Little did he know that the more he spoke, the more he revealed his guilty conscience.
Seeing that Chu'he still wanted to press further, he quickly jumped off the carriage and said leisurely, "Going to watch the spectacle."
"Wait for me!" Ninth followed suit, hopping off the carriage. After a few steps, she grasped the hand the young man extended to her. Glancing up at his profile, she still harbored doubts.
Tonight, something major seemed to be happening in the village. All the villagers had gathered with torches in hand, surrounding a bottomless pool.
Beside the pool stood a bound child.
The crowd chanted in unison, "Kill him! Kill him!"
At the forefront was an elderly man with a graying beard—the most respected figure in the village. Raising his hand, he instantly silenced the clamoring crowd.
"Everyone, calm down. The matter isn’t settled yet. Perhaps those incidents weren’t his doing."
"Village Chief, it must be him!"
"Ever since he was born, misfortunes have plagued our village. He’s the one who brought the calamities!"
"A few years ago, locusts ravaged our crops!"
"Last year, a flood destroyed homes and drowned so many!"
"Look at his unnatural, ghostly appearance—he’s clearly a cursed star!"
"Exactly! His mother fell ill the moment he was born, and just days ago, his father died in a fall. If we don’t kill him, our entire clan will suffer!"
...
One voice after another rose, as if eager to vent all their grievances and misfortunes onto him.
The bound boy, no older than seven or eight, wore ill-fitting, tattered clothes and bore countless scars on his bare feet.
Most striking was his snow-white hair. Even beneath the grime, his unnaturally pale skin stood out. He remained indifferent to the jeers—perhaps already numb.
Only his unusually light-colored eyes remained fixed on a woman in the crowd.
She was gaunt and pallid, her face haggard. Silent tears welled in her eyes, but when the child looked at her, she lacked the courage to meet his gaze, turning away cruelly.
Chu'he stared at the white hair, then instinctively glanced at the young man beside her.
Ninth smiled faintly, eyes curving like crescents.
Chu'he pressed her lips tightly. Spotting a vaguely familiar man at the crowd’s edge, she approached. "Elder Brother, may I ask you something?"
The man turned, his face paling at the sight of the white-haired, red-eyed youth. Before he could scream, the glint of silver in Chu'he’s hand caught his eye.
Greed overtook his fear. Ignoring the superstition that white hair meant doom, he reached out eagerly. "I’m the second son in my family—just call me Erlang. No need for formalities, miss."
Chu'he tossed him the silver. "Aren’t you afraid the authorities will arrest you for killing a child?"
Erlang scoffed. "This backwater place has no officials—just our Village Chief. Besides, everyone’s right! Ever since that child appeared, disasters have struck nonstop. He doesn’t just bring ruin—he’s cursed his own parents!"
Lowering his voice, he added, "Days ago, his father went to the mountains to gather medicine for his mother and fell to his death. Now, even his mother won’t keep him. By tradition, he must be drowned."
Chu'he’s gaze flickered to the woman in the crowd—torn yet heartless—then to the bound child. Her fists clenched.
Ninth leaned down, whispering playfully in her ear, "If you want to save him, it’s simple. I’ll just kill all these people."
The noisy crowd would make a fine feast for his little pets.
Chu'he shot him a look. "Don’t cause trouble."
Ninth pouted. "Fine."
She turned back to Erlang. "If I want to save that child, what’s the village’s customary way?"
Erlang eyed her skeptically, clearly finding her meddlesome. But silver was silver. "Our village has an old rule: Those unloved must be drowned. It hasn’t been enforced in centuries, but he’s too dangerous. If someone loves him, he can live."
As if on cue, the Village Chief yielded to the crowd’s demands. "The rules of Wutong Village stand. Zhang Chongyang—does anyone here love him?"
Silence.
The Chief sighed. "Then let the drowning proceed."
As someone moved to push the child into the water, the boy neither cried nor resisted. Death seemed to hold no fear for him.
Chu'he stepped forward, but Ninth yanked her back. She glared up in confusion.
He stroked her cheek, grinning. "I know my Chu'he is the kindest soul, but wait. Let’s watch a little longer."
Just as the child was about to be thrown in, a tall figure strode forth. "Stop! I’ll love him!"
All eyes turned.
The man wore simple peasant garb, yet his noble bearing and righteous aura shone through.
Chu'he gasped. "Fang Songhe!"
Chaos erupted as villagers shouted, calling him mad.
The Village Chief stroked his beard. "If you take this child, you bear responsibility for any future misfortunes. Are you certain?"
Fang Songhe didn’t hesitate. "I am."
"No regrets?"
"None."
With a wave, the Chief dismissed the executioner. Fang Songhe rushed to untie the boy.
Patting the child’s head, he asked softly, "Are you hurt?"
The boy lifted his dirty face, staring wordlessly.
With someone willing to love him, the crowd dispersed grudgingly, the once-rowdy scene now eerily quiet.
Erlang, deprived of his entertainment, kicked a portly man loitering nearby. "Back to work, slacker! No pay if you laze around!"
The man scrambled. "Y-yes, sir!"
Unnoticed, Chu'he tugged Ninth toward Fang Songhe. "Fang Songhe, what brings you here?"
The child shrank behind his rescuer, peeking timidly at the white-haired youth.
Ninth grinned back.
The boy flinched and hid again.
Fang Songhe studied the pair, bewildered. "Miss... you called me a hero?"
Chu'he frowned in confusion. "We’ve only been apart for a little over a month. How could Hero Fang have forgotten us already?"
"You must have mistaken me for someone else," the plain-clothed young man replied with a smile. "My surname isn’t Fang—it’s Song. My name is Song Tieniu. I have a younger brother and his wife, and I’ve lived in Wutong Village my whole life, making a living as a hunter. I’ve never left the village, nor have I met you before."
Chu'he’s brows knitted tighter. No matter how she looked at him, this man was undeniably the renowned "Gentleman of the Sword," Fang Songhe. Yet he seemed to have completely erased his past.
She tugged at Ninth’s sleeve. "Ninth, this is Fang Songhe, Hero Fang, isn’t it?"
"A name is just a label. Whether he’s called Fang Songhe or not doesn’t matter. What’s important is…" Ninth turned to the man, his smile guileless and sweet, almost childlike. "You say your surname is Song now?"
For some reason, the young man’s legs trembled, and a sudden chill crept up his thighs.
