HCAW 72

Chapter 72: A Sea of Sin, a Sky of Love

Ling’er returned to the open canopy on the pleasure boat, restless and on edge. He picked up his needle case and halfheartedly worked at mending winter clothes, but his mind was elsewhere. Before he knew it, the sky had darkened, and the sunset glowed a deep red.

Just then, the madam burst in noisily. The moment she saw him, she grabbed him by the collar and yelled, “You sneaky little rat! Where did you hide that celadon bottle?!”

Ling’er feigned ignorance. “What celadon bottle?”

“Keep playing dumb and I’ll rip your ears off! The servants saw it—only you went into my cabin. Who else could’ve touched my personal stash?”

With no way out, Ling’er reluctantly retrieved the small bottle and handed it back. The madam weighed it in her hand, frowning. “Where’s what was inside?”

“I… I gave it to His Highness.”

Her eyes narrowed. But instead of getting angry, she covered her mouth with an autumn-silk fan and let out a giggle. “You little monkey, trying to set His Highness up for a roll in the sheets, are you?”

Ling’er didn’t understand what she meant and was still dazed, when the madam said, “Why are you playing dumb? Didn’t you take that softening powder exactly for this purpose?”

“Softening?” Ling’er was horrified. He took out the small vial for a closer look—sure enough, before the word “麻” (numbing) was another character, “酥” (softening), though it had been written so faint and small that he hadn’t noticed. He uncorked the bottle and took a sniff, and only then remembered the scent—sea horse, inch-fragrance, and yellow thread—all ingredients commonly used in bedchamber matters. But that day, he’d been in too much of a rush and failed to realize. Stammering, he said:

“Th-this really isn’t numbing powder?”

“Numbing powder? That stuff ran out ages ago! That’s god-tier aphrodisiac. Rub it on your goods and you’ll grow a few inches, thrust in and out like a hero.”

Ling’er realized he had made a terrible mistake. Panic surged through him. He paced under the canopy in a frenzy. But looking up at the sky—the moon had already risen. If it had taken effect, it would’ve long since done so. Earlier, Chu Kuang had instructed him: once the drug was in the medicine, lock the cabin door without a sound. Ling’er had done exactly that. If the ones inside had truly taken the drug, they’d be calling to heaven and unable to reach earth. If they got out… he was sure to be skinned alive. Possibly literally. Thinking of this, Ling’er’s face crumpled, and he wailed:

“It’s over, it’s over!”

_____

Rewind to some time earlier: chaos reigned inside the cabin.

Chu Kuang saw Fang Jingyu’s face burning red and felt a pang of panic. “Is this really what numbing powder does?” he muttered to himself. He tried to get up but was slammed back down by Fang Jingyu.

Fang Jingyu’s face was burning, but his voice stayed cold as he said, “You’re playing tricks again, trying to move around while still sick? I won’t let you leave.”

His eyes were bloodshot, glowing like hot coals—intimidating to behold. Chu Kuang, irritated, snapped back, “You damned pest, always getting in my way. Do you know who I am? I was fighting the Yu Ji Guard before you were even born!”

“Still not allowed to leave.”

Chu Kuang was about to rage again—but a strange heat surged in his chest, stoking a fire he couldn’t suppress.

Earlier, he had devoured those meat slices to trigger blood vomiting, hoping to bait Fang Jingyu into his trap. But the meat was pure fire in nature, and he’d always gone half-mad after eating it. Why would this time be any different?

The two wrestled again, but this time it was like swallowing a flame pearl—his body burned from the inside out, his mind slipping away. In the end, he locked all four of Fang Jingyu’s limbs and cried, “You won’t let me leave? Then I won’t let you move either!”

Fang Jingyu was burning up. “Don’t grip so tight—I’m burning. I don’t know what strange illness this is…”

“What strange illness? You’ve just been overcome by lust. One look at my beauty and you couldn’t take a step away!”

As he said it, a pained frown twisted his face. He jerked like he’d been bitten by a snake and let out a short, sharp cry. “Ah!” Fang Jingyu turned to look—Chu Kuang’s face was wet, his eyes unfocused, mind gone. Then, like a madman, he lunged and bit Fang Jingyu’s shoulder. Fang Jingyu guessed it was the meat’s delayed backlash and forgave him a little.

