The sunlight over the Side Courtyard resembled diluted ink, spreading into a pale white blur across the gloomy sky without the slightest hint of warmth.
Cold seeped up through the cracks between the stone tiles, climbing through Qin Shu’s thin, worn cotton shoes until it spread throughout her body.
She curled up on the creaking wooden chair beneath the window. Beneath the bandages wrapped around the burn on her right hand, the sharp pain had faded into a dull, throbbing ache.
With her left hand, she opened the Illustrated Thousand-Character Classic for Elementary Learning. Her fingertips traced the words, “The sun and moon wax and wane; the stars spread across the heavens,” but her gaze pierced through the coarse paper and settled on the lifeless patch of sky framed by the high courtyard walls.
The abandoned warehouse at Dock Number Three…
Complete shipments of heavy goods…
The key delivered directly to the study…
Kill anyone on sight…
Wang Zhenbiao’s hushed report and Xu Feng’s icy warning clung to her mind like parasites, gnawing relentlessly at her nerves day and night.
The flames of hatred burned silently within her chest, scorching every inch of her being.
But fire needed direction.
It needed fuel.
She needed eyes.
She needed ears.
She needed something capable of slipping through the cracks in the Governor’s Mansion’s iron walls.
Floating Cloud’s loyalty and hatred were sparks.
The Thousand-Character Classic Jiang Chen had left behind was the key.
But neither was enough.
Clang!
The rusty iron lock on the courtyard gate was roughly undone, followed by familiar dragging footsteps weighted with sluggish exhaustion.
It was the old kitchen woman delivering their meal.
Carrying a battered food basket, she tossed it onto the damp stone steps from a distance as though shooing away flies.
The basket tipped over.
A chipped porcelain bowl rolled out, spilling most of its watery rice porridge onto the ground, where it mixed with mud and dust.
“Eat up, you unlucky wretches!”
The old woman spat on the ground without even glancing toward the house before locking the gate again.
Her footsteps quickly disappeared into the cold wind.
Qin Shu withdrew her gaze from the window and looked silently at the mess scattered across the steps.
No expression appeared on her face.
Five years.
More than eighteen hundred meals like this.
The anger she had once felt had long since been worn away, leaving only cold numbness.
Her stomach was painfully empty.
Yet even looking at the muddy porridge was enough to make her sick.
Clenching her teeth, Floating Cloud rushed outside.
She picked up the dirt-covered bowl and looked at the little murky liquid remaining inside.
Her entire body trembled with rage.
“Those black-hearted beasts! They’re worse than dogs!”
Qin Shu remained still.
She watched Floating Cloud crouch on the freezing stone steps, futilely wiping the dirt from the bowl with a rag.
The cold wind lifted the faded yellow strands of hair from Floating Cloud’s forehead, revealing the tears she stubbornly refused to shed and the hatred carved deep into her eyes.
That hatred was both their shackles…
And the only weapon they possessed.
Just then, hesitant footsteps sounded once more outside the courtyard gate.
Unlike the old woman’s heavy, careless gait, these footsteps were light and cautious, rustling softly across the dead grass.
Floating Cloud immediately lifted her head, alert as a startled animal.
A stooped figure appeared outside the gate.
It was A-Fu, the mute servant from the kitchen.
He looked to be in his forties or fifties.
His hair had already turned gray.
Deep lines of hardship and sorrow were etched across his weathered face.
He wore a patched, grease-stained coarse cloth jacket that had long since lost its original color.
He carried another old food basket.
It was even more battered than the one the old woman had brought, yet he held it steadily.
Standing quietly at the gate, his cloudy eyes swiftly swept across the courtyard.
He noticed the overturned porridge bowl and Floating Cloud crouching beside it before immediately lowering his head again, as though afraid to meet anyone’s eyes.
The caution in Floating Cloud’s expression deepened.
A-Fu had worked in the Governor’s Mansion for years.
He had always been silent, existing like a shadow.
No one knew where he had come from.
No one cared about a mute servant.
He handled the filthiest and hardest work in the kitchen—hauling swill, chopping firewood, tending the stoves—and occasionally took over meal deliveries.
Never once had he stepped into the Side Courtyard.
Why had he come today?
Stooping deeply, A-Fu silently shuffled over to the stone steps.
Without looking at Floating Cloud, he quietly placed his own basket beside the one the old woman had left behind.
Then, with rough hands covered in calluses and grease, he lifted the lid.
Inside were equally humble provisions.
Two hard, coarse-grain steamed buns.
A bowl of thin vegetable soup.
But beside the buns sat something unexpected.
A small bundle of bright yellow pickled radish strips wrapped carefully in a clean lotus leaf.
They glistened with oil and released an appetizing, savory aroma.
At the bottom of the soup floated several precious vegetable leaves.
Floating Cloud froze.
She stared in disbelief at the pickled radish.
To the servants of the Governor’s Mansion, it was nothing remarkable.
But in the Side Courtyard, where they survived year after year on spoiled leftovers and salted vegetables, it was practically a feast.
A-Fu continued without pause.
He lowered the basket lid again before casting a quick glance toward Qin Shu’s doorway.
At some point, Qin Shu had already stepped outside.
