Chapter One — Life Is a Fleeting Sojourn
That day began exactly like the thousand days that had come before it.
A few cock crows, and slowly, the murmur of voices rose through Qingshui Town. Old Mu from Huichun Hall set out early to buy mutton from Butcher Gao the sheep-slaughterer. The two young lads busied themselves out front, readying to open for business as soon as daylight broke. The physician, Wen Xiaoliu, squatted on the back door's threshold, a bowl of mutton soup in one hand and a flatbread in the other, slurping and munching away, messy and content. Beyond the grey flagstone steps lay two and a half mu of sloped land planted with medicinal herbs. Following the flagstone path down through the middle led to a river, not a wide one. Dawn had just climbed into the sky, and the water's surface shimmered with a haze of golden mist. Wildflowers ran riot along both banks, waterbirds lifted and settled in constant motion — the scene was plucked straight out of a poem. Xiaoliu watched, pondering. Those swans are really quite plump. Catching a couple and roasting them would hit the spot nicely.
The hot soup settled warm in the belly. He dropped the soiled bowl into the wooden bucket beside the threshold, where a stack of dirty bowls already sat. Hauling the bucket up, Xiaoliu stepped out the courtyard gate and headed down to the river to wash them. In the scrub brush by the riverbank sprawled a dark, shadowy shape — no telling what kind of bird it was. Wen Xiaoliu set the bucket down, casually picked up a stone, and lobbed it over. The stone struck the dark shape, yet the shape did not startle and flap away.
Wen Xiaoliu froze. Since when does this old man never miss? He edged a few steps closer and craned his neck for a look. Not a bird. A person. Wen Xiaoliu instantly pulled his head back, walked to the river's edge, and began washing the bowls — as if there weren't something that resembled a corpse lying barely a couple of zhang away.
As he washed, Xiaoliu grumbled, "You scrub them spotless this meal, next meal they're filthy again. If they're fated to get dirty either way, why bother washing them every single time? If everyone just used their own bowl, it wouldn't even get dirty — washing once every couple of days would be plenty."
Wen Xiaoliu never folded his blankets. He reasoned: you fold them in the morning, then you unfold them at night — just fussing at yourself for no reason. Are you cracked? Naturally, his bedding stayed permanently un-folded. But the eating bowls — those he could not skip washing. If he did, Old Mu would smack him with the big ladle.
Xiaoliu kept up his muttering as he gave every bowl a rinse, then hoisted the bucket of maybe-clean dishes and headed back. His gaze never once flicked sideways towards the scrub brush.
The people of Qingshui Town had seen more dead bodies than outsiders had eaten meals. Even the children were numb to it.
Huichun Hall was no grand medical hall, but Wen Xiaoliu had a gift for treating female infertility. Out of every ten who came seeking help, he could successfully treat six or seven, so business was by no means slow. After a busy half-day, around noon, Xiaoliu rocked and rolled his shoulders this way and that, loosening up his long-sitting body, and ambled into the back courtyard.
Mazi, who was sorting medicinal herbs in the yard, tilted his chin towards the gate. "There's a beggar out there. I threw him half a flatbread."
Xiaoliu nodded, saying nothing. The kitchen fire was only lit twice a day, morning and evening. No hot soup at midday. Xiaoliu grabbed a flatbread, ladled a scoop of cold water from the water vat, and squatted on the threshold, eating while gazing out beyond the courtyard.
A few zhang away, a figure lay sprawled on the ground: clothes tattered, filthy hair veiling the face, the whole body caked in mud. Nothing discernible beyond the fact that it was a human being.
Xiaoliu narrowed his eyes. He could trace a line of dried mud, already baked stiff by the sun, stretching from beside the beggar all the way back to the scrub brush by the river. Xiaoliu raised a brow, took a sip of cold water, and swallowed down the dry, hard flatbread.
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement — the dark shape on the ground stirred. Xiaoliu turned his gaze towards the beggar. Mazi's aim had been decent enough; the half flatbread had landed right beside the beggar, but the man seemed to lack even the strength to reach for it. Clearly, he hadn't touched it all this time. Xiaoliu went on eating his flatbread, watching him. A long while later, the flatbread finished, Xiaoliu wiped his mouth with his sleeve, clapped his hands, tossed the water ladle back into the vat, and strolled off humming a tune — off to see his patients for the afternoon.
He returned at dusk. Everyone gathered noisily for the evening meal.
After eating, Xiaoliu swiped a hand across his mouth, wiped his hand on his clothes, and had meant to head straight back to his room. But as if pulled by some wayward impulse, his feet veered off course, and he found himself strolling out the courtyard gate with his hands clasped behind his back. "Liu Gē, where are you off to?" Mazi asked.
Xiaoliu took a turn by the river, then came sauntering back, still humming, pausing when he reached the beggar. That half flatbread now lay directly beneath his own foot. Xiaoliu crouched down. "I've stepped on your flatbread and ruined it. What compensation would you ask for?"
The beggar uttered not a single sound. Xiaoliu tilted his head and looked up at the sky. A waxing crescent moon hung there, cold and distant, like a trace of mockery the heavens had etched against the world.
