HCAW 29

Chapter 29: Flute of Dreams and Haunting Souls

That night, Chu Kuang had a nightmare.

He dreamed he was holding an arrow. The bamboo-wood shaft was lacquered, painted with a golden-red coiling dragon, fierce and arrogant. The fletching was made of golden eagle feathers, and the arrowhead was armor-piercing.

He had dreamed this scene countless times. In the dream, he was inside a gilded tent; the bronze pot steamed with fragrant wine, and shadowy figures crowded around, gambling with dice. The clink of copper coins echoed on the table, glinting brightly. Amid those disdainful stares, he was arguing heatedly, face flushed, veins bulging at his neck. Then a wave of despair washed over him like a tide. Suddenly, he gripped the arrow tightly and drove it hard into his own forehead.

In that instant, searing pain shot through his skull. It felt like a line drawn from crown to sole, as though someone had split open his flesh and poured molten bronze into him. The world shattered. The line between heaven and earth, day and night, black and white—everything blurred and collapsed.

Chu Kuang jerked awake from the nightmare.

He gasped, chest heaving, as if dragged from the bottom of a river. His clothes were drenched in cold sweat.

He often dreamed of his past—sometimes it was his master dying before his eyes, sometimes the torture he suffered in the Yu Ji Guard’s estate. But most dreams were fragmented, just like tonight’s—hazy, broken. He could never piece together a full picture of his past from those shards.

Chu Kuang blinked, trying to calm himself in the darkness. When he turned his head, he realized he was on a bed, squeezed beside Fang Jingyu on a cattail mattress.

And as fate would have it, Fang Jingyu was also awake. Those ink-black eyes were staring coldly at him, his face dark with fury.

Still mad about the broken bow? Chu Kuang thought groggily.

While Fang Jingyu had spent half a month training with the Yu Yin Guard, Zheng Deli had once asked Chu Kuang to punish a local thug. Chu Kuang had taken a bamboo-wood bow from Fang Jingyu’s cabinet and used it to injure the man—but the bow had broken in the process. When Fang Jingyu found out, he’d exploded with rage and chased him around with a broom. But now, his anger seemed to be about something else entirely.

“Had enough?” Fang Jingyu said through gritted teeth.

Chu Kuang blinked in confusion, still not understanding.

Fang Jingyu said, “It’s the middle of the night, and you’re sneaking into my bed again. Clinging to me in your sleep, mumbling nonsense… You nearly twisted my wrist off. Let go!”

Chu Kuang looked down and saw that, sure enough, he was clutching Fang Jingyu’s arm like a drowning man grabbing driftwood. He let go and saw the bruises forming on Fang Jingyu’s arm. Instead of showing remorse, he feigned confusion and said, “Master, I’ve got a sleepwalking condition. And your bed looked nice and cozy—was just trying to warm it up for you, that’s all.”

Fang Jingyu snapped, “I didn’t ransom you back to warm my damn bed!”

But as he said it, he noticed Chu Kuang’s pale face, soaked in sweat, and remembered he’d caught a chill the day before—his illness likely hadn’t passed, and he was still wounded. So Fang Jingyu softened his tone.

“The fire in the side room probably wasn’t warm enough. Are you freezing? I’ll make some medicine for your cold.”

Chu Kuang shook his head. At some point, his fingers had quietly crept up to pinch the corner of Fang Jingyu’s sleep robe, clinging like a frightened child. Fang Jingyu, having heard his sleep-talking earlier, knew he’d had a nightmare.

He said gently, “Don’t worry. I’ll follow Deli’s new prescription—it won’t be that old one with the numbing powder. If the side room’s too cold, just stay here tonight.”

With that, he steeled himself and pried Chu Kuang’s fingers off. He pulled on a robe, found the cold remedy Zheng Deli had left him on the desk, and checked the instructions under the moonlight. Then he rummaged through the medicine chest, picked out the herbs, and brewed them over the fire.

