Thirty‑second year of the Yongkang reign, late spring.
On the eighth day of the fourth lunar month, at the end of the third quarter of the hour of the Monkey, Lord Jing’an Jiang Xingzhou and his retinue arrived at Ruyi Town.
On the tenth day of the fourth lunar month, at the start of the second quarter of the hour of the Pig, Feng Qingyang, teacher of the Fengyang Private School, died in a fire. No trace of his remains was ever found. He was twenty years old.
Dawn broke, and light first touched the sky.
With the help of the townsfolk, young and old, the mourning hall of the Feng residence had already been fully arranged. White streamers hung low; incense and candles flickered, bright and dim. A plain, simple coffin rested silently in the center of the hall. It held no body, only his usual blue scholar’s robes and head covering, neatly folded, together with a few well‑thumbed books.
He Yun, dressed entirely in white mourning garments, knelt beside the coffin, keeping vigil. By her side knelt Yangyang, also draped in hemp and white cloth. Her face was gaunt and pale, her eyes red and swollen from crying. Young Yangyang did not yet understand the meaning of life and death. She simply leaned against her mother, obedient but confused, and let out small, sleepy yawns.
Aunt Wang stayed close, holding He Yun’s hand. Her words of comfort trembled: “Yunniang, please bear your grief. You still have Yangyang; you must take good care of yourself…”
Before He Yun could reply, Yangyang lifted her head. Her round, bright eyes looked at Aunt Wang. “Grandma Wang, what does ‘bear your grief’ mean?” She glanced curiously around the hall, innocent and uncomprehending. “Grandma Wang, have you seen my father? It’s time for him to eat his buns and go teach his class.”
Tears suddenly spilled from He Yun’s eyes. Though this was a feigned death, from this day onward, Yangyang would truly grow up believing she had no father.
Aunt Wang opened her mouth, but her throat felt tight and choked; she did not know how to answer. Glancing back at the empty coffin, she could no longer hold back. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she hurried from the hall and collapsed into the arms of Aunt Li—with whom she usually bickered—sobbing aloud: “Heaven has no eyes… Teacher Feng was such a good man, and so young. How could he… how could he be taken from us like this?”
Aunt Li’s eyes also turned red. She patted Aunt Wang’s back over and over, while wiping her own tears. “Heaven’s ways are unjust… so unjust! Why does it not strike down the wicked bandits and rogues, but take our teacher instead…”
By the hour of the Dragon, the students of the school arrived one after another, all clad in mourning dress. The younger children burned incense, bowed their respects, and were then led aside to keep Yangyang company. The older boys, however, insisted on kneeling in the mourning hall, observing the rites of filial sons to stand vigil for their teacher.
The elderly town mayor hobbled forward leaning heavily on his cane and stopped before He Yun. “Wife of Qingyang, bear your grief. Have peace of mind—from now on, everyone in this town will protect you and your daughter. No one shall dare mistreat you.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” He Yun replied, raising her head. “My cousin Qingyang said he will give us a sum of silver to cover our journey home to Feng Family Fortress, where our clan will take us under their protection.”
At these words, all eyes turned involuntarily toward the western veranda. Jiang Xingzhou wore no mourning clothes; only a simple white silk robe that suited the solemn occasion in its plainness. Standing in the morning light, he was strikingly handsome, yet his face bore no trace of sorrow—only deep concern—making him seem strangely out of place amid the grief. As a relative, he did not come forward to help with the arrangements, but merely ordered his guards to lend a hand from a distance.
Ji Yinghe kept his gaze fixed unwaveringly on him. This man had arrived in town only three days ago, and now disaster had struck their teacher. He refused to believe it was mere coincidence. Slowly lowering his head, he suppressed the anger and suspicion burning inside him. Wait, he told himself. One day I will find the truth and avenge my teacher.
At that moment, the corner of Jiang Xingzhou’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. This young man has sharp instincts, he thought, unconcerned. Then he turned and pushed open the door to his room.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of medicine.
Feng Yi had fallen ill, running a high fever, dizzy and nauseous. Even with her eyes tightly shut, the sensation of the world spinning and her stomach turning never left her. In her delirium, she seemed to travel back in time, to the very day she first arrived in this body.
It was the sixteenth day of the seventh lunar month, in the twenty‑seventh year of the Yongkang reign, just after the hour of the Rabbit.
Her soul had been wrenched violently from its original place and stuffed into this unfamiliar frame, bringing with it a terrible sense of falling and disorientation. Before she even opened her eyes, Feng Yi lunged toward the side of the bed and vomited until nothing but bitter bile came up.
Collapsing back onto the mattress, she realized something was wrong. This was not her bedroom filled with plush toys; this was a traditional Chinese lady’s chamber. Most of the furniture was crafted from fine rosewood of medium‑high quality, while a few pieces—such as the dressing table of pear‑flower wood and the side table of red sandalwood—were made from timber of the highest grade.
