HCAW 79
by LiliumChapter 79: Rain Clears, Clouds Scatter
After the brutal battle ended, dozens of thick iron chains were strung up before Qingyu Gao Palace, woven into a massive, tight net.
At its center was bound an old man—blood-soaked, skin peeled and turned, yet still clinging to life. He drooled and laughed senselessly, already mad.
That he could suffer such grievous wounds without dying was proof of his monstrous nature. And yet, whenever anyone came near, he screamed in terror, “King Yama! King Yama!”
Laborers from all sides crowded in, eyes burning with hatred. It was clear they bore bitter blood feuds against him. They hurled stones and rotten eggs, beat him with sticks, even cut a strip of flesh from his thigh—making the old man wail like a dying ghost.
In contrast to the dark, cold Qingyu Gao Palace, the streets beyond were ablaze with life. One by one, lanterns lit up, until Yingzhou glowed with radiance. The floating bridges bustled like festival markets—laborers stilt-walking, performing peace dances, dragons weaving through the crowd. Everyone clapped and cheered, rushing to spread the word:
“Yu Ji Guard has finally gotten what he deserves!”
Yu Ji Guard, who ruled over Xian Mountain for decades, would never do harm again. The soldiers of Qingyu Gao Palace were locked up in cages by the laborers, who planned to settle accounts slowly. Though rain still fell over Yingzhou, the myriad lights from every household formed a glittering sea, as if hundreds of suns had risen over the ocean, bathing everything in warmth.
The wounded soldiers of Lei Ze Camp returned to their ships to rest. The others wandered the lively streets, hosting banquets and performances. Bamboo flutes and strings played. Dishes rarely touched in daily life—abalone, fish bladder, giant sea snails—now filled the tables, each more fragrant and delicious than the last.
After the battle, Si Chen rested for seven days. Her wounds had finally begun to heal. Because she was Yu Ji Guard’s daughter, her body was sturdier than most—though the pain lingered, her mind had cleared. She sat in a rattan chair, carried by soldiers to the Lei Ze ship’s deck, where a feast had already been laid. People came to toast her, calling warmly:
“Lady Si Chen!” “Si Chen!”
Someone laughed, “If not for Lady Sichen’s orders, we’d never have made it back alive!”
Sichen blushed and waved them off. “What are you saying? You all were brave—it had nothing to do with me.”
Because her injuries had not fully healed, the soldiers didn’t press her to drink. Instead, they crowded around her in cheerful conversation. In that warmth, Si Chen spent a night of comfort, her heart settled.
Later, as the crowd thinned, Ren Straw-Shoes came to find her. He gently pushed her chair into a quieter corner, sat on a stone, and grinned.
“Lady Si Chen, you’re quite the star tonight! I’ve been meaning to speak to you—and it took some effort to find the chance.”
“What is it?” she asked.
Ren Straw-Shoes pulled a wrinkled letter from his chest and handed it to her. “I’ve something to give you. This letter has been with me for many years—left behind for you by the Yu Jue Guard.”
Sichen’s heart pounded wildly, like a nest of rabbits thumping in her chest. She scolded, “Why didn’t you give it to me sooner?”
“The Yu Jue Guard said… only when the time was right would you understand what the letter means. I figure that time is now.”
Si Chen took the letter with trembling hands. Then Ren Straw-Shoes added:
“Actually…Lady Yu Jue Guard always knew you were Yu Ji Guard’s daughter.”
Those words struck her like thunder on a clear day. Her limbs turned cold.
“Not only the Yu Jue Guard—Yu Ji Guard knew too. He had spies placed around you. Lady Yu jue Guard knew that the more she stayed close to you, the more danger she was in. But she said she didn’t want to hide. She wanted to live brightly and honestly. She wanted you to walk tall—even in front of Yu Ji Guard, never bow your head.”
Si Chen’s eyes turned red. She looked down at the letter in her hand—thin, yellowed, like a brittle leaf long forgotten. She asked:
“Do you know what’s written inside?”
“I’ve heard a bit. Lady Yu Jue Guard said it contained her hopes for you.”
Si Chen slowly opened the seal, as though peeling back layers of cocoon.
