Qin Yan held the pages by the window, read them closely several times, then folded them into his sleeve. Setting down his tea cup, he said in an ordinary tone:
"I shall take this half-finished piece with me. After pondering it deeply and repeatedly, I shall complete the remainder for you.
There are bounds to any continuation. Mine will not betray the edge of your opening."
Having said this, he looked up at Wei Zi and smiled.
Wei Nisheng hurried to his feet and bowed with his clasped hands lowered to his knees. "Thank you for your kindness, Qin Gong!"
The "Chapters and Sentences" section of The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons stated: "A piece shines when its chapters are flawless; a chapter glows when its sentences are without blemish."
In this half-finished piece by Wei Zi, neither chapters nor sentences bore a blemish, yet it broke off midway.
It was like a solitary peak standing in a sea of clouds, awaiting someone who would make the clouds a ladder and the sunset glow a path, joining the ascent.
Qin Yan did not boast of writing its continuation, but spoke instead of "weighing and considering."
To weigh and consider was not to polish the words, but to seek their pulse.
Wei Zi's sharpness, Qin Yan would temper with restraint.
Wei Sheng's solitary, forbidding heights, Qin Yan would soften with warmth.
The opening was like a sword leaving its case; the remainder should be like that sword returning to its sheath.
The sound of its return must resonate with the sound of its drawing, ringing in harmony.
Qin Yan waved him back into his seat, then leaned back first.
His gaze rested on Wei Nisheng's face, as though weighing how much weight these words would carry once spoken.