HCAW 9

Chapter 9: Night Snow Just Cleared

It had snowed lightly just before dawn. When Fang Jingyu returned to Qingyuan Alley, the streets were already covered in a soft, white blanket—like a sheet of clean rice paper.

Several housemaids and servants in padded jackets were out front sweeping the snow. When they saw Fang Jingyu return, their faces lit up with warm familiarity and they called out:

“Hey, Jingyu! Back from wandering the Xian Mountain’s Guard palace, eh?”

“Mm.” Fang Jingyu nodded mildly and walked past them.

“Lady Yu Yin always thinks highly of you! She must’ve treated you to a fine meal, right?”

At those words, Fang Jingyu stopped walking.

Yu Yin hadn’t taken him in because of his talent. He had no natural gifts—only forged himself anew through grueling, bone-grinding effort. After last night’s attack, Yu Yin had given him a fierce scolding—first for once having drawn a blade against Yu Ji, and second for allowing the assassin into the room and losing his sword in the process. She’d left him with one cold sentence:

“Come to the training grounds in five days. I’ll be reforging your bones.”

A brutal beating from his master was clearly inevitable.

He also couldn’t stop thinking about the assassin from last night—so agile, so familiar. Later, he’d wanted to head out to the courtyard and see who the attacker truly was. But Yu Yin stopped him.

She told him: since Yu Ji had handed the matter over to the madam of Zui Chun, it was no longer their place to interfere. In Penglai, Yu Ji’s word was law.

So in the end, he never saw the assassin’s face.

Shaking off his thoughts, Fang Jingyu said to the neighbors, “Nothing of the sort. Just plain food and tea.”

But at that moment, his stomach growled audibly. He hadn’t slept all night, having spent the whole evening listening to his master’s lecture. He hadn’t eaten a single bite and was now cold and starving.

The neighbors chuckled. “You really were starved by Yu Yin!” A burly woman ducked into her home and soon returned with a steaming hot bowl of porridge, eagerly handing it to him. “Your stove hasn’t been lit yet, has it? Take this and fill your belly.”

Fang Jingyu shook his head and pushed the bowl back.

“No, I’m not hungry. Keep it for yourselves.”

“Come now, Officer Fang! No need to be polite!” said an old man in rough hemp clothing. He stepped forward, stuffing a small bowl of pickled vegetables into Fang Jingyu’s hands. “Just porridge is too bland—have this to go with it!”

The neighbors crowded around, shoving fresh noodles, just-baked flatbread, even newly woven cushion pads into his arms.

By the time the commotion died down, Fang Jingyu stood stiffly with his arms full of offerings, expression blank.

“Take it all!” they laughed. “Think of it as repaying the kindness you’ve shown us all these years.”

Fang Jingyu said, “I don’t want these things. Take them back.”

But as soon as he said that, the crowd scattered like birds, laughing as they slipped back into their homes.

“Nope! Nope! You keep it, Officer Fang—enjoy it slowly!”

Arms full, Fang Jingyu couldn’t bear to drop the gifts, nor could he chase after them.

In the end, he had no choice but to carry everything home.

When he reached the small courtyard he called home, the wooden door was ajar. A pretty face peeked out—a girl in red, like a flame burning against the snow. It was Xiao Jiao, the freeloader who’d long been living at his place.

She had known him since they were young and had stuck to him ever since. When he later became a patrol officer of the Xian Mountain Guard, she followed along, in and out as his shadow. Though they lived together, there was no romance between them.

Fang Jingyu saw her as a rice bucket, nothing more.

The neighbors treated her like a younger sister.

Hair a messy tangle, Xiao Jiao yawned when she saw him.

“Tight-lipped gourd, you’re back?”

The dark-robed young man nodded. Xiao Jiao crossed her arms and barked:

“I wanted Zhao’s big buns with fine filling. Did you buy them?”

“No. But I brought other food,” Fang Jingyu replied.

Following his gaze, Xiao Jiao glanced down at the pile in his arms, gave a little snort, and stepped aside to let him in.

Fang Jingyu entered the yard. A tall parasol tree, an old well, a few shabby but clean side rooms—that was all he owned.

He set down the neighbors’ gifts one by one, then fetched brush and paper to record each item, planning to repay them in the future. The porridge couldn’t wait, so he scooped a bowl for Xiao Jiao.

They sat on stools by the stove, warming themselves by the fire.

Xiao Jiao wolfed down the porridge and, pointing at the scorched pot, shamelessly declared:

“Tight-lipped gourd, after you left last night, I tried to cook for myself. But my skills are lacking—I burned the pot. I also tried to chip ice for drinking water, but I was too rough and broke the bucket.”