When she saw the words inside, her face slowly melted into a smile like thawing snow. She closed the letter with great care, pulled out a firestick, lit it, and held it to the page.
Ren Straw-Shoes was startled. “Lady Si Chen, that’s a letter from Lady Yu Jue Guard—precious and irreplaceable! Why are you burning it?”
Si Chen didn’t answer. The letter had only one word. It was the word the Yu Jue Guard wanted her to become—a person like fire, burning bright and warm, giving light and heat.
She looked up. In the sky, the moon shone full and bright, like a jade ring. A breeze stirred, carrying the ash from her hands into the air. It spiraled upward, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, flying into the distance.
______
Bloodied scalpels, silver needles, and shears were neatly arranged in a tray. On the Fenglin ship, the Ruyi Guard washed her hands and placed them on her hips, declaring smugly:
“All done!”
A pale youth lay on the couch, his body crisscrossed with stitches. The Ruyi Guard looked over her work with satisfaction, then handed him a small box with lotus patterns.
“This is goat balm. It’ll heal rot, grow new flesh, and leave no scars. You may look like a mess now, but in a few months, you’ll be smooth as new.”
The youth took it with effort and gave a quiet thanks, his face calm and unreadable. The Ruyi Guard scowled.
“What a gloomy brat. Don’t you know how much trouble I went through to pull out your shattered bones, forge a new iron frame, and stitch it back in? This time, I mixed in Heavenly Mountain gold—it’s tougher, won’t snap so easily.”
Fang Jingyu replied, “I didn’t expect the lady to be so versatile—even a master of metallurgy.”
The Ruyi Guard grinned. “I don’t do it myself, but I have plenty of people who handle hammers and anvils well. If not, how could I fix your busted bones?”
Fang Jingyu slowly sat up—his face turned pale at once. A flash of pain ripped through him like lightning. When Yu Ji Guard shattered his iron bones, the aftermath had been pure agony. He looked down at the box in his hand and asked:
“Is there more of this?”
“You’re greedy, Your Highness. Why do you need so much goat balm?”
Fang Jingyu thought of Chu Kuang—his body covered in countless scars, like centipedes curling across his skin, as if he had been carved apart. He lowered his eyes.
“There’s someone covered in wounds. I want to give it to him.”
The Ruyi Guard raised her brows. “This stuff is rare. I only have the one box. Your body’s like gold and jade—you should use it. Who could possibly be worth more?”
“There is someone,” Fang Jingyu said, nodding. “I’m just Emperor Bai’s son. But he—he dares to call himself the father of the underworld.”
He added politely, “If you happen to find more balm, I’d be grateful if you could save a box for me.”
After exchanging a few more words, Fang Jingyu left the Fenglin ship.
Outside, a light rain blanketed the world. Shouts and laughter echoed everywhere. Fang Jingyu, still in recovery, felt every movement of his new bones scraping against his flesh—each step was like walking on blades.
Not far away, a stage had been set on a floating bridge. Brightly colored oil-paper decorations fluttered. A singer sang in high notes, their voice drawing the crowd. Below the stage, Lei Ze soldiers sat, relaxing. When they saw Fang Jingyu, they called out warmly:
“Your Highness! You’re up already?”
Fang Jingyu shook his head. “Not fully healed yet.”
“Then you need to nourish yourself!” they laughed. Someone shouted, “What’re you waiting for? Bring the pig marrow soup and black chicken!”
Fang Jingyu waved them off, but they grinned, saying, “Since Your Highness can’t drink yet, try our Yingzhou Five-Colored Brew!”
A soldier brought a wooden tray, with five tiny cups arranged like plum blossoms. The drink was brewed from bang vine and cream whey, topped with plums and osmanthus flowers—sweet and clear.
Fang Jingyu took a few sips.
But in his heart, he wondered—
“Would Chu Kuang like this?”
Later, they brought out a dish called “Dragon Maiden’s Beaded Pearl”—fish studded with jade-green lotus seeds—and warmly invited him to join them. As Fang Jingyu ate and drank with them, he thought to himself, “If Chu Kuang were here, he’d be feasting on this with great joy.”
