Chapter 77#

When Wen Zhuo first arrived at the Wen family mansion, he was only two years old.

At least for that stretch of time, his memory was a blank. So why Lin Yingniang remarried Wen Yingjing could only be known through the account of the tutor who had once taught his biological father.

He said that after Wen Qimin passed away, Lin Yingniang was so devastated she wished to follow him, but with a nursing infant in her arms, she forced herself to live on.

But in those times, it was unbearably hard for a woman without her husband to hold on to her property.

At first, it was just petty thieves who climbed over the wall at night to steal a few valuables. Even if Lin Yingniang heard the noise, she could only cower inside the room, trembling.

Seeing she had no strength to fight back, those thieves grew bolder. Theft gradually turned into robbery. Before long, the modest estate left by Wen Qimin was completely looted.

Lin Yingniang once swallowed her pride and sought help from the Wen clan elders. But Wen Yingjing, who was the clan chief, said that since she was already a widow, she was no longer considered part of the Wen household, and the clan could not assist her. However, if she was willing to hand over the child, the Wen family would raise him on her behalf.

Unable to part with her young Wen Zhuo, Lin Yingniang had to return dejectedly.

After that, once there was nothing left to steal from Wen Qimin’s home, the only thing remaining was Lin Yingniang herself—a widow of extraordinary beauty.

So ruffians and hoodlums frequently came to smash her door, making lewd advances and harassing her. Whether Lin Yingniang cursed at them or threw stones, it was all to no avail; it only invited even more flagrant humiliation.

Gradually, the neighbors began to gossip, saying that this woman was not virtuous—barely had her husband died when she was already surrounded by men. As the saying goes, a fly does not bite an unbroken egg; she herself must be impure!

Lin Yingniang could not defend herself. During those days, even when she went out just to fetch water or buy meat at the market, she could feel the strange looks and the pointing fingers from the villagers.

Finally, Lin Yingniang understood that a widow could not survive alone. She had to find a protector; she had to remarry.

And so, she accepted the second condition proposed by Wen Yingjing—to become his concubine in name, in exchange for the Wen family’s protection.

Indeed, from the day she stepped through the Wen mansion’s gates, all the rumors stopped as if cut off, and the thugs and hooligans vanished without a trace. She seemed to become, once again, that virtuous, chaste widow.

Wen Zhuo never knew what agreement the two had made back then, or whether Wen Yingjing had deceived Lin Yingniang. In any case, as far back as he could remember, he and his mother lived in the side courtyard, separated from the main compound by a high wall.

Though the food and clothing there were not as good as in the main residence, they were adequate.

Wen Yingjing often came to visit. At first, he would inquire about their well-being with the tone of an elder, but as time went on, he gradually became less mindful of propriety.

When Wen Zhuo was a little over three and Wen Xu was born, Wen Yingjing claimed that the side quarters were too cramped and that it was inconvenient for Lin Yingniang to care for her young son, so he moved Wen Zhuo to the servants’ quarters.

It was said to be temporary, but Wen Zhuo ended up living there until he was thirteen.

The climate in Mianzhou was damp and humid. The servants’ quarters never saw sunlight and were perpetually musty. The wood was scarred and pitted with rot, and the bed creaked loudly with every turn.

Wen Zhuo dared not turn over at night, because the creaking would wake the other servants. Disturbing their rest would cause them to be distracted at work the next day, earning them scoldings from the masters, and they would take it out on him in roundabout ways.

When he was about seven and Wen Xu four, Wen Yingjing frequently visited Lin Yingniang, much to the displeasure of the mistress of the main house.

To vent his mother’s anger, Wen Ze would come to the side courtyard and, without any reason, kick Wen Xu a few times. Wen Xu would fall to the ground, then climb back up, brush off the footprints from his clothes, and instead grin at Wen Ze. “Big brother, don’t kick me. Go kick that bastard. I heard him secretly cursing the main house again.”

Wen Ze would snort, his eyes sweeping contemptuously over him. Then, with one finger, he would jab hard at Wen Xu’s forehead, sending him staggering back a few steps, before deigning to say, “Fine. You’re all bastards from the same stock anyway.”