Fang Jingyu wasn’t surprised by any of this. Calmly, he said,

“You’ve never been one for housework. It’s no surprise you ruin things. But when we’re assigned tasks separately and no one’s around to cook for you—what then?”

Xiao Jiao grinned. “It’s fine! I’ll go mooch food off the neighbors. Whichever house opens their door, I’ll empty their rice jar. And the cost goes on your tab.”

“That’s not sustainable,” Fang Jingyu said, setting down his bowl and pulling her by the collar.

“You’re out there ruining my name!”

“I’m not ruining it,” Xiao Jiao protested, folding her arms. “I’m collecting favors in your name!”

Then she raised a brow and scolded, “But you—after all those criminals you’ve caught and all the merits you’ve earned—why are we still living so poorly? Don’t tell me you’ve turned into some god of charity again?”

Fang Jingyu looked away.

She wasn’t wrong.

His meager salary never stayed warm in his hands before it was spent. Whenever he passed a freezing beggar or saw a child selling themselves to bury their parents, he’d give away his silver. And so, all year round, he wore the same old dark robe and tattered cloak—sometimes hungry, sometimes not, surviving on little more than wind.

Xiao Jiao snapped,

“Before you go being so noble, can you feed us first?! You’re saving all the starving people outside, but inside this house there’ll be two corpses from starvation!”

Fuming, she suddenly brightened and said,

“Wait! You’re always redeeming slaves, right? Most of them end up working in big households. Next time, why don’t you hire one to come live with us—to help with cooking and cleaning!”

It wasn’t a bad idea. But something about it made Fang Jingyu uncomfortable.

“I don’t redeem people just to make them do chores,” he said.

“I know!” Xiao Jiao replied. “But just go with the flow! Hire one to help us out. What’s the difference between them working outside and working here? We’ll pay them monthly and make sure they’re well fed!”

She rattled on stubbornly, clearly set on bringing someone in to manage the stove. Fang Jingyu listened and, to his own surprise, found himself wavering a little. In the end, he said blandly:

“Alright, I got it. I’ll go redeem a servant from the broker when I have time. Let them keep an eye on you too—stop you from raising hell out in the streets.”

The red-robed girl gave a cheer and jumped up to hug him, only to be pushed away by Fang Jingyu with a look of distaste.

The snow had stopped. A faint, misty light filtered into the room. The two of them returned to the main hall. Fang Jingyu wiped his hands clean, carefully dusted the altar, and replaced the offerings with fresh milkgrass candy and steamed cake. Xiao Jiao lay sprawled on a stool, black eyes following his every move.

She watched as Fang Jingyu respectfully lit three sticks of incense and pressed his palms together in silent prayer. On the altar sat a spirit tablet, engraved in Song-style script:

“Spirit of Late Elder Brother Fang Minsheng.”

Xiao Jiao blinked, then asked softly, “Is that your brother?”

She had known Fang Jingyu for a long time, and knew he had been paying respects to this tablet for years. But she’d always avoided asking, not wanting to touch on something painful. Now, she finally couldn’t hold back her curiosity.

Fang Jingyu nodded. “Yes.”

“But I thought you had a falling-out with the Fang family? Your father treated you coldly, like you were invisible. Wasn’t it because of that you left home in the first place? Why are you still honoring one of them?”

Fang Jingyu lowered his eyes, sorrow rippling in his gaze. After a long pause, he replied:

“Minsheng-ge wasn’t like the others. Everyone else saw me as a shadow. Only he treated me like a real person.”

The red-robed girl had no words.

Fang Jingyu stood motionless in the daylight, like a quiet clay statue—yet hidden within was a heart riddled with scars.

Seeing that he pursed his lips, unwilling to say more about the past, Xiao Jiao carefully asked, “Then… your brother, how did he…”

When Fang Jingyu looked over, she made a throat-cutting motion and stuck out her tongue.

Fang Jingyu closed his eyes. “I was the one who got him killed.”

Xiao Jiao froze.

“Minsheng-ge was a good man. He trained under Langgan, our father, and his swordsmanship was unmatched—far above his peers. He was the Fang family’s eldest son, and Father placed great hopes in him. But he died because of me.” Fang Jingyu said quietly, “I owe him my life.”

He then bowed slowly to the spirit tablet. Dust danced above his head in the sunlight like the fragrant mist from a bodhisattva’s blessing. His figure was still and solemn, like a painting.

For a long time, Xiao Jiao watched him bow again and again, his form stooping as if crushed by past grief. But when he finally straightened, his face revealed nothing.

He had learned to bury all pain beneath a shell of cold indifference.

Fang Jingyu sat back, eyes fixed on the tablet.

