Chapter 9 - 9 9 Storyteller

9: Chapter 9 Storyteller 9: Chapter 9 Storyteller A weirdly feminine voice emanated from the southeast corner of the room. Sёarch* The Novёlƒire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. Looking over, no person was visible, only the silhouette of a graceful figure cast upon the wall. The voice came from this shadow. “The dead-end road is one that the guest chose themselves. What does it have to do with me?” Zhou Lingyi said without turning her head, continuing to trim a pot of Night Fragrance. The shadow sneered and said, “Wu Yun had already taken the initiative to resolve the misunderstanding with Zhou Xuan. If you hadn’t intervened, he would have walked out of the Zhou Family’s Troupe just fine, but you still made a move, and then he ended up a corpse. Is this what you mean by adhering to natural law and letting things flow freely?” “The Ghost Baby harms people; naturally, I wouldn’t intervene. Wu Yun wanted to blackmail our Zhou Family’s Troupe; of course, I also wouldn’t intervene because these are trivial matters.” “Then what is a big deal?” the shadow asked. “They bullied my brother; that’s a big deal! A sister standing up for her brother, isn’t that in line with natural law?” Zhou Lingyi’s answer left the shadow stunned. Then she laughed mockingly and said, “Ha, such deep sibling affection… I’m almost moved… *You lie to yourself every day, and after so long, have you forgotten what your brother really is?* Besides, is he even your brother? That’s still up for debate.” Zhou Lingyi frowned upon hearing this. The shadow moved around the room, one moment pausing on the ceiling, another appearing in the mirror, showcasing its slender form. She rambled on incessantly, continuing, “Lately it’s been said in the troupe that the old master botched the soul-summoning ritual, and what he brought back wasn’t Zhou Xuan’s spirit but a lost lonely ghost, Ha, and a lonely ghost, could that be your brother?” *Zhou Lingyi found the shadow’s words especially verbose and very annoying,* so she fiercely clipped with the scissors in her hand towards the air before her. The clip aimed at the air, though, managed to strike the shadow on the ceiling. After a scream, a red blood mark appeared on the shadow’s dark face. “You shadow without a Tangkou, you’re just a dog our Zhou Family raised! As a dog, you should know when to bark and what circumstances to shut up.” The world was troubled, and many large households in Ping Shui Prefecture loved keeping “dogs.” The Zhou Family’s Troupe also kept many dogs, not to let them bite people or bully others, but to watch over the household and guard the yard. The shadow was the Dog King in the Zhou Family’s Troupe. As the Dog King, the shadow naturally had its privileges and was not courteous in chatting with Zhou Lingyi. Zhou Lingyi didn’t mind too much, but questioning Zhou Xuan’s identity truly crossed the line. The shadow wiped the blood from her face, discontentedly saying, “I am a dog, but I am the old master’s dog. It’s my duty to protect the Zhou Family’s interest.” “Is it protecting the Zhou Family or meddling in the Zhou Family’s affairs? Some boundaries should not be crossed; don’t bare your teeth at your master’s matters!” Zhou Lingyi seemed to recall something and continued to warn the shadow, “In the future, stay away from my brother.” “If it weren’t for me watching him in Luoying Hall today, he would have been by the Ghost Baby…” The shadow’s rebuttal was interrupted by Zhou Lingyi. “You didn’t help my brother, and didn’t he still live well?” “That was because of his great luck; in the nick of time, he suddenly comprehended the method to avoid ghosts in dreams…” “Ha, with the Zhou Family’s divine people watching, we don’t need you.” After trimming the final leaf of the Night Fragrance, Zhou Lingyi placed the scissors on the bedside table and solemnly said, “This divine figure of the Zhou Family’s Troupe is at a very high Incense Fire Level. He’s a storyteller, with a very quirky temper, intolerant of nonsense. If you ghostly shadow get too close to him… be careful he’ll collect you!” … Brandishing the pen was the favorite activity of Ping Shui Prefecture residents. The newspaper industry thrived prosperously within the prefecture. The legitimate newspapers like “Ping Shui Daily” and “Ping Shui Evening News,” which acted as the mouthpieces of the government, didn’t feature many styles. But newspapers filled with salacious content, gossip, serialized stories, and colorful commentary, even if only showing a tiny part between the pages, couldn’t fully be displayed on the long flatbed carts of the newsstands. With so many newspapers, more people were needed to write content. Major newspapers vied for contributors, offering substantial fees. Writing content was a way for many a down-and-out student to rise to prominence within the prefecture, gaining entry into elite society just because they could write well. Yuan Buyu, the old cook of the Zhou Family’s Troupe, was also fond of wielding the pen. After finishing cooking, unlike other chefs who liked to visit brothels or gamble and drink, he preferred staying at home, writing story drafts. Sometimes, he would pick out stories he liked from newspapers, rearrange them, and write a new story draft. Sometimes, he liked to record and organize the strange events he encountered. He did it not for publication, but purely to nurture his mind. Right now, he drew the curtains tightly, turned on the electric lamp inside the room, and was writing a story draft—The Zhou Family’s Troupe treated its chefs well, providing single-person dormitories, complete with electric lights. The title of this particular story draft was “Living Doll.” Yuan Buyu wrote while recalling the events in Luoying Hall, “Zhou Xuan, that kid, became much smarter and bolder after dying once. He was no longer the coward who constantly cried and sought death. It’s just that due to his soul returning, some kind of whisper seems to disturb him. He could enter my Tangkou, so why fear those whispers?” Thinking about “entering the Tangkou,” Yuan Buyu mocked himself, saying, “I must be out of my mind. Zhou Xuan couldn’t even enter my Tangkou with his lack of skills.” He carefully examined the “Living Doll” story draft he had written, and looking at the end, he couldn’t help but clap the table in admiration, with a hint of self-appreciation in his words, “Only people who write such good stories deserve to burn my incense and enter my Tangkou. Talent is required.” Yuan