Wen Xu’s heart tightened in fear. Yet, as he trotted after Wen Ze, he flushed red to the ears and tried to explain, “I’m not from the same stock! I was born in the Wen family—I’m one of you, with big brother and Father!”

“Go get that bastard who was cursing.”

“Right away!”

Deep down, Wen Xu despised the shabby, dark servants’ quarters. But every time he entered, hearing the servants respectfully address him as “Young Master” gave him a sense of superiority. This was the only place where he could feel that way.

“Wen Zhuo! Big brother wants you out here!” Wen Xu’s voice was shrill.

Wen Zhuo wanted desperately to run, but where could he run to in this household? He clutched the yellowed picture book in his hands, took a deep breath in the brief pause between the first and second shouts, and then pulled the door open, pretending to be calm.

He knew what awaited him, yet he couldn’t help harboring a sliver of hope—maybe they were in a good mood today, maybe someone’s face would spare him this time.

But it never happened—never, not once.

When he fell to the ground clutching his stomach, trembling in pain, Wen Xu was hopping and clapping on the sidelines. “Good hit! Good hit! He deserves a lesson, cursing the main house!”

Wen Zhuo twisted his head, struggling to look at Wen Xu, who was three years younger than him. Wen Xu seemed even more excited than Wen Ze, but his expression was stiff, as if he were forced into a game he had to enjoy wholeheartedly.

At least at age four, Wen Xu hadn’t yet learned to hide the panic in his lies.

Wen Zhuo could see it clearly, and of course Wen Ze saw it too. But Wen Ze simply loved watching the two sons of that vixen tear each other apart; he didn’t care about the truth.

Wen Zhuo curled up, shrinking backward, gritting his teeth and muttering, “I didn’t curse.”

Then Wen Xu immediately shrieked in panic, “He did! I heard him! Big brother, he’s lying to you!”

Wen Ze grinned and bent down, grabbing Wen Zhuo by the collar and yanking him up. He raised his hand and slapped him hard. “I said you cursed, so you cursed. Why is it that after all this time, you still haven’t learned? Is your head made of weeds?”

Wen Zhuo closed his eyes, letting himself curl into a ball, hoping only that they would leave once they had their fill of fun.

More than once, he wondered: he and Wen Xu were born to the same mother, so why did Wen Xu despise him even more than Wen Yingjing and Wen Ze did?

Later, he stopped wondering, because even the woman who gave birth to him had let him down.

Every time Wen Ze beat him, his body and face would inevitably be black and blue. When he was four or five, he didn’t yet know so many rules—he only knew he wanted his mother. With tears streaming down his face, he would wobble on his little legs to the back room, push open the door without permission, and stretch out his arms to Lin Yingniang, begging for comfort.

“Mother…”

He called out, frightened and aggrieved, sure that she could hear him. But she was holding the sleeping Wen Xu in her arms, gently rocking him.

She dared not look at his face, dared not meet his wronged eyes. She only buried her head low, her voice as light as mist. “…Why have you come here? Your little brother just fell asleep—he’ll fuss again soon.”

“Mother, big brother hit me. It hurts…”

Wen Zhuo shuffled forward two more steps, standing on tiptoe, stretching his little fingers to reach her sleeve. He struggled to roll up his own sleeve, revealing the bruises beneath. He hoped that even with her head down, she might glimpse the wounds on his arm, set Wen Xu aside, take him into her arms, and comfort him.

If he could just stay in that warm, soft embrace for a while, everything would feel so much better.

But Lin Yingniang only quickly raised her sleeve to wipe the corner of her eye. With a soft sob, she turned her back to him and said, trying to stay calm, “Zhuo’er, be good. Go back first. Mother has things to do here. I’ll come see you later.”

“Mother…”

Wen Zhuo couldn’t accept it. He called out again, very softly, to that retreating back. This time, there was no response at all.

He stood there dumbfounded. The candlelight danced across his scarred little arms. He kept his arms raised until they grew numb, but Lin Yingniang never turned around.

