Chapter Twenty-Five: The First Encounter with Cai Yan

As Cao Cao walked away with a faint smile, Fei Qian still couldn't determine whether the man had seen through his deception or not. If he had discovered something, why remain silent? And if he hadn't, why did that parting smile feel so cryptic?

Though Cao Cao appeared harmless and unassuming now, Fei Qian knew better. It was merely a protective mask. Once Cao Cao ascended to power, that demeanor would vanish, replaced by the formidable, awe-inspiring presence recorded in history.

For a fleeting moment, Fei Qian felt the urge to rush after him, to play the role of a prophet who knew the next six centuries of history. He wanted to warn Cao Cao: *Stay away from other men’s wives—you’ll lose your best generals over them. Don’t trust Huang Gai—not every 'Gai' is the best of the best.*

But his reason held him back. If he acted like a madman, Cao Cao would likely have him executed. Even in the modern era, if a stranger suddenly accosted you with prophecies of car accidents and leg injuries, you would hardly react with anything but alarm.

*Forget it, I’ll deal with it later,* Fei Qian thought. *Besides, isn't Cao Cao about to attempt the assassination of Dong Zhuo? He’ll be fleeing to Chenliu soon. Trying to cozy up to him now might just get me pricked by his thorns.*

He turned his focus back to the immediate crisis. Carrying the bamboo slips, he entered the Cai residence, unaware that Cao Cao, standing at the street corner, had cast one last, meaningful glance back at him before disappearing from sight.

Fei Qian could not know that his attempt to compensate for a minor blunder had triggered a cascade of suspicion in Cao Cao’s mind. Cao Cao himself had only just presented Cai Yan with an ancient classic; what a coincidence that this youth had suddenly produced a fragment of an ancient text. Was it truly just a coincidence? Still, knowing Fei Qian was merely a distant relative of the Fei clan, Cao Cao’s anxieties subsided. *A distant branch... hardly worth the concern.*

Cao Cao’s visit had been a calculated move to secure a powerful backer. Cai Yong, though pedantic, held immense prestige and influence throughout the Han Dynasty. If Cao Cao could officially step into politics—rather than holding his current, hollow advisory title—being a student of Cai Yong would provide significant weight. Since Cai Yong had little appetite for politics, Cao Cao had pivoted: if he could marry Cai Yan, he would secure a familial bond that would make it impossible for his mentor to ignore his political needs. Even if Cai Yong remained stubborn, simply being the son-in-law of such a renowned figure would solidify his standing.

Previously, Cao Cao had been considered an unsuitable match—a eunuch’s grandson with a wife already at home. But things had changed. With the Wei family's divorce decree, Cai Yan was free again, though her social standing had shifted. Still, it made her a match within Cao Cao's reach. The sudden appearance of Fei Qian with his own ancient text had been enough to plant a seed of doubt in Cao Cao’s calculating mind.

Inside, Fei Qian watched with trepidation as Cai Yong brought out an array of small brushes, hooks, and scrapers to examine the bamboo slips. It was clear that these ancient scholars were not easily fooled. He felt like a piece of meat served into a tiger’s den, waiting for the predator to bite.

Cai Yong wiped the bamboo with a silk cloth, inspected the fabric, and turned to Fei Qian with a stern, displeased expression. Fei Qian’s heart leaped into his throat.

"Books are hard-won treasures," Cai Yong lectured severely. "They must be cherished, wiped clean, and kept free of dust."

Fei Qian bowed his head, relieved; it was merely a rebuke for the dust—inevitable for something freshly unearthed. Cai Yong then used a fine hook to gently pry at the edge of the slip, inspecting the texture. He nodded—it was indeed authentic ancient bamboo. Yet, as he scrutinized it further, he frowned. "Strange! Why does this look like a fresh mark?"

Fei Qian’s heart skipped a beat. Just as he was scrambling for an explanation, a crisp voice rang out from the courtyard: "Father! Father! I found it!"

Fei Qian turned sharply. A figure hurried into the hall. It was mid-afternoon, and the sunlight, filtering in from behind the newcomer, gave the illusion that she was walking on light. She clutched two large parchment scrolls, which obscured half her face. She was slightly breathless, stray strands of hair clinging to her temples with fine perspiration. Her skin glowed with a peach-blossom flush under the sun, the downy hairs on her face turned to gold by the light.

Upon seeing Fei Qian in the hall, she gasped. She instinctively tried to hide her face with her sleeves, but the scrolls prevented her, so she tucked her face behind them, peering at him with bright, dark, flickering eyes.

Cai Yong coughed in embarrassment, then introduced them. It was exactly as Fei Qian had suspected: the woman was Cai Yan, also known as Cai Zhaoji, the greatest talent of the Three Kingdoms era.

Unlike the tragic, weathered figure in his memories of her *Poem of Sorrow and Indignation*, this Cai Yan still possessed the candor and vivacity of a young girl.

"Greetings, Senior Sister," Fei Qian said, bowing with profound sincerity.

He recalled her verses—the heart-wrenching account of being ransomed back, the agony of leaving her children behind. She had suffered through twelve years of captivity among the Xiongnu and had been forced to marry a coarse, unrefined warrior. Yet, she had never expressed bitter, hysterical hatred toward the world. For such a talented, book-loving woman with a gentle yet resilient soul, Fei Qian felt a deep, genuine respect. His bow was not mere etiquette; it was a tribute to her indomitable spirit.