Once a bowl of thick, bitter black liquid was ready, he brought it back and handed it to Chu Kuang.

Chu Kuang was already sitting upright, hands folded quietly, lost in thought. He took the bowl at the bed’s edge and slowly drank it down.

The night grew still. Moonlight draped the window like gauze. In the silence, even the insect cries seemed sparse—like the world held only the two of them. Fang Jingyu suddenly felt a flood of words rise in his throat, but in the end, he only asked the most urgent one:

“You said before you were supposed to take someone out of Penglai. What was that about?”

Chu Kuang perked up and straightened his back, staring directly at him. “What, you interested now? When are you coming with me?”

“Go where? I just want to know why you want to cross the pass. Who told you to do it? Do you know that if this is discovered, it’s a capital crime?”

“It was my master’s request. As for the reason—I still don’t know.” Chu Kuang replied.

“Who is your master?”

Chu Kuang stammered, unable to get out a word for a long while. At last, he mumbled, “Master is Master. Surname: Master. Given name: Master.” Then he added, “I can’t read, all right? I’m a rough man—how should I know if he’s called Zhao, Qian, Li, or Sun?”

“And just because he told you to escort someone out, you obey? Even if it’s a mission that’ll get you killed?”

Chu Kuang’s cocky expression faded. He lowered his gaze and said, “Master saved my life. I’m just repaying a life with a life. I think it’s fair. Besides… it was his dying wish.”

Fang Jingyu saw the faint sorrow in his brows and knew he wouldn’t get anything else out of him. So he changed the subject.

“Right. There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Chu Kuang looked up at him.

“Your eye—what’s the matter with it?” Fang Jingyu pointed to his right eye. It was a crimson double pupil—two pupils joined together, gourd-shaped. Normally it was hidden under his messy hair, and few ever noticed it. Double pupils were rare, often seen as either auspicious or ominous signs.

Chu Kuang replied, “What else? Born with it.”

“Born with it?”

“Not much different from a normal eye, but maybe because it’s a double pupil, my field of vision’s a bit wider,” Chu Kuang said, then grinned. “But it stands out too much. I don’t like showing it.”

He gave a little shake of his head. His hair was wild, as if hacked short with a dull blade, barely brushing his shoulders—like a shaggy stray dog. Fang Jingyu, almost without thinking, reached out to neaten it, but the moment he lifted his hand, Chu Kuang flinched violently as though struck by lightning, his whole body recoiling in fear.

“What’s wrong?”

“A-Are you still mad at me?” Chu Kuang asked, trembling.

“Mad about what?”

“For breaking your bamboo bow… and sneaking into your bed in the middle of the night…” he mumbled, head hanging low, unable to hide the unease in his eyes. Fang Jingyu stared at him, and a thought suddenly occurred—did Chu Kuang think he was about to be hit?

It wasn’t an unfounded suspicion. Fang Jingyu had seen his body while tending his wounds after bringing him home. That thin frame was covered in scars—mottled and vicious, like the traces of many brutal beatings. Maybe it was the nightmare still clinging to him, but this usually brash, unruly “beast in clothes” looked wilted now, like a frostbitten leaf—pitiful and meek.

Fang Jingyu reached out to touch his shoulder, and as expected, Chu Kuang immediately bared his teeth and flinched back—it seemed his shoulder was injured. Fang Jingyu unfolded the mattress and said, “You’re covered in wounds, and the bedding in the side room is too hard. You won’t sleep well. Just rest here—I’ll take the other bed.”

He picked up his bamboo pillow and started to leave, but Chu Kuang grabbed him, shamelessly insisting he stay. Said it was warmer if they squeezed in together. Whenever this guy was haunted by nightmares, he’d turn into a frightened bird—afraid of the dark, afraid of the cold, needing someone to talk to. Fang Jingyu had seen him like this before, but never this badly. It must’ve been a terrible nightmare. With no choice, he stayed and lay down beside him.