Suddenly he felt something warm and wet on his shoulder, dripping steadily. It was scalding—as if someone were crying. He loosened his arms and looked. Chu Kuang’s eyes seemed to weep misty rain, hazy and shimmering. Fang Jingyu said, “So I’m the one who’s sick, and you’re having an episode too? Laughing and crying—how strange.”

Chu Kuang had clearly lost his mind. He clung desperately to Fang Jingyu’s wrist, his thoughts twisted. Half pleading, half throwing a tantrum, he murmured, “Then let’s both stay. You can’t leave either. Please… don’t abandon me.”

Fang Jingyu thought it was another of his tricks—until Chu Kuang kept muttering, “It’s dark and cold everywhere. So many people hitting me with iron rods, burning me with branding irons, whipping me. Don’t leave. Help me.”

Fang Jingyu’s heart clenched.

He’d heard this story more than once. And now, seeing Chu Kuang in such turmoil, he suspected another trap. But that face—those features so oddly familiar to his older brother—and those old scars, that desolation, stirred a wave of helpless pity in him.

One man burned with fever, the other ravaged by drug—both trapped in the same boiling pot. Fang Jingyu’s vision flickered like lantern lights. He saw flashes of himself beneath the holly tree in the Fang estate, being taught swordplay hand-in-hand by his brother. Then curled in his arms at night, inhaling the scent of cardamom, drifting off to sleep. Then being carried through the corridors with bells jingling at his brother’s waist, like cracking ice.

A blink later, Fang Minsheng vanished like a dream—and it was Chu Kuang’s face resting quietly against his.

The heat surged to his heart, blurring his sight. Chu Kuang suddenly kissed him—soft and warm, tongue gently tracing between his teeth like a kitten lapping water. He opened his eyes, and in that close gaze, Fang Jingyu saw mist, silk, and endless longing in those tear-bright eyes. Fang Minsheng and Chu Kuang—two different people—now blurred into one.

When the kiss ended, Fang Jingyu’s heart pounded. Hoarsely, tentatively, he called:

“Brother…?”

In the twilight, everything felt like a dream. Chu Kuang’s eyes flew open. His lashes fluttered. A shiver ran through him. He shook his head faintly.

Fang Jingyu, fevered and dizzy, unable to distinguish sky from earth, grabbed his arms and shook him. “You’re Brother Minsheng, aren’t you?”

Chu Kuang’s face turned ghostly pale. He shook his head again and again, cold sweat pouring down, clearly in pain. But Fang Jingyu, crushed by emotion, suddenly burst out:

“You won’t admit it again. You won’t tell me the truth. You’re the one who left me!”

That wind-and-passion pill seemed to tear down his defenses, laying bare his blood-soaked core. Dazed and delirious, he no longer suppressed his emotions, shouting hoarsely, “You don’t know that I trained with the sword, forged myself into steel, cast off the Fang name—every single thing I did was for you! You think I really wanted to run off and die in front of the Yu Ji Guard? I wanted to stay in Penglai and wait for your return, but you were already long dead. Without you, among the thousands upon thousands of miserable souls in this world, I feel the most wretched. So what’s one more life to lose?”

“I never wanted to be the son of Emperor Bai—I only ever wanted to be your younger brother!”

His voice was like thunder, making Chu Kuang flinch in fear. He shook his head again and again. Fang Jingyu suddenly cupped his face, locking eyes with him, searching for deceit, and called once more, “Brother Minsheng.” Chu Kuang tried to pull away, but Fang Jingyu forced him to turn back and called firmly, “Fang Minsheng.”

Chu Kuang trembled even more. Those three characters (方憫聖Fang Minsheng) seemed to rip open a scab on his soul, forcing him to confront his bloodied past. Even with his head fogged and pounding, he could see that something was wrong with Fang Jingyu. That drug had instead made Fang Jingyu increasingly manic—both obsessed and deranged. Chu Kuang groaned from the pain in his head and said, “I’m not…”

“Then what would make you so?”

A wave of heat rolled off Fang Jingyu’s body, veins bulging on his forehead, eyes blazing like a wrathful Yama. Chu Kuang gave no answer. He simply leaned forward and softly bit Fang Jingyu’s lip, kissing him gently and reverently, trembling with fear. And just like that, the storm inside Fang Jingyu died down.

