Chapter Four: Once Reasoned, Now Kills

Before dawn, as the rooster crowed a second time, Shenjia Village still lay shrouded in the thin mist of late autumn. Fang Zheng rose from his bed, stepped outside, and drew water from the well to wash. Reaching the doorway, he noticed a kettle placed out front, steam curling from its spout. He must have missed it earlier; he hadn’t seen it when he first came out. It could only have been left by Aunt Zhao. He glanced toward the kitchen, but she was nowhere in sight; only faint wisps of smoke drifted from the chimney, and the gate stood slightly ajar. It seemed she had already gone out early, though for what purpose he could not guess.

Fang Zheng had been apprehensive about facing the icy well water, thinking it would be a torment to wash his face with it. Yet, when he tested the temperature with his hand, it was not as cold as he had anticipated. It struck him as odd—though the weather was growing colder, he found himself less sensitive to the chill than he’d been a few days before. He still wore only the few thin shirts he’d brought from Green Ox Village, changing and washing as needed; even last night, when he bought clothes for the little girl, he had not thought to buy any for himself. The warm sensation in his lower abdomen was growing more distinct—yesterday at noon it had come and gone, but by nightfall it was a steady, persistent heat that lingered even now. Perhaps his newfound resistance to cold was due to this.

Because of his unsettled thoughts the night before, he had forgotten to practice his exercises. Clearly, it was still too new a habit to be ingrained. He didn’t mind; all things take time, and nothing can be accomplished in a single leap.

Eschewing the warm water, he washed briskly with the chilly well water, feeling invigorated and clear-headed. Out in the courtyard, he began a set of Tai Chi. For an enthusiast of ancient Earth cultures, a little Tai Chi was nothing out of the ordinary. Though Fang Zheng was a scholar, he was more drawn to Daoist thought than to Confucian—“The Great Way is effortless, the Dao follows nature.” Such ideals suited his temperament. In addition to Tai Chi, he had a rough grasp of the Five Animals Exercise, learned during a half-month stay on Mount Kongtong with an old Daoist priest.

After completing his forms, Fang Zheng felt thoroughly refreshed. Many people on Earth doubted the benefits of Tai Chi, but to Fang Zheng, such skepticism was misguided. Even setting aside its efficacy in combat, its power to invigorate the body was undeniable.

Just then, the door to the east room creaked open, and the little girl, still drowsy with sleep, stumbled out. She caught sight of Fang Zheng and, startled, dashed back inside with a small exclamation. He watched her, both puzzled and amused, wondering what had flustered her so. Glancing at the sky, he noted it was still early—not yet the hour for visitors. He decided to run through the Five Animals Exercise as well; by the time he finished, it would be just right, and he wouldn’t disturb Old Shen’s rest.

A round of the Five Animals left him lightly perspiring. The movements seemed simple, but to perform them correctly was no easy feat. Fang Zheng was beginning to understand that the spiritual energy of this world must come from some ineffable source—even the Tai Chi and Five Animals Exercise, brought from Earth, seemed to yield better results here. His strength had been increasing, too. Last night, for example, he had carried two quivers of arrows, each weighing at least thirty jin, with ease. As for that bow—he would never have been able to draw it back on Earth. All of this was good; every small improvement brought him joy. Even the slightest accumulation, he believed, would one day lead to transformation.

As he was about to return inside to wash his face, the little girl emerged again. At the sight of her, Fang Zheng finally understood her earlier retreat. Now her hair was neatly parted into two braids, her fair little face still cherubic but already showing delicate, pleasing features. Her large, bright eyes shone with the innocence and spirit of her years. She wore the patterned cotton jacket bought the night before, but her frame looked thin and frail—a legacy, no doubt, of long-term malnutrition. Seeing Fang Zheng looking at her, she blushed and grew a little shy.

Seeing her bashfulness, Fang Zheng was seized by a playful spirit. “Whose lovely daughter is this? So pretty—could she be a fairy come down to earth?” At his words, the little girl’s face grew even redder, her head lowering as she twisted the hem of her jacket. Fang Zheng burst out laughing. Realizing he was teasing her, she pouted, “Brother Fang is so mean! I’m going to make breakfast,” and scampered off, still a little embarrassed.