After a long pause, Xiaoliu reached out and gathered the beggar into his arms. A man. His frame was not small, but he was gaunt to the bone, weightless, insubstantial. Xiaoliu carried him in, kicked the door open and entered the courtyard. "Old Mu, go heat water. Mazi, Chuanzi — come help."
The three who had been sitting in the yard, laughing and spinning tall tales, didn't so much as blink. Without a word, each went straight to doing what needed to be done.
· 人生忽如寄 / rénshēng hū rú jì — The chapter title evokes a classical poetic sentiment: life is as brief and transient as a temporary sojourn. The phrase echoes the Han-dynasty "Nineteen Old Poems" (古诗十九首). "Life Is a Fleeting Sojourn" preserves the elegiac tone while remaining natural in English.
· 回春堂 / Huíchūn Táng — Literally "Return of Spring Hall," a name rich with medical connotations (restoring youth, reviving health). Retaining the Pinyin preserves the cultural texture of the establishment name; the literal meaning is explained here for resonance.
· 玟小六 / Wén Xiǎoliù — The protagonist's name. Surname Wen (玟, a variant character for "jade veining"), given name Xiaoliu ("Little Six"), indicating a low-status, informal childhood name — typically a birth-order nickname. The informality is deliberate characterisation.
· 老木 / Lǎo Mù, 麻子 / Mázi, 串子 / Chuànzi — Household members' names. "Lao Mu" means "Old Mu" (a respectful casual address); "Mazi" means "Pockmarks" (a coarse nickname reflecting his marked skin); "Chuanzi" means "Skewer." These earthy, unpolished names establish the rough, working-class texture of the household.
· 老子 / lǎozi — Literally "this old man," a coarse, swaggering self-reference used by Xiaoliu. "This old man" preserves the colloquial, irreverent register.
· 亩 / mǔ and 丈 / zhàng — Traditional Chinese units of measurement. One mu is roughly 1/15 of a hectare (about 667 square metres); one zhang is approximately 3.33 metres. I've retained the Pinyin for these terms to maintain the cultural setting without cluttering the prose with conversions.
· 六哥 / Liù Gē — "Sixth Brother," a familiar form of address reflecting Xiaoliu's informal status and nickname. This relational term of address is common in Chinese vernacular and conveys casual respect and familiarity within the household.
· 上弦月 / shàngxiányuè — The waxing crescent moon, specifically the first-quarter phase. The imagery of the cold, remote moon as a "trace of mockery" from heaven sets the emotional register for the chapter — a universe indifferent to human suffering, observed with Xiaoliu's characteristic cynicism.
· Xiaoliu's voice — Note the deliberate contrast between the lyrical third-person narration and Xiaoliu's internal monologue, which is colloquial, irreverent, and peppered with self-directed grumbling. This tonal split is essential to his characterisation: a person of sensitivity and perception who has armoured himself in cynicism and coarse habits. The swan-roasting fantasy interrupting the poetic dawn scene is a perfect miniature of this duality and should be rendered with the same comic deflation it carries in the original.
Xiaoliu laid the beggar down on the sleeping platform. Mazi came in carrying a basin of warm water and lit the oil lamp in the room. Xiaoliu instructed, "Clean him up, get some hot soup into him. If there are wounds, deal with them as you see fit."
He had barely stepped out the door when Mazi's startled cry rang out. Xiaoliu spun around at once. Mazi's face had gone pale, as if he'd seen a ghost. His voice trembled. "Liu Gē, you… you'd better come look. I'm afraid this man won't live."
Xiaoliu walked over and bent down to examine him. The man's entire face was blackish-purple and swollen like a pig's head, his features completely unrecognisable. An oversized skull perched atop a body stripped of every spare ounce of flesh — a frame like dried kindling. The grotesque contrast was terrifying.
Xiaoliu pulled open the tattered clothing — rags would be the more honest word. The man's body was a crisscrossed map of wounds: lash marks, puncture wounds, burns. Across his chest stretched a large patch of blackened, charred skin — unmistakably a branding iron's work. With no flesh to spare, every rib stood out in stark relief, the scorched hide sagging loose and lifeless over the bones.
Xiaoliu lifted the man's arm. Every fingernail had been torn out. Soaked in water, each finger had swollen into a shapeless mess of blood and pulp. Xiaoliu set the arm gently back down and examined the legs. The right shinbone had been snapped. All ten toenails had likewise been ripped away. The soles of the feet bore several punctured, bloody holes — clearly driven through with long nails at some point.
Mazi and Chuanzi were no strangers to the wounded, but a chill still seeped into their bones. They couldn't help stepping back, averting their gazes, unable to look. Wen Xiaoliu, however, was utterly composed. He gave his orders without a flicker. "Prepare the medicinal wash."
Mazi snapped to his senses and hurried off to fetch the herbal decoction. He wanted to offer to clean the wounds himself, but he simply could not muster the courage to face them. Xiaoliu seemed to know he couldn't count on them. Without a word, he set to work himself, dipping a clean, soft cloth into the medicinal wash and meticulously wiping down the man's body. The searing pain of the wounds must have dragged the man out of unconsciousness. The injuries to his eyelids kept them shut, but his lips pressed tightly together.
