Yongkang Year 32, Late Spring
Yuzhou, Ruyi Town, Xishan County.
A gentle breeze carried the warmth of spring.
The season of a hundred competing blossoms was drawing to a close, yet the tung trees—never counted among the famous flowers—were blooming at their finest. Their white petals were traced with delicate crimson veins, as though stained with blood. Cluster upon cluster weighed down the branches.
At the beginning of the You hour (around 5 p.m.), classes ended at Fengyang Academy in the north of town. The young teacher saw the children to the gate. After bowing respectfully to him, they skipped away together like sparrows returning to their nests.
A gust of wind scattered a few overripe tung blossoms. One mischievously landed atop the head of a little girl with twin buns. The flower, still attached to its stem, had enough weight to make her pout in annoyance. Seeing this, her older brother immediately stomped on the fallen blossom several times, grinding its petals into the cracks of the stone pavement.
Feng Qingyang smiled and shook his head.
Such carefree childhoods.
He turned, locked the academy gate, slipped the key into the book satchel hanging from his donkey, took hold of the reins, and leisurely made his way home.
“Finished teaching, Master Feng?” called Aunt Wang, a plump middle-aged woman, from afar.
“Yes,” Feng Qingyang replied with a gentle smile. “Where are you headed, Aunt Wang?”
“It’s the Eighth Day of the Fourth Month, isn’t it? I’m buying some wine for your Uncle Wang.” She raised the little wine jar in her hand. “If you’re free tonight, come have a few cups with him.”
“Thank you for your kindness,” Feng Qingyang said with a respectful bow. “But as you know, my health isn’t suited to drinking. I won’t spoil Uncle Wang’s enjoyment.”
“What enjoyment? You scholars always speak so fancily.” Aunt Wang laughed. “I won’t keep you. Go home and spend the festival with Yunniang and little Yangyang. When you have time, have Yunniang bring Yangyang over to play with Tiedan.”
Feng Qingyang had come to Ruyi Town three years earlier with his wife and father-in-law. In his first year, he passed the county examination and became a licentiate. He opened a private school on the town’s north side, accepting students regardless of gender—as long as they wished to learn.
That autumn, his wife He Yun gave birth prematurely to their daughter, Feng Weiyang. The following year, his father-in-law passed away. Now the family of three lived in Wind Residence on Osmanthus Alley in the east of town.
When people asked whether he would continue taking the imperial examinations, he always answered that his health was too poor. Instead, he wished to devote himself to teaching and cultivate talented people for Great Zhou.
At first, because of his youth, few trusted him, and hardly any students enrolled. Everything changed when a poor boy who had abandoned his studies learned under him for half a year and successfully passed the child scholar examination. From then on, his school flourished.
But those are stories for another time.
Ruyi Town was small, with only two main streets crossing each other and eight narrow lanes. Everyone knew everyone else. Along the short walk home, many greeted him, and he acknowledged each with a nod.
Another breeze loosened a tung blossom from its branch.
Feng Qingyang caught it effortlessly, twirling its stem between his fingers before lowering his head to inhale its fragrance.
Five years in this world inside a book.
I have loved. I have hated. I have gone mad. And now… at last, I have found peace.
A smile curved his lips, dimples deepening in his cheeks like spring itself. The girls by the roadside found themselves captivated.
One young maiden twisted her handkerchief, biting her lip as she watched him with quiet regret.
Master Feng was simply too handsome.
Though only of average height—and perhaps even a little shorter than most men—he carried himself with the upright grace of bamboo. His complexion was not especially fair, but his features were strikingly refined. When he smiled, the dimples at his cheeks made him irresistibly charming.
His body appeared as slender and delicate as a woman’s, yet he possessed remarkable strength of character. Though an outsider, he had protected Yunniang and their daughter from every hardship.
The girl stamped her foot before running away.
*Why had he married so young? Why couldn’t he have waited for me?*
Oblivious to such maidenly thoughts, Feng Qingyang let the blossom spin from his fingertips to the ground.
