HCAW 17
by LiliumChapter 17: A Dying Flame
The morning sun rose high, its light spilling into the house. Qin Jiao rubbed her eyes as she woke, only to find the bedding beside her sunken in—Chu Kuang was already gone.
Startled, she instantly became alert. But when she looked to the bed, she was left speechless. There, Fang Jingyu and Chu Kuang were sprawled across it, both drooling in their sleep, entangled in each other. One had wrapped the iron chain around the other; the other had an arm clamped around his companion’s neck. It looked as if they had battled viciously in the night—yet still managed to fall asleep like babies.
She walked over and touched Fang Jingyu’s forehead. The fever had subsided. Relieved, she left to fetch water from the well and washed her face with soap beans.1Soap beans usually refer to the seeds of the soap pod tree (Gleditsia sinensis), also called Chinese honey locust or soap pod (皂荚 zàojiá in Chinese).
Just as she was rinsing her mouth, someone knocked on the gate—tok tok. Qin Jiao set down her boar-bristle brush and ran to open the door. Outside knelt an old woman in a green robe.
The old woman bowed low and respectfully asked, “Is Young Master Fang residing here?”
Qin Jiao noted the woman’s spotless clothes embroidered with stalks of green bamboo. Though “Langgan” meant pearls and jade, it also evoked images of lush bamboo—these stalks were the Fang family’s crest. Sure enough, the old woman added, “I am a servant of the Fang family. I have something to report to Young Master Fang Jingyu.”
Startled, Qin Jiao nodded quickly. “I’ll fetch him.”
About half an hour later, several people sat around the cedarwood table in the main hall.
Fang Jingyu, pale-faced, ladled congee from the pot and served it to everyone at the table: Qin Jiao, the elderly servant woman, and Chu Kuang—who was slumped facedown beside them.
Though he had drunk the medicine Chu Kuang prepared last night, which helped his fever subside, Fang Jingyu still coughed a little. He was well enough to wash up and prepare breakfast.
But Chu Kuang, after their scuffle for the bedding last night, had gotten the short end of it. Today he looked utterly listless. Qin Jiao felt his forehead and exclaimed, “Now it’s Handyman Chu turn to catch a cold!”
Chu Kuang weakly insisted he was fine and went to reheat the leftover medicine from last night.
But the fool, now sick and sluggish, had forgotten he’d laced the medicine with numbing powder. After drinking a full bowl, he collapsed on the spot. Fang Jingyu, resigned, dragged him to the table and let him sleep there.
So now, as Fang Jingyu ladled porridge for everyone, he mulled over the conversation he’d had with Chu Kuang the night before.
He hadn’t answered Chu Kuang’s question directly—because it was too wild. Could those four Immortal Mountains beyond Penglai really exist? And the land called “Chang’an,” beyond even Gui Xu? Crossing the Heavenly Pass was already a serious crime—how could he, a Xian Mountain official, harbor such treasonous thoughts?
At that, his gaze dimmed. He knew he’d already entertained heretical thoughts. Otherwise, why would he have kept that Da Yuan Dao book in his home?
After breakfast, he poured tea for the old woman and asked, “Aunty, what brings you here?”
The old woman, hands trembling, accepted the tea. “To think Young Master would personally pour tea for an old servant like me—I’m unworthy…”
Fang Jingyu replied, “I’m no longer a young master of the Fang family. There’s no master-servant relation between us—only host and guest. There’s no need to feel uneasy. Please speak freely.”
“I came to ask you to return to the Fang estate.”
Though his face remained calm, a shadow passed between Fang Jingyu’s brows.
The old woman sighed. “I know you were alone and neglected back then, and later left the house. But your father is gravely ill now, like a dying flame. I feared that if you weren’t informed, you two would never meet again in this life…” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, tears falling.
Fang Jingyu was silent for a long time. “So, you want me to go home to see my father one last time?”
“Yes, yes. I don’t want you to be left with regret.”
“Was this request from him? Or did you all decide on your own to come find me?” he asked coolly.
The old woman’s hand froze mid-dab. After a long pause, she lowered her handkerchief and stammered, “The Master… never said so, but…”
Though she didn’t finish, Fang Jingyu understood. His lashes fell, shadowing his jet-black eyes. How could his father want to see him? In all his years at the Fang estate, his father had never once truly looked at him. That place held too many raw, bleeding memories—his oldest wound.
The old servant clutched her cloth anxiously, hesitating to speak.
Fang Jingyu sighed at last. “Very well. I’ll go back with you.”
_____
The Fang estate was overgrown with weeds, the pines and cypresses shadowy and deep.
