Duan Ling hesitates briefly, unsure if he should open the door — Lang Junxia is still lying inside the room. The gates are barred; outside, someone bangs it a few more times, and Duan Ling braves the snow to go open it.
“Aiyoh,” The mounted guard looks rather surprised. “How come you’re such a wee thing? Where’re the adults? Where’s your mom and dad?”
Duan Ling answers, “They’re ill.”
“Isn’t this the kid who goes to the Illustrious Hall?” Behind them, someone who seems to be the captain of the mounted guards bends down to inspect Duan Ling. Duan Ling is dressed in an inner gown, so cold his lips look a bit purple, and he shivers incessantly behind the gates. The young man gets down from the horse and looks Duan Ling up and down. Duan Ling has already forgotten where he’s seen him.
“Where’s your dad? Do you remember me? I’m Cai Yan’s older brother, Cai Wen.”
Duan Ling thinks about this for a moment and says, “He’s ill. I don’t remember.”
Well, he remembers Cai Yan, but he doesn’t remember this man.
“Can the adult in your house come see us?” Cai Wen frowns, examining the bruising on the rim of Duan Ling’s eye. He was punched pretty hard earlier, and it’s swollen now. Cai Wen tries to touch it but Duan Ling just fearfully backs away.
“Sleeping.” Duan Ling doesn’t want Cai Wen to come in lest he discovers the assassin’s corpse.
Watching the way Duan Ling cowers, a little kid standing at the gates with no shoes in the middle of the winter dressed in nothing but a thin gown, Cai Wen just can’t bear to make things difficult for him after all. “Never mind. Go on inside and get some rest.”
“Next house!” Cai Wen orders the other soldiers and gets on his saddle, and leaves. It’s not until he turns his horse around and Duan Ling sees the back of him that he remembers the man who came earlier to get Cai Yan was the very same young man.
The patrolling soldiers have left. Duan Ling breathes a sigh of relief, bars the door, and returns to the bedroom. The ginseng tea in the pot has filled the room with a bittersweet aroma.
Duan Ling takes the pot off the heat so it can cool. He can hear Lang Junxia on the daybed, coughing.
“Who was it?” Lang Junxia’s forehead is beaded with sweat.
“Cai Yan’s older brother Cai Wen,” Duan Ling tells him truthfully.
Lang Junxia’s eyes are closed. “Cai Wen? He left just like that? And who’s Cai Yan? You know his younger brother?”
“Yeah,” Duan Ling says. He takes the tepid kettle, points the spout at Lang Junxia’s lips, and pours ginseng tea right into his mouth. Lang Junxia chokes a couple of times at first, but then he relaxes and drinks the entire pot as Duan Ling feeds him.
“Old mountain ginseng …” Lang Junxia says in a calm and steady voice, “keeps one breathing and extends life. The heavens are not quite done with me yet. Is there anymore? Give me a bit more.”
“That’s all there is. I’ll go steal … go buy some more.”
“Don’t. It’s too dangerous.”
“Then I’ll add more water and heat it up for you again.”
Lang Junxia goes quiet and doesn’t say anything else. For some reason the night seems to go on forever. Duan Ling curls in on himself beneath the daybed, nodding off constantly while a kettle of ginseng tea simmers on the stove.
“Lang Junxia?”
Lang Junxia makes no sound.
“Are you okay?” Duan Ling asks fearfully.
“Hey,” Lang Junxia answers, half awake. “I haven’t died.”
Only then does it feel to Duan Ling like a huge load has been taken off his mind. Outside, it grows darker and darker, but the flames inside the stove feel like a warm sun shining on them both.
“Lang Junxia?” Duan Ling asks again.
“Alive.” Lang Junxia’s voice sounds like a pair of bellows, as though the sound comes right out of his lungs and not through his throat.
Duan Ling falls asleep again, his head resting on the daybed.
By the time he opens his eyes again the next day, it has stopped snowing. Duan Ling realises he’s gone to sleep on the daybed, and Lang Junxia is lying next to him. There’s already a bit of colour to his cheeks.
Like a puppy, Duan Ling gets close to Lang Junxia and sniffs all over his face to check for breath, a deep furrow between his brows. Lang Junxia takes a deep breath — he has a splitting headache. “What time is it?”
Thank the heavens and earth. Duan Ling watches him with concern. “Do you still feel bad?”
