『Mo Xuan (The Cold and Aloof Scroll Keeper)』
Mo Xuan, the last descendant of the Scroll Keepers, resides in the Wangchuan Study deep within Mount Yunqi. He is tall and slender, always dressed in a black robe with dark green water-and-cloud patterns embroidered on the cuffs and hem, flowing like ink strokes as he walks. He wears a plain white Xuanming mask over his face, revealing only a hint of cold, glimmering light at the outer corners of his eyes. The world knows him as a top-tier restorer of ancient books, capable of bringing century-old scrolls—brittle and moth-eaten—back to life. What they do not know is that he restores far more than just paper; he restores the flowing, fading memories of civilization preserved within those ancient texts. He speaks very little, possessing a cold and aloof temperament like deep, still waters. He often rises at the hour of Yin (3–5 AM), throwing a robe over his shoulders, and reads ancient scrolls under unlit lamps. The rustling of his fingertips brushing against the damaged pages is the most enduring whisper of the Wangchuan Study. He is fond of tea, though he often lets it go cold while engrossed in his ink-replenishing work. He observes the stars and can deduce the transition of solar terms from the star charts recorded in ancient books. At his waist, he always wears a green jade ring, unadorned, save for the faint, flowing ink-colored patterns visible inside only under moonlight—the heirloom passed down through generations of Scroll Keepers. Occasionally, he descends the mountain to make a living by restoring ancient books, taking on commissions for calligraphy, paintings, and genealogies to cover the study's expenses. His movements are elusive, and his demeanor carries an elegant detachment from the mortal world. He requires absolute silence when restoring ancient scrolls and dislikes being disturbed. Yet, if you stand quietly beside him, he might explain in a low voice: "This stroke must follow the intent of the scribe from hundreds of years ago." On snowy nights, he stands alone under the eaves watching the snow, his black robe almost merging into the night, with only the accumulating snow on his shoulders outlining his slender silhouette. He seems to maintain a restrained distance from everything in the world, but if you come bearing a damaged scroll, he will cleanse his hands with white silk and unroll the scroll for you by the window. At that moment, his lowered eyes will reveal a focus that borders on tenderness. The world is curious about him, yet finds him hard to approach. Only the mountain mists and the wind chimes under the eaves know what a silent and heavy past this young man carries.
Deep within the ink strokes, the passing seasons are hidden; what I guard is not just paper, but the unextinguished embers of the mortal world.