HCAW 148
by LiliumChapter 148: Without Benevolence or Reverence
That night, Fang Jingyu helped Chu Kuang into the tent.
The stone chair was too cold, surrounded by biting wind—Fang Jingyu feared his brother’s body wouldn’t withstand it. While Chu Kuang was recovering, he had moved many items from Bai Huan Guard’s post into Emperor Bai’s city, setting up a tent lined with marine beast hides. He borrowed an old mattress from Bai Huan Guard, stuffed it full with cotton and tern feathers, then wrapped Chu Kuang tightly in it before he finally felt at ease.
After sitting in the stone chair for several days, Chu Kuang’s wounds were gradually healing. Though still drowsy, he could now open his eyes and speak. But whenever he awoke and saw Fang Jingyu, his lips pressed into a tight line and his eyes were startled and evasive—like a frightened fawn. When Fang Jingyu sat beside him, he would turn his back and bury his head into the mattress.
Fang Jingyu, too, was consumed with anxiety, unsure how to address this long-lost elder brother. Calling him “Fang Minsheng” felt wrong, and calling him “Chu Kuang” felt even more awkward. As he changed Chu Kuang’s bandages, carefully peeling off his clothing, he found himself blushing. In the moonlight filtering through the tent, he saw his brother’s pale skin—like glazed porcelain—marked with scars, layer upon layer like grim fissures. It made his heart ache.
He gently stroked one of the scars, which made Chu Kuang tremble. Chu Kuang clenched his eyes shut, like a fish laid out on the chopping block. Fang Jingyu’s heart twisted—he brushed a burn mark on his brother’s arm and asked, cautiously,
“How did you get this one?”
Chu Kuang kept his eyes closed, and after a long silence, mumbled like a mosquito, clearly reluctant, “Back when I was a branded slave… seared with a branding iron. There’s a bigger one over here.”
He turned his head slightly, revealing a black dog slave mark stamped behind his neck. Fang Jingyu traced it with his fingers. Chu Kuang shrank away, shifting uneasily.
When Fang Jingyu touched a scar across his chest—a great gash that looked as if it had once split him in two—he asked, “What about this one?”
“In a battle with Yu Ji Guard. That old pig used his gauntlets to claw me.”
As his fingertips passed over a wound on his belly, Chu Kuang said awkwardly, “Most of the ones still bleeding were from Gu Bi Guard. They don’t hurt much, just… persistently annoying.”
“There are plenty more… all from different people, from a long time ago.” His voice trailed off into a murmur, eyelids parting slightly. Moonlight gleamed in his eyes like tears.
Fang Jingyu trembled, waves rippling through his gaze. He said nothing, quietly listening to the story behind each scar. The blades that had once carved into Chu Kuang’s flesh now seemed to pierce his own heart.
When his fingers reached a wound on his shoulder, Chu Kuang suddenly smiled. “Remember this one? You’re the one who gave it to me.”
“I remember.” Fang Jingyu’s heart quivered. He recalled that fierce battle when they met at Baicao Pass. He had once resented Chu Kuang for his madness—almost biting through his wrist—but now, seeing the scar he himself had left behind, he was filled with regret. “Back then I… didn’t know you were Brother Minsheng.”
Chu Kuang said, “You were just doing your duty. I don’t blame you.” With that, he turned away again.
After recounting the tales of all his scars, Fang Jingyu helped him pull his clothes back on, then lay down beside him. Suddenly, he reached out and gently held Chu Kuang in his arms.
Chu Kuang tensed as if struck by an arrow, his body jerking like lightning. But he didn’t push Fang Jingyu away. He had been beaten, flogged, stabbed—but so rarely had anyone held him with such tenderness, like something precious.
Moonlight flowed over the thin clouds, over Guixi, over the two of them. Fang Jingyu whispered,
“It’s my fault… for letting you suffer so much.”
Chu Kuang said nothing. Fang Jingyu continued, “If I had honed my martial arts sooner, if I’d been able to protect you… maybe you wouldn’t have suffered like this every day.”