“Mm… he’s already gone. You should let it go. If your brother’s spirit knew, he wouldn’t want you this sad,” Xiao Jiao said clumsily, trying to find the right words.

Fang Jingyu shook his head. “This is my sin. I’ll never repay it in this lifetime.”

“So… all your charity work—is it penance?” Xiao Jiao asked. She suddenly understood. “Is that your wish? To live your whole life in guilt, tight-lipped gourd?”

“I want to be a good man like Minsheng-ge. I want to give him a proper tablet and a proper burial. When he died, he didn’t even have a real coffin. And I—still haven’t earned enough to give him one. Maybe once I catch ‘King Yama,’ I’ll have a little to spare.” He glanced at the low altar and sighed.

“And I want to avenge him.”

Xiao Jiao didn’t want to wallow in gloom with him, so she deliberately changed the subject, placing her hands on her hips and scowling.

“You done kneeling? Quit looking like a funeral mourner. I haven’t even yelled at you yet!”

“For what?”

Xiao Jiao dashed into her room and returned with a notebook, slapping it in front of him.

“Remember a few days ago? My schoolteacher told me to copy some sample characters. I was about to go arrest those Da Yuan Dao cultists, so I didn’t have time to write. I made you copy them for me!”

Xiao Jiao, though around fifteen or sixteen, was completely illiterate. She couldn’t even understand the bounty amounts on wanted posters. Fang Jingyu had sent her to a tutor, but she couldn’t sit still for even an hour. She ran wild with the schoolboys and picked up more bandit habits than book learning.

“Yes, I remember,” Fang Jingyu nodded.

“Then look at this garbage you wrote!” Xiao Jiao fumed. “The characters squirm like worms, all twisted together! The teacher saw it and hit my palm with a ruler!”

Fang Jingyu replied, “If you knew the consequences, you shouldn’t have made me do it. You brought that on yourself.”

Xiao Jiao huffed in frustration. She knew it wasn’t his fault, but she sulked anyway, lips pouty.

Fang Jingyu stood, went to the back kitchen, and began washing their bowls with melted ice water and ash. Sitting by the basin, sleeves rolled up, he revealed a pair of pale, muscular hands—and embedded in his forearms were several thin iron rods.

It was these rods that made his hands tremble when he wrote, his brushwork jerky and illegible, like tangled cat whiskers.

Fang Jingyu had a secret no one knew.

Though the world called him a once-in-a-century genius, it wasn’t true.

He’d been born with rickets. For years, he couldn’t even stand without help. Doctors had examined him in horror—his limbs were weak, his tendons feeble, and his bones barely formed. They said he was incurable.

Because of this, the Fang family neglected him. He wore rags, ate scraps, and lived like a beggar in his own home.

Later, when his brother died, he left the Fang household and became Yu Yin’s disciple.

She had accepted him for one reason: if someone born so frail could be trained into a swordsman, it would be a miracle worthy of legends.

She cut open his body and implanted 126 dragonhead-shaped iron rods—one into each of his bones. These rods had been forged from molten iron, and they transformed his once-crippled body into something near indestructible, though at the price of constant, searing pain.

Since that day, every movement brought searing pain, as if ants were gnawing his bones.

But Fang Jingyu endured it.

Not only that—he mastered an exquisite sword style under Yu Yin’s tutelage.

Now, he truly was a warrior of iron and steel. His bones might cause him constant agony, but he had gained strength enough to crush stone and move mountains.

Xiao Jiao hopped over and crouched beside him, watching quietly as he washed the bowls. His fingers, long and fair, were red from the icy water. One couldn’t see the iron buried beneath his skin.

She suddenly felt a sting in her heart and asked gently:

“Does it hurt?”

Fang Jingyu looked up, eyes calm like an ancient well.

“What?”

“I asked… does it hurt? Having all that iron stabbed into your body…”

“Of course it hurts. Every movement hurts. It never stops.”

He lowered his eyes and kept scrubbing the bowl.

“Then why don’t you scream?” she asked.

He never spoke of his pain, never wept. He was like a sealed gourd.

“Because no one would listen. What’s the point in crying over it?”

Fang Jingyu paused, then looked straight at her.

“Unless… if I shed a few golden tears right now, would that make you finally learn to wash dishes?”

Xiao Jiao gritted her teeth, then plunged her white hands into the water.

Moments later, the sound of breaking dishes rang out—she’d shattered several bowls. Her face turned pale.

Fang Jingyu pulled the basin away and scowled.

“Stop. If you keep washing, I really will start crying.”

____

AN: Volume One’s main character is Xiao Fang, meep! (○–)

He’s cold on the outside, warm on the inside—not a pure iceblock!