HCAW 19

Ever since that beating, Fang Minsheng’s injuries had never truly healed.

Not for lack of medicine—the decoctions from the household were all sound—but because Fang Minsheng refused to rest. Even dragging along his ailing body, he would diligently complete his studies, then go to visit Fang Jingyu. After teaching him to read and write, he’d move on to instructing him in channeling qi through the body, how to run, how to hold a sword. Fang Jingyu was sharp and hardworking, and within a short time, he’d already grasped most of the basics. Still, qi circulation was no easy task—more often than not, he couldn’t take more than a few steps before collapsing like a panting old dog in the summer heat, soaked in sweat.

The more attention Minsheng gave him, the more wrath he drew from the Langgan Guard. At first, the old man flew into frequent rages, often beating his stubborn eldest son. But perhaps the injuries came faster than they healed—eventually he stopped the beatings, and instead had Minsheng kneel in the ancestral hall as punishment.

Fang Minsheng was truly as stubborn as an ox. Even when lashed with switches, he made not a sound, kneeling motionless in front of the ancestral tablets for entire nights, becoming like a statue. The Mohe Guard, a frequent guest at the Fang residence and close to the Langgan Guard, once saw him kneeling alone and ghost-like in the hall and sighed:

“Old Fang, let it go already. You’re only disgracing the family name. That boy is your only worthy successor—if you cripple him, who’ll inherit your mantle? That sickly younger son who can’t lift a finger?”

At that, the Langgan Guard gave a furious snort and stopped intervening. Fang Minsheng, in turn, became even bolder, openly associating with his frail little brother from the outer courtyard.

Fang Jingyu gradually learned to walk—staggeringly, haltingly, needing to rest for hours after just a few steps. He had never known good food or warm clothes, and now, under Minsheng’s daily care, it felt like he’d stumbled into paradise. Minsheng had once seen him hunched in his dim little room, licking bowls like a little dog. His brow creased, and he said, “Next time you eat, come to the main dining hall.”

Jingyu shrank back. “I—I can’t.”

He knew the Langgan Guard would be there, the man whose face was always cold as an iceberg, whose gaze had never once acknowledged his existence.

“It’s fine. If there’s punishment to be had, let it fall on me first,” Minsheng said, lifting him into his arms. Jingyu caught a faint bitter scent of medicine from him, and his heart turned bitter too. His brother had done so much for him—how could he ever repay it?

So the next day at midday, Fang Jingyu gathered his courage and went to the dining hall. He used qi to steady himself, stumbling the whole way, but as soon as he entered, it felt like falling into an ice pit. At the head of the rosewood dining table sat a tall, imposing man in jade robes. His sword-brows slanted sharply to his temples, his eyes glinted like cold stars—none other than the Langgan Guard, Fang Huaixian.

Since the moment Jingyu had been born, the Langgan Guard had ignored him, loathing him for his congenital illness. Now, seeing him stagger into the hall, the man’s brows knotted tightly. He barked,

“Who gave you permission to come here?”

Jingyu trembled instantly, like a terrified little deer.

Fang Minsheng, seated at the table, spoke up. “I did, Father.”

The Langgan Guard’s gaze dropped onto him like a collapsing mountain. Minsheng raised his head, and from his single eye flared a star-like defiance. “He is of the Fang family. Why shouldn’t he enter the hall to eat? What, are you afraid a child might try to assassinate you?”

The veins on the Langgan Guard’s forehead bulged, his eye twitched. He glared at his impudent son. He knew Minsheng’s temperament—though the boy seemed gentle and polite, he had an unbending pride and a sharp tongue. Once he believed something, ten bulls couldn’t drag him back. He growled, “Nonsense. Do you not understand discipline?”

Minsheng replied, “What sort of discipline forbids someone from eating indoors?”

Even as he spoke, he waved a hand, signaling the servants to bring dishes. He filled a bowl with steaming scallion-braised pork, then added some three-shred fish fin. Jingyu wasn’t used to good food; he drooled at the sight of such delicacies. But when he glanced again at the Langgan Guard’s dark, imposing face, he shrank back and lowered his hand.

“Eat. What are you afraid of?” Minsheng nudged him.

Jingyu summoned his courage, picked up his chopsticks, and took a big bite, puffing out his cheeks like a squirrel. He didn’t dare sit at the table, instead crouching close to Minsheng’s legs, pecking like a bird and jerking his head nervously after every bite.

Minsheng turned to the servants. “Bring him a chair.”

“Bring what chair?” the Langgan Guard barked.

The shout startled the servants into retreating silently. Jingyu froze, carefully set down his chopsticks, and shrank beneath the table. The Langgan Guard glared at Minsheng and barked, “Do you think you run this household now? Have you no sense of propriety?!”

Minsheng met his gaze. “That seat is meant to be mine anyway. What harm is there in sitting there early? He’s my brother. As they say, ‘brothers are like hands and feet.’ If I don’t care for him, it’s like severing my own arm. If you insist he must eat kneeling, then I’ll kneel too.”

He pulled back the red-lacquered chair, knelt beside the table, and sat upright like a bamboo shoot standing tall against frost.

The Langgan Guard’s eyes burned red with fury. “Very well,” he spat. “Fang Minsheng… very well indeed.”