Xiaoliu said gently, "My name is Wen Xiaoliu. You can call me Xiaoliu. I'm a physician — a small-time one. I'm cleaning your wounds right now. If it hurts, cry out. It's all right."
Yet by the time Xiaoliu had finished cleaning the man's upper body, not a single sound had escaped him. Only the beads of sweat covering his forehead and temples gave anything away. Perhaps it was this silent endurance that stirred a genuine softness in Xiaoliu's heart, something close to respect. He took a cloth and gently dabbed the sweat from the man's brow and hairline. Then Xiaoliu began to remove his trousers. A faint tremor ran through the man's body — a revulsion that cut to the marrow, though he forced himself still.
Hoping to ease the tension, Xiaoliu joked, "You're a man — what, afraid of someone taking your pants off?" But once the trousers were off, Xiaoliu fell silent.
The outer thighs and the hips and waist were also covered in wounds of every description, but these were hardly worth mentioning next to the torture inflicted on the inner thighs. There, the skin had been sliced into a ragged patchwork of ribbons.
From the knees all the way up to the groin, the wounds layered new over old, their colours shifting from deep to shallow, so that the whole area looked like a piece of torn cloth patched over and over again — grotesquely eye-catching. The torturer had understood the limits of the human body with precision, knowing that this place between a man's legs was the softest, most sensitive territory. A strip of skin carved away each time — enough to deliver agony beyond bearing, yet never enough to kill. Xiaoliu issued his orders: "Strong liquor, a candle flame, scissors, a bone-scraping knife, splints, cloth bandages, salves…"
Chuanzi scurried back and forth. Mazi assisted at Xiaoliu's side, though his eyes did everything they could to avoid the man's body.
When Xiaoliu saw the salves Chuanzi had brought, he frowned. "Go to my room and fetch the jars hidden at the very bottom of my clothes chest."
A flicker of reluctance crossed Chuanzi's eyes. He hesitated a beat before turning to go retrieve them.
Xiaoliu's hands grew gentler still as he focused his entire concentration on cleaning the wounds. But no matter how careful he was, these were, after all, wounds of every kind. Some of the rotting flesh had to be scraped away. Some dead skin had to be cut off. The broken shinbone had to be set straight.
Xiaoliu could feel the man's body trembling from the excruciating pain, yet still he kept his eyes shut, his lips clamped tight, enduring in silence. He lay there, a ravaged body laid bare, every inch of it branded with the shame of his torment — and yet his bearing remained noble, aloof, inviolable.
Xiaoliu could well imagine that it had been exactly the same while he was suffering under torture. The humiliated man possessing more dignity than those inflicting the humiliation — the torturer must have been drowning in frustration. Perhaps that very frustration had driven him to even greater depths of cruelty. Two or three shichen later, Xiaoliu had finally finished treating every wound. His own forehead was slick with sweat. Wearily, he said, "The external salve."
Mazi opened a glazed porcelain jar, and a delicate fragrance drifted out. Xiaoliu scooped out a fingerful of the golden ointment and began applying it in slow, careful strokes, starting from the man's face.
The cool salve eased the pain. The man's lips relaxed slightly, and only then could the bloodstains on them be seen. Xiaoliu dabbed a little salve, meaning to apply it to the man's mouth, but the man abruptly closed his lips — catching Xiaoliu's fingertip inside. That brief touch of wet softness on lips and tongue was the only tenderness Xiaoliu had felt from his body all night.
Xiaoliu was still frozen in surprise when the man parted his lips again. Xiaoliu withdrew his hand, gently lifted the man's arm, and continued applying the salve, bit by bit.
It took nearly another half-shichen to finish spreading the medicine over the man's entire body and binding all his wounds.
Wen Xiaoliu covered him with a clean quilt and said quietly, "I'll need to check your wounds constantly over the next few days, so I'll leave your clothes off for now. Rest assured — there isn't a single woman in this whole courtyard. Even if you accidentally let something show, no one's going to demand you take responsibility and marry her."
· 榻 / tà — A low, raised platform used for sitting or sleeping. "Sleeping platform" conveys the functional nature of the piece without over-explaining, though it lacks the cultural specificity of the original term. A tà is not quite a bed in the Western sense — simpler, often wooden, without elaborate bedding.
· 芦柴棒 / lúchái bàng — Literally "reed-stalk kindling." This vivid simile describes emaciation so extreme the body resembles dry, brittle sticks used for fire-starting. "A frame like dried kindling" preserves both the visual and the colloquial bite of the original.
· 烙印 / làoyìn — Branding iron mark. I rendered the description of "发黑的焦皮" (blackened, charred skin) as "scorched hide" to keep the visceral, almost animal rawness of the imagery, which aligns with the text's unflinching gaze at the brutality done to this body.
· 刮骨刀 / guāgǔ dāo — "Bone-scraping knife." A surgical tool used in traditional Chinese medicine to scrape necrotic tissue from bone. The term carries echoes of the famous historical episode of Guan Yu enduring bone-scraping surgery without anaesthetic while calmly playing chess — a resonance of stoic endurance that the text may be deliberately evoking.
