Chapter 7: Agarwood

Pei Zhen had faced Lister twice before in competitions. Once was the Annual Top Ten, and once was the Perfumer Awards competition.

Unlike the “Annual Top Ten” selection, the Perfumer Awards wasn’t a competition for perfume creations, but an annual event focused on the “personal skills of perfumers.”

It was a perennial event sponsored jointly by internationally renowned luxury perfume companies. Every year, up-and-coming fragrance enthusiasts from various countries had to fight hard domestically for a qualifying spot, stepping onto the world stage to compete and contend with the strongest opponents.

This was both their arena to shine and a battleground where major brands like Belle, Les Étoiles, and Cranberry scrambled to snatch up new, cutting-edge perfumers.

That year, among the two domestic qualifying spots, Pei Zhen took second place.

The one who claimed the crown was a senior named Chen She.

Chen She came from a perfumery family. Their family business was a prestigious, dominant face powder and fragrance brand from Old Shanghai, known for classic, elegant styles that were good to use and reasonably priced.

But this century-old shop, which had weathered over eighty years of storms, was being squeezed by the influx of a series of exquisitely packaged, expensive, and massively promoted international brands, teetering on the brink and struggling to survive.

Perhaps due to the immense pressure of carrying such high expectations, upon first meeting, Chen She gave off an exceptionally intense, silent, and forbidding aura.

It was only later that Pei Zhen slowly discovered this senior wasn’t actually cold or aloof at all, just extremely shy. Add to that his family’s strict upbringing, and he wasn’t very accustomed to interacting with others.

Before the international competition, the two were arranged to share accommodations at the Hotel Champs-Élysées in Paris.

For several days, Chen She unreservedly exchanged years of perfumery insights with Pei Zhen and earnestly pointed out many small problems and flaws in Pei Zhen’s blending techniques.

Pei Zhen never doubted for a second that with Senior Chen She’s talent, he could go far in the international competition.

He never expected that in the very first match, Chen She would encounter Britain’s prodigy, Lister.

…

As the heir to Cranberry, Lister was extraordinarily gifted from a young age, but he had little interest in his family’s brand.

Instead, he was completely immersed in hobbies like equestrianism, mechanical craftsmanship, and literary creation, achieving notable awards and even publishing a poetry collection in those fields—truly “dabbling outside his main pursuit.”

That year’s Perfumer Awards was Lister’s first time participating in a competition.

In the month before the competition, he hadn’t received any formal training in perfumery whatsoever. He only agreed to compete because he lost a bet with his grandfather, and needing “not to embarrass Cranberry too much,” he used that single month to “casually study” some fragrance knowledge.

The result of “casually studying” was that he carved a bloody path from the preliminaries, crushing gods and Buddhas, winning the UK qualifying championship, effortlessly defeating the passion and painstaking research of countless people over several years, even decades. That year, many fragrance enthusiasts, witnessing his existence, fell into complete self-doubt, lost confidence, and subsequently withdrew from competitions, even disheartenedly leaving the industry entirely.

On the international stage, Lister just as easily crushed Chen She.

Pei Zhen could tell Chen She was devastated, yet after the match, he still humbly went to ask for guidance from the much younger boy.

[Design philosophy? Yawn—so sleepy, how could there possibly be such a thing? Wasn’t it just casually made for fun?]

[No,] Chen She said earnestly, [Your fragrance is extremely opulent, clearly the result of rigorous, meticulous, and precise design. Please, can you share a little with me? I truly hope… to strive to approach the standard of the world-renowned Cranberry.]

“Strive?” Lister had laughed.

Blinking his blue eyes, lifting his beautiful, youthful face, he revealed an innocent yet cruel smile.

[Oscar Wilde once said, ‘Hard work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do.’ In the matter of perfumery, actually, without talent, no matter how hard you try, it’s simply impossible. If, at your age, Big Brother, you still haven’t produced any results, why not face reality and consider changing careers early?]

[…]

That very night, Chen She packed his luggage and returned home in silence.

By the time Pei Zhen finished the competition and went back to find him, he was nowhere to be found—

The word was that, unable to bear the immense pressure from his family and the outside world, he had a mental breakdown and was hospitalized.

Even later, he had simply disappeared from the hospital.

“A Falling Star,” the newspapers mourned for a few days. For many years after that, no one ever saw him again.

…

Although their time together had been brief, even now, Pei Zhen could still remember Chen She’s absolute focus when studying fragrance—oblivious to outside sounds, unaware of the passage of time.

He was also still waiting, hoping that perhaps one day, he would see that senior’s name reappear in the news, reborn from the ashes, his original heart unchanged. Because he believed that person truly regarded perfumery as his lifelong faith.

…Even if he might indeed not have been as brilliantly talented as Lister.

Possessing luxurious talent and resources was such a precious thing, yet Lister seemed to squander it all without the slightest sense of gratitude.

And not only did he squander it, he casually trampled on the hard work of others.

