The book fanatic called himself the Book Immortal. Naturally, old Xu and his lot would never call him an immortal, so like the chess fanatic, he was known by his obsession.
When they saw the Book Immortal, he was a little brat not yet ten years old, riding a water buffalo backward and swaying leisurely as he read.
Honestly, the scene did carry a touch of immortal grace, far more evocative than some white-haired old scholar burying himself in dusty tomes. But Qin Yi had no mind to appreciate it.
Xu Buyi had no such mood either. He strode over, plucked the child off the buffalo, and craned his head to see what he was reading. "Jin Ping Mei."
It was even the illustrated edition.
Xu Buyi's anger flared. "You still have the mood to read smut?"
The child blinked blankly. "This is not smut. It is a work on worldly affairs."
"Bullshit. Look at these illustrations—what's this? Throwing arrows beneath a grape trellis? Could this have been written by anyone other than a lecherous bastard like you? And you call this worldly affairs..."
The child looked at him with contempt. "This is precisely worldly affairs. The ghosts and schemes of the marketplace, the hearts of petty men—it cuts to the bone. One sees only the warmth and coldness of human relations; the wise see the world within it, while the lustful see only lust. Besides, the lives of the wealthy and eminent in the mortal realm are mostly like this. If this is not worldly affairs, what is? Certain people, on the other hand, cannot find a woman to save their lives and make wives of their own hands, yet sneer that only the immature would fantasize about such things. They call themselves mature to flaunt their superiority, report