· 时辰 / shíchen — A traditional Chinese unit of time equal to two hours. Retained in Pinyin to preserve the temporal texture of the setting.
· The dignity in suffering — The line "他赤裸着残躯，满身都是屈辱的伤痕，可他的姿态却依旧高贵，清冷不可冒犯" is crucial characterisation for this mysterious man. The contrast between his ravaged physical state and his inviolable bearing is the first real clue that he is no ordinary beggar. The translation must carry this paradox: utter physical degradation coexisting with unbroken spiritual nobility. "Noble, aloof, inviolable" attempts to capture the layered meaning of 高贵 (high-born nobility of bearing), 清冷 (cold, clear, distant — like moonlight or a mountain peak), and 不可冒犯 (not to be trespassed against — a warning embedded in his very presence).
· The salve and the lips — The moment when the man catches Xiaoliu's fingertip in his mouth is charged with an unexpected intimacy. The original describes "唇舌间的一点濡湿软腻" — that single point of wet softness on lips and tongue. This is the only softness Xiaoliu has encountered on this body all night, and the text marks it as significant. The translation treads carefully here to preserve the sensuality of the moment without overwriting it — it is a fleeting, ambiguous touch, not yet romantic, but undeniably electric.
· Xiaoliu's joke — The wry comment about no women in the courtyard and no one demanding marriage is classic Xiaoliu: deflecting emotional weight with coarse humour. It serves to break the intensity of the preceding scene while also quietly revealing the all-male composition of the household — a detail that will matter later. The tone should land as wry, not flippant; the tenderness of the moment is still there, just cloaked in his habitual irreverence.
Mazi and Chuanzi both laughed. Wen Xiaoliu began reciting the prescription: "Fuling, six qian; Hanliancao, four qian…" Mazi committed it to memory with focused attention, then hurried off to prepare the herbs.
Wen Xiaoliu glanced at the colour of the sky and figured he could still catch another shichen of sleep. He looked down at the man's filthy, matted hair and frowned. He called for Chuanzi: "A cloth, hot water, a basin, a wooden bucket." Xiaoliu sat at the head of the sleeping platform, an empty basin set on the floor beneath. He lifted the man's head and cradled it in his lap, then began to wash his hair.
Chuanzi said, slightly abashed, "Liu Gē, you've still got patients to see tomorrow — go get some sleep. I can handle this."
Xiaoliu scoffed. "With those clumsy paws of yours? I'm afraid you'd wreck all the wounds I spent the whole night cleaning, and then my night's labour would be wasted. Just keep the water coming." His hands moved with exceptional gentleness. He worked the soap-pod into a lather between his palms, then slowly worked it through the man's hair, kneading until every strand was soaked. He ladled warm water and poured it carefully along the roots, rinsing with the utmost care. Once all the mud and blood had been washed away, he picked up a pair of scissors and made a meticulous inspection, trimming away the damaged hair.
After the washing, his fingers threaded through the hair, searching and feeling. Sensing the man's body go rigid, Xiaoliu explained, "I'm just checking whether you have any head wounds."
The grim stroke of fortune was this: the torturers, wanting the man to experience every last shred of suffering without missing a single sensation, had spared his head from their cruelty.
Xiaoliu dared not apply any pressure. He went through several cloths before the man's hair was finally dry. Worried that a comb would pull at his wounds and hurt him, Xiaoliu spread his five fingers wide like a coarse comb and smoothed the hair into some semblance of order. He had Chuanzi fetch a clean pillow, then laid the man's head back down on the platform.
The sky had already brightened. Xiaoliu stepped out of the room, splashed his face with cold water, and ate his breakfast while instructing Mazi, who was decocting medicine beneath the window: "Don't worry about the shop for the next few days. Your job is to look after him. Don't feed him flatbread yet — stew some meat until it's falling apart into a fine broth, add some greens, and feed him that. Oh, and remember to let the broth cool before you give it to him." After eating, Xiaoliu shouldered his medicine basket and headed out to see his patients.
Through the window, Mazi spoke to the figure on the platform: "Beggar, Liu Gē spent the whole night saving you — he even used the life-saving medicines he'd been keeping for himself. You'd better fight to stay alive."
In the afternoon, Xiaoliu came back heavy with exhaustion, his eyelids dragging at each other.
He dropped a wild duck on the ground, ladled a bowl of hot soup from the stove, tore flatbread into it, and sat down behind the cooking hearth, slurping noisily. Old Mu kneaded dough as he said, "Mazi told me about that man's wounds."
Wen Xiaoliu took a gulp of soup. "Mm."
"Mazi and Chuanzi might not see it, but you should be able to tell — he's of the Divine Clans, and definitely not low-ranking stock like you and me."
Wen Xiaoliu drank his soup and said nothing.
"Killing a man is one thing — a clean cut and it's done. But wounds like those always have a reason behind them. Save someone you shouldn't have saved, and you're just courting your own death."
