Chu'he looked solemn. "Brother Fang, you're overthinking this!"
Ninth scowled. "Way too serious!"
Fang Songhe glanced at Chu'he, then at Ninth mimicking her. "Then what exactly happened to my junior brother?"
Chu'he replied, "He just suffered a minor injury."
Ninth nodded. "A tiny little wound."
Hearing this, Fang Songhe sighed in relief, touched. "As long as he's alive, that's enough. My junior brother and I trained in martial arts since childhood—flesh wounds are common. Don’t worry about me being unable to handle it."
Chu'he and Ninth exchanged a glance, each taking a step aside to clear the path.
Fang Songhe walked forward and pushed the door open.
"Junior brother!"
He reached the bedside, took one look at the figure lying there, stiffened slightly, then walked back out.
"Who is that bloated person on the bed?"
Chu'he tilted her head up, seemingly admiring the starless, moonless night sky thick with clouds, muttering, "That’s Song Chunming."
Fang Songhe turned to Ninth.
Ninth kept his head down, kicking pebbles on the ground as if playing a fascinating game, murmuring, "Yeah, it’s that guy Song."
Fang Songhe’s pupils trembled. He re-entered the room and scrutinized the figure on the bed from head to toe.
The unconscious man had been submerged in water for so long that despite his martial arts-trained physique—far sturdier than an average person’s—his body had swollen, making him appear puffy.
As for his once-handsome face, it was now bruised and battered beyond recognition, as if subjected to unspeakable torment, his features nearly "rearranged."
Fang Songhe stepped out again, silent for a long moment. "This is what you call a 'tiny little wound'?"
Chu'he averted her gaze, forcing a smile and pinching her fingers together. "For martial artists, flesh wounds are common. So this… probably still counts as minor, right?"
Crunch, crunch. The unmistakable sound of snacking continued, loud and grating.
Chu'he elbowed the boy beside her.
Ninth stopped cracking pine nuts, his expression innocent. "Song isn’t dead. Aren’t you happy?"
The words struck Fang Songhe.
Song Chunming could have died unnoticed somewhere, yet here he was, alive—already the luckiest outcome.
Studying the red-clad boy’s guileless demeanor, Fang Songhe began piecing things together.
Ninth had always disliked Song Chunming, though they’d coexisted peacefully. Whatever Song had done to provoke him this time had nearly cost him his life.
Fang Songhe then looked at Chu'he, who seemed hesitant to speak, sensing deeper complexities at play. Suppressing his curiosity, he said,
"Ninth is right. My junior brother is alive—I should be glad."
The boy beamed. "Great! Stubborn Ox is happy, so I’m happy too. A-He, let’s go sleep."
He grabbed Chu'he’s hand and skipped away, their jingling accessories soon fading into the night as their figures vanished.
Fang Songhe turned back to the room, his worry deepening.
---
News spread that the daughter of the merchant guild’s chairman was getting married. Gifts piled up at her doorstep, while gossip about the mysterious groom became the town’s favorite pastime.
"I heard Miss Chu already married that country bumpkin in some backwater village, with the famed hero Fang Songhe officiating. This banquet is just for show!"
"Rumors say the groom’s a savage with white hair—prematurely aged! How could Miss Chu fancy such a man?"
"Ah, what a shame. Had I known Miss Chu had such tastes, I’d have tried my luck as a live-in son-in-law!"
"Another tale claims he’s from Miaojiang. They say Miaojiang women ‘discard the father, keep the child’—wonder if it’s true…"
……
Teahouses and inns buzzed with theories, until inevitably, eyes drifted to the Miaojiang woman seated in a corner.
Exotic and striking, she’d be worth the risk of "discarding."
Sang Duo toyed with a venomous spider on her hand.
Shing! Cang Yan’s blade slid partly from its sheath, glinting coldly.
The onlookers shuddered and promptly returned to their drinks and meals, pretending the Miaojiang woman didn’t exist.
Sang Duo propped her chin on her palm, sighing. "Disaster. The young master’s becoming a son-in-law—he’ll never return to Miaojiang now!"
She clung to the man’s arm. "What do we do, Cang Yan?"
The puppet offered no answer.
A pair of sisters descended the inn’s stairs, trailed by a black-robed guard.
Zhao Shuxing bounced alongside Zhao Rongyue. "Sis, your friends are marrying. What should we gift them?"
"That century-old pearl from the South Sea would be perfect—maybe as a centerpiece for the phoenix crown."
Zhao Rongyue smiled, her dress fluttering as a mischievous breeze slipped through the window.
Outside, autumn sunlight and street vendors’ cries blended into a lively symphony.
"Wuya, what about these glass beads as a gift?" Su Lingxi held up a string of glimmering orbs at a vendor’s stall.
Wuya cautioned, "The Chus are Jiangnan’s wealthiest. Glass beads won’t impress them."
Su Lingxi scowled. "They should feel honored this young master’s gifting them anything! How dare they complain about the price!"
He tossed the beads, scattering dazzling reflections.
A white-robed man fleeing to the clinic’s upper corridor suddenly clutched his eyes—blinded by the glare—and stumbled forward.