So he slowly lowered his hands. He waited foolishly a little longer, then dropped his eyes, his long lashes still clinging with un-dried tears. Limping, he stepped over the threshold, and his small figure disappeared beyond the door curtain.

Fortunately, after he was beaten, the servants would be especially lenient with him. Even if he couldn’t help moaning in pain at night, they wouldn’t utter a word of reproach.

Occasionally, Lin Yingniang would steal out of bed in the dead of night, loosen the sleeping Wen Xu from her arms, and walk silently under the moonlight to the servants’ quarters. She would stand in the courtyard and gaze from afar.

She dared not approach, because given her status, it would be improper to enter the servants’ quarters full of men late at night.

Sometimes, through the paper window, Wen Zhuo could glimpse that familiar silhouette. Whenever that happened, he would joyfully climb out of bed, ignoring the pain in his body, and stagger out. But what greeted him was always Lin Yingniang’s fleeing back.

He was abandoned in the moonlight, draped in a layer of cold frost.

Later, Wen Zhuo gradually understood: if he didn’t come close, if he didn’t yearn for that unreachable embrace, she might stay a little longer.

So he began to pretend to be asleep.

Through the gap, he watched her stand in the courtyard, covering her face with a handkerchief, her shoulders trembling faintly, her frail body like a reed in the wind, too weak to withstand a single bend.

Then she would gently place a handful of dried dates on the windowsill before silently slipping away.

Only then would Wen Zhuo quietly get up, gather those still-warm dates in his palms, and hold them tightly to his chest, as if this made life worth looking forward to.

He thought: maybe when Wen Xu grows up a bit and no longer needs to be held, his mother could come see him openly.

He had read the story of Kong Rong giving away pears in his picture book—the older should yield to the younger. He had never wanted to take anything away. He was willing to let Wen Xu have their mother’s affection first. He thought he could wait.

But he forgot: as Wen Xu grew older, so did he. What he had always longed for was gradually worn away, day after day.

Liangping County was traversed by the Wangtian Ditch, where the current slowed. The county’s residents drew their water from the ditch.

But every winter, there would be about ten days of bitter cold, and the ditch’s surface would freeze over with a thin layer of ice. To get water, people had to break the ice before lowering their buckets.

Wen Zhuo couldn’t eat for free. Once he reached a certain age, he had to join the labor.

In the freezing cold, with few warm clothes, no one wanted to take on the grueling task of fetching water. The malicious servants, always reading Wen Xu’s mood, pushed the job onto Wen Zhuo.

One day, Wen Xu led a gang of Wen family children, all five or six years old, and cornered Wen Zhuo by the ditch.

With his hands behind his back, imitating Wen Ze’s overbearing manner, Wen Xu grinned at Wen Zhuo. “Go down there for Young Master and test how thick the ice is. See if it’s thick enough for us young masters to slide on.”

Wen Zhuo stared at him coldly, saying nothing, not moving.

The ice wasn’t thick enough. He had seen someone hitting it with a bucket just now; it broke after five strikes.

Wen Xu didn’t really want to play on the ice. He was doing this on purpose.

“Go! Why aren’t you going!”

“I told you to get down there—didn’t you hear?”

“Let me tell you, if you don’t go today, you won’t eat tonight!”

The children joined in the jeering and reached out to shove Wen Zhuo. Knowing the danger, he fought back desperately. But he was outnumbered and overpowered. In the chaos, he grabbed hold of one child’s arm, but he himself was also pushed hard.

They both crashed onto the ice. Wen Xu hurriedly lay flat at the edge of the ditch, peering down.

Perhaps because Wen Zhuo was so thin, or perhaps luck was with him—the ice beneath him let out a piercing crack but somehow held.

But the other child wasn’t so lucky. He broke through the ice, plunged into the ditch with a splash, managed only one cry for help, and was instantly swept under the ice by the current, disappearing without a trace.

Freezing water splashed all over Wen Zhuo. He watched in horror as, through the transparent ice, that bright flowery jacket flashed past, speeding downstream.