Chewing as he spoke, Xiaoliu said, "Dress that duck. Just a little salt, no other seasonings. Slow-simmer it until it's tender."
Old Mu shot him a look. Seeing the utter indifference on his face, he sighed inwardly. "Understood."
After eating, Xiaoliu went to ask Mazi, "Did he eat anything today?"
Mazi kept his voice low. "I suspect his throat is badly injured too. Couldn't get the medicine down, and he couldn't manage the meat broth at all."
Xiaoliu walked into the room. On the side table sat a bowl of medicine, already cold. He propped the beggar up. "I'm back. Can you recognise my voice? It's me, Xiaoliu. Let's take your medicine." The man opened his eyes to look at him — some improvement from yesterday, the eyes able to open just a sliver.
Xiaoliu fed him the medicine. The man strained to swallow, but it was like feeding an infant — nearly all of it spilled from the corners of his mouth. The man shut his eyes.
Xiaoliu asked gently, "They tortured your throat too?"
The man gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Xiaoliu said, "Let me tell you a secret. I still drool when I sleep. Once I dreamed I was eating roast chicken and soaked half my pillow. And this affliction — there's no cure. What you've got is only temporary. With a divine physician of my calibre here, I guarantee you'll be better in a few days." Xiaoliu climbed to the inner side of the sleeping platform and half-cradled the man in his arms. He scooped up a tiny half-spoonful of the medicinal broth and, letting it fall almost drop by drop, slowly dripped it into the man's mouth.
The man matched his effort, straining to swallow. Not a single drop of the medicine was wasted — he drank it all. One feeding drop by drop, the other swallowing drop by drop. A single bowl of medicine took the better part of a shichen, yet Xiaoliu somehow got the man to finish every last bit.
The man looked as though he'd just run several dozen li. His face was drenched in sweat, utterly drained. Xiaoliu took a cloth and wiped the sweat away. "Rest for a while first. Once the duck broth is ready, we'll have a little something to eat."
When Xiaoliu emerged carrying the empty bowl, Mazi, Chuanzi, and Old Mu stood lined up in a row, all staring at him as though he were some kind of spectre. Xiaoliu glared. "What are you all looking at?"
Chuanzi said, "More delicate than nursing a suckling babe. Anyone who didn't know better would think you were his mother."
· 茯苓 / fúlíng, 旱莲草 / hànliáncǎo — Fuling (Poria cocos, a medicinal fungus used to drain dampness and calm the spirit) and Hanliancao (Eclipta prostrata, used to cool the blood and stop bleeding). Standard practice to retain the Pinyin for specific herbs in a medical context, as these have no true English equivalents.
· 钱 / qián — A traditional Chinese unit of weight, roughly 3.75 grams. Retained as Pinyin alongside shichen and li to maintain the temporal and cultural texture. The exact conversion matters less than the feel of an old-world apothecary's precision.
· 皂荚 / zàojiá — Soap-pod, the fruit of the Chinese honey locust tree (Gleditsia sinensis), traditionally used as a natural cleanser. "Soap-pod" is specific enough to evoke the pre-modern setting without requiring a gloss.
· 神族 / shénzú — The Divine Clans. This is the first mention of a major world-building element: the existence of clans of divine beings, with a hierarchy implied (Old Mu distinguishes between "low-ranking stock" and whatever this man is). Capitalised to signal its function as a proper category within the story's mythology.
· "Killing a man is one thing — a clean cut and it's done" — Old Mu's line "杀人不过头点地" is a colloquial proverb: killing is simply making a head touch the ground, i.e., a quick death. The subtext is clear: whoever inflicted these wounds wasn't trying to kill; they were trying to make someone suffer. Old Mu's warning carries the weight of experience — he recognises political or personal vengeance when he sees it, and he knows people like him and Xiaoliu cannot afford to get caught in the crossfire.
· The feeding scene — The intimacy here is profound and carefully rendered. Xiaoliu physically cradles the man, feeds him drop by drop, and deflects the emotional weight with his absurd story about drooling over roast chicken. This is classic Xiaoliu: genuine tenderness armoured in self-deprecating humour. The translation must let both layers coexist — the deep care and the deflection. His joke about being a "divine physician" (绝世神医) is hyperbolic and self-mocking in equal measure, characteristic of his voice.
· Chuanzi's closing line — "比照顾奶娃子还精细" — more meticulous than caring for a suckling infant — and "不知道的人会以为你是他娘" — strangers would think you were his mother. This lands as comedy from the household, but it also quietly reframes how the reader sees Xiaoliu's devotion. The maternal comparison is culturally loaded and deliberately startling; it should land with the same affectionate mockery and faint shock that the original carries.
"Go to hell! You're the one who's his mother!" Xiaoliu's foot shot out, landing a solid kick on Chuanzi's backside.
Clutching his rear, Chuanzi bolted off in a flash. Mazi and Old Mu's expressions settled back to normal. Old Mu said, "It's still Xiaoliu after all — not some impostor." Mazi patted his chest, looking thoroughly reassured.
Yawning, Xiaoliu said to Mazi, "Go close up the front. No more patients today. I'm grabbing some sleep first — wake me when the duck broth is ready."
