Lin'an, in the tense weeks preceding the provincial examinations, was a city holding its breath. Thousands of scholars, young and old, converged on the capital, their hopes and anxieties a palpable current beneath the surface of everyday life. Teahouses buzzed with earnest debate, temples overflowed with petitioners seeking blessings for success, and the air itself seemed thick with the scent of ink, ambition, and sleepless nights. In a quiet lane near the sprawling examination grounds stood the 'Pavilion of Ascending Clouds', an old study lodge renowned less for its comfort and more for its auspicious history – several top-scoring scholars over the years had resided there during their final preparations. Renting one of its cramped, dimly lit rooms was considered by many aspiring candidates to be a worthy investment, a way to absorb the lingering aura of past triumphs.
It was within these walls that a peculiar intellectual fervor, bordering on mania, had taken hold. A small group of scholars, sharing adjacent rooms and often studying together late into the night, began exhibiting astonishing bursts of literary brilliance. Their essays flowed with unprecedented eloquence, their poetry gained startling depth, and their grasp of complex classical allusions seemed almost intuitive. Leading this group was Scholar Gao Yuan, a young man known more for his relentless ambition than his natural talent, now dazzling his peers with insightful commentaries and perfectly structured arguments that seemed to spring forth fully formed. His companions, Scholars Feng and Liu, spurred by Gao's apparent breakthrough, redoubled their own efforts, pushing themselves to match his feverish pace.
But this sudden blossoming came at a cost. The scholars grew pale, their eyes acquiring a feverish, haunted glint. They neglected food and sleep, consumed by an obsessive need to write, to compose, to capture the fleeting sparks of inspiration that seemed to dance just beyond their grasp. Their camaraderie frayed, replaced by suspicion and intense rivalry, each man guarding his insights jealously. They became irritable, prone to startling pronouncements followed by periods of vacant exhaustion. Scholar Gao, in particular, seemed almost possessed, sometimes found muttering complex couplets in his sleep or tracing characters onto dusty surfaces with a trembling finger, his vitality visibly draining away day by day.
The change did not go unnoticed. Scholar Feng’s younger sister, Fenfang, who brought him meals and clean laundry, grew increasingly alarmed. Her brother, usually meticulous, was now disheveled, his room littered with discarded drafts covered in frantic, almost illegible script. He barely acknowledged her presence, his eyes fixed on some inner distance, occasionally erupting in frustration if interrupted. She saw the same haunted intensity in his companions. Hearing whispers of Gao Yuan collapsing during a study session, only to rise again and immediately demand ink and paper, Fenfang’s fear solidified into resolve. This wasn't just examination stress; it felt deeper, more sinister. Recalling tales of a wandering Taoist priest, Xuanzhen, known for dealing with afflictions of the mind and spirit, she sought him out at a nearby monastery where he was temporarily residing.
Xuanzhen listened patiently to the young woman's tearful account. The details – sudden, unnatural brilliance coupled with physical decline, obsessive behavior, the auspicious location, the intense pressure of the examinations – painted a suggestive picture. It sounded less like divine inspiration and more like a parasitic influence, feeding on the scholars' desperate ambition and offering illusory gifts in return. He thought of tales of Wen Yun Yao (Literary Luck Demons) or perhaps variants of Bi Xian (Pen Spirits), entities drawn to places of intense intellectual effort and desire, capable of manipulating thoughts or offering fleeting, draining insights.
Posing as a visiting scholar seeking quiet lodging before continuing his journey, Xuanzhen secured a room at the Pavilion of Ascending Clouds. The atmosphere within the lodge was immediately apparent – thick with stale ink, nervous energy, and an undercurrent of something cold and draining. The qi felt stagnant yet agitated, humming with intellectual desperation. He observed the afflicted scholars in the common study area. Gao Yuan held court, expounding brilliantly on a passage from the Book of Rites, yet his face was gaunt, his hands shook, and his brilliance felt brittle, feverish. Feng and Liu listened intently, their expressions a mixture of awe and fierce envy, their own pallor and nervous energy mirroring Gao's.
Xuanzhen subtly extended his senses. He felt the parasitic energy, strongest not in the lodge itself, but emanating from a specific object – an old, unusually dark inkstone that Gao Yuan kept prominently on the shared study table, grinding ink almost constantly. The inkstone felt cold, unnaturally so, and pulsed faintly with a deceptive qi that promised knowledge while subtly leeching vitality. It seemed to act as a focal point, drawing in the ambient anxiety and ambition of the lodge, concentrating it, and feeding it back to those who used its ink, offering flashes of insight tainted by its draining influence.
He engaged Gao Yuan in scholarly conversation, praising his insights while gently probing their source. Gao spoke vaguely of intense focus, of late-night inspiration, his eyes frequently darting towards the inkstone. When Xuanzhen casually asked about the stone's origins, Gao claimed he'd found it at a dusty antique stall, attracted by its unusual depth of colour and the faint, intricate carvings around its edge – carvings Xuanzhen recognized as resembling archaic binding or summoning runes, now worn almost smooth.