Wrapped in her grayish-blue jacket, she quietly watched everything unfold.
The moment A-Fu’s cloudy eyes met her calm gaze, he jerked his head downward as though burned.
His stooped shoulders curled even lower.
His thin fingers nervously rubbed against the greasy front of his jacket.
Then, after gathering tremendous courage, he reached into his clothes and slowly pulled out a small bundle of neatly folded, faded coarse cloth.
It was only about the size of a palm.
Its edges had frayed with age.
Yet it was perfectly clean, free from even the faintest trace of grease.
A-Fu held the folded cloth with trembling hands.
He did not dare look at Qin Shu.
Keeping his head lowered, he carefully slipped the cloth into the bottom of the basket beneath the two steamed buns.
The movement was quick and discreet.
Like someone conducting a secret transaction that could never be seen by others.
When he finished, he seemed to have exhausted every ounce of strength.
His bent back curved even lower.
He picked up the empty basket the old woman had abandoned.
Without looking at Qin Shu or Floating Cloud again, he turned around and silently shuffled away, just as quietly as he had come.
His figure disappeared into the cold wind.
The courtyard gate was locked once more with a harsh scraping sound.
The cold wind carried dead leaves swirling through the air.
Only the basket A-Fu had left behind remained on the stone steps, its lid securely closed.
Floating Cloud stared blankly at the basket before looking at Qin Shu.
Her eyes were filled with confusion and lingering caution.
“Madam… what… what did he mean by this? That mute servant…”
Qin Shu did not answer.
She walked down the two stone steps toward the basket.
The cold wind lifted the hem of her grayish-blue jacket.
Squatting down, she lifted the lid.
The salty fragrance of the pickled radish mingled with the faint scent of the vegetable soup.
She reached inside.
Instead of touching the precious pickled radish, her fingers searched the very bottom.
Her fingertips found the neatly folded cloth.
The coarse fabric carried a faint scent of sunlight and soapberries.
Within this world filled with mold and icy despair, that tiny trace of warmth felt utterly out of place.
She took out the folded cloth.
It was small.
Old.
Washed until it had faded white.
Yet it was spotlessly clean.
She unfolded it.
Inside were two square handkerchief-sized cloths.
The edges had been carefully mended countless times with neat, tiny stitches.
Qin Shu gently held the clean, soft cloth between her fingers.
As her fingertips felt its delicate texture, something stirred deep within her dark brown eyes.
It was as though a small, warm pebble had been dropped into still water, sending ripples spreading outward.
Five years.
In this man-eating hell…
Other than Floating Cloud…
Other than the medicine and the book Jiang Chen had brought the previous night…
This was the first time anyone had silently and humbly extended even the smallest kindness toward her, the discarded wife.
That kindness had come from a mute servant who struggled through the same mire in silent obscurity.
Floating Cloud noticed the cloth as well.
The caution in her eyes gave way to surprise and complicated emotions.
“It’s… it’s clean cloth…”
Qin Shu slowly rose to her feet.
Holding the folded cloth, she looked toward the courtyard gate where A-Fu had disappeared.
The cold wind still howled, lifting dust from the ground.
She remained silent for a long moment.
Then, facing the empty gate and the bitter wind, she slowly inclined her head in a solemn nod.
It was not a gesture of humble gratitude.
It was more like a silent acknowledgment.
A recognition of another faint light flickering within the endless abyss of darkness.
Floating Cloud watched Qin Shu’s quiet gesture.
She pressed her lips together and said nothing more.
Qin Shu withdrew her gaze.
She carefully folded the clean cloth again before slipping it into the inner pocket of her grayish-blue jacket.
Her movements were gentle.
As though she were putting away not a worn piece of cloth, but a priceless keepsake.
Only then did she bend down and lift the bowl of thin vegetable soup from the basket.
The cloudy broth floated with a few wilted yellow leaves.
She did not touch the small bundle of pickled radish.
Instead, she carried the bowl back into the freezing room.
Floating Cloud quickly picked up the basket and followed, carefully placing the two steamed buns and the wrapped pickled radish onto the battered wooden table.
Qin Shu sat before the table.
Her gaze rested upon the murky soup inside the coarse porcelain bowl.
The surface reflected her pale, thin face streaked with dust.
It also reflected those dark brown eyes.
Within them, alongside the surging hatred and icy flames, now rested an indescribable heaviness.
The profound sympathy and cautious kindness hidden within A-Fu’s cloudy eyes pressed upon her heart like a stone, weighing down the place that had once held nothing but the fire of vengeance.
How many silent victims…
How many souls drowning in despair…
Still remained trapped within the abyss of the Governor’s Mansion?
She lifted the bowl and took a small sip of the cold vegetable soup.
The bland, bitter taste spread across her tongue.
She lowered the bowl.
Her eyes swept over the open Illustrated Thousand-Character Classic on the table, then across the bruises that had yet to completely fade from Floating Cloud’s face.
Finally, her gaze settled upon the inner pocket of her jacket.
The clean, soft cloth rested safely inside.
She slowly extended her left hand.
With the tip of her index finger, she gently stroked the worn, yellowed pages of the Thousand-Character Classic.