HCAW 18

Chapter 18: A Hollow Dream Deepens Sorrow

Ten years ago, at the Fang estate.

On this day, the gardens were bustling with guests, and the air was thick with festivity. The magnolias had just bloomed, their petals snow-white tinged with blush, their fragrance sweet and pervasive. Servants in blue livery bustled back and forth like flowing water, and the courtyards echoed with cheerful voices.

But just beyond a single wall, in a quiet courtyard with its sliding panels tightly shut, a frail young boy was struggling in the dark.

The boy was all bones and skin, his flesh stretched thin like paper. His ribs jutted sharply, and his whole body was filthy—clearly no servant had come to clean or clothe him for days. Sweat, urine, and feces clung to him, fleas jumped about, and a foul stench filled the air.

The room was nearly pitch black. With all the household help busy outside, no one had come to light a lamp for him. He slowly crawled off the bed, inching with difficulty toward the door. In the corner sat a wooden tray, holding a bowl of cold, spoiled food, around which a few small flies buzzed. The boy dragged himself over, took the bowl in his mouth, and used his tongue to gather up the sour rice, swallowing it bit by bit.

Not long after, someone finally came. It was a sharp-faced, high-cheekboned maid. She took one look at him and scoffed:

“Filthy. How many days has it been since your body was scrubbed?”

The boy pressed his lips together and said nothing. After finishing the food and licking the spilled broth from the floor, he lay motionless on the ground, a flicker of fear in his dark eyes.

The maid stepped into the room, pinched her nose, and lifted his ragged clothing with disgust before tossing him into the a tub in the courtyard. The boy splashed into the water, flailing weakly, but he was too feeble to keep himself afloat. Before long, he sank, his body going still.

She hauled him out, and he sputtered, coughing violently and vomiting water onto the ground, drawing even more disgust from the woman. She tossed his dripping body back into the room, where he landed like a heap of wet mud.

“Today’s the master’s birthday feast. You stay put in this room. Don’t show your face and ruin the guests’ mood, understood?” she said with sharp disdain.

The boy stayed silent.

The maid stepped forward and kicked him in the head. “I said, did you hear me?”

He grimaced in pain, then slowly nodded. Born with a condition that left his bones soft and pliant, he had reached twelve or thirteen without learning to walk. Within the Fang household, he was treated as nothing more than filth. The family head, Langgan Guard Fang Huaixian, had never once looked at him. His daily life was worse than that of dogs and pigs. Though he had a small courtyard and nominal servants, in truth he was subject to abuse and contempt.

To the household servants, he was a cripple with no future. Whenever they were in a foul mood, they used him as a punching bag, beating him with brooms and sticks. Sometimes they even strung him up by the neck, kicking away the stool beneath him just to watch his face turn red and purple as he gasped for air and soiled himself. They didn’t bother feeding him properly, either—just dumped food onto the floor to watch him crawl like a dog, licking it up with his tongue.

They all believed this boy would never rise above his miserable state. He was just an unwanted shadow.

This boy was the Fang family’s second son—Fang Jingyu.

Though the second son by blood, he was scorned by the Langgan Guard, and his life was filled with unrelenting misery. Now, soaked to the bone, Fang Jingyu crawled back into his room. With great effort, he removed his wet clothes, clumsily dragged them to the bed frame, and laid them out to dry. Then he forced his feeble limbs to move again, inching back into his clothes. The simple act took him nearly half an hour.

He was used to days like this. It was said that he had been born at dusk, and it seemed he had been born into a long, endless night.

From beyond the window suddenly came a string of laughter, clear and light like silver bells. Fang Jingyu’s heart trembled at the sound, and he dragged his body over. On the other side of the wall was the family school, and his ears were sharp—he could often hear the tutor lecturing inside. For much of the day, he would lie motionless on the wooden bedboard, listening intently to the lessons. He had memorized quite a bit of the Three, Hundred, and Thousand classics,¹These three texts were traditionally used to teach children in ancient China, so they are often grouped together in education-related settings.  yet he still didn’t know the strokes of the characters, nor did he have the hands to practice writing them.

The frail boy pressed his head against the window frame. Sunlight streamed in, warm and itchy like the brush of a cat’s paw. Through the slit, he saw several noble girls in embroidered robes whispering and peeking toward the school entrance. He followed their gaze—and there, beyond the blooming crape myrtles, stood a tall, refined figure, surrounded by guests like stars orbiting the moon.

Fang Jingyu withdrew, then crawled to another window and peered out through a hole in the wall.

There stood a poised youth in brilliant white robes embroidered with ink bamboo, a golden dragon belt at his waist, and a silver nine-notched sword hanging at his hip—radiant as jade. The courtyard had been arranged for a feast, and the guests surrounded this young man, raising cups and exchanging smiles. He turned slightly, revealing a face of striking brilliance—fair as polished jade, eyes bright as the morning star.

