Lu Zewei frowned slightly, raising his hand to his forehead—it did feel warmer than usual.
His intuition told him it wasn’t from wearing too little and catching a chill outside.
Yet he was equally reluctant to admit or believe that his fever was caused by his morning run.
He had trained for extended periods in harsh environments where surface temperatures dropped below negative thirty degrees Celsius, where water froze instantly, guarding the border for many years.
The early winter in Jiangjing was merely around zero degrees—how could he possibly develop a high fever just from one morning drill?
However much he refused to believe it, the facts were right before his eyes.
Once again, Lu Zewei silently agreed with what Liang Xin had said earlier: perhaps the pain was indeed gnawing away at his body.
Liang Xin retrieved a mercury thermometer from the medical kit her mother-in-law had brought up earlier and handed it to him. “Place it under your armpit. Give it to me in fifteen minutes.”
Lu Zewei complied, recalling the food compatibility guide she had been reading last night and how she could cite numerous ancient medical texts even regarding foot soaking. Hearing her tone, he asked, “Have you studied medicine?”
“I trained as a barefoot doctor for a while at the commune clinic.” Liang Xin found some fever-reducing pills and handed them over. “Take these.”
Lu Zewei held the pills up to examine them.
“What are you looking at?” Liang Xin closed the medical kit, picked up a cup of water, and passed it to him. “Afraid I’m trying to murder you?”
“Can’t rule it out.” Lu Zewei swallowed the pills and took a sip of water. “Everyone not only thinks I’m sick but also that I’m a madman. Who knows how much worse it might get? If you murder me now, you could claim several hundred in Pension from our garrison. The pity is, I didn’t die on the battlefield, so I can’t be recognized as a martyr. Otherwise, you’d not only get a lump-sum Pension but also monthly martyr subsidies.”
“Thanks for the info.” Liang Xin picked up the bowl of noodles. “I’ll take it into consideration.”
Lu Chongfeng suddenly visualized the cover of a book titled “Encyclopedia of Over 1,000 Food Incompatibilities” and began scrutinizing the contents of the noodle bowl, eyeing Liang Xin with suspicion.
“It’ll get cold if you don’t eat it soon.”
“It might get cold even after I eat it.”
Liang Xin: “…”
His comprehension skills today were suddenly and remarkably normal.
Lu Zewei also remembered how heartily she had been slurping the noodles earlier when he was in the most excruciating pain. “Would you like some more?”
Liang Xin stood up. “No, you eat.”
“Where are you going?” Lu Zewei’s tone was somewhat urgent, and he noticed it himself. He picked up a strand of noodles with his chopsticks. “I mean, what did you mean by what you said earlier? I’m eating now—you can tell me.”
“No talking during meals.”
Liang Xin took the thermos from the writing desk, poured hot water into a red double-happiness enamel basin, soaked a white towel, wrung it out, and leaned back to place it over her face.
Lu Zewei, who had thought it was for him to wipe his sweat: “…”
He finished the noodles in the bowl in a few bites.
Leaned back against the headboard again.
He knew it—everyone treated him as sick, as a madman. Even if someone suddenly said he wasn’t wrong, it was just to placate him, a tactic to trick him into treatment.
“Collective Lazing Disease isn’t just in military academies. It’s a collective epidemic in factory workshops and commune Production Teams.”
Liang Xin spoke abruptly, handing the freshly rinsed hot towel to Lu Chongfeng, whose long lashes rested on his eyelids as he lost himself in thought.
“This illness of yours has accumulated over years and months. You understand the current development of the world, and you also know that a large portion of people’s thinking is increasingly falling behind the times—some even cling to superstitious dogmatism, indulging in rigid interpretations, where the spiritual mocks the material, and ignorance scoffs at culture.”
Lu Zewei’s long lashes fluttered as he slowly opened his eyelids, his dark pupils reflecting a faintly flickering flame.
It was the reflection of the kerosene lamp atop the bookshelf.
