descended from the inked heavens, striking his forehead; a flood of memory surged into his mind, a passage leaping forth in his heart—

The Strange Tales of Liaozhai: Nie Xiaoqian!