Chen Anshun had just stepped into the thatched hut, his backside barely touching the edge of the bed, when a burst of gongs and drums sounded outside.
It wasn't from afar; it was right next to the stable.
The gongs were crisp, the drums dull, interspersed with a few shouts, loud enough that even the horses in the stable snorted.
Chen Anshun opened the door to find a group of people blocking the entrance.
Uncle Zhou led the way, followed by a dozen servants, some beating gongs, some pounding drums, others holding trays covered with red cloth. Uncle Zhou wore an almost new blue cloth robe, his back straight, hands clasped behind him, looking every bit like an imperial eunuch delivering an edict.
"Chen Anshun!"
Uncle Zhou's voice was raised high, full of energy, audible throughout half of the Zhao Residence.
"The Master has a reward! Stable Steward Chen Anshun, who has diligently cultivated martial arts for decades, has today advanced to a Second-rate Martial Artist, loyal and meritorious. He is hereby rewarded with a blue-tiled house, and his monthly salary is increased from three taels to five taels, effective immediately!"
As his words fell, the gongs and drums sounded again.
Chen Anshun stood at the door, hand on the doorframe.
Inside was the broken wooden bed he had slept on for twenty years, with an old jacket he hadn't had time to fold this morning lying beside the pillow. Outside, a dozen pairs of eyes stared at him, some smiling, some curious, some just there for the spectacle.
"Th-thank you, Master."
Uncle Zhou nodded at him, gesturing for the servant holding the tray to present the items. On the red cloth lay a set of keys, brass, three in total.
"The blue-tiled house is in the third courtyard of the East Wing. The doorplate is hung, and the bedding is laid. You can move in tonight."
Chen Anshun took the keys, gripping them in his hand, the brass edges pressing into his palm.
Having completed his task, Uncle Zhou left with his entourage. The sound of gongs and drums faded, but the excitement they left behind was just beginning to ferment.
Aunt Wang from the back kitchen poked half her body out from the kitchen, holding a skimmer.
"Oh, Old Chen is moving into a blue-tiled house? That's the row where Head Lin lives. White walls and blue tiles, with a small courtyard and a pomegranate tree inside."
Old Zhao from the flower house squatted at the base of the wall, a straw stick in his mouth.
"An eighty-year-old Second-rate Martial Artist, tsk. Sixty years of Virgin Boy Skill, that old man is truly ruthless. If it were me, forget sixty years, I couldn't last six days."
Liu San from the gatehouse chimed in.
"I heard the Virgin Boy Skill requires sixty years without breaking one's body or having impure thoughts. Not breaking the body is understandable, but what does it mean to have no impure thoughts? Not even thinking about it?"
"Nonsense. Thinking about it counts as having impure thoughts. Even dreaming about your sister-in-law at night is not allowed."
"Then I won't be practicing it in this lifetime."
The group burst into laughter.
Xiaochen squatted at the stable door, brushing a horse while eavesdropping.
He was closest to Chen Anshun and had observed the changes over the past few days most clearly. The old man's appetite grew, his strength increased, and the footprints he left became deeper. But when the breakthrough moment arrived, he still hadn't expected it to happen so quickly.
"Master Chen is truly impressive," Xiaochen muttered, his hand moving faster with the brush.
The news reached the guards, who were gathering at the martial arts field after practice.
"Old Chen from the stable? The hunched old man?"
"Second-rate? Really?"
"Uncle Zhou personally announced it with gongs and drums, could it be fake?"
At this point, they all fell silent.
Lin Wei stood at the edge of the martial arts field.
He crossed his arms, leaning against a wooden stake, his expression hard to read. Though they got along well and both served as stewards within the residence, he always felt a sense of superiority over that eighty-year-old stablehand.
Now Chen Anshun was also Second-rate.
On the same level as him.
Lin Wei grinned, lowering his arms to rub the back of his neck.
"He's quite the man."
A guard next to him leaned in.
"Head Lin, did Old Chen practice the Virgin Boy Skill? The kind that takes sixty years to master?"
"Yes."
"After mastering it, does that mean he... doesn't have to abstain anymore?"
Lin Wei glanced at him and chuckled.