A sword barred his fall.
Murong Meixin clung to the blade, pleading, "Junior sister, I’m cured! Don’t listen to those quacks—no more medicine!"
Murong Meifei yanked him back by the collar. "No wedding banquet until you’re healed."
"Nooo, junior sister—!"
His flailing knocked over a flowerpot.
A shout erupted below.
"Wife, duck!"
Black Goose caught the pot and roared upward, "Who’s the jerk with no decency? Hurt one hair on my wife, and I’ll steal your toilet paper every time you crap!"
White Dove, mortified by the stares, twisted his ear. "Enough! Save your energy for convincing my dad to call you ‘son-in-law’!"
It was supposed to be a birthday celebration, and Black Goose finally managed to step through the gates of his father-in-law’s house. But both of them ended up drinking too much, and before long, they challenged each other to a fight.
Black Goose, never one to hold back, beat his father-in-law so badly that the old man couldn’t get up for ages. To make matters worse, he even made his father-in-law call him "Dad" instead.
Naturally, he was thrown out again.
Since they had received a wedding invitation, they decided to return first to attend the banquet.
White Dove glared at Black Goose, stomped her foot in frustration, and turned to leave.
Black Goose casually set down the flowerpot he was holding and hurried after her. "Wait for me, wife!"
Just then, a young nobleman came galloping by on horseback, his steed’s hooves careless and heavy, about to trample the delicate flowers by the roadside into dust—when a black boot kicked up the flowerpot, catching it deftly in a slightly sun-tanned hand.
Heart Knife had a peculiar constitution. A few days in the desert would easily darken his skin to a wheat-like hue, but after spending time in the Central Plains, it would quickly lighten again.
Now, his complexion had grown fairer, the rough wildness of his features softened, giving him more of the refined air of a scholarly youth.
Holding the flowers, he lifted his gaze, squinting slightly against the glaring sunlight, until he caught sight of a figure drinking atop the tallest tavern in the city.
Shangguan Huanxi sat high above, able to take in the bustling scenes of the city below—the clamor of lively crowds, the vibrant atmosphere of daily life, all serving as the perfect accompaniment to her wine.
Whether it was Canghaizhou or Yangcheng, the scenery might differ, but the liveliness was the same.
It would be a shame if someone with ill intentions were to ruin it.
She set down her cup and left a silver ingot behind. "Waiter, the bill."
The waiter hurried over, watching as the woman picked up her sword and walked away. Unable to help himself, he called out, "Miss, we still have fine wine that hasn’t been served yet. Won’t you stay to drink?"
"If there’s a chance after my friend’s wedding banquet, I’ll come back to taste it."
Her demeanor was extraordinary, her departure effortless and free.
The waiter couldn’t help but gaze after her wistfully. "I wonder if this lady has a name in the martial world? It’d be wonderful to see her again."
These past few days, under Steward He’s direction, the guards and maids of the Chu estate had been bustling about, draping red silk, hanging scarlet lanterns, and pasting the double-happiness characters on doors and windows—no detail was overlooked.
"Senior Brother, why are you in such a hurry to leave with me?"
Song Chunming, ever the protagonist, had a constitution like a cockroach’s. In just a short time, the swelling on his face had subsided enough for him to walk, though traces of bruising still lingered, leaving him looking somewhat disheveled.
He turned to Fang Songhe, who had just announced his intention to leave immediately, and smiled. "Isn’t that young master Ninth your sworn brother? Chu'he is also your friend, and you’re even their witness for the wedding. With the banquet so close, leaving now would be improper, both in sentiment and reason."
Fang Songhe replied, "Junior Brother, I’m just worried—"
"Senior Brother, you don’t need to worry about me." Song Chunming cut him off with an easy laugh. "A wedding is a joyous occasion. Besides, we’ve been imposing on them for so long—it’s only right that we congratulate them, share a toast, and present our gifts before we go."
After a pause, Song Chunming turned his gaze out the window.
"Ninth, hurry up, hurry up!"
The girl’s emerald-green dress shimmered with vitality under the sunlight. Though spring had yet to arrive, and the world outside was still withered and yellow, the way she ran, full of energy, seemed to bring an early burst of springtime joy.
But the boy—red-eyed, white-haired, dressed in the striking red garb of an outsider, silver ornaments jingling—stood out like a ghostly apparition.
His beauty was eerie, like a seductive demon from folklore wearing the skin of a beauty.
She belonged in the mortal world.
He should have been in hell.
By all accounts, they were mismatched, utterly incompatible.
Yet Chu'he tugged at his hand, interlacing their fingers, tilting her face up to his with a radiant smile. "My father has asked someone to write our marriage certificate—it’s like a wedding license, no, a marriage certificate! Do you understand?"
Ninth tilted his head slightly, his crimson eyes glimmering like stars as he gazed at her. "No, I don’t."
Chu'he poked his cheek. "Silly Ninth, why don’t you understand anything?"
Inside the room, the atmosphere grew heavy.
Song Chunming’s smile remained warm. "I must prepare the finest wedding gift for them."