“I don’t feel bad anymore.”
Duan Ling’s mood takes a turn for the better. “I’ll go find you something to eat.”
The moment he gets up, he looks outside to find everything covered in bright, white snow; with a cheer he immediately wants to go outside to play in it.
“Put on your clothes.” Lang Junxia says, “Don’t catch a cold, you hear me?”
Duan Ling wraps a fur coat around himself, and taps at the icicles hanging off the veranda with a bamboo pole, laughing loudly all the while. When he turns, he sees Lang Junxia sitting in the room, untying his outer gown, cutting away the unlined inner gown beneath and changing out his own poultices.
Duan Ling drops the bamboo pole and runs back inside. “Are you better?”
Lang Junxia nods. Duan Ling sees that the abdominal wound where he unwraps the bandages is a dark purple colour, three cuts of varying depth, but has already scabbed over. So Duan Ling heats up water for him, makes sure he wipes it clean and sprinkles on trauma powder.
There’s a strange hieroglyphic tattoo on Lang Junxia’s pale, strong arm too, like a tiger engraved on a monastery bell2. It makes Duan Ling remember what happened the night before.
“Why were they trying to kill you?”
“They want to find out someone’s whereabouts from me.”
“Who?”
Lang Junxia looks at Duan Ling. Suddenly the corner of his mouth curves up slightly and his eyes narrow.
“Don’t ask.” Lang Junxia says, “Don’t ask anything. You’ll find out in the future.”
Duan Ling is very worried but all of his gloom is dissipating because Lang Junxia is still alive, so that makes him rather glad. Sitting next to Lang Junxia, he stares at the tiger head tattoo on his arm. “And what’s that?”
“A white tiger.” Lang Junxia explains, “The white tiger of the west. The western skies host the vital energies of war. That’s why it’s the god of swordsmen.”
Duan Ling doesn’t get it. “You can use a sword, right? I saw your sword. It’s really sharp.”
Duan Ling goes looking for Lang Junxia’s sword, but it’s already gone. When he makes it to the back courtyard he suddenly recalls with fear that the body is still in the stable, but when he goes closer to look, the hay’s been moved and the body’s gone — and Duan Ling is instantly scared out of his wits.
“I took care of it. You don’t need to be scared. He was with the Chen shadow guards, and they’ve never gotten along with Wu Du. Good thing the one who made it here was him and not Wu Du. Otherwise neither of us would be sitting here right now.”
Duan Ling doesn’t ask how Lang Junxia “took care” of it. He realises that he doesn’t know where the bloodied clothing has gone either.
“Go buy some food.” Lang Junxia hands Duan Ling some money. “Don’t say anything, and don’t ask anything.”
Duan Ling heads to the market late in the morning to buy steamed stuffed buns and plain rolls, then he gets some rice and meat too, coming back with an armful of packages. Lang Junxia can already walk around. He splits the stuffed buns with Duan Ling. “We’ll make do like this for now. Once you’re back in school I’ll spend some time setting up the place.”
“Will you leave again?” Duan Ling asks.
“I won’t leave again.”
“Will you come get me on the first day of next month?”
“I guarantee I won’t be late again. It was wrong of me yesterday.”
Duan Ling asks suddenly, “Then can you be my dad?”
Lang Junxia is taken aback, then he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Please don’t ever say that in front of anyone.”
Duan Ling frowns.
“Your dad will come find you.”
Duan Ling is dumbstruck. Lang Junxia’s words are like a thunderclap that runs through Duan Ling from head to toe.
“My dad is … still alive?”
“Yeah, he’s still alive.”
Duan Ling asks urgently, “Where is he? He’s still alive? Then why didn’t he come get me?”
Duan Ling has been lied to in regards to this countless times, but he knows that, this time, Lang Junxia won’t lie to him. He has no evidence that Lang Junxia won’t, he just knows it intuitively.
“Save these words and ask them of him later. One day, he will come. It may be as long as three years or as short as a few months. Trust me.”
Duan Ling just sits there with his mouth open, a bowl in his hands, looking like he has no idea what to do — finding about this so suddenly is making him as happy as he is afraid. And so Lang Junxia calls him over; he leant Duan Ling’s head against his shoulder, patting his head, wrapping him in his warm embrace.