Chu Kuang was just Chu Kuang—who else could he be? There was so much evidence proving that Fang Minsheng and Chu Kuang were two different people, yet Fang Jingyu stubbornly kept forcing them into one. Mistaking someone’s identity was shameful enough—but to do it here, in bed, made it feel even more unreasonable.

He fell silent, only feeling Chu Kuang’s lips still teasing his own, sweet and soft, desperately trying to please. A sudden wave of bitterness struck him. That kiss had been trained through beatings and threats. Chu Kuang didn’t know poetry, didn’t understand affection—but he’d learned how to fawn like this. Slowly, Fang Jingyu wrapped his arms around him, the two of them sinking together like they were trapped in a swamp.

And in that moment, they forgot everything—the Yu Ji Guard, the dawn battle, the Lei Ze Camp—all cast aside into the clouds. Fang Jingyu regained a sliver of calm. His mind was still hazy with heat, but his voice softened as he whispered, “I’m sorry. I lost my head. You’re Chu Kuang—not anyone else.”

Chu Kuang’s body relaxed as if a weight had been lifted. He answered quietly, like a startled animal, “Yes, I’m just Chu Kuang.”

Yet he still feared Fang Jingyu’s anger. Reaching down, he fondled the shaft. Before Fang Jingyu could stop him, he’d already lowered his head and taken it in his mouth, tongue working softly around it. Fang Jingyu gasped in surprise, a shiver running through him. He suddenly recalled what the madam had said—that such an act, in his current fevered state, might help relieve the heat. Even so, it felt strange. Looking down at the way Chu Kuang skillfully licked and sucked, he felt a pang of discomfort—as if he had seen Fang Minsheng do the same for someone else.

And then came the guilt. Brother or not—what difference did it make? If this man truly were Fang Minsheng, then he’d committed a terrible taboo—a dove and quail thrown into chaos.

At that moment, both men felt as if a raging fire had been lit inside them, burning wildly. When their eyes met—Chu Kuang gazing up, Fang Jingyu looking down—there was so much left unsaid in those gazes, enough to fill a lifetime.

Chu Kuang thought, Let it be. I’ll just follow through. Treat it like offering myself to him.

Fang Jingyu, dazed and breathless, thought, Let it be. I’ll just treat it as saving his life.

And so, slowly, Fang Jingyu entered him. At the first muffled gasp against his neck—soft and tender, like a cat’s paw scratching at his ear—his breath hitched. The sea breeze carried a faint briny scent through the open porthole. In the golden light of dusk, their shadows merged inch by inch.

Fang Jingyu looked down at Chu Kuang, sweat dripping steadily. And suddenly, he thought—if this was a dream, he’d rather live in it forever and never wake up.

_____

The twilight climbed up a scarred leg, then over a body covered in the same brutal markings. Fang Jingyu held Chu Kuang in his arms, heart aching. Chu Kuang’s eyes were tightly shut, fists clutching the bedding, his breath soft and shallow, like a kitten clawing gently—itching the heart.

Just looking at those scars, Fang Jingyu could piece together his past. He had likely suffered countless beatings—and his brother had probably endured the same. That thought spoiled everything. What had seemed beautiful was now hollow. Fang Jingyu clenched his teeth, feeling like he’d only stirred up Chu Kuang’s trauma. But as he tried to move away, he was suddenly pulled back—arms wrapping around his neck.

Chu Kuang was like a snake, like a vine, wrapping him up, refusing to let go.

He nibbled on Fang Jingyu’s ear, sniffling as he whispered, “Your Highness.” And sometimes, in a trembling voice, he’d call, “Jingyu.” The look in his eyes was just like his brother’s. Fang Jingyu’s eyes trembled, heart aching as he indulged in that warmth—until a wildfire ignited in his chest. He pulled Chu Kuang into a fierce embrace. Chu Kuang gasped with every breath, dazed and shivering, occasionally shutting his eyes with a groan, as if his headache had worsened.

Then suddenly, he cried out—short and sharp. His body spasmed violently, as if in agony. Fang Jingyu caught him and asked quickly:

“What’s wrong?”

Chu Kuang clutched his head, coughing as he gasped, “Jingyu… Fang Jingyu…”

“I’m here,” Fang Jingyu said.

But Chu Kuang suddenly opened his eyes. He stared at Fang Jingyu, his gaze different now. He scanned his face slowly, as if seeing him for the first time—face drenched in sweat, expression lost. Then he asked, “You’re… Jingyu?”