Mazi had been about to say that he could handle the feeding, but thinking back to the medicine-feeding scene from earlier and turning it over in his mind, he concluded the task was even more delicate than embroidery. He truly couldn't manage it.
When the duck broth was done, Mazi knocked on Xiaoliu's door. Xiaoliu came out stretching lazily and headed into the man's room. Just as with the medicine earlier, he spent the better part of a shichen coaxing half a bowl of the duck-meat broth into the man.
After letting the man rest for half a shichen, Xiaoliu coated both hands in salve and prepared to knead and massage his acupoints.
"Your… that was… well, it went on for quite some time. Some of the muscles have already atrophied. This will hurt quite a bit, but stimulating them like this will help with recovery." The man's eyes were shut; he gave the barest nod.
Xiaoliu smiled sheepishly. The man had endured torture like that — this kind of pain truly counted for nothing. Still, Xiaoliu talked as he worked the muscles, doing his best to distract him. "Today, when I was out on a house call, I passed a place — white walls, black tiles, and climbing all over the front was a wisteria vine thicker than a man's arm. Violet-blue, bursting into bloom across the whole wall. When the wind blew, the wisteria blossoms fell like rain. I just stood there staring, completely entranced. Then I started thinking — how can these people be so clueless? Don't they know wisteria flowers steamed into flatbread are absolutely delicious? How can they just let the blossoms fall…"
Outside the room, Mazi muttered to Chuanzi, "I don't think Liu Gē is going to let me look after that beggar after all." The beggar's body was broken and fragile, so hideously scarred it was painful to look at. He honestly didn't want to go near it again.
Just as Mazi predicted, Xiaoliu no longer let him tend to the beggar. From feeding medicine and meals to wiping down his body and applying salve — Xiaoliu handled every task himself.
A month later, the wound in the beggar's throat had healed, and he could swallow on his own. But by then, everything had already become a habit. Each day at mealtime and medicine time, Mazi would still stand in the courtyard holding the bowl, hollering towards the front hall: "Liu Gē — !" And Xiaoliu would always hurry through his remaining patients as fast as he could, then rush back to the rear courtyard.
After the better part of a year, the wounds on the man's body gradually healed. The fingernails and toenails still hadn't fully grown back, but getting them wet was no longer a problem. So Xiaoliu stopped helping him wash and instead prepared a bathing tub, letting him take a proper bath for once.
Even after being meticulously cared for by Xiaoliu for over half a year, the man was still very light — no longer the skin-and-bones wraith of those first days, but still thin. When Xiaoliu lifted him, he grumbled, "Eat more, will you? Your bones are jabbing into me."
The man kept his eyes shut and said nothing. He had always been this way. Every time Xiaoliu touched his body, he would close his eyes and press his lips tight.
Xiaoliu understood. After enduring what had been done to his body, the man had an instinctive aversion to physical contact. Every single time, he was fighting to hold himself in check.
Xiaoliu placed the hemp cloth within reach of his hand and said, gently and slowly, "Wash yourself. Your fingertips still haven't fully healed — don't scrub too hard."
He sat to one side, snacking, keeping the man company.
Perhaps because every one of those hideous scars was a brand of humiliation, the man kept his head tilted slightly back the whole time, his eyes shut with cold indifference. He did not look at his own body, only moved the hemp cloth over himself, scrubbing from neck to chest, from chest slowly down to his belly, then gradually venturing between his legs.
Xiaoliu's gaze had been following the movements of his hand the entire time, but midway through, he suddenly wrenched his head aside and bit down fiercely on a duck neck, producing a loud series of crunch crunch crunch sounds.
The man opened his eyes and looked at Xiaoliu. Sunlight streamed through the window, falling upon him. His cheeks were flushed, glowing translucent in the light — like fine jade faintly veined with a blush of blood.
Once the man had finished bathing, Xiaoliu lifted him out. Because his leg still hadn't mended, Xiaoliu usually helped him into his robes. Today, however, Xiaoliu set him down on the sleeping platform and immediately let go.
The man kept his eyes lowered. One hand pressed against the platform to brace himself; the other held the bath robe closed at his waist. His fingers were gaunt and thin, which made them seem very long. The nails, only recently grown back, showed a tender, pinkish white.
Xiaoliu lowered his head and set the clothes beside the man's hand. "Uh… that… try putting them on yourself. Call me if you can't manage."
He hurried out and stood just beyond the door, listening for a while. Soft rustling sounds — everything seemed normal. Only then did he walk away.
Chuanzi was sorting medicinal herbs. Spotting Xiaoliu, he asked, "It's been over half a year and we still haven't heard him speak. He's not a simpleton, is he?"
· "Go to hell! You're the one who's his mother!" — Xiaoliu's retort in the original is coarsely vernacular: "去你妈的！你才是他娘！" The kick to Chuanzi's backside and the profanity are classic Xiaoliu — deflecting embarrassment with physical aggression and foul language. This dynamic — the household teasing and Xiaoliu's prickly responses — is part of the warm, rough-edged texture of life at Huichun Hall.