Right beside him was the dark, churning hole in the ice, with broken pieces churning and slapping at his hands and feet, numbing his fingertips.

The terror of death gripped him. The ice beneath him was still groaning, as if it would crack at any moment and sweep him away.

He didn’t dare move a muscle. He was completely frozen in fright. He only heard the children on the bank screaming and scattering in all directions.

He saw Wen Xu’s face turn deathly pale, his panic-stricken expression, and beneath the panic, a rising frustration and rage.

“Come back! Who told you to run?”

Wen Xu stamped his feet, then burst into loud crying. He had never encountered anything like this and didn’t know what to do.

His only thought at that moment was to make sure no one found out, so he wouldn’t have to take the blame.

A bold idea came into his head. He bent down, picked up a stone, and threw it hard toward Wen Zhuo.

But he was young and lacked strength, and the stone he picked wasn’t heavy enough. Wen Zhuo watched the stone hit the ice, bounce a couple of times, and slide away.

After seven or eight throws failed, Wen Xu was dumbfounded. Finally, he tucked his head down and ran off, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

Children can’t keep secrets. When they ran home, it didn’t take long for the adults to notice something was wrong. As dusk fell, a group of people came to the ditch with torches. They pulled Wen Zhuo, frozen stiff, off the ice. But they dragged the hole all night and never found the other child.

Everyone knew he couldn’t have survived.

Wen Zhuo’s clothes were soaked through with icy water, and he had been exposed to the freezing wind for a long time. When he got home, he developed a severe chill from the cold and a high fever that wouldn’t go down.

That was the first time, in his memory, that Lin Yingniang held him tightly—even though he was already seven, past the age when he needed to be held.

Hot tears fell on his face, but he was so cold he couldn’t feel their warmth.

He couldn’t feel the softness or tenderness of that embrace either, as if it were something he had only imagined when he was little.

On the verge of unconsciousness, he couldn’t help thinking: maybe if he died, he could go back into his mother’s body, since he had come from it.

Only this time, he never wanted to be born again.

Local gentry were traditionally virtuous, talented, and charitable. Both among the common people and within the clan, Wen Yingjing had a very good reputation.

Perhaps to maintain that image of a kind man, Wen Yingjing eventually called a doctor for Wen Zhuo.

Ten days later, Wen Zhuo finally recovered. But the illness left a lasting weakness; whenever it was rainy or damp, his whole body would ache. Fortunately, Mianzhou didn’t have many cold days.

Wen Yingjing came to him personally and warned him heavily: “If you dare go out and talk, slandering the young master’s name, watch your worthless life!”

Wen Zhuo responded quietly.

This time, because Wen Xu had botched the job, Wen Ze gave him a beating.

But instead of learning from his mistake, Wen Xu became convinced that he hadn’t been stealthy enough, which had angered his father and eldest brother.

So, to curry favor with Wen Ze, he came up with even more vicious ways to torture Wen Zhuo, just to earn a glimmer of approval from Wen Ze.

Wen Ze would pat his face and say with a smirk, “You’ve got a sharp mind, kid.”

Praise from Wen Ze would make Wen Xu strut like a little pug with his tail in the air, ecstatic for the whole day—as if he had gained more face in the household. He knew that as long as Wen Ze was happy, he could get a bit of affection from Wen Yingjing that day, and Wen Ze wouldn’t come after him.

Every year, on the fifteenth day of the seventh month, the Wen family held their grand ancestral rites.

All the male members of the clan and the principal wives would go to the ancestral hall, and under the leadership of the elders, they would thank the ancestors for their blessings over the past year.

Such formal and solemn occasions never included Lin Yingniang or Wen Zhuo.

Wen Zhuo was crouching in a corner of the yard, scrubbing linen clothes, when Wen Xu burst in, full of aggression. He kicked over the basin of water and planted his hands on his hips, demanding, “What are you still doing here? Didn’t they tell you all the male members of the Wen family have to go for the ancestral rites?”

Wen Zhuo stared at Wen Xu coldly, not answering.