“That’s the honest truth—Yaya is truly beautiful. When you grow up, you’ll be a great beauty.” “Really?” she asked softly. “Of course it’s true! I swear it to the heavens!” Fang Zheng, in high spirits, played along with her little game, not noticing the flicker of complex emotion in her wide, shining eyes.

“Yaya can cook? How impressive!” Her attention successfully diverted, she lifted her chin with pride. “Of course! I’ve been cooking since I was seven, learning from Grandma. She goes up the mountain to gather herbs early, and when she comes back, she can eat right away. Then she’s not so tired.” She looked so proud—like a small, beautiful peacock.

Fang Zheng felt a pang of sympathy. He reached out and ruffled her hair. “Let brother do it. You’re still so little.”

“That won’t do! Grandma says men aren’t allowed in the kitchen—absolutely not!” For once, the usually obedient girl was unyielding, her voice tinged with agitation. Fang Zheng understood; the depth of feudal thinking was evident, especially in this insistence on male and female roles. Seeing her resolve, he did not press further. One cannot change such ingrained beliefs in a moment.

“All right, then. Today, brother will have to taste Yaya’s cooking.”

Hearing him relent, she brightened. “Just you wait, brother! My cooking is really good. Grandma always says it’s delicious.”

Watching her, Fang Zheng’s affection for the little girl deepened. “All right, brother will wait. I’m going out to speak with Doctor Shen for a bit. Do you want to come?”

“No, I need to make breakfast. Otherwise, Grandma will have nothing to eat when she gets home.” “Did Grandma go out to gather herbs?” he asked casually.

“Yes. She hasn’t gone these past few days because you were sick. Now that you’re better, she’s gone again.” Fang Zheng was deeply moved. “At this time of year, are there still herbs to be found in the mountains?” By late autumn, the woods were barren—where could there be any medicinal plants?

“I’m not sure. Every year around this time, Grandma brings back very little, and it doesn’t fetch much money.” Fang Zheng understood—such was the cruel reality of life. Often, you know your efforts will yield little reward, but still you must persist—just to survive.

He decided he must act quickly. While herbs might be scarce, autumn was the best season for hunting—the animals were fattened for winter. Once he clarified a few things with Old Shen, he would go into the mountains the next day, hoping to make some gains and spare Aunt Zhao so much hardship.

“Yaya, be good and stay home. Brother will be back soon. Take care of yourself.”

“Don’t worry, brother. I’ll be fine. I’m always alone at home when Grandma’s out. Go on! I’ll start cooking.”

Fang Zheng said nothing more, hiding his pity in his heart, and turned to leave as the little girl ran into the kitchen.

Time passed quickly; by midday, Fang Zheng was walking down the street with a skewer of candied hawthorns in his hand. Old Shen had been as kind as Aunt Zhao had said. After buying two packets of tea, Fang Zheng visited the pharmacy, finding Old Shen dusting the medicine shelves. Once Fang Zheng explained his purpose, the old man did not turn him away but spoke openly, sharing everything he knew about cultivation. As for meridians, dantian, and internal organs, the old physician was an expert, explaining everything with clarity. Fang Zheng, a complete novice, gained much from their conversation, and the two of them talked on amiably, losing track of time.

Bidding Old Shen farewell, Fang Zheng left the pharmacy, bought a skewer of candied hawthorns from a street vendor, and headed back, picturing how delighted the little girl would be.

Turning the corner, he soon saw the small courtyard, but instead of the anticipated joyful scene, he found a crowd gathered around, pointing and gossiping. Some crouched on the higher ground, bowls in hand, watching the courtyard as if it were a show.

A chill ran through Fang Zheng, a sense of foreboding tightening his chest. Just then, he heard the little girl’s cries and the arrogant laughter of a strange man: “Ha! Little bastard, now that old dog has brought back a pretty boy, you think you’ve struck it rich? You have money for new clothes but won’t settle your debt with me. Do you think I, Shen Wan, am easy to fool?”

“Grandma said the money was paid back long ago! You’re a bad man—let go of me! Brother Fang will be back soon, and he won’t let you get away with this!” the little girl sobbed.

