HCAW 58

Chapter 58: Diverging Hearts

Once again, Chu Kuang was tormented by nightmares.

The tortures and torment he had endured in the past replayed like a lantern show—this had become a nightly occurrence. Yet he could only watch, unable to tear himself away from the nightmare. When he next opened his eyes, he found himself lying in the cabin room of the Lei Ze ship. The moonlight outside was clear and pure, silvery like frost, filling the room. But in his eyes, the cabin was shrouded in darkness.

Because he could clearly see the black shadows rippling throughout the room—each one a version of his past self, clinging to him like glue.

One of the shadows drifted over, whispering to him, “You sleep so soundly, at peace with yourself—have you forgotten the ancestral teachings? Forgotten your mission?”

Startled, Chu Kuang looked up and saw the shadow slowly take form under the moonlight—wearing a silk eye patch, a snow-white archer’s robe embroidered with ink bamboo, refined and striking, and bearing a face identical to his own.

Another shadow moved closer and cursed, “Shameless! You’re consorting with Fang Jingyu—he’s your—” The rest of the words were muffled, likely because he didn’t want to hear them, so they never reached his ears. That shadow also revealed its true form beneath the moon: a boy in elegant robes, still youthful and childlike, stamping his feet in anger, yet also looking just like him.

The shadows surged one after another. Some had filthy hair and shackled necks, some were covered in whip scars and blood, some wore tattered clothes—but all of them shared his face. Now they were shouting in unison:

“Shameless wretch! A filthy whore who got his ass torn up, and you still dare walk this world?”

The curses gathered into a storm. Chu Kuang heard them shout:

“With filth like you, you think you’re human? You even have the gall to live?”

Suddenly, Chu Kuang punched toward the air, and the shadows scattered. The cabin returned to silence. He clutched his throbbing head, curled up tightly, cold sweat pouring from his skin, muttering to himself again and again:

“Don’t listen. Don’t listen.”

“You’re not anyone else… You’re just Chu Kuang. Just Chu Kuang, who doesn’t have to think about anything.” He whispered, trembling.

After a long while, he staggered out of bed—but couldn’t hold back the violent nausea welling up in his gut. He knelt by the bed, dry heaving. Nothing came out, only a splitting pressure in his skull. Just then, the cabin door knocked, and a soldier entered.

“Ah Chu, are you awake? Anywhere feeling unwell?” the soldier asked with a smile, but upon seeing Chu Kuang’s snow-pale face, exclaimed in alarm, “You look completely unwell!”

Chu Kuang recalled—he had drunk too much, then sparred with Fang Jingyu, and during that time, the aftereffects of that meat slice had triggered another round of blood-vomiting. He had passed out. Now trembling, he gestured, and the soldier kindly brought a basin of hot water. Chu Kuang shakily washed his face, while the soldiers whispered nearby:

“Ah Chu and His Highness are getting on real well—sleeping together and all. Could it be he’s… expecting now?”

Chu Kuang caught his breath and asked, “Don’t talk nonsense. Where’s Fang Jingyu?”

“His Highness went with the others to see Ruyi Guard. But the storm’s heavy now, so they’ll probably return late.”

Chu Kuang nodded, thanked them, and lay down to rest again. The next day, when he opened his eyes, the rain had stopped—but Fang Jingyu still hadn’t returned. His headache wasn’t so bad anymore, so he got up, descended the ship, and stepped outside.

Outside, Yingzhou remained just as familiar. The sky was thick with rain clouds, and the houseboats lay scattered like a labyrinth.

Chu Kuang walked along the winding floating bridge. All at once, his vision went black.

When he came to, he found himself lying flat on his back, clothes disheveled, covered in dust. Passersby saw him and recoiled in disgust. Chu Kuang understood—he must have had another seizure.

He had few moments of clarity. Often, he would collapse without warning or watch himself do mad things—crawl around wildly, kick and punch at others, scream uncontrollably, his emotions a storm he could not rein in.

He picked himself up, brushed off the dust, pushed through the fearful crowd, and arrived at a boathouse. Hanging from its eaves was a plaque with large brush-written characters—it was a pawnshop.

