Chapter 2: The Destitute Man

The candlelight flickered, casting a warm glow over the shabby, dilapidated room. The man lay quietly on the bed. His face, now washed clean of blood, was pale yet refined—strikingly handsome.

He looked quite young. Though slender, he did not seem frail. Perhaps due to excessive blood loss, he had fallen asleep again. His long lashes rested against his eyelids, casting fan-shaped shadows under the lamplight. His nose bridge was straight and sharp, and his dry, cracked lips were pressed tightly together even in sleep, giving him a stubborn air.

Such a face paired with a body covered in wounds was like a pine tree bent and broken by winter frost yet still standing tall, or like a piece of jade wrapped in stone and carved full of scars—it evoked an undeniable sense of regret.

Perhaps disturbed by the light, or perhaps because he had been stared at for too long, his lashes fluttered, and he slowly opened his eyes.

His eyes were as dark as ink, yet devoid of emotion. The slight upward tilt at the corners gave him an innate coldness.

Fan Changyu showed no embarrassment at being caught staring and calmly asked, “You’re awake?”

The man did not respond.

Seeing how badly his lips were cracked, she assumed he was too injured and thirsty to speak. “Do you want some water?”

He gave a faint nod and finally spoke, “You saved me?”

His voice was hoarse, like gravel scraping across a broken gong—completely at odds with his clear, snow-like appearance.

Fan Changyu went to the table, poured him a cup of water, and handed it over. “I saw you lying in the snow in the mountains and carried you back. The one who really pulled you back from death’s door was Uncle Zhao.”

She paused, then added, “You’re staying at his house for now. He used to be a doctor.”

Though, in truth, he had been a veterinarian.

The man struggled to sit up. The hand he used to take the chipped clay cup was covered in abrasions, with hardly any intact skin visible. After taking a few sips, he covered his mouth and began coughing softly. His disheveled hair fell loose, revealing an even paler jawline.

Fan Changyu said, “Drink slowly. You don’t look like a local. I didn’t know your name or where you were from, so I didn’t report you to the authorities. Were you attacked by bandits at Tiger Pass?”

He suppressed his cough, lowered his gaze, and half his face disappeared into the shadows beyond the candlelight. “My surname is Yan, given name Zheng. There’s war in the north—I fled here from Chong Prefecture.”

Lin’an Town was just a small town under Ji Province. Having never left the province in her life, Fan Changyu knew little about current affairs. But in early autumn, the government had collected grain—likely for the war.

Her eyelid twitched. If he had fled alone from war, his family had likely met with disaster.

“Do you still have any family?” she asked.

At her question, his grip on the clay cup tightened, his knuckles turning pale. After a long silence, he rasped, “No.”

So his family was gone.

Having just lost her own parents, Fan Changyu understood his state of mind. She pressed her lips together and said, “I’m sorry.”

He replied with a quiet “It’s nothing,” but then began coughing again. It sounded as if blood were caught in his throat. The coughing grew more violent until the cup slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor. It seemed as though he might cough his lungs out.

Fan Changyu panicked at first, then quickly called for Aunt Zhao while stepping forward to pat his back and help him breathe.

His body bore many sword and blade wounds. From his shoulders to his chest, he was wrapped in bandages, and to avoid pressure on the injuries, he wore only a loosely draped inner garment.

As he coughed violently, his clothes loosened, revealing the firm contours of his abdomen beneath the bandages in the dim candlelight. But the force of his coughing tore open his wounds again, and blood slowly seeped through the cloth.

Fan Changyu raised her voice toward the door. “Auntie! Hurry and call Uncle Zhao back!”

Aunt Zhao responded from outside and rushed off to find her husband.

The man continued coughing as if tearing himself apart. His pale face flushed red, and at last, he leaned over the edge of the bed and spat out a mouthful of dark blood.

Startled, Fan Changyu quickly supported his shoulders, afraid he might collapse to the ground. “How are you?”

Cold sweat covered his forehead, and his neck and chest were soaked through. He looked as though he had just been pulled from water, his body reeking of blood. His hair clung messily to his face, making him look both wretched and tragic. “Better… thank you.”

He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand and leaned weakly against the bedpost, gasping for breath. His vulnerable throat was exposed, like a dying beast that had given up struggling.

Yet his condition looked far from “better.”

Looking at him, Fan Changyu suddenly recalled the moment she had first found him—when he had forced his eyes open in his half-conscious state, like a dying wolf.

—

By the time Uncle Zhao returned, the man had already fainted again, his breathing barely detectable.

Fan Changyu sat at the doorway, frowning like a farmer facing famine, pondering: if this man died, should she follow through with her good deed and buy him a coffin for burial, or just dig a hole and bury him?

She touched the few remaining copper coins in her pocket and decided the latter was more realistic. She and her sister still needed to eat—digging a hole was already generous enough.

After a while, Uncle Zhao finally came out of the room, his expression grave. Without saying a word, he went to the main hall and poured himself a cup of cold tea.