“Although the Gang of Four has long been defeated, the lingering effects of their individualism and spiritual supremacy have left the very people you wish to change rigid in their thinking, unaware of their own stagnation. They cling stubbornly to conventions, blinded by arrogance. You agonize over this, speaking bluntly without fear of offending others or jeopardizing your own future. Yet, your inability to awaken those afflicted with Spiritual Numbness torments you, causing you sleepless nights and mental anguish. I believe you are not a madman, not a patient—you are a hero.”
Since joining the army, the word “hero” had been repeated to him so often it grated on his ears.
But when it came to reform, all he ever heard was “lunatic” or “madman.”
This was the first time someone had used the word “hero” to affirm him.
A radiant clarity completely replaced the agitation Lu Zewei had concealed in his eyes during the earlier argument in the study. “You…”
Liang Xin suddenly smiled. “I was just speaking casually. If I’m wrong, pretend I never said it.”
“No, you’re absolutely right!” Lu Zewei glanced at the tightly shut French windows. “Don’t worry, no one outside can hear. So, does this mean you support me?”
“No, I don’t.”
Lu Zewei’s gaze froze. “Why not?”
“In the commune’s Production Team, every day the commune members go to work. The men gather to play cards, the women gather to stitch shoe soles and gossip. The brigade secretary and Production Team leaders see it all but neither criticize nor urge them on. Why do you think that is?”
Lu Zewei fell silent, his brow furrowing again.
“Your illness—it’s not that the hospital doctors are entirely unaware, yet they all claim they can’t identify the cause. Why is that?” Liang Xin watched Lu Zewei’s expression, full of pent-up frustration with nowhere to vent. “Achieving success at a young age can be a great fortune in life if one treads carefully, but acting recklessly and speaking without restraint can turn it into a profound misfortune.”
Though similar words had been spoken to him before, this time Lu Zewei felt no resentment or suffocation. “I cannot bear to watch them continue deceiving themselves. While other powerful nations rapidly expand their military capabilities, many of our comrades have worn down the calluses on their hands and now busy themselves with drawing lines and taking sides. I wrote several academic papers and submitted them to the military newspaper, but not only were they rejected—I was criticized for boosting the enemy’s morale and undermining our own. It’s utterly absurd!”
Liang Xin suddenly reached out and lifted the corner of his quilt. “You’ve sweated a lot today. Change your clothes later, and tomorrow take this quilt apart. Remember to wash it in the courtyard—it should dry by afternoon. Then you can stitch it back together.”
The anger that had just begun to rise in Lu Zewei halted. “You want me to wash it?”
Liang Xin nodded.
Lu Zewei looked down at the quilt. “You want me to wash it… and then stitch it back together?”
Liang Xin nodded again.
“Washing is fine, but I can’t stitch a quilt.” Lu Zewei stared at the rows of white cotton threads amidst the peony patterns on the quilt cover. “I don’t know how to sew a quilt.”
“If you don’t know, then learn.” Liang Xin walked to the leather trunk, picked up a brand-new cotton quilt, and placed it on the bed. “I know how. I’ll teach you.”
“Sewing quilts is women’s work. No man sews quilts—I won’t learn it.”
Liang Xin suddenly smiled.
Lu Zewei detected a hint of mockery in her smile. “…What are you laughing at?”
“A military theorist once said that the only thing harder than instilling new ideas in a soldier is eradicating their old ones.”
Liang Xin pulled the quilt off him and tossed a new one over his body. “Indeed, you’re no exception. You criticize others for being rigid, but I think your mindset is more stubborn than most.”
Lu Zewei was left speechless. He glanced at the old quilt now folded on the chair, then back at Liang Xin. “You’re comparing quilt-sewing to military strategy?… Wait, you actually know about the Brit Liddell Hart? You’ve read foreign military books?”
“The ideological issues of those you want to change are lingering effects of the decade of turmoil. But your mindset, I’d say, stems from feudal problems dating back at least a thousand years.”
Ignoring his question, Liang Xin watched Lu Zewei’s eyes narrow momentarily but didn’t stop. “If you can’t even break your own old habits, what right do you have to try changing others?”
“…Who says I can’t?”
Lu Zewei’s face darkened. He threw off the quilt, struggling to sit up and get out of bed, but a sudden dizziness overwhelmed him, and he collapsed weakly against the headboard.
Deep exhaustion and defeat clouded his features.