The man shook his sleeves and strode away. In his youth, he had taken a sword to the battlefield—one that sliced his tendon clean through. Since then, he’d limped on one leg. But the other, still strong, landed with a force like thunder—each step resounding through the stone floor, leaving faint cracks in the polished slabs.

From that day forward, Fang Jingyu had a place at the dining table.

He was allowed a low wicker chair, a bowl in hand—no longer forced to crouch or crawl to eat. The Langgan Guard seemed to silently permit it, but every time Jingyu appeared in the hall, the man’s face would darken by a few shades.

Life for Jingyu was still steeped in anxiety, but a turning point had come. Fang Minsheng taught him the Twin Observations Method—qi observation and spirit observation—to regulate the heart, settle the body, and allow qi to flow naturally throughout his limbs. Jingyu practiced diligently, falling until he was black and blue, his lips split and bleeding. It was hard—brutally so—but in time, he could swayingly, shakily, stand and take steps.

Minsheng brought him to the creek, guiding him to walk across hidden stones beneath the water’s surface. Jingyu fell in time and again, soaking wet and shivering like a drowned chick—but his resolve was astounding. The distances he could walk grew longer. His frail back began to straighten, like a fresh sapling rising toward the sun.

Once, he asked hopefully:

“Brother, when will I be able to walk and wield a sword like you?”

Minsheng grew stern. “Just channeling qi into your bones isn’t enough—you won’t last long like that. To move freely, we’ll need to build a framework, something to anchor your body. Embed it into your flesh.”

“That sounds painful,” Jingyu said, body shivering.

“It is. But for now, just focus on guiding qi through your tendons.”

“Pain means nothing! I can endure it!” Jingyu stuck out his chest in defiance.

Minsheng smiled and ruffled his hair.

Life in the manor was quiet. When there was free time, Minsheng would sneak him out beyond the courtyard walls. The world outside thrilled Jingyu—the scroll-filled market tents, tea stalls ringed with red lacquer poles, red lanterns with yellow tassels, the fragrance of spiced roast chicken… The outside world was like a vibrant painting, dazzling to his sheltered eyes. He clung tightly to Minsheng’s hand, as though his brother were a compass needle, guiding him through it all.

They once climbed a mountain together, gazing from the ridge across a sea of blooming scarlet arrow flowers—their sharp petals pierced the sky. Spring was at its peak, and the blossoms spread like fire across the earth, glowing like sunset clouds.

Minsheng looked over the flowers and said, “Scarlet arrow flowers are Penglai’s blood. They grow only because generations of Xian Moutain Guards have watered the soil with their lives.”

Jingyu looked far into the sea of flowers, something stirring in him. He had only ever glimpsed them through torn window paper—these blooms grew in every season, in every corner of Penglai.

“Father wanted us both to inherit the Langgan Guard’s mantle,” Minsheng said quietly. “But he was too eager.”

Jingyu dropped his head. “My name is ‘Jingyu’—perhaps Father once had hopes for me. But I really am just a block of dull, rotting wood. Of course he’s disappointed.”¹ 驚 (jīng) – to startle, to shock, to surprise 愚 (yú) – foolish, stupid, ignorant. I’m not sure but it could imply someone who seems foolish or unremarkable but is capable of surprising others—or someone aware of their perceived shortcomings.

He raised his face again and looked at his brother with envy. Minsheng was radiant—tall, upright, with unmatched skill in swordplay. Everything Jingyu lacked. He glanced down at himself: callused hands and knees from crawling, a body stunted and weak. They were the same age, yet seemed worlds apart.

“So what if he’s disappointed?” Minsheng said. “Were we born just to meet his expectations? As long as you summon the courage to live, just to survive and take the first step, you will achieve great things.”

He placed a hand on Jingyu’s shoulder. “You’ll surpass me, Jingyu.”

That hand felt like a surge of power through his body, stiffening his spine. The wind swept past, whipping their sleeves into flight. Jingyu felt something sprouting in his chest—light, almost like he could grow wings and fly.

Words suddenly burst from his chest, unbidden.

“I’ll be greater than Father one day!”

Minsheng blinked in surprise, then broke into a smile.

Jingyu, like a calf bursting from the womb, let the pent-up energy inside him surge out.

“The Langgan Guard only protects Penglai,” he declared. “But I’ll cross the Heavenly Pass, climb to the summit, and look down upon the four corners of the world!”

“And when that day comes, I want to travel the world with you, side by side!”

Having spilled such bold words, he immediately flushed with embarrassment, quickly covering his mouth. He’d read enough books with his brother to know—crossing the Heavenly Pass was a grave crime. He had just committed a serious offense by even thinking it.

But a creature that had long lived in darkness could not help but long for the sky. That had been a desire buried deep inside him.

The wind stirred again. The field of scarlet arrowflowers rippled.

Jingyu turned toward his brother and met his gaze.

To his surprise, Minsheng didn’t scold him. Instead, he smiled softly—a smile as gentle as spring rain.

He said, “Alright. If that day ever comes, I’ll go with you.”

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  驚 (jīng) – to startle, to shock, to surprise 愚 (yú) – foolish, stupid, ignorant. I’m not sure but it could imply someone who seems foolish or unremarkable but is capable of surprising others—or someone aware of their perceived shortcomings.