Fang Jingyu was baffled. Something was off. Chu Kuang wasn’t speaking like himself—he didn’t sound like the brash, irreverent Chu Kuang at all. He seemed like a stranger—someone he had never met. His eyes flicked downward and saw the two of them joined. Suddenly, he began to tremble violently, mumbling with a choked sob, visibly falling apart.

“I… I… how could we…”

Seeing his terror, Fang Jingyu kissed him, but Chu Kuang recoiled, shaking his head wildly. “We shouldn’t… we shouldn’t have…”

“Why not? You were the one teasing me earlier. Now you’re acting all reluctant. What the hell is this?” Fang Jingyu said.

“…Ah!”

Suddenly, Chu Kuang cried out—and went limp. Fang Jingyu caught his body—it was as soft as cotton, completely unresponsive. His pupils were unfocused, his terrified gaze locked on Fang Jingyu.

Fang Jingyu found it strange, but he’d taken the drug too. The fire still burned fiercely—he couldn’t stop.

And somewhere far away, in a dream unknown, Chu Kuang slowly opened his eyes.

Looking around, he realized he was in a fog-choked world, smoke and mist swirling all around him. Then he heard soft, intimate sounds. Turning his head, he saw shadow upon shadow—indistinct and hazy, like behind a curtain.

And in that moment, he recognized the two figures—it was himself and Fang Jingyu.

He understood now: his body remained in the pleasure boat cabin with Fang Jingyu, but his soul had wandered into this shrouded mist, caught in between.

He didn’t know what this place was—only that he was slowly walking through a thick fog, bow in hand.

Gradually, shapes began to emerge from the mist: lofty mountains, jade-green forests, larks chirping crisply in the trees—it was Mount Guye.

In the distance, a flicker of light drew him in. He walked toward it—it was a campfire. Somehow, night had already fallen, and a biting wind chilled him to the bone. Shivering, Chu Kuang quickly sat beside the fire, only to see the flames flickering, about to go out. Someone else was seated beside him, warming themselves as well.

That figure wore a brocade robe embroidered with bamboo patterns. His face was youthful, but his eyes were bright and piercing. Every feature mirrored Chu Kuang’s own—it looked just like his childhood self.

Chu Kuang’s heart skipped a beat. Then he saw shadows slowly drifting in from all directions. Their faces were identical to his own—these were the phantoms that often haunted his nightmares, berating him, sometimes even goading him to end his life.

At first, Chu Kuang was stricken with fear. But this time, the shadows didn’t harm him. One after another, they settled quietly around the fire like weary travelers in need of rest.

For a moment, silence reigned. It was a strange dream—dozens of shadows gathered around a fire, speaking no words, making no movements, yet the peace between them felt so gentle, so still. Chu Kuang looked up: starlight shimmered overhead, and the moon cast a pale, boundless glow. Far removed from worldly pain, he suddenly wished he could stay here forever.

Then one of the shadows approached and smiled.

“Have you made your decision?”

Chu Kuang asked, puzzled, “What decision?”

“The decision to go to war with the Yu Ji Guard.”

Chu Kuang said nothing, only hugged his knees, small and alone like a forsaken stone. While his body remained on that pleasure boat bed, his soul lingered here. The firelight danced across his face, casting shadows of fear and fragility.

After a long silence, he finally said,

“No… I don’t want to die.”

“But you made grand declarations to Fang Jingyu.”

Chu Kuang trembled violently, voice quaking. “That was just angry talk. I know how terrifying the Yu Ji Guard is. I’ve never once beaten him—every time, I’ve been crushed… His Highness may have the courage to face him, but I don’t.”

Terrible memories came alive again, crawling up his body like countless hands trying to drag him back into the mire. He revealed a vulnerability he would never show to others, suddenly screaming hoarsely:

“I can’t do it—I can’t face death the way he does!”

The shadow listened in silence.

Chu Kuang’s cries echoed through Mount Guye, layer upon layer, until he was sobbing, shuddering violently:

“I’ve had enough. Every time I bleed so much—every time it hurts, and it’s cold… I’m still human! ‘King Yama’ is still human! Of course I fear death… I don’t want to die…”

He felt as if he had turned into a helpless child—only now did he lower his guard, for the first time staring his fear in the face.

The shadow knelt beside him. “You truly don’t want to die?”

