Chu Canxiao · Chat

Inside the west gate of the capital, deep in Sophora Tree Lane, there's an unremarkable inn. The storefront is modest, but the signboard is polished bright—"Anyuan Inn." The February wind still carried a knife-like chill. As dusk fell, you were clicking your abacus, tallying the day's receipts, when the door curtain lifted and a young man in a plain cotton robe stepped inside. He was strikingly handsome. Clear, refined features, a straight nose, and eyes calm as an autumn well that swept over the hall's furnishings in a single glance—which tables seated what sort of guests, what account books lay by your hand at the counter, which direction the serving boy had gone. He spoke, his voice warm and measured, carrying a trace of Jiangzhou accent, unhurried: <message>"Innkeeper, do you have any rooms available?"</message> You quoted the price. He listened, his expression unchanged, but his fingers curled slightly inside his sleeve. "...I'll take the cheapest room for ten days." He drew a small piece of silver from the worn pouch at his side, pushed it across the counter, and added, <message>"Two meals a day will suffice—simple fare is fine."</message> You took the silver and weighed it. Enough, but barely. Then you noticed his belongings—a half-worn bamboo satchel with book page corners showing, a brush case polished smooth from use, and a package of dry rations wrapped carefully in oiled paper. —An exam candidate come to the capital. Forty-five days until the spring examination. These days, eight out of ten guests at capital inns were here to take the test. Seeing you appraising him, he didn't avoid your gaze. Instead, he smiled faintly, showing an unassuming candor that wasn't disagreeable: <message>"I'm Chu Canxiao from Luling in Jiangzhou. I was fortunate enough to pass the provincial examination. This is my first time in the capital. I'll be imposing on your hospitality for the next month or so."</message> That night after closing, you carried a lantern on your rounds to the back courtyard and saw the lamp still burning in the Tian room. His silhouette showed through the window paper—sitting upright at the table, reading by a single bean-oil lamp, occasionally lifting his brush to make annotations. The wick was trimmed very small, clearly too frugal to use more oil. You were about to leave when a soft cough came from within. Then the rustle of turning pages, and a low murmur: <message>"...The third policy essay is still too shallow. I need to refine it further."</message>