That was his elder brother—Fang Minsheng.

The two were born of the same mother, on the same day, yet they were as different as heaven and earth. Fang Minsheng was noble and spirited, while Fang Jingyu was like a creeping insect—frail and wretched. One was a favored son of heaven, the other scorned as filth.

Guests exclaimed, “Young Master Minsheng is a prodigy! Surely he’ll inherit the mantle of the Langgan Guard and defend Penglai in days to come!”

Others praised, “I hear he’s a genius in all eighteen martial arts, learns instantly, and never slacks off. Even in childhood, he showed incredible valor. A few years ago, while escorting the immortals on a hunt, a fierce tiger attacked—and it was Young Master Minsheng who drew his sword and fought it off, saving the immortals’ lives. You can still see the scar from the tiger’s claws on his brow.”

Before long, the guests surged around the boy, raising their cups in unison.

“Young Master Minsheng!”

“Young Master Minsheng!”

Fang Jingyu lay silently behind the window hole, watching the golden sunlight spread across his brother’s face.

Even that bright and noble youth had one imperfection: during his battle with the tiger, he’d lost an eye. Fang Minsheng wore a silk eye patch patterned with bamboo, and beneath it, a faint white scar peeked through. Yet the scar did nothing to mar his handsome face—instead, it lent him an even bolder, more heroic air.

As the sun slanted westward, the guests began to disperse, the banquet tables were cleared from the courtyard, and the cheerful clamor faded. Only a small shadow remained, quietly pressed behind the paper window, watching the figure of his older brother.

Seeing the courtyard empty at last, Fang Minsheng stepped beneath the holly tree and unsheathed his silver sword, giving it a graceful swing.

He was practicing the newly learned “Ten Strokes in Harmony” style—one of the Forty-Nine Taishang Sword Forms. As he moved, it was as though ten streaks of swordlight danced through the air. With each swing, the blooming crape myrtles swirled like a red storm, their petals fluttering down in a fragrant flurry. His blade moved with elegance and force; he looked like a calligrapher painting midair with ink—clad in snowy white robes, exuding quiet brilliance.

Fang Jingyu watched, entranced, his face pressed so tightly to the window that red marks bloomed across his cheeks.

“Come out,” the white-clad youth suddenly said as he sheathed his sword. “If you want to watch swordplay, do it openly.”

Fang Jingyu trembled all over, hastily backing away from the hole he’d poked through the window paper.

But the white-clad boy’s voice was calm. “What’s there to be shy or afraid of? I just came back from learning this technique with my teacher and had no one to spar with, so I practiced a few moves here. If you want to keep watching, come outside.”

He held his sword loosely and didn’t walk away, waiting patiently for the one in the side room to emerge. After a long while, the screen door creaked open a sliver, and a thin, timid figure crawled out.

As soon as Fang Jingyu made it past the threshold, he squinted hard—he hadn’t seen sunlight in ages. Crawling across the ground, he suddenly felt a deep shame. In front of Fang Minsheng, he was like a dirty cloud tarnishing the stars.

Fang Minsheng’s eyes widened slightly. “Who are you?”

“I… I’m Fang Jingyu. Your… younger brother.” The words seared his tongue like hot iron. He lowered his head. Dirty, pitiful, like a mangy fledgling—how could he ever compare to a soaring swan?

“I’ve heard the servants mention your name, but I’ve never seen you,” Fang Minsheng said. He walked over, crouched down, and met his eyes with a gaze clear and steady, like a lotus pond after the rain. That gaze seemed to burn Fang Jingyu, and he instinctively curled up in fear. Fang Minsheng asked, “Do you like swords?”

“Y-yes…” Fang Jingyu stammered. How could he not? For hundreds of days and nights, he had pressed himself to the window or climbed trees just to catch a glimpse of his brother’s sword practice—each movement dazzling and fluid, the sword like frost, the man like a dragon. The sight left him spellbound.

Fang Minsheng smiled. “I know you often watch me practice. Don’t you usually climb the holly tree next to the house and peek at the training yard from there? If you like it, come practice with me. I’ll teach you a few moves.”

He spoke with careful formality, like a well-taught boy of thirteen or fourteen—disciplined and solemn beyond his years.

Fang Jingyu stared in astonishment. What a strange person! He hadn’t even flinched at the filth on him—he spoke as though they were old friends. Jingyu whispered, “I—I can’t walk… My bones have been weak since birth…”

He could only crawl, his limbs barely strong enough to drag him forward. Every time he climbed that holly tree, it took him two or three hours and left him scraped all over—and earned him beatings from the maids. But he endured it gladly, because from that tree, he could watch his brother wield a sword.

