Chapter 6: Myrrh

Lately, there had been fleeting moments when Pei Zhen would think… he really liked his domesticated little wolfdog.

He had never seen a creature with such a high-contrast charm.

With a face that was clearly cold and striking, complete with a melancholic beauty mark, he had a certain artistic, literary air about him. Yet underneath, he was an unapologetically dramatic and carefree mess—

Not only had he introduced him in public as “my boyfriend,” but he had also seriously framed the young master of the esteemed Cranberry, claiming the boy feared his talent, and then casually dissed their century-old, globally renowned enterprise in the process?

The whole time, his face wore an expression of total, unshakable belief.

It had sent the perpetually haughty Lister into a trembling rage, which was truly… magnificent.

If they weren’t surrounded by a crowd, Pei Zhen almost wanted to reward Han Fu on the spot with a solid bear hug, and then, once home, pounce on him and do unspeakable things.

It would probably be very sweet…

Of course, these ruinous thoughts would usually cool down after a few minutes.

…

Now, Pei Zhen fundamentally didn’t trust his own “emotions.”

After all, ever since breaking up with Yi Changqing, he had been teetering on the edge of schizophrenia daily.

It had been almost four years since the breakup.

On good weather days, he was always calm and serene. Leisurely sipping coffee and stretching on the balcony, looking at the meticulously trimmed flowers and plants in the yard, the epitome of “breakup bliss, wish me joy, I can find someone better.”

After all, straight men were just… tasteless and difficult. Since he no longer pursued Yi Changqing with reckless passion, he didn’t have to walk on eggshells trying to please anyone. He was free and easy. To sum it up, his life was better without him!

Yet, he would often wake in the middle of the night, sheets sweat-drenched, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

…

Setting aside the fact that they were together for so long, where he gave his heart and soul, doing everything he could—the fact that he wasn’t even allowed to sleep with him was one thing.

What Pei Zhen really wanted to ask Yi Changqing was: back then, who exactly did the “Bamboo Millet Essential Oil” extraction with him?

The bottle that caused the incident had a small label handwritten by Yi Changqing, the little white clouds in blue fountain pen ink, with the elegant penmanship reading “To Pei, Changqing.”

But when things went wrong, that person stood tall and coldly aloof from his position as a gold-medal perfumer, protecting himself and taking zero responsibility, without a single word of fairness spoken on his behalf.

…To have loved the wrong person in his best years, wasting time and trust—the mere thought made him feel utterly stupid.

What was even stupider was that, because of the lingering trauma from that incident, he had eventually become the kind of boring, vulgar nouveau riche he once despised, spending money on false comforts.

And now, he was daily petting the little wolfdog he’d bought with money, quite lost in indulgence and pleasure.

It was simply…

…

“Zhenzhen, are you okay?”

He snapped out of his daze, a heavy pinewood scent hitting him.

Pulled along distractedly, he now stood under the eaves, before an antique, magnificent European-style door.

Above him, the high, cathedral-like vaulted ceiling hall with its hanging bell was intricately patterned. Up close, Han Fu’s black pupils were filled with immense worry.

“Why do you look so pale? Are you tired?”

“…” With so many onlookers around, Han Fu acted as if no one else existed, frowning with heartache, his dark eyes reflecting only him.

Pei Zhen then realized he was almost entirely encircled in Han Fu’s arms, warm and soft.

“Are you feeling unwell? Should we go home early and rest? Hey, Lister, forget the competition. I’m going home.”

Lister practically exploded, kicking the door with a “thud,” utterly ignoring the phone cameras recording behind him. “You say compete, we compete! You say leave, we leave?! Scared, are you? You want to go? No way!”

Compete? Compete in what…

Pei Zhen was bewildered.

The room was lined on all sides with enormous bookshelves, very similar to the library in Beauty and the Beast.

However, what filled them in dazzling array were not books, but glass bottles—this was Grasse Academy’s “Perfume Library,” rumored to house tens of thousands of different raw essential oils for students to select and blend fragrances.

“…” His confused gaze shifted and fell on the bun-faced youth in the crowd.

Having been singled out twice in one day as a mere passerby, the bun-faced youth felt immense pressure. Swallowing hard, he whispered, “You weren’t listening just now, were you? They challenged each other to a duel!”

“Just now at the academy entrance, your man here said Cranberry was stuck in the past and didn’t understand innovation. The Cranberry guy said brands like Pei’s former one were all fakes, street scents… Neither would back down, and in the end…”

Pei Zhen: “…”

A “duel” between perfumers, of course, wasn’t a physical fight but a “professional competition.”

The problem was—he whipped his head around, glaring at Han Fu.

Just what were you planning to compete against Lister with?

A complete novice, who hadn’t learned any fundamentals, who just days ago, following a book on distillation, had produced a beaker full of cloudy scrambled egg mixture? It was fine to run your mouth and take advantage, but competing against the young master of a century-old perfume family, who had won international awards?

The bun-faced youth: “Oh, they seem to be… competing in ‘Scent Identification.'”

“Cough…” Pei Zhen choked, nearly coughing up his saliva.

Scent Identification was the most basic event in a professional perfumer’s contest.

