A few days later, one evening, the sun was setting and the camp had grown quieter. Cao Zhi, having finished his military duties, still found his thoughts wandering to the mysterious woman. He strolled toward the wounded soldiers’ area.
The army lacked trained personnel for medical care, so Cao Zhi had temporarily allowed rescued women to tend to the wounded.
He did not enter the tents directly, instead lingering at a distance, hidden in the shadows of some stacked supplies, silently observing. There, the woman with the obscured face sat alone in a corner, back turned to everyone.
A cool autumn breeze stirred, rustling dry leaves. She seemed affected by the chill, instinctively wrapping her arms around herself, head lowered. From her lips came a faint, almost imperceptible murmur—an unconscious, repeated intonation, not a cry or complaint, but an ancient chanting with a fixed rhythm. The syllables were unusual, yet carried a strange, solemn beauty.
Cao Zhi, well-versed in classics from childhood, recognized it instantly. His heart jolted. The cadence and choice of words—this was *Shi Jing*, *Wang Feng·Shu Li*, recited in the most ancient, nearly lost style! He had only seen traces of it in rare, obscure commentaries.
“…The millet grows, the grain matures. I wander weary, my heart unsettled. Those who know me, know my sorrow; those who do not, wonder what I seek. Ah, the vast expanse—what is its meaning?…”
Her voice was hoarse, heavy with unspeakable anguish, giving life to every word of the poem. The sense of loss, exile, and the unreachability of a kindred soul resonated with her own fate.
An ordinary servant girl, freshly escaped from the Xiongnu, could not possibly understand such ancient chanting, let alone embody its emotions so profoundly.
Cao Zhi stood frozen. His doubt crystallized into certainty: her identity was no ordinary one. Her scholarly depth was frighteningly profound.
The woman recited several times, lost in sorrow, unaware of Cao Zhi. When the movement of other women finally reached her ears, she snapped back to awareness, resuming her silent, wary posture.
Cao Zhi quietly withdrew, mind racing. The name “Cai Wenji” increasingly overlapped with this mysterious woman. He needed more evidence—and the right moment.
A day or two later, Cao Zhi deliberately brought a scroll of mundane paperwork to the wounded camp, claiming he needed someone literate to help record simple rosters.
His eyes scanned the women, finally resting on the mysterious one:
“Sister, you seem composed. Could you help with this? It is only a simple task.” He handed her paper and brush.
The woman stiffened, eyes wide with panic, shaking her hands to refuse:
“My lord… forgive me… I am clumsy… illiterate… I can only write my name… crookedly… I would sully your paper…”
Her reaction was too strong—more like fear of revealing something.
Cao Zhi’s face remained calm. He smiled gently:
“No matter. It’s only a few names.” He pressed the brush into her hand.
Reluctantly, she grasped it, fingers stiff, writing slowly and awkwardly along the edge. She inscribed a common surname, seemingly “Li,” but the strokes were irregular.
Then, as her nervousness caused the brush to scratch the paper, leaving a slight, careless mark—Cao Zhi’s pupils constricted.
The seemingly accidental stroke, its hesitation, pressure, and subtle hook at the end—this was no mark a supposed illiterate servant could produce. It betrayed the muscle memory of someone trained in calligraphy, versed in clerical or cursive scripts.
Cai Yong had been one of the Eastern Han’s greatest calligraphers, master of seal and clerical scripts.
All the clues aligned at once: the ancient chanting, the inadvertent display of calligraphic skill.
Cao Zhi was certain: she was Cai Wenji.
He did not reveal his knowledge immediately. Taking the brush, he smiled faintly:
“You seem unfamiliar with this task. No matter, I will do it myself.”
Relieved, she withdrew her hand, bowing her head, refusing to meet his gaze.
Another day, Cao Zhi judged the moment right. He entered her tent again, this time holding a scroll—Cai Yong’s *Autumn Thoughts*.
He did not question her directly, merely placed the scroll beside her, speaking half to himself, half to her:
“Ah, recently I came across Cai Zhonglang’s *Autumn Thoughts*. Its brilliance is striking. Alas, with war and scattered texts, much of his learning may be lost. Truly a painful thought.”
Her body trembled at the name “Cai Zhonglang.” Her eyes involuntarily flicked toward the scroll, filled with a mixture of longing, grief, and scholarly instinct. She instinctively reached, then withdrew, gripping her hands tightly.
Cao Zhi watched, heart resolute. No more doubt remained. He sighed, voice soft, sincere:
“It is unfortunate that Zhonglang suffered, and that Miss Wenji is lost. I hear… even in the Xiongnu… Ah, talent wasted, the state’s misfortune…”
A muffled, suppressed whimper escaped the woman—like a wounded animal. She covered her face with her hands; tears finally broke free, streaming through her fingers. Years of pretense, tension, and longing erupted in a single moment.
Cao Zhi stayed silently beside her, offering no disturbance.
After she calmed, she did not raise her head. Through broken sobs she whispered:
“You… you already guessed… why must you… keep testing me…”
Cao Zhi’s heart ached. He spoke solemnly:
“Miss Cai, I never intended to test you, nor to reopen old wounds. I could not bear to see your brilliance hidden, nor the legacy of Zhonglang lost. What I speak today, only you will hear. You are safe. If you trust me, may I… offer my humble assistance?”
Cai Wenji slowly released her hands, tearful eyes meeting his. Her deliberately disguised face showed only those eyes—clear, fragile, full of suffering, and faintly seeking kindness. Cao Zhi’s persistent goodwill, his respect for her father, and his promise to keep her secret broke the walls of her caution.
She remained silent for a long while, then gave a faint nod, voice thin as a thread:
“…Thank you… sir. But… I am no longer as before… I only wish… to survive… nothing more…” She finally acknowledged her identity.
Cao Zhi understood that this was no small progress. He said no more, gently pushing the scroll into her hands:
“Perhaps this text may soothe your thoughts. Rest well, Miss Wenji.”
He rose and quietly departed.
Inside the tent, Cai Wenji’s trembling hands caressed her father’s legacy. Tears fell silently, but this time, they seemed to wash away despair, leaving a faint, indescribable complexity—a glimmer of hope.