Chu Kuang entered. The interior carried the scent of sandalwood. Behind the wooden counter sat an old man with a goatee, wearing round spectacles. Seeing Chu Kuang, the man blinked a few times, then smiled:

“Back in Yingzhou again?”

Chu Kuang nodded, pulling out a piece of broken silver and placing it on the counter. “I’m here to redeem something I left long ago.”

This was the last bit of reward silver he had from the Immortal Palace.

The old man’s gaze softened with nostalgia. “It really has been a long time. Five years, has it? Maybe more?” Chu Kuang didn’t reply—he was never good with small details. The old man turned and searched the sandalwood shelf, eventually retrieving a lotus-patterned box. Opening it, he took out a yellowed imitation jade thumb ring and handed it over.

Chu Kuang received it. The ring was just as smooth and delicate as before, clearly well cared for. Before leaving Yingzhou, he had worried about dying in a clash with the Xian Moutain Guard, so he had pawned this ring here under pretense, telling the old man he would return with silver to redeem it. He had once saved the man’s life, and out of gratitude, the man had never sold the ring.

This thumb ring was a keepsake from his master. It bore an inscription in archaic script. Chu Kuang couldn’t read, and though he had asked others, no one could decipher it. His master had told him that when he could one day read it, he would know his name. Chu Kuang thought he would never be able to—he would rather be a lifelong illiterate. The dumber you are, the happier you are. The clever ones who read and write always carry the heaviest burdens.

He thanked the shopkeeper and turned to leave—only to bump straight into someone.

Chu Kuang opened his mouth to curse, but a strong hand grabbed his shoulder and seized his arm.

A worried voice said urgently, “You’re still not well—how could you run off on your own?”

Chu Kuang turned and saw Fang Jingyu, his face damp with sweat.

Fang Jingyu had returned from Ruyi Guard’s ship, but couldn’t find Chu Kuang anywhere. He’d searched high and low, and finally found him here in front of the pawnshop.

Chu Kuang said, “What do you mean ‘not well’? I’m fit as can be.”

Fang Jingyu’s face remained cold as he tugged Chu Kuang back. “No. You’re strong on the outside but still weak at the core. You need proper rest.”

Then his eyes caught the jade thumb ring in Chu Kuang’s hand, and he frowned. “What’s that?”

Chu Kuang jerked his hand away, suddenly guarded, hostility flashing. “It’s my master’s keepsake. You’re not allowed to touch it!”

Fang Jingyu said, “Nonsense—who knows where you picked that up?” He reached into his robe, only to feel that his own fake jade ring was still sitting securely inside. His expression shifted oddly. Chu Kuang didn’t know why his expression had changed, only hugged the ring warily as Fang Jingyu pulled him along the way.

Once back aboard the Lei Ze ship, Fang Jingyu pushed him firmly onto the bed. “Rest well. We’ve got a long road ahead, and it won’t be easy.” After a moment, he hesitated. “There’s something I want to ask you.”

Perhaps from walking too much, Chu Kuang was starting to feel dizzy again. Those black shadows that haunted him flickered once more before his eyes. He held his forehead and squinted. “Go ahead.”

Fang Jingyu sat beside the bed, eyes lowered as he looked at him. Outside, the rain tapped gently against the windows, like a veil of embroidery stitched over all of Yingzhou. Chu Kuang suddenly felt as though that gaze had landed somewhere deep in his heart—soft and fine little sprouts were starting to bud.

Fang Jingyu asked softly:

“Are you… Fang Minsheng?”

Chu Kuang’s eyes slowly widened. In that instant, a darkness swept over his vision.

The shadows surged in from all directions, surrounding him. Bleeding, empty eyes stared into him; hands covered his eyes, clamped over his ears, and seized his throat.

Again.

He couldn’t hear what Fang Jingyu was saying—he only knew that if he answered, he would fall into an abyss from which he could never return. He heard the whispering of the shadows once more, layer upon layer, overwhelming like a crashing tide: “You still think you’re human? You still have the face to live?”