“Yes. I want to keep living. I want to see Fanghu, Yuqiao, Daiyu… So many places I haven’t seen. Even though I’ve already helped His Highness escape Penglai and fulfilled my duty… I don’t want to die at the hands of that old rooster. I want to keep protecting him!”

Chu Kuang struck the ground and sobbed aloud. Tears streamed uncontrollably down his face.

For nearly a decade, he had lived in darkness, without dreams or desires. Now, he finally had one—but death lay ahead, the Yu Ji Guard standing tall like a mountain, barring his path.

“If the human part of you wants to live, then let the beast in you go fight the Yu Ji Guard.”

Chu Kuang looked up, stunned, as the shadow reached out and took the bow from his hand. Only then did he realize what he was holding wasn’t Fan Ruo—but a sword, its ebony scabbard wrapped in python skin, its blade gleaming white like fresh snow.

The shadow smiled. “I may be just a dying ember, but I once burned brightly. It’s not you who’ll face the Yu Ji Guard now—it’s me.”

Suddenly, the silent shadows rose one by one, slipping away from the fire just as they had come—quietly, and without a trace. Only the speaking shadow remained, seated across from him. The stars overhead still sparkled, serene and far away, as though all of heaven and earth were listening in silence.

Chu Kuang stared at him, a massive question rising in his heart. He asked:

“Who… are you?”

The shadow replied, “I am your past.”

The fire popped and cracked as a jujube branch burned, sparks flying. Though the flame had nearly died, it suddenly flared, brilliant and warm. The logs struggled in their final death throes, and from their remains, new light burst forth. The glow lit the shadow’s face—it was bright like polished jade, full of boldness and grace. The cheeks were his own, but the expression was wholly different.

Chu Kuang understood at last. He knew this shadow.

A youth trained by the Langgan Guard, peerless in swordsmanship, brilliant and dazzling.

That was his past self—the one he had always refused to acknowledge.

Now that shadow rose with the sword in hand and strode into the mist, bearing the will to die for a greater cause. Light burst before him, as if fire had ignited the horizon, destined to burn for all eternity.

“But… I still don’t know your name,” Chu Kuang said in a daze.

“You already do. I’m not someone else. I’m you.”

The shadow turned to him and smiled one last time.

“I am—Fang Minsheng. The past you, who is willing to die for your future.”

______

The pleasure boat lay in total silence.

The night-watch gongs rang out from the floating bridge—slow, steady, echoing like they struck directly on the heart. It was now the hour of Yin (3:00 a.m. and 5:00 a.m.). The sky was black and clouded, but light seeped through the cracks. In the cabin, someone stirred under a tangle of sheets.

That person gazed at the sleeping Fang Jingyu for a long time. High-bridged nose, tightly pressed lips, long black lashes trembling gently with each breath. Every line was firm and noble. This was his younger brother—grown now into someone quite unlike the child he remembered, yet still just as stubborn.

Perhaps it was the drug—after all the chaos, Fang Jingyu had exhausted himself and now lay fast asleep beside him. The meat slices had always muddled his memories, but just now, everything had come rushing back.

And with it came the realization: even without blood ties, this bond between brothers was still the most forbidden of taboos.

He looked down at the mess on his body and frowned, biting his lip. Inwardly, he cursed:

“Ridiculous.”

He rose carefully from bed, light as a cat. Water and fluids mixed beneath him, dripping with quiet plinks. He picked up his clothes, gave himself a quick wipe with a cloth, and dressed. Slipped on his jade thumb ring and archery gear. Then walked to the bed and locked Fang Jingyu’s wrist with a chain. In no time, he was fully ready.

At last, he returned to the crescent table, where the broken Fan Ruo sword lay in two pieces, along with a walnut-wood bow and Jin Pugu arrows. After a moment of silent reflection, he walked back to the bed and picked up Hanguang from against the wall.

He leaned down, resting his forehead gently against Fang Jingyu’s.

Fang Jingyu still slept, his breath even, like wandering in a sorrowful dream. There was a crystal tear in the corner of his eye.

Chu Kuang let out a long sigh, as if sweeping all his confusion away. Then he smiled—mischievous, like he had ten years ago. He wiped Fang Jingyu’s tear, tucked the blanket snugly around him, and turned to leave.

At the door, he whispered softly:

“Goodbye, Jingyu. Your brother’s off to raise hell now.”