“Brother Fang? You mean that pretty boy? You call him so sweetly. They say that old hag brought back a pretty boy to be her man—looks like you two plan to serve him together, eh? Too bad your pretty boy is useless—heard he saw Old Shen for treatment last night and was there again this morning. Still hasn’t returned—probably won’t last much longer. Don’t expect him to save you. I was going to wait a few years, but now that he’s here, I can’t risk it. Today I’ll take you home to warm my bed. When I’m done with you, I’ll sell you to the Sleeping Moon House in town. That’ll settle your old hag’s debt!” The man’s words were filthy as he dragged the little girl by her arm.

Rage exploded within Fang Zheng. The heat in his lower belly boiled over, making him feel ready to burst. Without another thought, he strode into the courtyard. The scene before him fanned his fury to the point of madness: the little girl’s small body was being dragged across the ground by a short, gray-clad man. Her new clothes, bought just last night, were already muddied and torn at the elbow, exposing bloodied skin beneath. The sight pierced Fang Zheng’s heart like a knife. The child’s cries and helpless despair left him breathless with pain—while the onlookers merely watched, not one moving to help; a few even ate their lunch with relish. Some laughed, as if the cruelty before them were the finest entertainment.

In that moment, Fang Zheng wanted to kill. For the first time in his life, he was certain and desperate—he wanted to slaughter everyone present, save the little girl.

His belly blazed like a fire, but his face was cold as ice. Barely holding onto reason, Fang Zheng strode straight up to the attacker. With his right hand, he gripped the man’s wrist. The crack of bone and the ensuing wail seemed distant to him. Instantly, the courtyard fell silent; the gray-clad man released the child involuntarily. All the while, Fang Zheng still held the bright, enticing skewer of candied hawthorns in his left hand.

He let go of the man, bent down, and picked up the little girl. The moment she saw him, her cries ceased, though tears continued to stream down her cheeks. Cradling her legs, he offered the candied hawthorns; she took them, sobbing harder. He gently stroked her thin back, saying nothing, carrying her back into the house.

Only the gray-clad man’s howls broke the silence in the yard. He clutched his mangled wrist, rolling on the ground, his face twisted in agony, sweat pouring down.

Inside, Fang Zheng set the little girl on the bed, gently smoothing her hair. “Wait here for brother a moment, be good.” She nodded feebly, her thin body trembling, clutching the candied hawthorns in one hand and Fang Zheng’s sleeve in the other, refusing to let go.

“Brother is just going into the yard, not leaving. Don’t be afraid,” he soothed her softly.

She slowly loosened her grip, her wide eyes filled only with tears and fear. Fang Zheng bent and kissed her on the forehead, caring nothing for feudal conventions—he simply wanted her to feel safe.

Standing, he took an arrow from the quiver hanging on the wall and strode out the door. Today, he would kill. He had to. If he didn’t kill this gray-clad man, he felt he would explode, everything would collapse: twenty years of morality, the principles of two lifetimes, the burning heat in his belly—all would be lost. If he did not kill this man, his life would be forfeit.

Stepping into the courtyard, Fang Zheng swept his gaze over the assembled crowd. All were stunned by what they had witnessed, not one daring to meet his eye.

He walked slowly to where the gray-clad man writhed on the ground and crouched beside him. The man, seeing Fang Zheng approach, forgot his cries of pain. He was no fool—anyone who could crush his wrist with a single grip was more terrifying than a demon. “Please, master, spare me! Spare me! I’ll never dare again!” he pleaded, his terror sincere, his tone desperate. Fang Zheng said nothing, only stared at him. Meeting his icy gaze, the man shuddered with such fear that he did not even notice the warmth staining his trousers, only stammered his pleas.

“Mercy?” Fang Zheng’s voice was hollow, almost to himself. “If I spare you, how do I answer to Yaya? To Aunt Zhao? To myself? To the sages whose teachings I have studied these many years? To the students I taught in Green Ox Village? To all the good people in this world?”

As the crowd pondered his words, a sudden, piercing scream shattered the stillness. In the center of the courtyard, a feathered arrow protruded from the gray-clad man’s chest, dark blood seeping down the shaft. The faint sound of dripping was unnaturally clear to the ears of all present...