Wen Xu spat, muttering resentfully, “Hmph, I wonder which big mouth said this year that you’re Wen Qimin’s seed, and that counts as a Wen descendant, so you should go worship the ancestors. Who do you think you are, worthy of entering a place like the ancestral hall?”

After grumbling, he snapped impatiently, “Hurry up! Or Mother will get scolded again by the matriarch for not knowing the rules. It’s your fault for dragging her down!”

Thinking of Lin Yingniang, remembering the handful of dried dates on the windowsill, Wen Zhuo finally lowered his eyes. He wiped his hands roughly on his clothes, stood up, and followed Wen Xu toward the ancestral hall.

Firecrackers had already been set off outside the hall. Red scraps of paper were scattered all over the ground, with black scorch marks from the explosions. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder, making people cough.

The main door of the hall was wide open. From inside came the sound of Buddhist chanting, invoking the spirits to spread the ancestors’ blessings.

Wen Xu urged him on, shoving him. Wen Zhuo withdrew his gaze from the ground and stepped into the ancestral hall.

Of course, it was a trap.

He wasn’t led to the inner hall to worship the ancestral tablets. Instead, at the entrance, he was turned into a side corridor, heading toward a remote wing.

Sensing something wrong, he turned to flee, but it was too late. Wen Ze was blocking his way in the covered walkway, slowly puffing on a tobacco pipe, a grin spreading across his face, revealing a row of yellowed teeth.

“You little bastard, you’ve got some nerve. Look at yourself—who do you think you are, daring to trespass into the Wen family ancestral hall?”

Wen Zhuo’s eyes blazed with fury as he shot a glare at Wen Xu. Wen Xu covered his mouth, snickering, winking and grimacing as if enjoying the show.

Wen Ze leisurely tapped the bowl of his pipe. “If this gets to my mother, your cowardly mother will have to kneel in the yard for a full two hours. And you, boy, will be tied to a pillar in the ancestral hall and given twenty lashes before it’s over.”

As he spoke, his sleazy, weasel-like eyes roamed over Wen Zhuo, lingering on his strikingly beautiful face. “But Young Master is kind. I’ll give you a choice. If you obediently accept your punishment right here, I promise not to let my mother or father know. How about that?”

Wen Zhuo was trembling all over, gritting his teeth. He glanced back, but Wen Xu had sealed off the only retreat.

In truth, Wen Ze never intended to give him a choice. Wen Ze was more than ten years older, in the prime of his strength. With ease, he shoved Wen Zhuo onto the blue brick floor of the walkway. As Wen Zhuo opened his mouth to call for help, Wen Ze clamped his hand over his mouth.

He struggled desperately, kicking and thrashing, but couldn’t break free. The back of his head scraped against the rough bricks, a sharp sting shooting through him. Wen Ze pressed him down firmly, cursing, “Are you really a man? You look just like your mother! Tell me, are you a girl in disguise, trying to fool Young Master?”

Wen Zhuo’s eyes were bloodshot as he glared at him.

“You there—pull his pants down and check!” Wen Ze yelled at Wen Xu.

Wen Xu trotted over eagerly and reached for Wen Zhuo’s legs. But Wen Zhuo kicked him hard in the chest, sending him staggering backward and landing on his back.

“Ow!” he yelped.

“Useless!” Wen Ze cursed.

He pressed his knee hard into Wen Zhuo’s stomach, finally freeing one hand. But after looking, he was bitterly disappointed.

“Damn, he really is a man.”

The disappointment passed quickly, replaced by a new interest. He jerked his chin at Wen Xu. “Come here. Cover his mouth!”

Wen Xu scrambled to obey. Wen Ze raised his pipe, took two deep puffs until the bowl glowed red-hot, then, grinning savagely, pressed it against Wen Zhuo’s legs.

The scream that rang out wasn’t from Wen Zhuo—it was from Wen Xu.

He hadn’t held on tightly enough, and Wen Zhuo bit down on his hand. Blood spurted from the bite marks; a chunk of flesh was nearly torn off.

Wen Xu’s howls of agony echoed into the Meeting of Virtues Hall, tearing apart the solemn chanting.

