HCAW 53

Chapter 53: Madness in Longing

Chu Kuang’s lips were soft and fever-warm, like silk, like syrup—his kiss was searing and sweet, yet Fang Jingyu tasted only bitterness within it. Their lips and tongues tangled, and before he knew it, Fang Jingyu’s hand had reached to the back of Chu Kuang’s head, pressing him in tightly. Chu Kuang clutched his wrist as if holding onto a lifeline. Moonlight melted over them like molten silver, setting the blood in their bodies aflame.

His mind burning and hazy—perhaps from too much wine—Fang Jingyu couldn’t think clearly. Why had he kissed Chu Kuang? It was a question even he couldn’t answer. Only that this man so closely resembled someone he longed for with all his soul, someone who made him lose control. Perhaps from lack of breath, Chu Kuang let out a low whimper. Saliva slipped from the corner of his mouth. He looked like a little animal caught in a net. Fang Jingyu snapped out of it and shoved him away.

Chu Kuang landed amid the bedding, hissing softly from the jolt to his aching head. Fang Jingyu’s push seemed to jolt him awake too. He sat up sharply, furious. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I should be asking you that,” Fang Jingyu retorted. “A few jeers and now you really think you’re a cut-sleeve? You bit my lip first—I haven’t even kissed my future wife, and now I’ve kissed you!”

Chu Kuang sneered, “Wasn’t I just doing you a favor? Figured you were a virgin idiot who didn’t know how to please a wife, so I was teaching you out of the goodness of my heart.”

In an instant, they were at each other’s throats again, bickering like always. That rare flicker of tenderness was snuffed out. Fang Jingyu cursed himself for ever mistaking Chu Kuang for someone else. How could someone as crass and wild as this ever be someone he once knew? Chu Kuang, tipsy and shameless, reached down toward him. Fang Jingyu slapped his hand away coldly. “What now?”

Chu Kuang leered, “You get so shy over a kiss—just checking if you’ve got any manhood at all.”

“Filthy talk!” Fang Jingyu snapped. “Shall I scrub that mouth with pig-hair brushes? I’m going to sleep. Keep your dog claws to yourself.”

He lay down, still uneasy. Just to be sure, he tied Chu Kuang’s hands with a hemp rope to keep him from groping around in his sleep.

“You kinky bastard,” Chu Kuang snorted. Fang Jingyu pretended not to hear. As he lay down, Chu Kuang added, “Let’s see if you sleep soundly. I might just pull your trousers down in the middle of the night and let you feel the breeze.”

Fang Jingyu sat up again, stuffing a bundled cloth in his hand, ready to gag him. Chu Kuang teased, “If you gag me, I might just ride you in your sleep.”

“What do you want, exactly?” Fang Jingyu ground out.

“I just want you to show me some damn respect,” Chu Kuang snapped. “You don’t know what I went through to get you out of Penglai. I busted my ass for you, and still you treat me like dirt!” He burrowed into the blanket. “Little fool, you’d better remember—I get splitting headaches at night. Serve me well, and maybe I won’t mess with you.”

Fang Jingyu always felt aggrieved when talking to him, and tonight was no exception. He turned over, seething—but come midnight, he realized Chu Kuang hadn’t been lying.

Soft, rapid cries of pain stirred Fang Jingyu from his sleep. He rose to see Chu Kuang curled into a tight ball, arms around his head, clearly suffering.

“Chu Kuang?” he whispered.

Chu Kuang lifted his face. It was a mess—tear-soaked, crumpled like a ruined sheet of paper. His eyes, just for a moment, gleamed with clarity. He reached for Fang Jingyu, struggling, and pleaded, “Save… me.”

Fang Jingyu froze.

“Please… save me…” Chu Kuang begged, clutching him in despair, his face twisted in pain and helplessness. Fang Jingyu thought: could this really be the proud, wild, untouchable King Yama? Did he too have moments of such vulnerability?

Chu Kuang fell into a nightmare, tossing and turning, muttering, begging, cursing—crying Fang Jingyu’s name again and again. His face, the way he called that name, was all too familiar. Jingyu thought of Xiao Jiao calling him “Tight-lipped gourd,” of neighbors calling him “Officier Fang.” Besides the Langgan Guard and Zheng Deli, only one other had ever called him that so intimately. But that person had supposedly died eight years ago.