Clearly the home of a wealthy family. But why was she here?
The bed curtains were drawn aside, and two maids dressed in servant’s attire stepped inside.
The slightly plumper of the two smiled when she saw her awake. “The young lady has woken up?”
Glancing at the mess beside the bed, she hurriedly set a brass basin on its stand and rushed over. “Are you feeling unwell, Miss?” She placed a hand to Feng Yi’s forehead, her expression growing alarmed. “You are burning hot! I shall fetch the physician at once.”
“Is the cousin lady feigning illness to avoid answering Her Ladyship’s questions?” The other maid, Cuiyu, wrinkled her nose and covered her mouth with a handkerchief as she glanced at the floor, her tone sharp with mockery.
“What kind of talk is that, Sister Cuiyu? Look how ill our lady has become…”
Hearing them switch between “young lady” and “cousin lady,” Feng Yi’s head throbbed and her stomach churned again. Before she could lean over to retch once more, her eyes rolled back, and she fainted.
It was at that moment that the System appeared. It gave her her mission, then vanished just as abruptly, without further explanation. In that vast empty space, she met the original soul of this body—the girl called Mianmian, also named Feng Yi.
Mianmian looked almost identical to her; the slight difference lay only in age and the gentle, timid spirit that shaped her bearing.
Feeling guilty for occupying someone else’s body, Feng Yi spoke gently: “I am truly sorry, sister. Right now I have no way to reach the System or return your body to you. But as soon as my task is done, I shall make sure it is given back to you.”
“There is no need, elder sister,” Mianmian replied with a calm, relieved smile, her eyes bright and clear. “The System spirit has already promised me it will send me on to be reborn. It said in my next life I will have parents who cherish and love me.” She then added, looking apologetic: “I am sorry to leave you with such a terrible mess.”
“It is no trouble,” Feng Yi assured her. “Are you absolutely certain you no longer want this body?”
“Quite certain,” Mianmian nodded firmly.
“How did you…” Feng Yi could not bring herself to say the word; it seemed too cruel for such a young girl.
“Die?” Mianmian finished for her naturally, and even smiled a little. “I was frightened to death.” Then she scratched her cheek shyly. “Am I being very weak‑minded?”
Mianmian’s aunt, Lady Daqin, was Lord Jing’an’s second wife. Though she had lived in the manor for sixteen years, she had never borne a child, and by this time Lord Jiang’s eldest son, Jiang Xingzhou, had already grown to manhood and kept his distance from her. To secure her future status and authority, Lady Daqin had sent for her younger sister’s daughter—this Mianmian, newly come of age and famous for her beauty—intending to arrange for her to become Jiang Xingzhou’s concubine.
But Mianmian was shy and easily frightened. Lady Daqin had planned to let her settle in first, until the day the Lord began looking seriously for a proper bride for his son. Fearing that if she waited too long she would offend the future daughter‑in‑law and her family, Lady Daqin forced Mianmian to go to Jiang Xingzhou’s quarters and offer herself to him.
That night, trembling with fear, Mianmian had crept near his courtyard—only to catch sight of him committing murder.
In the dim light of the Ghost Festival, she saw broken bodies, a sword dripping red, a handsome face stained with blood, and a cold, disdainful sneer. When his gaze fell upon her, sharp and dangerous, the vision seared itself into her mind like a scene from hell. The shock was so great that she fainted on the spot.
All through the night, she tossed between two overwhelming terrors: If I stay near Jiang Xingzhou, he will kill me… and If I fail and am sent back to Feng Family Fortress, my parents will beat me and force me to marry Nie Wenxuan—the man who has already tortured and killed several wives. As the first glimmer of dawn touched the sky, her spirit finally slipped away from the world.
“How terrible…” Feng Yi stepped forward and gently embraced this poor girl who had never known true affection. “You were only too kind, Mianmian. This cruel world did not deserve you.”
She spoke from the heart: “May your next life be filled with love and joy—with parents who adore you, wealth, beauty, and peace, good health and happiness forever.”
“Thank you, sister.” As she began to fade away completely, Mianmian’s voice rose in warning: “Do not ever go back to Feng Family Fortress. Promise me you will not return.”
Back in the room, Jiang Xingzhou sat beside the bed, his brow furrowed with worry.
He dipped a cloth into warm water, wrung it out, and gently wiped the beads of sweat from Feng Yi’s forehead. He dipped it again and wiped her neck and palms, trying to bring down her fever.
Then, carefully, he rolled up the legs of her trousers. The ointment applied the day before had dried and crusted over. He used a damp cloth to clean it away, then scooped out fresh salve, warmed it between his palms, and rubbed it slowly and softly into her knees—bruised and discolored from kneeling for so long.
When he was done, he lifted one of her hands and pressed it against his cheek. “Mianmian… please wake up,” he murmured, brushing a light kiss over her knuckles. “If you are still angry with me, wake up and slap me across the face—do anything you like.”