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That night, Xuanzhen kept watch. From his own room, he observed the common study area through a crack in the door. Gao, Feng, and Liu were hunched over their texts under the flickering lamplight, using ink ground from the dark stone. As the hours wore on, the atmosphere grew stranger. Xuanzhen heard faint whispers, seeming to emanate from the direction of the inkstone – fragments of classical texts, potential essay arguments, offered in a dry, sibilant voice that wasn't quite human. He saw Gao Yuan suddenly gasp, seize his brush, and write furiously for several minutes, his eyes wide and unfocused, before slumping back, utterly drained. Feng and Liu experienced similar, though less intense, episodes. The inkstone seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light.
This was the source. Not a demon in the conventional sense, but perhaps an entity bound to the inkstone, or the inkstone itself acting as a psychic capacitor and manipulator, charged over time by intense intellectual desire and now feeding parasitically on the scholars' ambition and life force. It offered glimpses of brilliance, fragments of knowledge likely drawn from the collective unconscious or the lingering thoughts within the lodge, but the price was the user's own vitality and mental equilibrium. It was an 'Inkstone Paradox' – granting the illusion of mastery while consuming the master.
Xuanzhen knew he had to intervene before one of the scholars suffered irreparable harm. Destroying the inkstone might release the bound energy dangerously. He needed to sever the connection, expose the illusory nature of the gifts, and cleanse the object and the lodge of the accumulated negative energy.
He waited until the pre-dawn hours, when the scholars had finally collapsed into exhausted sleep. Entering the common room, he approached the table where the inkstone sat, radiating its cold, deceptive energy. He didn't touch it immediately. Instead, he laid out four small, smooth white pebbles – representing clarity and grounding earth energy – at the four corners of the table. He lit a single stick of incense made from cypress and sandalwood, herbs known for purification and restoring mental balance.
Then, focusing his intent, he gently placed his hand, palm down, a few inches above the inkstone, not touching it, but allowing his own calm, centered qi to interact with its field. He didn't project force, but clarity, visualizing the illusory nature of the whispers, the draining effect hidden beneath the false inspiration. He softly chanted verses from the Daodejing emphasizing humility, the limits of knowledge, and the dangers of forced striving.
The inkstone seemed to react. The faint pulsing quickened, then faltered. A wave of cold emanated from it, pushing against Xuanzhen's calm aura. Faint, distorted whispers echoed in the room – promises of examination success, fragments of winning arguments, temptations aimed at ambition. Xuanzhen held firm, continuing his chant, focusing on the simple truth of earned knowledge versus stolen insight.
He then took a small brush and, dipping it in pure water mixed with a pinch of salt (for purification), he carefully traced a sealing character – 封 (fēng) – in the air above the inkstone. As he completed the stroke, the cold energy radiating from the stone abruptly ceased. The faint pulsing died. The whispers vanished. The inkstone suddenly felt... inert. Just a piece of old, dark stone. The parasitic connection was broken, the accumulated negative energy neutralized and sealed.
The next morning, the change was palpable. Gao Yuan awoke feeling groggy but strangely clear-headed, the frantic pressure in his mind gone, replaced by a profound exhaustion. Feng and Liu also felt the release, looking at their frantic overnight writings with confusion and a dawning sense of shame. When Gao tried to grind ink on the dark stone, it produced only ordinary, lifeless ink. The unnatural insights, the whispers, the feverish inspiration – all gone.
Xuanzhen met with the three scholars later that day, along with Fenfang. He spoke gently, not of demons, but of the dangers of unchecked ambition and the illusory nature of shortcuts. He explained how intense desire, especially in a place charged with pressure like the study lodge, could create imbalances, and how certain objects could inadvertently focus or amplify these unhealthy energies, offering false promises at a steep cost. He pointed to the now-inert inkstone as an example of an object that had absorbed and reflected their collective desperation.
"True success in the examinations," Xuanzhen concluded, "comes not from borrowed whispers or feverish illusions, but from diligent study, a calm mind, and an understanding heart. Seek knowledge, not just victory. Cultivate balance, not obsession."
Gao Yuan, humbled and shaken, bowed deeply. He quietly took the dark inkstone and later buried it deep in the earth outside the city walls. He and his companions resumed their studies, but with a newfound sobriety, focusing on genuine understanding rather than frantic striving. Their path to the examinations would be harder, relying solely on their own merits, but their minds and spirits were no longer being consumed.
Xuanzhen left the Pavilion of Ascending Clouds, the quiet intensity of the scholars' predicament lingering in his thoughts. The Inkstone Paradox was a subtle but dangerous affliction, born from the immense pressure of the imperial examination system itself. It served as a potent reminder that the greatest demons were often not external monsters, but the internal pressures of ambition and desire, which, if allowed to fester, could lead one to embrace illusions that offered fleeting brilliance while ultimately consuming the soul. The pursuit of knowledge required not just intellect, but wisdom and balance.