Could it be…?

No. It was a foolish, impossible hope.

With no answers and no way to ease his pain, all Fang Jingyu could do was cradle Chu Kuang gently through the night. Eventually, the pain eased and Chu Kuang dozed, but just before dawn, he awoke again and sat up cross-legged, rubbing his temples.

“What now?” Fang Jingyu groaned, rising sleepily.

“My head hurts too much. Can’t sleep,” Chu Kuang said, calm and alert. “And if I can’t sleep, you don’t get to either. I’ve been thinking—our sword match was unfair. How can I beat you in swordplay? Swords are my curse. The moment I touch one, my gut turns upside down.”

“Go to sleep,” Fang Jingyu sighed. “No one cares who won.”

“I care!” Chu Kuang yelled. “If you won’t rematch me, I’ll wake you with my dick.”

There he went again—raving like a mad dog. Fang Jingyu knew the only way to shut him up was to play along. “What do you want to compete in now?”

“Archery.”

“How convenient—for you to pick what you’re best at.”

“Fine, then no weapons—let’s compete in zither, chess, calligraphy, or painting.” Chu Kuang poked him several times to jolt him awake.

Enraged, Fang Jingyu sat up and wrestled with him. They made a mess of the cabin until, realizing this lunatic wouldn’t give up, he gave in with a sigh. Chu Kuang even tried to drag in the soldiers to judge, but Fang Jingyu stopped him.

“We’ll do this in private. If I lose, at least I won’t lose face in public.”

Chu Kuang reluctantly agreed, then grinned, “If we’re competing, there’s gotta be a punishment. What should it be?”

Fang Jingyu caught the glint in his eye and quickly said, “Loser must answer one question—truthfully.”

Chu Kuang curled his lip. “How boring.”

Neither of them could play the zither, so they turned to other instruments. Fang Jingyu took out a bili and awkwardly played “Parting Is Sorrowful.” The shrill, harsh notes sounded like a rooster’s crow. Chu Kuang doubled over in laughter. “Who plays like that?”

Fang Jingyu flushed with embarrassment and irritation. Chu Kuang snatched the bili from him and played a tune of his own. This time, the melody was bitter and clear, flowing like rippling water. Fang Jingyu watched him mouth the reed and thought of those silk-like lips, his cheeks burning hotter. But another thought struck him—those mournful, yearning notes were the very same tune his elder brother had played for him ten years ago.

He suddenly felt as if caught in a dream. Chu Kuang sat with eyes lowered, fingers pale and long as they danced across the holes of the bili. Those hands were not meant only to hold a bow—they must have once held a sword, a brush. That quiet elegance sat strangely on him, yet somehow felt natural. When Chu Kuang finished, he cast a sideways glance and tossed the bili back with a smug, “Watch and learn.”

But Fang Jingyu’s thoughts were far from present. He only murmured a vague reply.

Chu Kuang pestered him for another match—this time, brush and ink. He rummaged up some hemp paper and Fang Jingyu’s brush case and inkstone. Fang Jingyu, stiff and hesitant, wrote a few lines from The Three Hundred Characters, but the strokes were atrocious. Chu Kuang mocked him mercilessly, yet when his turn came, he fumbled and stomped, unable to produce a single character.

Fang Jingyu thought to himself he must have been mistaken. The person he remembered had been learned and eloquent—how could he ever have confused him with such a crude, illiterate brute?

The match ended, and Fang Jingyu said, “Best of three—I win.”

“Where’d you get three rounds from?!”

“You lost the sword match earlier, didn’t you?”

Chu Kuang clearly refused to accept the outcome. He sprang up, ready to fight, but Fang Jingyu quickly pinned him down and said, “A wager’s a wager. Keep this up and I won’t pay your wages or look after you when your head aches.”

That threat finally settled him.

Fang Jingyu said, “You lost. Time for your penalty. We agreed—I ask you a question, and you have to answer truthfully.”

Chu Kuang’s expression changed. Sweat beaded on his brow. He nodded reluctantly.