In recent days, he’d spent nearly all his time immobilized on the bed of the Fenglin ship, recuperating from the re-forging of his iron bones, dazed and groggy. Now the cool night wind cleared his mind in an instant. He looked around—Xiao Jiao and Zheng Deli were happily stuffing their cheeks among the crowd, but there was no sign of Chu Kuang.
Suddenly, Fang Jingyu pushed through the people and walked toward a quiet corner. Many called out behind him:
“Your Highness—Your Highness!”
Without turning his head, Fang Jingyu replied, “Excuse me. I’ve something urgent to attend to.”
The crowd thinned. In the sky, the stars grew thick. The drizzle veiled the heavens like gauze. The dark ocean rippled under endless rain, the whole world whispering in shushing murmurs. In the distance, the crowd shone bright. The sea lay black. And he—between them—was a lonely smudge of gray.
Fang Jingyu walked forward. Chu Kuang turned around, and their eyes met.
In that instant, it felt as if there was too much left unsaid between them. Fang Jingyu leaned on a cane, his posture slanted, his face pale and weak. Chu Kuang, also bloodless, clutched a plain, bloodstained silk kerchief. He wore the bamboo-patterned robe that Fang Jingyu had given him, but the thin fabric now hugged his gaunt form.
Chu Kuang smiled faintly. Rain had soaked his dark hair, making it fall softly. He said,
“Your Highness, why shine your noble light on a mutt like me?”
Back when he’d slain Yu Ji Guard, he’d been like a wild devil, stirring storm and blood. Seeing him so quiet now, Fang Jingyu almost thought it a dream. “You’re the true hero,” he said. “You should be seated at the center of the celebration. Why aren’t you with everyone else?”
“I’m your family’s dog. A side act. You’re the lead tonight—if I hogged you, wouldn’t others be upset?”
Fang Jingyu replied, “They all have someone with them. You don’t.”
“Oh? So Your Highness is pitying me?”
“I’m pitying myself,” Fang Jingyu said softly. “Everyone wants me to talk, to toast. But I can’t be everywhere. So I chose the person who needs me most.”
Chu Kuang stared at him for a moment, then turned his head away. “I don’t need you.”
Fang Jingyu suddenly grabbed his hand. Moonlight lit the items in his palm—a bloodstained silk cloth, a plum blossom dagger. Chu Kuang was startled. His hand, tightly gripping the blade, was bleeding.
Fang Jingyu’s gaze sharpened. “Then what were you planning to do with this?”
Chu Kuang averted his gaze and pretended to be casual. “It’s for cutting reed ropes—convenient when doing the job.” 1“辦事” (doing the job) is often used as a euphemism for sex
Fang Jingyu glared at him. “Filthy talk. Shameless.”
Chu Kuang shot back, Hypocritical gentleman. Pretentious.”
At that, something caught in Chu Kuang’s throat. His lashes fluttered, and a look of despair crossed his face. Fang Jingyu asked gently, “What is it?”
Chu Kuang looked down. “I can’t change. I speak foully without thinking.”
“You’ve always been like this—since the day we met. Why should you change? A leopard can’t change its spots.”
Chu Kuang let out a bitter laugh. “You think you know my true nature?”
They spoke in scattered threads. The moon above was clear, but the sea was shrouded in gloom. Chu Kuang’s eyes were misty, as if they might drip. He looked at Fang Jingyu, a quiet grief in his face.
“So?” Fang Jingyu brought the topic back. “What were you going to do with that dagger?”
Chu Kuang said nothing, only bowed his head. Fang Jingyu couldn’t understand the darkness clouding his heart.
Yu Ji Guard was dead—he should’ve been glad. But in joy’s wake came emptiness.
His life had been like an arrow loosed from a bow, never to turn back. He had lived for vengeance. Now the arrow had struck—and his life felt over. From afar, he had watched Fang Jingyu surrounded by Lei Ze soldiers under the flower-lit stage, and bitterness gnawed at his chest. Fang Jingyu would never be alone. He, crippled and half-mad, was no match to stand beside the Emperor Bai’s son.
He remembered the crowd earlier. Soldiers teased him:
“Ah Chu! Yu Ji Guard fell to your hand. If we were in Penglai, you’d have earned a seat among the Xian Mountain Guards!”