They lay side by side, moonlight gently spilling over them like layered silk. The night was still—only the sound of each other’s soft breaths. For a moment, Fang Jingyu felt like he was back in childhood, clinging to his brother, begging not to be sent to the outer courtyard at night. Back then, his brother’s arms, scented faintly with incense, were his nest.

Strange. He was clearly lying beside a suspect, not his brother—yet his heart felt inexplicably calmer. Fang Jingyu sighed deeply. Lately, he thought of Fang Minsheng more and more. To dispel the gloom pressing in, he forced himself to stop thinking, closed his eyes, and drifted into sleep.

But the moment he closed his eyes, dreams of his brother filled his mind. He dreamed of his brother guiding his hand to draw a bamboo bow in a grove of green bamboo, of chasing butterflies together in a courtyard blooming with crepe myrtle, of his brother playing Parting Is Sorrowful on a sheep-bone flute in front of the stables—music so mournful it moved him to tears, though he didn’t know whether he cried for the song or for his brother…

At dawn, Fang Jingyu snapped awake, tears already streaming down his cheeks.

He sat up and wiped them away in a panic, his chest still aching like it had been slashed. He looked around—the bed beside him was empty. From the street came the sound of monks knocking wooden clappers—morning had come. Chu Kuang had probably gone to stoke the fires and sweep the courtyard.

Fang Jingyu sat in silence, waiting for the dull ache in his heart to ease. But just then, he heard music.

It was a clear, cold sound, like a stream of spring water trickling into his ears. He was stunned—it was Parting Is Sorrowful.

He jumped up, didn’t even bother to put on a robe, and ran out with his shoes half on. He recognized it—the plaintive wail of a bili flute, like a cold wind sighing, like ancient cypress leaves rustling. The tune was exactly the same as the one Fang Minsheng used to play for him!

The music seemed to be coming from the courtyard. Fang Jingyu rushed there, panting—but saw no one. At some point, the music had stopped. The parasol tree rustled overhead, casting cool shadows. He looked around, heart full of loss and confusion.

Was I dreaming? Had longing for his brother driven him to hallucinate? Had he imagined the music?

Then he caught sight of Xiao Jiao and Chu Kuang crouched by the well, heads pressed together, whispering furiously. He walked over and asked in a calm voice:

“What are you two doing?”

Xiao Jiao looked up, startled. She glared at Chu Kuang and said, “We… we might’ve dropped the bucket in the well!”

Chu Kuang said, “I was trying to draw water, but the rope was old. Snapped clean through and the bucket fell in. I’ll find a bamboo pole later to fish it out.”

Fang Jingyu sighed, shook his head, and walked away.

The two watched his distracted figure slowly disappear. Only when he was out of sight did they huddle close again. Xiao Jiao whispered urgently, “Chu Kuang, put that bone flute back right now! If Tight-Lipped Gourd finds out we were sneaking around playing his precious flute, he’ll beat our butts into pancake batter!”

Chu Kuang pulled the sheep-bone flute from his sleeve, wiped it off, and muttered, “It’s called a bili.”

“Whatever it’s called!” Xiao Jiao said. She’d seen how Fang Jingyu always treasured the thing, carrying it like a sacred relic, but had never once played it. So she’d egged Chu Kuang on last night to steal it while Fang was sleeping. To her surprise, though Chu Kuang seemed like a crude, uncultured oaf, he played the bili skillfully—the music flowed like drifting clouds and running water. She couldn’t help but praise:

“Seriously, Chu Kuang, you’re amazing at this thing! Sounds like some court musician from the celestial palace. Did you learn somewhere?”

Chu Kuang scratched his head. “Never learned.”

He stared at the bone flute, deeply confused. Yeah, he had never learned to play any instrument. So how did he know how to play this one? Could it be that, like the blood in his veins, like his double pupil, this too was something he was born with?

He couldn’t figure it out. Nor did he want to. He casually wiped the bili with his sleeve and tucked it back into his robe.