[Gold Powder GL] True Elegance Comes with Knowledge - Chapter 37

The early morning sunlight filtered through the lattice windows, piercing the sheer curtains and spilling across the wooden floor upstairs.

The person lying in bed was stirred awake by the morning light but refused to open her eyes. Lazily, she turned over, disturbing the one nestled in the crook of her arm. That person stirred with a drowsy murmur, “What time is it?”

“Still early.” A hand gently pressed against the back of her head, adjusting their position. A similarly muffled voice added, “Sleep a little longer.”

Qingqiu hummed in agreement, instinctively burying her face into the warm embrace, inhaling the familiar scent deeply. In that secure hold, her consciousness slowly drifted away again.

But just as she was about to fall asleep, a sudden jolt of realization snapped her awake: She was going to be late for class!

She immediately struggled up from the covers.

Yan Hui, disturbed by her sudden movement, could no longer sleep either. She turned over under the covers, opened one eye, and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I have to get up—I’m going to be late,” Qingqiu said as she reached for her clothes.

Yan Hui flinched slightly but then remembered, before sitting up, “It’s Sunday.”

“Ah.” Qingqiu froze mid-motion, finally recalling it herself.

She must have been so dazed from rushing her manuscript last night that she completely forgot.

Even so, the shock had fully awakened her. No longer sleepy, Qingqiu yawned and continued to gather her clothes, planning to head downstairs. But just as she moved, the person behind her pressed close, wrapping an arm around her waist and saying, “Stay a little longer.”

Qingqiu turned her head, reached out to stroke Yan Hui’s hair, and softened. Ever since the school term started, time between them had become scarce. It had been a long time since they’d shared such intimacy.

She relaxed and lay back down again.

Truth be told, there’s something utterly indulgent and comforting about lazing in bed on a leisurely holiday morning, unhurried and half-awake, letting time slip by.

Yet, had it not been for Yan Hui, Qingqiu—raised with strict discipline—would never have imagined herself indulging in something so out of character. It just goes to show how a person’s behavior inevitably changes with their experiences.

Since there was nothing urgent to do, Qingqiu began planning her day.

Planning was also a habit she had only developed after being with Yan Hui.

She had always been full of ideas, but back then, she’d tell herself there was no rush—they could wait until “later.” What exactly “later” meant, she’d never clearly defined. As a result, her days had passed in a hazy, drifting manner.

From Yan Hui, Qingqiu learned two invaluable traits: first, to take immediate action on one’s desires, and second, to always make a plan—and update it regularly.

She was naturally thoughtful and often sentimental, but when everything in life was clearly mapped out, when all she had to do was follow the plan step by step, those vague melancholies faded away. In their place grew a kind of quiet strength.

As she thought, she also began speaking to Yan Hui, half discussing, half seeking her input.

But midway through her monologue, Qingqiu realized the room had gone oddly quiet—only her voice echoed. She looked up and met Yan Hui’s unwavering gaze. Somehow, her cheeks flushed with a hint of embarrassment. She raised a hand to cover Yan Hui’s eyes. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

Yan Hui caught her hand, held it in her palm, and played with her fingers as she smiled, “Because you’re beautiful, of course.”

Even after all their time together, even though she had grown used to Yan Hui’s frankness and openness, every time she met those eyes, every time she heard those compliments, Qingqiu couldn’t help but blush.

And that person had to add, “Qingqiu, you’re so adorable.”

Qingqiu turned her head away, half annoyed, half flustered. “I’m not even properly dressed—what’s so pretty about that?”

“It’s exactly because you’re not properly dressed that you are.” Yan Hui leaned in, her nose brushing through Qingqiu’s long hair as she softly recited,

“Last night I did not comb my hair; my loose tresses fall upon my shoulders…”

Qingqiu’s face burned even redder. She shoved Yan Hui’s face away with mock anger, “You’re being indecent again.”

“Oh? So, you know that poem?” Yan Hui teased knowingly. “I thought, with your strict upbringing, you only read the classics and histories.”

Qingqiu was momentarily speechless.

Her studies in traditional literature had been guided by her father, who of course never taught her those kinds of poems. But their house had a whole library of books—not all of them proper—and for a curious schoolgirl, everything outside the classroom had its appeal. Qingqiu, a lover of books, had inevitably stumbled upon things she wouldn’t dare share.

Reading them in idle moments was one thing; imagining such verses applying to herself was quite another.

“I can’t argue with you,” she muttered. “You even make bullying sound reasonable.”

“How is this bullying?” Yan Hui chuckled.

Qingqiu glared at her, but soon they were playfully tangled together again.

Their breathing grew shallow. The room fell silent once more, so quiet they could hear each other’s hearts pounding. After a moment of stillness, Yan Hui moved first. She pinned Qingqiu’s wrist, kissed her, and murmured with a grin, “Now this is bullying…”

Qingqiu seemed to resist for a moment, but it only drew them closer.

Her long lashes trembled like butterfly wings before her eyes slowly closed. Her face was burning hot. She instinctively grabbed at the fabric of Yan Hui’s clothes, as though seeking something to hold onto.
In that hazy moment, Qingqiu couldn’t help but think—she had read plenty of “improper” things in her time.

There was a poem in The Boudoir Collection that read:
Silken mattress, mandarin-duck brocade, fragrant sweat soaking the mountain-shaped pillow.

Outside the curtain, the pulley creaks. She lowers her brows, smiles shyly.

Smoke lingers in the willows, the hairpin falls from her lowered bun.

Let me gamble my whole life, to bring you joy today.

Let me gamble my whole life, to bring you joy today.

So bold. So raw. So utterly committed.

Qingqiu used to wonder what kind of fierce emotion that was—so vivid, it left you flushed, breathless, trembling. But now, she thought she understood.

It was the feeling that, even if she died in this very moment, she would have no regrets.

And perhaps, she understood it even more deeply than the woman in the poem. For Qingqiu was someone caught between the old and the new—a girl raised on traditional values, yet constantly battered by modern thoughts. Her confusion, her yearning for freedom, made her emotions all the more intense.

She had struggled in an invisible net for so long—until she met her.

And unlike the fleeting passion in that poem, Qingqiu was even luckier. What she had found wasn’t a momentary pleasure, but a love that touched the soul—a love that could last a lifetime.

So how could she not gamble her life on it?