· "It's still Xiaoliu after all — not some impostor" — Old Mu's dry remark and Mazi's relieved chest-pat are a small but telling beat. Xiaoliu's uncharacteristic tenderness was so out of keeping with his usual careless, cynical persona that his found family briefly wondered if he'd been replaced. This speaks volumes about how Xiaoliu normally presents himself versus what the reader has just witnessed.
· The wisteria monologue — A deceptively simple passage that does significant character work. Xiaoliu's rambling story about the wisteria blossoms — poetic observation undercut by culinary pragmatism — is pure Xiaoliu: he notices beauty, feels it deeply, then immediately deflects with something earthy and practical. He's using this chatter to distract the man from pain, but the content reveals his own sensibility: someone who sees a rain of violet blossoms and thinks delicious in flatbread. The tone should feel meandering, intimate, and faintly absurd — exactly the kind of thing you'd murmur to someone while your hands are busy causing them pain for their own good.
· "More delicate than embroidery" — Mazi's simile (比绣花还精细) is a nice cultural touch. Embroidery in Chinese tradition is the proverbial standard for painstaking, meticulous work. The comparison quietly underscores how extraordinary Xiaoliu's care really is.
· The bathing scene — This is a pivotal moment of unspoken erotic tension. The translation must handle it with the same restraint and indirection the original employs. Xiaoliu has been caring for this man's body for over half a year with clinical detachment. Now, with the man conscious and capable, watching him wash himself — the gaze following his hand down between his legs — something shifts. Xiaoliu's abrupt head-turn and aggressive duck-neck crunching is pure physical comedy masking sudden, unwanted awareness. The original leaves everything unspoken; the translation must too.
· Xiaoliu's flushed cheeks — The description of Xiaoliu "在阳光下晶莹剔透，好似带着淡淡血晕的美玉" (translucent in the sunlight, like fine jade with a faint blood-blush) is rendered from the man's point of view — he has opened his eyes and is looking at Xiaoliu. This is significant: it's the first time we see Xiaoliu through the man's gaze rather than the narrator's. The jade simile carries specific cultural weight: jade is not merely beautiful but noble, pure, and alive. The term 血晕 / xuèyùn — literally "blood-halo" or "blood-blush" — refers in jade appreciation to a natural ruddy veining or suffusion within the stone that suggests warmth and vitality, as though blood pulses beneath the surface. The image casts Xiaoliu as not merely beautiful but alive in the way fine jade is believed to be — luminous, warm, almost sentient.
· "He's not a simpleton, is he?" — Chuanzi's blunt question cuts through the charged atmosphere of the bathing scene with characteristic household earthiness. It also serves a narrative function: after all this time, the mysterious man has still not spoken a single word. The question hangs there, unanswered for now.
Mazi smacked Chuanzi hard across the back of the head. "Don't talk nonsense!" After suffering such brutal torture, simply staying alive was already worthy of deep respect. That kind of endurance — it could never belong to a simpleton.
Mazi lowered his voice. "Is his throat injured? Is he unable to speak anymore?"
Xiaoliu said, "I examined his throat. There's some damage — his voice will sound different — but he should be able to speak."
Mazi exhaled in relief. "That's good, then."
Xiaoliu said, "As for his injuries — whether you saw them or not, from now on, no one is to mention them again."
Chuanzi raised his hand. "I never dared look at him straight on anyway. I honestly didn't see a thing."
Mazi said, "Don't worry. Old Mu already gave us the warning. My memory's terrible — I can't even keep my own business straight, let alone anyone else's."
The door slid slowly open. The man braced himself against the wall and stepped out, faltering like a toddler learning to walk, swaying unsteadily.
Before this, Xiaoliu had always carried him out around sunset to get some fresh air and a bit of sun. This was the first time he had stepped into the courtyard in broad daylight. He stood leaning against the wall, head tilted back, gazing in silence at the vast blue sky and the white clouds drifting across it.
Mazi and Chuanzi both stared at him, dumbstruck. The man's horrifying wounds had seared such an unpleasant impression into their minds that they instinctively avoided looking at him. Chuanzi had never even stepped inside his room.
This was the first time they truly saw his face clearly.
Ink-black brows, long and striking. Eyes clear and luminous. A nose straight as a brush-stroke. Lips thin and finely drawn. Simple, coarse hemp clothing — yet his bearing was noble, his manner refined. In that single moment, Mazi and Chuanzi felt something close to shame, and an awe they couldn't help.
Xiaoliu was kneading licorice root. "If your foot doesn't hurt too badly, try to move around as much as you can. In another two or three months, you should be able to leave."
The man lowered his head and fixed his gaze on Xiaoliu. "I… have nowhere… to go." It had likely been years since he'd last spoken. His voice was hoarse and rasping, each word dragged out with painful effort.
Xiaoliu crossed one leg over the other, chewing his licorice. "Nowhere to go — is that true?"
The man gave a slight nod.
Xiaoliu asked, "What's your name?"
"You don't know? You've forgotten? Or you don't want to tell me?"
"You… saved me. I… am… your servant. Bestow a name."