He stopped at the town’s only pastry shop.
First he bought several pieces of malt candy for Yangyang. Yunniang had refused to give the child sweets for several days, worried about her teeth, and the little girl had been asking constantly. Since it was a festival, two pieces would be enough.
Then he ordered a box of lotus pastries—Yunniang’s favorite.
As the shopkeeper deftly wrapped them in oiled paper, she sighed with admiration.
“In the whole town, no husband dotes on his wife more than Master Feng does. Yunniang is truly blessed.”
Feng Qingyang smiled.
“No. I am the fortunate one to have married Yunniang.”
The woman added two brown sugar date cakes.
“These are for little Yangyang. No charge. They’re soft enough for her to eat.”
At the word “soft,” Feng Qingyang paused.
It reminded him of someone.
He smiled bitterly.
*Why am I thinking of him? Someone as noble and privileged as he is must be living very well.*
“Thank you, Sister Wu.”
He accepted the gift, intending to repay the kindness another time.
Such was the way of human relationships.
There was no need to calculate every favor so precisely. Courtesy returned for courtesy; affection naturally grew.
When he arrived home, roses spilled over the courtyard wall in pink, white, orange, and crimson. He and Yunniang both loved flowers, and they had spent a long time collecting every color.
Feng Qingyang pushed open the gate.
With a single glance, the blood in his body seemed to freeze.
The familiar fragrance of flowers mixed with medicinal herbs had been replaced by an atmosphere of cold menace.
More than twenty uniformed guards carrying sabers filled the small courtyard.
Yunniang clutched Yangyang tightly, crouching pale-faced beneath the veranda.
At the center of the yard stood a man in a black brocade robe, his back turned, casually toying with Yangyang’s little dough figurine.
Just from that silhouette, Feng Qingyang knew who it was.
As if sensing his arrival, the man slowly turned.
His face was still devastatingly handsome—jade-like skin, vermilion lips—but his phoenix eyes churned with emotions impossible to untangle: joy and resentment, hatred and longing, all boiling together before sinking into an abyss of unfathomable darkness.
Their gazes met.
Feng Qingyang was the first to look away.
Seeing her father, Yangyang cried pitifully,
“Papa…”
The man let out a mocking laugh.
“‘Papa?'”
His gaze swept over Feng Qingyang’s body with open scorn.
Before he could continue, Feng Qingyang quickly clasped his hands in salute.
“This humble scholar, Feng Qingyang, greets the Marquis of Jing’an.”
He deliberately interrupted him.
He would not allow those filthy words to reach the child’s ears.
“Master… Feng,” Jiang Xingzhou said slowly, every syllable edged with frost. “It’s been a long time.”
His hand tightened.
The little dough figurine crumbled into powder in his palm.
Watching it scatter across the ground, Feng Qingyang’s eyes darkened.
*The three of us are no different from that figurine now.*
He straightened and turned to his wife.
“Yunniang, take Yangyang to Aunt Wang’s house. Stay there tonight.”
She immediately rose to leave.
“Stop.”
Jiang Xingzhou’s cold voice halted her.
“Did I say you could go?”
Yangyang’s lips trembled as she prepared to cry.
Feng Qingyang hurried over, placing the malt candy into his daughter’s hand.
“Daddy bought you candy. Go inside with Mother and eat it. Be good.”
Then he looked pleadingly at Jiang Xingzhou.
After a long silence, Jiang Xingzhou gave a faint snort and turned his head away.
Permission.
Feng Qingyang gently pushed his wife forward.
“Go. Cover Yangyang’s ears.”
Yunniang looked back anxiously.
He smiled reassuringly.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Master Feng and his wife truly are deeply devoted,” Jiang Xingzhou remarked as he strode closer. The jealousy in his voice carried unmistakable killing intent.
“Since I married her,” Feng Qingyang replied meaningfully, “it is only right that I remain responsible to her for life.”
He turned and walked toward the west wing where he lived.
He knew Jiang Xingzhou would follow.
The moment the door closed behind them—