Following the old servant through the back garden, Fang Jingyu felt a rush of memory. When he left home years ago, the grounds were already in some disrepair, but at least still presentable. Now, it was nothing but desolation. Dust veiled the carved pillars and painted windows. Ivy choked the millstone walls. Among the weeds in the garden bloomed clusters of red arrow flowers. In Penglai, these flowers bloomed year-round. You could find them anywhere. Their blossoms spread like wildfires—yet could not burn away the chill carried by the wind.
He and the old woman passed through the winding corridors. The estate was silent and cold—like a tomb. As they approached the servants’ quarters, they could hear wooden fish (an instrument) and drums echoing within. The old woman said, “They’re monks brought in to recite prayers for the master’s illness.”
“How long has he been sick?” Fang Jingyu asked.
“Since before you left. After your departure, it worsened. They say it’s madness, though it doesn’t quite match. He’s been treated for nearly ten years with no cure. He also has an old injury in his leg—can barely move now.” She sighed again. “The Fang family is no longer what it once was. We can’t even afford proper wages. All the money used to hire the monks comes from the old servants’ own pockets.”
These words sat bitter in Fang Jingyu’s heart. Though he had cut ties with the family and never received a single benefit since leaving, he still hated to see people suffer unfairly.
“And in all this time, you’ve received no wages?” he asked.
“The Langgan Guard once saved our lives,” the woman said. “Years ago, during a harsh winter, when many were freezing and starving, your father took us in to work as servants. He gave us life. How could we abandon him over money?”
Fang Jingyu nodded. Though his face was calm, his heart ached deeper. His father could be so kind to outsiders—yet to him, only ice.
As they passed more rooms, he saw elderly servants trembling as they lit fires to cook. Their patched clothes, frostbitten noses and ears marked them as the sick and weak. Fang Jingyu looked at them in surprise.
The old woman explained, “After your father was disgraced, he was confined to the estate. The emperor ordered guards posted. They’ve only just been removed in recent years. Most of the household staff were reassigned or dismissed. Only us old, broken lot remain. But even if we’re broken fruit, our hearts are loyal. Everyone still working here is someone faithful.”
There were few people left in the estate, which made the vast halls feel all the more desolate and cold. The sleeping quarters and residential wings were mostly empty, their furnishings cleared out. The garden’s crape myrtles had long since withered; only a single holly tree still trembled in the wind.
The old servant led Fang Jingyu to a three-room courtyard and said, “The Master lies ill inside.”
Fang Jingyu nodded and saw a limping old servant carrying a tray of medicine coming his way. He stepped forward to take it. “Let me serve him.”
He pushed open the sliding panels and entered the main chamber. Bamboo curtains hung from all corners, cloaking the room in dimness. A wide canopy bed stood in the center, wrapped in thick gauze veils like a giant cocoon. Within was total silence.
Suddenly, a shrill scream burst from within the veil, as sharp as claws scraping across his eardrums.
“Who! Who dares step foot in the Fang estate? Who are you? You’re not one of the usuals! Have you come to seize my son? Damn you! The Langgan Guard is here—who dares harm my family? Come on, strike me! Cut open my chest and let me bleed! Hahahahahaha!”
The voice was so chilling it made Fang Jingyu break out in goosebumps. But he remained composed, walking over to set the wooden tray down on the side table.
“Time for your medicine, Father.”
The wild screams subsided.
After a long pause, the voice returned, now hoarse but gentle:
“Minsheng… you’ve come.”
Fang Jingyu’s eyes trembled. He quickly lowered them and answered softly, “…Mm.”
“You haven’t visited your father in so long, has it been eight years? I know you’ve been traveling, with no time to return, but you should’ve at least sent a letter. How has your swordsmanship progressed? Have you been practicing well? You’ve always been gifted, a prodigy even, dueling with masters from a young age. One day, you’ll surpass the Langgan Guard—you could even inherit the name of the Tianfu Guard.”
Fang Jingyu said nothing.
The voice continued, “Minsheng… you’re of age now, aren’t you? There’s a gold-plated bronze chest in my room. Inside is all the New Year’s money I saved for you over the years, and a fine sword. It was forged by ancient masters, made from Western Sovereign Iron, tempered in Kunlun fire, and quenched in the blood of the Emperor Jiang. It’s named after the line from Tangwen: ‘Contains light, invisible and imperceptible. Whatever it touches, it passes through unnoticed.’ Take it. It was a gift from Emperor Bai. It belongs to you now.”2 That line comes from the ancient text 《汤问》 (Tangwen), one of the “Inner Chapters” of the Huainanzi.