“Shit, you useless piece of trash!”

Disturbing the ancestral rites was a grave matter. Panicked, Wen Ze grabbed his pipe and fled deep into the corridor, leaving behind Wen Xu, crying as if the world were ending, and Wen Zhuo, who had almost lost consciousness.

Wen Zhuo stared straight up at the beams. The golden bricks were carved with images of the great roc spreading its wings—but the roc could not fly out of the corridor.

He propped himself against a golden-lacquered pillar, his trembling body barely holding him up, and dragged himself toward the main gate of the ancestral hall. Blood had already soaked through his trousers and dripped from the cuffs, falling one drop at a time onto the clean blue bricks and the scorched ground.

Gasping for breath, his face deathly pale, he managed to stumble back to the side courtyard. It was the last time he would beg Lin Yingniang for help.

Desperate, he pleaded, “It hurts so much. Save me, save me…”

When Lin Yingniang saw his condition, the sewing box in her arms crashed to the ground, needles and thread scattering everywhere. With trembling hands, she draped a piece of coarse linen over him, covering the hideous wounds, and murmured to herself, “Zhuo’er, it’s gone. Now it’s gone…”

Wen Zhuo looked down, watching his own blood slowly seeping through the coarse cloth. The tears he had held back the entire way suddenly poured out uncontrollably.

From that time on, he developed a deep aversion to women. Women were as light as mist, as thin as paper—adrift their whole lives, unable to save even him.

The turning point came at the end of that year.

Originally, Wen Xu was supposed to start school. But the good-for-nothing only wanted to laze about, fish, and bird-hunt, so he secretly passed the opportunity to Wen Zhuo, ordering him to attend classes in his place.

Unexpectedly, the tutor turned out to be the same one who had taught Wen Qimin, and who had always regretted that Wen Qimin never continued with the imperial examinations. Now, seeing that Wen Zhuo bore a faint resemblance to Wen Qimin and had exceptional aptitude, he was filled with great hope.

The tutor allowed Wen Zhuo to study for free, often kept him after class, and taught him everything he knew. He also gave him the style name “Wanshan,” meaning “serene as a mountain, unhurried, unflappable,” so that he would be polished like jade into a vessel and stand tall on his own.

When Wen Zhuo was thirteen, the tutor passed away, leaving him only a room full of books.

Without the tutor’s protection, there was no one to support his studies. As he grew older, his striking features became even more remarkable, and his position in the Wen household became increasingly awkward.

Finally, one night, Lin Yingniang came to him holding a heavy bundle. Her fingers trembled violently as she pressed it into Wen Zhuo’s hands, her force almost like a shove. She sobbed, “Go! Go away! Go as far as you can, and never come back!”

Wen Zhuo took the bundle. It was cold to the touch. He did not bid farewell. He simply turned silently and walked away step by step.

“Zhuo’er—”

He heard Lin Yingniang call his name again, her voice choking with tears.

Wen Zhuo’s steps faltered, but he did not look back. Thin moonlight fell, breaking the last strands of attachment on the dusty road before him.

Only two paths lay before Wen Zhuo: to wander the world, spend all his money, and become nothing but dust; or, relying on the five years of learning he had, to take the imperial examinations and carve out a living.

So he imitated his tutor’s handwriting and drafted a certificate of guarantee for himself, proving that he came from a clean family and was not of mean birth.

Fortunately, the verification in Mianzhou was not particularly strict—no one noticed anything amiss. He passed the prefectural exam and became a licentiate.

According to the laws of the Great Qian, all licentiates were eligible for a stipend from the local government. Just as his silver ran out, he found a place to settle.

Through cold winters and hot summers, spring passing and autumn coming, he eventually fought his way to the Golden Throne Hall.

On the day of the palace examination, Emperor Shunyuan sat upon the dragon throne. Seeing Wen Zhuo’s clear brow and elegant prose, the emperor was greatly pleased.

The emperor’s voice was gentle as he asked where Wen Zhuo’s ancestors were from and whether he had any family.

Wen Zhuo lowered his eyes. After a long silence, he said, “I have a mother.”