“You are…” Fang Jingyu looked at him, countless emotions welling up at once. For a moment, he couldn’t even speak. “Fang…”

But before he could finish, Chu Kuang’s face twisted. He covered his mouth, coughing violently, doubled over. Fang Jingyu rushed to catch him—his face was drained of color, eyes trembling wildly. Just like before, his body shook violently, and this time, he spat up a mouthful of black blood.

Fang Jingyu froze. He quickly laid him down. Was this the result of the meat?

He hurried out of the cabin to fetch Zheng Deli. Zheng Deli took Chu Kuang’s pulse and said it felt hollow—like grabbing a green onion stalk. Outwardly he seemed healed, but inside, his wounds were still severe. His strange behavior of late, Zheng explained, was likely due to these lingering internal injuries he hadn’t even realized he carried.

After much trouble, Fang Jingyu finally fed him the newly brewed medicine and sat down, letting out a long sigh. His body felt like it had fallen apart, crushed under the weight of a giant python. Earlier, Zheng Deli had said, “Jingyu, don’t blame yourself. It’s a strange affliction. Yes, it likely came from that meat, but from what Miss Qin told me, if you hadn’t fed him that meat back then, he might not even be alive now.”

Fang Jingyu didn’t know what to say. Back then, there had been no time to hesitate—he had used the meat gifted by the Da Yuan Dao leader to save Chu Kuang’s life. But now the hidden damage had surfaced, and he had no way to help.

He settled Chu Kuang down and went below deck, dazed. The banquet was in chaos—soldiers lay drunkenly sprawled everywhere. A few were still awake, sitting by the lamps playing dice. They called out, “Your Highness isn’t asleep yet?”

“My hired man fell ill,” Fang Jingyu replied. “I couldn’t sleep.” He briefly mentioned Chu Kuang vomiting blood, leaving out anything related to the Da Yuan Dao. The soldiers listened, visibly concerned. Fang Jingyu added, “There’s nothing to be done now but let him rest.”

He sat and chatted idly with them under the lamplight. One sighed, “Brother Chu carries a lot of old injuries. Who knows if this sickness came from his time in Penglai or before, back here in Yingzhou?”

“Yeah,” another said, “Back then, Ah Chu led the charge like a madman. We went through hell together. No one knows how many wounds he took!” Talking about Chu Kuang’s feats, the soldiers became animated, as if telling the tales of a legend. They fought to recall how King Yama once killed enemies with ferocity, often exaggerating for effect.

As it turned out, these past years, Yingzhou had been under the control of a Xian Moutain Guard commander—ruthless and cruel—who often clashed with the remnants of the Yu Jue Guard’s men, originally born slaves. The Yu Jue Guard’s men, unable to stomach the atrocities, had risen up. Though their leader had long died, many slaves still rallied under her name. Lei Ze Camp was one such rebel force.

One sighed, “Back then, Brother Chu left Lei Ze because he had no choice.”

Fang Jingyu listened closely, learning much about Chu Kuang’s past. He nodded quietly. Then someone sat beside him—it was the performer from earlier, Ling’er.

Ling’er whispered, “Ah Chu’s a favorite in the border camp. That face of his and those skills? Plenty have tried to bed him.”

Fang Jingyu said nothing. If only Chu Kuang would stop spouting filthy talk and throwing himself into his arms every night.

Ling’er chuckled shyly and whispered, “Your Highness, I’ve got a portrait of Ah Chu. A soldier who used to be a painter made it. We found it when sorting through his things after he died. Want to see it?”

Fang Jingyu couldn’t help his curiosity and nodded. Ling’er fetched a yellowed hemp scroll from his quarters and handed it over.

Fang Jingyu unrolled it—and his heart skipped a beat.

It was a painting of a young archer: short-sleeved jacket, leather bracers, bow slung over his back, hair wild and loose. He looked bold and handsome, but his eyes were cold as frost.

This was Chu Kuang—eight years ago.

Suddenly, the knot of doubt that had long plagued Fang Jingyu began to loosen. He stared at the painting, trembling all over.

Eight years ago, Chu Kuang looked exactly like his elder brother—Fang Minsheng.