Assuming the man wouldn’t survive, Fan Changyu said, “Uncle Zhao, don’t blame yourself. If he can’t be saved, it’s just his fate. Once he passes, I’ll carry him to the mountains and find a decent place to bury him.”

Uncle Zhao choked on his tea and coughed for quite a while before recovering. “What nonsense are you talking about! He’s still alive!”

Fan Changyu froze, then scratched her head awkwardly. “He coughed up blood earlier, and when you came out looking so serious, I thought he was done for.”

Uncle Zhao said, “That young man has a strong constitution. Now that he’s expelled that stagnant blood, his life is no longer in danger. But that’s all—it only means he’ll survive. Whether he can fully recover depends on careful nursing and his own fortune.”

In other words, he would most likely become someone too weak to do physical labor.

He then asked, “Do you know where he’s from? Does he have any relatives?”

Recalling what the man had said, Fan Changyu sat back down on the threshold like a defeated farmer. “He said he fled from the north. His whole family is gone. After arriving here, he ran into bandits. He probably has nowhere to go now.”

Uncle Zhao and his wife exchanged a glance, both opening their mouths but saying nothing.

Saving someone temporarily was one thing, but supporting a sickly person long-term was another. His injuries were severe—not to mention the cost of medicine, even feeding him would be a burden.

After a moment of silence, Uncle Zhao asked, “What do you plan to do?”

Fan Changyu picked up a stick and drew circles in the dirt before answering, “I already carried him back from the snowy mountains. I can’t just throw him out now.”

Aunt Zhao said anxiously, “Your parents are gone, and Ning’er has been weak and needs medicine. If you take in another idle mouth, how will you manage?”

Fan Changyu also felt she had picked up trouble, but there was no other choice. “Let him recover first. When he’s better, we’ll see what he plans to do.”

Inside the room, the man—who had just awakened after Uncle Zhao’s acupuncture—heard their conversation. His dark, jade-like eyes shifted slightly toward the doorway.

Outside, snow began to fall again under the dimming sky. In the glow of the candlelight, it seemed almost warm.

The young woman crouched at the threshold, wearing a worn apricot-colored jacket. One elbow rested on her knee, her cheek propped in one hand, while the other held a stick, absentmindedly poking at the ground. Her delicate brows were faintly furrowed, as if she had made a difficult decision.

The elderly couple sighed.

The man’s gaze lingered on her face for a moment before he closed his eyes again, suppressing the cough rising in his throat.

—

That evening, after her younger sister had fallen asleep, Fan Changyu took down a wooden box hidden in the rafters.

Inside were several land deeds stamped with official seals and a handful of copper coins.

The deeds had been left behind by her parents; the coins were what she had earned from butchering pigs.

Her family had once been relatively well-off, but their current hardship stemmed from her father spending a large sum of money before his death to build a pig pen.

Her father had been a well-known butcher in town. Tired of buying pigs from traders, he had planned to build his own pig farm in the countryside and hire workers to raise them. Who would have thought that before it was even completed, both her parents would die?

The funeral expenses had drained nearly all their savings. With no source of income left, Fan Changyu had no choice but to take up butchering herself to survive.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t considered selling some of their land for emergency funds, but under the law, if parents died without leaving written instructions, daughters could not inherit property. If the deceased had no sons, the estate would pass to the parents’ siblings.

As a daughter, she could not transfer ownership of the house or land, nor could she mortgage or sell them for money.

Her uncle was a gambler deep in debt and had his eyes set on her family’s property, often coming to cause trouble and demanding she hand over the deeds.

Fan Changyu refused. That house was where she had lived with her parents for over a decade—every corner held memories. If she lost even that, would she and her sister be forced onto the streets?

Fearing her young sister might accidentally reveal their hiding place, she had kept the location of the deeds a secret even from her.

She poured out the copper coins and counted them—three hundred seventy in total. This was everything she had saved after daily expenses.

Even without taking in the injured man, her household was already on the brink of running out of food.

Relying on butchering jobs was not a long-term solution. Business was good now because it was the twelfth month and many families were preparing pigs for the New Year, but after the holiday, there would be almost no work.

Fan Changyu planned to reopen her family’s pork shop.

She calculated silently: live pigs cost fifteen coins per jin in winter. An eighty-jin pig would cost one thousand two hundred coins.

After slaughtering, about sixty jin of meat remained. Selling it fresh at thirty coins per jin would yield a profit of six hundred coins.

If she also processed the head and offal into braised dishes, the profits would be even higher.

During the New Year, every household entertained guests, but most lacked proper seasonings to cook elaborate meals, so they often bought prepared food from the streets. Braised meat sold especially well at this time.

The idea was good—but the problem was, she didn’t even have enough money to buy a single pig.

Fan Changyu let out a long sigh, tucked the coins into her sleeve, and placed the deeds back into the box before returning it to the rafters.

She needed to find a way to gather enough money to buy at least one pig.