Fang Jingyu only repeated, “Father, time for your medicine.”
But the voice seemed not to hear. It muttered, “Minsheng… my days are numbered. Soon I’ll be in the underworld. The only person I care about is you. You’re the one who will carry on our legacy. Remember, always—protect Penglai, and keep it safe. Do you still recall the Fang family’s ancestral creed? Recite it for me.”
Fang Jingyu replied, “‘Lay down your life with loyal blood; serve the Emperor with utmost devotion.’”
“And which emperor does that refer to?”
“To His Majesty, the current emperor—Changyi.”
A pause. Then the voice exploded like a storm:
“Unfilial child! Utterly ignorant! The Fang family serves only one emperor! Through generations—heart and blood—we serve only Emperor Bai! Only Emperor Bai!”
The entire room seemed to shake with the force of the shout. Dust rained down from the rafters. The voice, choked with coughing and rage, sounded like a man coughing up blood from his shattered lungs. Fang Jingyu’s eyes widened, and he lowered his head, deeply disturbed.
He had always known that his father remained loyal to the former emperor—and that was why he had fallen from grace. But hearing such treasonous words aloud still sent a chill through him.
Yet, looking out at the withered courtyard, he could only sigh. The Fang estate had fallen into such ruin that even words of rebellion went unheard.
Silence fell again. Outside, snow began to drift gently down, like gray-white ash.
The coughing returned—rapid and ragged, like notes played on a string about to snap. After a long while, the voice rasped, “Minsheng… come here. Let Father have a look at you.”
Fang Jingyu hesitated a moment, then crawled forward on his knees and knelt before the bed. A withered hand reached out from the veil, like a dead branch, and touched his face—his brows, nose, lips. As it explored his features, the hand began to tremble.
“You’re not Minsheng. Who are you?” the voice asked shakily.
“I am… Jingyu. Fang Jingyu.”
A terrible silence fell over the room. Outside, the flower bell beneath the eaves jingled faintly in the wind.
Then, from within the gauze curtain, a heart-wrenching, manic laugh erupted.
“Jingyu! You’re Fang Jingyu! Where is Minsheng? Where is he?!”
“Elder Brother… Fang Minsheng passed away eight years ago.”
“Lies! You’re lying! How could Minsheng die? Who killed him? What sword? What blade? Where is his body? You’re lying! Lying!”
The shrieking went on, until the withered hand lashed out like a claw, grabbing the medicine bowl from the cabinet and hurling it at Fang Jingyu’s face. The hot liquid splashed down his cheeks, and the porcelain shattered on the floor with a sharp crack.
“Get out! Fang Jingyu, get out! Who let you step into this house? You are never allowed to return!”
Hearing the commotion, the old servant rushed in and pulled Fang Jingyu away.
She was heartbroken at the sight of him and quickly fished a handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe his face. “Young Master, I’m so sorry. I should’ve known better. The Master’s madness has worsened lately—I should’ve been the one to deliver the medicine.” But Fang Jingyu shook his head.
“It’s nothing.”
He knew all too well—this was how his father had always treated him. Then, now, always.
The old woman led him to the ancestral hall. The space was pristine and clean, clearly tended to regularly. On the offering table sat a blue-and-white incense burner and a pale celadon incense box. A bundle of white reed stood before the altar.
Fang Jingyu lit the incense and bowed before each ancestral tablet, one by one. But when he reached a particular name, his body froze.
It was the memorial tablet of his elder brother, Fang Minsheng. Carved from chestnut wood, four inches square. It stood quietly among the others, untouched by dust.
He stared at it for a long time, then bowed deeply.
Beneath the holly tree in the courtyard, old servants in bamboo-pattered robes sat on low stools, pasting together paper clothes. The sun had come out without notice, chasing away the cold gray clouds. The shadows of bare branches stretched across the ground like cracks in ice. A breeze stirred the flower bell under the eaves—jingle jingle, its sound crystal clear. Fang Jingyu looked back at the bell, and for a moment, it felt like he saw a trace of the past.
He saw a bright summer day from years ago, when the Fang estate was still vibrant, its halls blooming red like fiery clouds. Fang Minsheng had carried him on his back, running along the veranda. The air was thick with the fragrance of crape myrtle flowers, and they were like butterflies, flying together.
“Jingyu!”
He thought he heard his brother calling his name. But when Fang Jingyu turned, there was only a courtyard in ruin. Moss coated the broken steps, the empty halls lay silent. The past had long turned to dust.
Those days he’d once spent with Fang Minsheng had been buried here too, in this tomb called the Fang estate.
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