Colloquially known as “Scent Guessing”—both competitors select the same number of essential oil bottles, remove the labels, and place them into “black boxes” for their opponent. Within a set time, the one who correctly identifies the most scents from the opponent’s black box wins.

Han Fu indeed had no foundational knowledge and barely understood fragrance blending.

But if it was just a matter of “scent recognition,” he could easily crush most opponents, relying on that freakish 14,300+ fragrance recognition rate.

“Enough, you’re coming back with me!”

“Zhenzhen?” Han Fu was nearly yanked off his feet.

What was going on? Why was he suddenly so angry?

…

Pei Zhen was silent, head bowed, walking forward with icy eyes.

He was reflecting—had he… been praising the little wolfdog’s high talent too much lately? Or, in trying to lure him into studying fragrance, had he painted too grand and wonderful a picture, making him so arrogant!

Anyone should know that in this industry—and in any industry, really—

Being arrogant, complacent, and relying solely on talent, acting recklessly because you think you’re gifted, is a cardinal sin.

Even if he luckily won this contest, so what?

Lister was selected for the “Annual Top Ten” at 15, just one spot away from entering the “Library Hall of Fame.” Why, after four years, hadn’t he truly reached the pinnacle?

Wasn’t it precisely because, after that success, he felt he was so awesome and powerful, that he could casually throw something together and win an award, and so no longer bothered to put in the hard work to study fragrance? Now his social media was full of gourmet food, parties, travel, surfing, skiing, and English poetry… The poetry was actually quite well-written!

After years of struggle and effort in the sea of fragrance, Pei Zhen had nearly reached fame and glory, only to fall so hard in the end.

Having experienced such dramatic highs and lows, he knew better than anyone just how difficult it was to truly excel at a passionate pursuit. And he knew, too, the heart-wrenching pain of having victory and success within reach, only for it all to turn to ashes.

Therefore, he would rather Han Fu face some setbacks and endure some hardship at the beginning, calm his mind, and learn steadily and solidly from the ground up.

He didn’t want to see him cut corners from the start, taking a shortcut to a deceptive victory, only to ultimately squander his rare and precious talent.

…

Han Fu: “Zhenzhen, Zhenzhen, don’t be mad. Your heart isn’t good. Don’t walk so fast. Ah ah—ow! Ow, ow, ow!”

Pei Zhen stopped abruptly.

Behind him, Han Fu was pitifully clutching his hand. “Bumped into the bookshelf. It hurts.”

Pei Zhen frowned, a pang of concern hitting him. He grabbed his arm.

“…You!”

The skin was flawless, not even a mark. Han Fu smiled sheepishly.

Pei Zhen: Acting again! Putting on a show for me again!

“Pei! You can’t just leave like this today.” Lister had caught up.

The bun-faced youth followed as well, his face full of worry. “Um… Mr. Cranberry, and the other two students, please slow down! What’s on these shelves… these are all out-of-print antique collector’s fragrances!”

…

In Grasse’s “Library,” most essential oils and spices could be “borrowed.”

Special staff would replenish the bottles quickly after they were taken.

But there were a few shelves that held “precious materials”—display only, never to be loaned out, not even to be casually touched.

Right before Pei Zhen’s eyes was such a display cabinet.

Sunlight danced with the motes of dust in the air.

At the center of the cabinet, surrounded by lesser treasures like stars around the moon, was a glass bottle resembling a crystal figurine—Pei Zhen recognized it. It was the legendary and now out-of-print epic perfume, “White Porcelain Queen,” created by Count Aldoga in 1783.

“…”

The “White Porcelain Queen” bottle featured a beautiful queen’s bust made of white porcelain on the upper half, while the lower half was a rainbow-colored skirt crafted from colorful crystal glass from Murano, Venice’s “Glass Island.”

The exquisite craftsmanship and unparalleled purity made this Venetian glass piece an indispensable decorative item on the desks of European nobility in that era.

The perfume encased in this exquisite bottle was itself a peerless masterpiece steeped in legend.

It was said that the perfume was deeply beloved by France’s last queen, Marie Antoinette, wife of Louis XVI. In the Louvre of that time, it was a luxury only the highest nobility could afford, every drop worth more than gold.

After the French Revolution, the world underwent transformations, countless conflicts, and the baptism of war. Today, it is said that no more than ten genuine “White Porcelain Queen” bottles survive worldwide.

Many perfumers have a penchant for collecting antique perfumes.

Pei Zhen wasn’t a connoisseur of such things, but this perfume reminded him of someone.

Someone who had a special fondness for the “White Porcelain Queen.” That person had once smiled, his eyes shining, saying that his lifelong ultimate dream was to replicate Count Aldoga’s legendary, out-of-print perfume.

But later…

His gaze returned. Crimson light from the library’s stained-glass skylight stained half of Lister’s body.

But later, that person, because of you…

…

Han Fu couldn’t decipher the expression on Pei Zhen’s face in that moment.

He only felt that the furrow between his brows was utterly heart-wrenching. Cautiously, he reached out. Pei Zhen’s palm was unusually, feverishly hot.

Unlike the usual times he’d pull away in a sulk, Pei Zhen slowly tightened his grip and held his hand in return.