“Have you heard? That Su Man is going to the bathhouse today.”
“So what if she goes? Should we roll out a red carpet for her too?”
“No, I mean — that country girl must have skin rough as old tree bark. And our compound bathhouse? That’s a demon-revealing mirror. Once the clothes come off, who’s fair, who’s dark, who’s soft, who’s rough — you see it instantly.”
On a weekend afternoon, steam filled the women’s bathhouse in the compound. White mist drifted everywhere, mixed with soap and the natural scent of women.
Water splashed loudly, but louder still were the gossiping voices in the corner.
Although Zhang Guifen had been embarrassed at the clinic yesterday, this was her home ground now — and her mouth couldn’t stay idle.
While rubbing soap on herself, she winked at Sister Li beside her.
“Last night was dark and far away — we couldn’t see clearly. I don’t believe it. A village girl who grew up doing farm work and got abused by a stepmother — how could her body have no scars? No calluses?”
“I think Regiment Commander Lu just likes novelty. Once he sees that dark skin, he’ll probably lose his appetite.”
“Zhang, say less,” Sister Li muttered, glancing toward the door. “She nearly destroyed her legs saving the child last night…”
“Her legs? That was a pity trick!”
Zhang Guifen’s voice grew louder instead.
“That’s fate. A sparrow can’t become a phoenix. Even in fancy clothes, she still smells like dirt!”
Just as she spoke enthusiastically, the thick cotton curtain at the bathhouse entrance lifted.
A gust of cold air rushed in, dispersing the fog near the door.
The noisy bathhouse suddenly fell quiet.
Everyone looked toward the entrance.
Su Man walked in, holding a red enamel basin, clean clothes tucked under her arm, limping slightly.
Her leg injuries hadn’t fully healed — the gauze was removed but scabs remained, making her gait uneven.
Yet her presence wasn’t diminished.
She wore an oversized army-green men’s shirt — Lu Zhan’s old one — long enough to cover her hips. Sleeves rolled to the elbows revealed slender fair forearms.
Her hair was casually tied back, a few strands clinging to her cheeks from the steam.
No makeup.
But under the dim yellow light, her face looked dazzlingly pale.
Her gaze swept the room and finally landed on Zhang Guifen’s long face.
She said nothing, only curved her lips into a faint half-smile, then walked straight to the inner lockers.
“Putting on airs…” Zhang Guifen muttered, staring intensely.
Su Man placed the basin down and calmly began unbuttoning.
One button.Two.Three.
As the shirt slipped off, a white cotton undershirt appeared.
A collective intake of breath echoed.
That skin — not tree bark.
It was like freshly peeled lychee, like fine white jade — smooth without visible pores, glowing softly under the light.
She didn’t remove the undershirt yet. Instead, she bent to take off her pants.
Her legs — though the knees bore ugly scabs — were straight and long, full thighs and slender calves.
Not farm-work legs at all.
They looked like those of a pampered young lady.
Zhang Guifen’s eyes nearly popped out; the soap slipped from her hand into the water.
But that wasn’t the most shocking part.
Su Man turned around, back facing the crowd, and removed the last undershirt.
The women waiting to laugh fell silent.
Her back was shaped like a butterfly about to fly — deep spine line, a waist slender enough to encircle with one hand.
Yet what caught the eye most was not the curves — but the ambiguous red marks scattered across her pale back.
Some on the shoulder blades, some at the lower back hollow, even one beneath the side of her neck — deep red, clearly left by intense kissing or gripping.
Marks left by a man.
Proof of Lu Zhan — the “living Yama” — claiming territory on this soft body.
“Th-this… Commander Lu is really…”
Sister Li blushed and turned away.
Most present were experienced women — everyone understood.
This wasn’t abuse.
This was being cherished deeply.
Zhang Guifen’s face turned liver-red.
She had mocked her dark skin and scars.
Instead, Su Man’s skin glowed — and her marital affection was practically displayed on her back.
A silent slap to the face.
As if unaware of the gazes, Su Man calmly took towel and soap and entered the shower area.
Hot water washed away the past two days’ exhaustion.
But her mind calculated other things.
People in this compound judged by appearances.
Since they liked appearances — she’d let them see enough.
Only by shutting their mouths could she establish herself here and free her hands to do business and make money.
After about half an hour she came out, drying her hair.
Fewer people remained, but Zhang Guifen still lingered, unwilling to leave in defeat.
Su Man dressed and wrapped her hair.
Passing Zhang Guifen, she paused.
“Sister Zhang.”
Her voice was clear, lazy from the bath.
Zhang Guifen jumped. “W-what?”
Su Man looked her up and down, eyes settling on her grimy back.
“You didn’t wash thoroughly.”
She smiled — not mocking, yet piercing.
“There’s a lot of dirt on your back. It’s rolling into strips.”
“How about I help scrub it? Neighbors should help each other.”
“No need!”
Zhang Guifen jumped back like a stepped-on cat, hitting the wall.
“I can scrub myself! Don’t pretend kindness!”
“Oh, alright.”
Su Man nodded.
“Then scrub carefully. If too much dirt builds in the heart too… it feels suffocating.”
She picked up her basin and left.
Zhang Guifen stood trembling, face alternating red and pale, unable to say a word.
Nearby women covered their mouths laughing.
“Serves her right.”
“Su Man looks delicate but her tongue is sharp.”
“Don’t provoke her — she’s not simple.”
Outside, cold wind hit her as she tightened her coat.
Pain throbbed in her knee — she’d twisted the old injury trying to maintain her elegant exit on the slippery floor.
“Hiss…”
She leaned against the wall briefly.
Showing off had its price.
But it was worth it.
She looked at the sunset dyeing the compound golden-red.
By now Lu Zhan should soon return from headquarters.
A sly smile curved her lips.
Before outsiders she was a thorny rose.
But before her own man…
She had to be a pitiful little rabbit.
Otherwise, who would dote on her injured foot?
She adjusted her expression, hiding the sharpness and putting on a fragile look as she limped home.
This performance wasn’t over yet.
Brother Zhan… your move.