I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎
This is a reference to the Li Bai essay “The engravings on the great bell of Huacheng Monastery”. ↩︎
Duan Ling hesitates briefly, unsure if he should open the door — Lang Junxia is still lying inside the room. The gates are barred; outside, someone bangs it a few more times, and Duan Ling braves the snow to go open it.
“Aiyoh,” The mounted guard looks rather surprised. “How come you’re such a wee thing? Where’re the adults? Where’s your mom and dad?”
Duan Ling answers, “They’re ill.”
“Isn’t this the kid who goes to the Illustrious Hall?” Behind them, someone who seems to be the captain of the mounted guards bends down to inspect Duan Ling. Duan Ling is dressed in an inner gown, so cold his lips look a bit purple, and he shivers incessantly behind the gates. The young man gets down from the horse and looks Duan Ling up and down. Duan Ling has already forgotten where he’s seen him.
“Where’s your dad? Do you remember me? I’m Cai Yan’s older brother, Cai Wen.”
Duan Ling thinks about this for a moment and says, “He’s ill. I don’t remember.”
Well, he remembers Cai Yan, but he doesn’t remember this man.
“Can the adult in your house come see us?” Cai Wen frowns, examining the bruising on the rim of Duan Ling’s eye. He was punched pretty hard earlier, and it’s swollen now. Cai Wen tries to touch it but Duan Ling just fearfully backs away.
“Sleeping.” Duan Ling doesn’t want Cai Wen to come in lest he discovers the assassin’s corpse.
Watching the way Duan Ling cowers, a little kid standing at the gates with no shoes in the middle of the winter dressed in nothing but a thin gown, Cai Wen just can’t bear to make things difficult for him after all. “Never mind. Go on inside and get some rest.”
“Next house!” Cai Wen orders the other soldiers and gets on his saddle, and leaves. It’s not until he turns his horse around and Duan Ling sees the back of him that he remembers the man who came earlier to get Cai Yan was the very same young man.
The patrolling soldiers have left. Duan Ling breathes a sigh of relief, bars the door, and returns to the bedroom. The ginseng tea in the pot has filled the room with a bittersweet aroma.
Duan Ling takes the pot off the heat so it can cool. He can hear Lang Junxia on the daybed, coughing.
“Who was it?” Lang Junxia’s forehead is beaded with sweat.
“Cai Yan’s older brother Cai Wen,” Duan Ling tells him truthfully.
Lang Junxia’s eyes are closed. “Cai Wen? He left just like that? And who’s Cai Yan? You know his younger brother?”
“Yeah,” Duan Ling says. He takes the tepid kettle, points the spout at Lang Junxia’s lips, and pours ginseng tea right into his mouth. Lang Junxia chokes a couple of times at first, but then he relaxes and drinks the entire pot as Duan Ling feeds him.
“Old mountain ginseng …” Lang Junxia says in a calm and steady voice, “keeps one breathing and extends life. The heavens are not quite done with me yet. Is there anymore? Give me a bit more.”
“That’s all there is. I’ll go steal … go buy some more.”
“Don’t. It’s too dangerous.”
“Then I’ll add more water and heat it up for you again.”
Lang Junxia goes quiet and doesn’t say anything else. For some reason the night seems to go on forever. Duan Ling curls in on himself beneath the daybed, nodding off constantly while a kettle of ginseng tea simmers on the stove.
“Lang Junxia?”
Lang Junxia makes no sound.
“Are you okay?” Duan Ling asks fearfully.
“Hey,” Lang Junxia answers, half awake. “I haven’t died.”
Only then does it feel to Duan Ling like a huge load has been taken off his mind. Outside, it grows darker and darker, but the flames inside the stove feel like a warm sun shining on them both.
“Lang Junxia?” Duan Ling asks again.
“Alive.” Lang Junxia’s voice sounds like a pair of bellows, as though the sound comes right out of his lungs and not through his throat.
Duan Ling falls asleep again, his head resting on the daybed.
By the time he opens his eyes again the next day, it has stopped snowing. Duan Ling realises he’s gone to sleep on the daybed, and Lang Junxia is lying next to him. There’s already a bit of colour to his cheeks.
Like a puppy, Duan Ling gets close to Lang Junxia and sniffs all over his face to check for breath, a deep furrow between his brows. Lang Junxia takes a deep breath — he has a splitting headache. “What time is it?”
Thank the heavens and earth. Duan Ling watches him with concern. “Do you still feel bad?”
