Do you dare to lift the black veil?

The blazing sun burned overhead, and even with the bamboo canopy casting its vast shadow, Gu Fei still felt her vision swimming. Her lips parted and closed, her throat dry and aching, chest hollow and barren—a wasteland overrun by wild winds and yellow sand, nothing like it once was. The corners of her mouth curved downward, self-mockery thick as vines creeping from her eyes, her gaze steady and cool as water as she looked at Mo Yuhua through the black veil.

Ten years, countless days and nights—enough to turn seas to mulberry fields, and hearts even more so.

“The ink is deep and glossy, the glaze pronounced, the script has no sign of origin, and carries a faint scent of musk and Zen. The ink pellet crafted by the Mo family is truly of the highest quality,” Feng Puyu appraised, stroking his beard with calm precision.

When he finished, the servant brought the “Crimson Moon and Jade Splendor” inscription to the other four judges for their own examination.

Luo Song of the Ink Merchants’ Guild had once belonged to the Mo family, and so naturally praised Mo Yuhua’s work. Fat Wei’s small eyes narrowed, his plump, fair face showing a smile that was neither a smile nor a sneer.

The youngest, Young Master Mingyue, had tassels dangling from his jade crown, swaying as he picked up the ink pellet and simply remarked, “It is good ink.”

Taciturn Dong Shi, who rarely spoke, shared Feng Puyu’s opinion, merely nodding with a slight smile in agreement.

When it came to Gu Fei’s ink pellet, Feng Puyu lifted his sleeve and leaned in for a closer look, even rubbing it gently with his fingertip. After a long pause, he spoke, “This ink is fine and smooth in texture, its color light and bright, with a hint of purple in the light, its fragrance subtle and refreshing. It is likewise excellent, though its appearance falls half a step short.”

Huang Pinyuan watched the stage without blinking. Feng Puyu’s words made his heart race with regret; his brows creased in frustration. He instantly regretted his decision—he’d heard Gu Fei was skilled at carving molds, but his own mistrust had led him to meddle.

In contrast, Gu Fei was utterly composed. She tapped the armrest with her finger, eyes half-closed, seemingly unconcerned about the outcome of the ink contest.

On stage, Young Master Mingyue, dressed in crow-black robes, strolled over to Feng Puyu, bent close for a look, then examined the ink pellet as well. With gentle eyes and scholarly grace, he smiled and said, “My thoughts differ from yours, Master Feng.”

Feng Puyu’s long, bushy brows arched. “Oh?”

“Ink, from its earliest days, was meant for writing and painting. Only later, with the refinement of ink-making, did the division between collectible and practical ink emerge. This contest never specified what kind of ink was to be made, so why criticize the form of the ink pellet? If you ask me, this ink surpasses the Mo family’s pellet in quality, and so deserves to be crowned champion of today’s contest.”

With this, he dismissed the other masters’ entries altogether.

The other families raised little objection. Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, even outsiders could see that the two ink pellets were exceptional, surpassing the rest; no one dared say otherwise.

Feng Puyu was not displeased—on the contrary, he was gratified by Mingyue’s reasoning, feeling a deep sense of hope for the future of ink-making.

With Feng Puyu and Mingyue divided, the remaining three judges held the balance. Fat Wei remained silent, Luo Song spoke up in defense of the Mo family, leaving only Dong Shi, and so all eyes turned to him.

Dong Shi wore his habitual stern expression, as if someone owed him hundreds of taels of silver.

His method of appraisal differed markedly from Feng Puyu’s. He dipped his finger in the ink from the inkstone, and without hesitation, brought it to his mouth for a taste, smacking his lips and half-closing his eyes as if savoring a rare delicacy.

After a few breaths, Dong Shi reopened his eyes, dipped again into the ink made from Mo Yuhua’s pellet, and tasted it as well.

“In ancient times, Ban Meng chewed ink and spit out words, filling the paper with meaning. I, Dong Shi, have tasted countless inks, from the most bitter to the most fragrant and sweet. Now…” His gaze shifted to the Huang family’s position, landing squarely on Gu Fei.