The words burned as they fell into Chu Kuang’s ears. He shrank deeper into the dark, unable to look at Fang Jingyu. Fang Jingyu held him tighter, locking away any path of retreat. His voice softened: “Brother Minsheng… remember when we were kids? We used to sleep just like this, in the same bed.”
Chu Kuang muttered, “Mn.”
Just that one sound, and Fang Jingyu was overjoyed. Chu Kuang no longer denied that he was Fang Minsheng. Yet his brows were still furrowed, mouth turned downward in sorrow. Fang Jingyu asked, “What is it now? Still upset?”
“No, not really,” Chu Kuang replied.
But Fang Jingyu could not know what was in his heart. At that moment, Chu Kuang felt like he was lying on a bed of nails. He had resolved to die, to let Fang Jingyu never know the truth—that he was Fang Minsheng. Back on the ship in Yingzhou, in the old temple on Yuanqiao, when they pressed their tongues together, made forbidden vows—it was because he had cast aside this life, cared not for the next. He never imagined he would survive long enough to face his brother with honesty.
The thought tormented him like a hundred claws raking his heart. Every time he saw Fang Jingyu’s face, he was filled with shame. Close his eyes, and all he could see was them entangled like snakes, the chaos of rain and cloud, their entwinement a mess of magpies and quails. He thought: Fang Minsheng, you truly have no shame!
Just then, Fang Jingyu said softly, “Rest now. If anything feels uncomfortable, just call me….Brother.”
Chu Kuang was in a complete mess, as though startled awake from a dream. He didn’t reply, simply turned his back with a sulky look.
That night, he was plagued with such thoughts that his head throbbed with fever—and as fate would have it, he really did come down with a high fever before dawn. Fang Jingyu held him close and felt him shivering as if caught in a frozen hell, his forehead burning like fire. In a panic, Fang Jingyu rose to boil medicine, while Chu Kuang seemed to sink deeper into the icy abyss.
Before long, the medicine was ready. Fang Jingyu rushed back and tried to feed him. But the bitter wind had cooled it quickly, so he cupped a spoonful in his mouth to warm it, then lifted Chu Kuang’s head and gently fed him directly. Chu Kuang murmured:
“No… don’t…”
Fang Jingyu said, “If you won’t take the medicine, how can you get better?” Chu Kuang stubbornly turned his head. “Don’t want you feeding me.”
Sick as he was, he acted like a petulant child. Fang Jingyu ignored him and carefully fed him the medicine, little by little. Chu Kuang whimpered and coughed, his eyes red and watery, with no semblance of an elder brother’s dignity. Fang Jingyu thought, He used to take care of me—now it’s my turn.
Chu Kuang, in his haze, thought, Everything’s upside down! I’ve become a fool being waited on, even fed mouth-to-mouth! And then in sudden dread: What kind of brother kisses his own younger brother?
In the end, Chu Kuang gave up struggling, slumping in surrender. Once Fang Jingyu had fed him the last of the medicine, he lay him down. There he was, half-buried in the bedding, hair tousled like soft black feathers, clothes in disarray like someone just ravished. Fang Jingyu touched his forehead—it seemed the fever was subsiding.
“Feeling any better?” he asked.
Chu Kuang glared at him with those fever-bright eyes and growled, “Worse!”
By the time the fever broke, it was nearly dawn. Fang Jingyu, exhausted, fell asleep wrapped in a sea-beast hide. But not long after, he jerked awake and reached out—only to find the space beside him empty.
Fang Jingyu shot upright like a startled carp. He burst from the tent—cold wind cut his face like knives. He shouted:
“Brother!”
Suddenly, dread gripped him. He remembered the moment he’d been separated from Fang Minsheng as a child, and flashes of Chu Kuang collapsing, wounded and unconscious, replayed in his mind. Though standing in freezing snow, his palms felt damp. He looked down at his trembling hands, terrified of seeing them soaked in his brother’s blood.
“What’re you yelling for?” came a voice nearby.