“Mianmian, little sleepyhead… time to rise.”
Feng Yi seemed to hear his voice. Her brows drew tight, and her lips moved faintly. Jiang Xingzhou leaned closer, pressing his ear almost to her mouth, until he caught the faint, broken whisper: “I am not… not Mianmian… Mianmian died… five years ago…”
“All right,” he soothed gently. “You are not Mianmian, then who are you? Tell me your name, won’t you?”
Her frown deepened. “I am Feng Yi… I am…”
Suddenly tears spilled from beneath her closed eyelids, trickling down her temples and vanishing into her hair. “I am sorry… I am so sorry, Teacher… Qingyang… is dead too…”
Outside in the courtyard, the musicians had arrived. The mournful wail of their suona horns cut through the walls and drifted into the room.
Feng Yi’s body convulsed violently. She lurched forward and vomited again, the mess splattering all over Jiang Xingzhou’s robe and shoes. He did not flinch or draw back, only stroked her back tenderly until the spasm passed. Then he wiped her mouth clean with a handkerchief and helped her lie back against the pillows.
As the sound of the suona rose higher and more sorrowful, Jiang Xingzhou’s expression grew graver. A folk belief came to mind: funeral rites always drew restless spirits and dark energies. If “Feng Qingyang” was merely an alias, could this false ceremony have disturbed something unseen—causing her fever and nightmares?
He reached for his sword Sinking Silence, drew it from its sheath, and its blade glinted cold and bright. Holding it pointed toward the empty air, he spoke in a low, steady voice: “I address all spirits, gods, and ghosts of the four directions. The passing of Feng Qingyang was feigned only out of necessity, not with intent to deceive. Feng Yi’s heart is pure and true as the sun and moon. I ask you to leave her in peace.”
With a sharp twist of his wrist, he turned the blade and rested it behind his back. “If any reckoning must be made, let it fall upon me, Jiang Xingzhou. Do not harm her.”
When he finished, he tied a red silk cord to the hilt and hung the sword above the head of the bed. Having tasted the blood of countless foes, it was said to ward off evil and calm restless spirits.
Almost as if by magic, no sooner had the blade been placed than Feng Yi’s fever began to drop. Within a short while, she stirred and opened her eyes. The illness had struck her like a storm and vanished just as suddenly—yet it left her weak and weary, as though all her strength had been drained away.
Because there was no body to inter, the rites for Feng Qingyang were brief. The very next day, the coffin was carried out of town for burial.
The townsfolk, knowing the teacher loved beauty and quiet, had chosen a spot surrounded by green hills and flowing streams.
Four of Jiang Xingzhou’s guards—Qing Shan, Qing Feng, Qing Ya, and Qing Lan—lifted the coffin. He Yun, carrying Yangyang, walked behind it, leading the procession.
Magistrate Wenche had always been an upright man. Apart from keeping the secret of the new farming method, which was too important to reveal, he had never taken credit for any of Feng Qingyang’s other achievements. He hoped that once he eventually left his post, those works would remain as security for He Yun and her daughter.
News of the teacher’s death spread fast. Not only did all the people of Ruyi Town turn out to say goodbye; many traveled through the night from Baili Town and Red Flower Town to join them.
The procession grew longer and longer. By the time they reached the burial site, half the slope was filled with mourners, standing in silence and weeping.
The coffin was slowly lowered into the earth.
“Farewell, Teacher Feng! Safe journey!”
One voice rang out first, and instantly hundreds more joined in, filling the valley with sorrowful cries.
At that moment, young Yangyang seemed to understand what was happening. She burst into loud, heart‑rending sobs: “Father, don’t go! Come home… come home!”
The cry of the small child tore through everyone’s grief, and the weeping rose like a tide.
Jiang Xingzhou stood quietly at the edge of the crowd, deeply moved by the sight. Many officials lived their whole lives and never earned such love and devotion from the people—yet she had done it in just three years, with nothing more than the title of a low‑ranking scholar.
His guards stood with heads bowed, their own eyes glistening. Qing Feng turned away for a moment to wipe his cheek; in the capital, he had often been assigned to protect Feng Yi and had grown close to her. He understood better than most how good and noble the person behind that scholar’s robe truly was.
Once the tombstone was set and the rites completed, Magistrate Wenche turned to leave for the yamen. As he passed Jiang Xingzhou, he paused slightly and spoke in a voice only the Lord could hear: “Did you know, Lord… ‘Qingyang’ was never an assumed name? It was the courtesy name her own teacher gave her.”
The words hit Jiang Xingzhou like thunder. For a moment his mind went blank, and all sound faded away; the world seemed to fall into utter silence.
A courtesy name? Not an alias at all…
Slowly, stiffly, he turned back toward the grave. The freshly painted characters on the stone—The Tomb of Feng Qingyang—seemed to burn into his vision.
If that was true… then what had he done?
He had killed her.