"Once the Virgin Boy Skill is mastered, the qi and blood reverse, and the primal yang is solidified. From then on, not only can he have relations, but even having children won't be an issue."
His voice wasn't loud, but two young maidservants happened to pass by the flower house next door.
They paused in their steps.
The two exchanged a glance.
One was sixteen or seventeen, round-faced, with twin buns. The other was eighteen or nineteen, slender, holding a pot of narcissus.
The round-faced girl spoke first, her voice low.
"Did you hear that?"
The slender girl rolled her eyes at her.
"So what if I did? An eighty-year-old man."
"A Second-rate Martial Artist," the round-faced girl's eyes shifted. "You've seen how Head Lin's wife carries herself in the residence. She rides in a sedan, has someone serve her meals, and even the Third Madam treats her with respect."
The slender girl said nothing, pursing her lips.
"Besides," the round-faced girl leaned in, "even though he's eighty, look at his vigor. He walks with a spring in his step, much better than those forty or fifty-year-old stewards in the residence."
"You marry him if you want."
"I never said I wanted to marry him."
They glared at each other, each blushing on one side, and walked off one after the other.
The excitement hadn't yet dissipated. Uncle Zhou had already returned to the stable, standing beside Chen Anshun.
The servants had dispersed, leaving just the two of them.
Uncle Zhou pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, wiping his hands, lowering his voice.
"Steward Chen, the Master has instructed you to meet him in the study at the hour of Chen tomorrow."
Chen Anshun was taken aback.
"The Master wants to see me?"
"Yes. Don't be late."
Uncle Zhou offered no further explanation and turned to leave.
Zhao Guangfeng wanted to see him. Not through the steward relaying messages, but calling him to the study. The Assistant Magistrate's study, a place he'd entered only a handful of times in his twenty years at the Zhao Residence, each time to be reprimanded while standing.
This time was different.
That night, Chen Anshun moved into the blue-tiled house.
Xiaochen helped him gather his belongings from the thatched hut, though there wasn't much to move. An old quilt, two sets of clothes, a clay pot for silver, and a broken-handled kitchen knife.
The blue-tiled house was in the third courtyard of the East Wing, a standalone house with its own courtyard. Opening the door, a pomegranate tree greeted him, its branches lush.
The courtyard wasn't large, but it was clean.
The main house had two rooms; the east room was the bedroom, with new bedding laid out. The west room had a square table, two chairs, and a wardrobe in the corner.
White walls and blue tiles, doors and windows intact.
Chen Anshun stood in the courtyard for a while, his hand touching the trunk of the pomegranate tree.
The rough bark pressed against his fingertips.
Twenty years in a thatched hut, where strong winds blew dirt through the wall cracks. On rainy days, the roof leaked, requiring a broken basin to catch the water. Turning over in bed made the boards creak, loud enough for the horses next door to snort.
Now, white walls and blue tiles, doors that could be latched, windows that could be tightly closed.
The first time in his life he lived in such a decent place.
He didn't linger long in sentiment.
He closed the door, practiced his stance for an hour, washed his feet, and went to sleep.
The next morning at the hour of Chen.
Chen Anshun donned his cleanest jacket, straightened his collar at the East Wing's entrance, and headed toward the study.
The study door was half-open, the scent of pine ink wafting out, identical to what Zhao Youdao had smelled last time he entered.
Chen Anshun stood at the door, raising his hand to knock twice on the doorframe.
"Come in."
Zhao Guangfeng sat behind the desk, a steaming cup of tea beside him. There were no documents to review today; only a folding fan and a plate of pine nut candies lay on the table.
"Sit."
Chen Anshun glanced around. A navy blue cushion had been placed on the armchair opposite the desk, likely set there deliberately. He walked over, perching on the edge of the seat.
Zhao Guangfeng didn't rush to speak.
He picked up the folding fan, leisurely opening and closing it.
"Old Chen."
Two words, light and casual, with a hint of familiarity.
Chen Anshun's back stiffened slightly.
Old Chen.
Not "Chen Anshun," not "Stable Steward," not "Old Chen."
Just "Old Chen."
Twenty years. Zhao Guangfeng had never called him that before.