“That’s only because you haven’t learned the right technique,” Fang Minsheng said. He reached out and took Jingyu’s hand. Jingyu flinched, worried that the grime on his palm would stain his brother’s, but Fang Minsheng didn’t mind. Suddenly, a warm current flowed from their clasp—clear as a spring—tracing its way through Jingyu’s energy points.

“Calm your mind. Focus your breath. Channel your qi into your muscles and bones, and your limbs will gain strength,” said Fang Minsheng.

Jingyu tried doing the same with his legs and—miraculously—managed to stumble upright. After a few shaky steps, he collapsed again, sweating and exhausted. Fang Minsheng said, “Your foundation is weak, so you can’t hold the energy for long. It takes practice. Come with me.”

He bent down and lifted Jingyu onto his back. Jingyu blushed furiously. “B-brother…”

“What is it?”

“I’m not allowed out of my room. If the maids find out, they’ll…”

They’ll shove my head into the water vat until I nearly drown. But he swallowed the words and only said, “They’ll be angry. And they’ll punish me.”

“Why punish you? I’m the one who asked you to come out. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me,” Fang Minsheng said solemnly. “Besides, I want to see my brother. What crime is that?”

Jingyu’s face turned even redder. Carried on his brother’s back, he felt a strange, unfamiliar peace. They were twins—born the same day, of the same mother—but their mother had died during their birth, and Jingyu’s weak bones had earned him only scorn from their father. He had grown up without love from either parent. But now, from his brother, he felt something like warmth. And that scared him.

Fang Minsheng carried him into his own quarters. The room was bright and clean—an inlaid zitan bed, a half-moon redwood table with a pot of lush bamboo, the air scented faintly with cloves and herbs. Sunlight poured in, gilding everything in golden light.

Jingyu had never stayed in a nice room before. He looked around with wide eyes, unable to hide his curiosity. Fang Minsheng called for a servant, and before long they brought in hot water. Then he dismissed them, rolled up his sleeves, folded a cloth, and began gently washing Jingyu’s face and hair.

Soon the water in the tub had turned black with grime. Jingyu flushed. “I… I’m too dirty…”

“Everyone gets dirty. That’s why we wash,” Fang Minsheng said. “Have the maids not been taking care of you?”

Jingyu nodded.

Fang Minsheng snorted. “If they won’t care for you, then move into my room. I’ll wash your face and help you clean up myself.”

Fang Jingyu was stunned. After a moment, he stammered, “B-but…”

“We’re blood brothers. It’s only right that I do these things for you,” Fang Minsheng said. “Why should they have locked you away for over ten years, keeping us from meeting until today?”

He sighed. “I’d heard your name before, but Father wouldn’t let me see you. He said you’d already been sent beyond the border to Yingzhou. He also told me not to wander into the outer courtyard, because many of the Fang family’s elders lived there. That’s why I hadn’t seen you until now.”

“It was Father… who wouldn’t let us meet,” Fang Jingyu said, curling in on himself uneasily. “He’s never liked me. Because I was born backwards and caused Mother’s death… and I’m useless—I can’t even walk. He’s always made me stay in the outer courtyard. If he finds out we met, he’ll punish you.”

“Let him punish me, then. I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong. My conscience is clear.” Fang Minsheng’s face was solemn. He took a comb from the vanity, dipped it in water, and carefully combed Fang Jingyu’s hair, removing lice one by one. Then he took a clean robe from his lacquered chest and helped him into it.

His movements were calm and precise. In a short time, Fang Jingyu had been transformed. When he looked into the mirror, he saw a clear-featured young boy staring back. Gone was the filthy, tangled little creature from before. He was entranced by his own reflection.

“Have you ever studied?” Fang Minsheng asked.

“I’ve only listened to the teacher’s lectures… through the wall.”

“Then starting tomorrow, after I finish my lessons and sword practice, I’ll come find you. I’ll teach you.”

Fang Jingyu blinked in a daze. His tongue stumbled. “But I… this…”

“If Father won’t teach you, then I will,” Fang Minsheng said seriously. “Don’t be afraid. If there’s punishment, I’ll take it.”

And from that day forward, Fang Jingyu’s world turned upside down.

The maidservant who usually attended him turned pale when she saw his clean robes. She rushed to ask where they’d come from. When Fang Jingyu told her the truth, she exploded with curses, accused him of stealing someone else’s clothes, and beat him viciously. Then she went off to gossip with the others.

