The guest was a tall, thin old man. He was wearing a shabby robe, with grease stains all over the place and rice grains sticking to the seams. He looked extremely dirty, but his face was relatively clean and he had a few long mustaches under his chin. His slanted eyes were tilted upward, and the obscenity inside them was extremely filthy.

Dewdrop smiled and followed her maid to wash up again.

She only knew that the guests were important, because Miss Jane had already told her in advance. She didn't know who he was, and she didn't know what he did. When it comes to appearances, it's never been a concern for her or her companions. What matters is the generosity of this man who is called the God of Life Force Protection. Coming here three times, he only touched her and never slept with her. There is no reason for any woman in a brothel not to like him.

The dirty, tall and thin Taoist priest poured himself a glass of wine and sipped it without hesitation. Out of boredom, he caught a glimpse of a clump of paper next to the flask. It was an ordinary ledger paper, and he could read the words vaguely. Out of the tendencies cultivated by decades of cultivation, he instinctively picked up the ball of paper and carefully spread it out on the table.

There is a line of words that does not make any clear difference. Coupled with messy and slanted handwriting, the note is somewhat unpleasant to read.

It reads: "Sangsang, your master is drunk today and will not go home to sleep." Remember to drink the chicken broth left over from the pot.

Hearing this, his messy brows furrowed tightly. Surprisingly, however, he didn't frown at disgust. On the contrary, he was completely shocked and delighted.

The tall and thin Taoist priest carefully admired the scribbled words, and finally his eyes fell on the words 'chicken soup'. He dipped his bony fingers in wine and began to imitate the writer's style with brushstrokes on the table.

The wine on his fingertips turned into a word on the mahogany table. They were no different from the two words that Ning Que had written on the memo. It was as if the air flow had penetrated the wine with the figure of the Taoist priest and entered the depths of the rosewood table. Then it turned into a myriad of tiny whirlpools and disappeared.

Outside the room, Dew Drops are putting on makeup. She seemed to feel something, and she stiffened when she saw the reflection of the twinkling stars in the water in the basin. For some reason, she suddenly felt homesick and missed the warm home that only existed in her dreams. Her eyes filled with tears as she thought that she had never enjoyed the chicken soup her mother had made.

The tall and thin Taoist priest dipped his fingers in wine and continued to write on the mahogany table. Soon, he copied all twenty-nine words on the note. He sucked on his fingers and put his hand down. He lowered his head and looked carefully at the table, carefully scanning the scraps of paper in the account books.

His eyebrows furrowed tighter and tighter. He shook his head more and more often, more confused. "What kind of writing style is this? I've never seen it before. There is no fluctuation of vitality, so why do you find abundant vitality here? The words are obviously messy, but why do I feel a tension in my heart when I use my concentration to trace them?

Shaking his head, he stood up and straightened up. He paced around the room, then quickly returned to the mahogany table to check the characters on the paper. His eyebrows were still tightly knotted. He shook his head and muttered repeatedly, "Blocked!" It's all blocked! Not blocked? No!

No matter how big the conflict between the three major cultivation factions or countries was, no one had ever dared to show disrespect to the rune masters. In this world, cultivators are rare, and such masters are even rarer. They sit at the crossroads of secular literature and cultivation. With the undulation of the brush, they can direct gusts of wind and frighten the paranormal. They are too important for farming and warfare and are considered almost non-renewable resources. Therefore, they are always treated with the utmost respect.

Although the Tang Dynasty was the most powerful country at that time, it had no more than 10 rune masters. Most of those masters have long since left the secular world, choosing to pursue Taoism in seclusion or Mushan, and devote themselves to exploring the secrets of natural laws. This leaves few earthly masters. Among the four masters of the Haotian Funan faction, two were envoys sent by the Xishan Divine Palace to Chang'an to show their strength and influence. Therefore, they are not permanent residents of Chang'an. In this sense, this means that there are only two rune masters left in the southern sect of the Haotian Dao Sect.

The guy who visited the House of Red Sleeves tonight was one of them.

His name is Yan Se, the second brother of Li Qingfeng, the ruler of the Tang Empire. He used to be the minister of the southern sect of Haotian Taoism. He loved spirits, beautiful women, and clever calligraphy. His amulet art has made him one of the most extraordinary masters in the world. In the pouring rain that night, pulling out a talisman from the rain in the alley was his brilliant trick, scaring Wang Jinglu, who claimed to be a cultivation genius of the Tang Empire, into a crying little fat man.

In addition to various martial arts amulets, rune masters are also praised for their ingenious states and writing skills. Some people say that a great calligrapher or painter cannot become a rune master if he does not have the cultivation potential, but all rune masters are famous calligraphers or painters with eternal glory.

Yan Se is a rune master who indulges in brothels, but he can become the world's top calligraphy master if he wants to. However, his attention was drawn to the messy words on the paper torn from the account books. After racking his brains, he still couldn't find a solution, so he could only repeat the word "blocked". If other calligraphers and powerful people found out, they would be shocked and speechless. They will also become interested in Ning Que, whose script has confused a rune master. Who the hell is he?

The messy script of 29 words made the great rune master Yan Se fall into a state of confusion. However, this is not because Ning Que is capable. For a variety of reasons, his mental state was in some ways perfectly in line with his writing style at the time.

The books in the old library inspire him today, so what he does is memorize the form, but ignores the meaning. Driven by this elation, he went to a brothel with his classmates to drink like a fish. In a drunken coma, he casually picked up a brush and hurriedly wrote down those words. He was inspired to remove all the strict limitations of calligraphy. His drunkenness helped him subconsciously defy the rules of stroke. He writhed the plum blossoms and toppled the grape trellises, driven by his own drunkenness to drag his paintbrush frantically and excessively, hoping to accurately write an illegible script.

His writing style opens up a new path, wedged into a different, hidden path of cultivation with a clumsy and clumsy path. Chang'an's genius calligrapher may not feel unique, but in the eyes of this rune master, this calligraphy seems to make him itch. Maybe it's the itch that he hasn't scratched in the past 60 years, and the itch goes to the core of his bones.

Yan Se's statement that Ning Que's calligraphy was "banned" is correct. Ning Que was born with a 'blockade' - hindered by the rules of cultivation. All of his acupuncture points in the Snow Mountain and the Qi Sea remained closed. He is now looking for a longer, winding path to reach the top of the mountain, but there are also boulders at the end of the trail. How could he possibly pass?

The meaning between the lines is that each stroke in the middle and every stroke after it illustrates the author's mental state and thoughts on the spot. Every word in this messy script is illogical. That's because the true meaning is buried in vague ink and becomes unclear. Yan Se's replica manages to uncover the feeling of being imprisoned in a brushstroke, no matter how strong the shackles may be. That feeling permeates the mahogany table through the drink, filling the House with the smell of wine......

When Ning Que wrote a note to Sangsang, he was still at the peak of his drunkenness. He apparently wanted to convey that he wanted to stay in the Red Sleeves House, but when the hidden meaning was spread, his true feelings were revealed. He didn't know how it felt himself. Maybe he doesn't want to admit it.

In the courtyard with a few plum trees in the west, Lu Xue fell silent holding a bamboo flute. Her delicate face was haggard, and her expression was deeply sad. She stared at the long-withered old plum at the end of the yard, yearning for the spring in her southern hometown.

In the courtyard with a tuft of bamboo to the east, Dew was staring blankly at the twinkling stars reflected on the water in the basin. Her crystal tears ran down her smooth cheeks and fell into the basin with a thud with a soft thud.