The Lan family living room fell into an abrupt, stunned silence.
For a solid minute, nobody spoke. The patriarch stared at his youngest son as if trying to decipher whether the illness had finally scrambled his brains, while Lan Lin blinked rapidly in sheer disbelief.
Opening a fortune-telling shop? Their delicate, sickly youngest son, who had spent most of his life shielded within the family estate, wanted to set up a roadside stall or a mystic parlor to read palms and cast hexes?
The mother was the first to recover, her expression softening into a gentle, indulgent smile. She leaned forward, her tone laced with careful accommodation. “Xiao Ting, is this a sudden whim, or have you genuinely thought it through? If you are just looking for a way to pass the time, Dad can buy you an art gallery, or perhaps a quiet bookstore. Running a fortune-telling business sounds… well, rather exhausting.”
“I am completely serious,” Lanting replied calmly, meeting his family’s apprehensive gazes with absolute steadiness. “It is not on a whim. I have my own reasons, and I am quite capable of handling it.”
Seeing the unwavering determination in his eyes, the patriarch let out a long, heavy sigh, rubbing his temples. “If you have truly set your mind on it, your old man is not going to stand in your way. But you will not be setting up shop in some shady alleyway. Lin, take some funds tomorrow and find a proper, decent storefront in a good district for your brother. Make sure it is quiet, comfortable, and well-equipped.”
Lan Lin immediately nodded in agreement, trading a knowing glance with his father. “Leave it to me, Dad. I will make sure the location is top-notch. Even if he just wants to sit inside and drink tea all day, the place will look respectable.”
Lanting did not object to his family’s arrangements. He knew they were simply looking out for him, wanting to ensure he was safe and comfortable.
A few days later, the storefront was finalized.
It was located in a quiet, antique-style cultural street in Jingchuan, surrounded by traditional teahouses and art shops. The shop itself was small but refined, featuring a polished wooden interior, shelves lined with ancient texts, and a clean mahogany desk near the window.
The sign hanging above the entrance was simple yet elegant, bearing three striking characters written in a smooth, flowing brush script: Qing Ting House.
On the very first day of business, Lanting arrived early, dressed in a clean, crisp linen tunic that enhanced his ethereal appearance. He sat leisurely behind the desk, brewing a pot of pale green tea, while the rusty sword, now disguised as a simple, unassuming decoration piece, leaned obediently against the corner of the wall.
Passersby on the street frequently cast curious glances through the clear glass windows. With Lanting’s striking white hair and otherworldly aura, the shop looked less like a mystical fortune-telling parlor and more like an art studio or a secluded tea room.
For the first half of the day, business was quiet. People only stopped to admire the decor or glance at the young owner with intrigued expressions, none of them daring to step inside.
Lanting remained entirely unbothered, sipping his tea in tranquil solitude.
It was not until mid-afternoon that the quiet was finally broken. The door chime tinkled softly as a middle-aged man stumbled into the shop, looking utterly exhausted with dark circles under his eyes and a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead.
The man took one look at Lanting, and without a word of greeting, he rushed forward, trembling as he slammed both palms onto the desk.
“Master, please save me!”