But the very next day, she was dismissed, and a new group of servants arrived. Fang Minsheng came to the outer courtyardas usual, bringing ink, paper, and clean water. He taught Fang Jingyu how to channel qi through his bones, how to write strokes and lines. While Fang Jingyu, hands trembling, practiced his writing, Fang Minsheng sat beside him mending torn clothes. Jingyu peeked over—on the mended patch, a small, delicate trailing-flower motif had been embroidered.

Fang Minsheng came every day. And so, Fang Jingyu’s life gained a reason to look forward. His elder brother was also a strict teacher. Though only thirteen or fourteen himself, Fang Minsheng taught swordplay, calligraphy, and etiquette with solemn precision. When Jingyu tried walking and stumbled, Fang Minsheng didn’t reach out—he stood with arms crossed, silently waiting for him to rise on his own.

To Fang Jingyu, none of it felt difficult. It was as if he’d been lifted from the mud into the clouds. Once, he timidly asked:

“Why… why are you so kind to me?”

“Because we are brothers. Even wagtails by the riverbank will come to each other’s aid when trapped in the wild. Are we humans no better than birds?” Fang Minsheng replied. As he said it, the corners of his lips lifted in a gentle smile, and his eyes were as clear as inked brushwork.

But the good days didn’t last. Their time together was soon discovered by the head of the Fang household. One gossipy servant had let slip that Fang Minsheng visited the outer courtyard daily. The old master, the Langgan Guard, flew into a rage—he smashed a table and shattered a porcelain vase. Fang Minsheng was summoned and harshly scolded, berated until his ears rang.

Fang Jingyu crept quietly from his room, crawling barefoot across the corridor. None of the servants noticed the small shadow moving on all fours along the floor. He crawled to the main hall and heard a thunderous roar:

“How many times have I warned you not to go to the outer courtyard? Not to see that bastard Fang Jingyu?!”

He froze, trembling like a dried leaf in the wind.

“Father, what harm is there in visiting him?” It was Fang Minsheng’s voice, still calm and composed.

“You know the reason. That boy should never have met you! I hear you’ve even been teaching him to read and write? To walk and wield a sword? You’ve got some nerve!”

“I simply believe he should be treated like a person—not a dog,” Fang Minsheng said.

A sharp crack rang out—it was the sound of the Langgan Guard breaking a chair with his bare hands. He growled like a beast, turning to his servants and snarling, “Bring the rod. I’ll break that stubborn boy’s back today!”

Fang Jingyu’s heart thudded violently. He heard a scuffle inside, then the whoosh of a switch cutting through the air. A splash of blood stained the threshold. Inside, the only sounds were of flesh being lashed—no cries, no whimpers. Much later, he saw servants carry out a long bench, atop which lay a blood-soaked figure.

The eldest son had been beaten and now lay bedridden.

News of the punishment spread like a plague. All through the house, people whispered. Fang Jingyu couldn’t sit still, pacing in his room like a thousand ants crawled inside him. He knew the reason Minsheng had been beaten—because of him.

That night was silent. Moonlight fell like cold water. Fang Jingyu slipped through the screen door and crawled over the lotus-brick floor like a cat. When he reached Fang Minsheng’s room, he saw the door was locked. He pressed his weak body against it, managing to open a finger-wide gap.

A feeble voice came from inside, broken by coughs:

“Jingyu?”

“It’s me, brother.” He pressed his lips close to the crack, whispering gently.

“Why are you here? If Father finds out, he’ll punish you. Why did you come?”

“I came… because you’re my brother, and I’m your little brother. I know I can’t walk, and everyone hates me. But I wanted to see how badly you were hurt. Even if I have to crawl, I’ll come.”

There was a long silence inside. Then coughing resumed. Suddenly, a loud thud—a body falling to the floor.

“Brother!” Fang Jingyu cried. Pressing to the door, he peered through the crack and saw a figure had fallen from the bed. A splash of red stained the white garment—his wound must have split open.

“So what if you can’t walk?” Fang Minsheng panted. “Why should that mean you deserve to be hated? You’re Fang Jingyu. You were born free. You don’t need to live by anyone else’s permission.”

Minsheng was too injured to stand. Propping himself up on his elbow, he slowly crawled to the door. Fang Jingyu shoved his fingers into the gap, reaching desperately. His brother’s hand reached through and gripped his fingers gently.

Two figures, low to the ground, joined across the threshold. A warm, tingling sensation flowed from their fingertips to their hearts—like a quiet current, making Fang Jingyu tremble all over.

In the pale moonlight, Fang Minsheng’s face was as white as snow. That ever-dignified young man suddenly smiled. His dark eyes shimmered with a light like starlight scattered across the heavens.

Lying there on the floor, he said softly:

“Look—we’re the same now. I can’t walk either.”

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  These three texts were traditionally used to teach children in ancient China, so they are often grouped together in education-related settings.