“I believe the ink made by the Huang family surpasses the Mo family’s.”

This plain statement, with no explanation, made his position clear. Dong Shi sided with Mingyue, while Feng Puyu and Luo Song stood together, leaving a deadlock.

Thus, the crucial decision fell to Fat Wei.

Feng Puyu smiled lightly. “Fatty, what are your thoughts?”

Others hesitated to speak, but Feng Puyu had no such qualms. His long brows framed smiling eyes as he looked at Fat Wei, utterly unreserved.

Fat Wei cleared his throat, rose slowly, hauling his bulk forward like a snail to stand before the two calligraphic pieces. He feigned careful scrutiny, rubbing his double chin, his small eyes glinting as he glanced at the Mo family’s side and chuckled twice. “Honestly, both your reasoning, Master Feng, and the young Mingyue’s make sense to me.”

He turned, hands behind his back—though his limbs were short and his body round, so his hands didn’t quite meet, but he was not embarrassed, merely waving them. “This ink contest has never had strict rules; every year, each family displays their best techniques, and it’s easy to judge the winner. But this year’s contest…”

He paused, eyes burning as he fixed his gaze on Huang Pinyuan, then abruptly shifted the topic: “May I ask, which ink master did the Huang family employ this year? Wearing a black veil in this heat—doesn’t that seem uncomfortable?”

Fat Wei’s question left Feng Puyu momentarily confused, unable to see its relevance to choosing the winning ink pellet.

Mo Yuhua, however, followed Fat Wei’s gaze and frowned, glancing subtly at Luo Song.

Luo Song immediately understood, stepping forward with a cold snort. “What claim does the Huang family have? Everyone knows their abilities from past years. But this year, with such strange methods—is the black veil to hide something shameful? Or is this person not the Huang family’s ink master at all?”

Like a stone thrown in water, his words sent ripples through the crowd. Others quickly echoed the challenge.

Huang Pinyuan’s face darkened—he had not expected to be confronted at the final hour. He bared his teeth in a grim smile. “So you’re all conspiring against the Huang family? If you have the skill, find your own expert. If you hope to drive us out of the contest with such tricks, I have just one thing to say—”

“No way!”

Gu Fei shook her head inwardly, realizing she had overestimated Huang Pinyuan’s cunning. To make such provocative remarks at this moment was to push everyone into opposition against the Huang family.

But it was no concern of hers; since the day she was abducted into the Huang household, Huang Pinyuan was destined to face whatever consequences arose.

The five judges dared not speak further; saying too much would only invite accusations of bias.

Mo Yuhua understood this well. Shadows deepened at the corners of his mouth as he nodded discreetly to Mo Cheng, seated among the Mo family.

So, while the crowd was silent, Mo Cheng stepped forward. His pale face and black beard radiated blatant disdain. “What is the Huang family to us? Does everyone have to act like that mad dog Huang Pinyuan? If you have nothing to hide, old man, will you let her remove the black veil and show herself?”

Huang Pinyuan glared at Mo Cheng, teeth grinding, but could not rebut. He dared not let Gu Fei reveal her face—not at all.

Onstage, Young Master Mingyue grew curious. He turned Gu Fei’s ink pellet over in his hand and said lightly, “I imagine many would like to see what sort of master could produce such fine ink.”

As expected, troublemakers in the crowd quickly joined in.

Huang Pinyuan glanced back at Gu Fei, momentarily unable to respond.

Beneath the black veil, no one saw the contempt at Gu Fei’s lips. She raised her chin, her gaze passing over Mingyue as her mind churned, weighing his motives. Surely, this was not for the Mo family or the Huang family to win the contest, but for some other purpose.

With the Huang family silent, Mo Cheng rolled up his sleeves, striding over and calling out, “Old man, if you won’t do it, I’ll help you.”

He reached from a distance, determined to tear away Gu Fei’s black veil.

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(Note: The “Immortals’ Chronicle” says: Ban Meng could chew ink and spit out words, filling the paper with meaning. Explanation—Ban Meng could chew ink blocks, and spit out characters that filled the page with clear meaning.)