Liang Xin steadied his burning-hot shoulder. “You’re running a fever—why push yourself?”
Lu Zewei only felt dizzier.
When he recovered slightly, he whispered weakly, “Tomorrow… I’ll sew a quilt to show you.”
“Tomorrow is the third-day bridal return visit. I won’t be here to see it.” Liang Xin dipped the towel back into the basin—the water was still warm—washed it, and wrung it out. “If you don’t wipe yourself properly, the fever will spike again tonight.”
Lu Zewei tilted his long neck back. His shirt had come undone from the struggle, two buttons loose, revealing glimpses of sweat-dampened, sculpted muscles.
Liang Xin focused on his Adam’s apple, wiping his neck with fleeting touches, then his firm chest, unaware of the faint, abnormal tremors near his left heart.
She opened his dresser drawer, spotted the army-green shorts piled in the corner, averted her eyes uncomfortably, and picked out a neatly folded white undershirt to toss on the bed. “Don’t rush while you’re unwell. Wait until you’ve fully recovered to deal with the quilt.”
With that, she took her change of clothes to the bathroom for a shower.
When she returned, the room was empty.
Puzzled, Liang Xin glanced around and headed for the stairs. Noticing the light on in the west bathroom and hearing water running, she hesitated a moment before turning back.
If he could get up and leave the room, he should be fine, right?
Downstairs, she updated the elders.
The whole family was astonished.
Hu Fenglian exclaimed repeatedly, “See how discerning I am? I found such a wonderful daughter-in-law—not just ideologically enlightened and attentive to Chongfeng, but now even helping with his illness!”
Chief Lu glanced upstairs but said nothing. Before heading to his room, he remarked, “If he’s better, there likely won’t be further issues. You should rest well.”
Back upstairs, motivated by her sixty-yuan salary, Liang Xin intended to remind him to keep covered at night and ideally sweat out the fever.
She waited and waited, but he didn’t return.
The night deepened, heavy with dew, and the temperature dropped.
She changed the bedding on the right side, crawled into her own quilt, yawned, and continued waiting.
Lu Zewei returned to the room pale-faced, leaning against the wall. The moment he saw someone in the bed, his first reaction was a twitch in his eyelids.
Then he remembered he had gotten married.
To a wife who was knowledgeable, eloquent, and endlessly resourceful—the only person who had ever made him suffer consecutive defeats, someone whose schemes he would willingly fall for even when fully aware of them.
He turned off the fluorescent lamp, walked slowly to the bookshelf, removed the glass lampshade, and relit the kerosene lamp.
The dim, faint yellow light fell on Liang Xin’s sleeping face. Her eyelashes cast two fan-shaped shadows on her flawless skin, fluttering slightly. She was sleeping deeply but not peacefully, her lips slightly pouted as if aggrieved—unlike the composed, unflappable demeanor she maintained when awake, as if nothing in the world could stir her.
Lu Zewei involuntarily reached out but abruptly stopped just above her lips. Realizing what he was doing, he hastily blew out the kerosene lamp.
The room plunged into darkness.
The night wind rustled the ginkgo trees outside the window.
Tonight’s moonlight was much weaker than the previous night, so faint that even the curve of the quilt was barely visible.
Leaning against the bedside, Lu Zewei slowly lifted the new quilt and lay down, exhaling a long, weary sigh.
Having broken into a sweat, he had forced himself to take a bath, afraid the smell would bother her.
Suddenly, his senses—honed by countless field trainings—detected a familiar fragrance of Snow cream.
Rich and intensely aromatic.
Lu Zewei pondered for half the night before identifying it as jasmine.
The bride’s return to her parental home traditionally occurs on the third day after the wedding.
For centuries, it has been customary for the groom to accompany the bride back to her family.
This tradition persisted unchanged, even during the most intense class struggles.
When Liang Xin woke up in the morning, she instinctively glanced at the neighboring bed. Relieved to find him there, she relaxed.
She had waited for him in bed but unknowingly fallen asleep.
As she reached out to touch the patient’s forehead, his eyes suddenly snapped open.
Not only had he not improved, but his eyelids were reddened, his condition clearly worse.