Buyu, His Tangkou, was called “storyteller.” In Luoying Hall, his childish nature acted up, and he mischievously told a section of “Living Doll” in front of Zhou Xuan, which made Zhou Xuan mistake it for “ghostly doings.” … Zhou Xuan was writing diligently. He was working on a story draft. Story drafts are a technical term in storytelling, recording the core content and structure of a story. Writing a story draft requires brevity and focus; nothing should be spared where writing is necessary, while unnecessary parts shouldn’t contain a single word—it’s very skill-intensive. Some storytellers with insufficient skill wrote drafts almost unusable, verbose, unbalanced, and turned into chaos after a couple of days, unable to understand what was written. In his past life, when Zhou Xuan worked in a media company, before becoming a leader, in every overtime night spent toiling away like a horse, countless proposals and outlines were written, honing his writing skills. The title of the draft he was writing now was “Lushan Love,” the same as the well-known movie famous for having the first kiss on Chinese screens. Converting a movie into storytelling required significant effort. They were two different art forms—the former depended on camera language, and the latter on personal interpretation, separated by several giant barriers. Zhou Xuan found it difficult to write, but he enjoyed the process, writing and occasionally reciting. “This Geng Hua, with his square jaw, broad face, ruddy complexion, and eyes full of light—if you pass by him, you can’t help but stop and take a second look, praising him as a fine young man…” There was a touch of storytelling flavor in it, but just a touch. Zhou Xuan was well aware of his level. He didn’t hope for his written storytelling draft to become anything extraordinary; he just wanted to create something to play and quell the ever-present white noise. Since returning from Luoying Hall, that “asha-asha-asha” writing white noise had reappeared. This time, it was notably intense, causing him discomfort, with his temples throbbing. Just when it was becoming unbearable, Zhou Xuan suddenly remembered how the storytelling from the storyteller in Luoying Hall made the white noise immediately disappear. He immediately imitated the storyteller’s style, then recited a few lines from traditional storytelling. “The moral and righteous of the Emperors, the achievements of Xia, Shang, and Zhou, the Five Hegemons and Seven Heroes stirring spring and autumn, these happen and fade with a flick of the hand; a few lines of names in the blue annals, countless barren hills in the north, the seeds sown by forebears reaped by those after, nothing more than the struggles of dragons and tigers.” As soon as he uttered these storytelling words, the white noise immediately receded. At that moment, Zhou Xuan realized that narrating stories indeed suppressed the white noise. The principle behind it was unknown, just that this method worked. *Empiricism, after all, is the hard truth in practice!* However, *Zhou Xuan couldn’t narrate any of the traditional stories.* The more enduring and widespread a storytelling piece, the more profound the skills required for its execution. Let alone the grandeur and rhythm of the narration; even the pauses between sentences were critical. A slightly early or late pause would lose the momentum, sounding like a gravely ill patient. Zhou Xuan had loved listening to these traditional narrations since childhood, but at best, he was only a listener, with no professional skills, and his execution was chaotic. True traditional storytelling was utterly void of essence when he attempted to narrate them. Narrating stories without any storytelling essence was self-torture. The white noise subsided, sure, but it left him disgusted to the point of nausea. Luckily, he found that stories adapted from movies contained more colloquial dialogues, mimicking the storytelling tone of voice technically much easier. For example, getting an average person to mimic the three tenors might at best sound like a butcher’s cry when shouting until hoarse, but for pop music, even someone with a slight foundation could mimic fairly decently. Zhou Xuan wrote until dusk, finally completing the story draft. Reading it aloud in storytelling style, he felt physically and mentally relaxed, no longer disturbed by the white noise. “This is my Vajra Heart Scripture—reading it daily benefits both body and mind.” The stone pressing down on Zhou Xuan’s head was finally pried open. In high spirits, he put the story draft aside and continued writing. This time, he wanted to adapt “Lushan Love” into a short novel as a gift for Zhou Lingyi. Despite her bravado, she was ultimately a girl, and generally, she’d likely enjoy romance novels. “Big sister is a big shot; it’s always right to maintain a good relationship with the big shot.” This wasn’t doggedly servicing behavior, At least Zhou Xuan didn’t think so. This was merely a necessary means of maintaining interpersonal relationships. Not embarrassing. … After dinner, night fell. The courtyard gradually became lively. The Zhou Family’s Troupe’s courtyard was divided into an inner courtyard and an outer courtyard, with the boundary being the extraordinarily thick and tall Ancestor Tree. The crown of the Ancestor Tree half-shaded the outer courtyard’s yard while the other half covered the inner courtyard’s houses tightly. Nightlife was rather monotonous, and entertainment was pretty boring. Apart from the men drinking and playing cards, almost all of them gathered in the outer courtyard to play chess and chat. Women, meanwhile, played games with children, while some industrious wives washed bamboo beds using the tap in the yard. After thoroughly washing the bamboo beds, they’d wipe away the surface moisture so that when lying down at night, the moisture hidden in the bamboo slats would evaporate slowly, taking away body heat, helping to cool down. “Hey, have you heard? The Young Master had a dirty encounter this afternoon.” “I think I caught an earful of that. What exactly happened, though?” “I heard from the little monkey about it. It was really freaky—a female guest wanted to seize the Young Master’s body, and then…” “And then what happened?” “The Young Master immediately took off his pants and jabbed right at the ghost with a few thrusts…” “Could it really be jabbed like that?” “Absolutely. The Young Master is so tough; he thrust her until she vanished into thin air… scattered her to the wind.”