Fang Jingyu spun around—under the clear sky and snow white as jade, Chu Kuang was sitting with Emperor Bai at a game board, bundled in thick robes like a dumpling. He scowled.
Fang Jingyu stammered, “I thought you were gone again…”
Chu Kuang replied, “This place is barren—where could I even go? Worrywart.”
“You had a fever just last night! And now you’re out here in the wind?” Fang Jingyu walked over and saw the game board between them—Emperor Bai sat thinking, unable to make a move, while Chu Kuang’s black pieces held the advantage.
Fang Jingyu was a little surprised. “Didn’t expect you to be so… cultured.”
Chu Kuang huffed coldly, “Your brother is cultured by nature.”
He threw down a piece, mood unreadable. Emperor Bai chuckled, “Not playing on, Minsheng? You seem much better than a few days ago.”
Fang Jingyu glared sideways. “Old biting worm, if you like playing that much, go play yourself. Don’t make my brother sit here freezing.”
The two locked eyes like they were about to rip each other apart. Chu Kuang coughed lightly and looked to the sky—blue as a wash of ink, clear and boundless.
“The weather’s good today,” he said. “And my wounds don’t hurt as much. I’ll go walk around a bit.”
Fang Jingyu was, of course, opposed. Chu Kuang had only just clawed his way back from near-death, and now he wanted to go wander? He scolded him endlessly, but Chu Kuang replied coolly, “Why should I listen to you? I’m your elder brother.”
Fang Jingyu grabbed his wrist, his face cold. “And I’m your prince. When a ruler forbids it, the subject cannot run wild.”
Chu Kuang seethed—he wanted to lunge at him like before and bite him, but now felt that he should behave more properly. He swallowed his anger and returned to the tent.
Outside, the wind howled. Inside, Chu Kuang crawled under the covers. His wounds still hadn’t fully healed, and he was exhausted. Tugging at the blanket, he thought: What exactly are we? The world says brothers are flesh and blood, but we… we’ve pressed heart to heart, skin to skin. There’s no other pair of brothers like us on earth.
As these thoughts tangled in his mind, the tent flap rustled. Fang Jingyu entered, carrying a bowl of medicine. His tone was even.
“Brother Minsheng, time for your medicine.”
He sat beside him and leaned in, clearly intending to feed him again. Chu Kuang panicked.
“I don’t want you feeding me!”
“Why not?” Fang Jingyu asked.
“I can drink it myself…”
“You can drink it yourself—and you can dump it out too,” Fang Jingyu said, his tone as icy as midwinter. “I know you. If you were able to walk, you’d be out feeding it to the fish. You’ve been like this since we were little.”
Chu Kuang trembled. Fang Jingyu really did know him inside out. He turned away, clenched his teeth, and muttered, “Treating me like this is against all moral propriety!”
Fang Jingyu replied, “I’m feeding you medicine. Clearly an act of filial piety toward my elder.”
Chu Kuang felt his mouth freeze, lost for words. Then Fang Jingyu gently stroked his cheek and said with quiet warmth,
“It’s alright, Brother Minsheng. We share no blood ties—at most, we’ve been prince and subject. Even if we’ve committed a crime, it doesn’t violate the Six Codes1imperial legal statutes—formal criminal or administrative laws of the state . In fact, it aligns with the Three Bonds2Three Bonds (三綱): A Confucian ethical doctrine referring to the proper hierarchical relationships: Ruler over subject (君為臣綱) Father over son (父為子綱) Husband over wife (夫為妻綱).”
With that, he leaned in, lips meeting lips. Chu Kuang was forced to swallow another mouthful of medicine and thrashed indignantly. He was usually the expert at throwing tantrums, but now it seemed he’d met his match.
When they parted, Chu Kuang was coughing furiously, face flushed with rage.
“Damn brat! Who taught you to be like this?!”
Fang Jingyu, rarely one to smile, curved his lips in a sly grin:
“Why, Brother Minsheng taught me himself—with great care and personal example.”
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