“I don’t feel bad anymore.”
Duan Ling’s mood takes a turn for the better. “I’ll go find you something to eat.”
The moment he gets up, he looks outside to find everything covered in bright, white snow; with a cheer he immediately wants to go outside to play in it.
“Put on your clothes.” Lang Junxia says, “Don’t catch a cold, you hear me?”
Duan Ling wraps a fur coat around himself, and taps at the icicles hanging off the veranda with a bamboo pole, laughing loudly all the while. When he turns, he sees Lang Junxia sitting in the room, untying his outer gown, cutting away the unlined inner gown beneath and changing out his own poultices.
Duan Ling drops the bamboo pole and runs back inside. “Are you better?”
Lang Junxia nods. Duan Ling sees that the abdominal wound where he unwraps the bandages is a dark purple colour, three cuts of varying depth, but has already scabbed over. So Duan Ling heats up water for him, makes sure he wipes it clean and sprinkles on trauma powder.
There’s a strange hieroglyphic tattoo on Lang Junxia’s pale, strong arm too, like a tiger engraved on a monastery bell2. It makes Duan Ling remember what happened the night before.
“Why were they trying to kill you?”
“They want to find out someone’s whereabouts from me.”
“Who?”
Lang Junxia looks at Duan Ling. Suddenly the corner of his mouth curves up slightly and his eyes narrow.
“Don’t ask.” Lang Junxia says, “Don’t ask anything. You’ll find out in the future.”
Duan Ling is very worried but all of his gloom is dissipating because Lang Junxia is still alive, so that makes him rather glad. Sitting next to Lang Junxia, he stares at the tiger head tattoo on his arm. “And what’s that?”
“A white tiger.” Lang Junxia explains, “The white tiger of the west. The western skies host the vital energies of war. That’s why it’s the god of swordsmen.”
Duan Ling doesn’t get it. “You can use a sword, right? I saw your sword. It’s really sharp.”
Duan Ling goes looking for Lang Junxia’s sword, but it’s already gone. When he makes it to the back courtyard he suddenly recalls with fear that the body is still in the stable, but when he goes closer to look, the hay’s been moved and the body’s gone — and Duan Ling is instantly scared out of his wits.
“I took care of it. You don’t need to be scared. He was with the Chen shadow guards, and they’ve never gotten along with Wu Du. Good thing the one who made it here was him and not Wu Du. Otherwise neither of us would be sitting here right now.”
Duan Ling doesn’t ask how Lang Junxia “took care” of it. He realises that he doesn’t know where the bloodied clothing has gone either.
“Go buy some food.” Lang Junxia hands Duan Ling some money. “Don’t say anything, and don’t ask anything.”
Duan Ling heads to the market late in the morning to buy steamed stuffed buns and plain rolls, then he gets some rice and meat too, coming back with an armful of packages. Lang Junxia can already walk around. He splits the stuffed buns with Duan Ling. “We’ll make do like this for now. Once you’re back in school I’ll spend some time setting up the place.”
“Will you leave again?” Duan Ling asks.
“I won’t leave again.”
“Will you come get me on the first day of next month?”
“I guarantee I won’t be late again. It was wrong of me yesterday.”
Duan Ling asks suddenly, “Then can you be my dad?”
Lang Junxia is taken aback, then he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Please don’t ever say that in front of anyone.”
Duan Ling frowns.
“Your dad will come find you.”
Duan Ling is dumbstruck. Lang Junxia’s words are like a thunderclap that runs through Duan Ling from head to toe.
“My dad is … still alive?”
“Yeah, he’s still alive.”
Duan Ling asks urgently, “Where is he? He’s still alive? Then why didn’t he come get me?”
Duan Ling has been lied to in regards to this countless times, but he knows that, this time, Lang Junxia won’t lie to him. He has no evidence that Lang Junxia won’t, he just knows it intuitively.
“Save these words and ask them of him later. One day, he will come. It may be as long as three years or as short as a few months. Trust me.”
Duan Ling just sits there with his mouth open, a bowl in his hands, looking like he has no idea what to do — finding about this so suddenly is making him as happy as he is afraid. And so Lang Junxia calls him over; he leant Duan Ling’s head against his shoulder, patting his head, wrapping him in his warm embrace.
I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎
This is a reference to the Li Bai essay “The engravings on the great bell of Huacheng Monastery”. ↩︎