More voices shouted, “You filthy bastard! Would’ve been better if you died at the hands of the Yu Ji Guard!”

Uncontrollably, Chu Kuang began to tremble. Right now, he was just the ignorant Chu Kuang. So long as he remained that way, he could live out his days like an ordinary person. But the moment he remembered the past—he would no longer be himself.

“Chu Kuang” would die, would cease to exist. So he could only be Chu Kuang. In that way, no matter how horrific the past was, it would have nothing to do with him.

Cold sweat poured from him. He panted shallowly, and when he blinked again, the shadows had disappeared.

Meeting Fang Jingyu’s eyes, he saw hope in them—but he only shook his head coldly and said:

“I’m not.”

Fang Jingyu closed his eyes. His face could not hide the disappointment. But a moment later, he composed himself as if nothing had happened, stood up, and went to the corner of the cabin. From his travel pack, he took out a set of clothes and placed them before Chu Kuang.

“What’s this for?” Chu Kuang was still wary.

Fang Jingyu’s expression showed nothing. “Your clothes are full of holes, aren’t they? If you keep dressing like that, people will laugh. Wear something decent.”

Back when he escaped Penglai, Chu Kuang had been punched through the chest and stomach by the Yu Ji Guard. Though he’d since changed his underclothes, he still shamelessly wore the same tattered outer robe.

Chu Kuang curled his lip. “No way. Why should I? I like looking like a beggar. If I dress too well, people’ll start drooling over me and want to jump me!”

Fang Jingyu rolled his eyes, then pulled a silver coin from his pouch and set it in front of him. “If you change, it’s yours.”

Chu Kuang’s eyes lit up. He snatched the coin and eagerly stripped, hurriedly throwing on the new outfit. But once it was on, he drooped and grumbled, “Slick like snot… Feels awful to wear.”

It was a snow-white silk outfit embroidered with bamboo patterns. Not as opulent as the fine silks of the Fang manor in days past, but still good quality—Fang Jingyu had saved it from the travel funds Mule had given them.

Fang Jingyu helped straighten his collar, then stepped back and looked him over, but couldn’t say a word. He gazed at Chu Kuang like looking at a familiar face from the past—nostalgic and sad. Chu Kuang, irritated, elbowed him. “When can I take this off? I feel terrible in it!” Fang Jingyu handed him another silver coin, and he immediately shut his mouth.

Fang Jingyu sighed. “You look just right in clothes like this.”

Chu Kuang didn’t care what he meant—he just felt that the longer he stayed around this man, the worse his headaches got. Fang Jingyu handed him another coin. Chu Kuang narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “What? You trying to sleep with me?”

“No,” Fang Jingyu replied flatly. “I just want you to call me something else. We’ve left Penglai—there’s no more master and servant. I won’t call you Laborer Chu anymore, and you can stop calling me master.”

Chu Kuang took the silver with a sugary grin. “Thanks, big brother.”

Fang Jingyu’s face darkened. That wasn’t the answer he wanted. In fact, it was the opposite of what he wanted. Chu Kuang caught the change and quickly corrected himself when Fang Jingyu handed him another coin. “Thanks, daddy.”

Fang Jingyu looked even worse.

Chu Kuang asked, “Then what should I call you? Sir? Husband?”

Fang Jingyu snatched all the silver back in a flash. “I’ve changed my mind. You’re still Laborer Chu. You’re not getting these, and I’m docking three months of your wages.”

As expected, Chu Kuang sprang up like a scalded cat, yelling curses. “You penny-pinching rat bastard! You stinking little prick! Give it back!” The word “little prick” (契弟) could mean both a crude insult and, in slang, “sworn younger brother.” Strangely enough, it suited Fang Jingyu just fine. So he stuffed the silver back into Chu Kuang’s hands with a smile:

“Exactly like that.”

And then Fang Jingyu turned and walked out of the cabin, leaving Chu Kuang standing dumbly in place. He frowned in confusion, thinking to himself:

“What does that mean?”

“Does he want me to be his sworn brother?”

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Xiao Fang: “Let’s try some substitute play.”