The Fox Inkstone
A poor scholar's inkstone fills itself each night—the debt of a grandfather's three generations past, owed to the house of Fox.
The poor scholar Lu Xing dwelt in a ruinous temple to read, too poor to keep a lamp, and relied upon his inkstone for his living. His stone was ever dull, but one night upon his return he found the ink-pool full and still warm. He tried his brush and it flew across the page. Thenceforth each evening the ink filled itself; Xing wondered, and hid behind the wall to watch.
At the late hour a white-robed woman indeed drifted down from the beam, came to the desk and renewed his ink, her fingers slender as jade, a red thread bound about her wrist. Xing sprang up and seized her sleeve; the woman fled in alarm, leaving the red thread behind.
The next day Xing took the thread to the market, where an old crone knew it and said, "This is a fox clan's thing. Beyond the west wall lies a wasted garden where a fox dwells. In years past your grandfather borrowed thirty taels of her, pledging repayment by way of the examinations; three generations have passed, and have you alone forgotten?" Xing was stricken; searching his chest he found an old bond, its vermilion seal yet intact—made by his grandfather, stating 'when my grandson succeeds, he shall reward the house of Fox.'
Then Xing knew the ink came not from pity for his talent but to dun an old debt. He burned the bond before the garden and prayed, "My forefather broke his word, and I knew it not. If I pass this autumn, I shall richly repay." That night the ink filled no more.
When the autumn list was posted, Xing indeed passed. He returned to seek the wasted garden, and found only grass to the shin and no trace of the fox. He poured wine upon the ground; where the wind passed, a woman's laughter seemed to sound, faint and farther off.
The Chronicler of the Strange remarks: The world dreads the fox for its power to beguile, yet knows not the fox keeps too a ledger of debts, exact to the last thread. The scholar thought Heaven pitied a poor man, and knew not each stain of ink was the voice of a claim. Then are examination honors all one's own labour? Nay—half are born of old bonds.