Someone mimed an imperial edict. “By the Emperor’s decree—”
Another interrupted, “Don’t bother, Ah Chu can’t read!”
The group roared with laughter.
Someone asked, “Ah Chu, how do you write ‘five’?”
Chu Kuang took a twig and scratched at the ground—but couldn’t form the word. More laughter.
“Those are just three ‘threes,’” someone said. (三三三)
“Forget it. Ah Chu’s destined to be a rough man. Some folks are born to read and write. Us? We just eat meat and drink wine,” another joked.
But someone added kindly, “Don’t lose heart, Ah Chu. Slow birds fly early. If you keep at it, maybe you’ll pass the scholar’s exam someday.”
Chu Kuang had said nothing, hands shaking. None of them knew—his brain had been pierced by an arrow, and though Immortal Elixir had saved his life, it had left him worse. He no longer remembered how to read or write, nor any ceremony. He was prone to fits, to delusion. Day and night blurred. He tried to study—but forgot everything.
He was just a fool now. A madman. No longer that brilliant, elegant youth named Fang Minsheng.
He had stood up then and cursed them: “Dog’s breath! Watch me take first place in the imperial exam and make you drink my piss!”
They’d laughed harder, which only crushed his heart further.
He had soaked for ten years in the filth of the streets, and foulness clung to every word. He’d taken a few steps before hearing someone jeer:
“Ah Chu! Going to sleep with the prince again? Too good to stay with us? You better clean up first—looking like that, he’ll toss you out like a beggar!”
He looked down. His bamboo robe hung in shreds, torn to ribbons during the fight with Yu Ji Guard. Beneath, blood-stained wraps barely covered his wounds.
Sharp pain stabbed his heart—for his disgrace, and for having lain with his brother in such disgrace.
He had walked away like a dying old man.
At the edge of the bridge, all was still. He looked at his face in the black water—wavering, broken. It hurt. His whole being hurt. A familiar sickness rose—he coughed violently into his kerchief. When he pulled it away, it was soaked with blood.
He stared, dazed.
He remembered the meat slices he had devoured in order to kill Yu Ji Guard. They had ruined him.
He slumped against a pillar and passed out from the pain. When he woke again, people were laughing in the distance. Lights sparkled. Fang Jingyu was surrounded like a star among stars. Only he remained in the shadows, chilled to the bone.
Something hard pressed against his side—a plum blossom dagger.
Chu Kuang raised it, trembling. On impulse, he pointed the tip at his throat.
After revenge, he didn’t feel light and free. His body was ruined. His wish fulfilled. What else tethered him to this world? Even without him, his brother would live well. He was a ghost from the River of Blood,2(血河 / Xuè Hé) :Concept found in Chinese mythology, Daoist-Buddhist underworld beliefs. never meant to exist among the living. He was tired—so tired.
He looked toward the crowd one last time—just in time to see Fang Jingyu part the people, walking straight toward him, leaving the light behind.
Panic surged through him. He quickly hid the dagger—cutting his hand in the process.
“Chu Kuang?”
The voice called him back from the edge. Chu Kuang blinked, finding Fang Jingyu looking at him in worry.
Fang Jingyu frowned. “What’s wrong with you? You’re just staring. I asked—why were you holding that dagger? What were you trying to do?”
His voice was harsh, but it came from fear. Something about Chu Kuang tonight felt different—fragile, like smoke that might vanish if left alone.
Chu Kuang looked at him. Suddenly, his lashes fluttered—and tears fell.
The tears came all at once. But his face remained still, his body unmoving—as if a sudden storm had struck a clay statue.
Then, without a word, Chu Kuang collapsed into Fang Jingyu’s arms.
Startled, Fang Jingyu reflexively held him tight. It was the first time he’d seen Chu Kuang cry like this—silent no longer, sobbing with abandon.
Moonlight fell white as frost. The rain and mist swept the sky and sea. In a forgotten corner of the world, two lonely shadows leaned into each other.
It was the cry of nine years of suffering—raw and wrenching.
Fang Minsheng, once proud and unyielding, had never shed a tear. But now, as Chu Kuang, at last he could let grief flood forth and wash away his pain.
poor baby…