It seemed as though no one had ever dealt him a severe blow. Well, of course not. As the young master of Cranberry, blessed with talent, the powerful resources of his family, and his grandfather’s doting, naturally, everything was smooth sailing, easy and effortless.

He had never experienced failure or hardship.

Presumably, he had also never seen the legendary 14,300+.

…

“Go ahead. Don’t go easy on him.”

Fingers intertwined, he gave a gentle push forward. Han Fu froze, not understanding why Pei Zhen was suddenly no longer angry.

“Good luck. If you win, there’ll be a reward when you get back.”

The young man’s eyes immediately lit up with sparkling anticipation. “What kind of reward?”

“What do you want?” Designer brands for you, a raise, time off—no problem.

Almost without hesitation, Han Fu’s expression turned utterly serious. “I want you.”

Pei Zhen froze.

Clearly, he was long past the age where such words could make his heart flutter, and hell, he knew it was just sweet talk. Who would ever “want” a body like his, scarred and with a lame leg?

So…

So, what the hell with the secret heart-pounding and blushing?!

He snapped back to clarity in a second, his inner old curmudgeon surfacing, his gaze sharp and fierce. “Don’t you dare lose. Lose, and I won’t want you anymore!”

Han Fu instantly became the picture of utter grievance. “Zhenzhen?!”

Pei Zhen: “Don’t play pitiful. Win and it’s all fine, isn’t it?”

“But!”

Probably accustomed to being verbally knocked down, Han Fu only felt a small pang of frustration this time before quickly recovering his smile. “Then Zhenzhen, if I win, you have to promise me first that you’ll never say such things again?”

Pei Zhen: “Win first, then talk.”

“And, we have to go on a date to the high-altitude revolving restaurant in the Radiant Building, for the most romantic red wine and candlelit dinner.”

Pei Zhen: “…”

“I’m already wounded,” his hand was pulled and pressed against a hard chest, the little wolfdog looking pitiful. “You saying you don’t want me makes it hurt so much here. It needs a date to be soothed.”

Old men often had weak hearts.

This kind of thing… was simply unbearable, nearly making him cough up three liters of blood.

…

The other onlookers were fine, standing far enough away not to hear clearly what they were saying.

Poor Lister, up close and getting hit by the sickeningly sweet PDA, wore a look of utter despair, as if he wished he could gouge out his own eyes.

A group of people helped set up workstations, fetch collecting boards and black boxes. After a brief bustle, the simple competitor tables and judge’s seat were ready. Lister: “You! Yes, you. How about being our judge?”

“???” The bun-faced youth was singled out for the third time that day.

…

“As per convention, base five, progressing by ten. Scent Identification of ten scents,” the bun-faced judge announced.

(Base five, progressing by ten: Both sides first guess 10 scents from each other. If both correctly identify all, they move to 15 scents, then 20, increasing incrementally until a winner is decided.)

“Only natural, single-note essential oils are permitted. Please consciously exclude compounded oils and synthetic fragrances, otherwise, it will be deemed a rule violation.”

Natural essential oils referred to extracts from plants or animals, excluding scents artificially synthesized through chemistry like Oriental notes, Lux soap, chocolate, cola, etc.

And so-called single-note essential oil meant an extract from a single plant or animal species. This meant the competition could not use blended essential oils of two or more types.

Choosing such rules was clearly aimed at lowering the difficulty of identification. It was obviously advantageous for the weaker party.

Lister sneered coldly. “Fine, let’s keep it simple, to avoid you saying I’m bullying.”

In a perfumer’s Scent Identification contest, aside from the competitors and the judge, other observers could watch up close but were strictly forbidden from making any sound, let alone giving any instructive gestures.

The bun-faced youth announced the start of the competition. Immediately, the two young men went back-to-back, each selecting their essential oils.

…Ten kinds.

Pei Zhen forcibly swallowed a mouthful of old blood, holding back the urge to roar—Han Xiaohua! What the hell are you picking?!

The novice’s formula was, as expected, too painful to watch.

What was he putting into the box? Lavender, Bergamot, Rosemary, Petitgrain, Rose, Jasmine, Rosewood, Benzoin?!

Weren’t these all the most basic, entry-level essential oils?

Never mind professional perfumers, even ordinary people with a decent sense of smell could identify seventy to eighty percent of these. Translating to cooking ingredients, this was like grabbing a basket of rice, garlic, ginger, and eggplant…

Change it, hurry! A whole basket of basics?! Is this how you look down on Lister?!

The onlookers were all wearing expressions of collective constipation! Two bottles left, Han Xiaohua, you really…

“You cannot help choose, nor can you give any hints~,” Lister’s laughing voice drifted over from back-to-back, as if he could smell the anxiety in the air.

Pei Zhen: “…”

Finally, at last, Han Fu shuffled left and right by the shelves, picking up two small essential oil bottles.

Thank goodness—

He finally grabbed two that weren’t so common!