Xiaoliu spat out the licorice dregs with a pfft. "You don't strike me as the type to bow beneath another or take orders from anyone. I don't want you."
The man kept his eyes lowered. "I… obey… you."
Xiaoliu popped another small piece of licorice into his mouth and said, words muffled, "And later, if we run into someone who knows you — will you still obey me then?"
The man pressed his lips together. His thin, fragile fingers gripped the window ledge so tightly the knuckles blanched. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Xiaoliu was just about to laugh it off when the man lifted his gaze and fixed it on him. "Obey!" Those clear, dark pupils burned like twin flames, as though branding that single word into the very depths of Xiaoliu's heart.
Xiaoliu paused, startled. Then he said, "Then stay."
The man's lips pressed together at the corners — almost a smile, and yet not quite discernible as one. Xiaoliu tossed a piece of licorice at him. "Go sit over there. Chew it and eat it."
Obediently, the man went and sat on the stone steps to one side. He slowly broke the licorice apart and placed a small piece into his mouth.
It was only licorice — the same thing Xiaoliu had been chewing — yet the way he did it was so refined, so elegant, that it seemed he was eating not a common medicinal root but some spirit fruit from the sacred mountains.
"Hey, that beggar… this is licorice. It's good for the throat."
Mazi scratched his head and said to Xiaoliu, "Liu Gē, give him a name. We can't just keep calling him 'beggar.'"
Xiaoliu said, "Let's just call him Gancao, then."
"No!" Mazi and Chuanzi objected in unison. "Pick something better — not like our names."
Xiaoliu smacked each of them. "What's wrong with our names?"
"They suit us fine. They don't… suit him." Chuanzi said it with earnest sincerity. Mazi nodded in firm agreement.
· "Don't talk nonsense!" — Mazi's reaction is immediate and physical. The slap carries the weight of protective instinct — not just shutting Chuanzi up, but defending the dignity of the man inside. The household, for all their rough edges, has quietly absorbed Old Mu's warning and closed ranks around this stranger.
· The man's first appearance in daylight — This is a significant reveal. For over half a year, the reader — like Mazi and Chuanzi — has only known this man as a broken body, a collection of wounds. Now he steps into the light, and the narrative gaze shifts. The description is stark and classical in its economy: brows, eyes, nose, lips — drawn in quick, precise strokes, like a figure in an ink painting. The contrast between "coarse hemp clothing" and "noble bearing" does enormous character work in a single line. This is not a man of common origin, and everyone present recognises it instantly.
· "I… have nowhere… to go" — The ellipses mark the halting, laboured quality of speech after years of silence and throat injury. The translation preserves the broken rhythm of the original (我、无处、可去) without making it melodramatic. Each word costs him effort; the effect should be spare and affecting.
· "Bestow a name" — The original "赐名" (cì míng) is a formal, almost ceremonial term. It carries connotations of a superior granting a name to someone who enters their service — or a ruler bestowing a name upon a subject. This man, who clearly outranks everyone in the courtyard by birth and bearing, is deliberately placing himself beneath Xiaoliu. The word choice is loaded, and Xiaoliu's immediate scepticism ("You don't strike me as the type to bow beneath another") shows he reads the situation perfectly.
· "Obey!" — The man's single-word response is the first moment of real intensity from him. The original "听!" is stark, forceful — a vow compressed into a syllable. The burning-eye imagery (清澈黑亮的眼眸好似两团火焰) and the phrase "branding that single word into the very depths of Xiaoliu's heart" (烙印到小六心底) elevate this beyond a simple promise. This is an oath, and the text treats it with corresponding gravity. The translation must match this tonal shift from halting, broken speech to fierce, absolute clarity.
· Gancao / 甘草 — Licorice root, a common medicinal herb used to soothe the throat and harmonise other ingredients. Xiaoliu's suggestion is characteristically offhand and earthy — naming the man after the very root he's been chewing. Mazi and Chuanzi's horrified rejection is comic but also pointed: their names (Pockmarks, Skewer) are coarse and low-status, and they instantly recognise that this man deserves something finer. The moment is warm and funny while quietly reinforcing the class dynamics at play.
· The man's elegance — The observation that even chewing licorice looks refined when he does it ("让人觉得他吃的不是甘草，而是神山上的灵果") is filtered through the household's collective perspective. It's not just that he's good-looking — it's that his every movement betrays an upbringing utterly alien to this rough courtyard. The "spirit fruit from the sacred mountains" comparison ties back to Old Mu's earlier identification of him as high-ranking among the Divine Clans. The text is stacking evidence, piece by piece.
Xiaoliu blinked, staring at the beggar seated on the stone steps. He leaned in, huddling his head close to Chuanzi and Mazi's, jabbing a finger at his own nose. In an incredulous whisper: "I don't measure up to him?"
Chuanzi asked cautiously, "Does Liu Gē want the truth, or a lie?"
Mazi offered consolingly, "Liu Gē, some people are born to be clouds in the sky, while others are like mud on the ground. There's no comparison. We just stick to our lot and be the mud we're meant to be."
Xiaoliu flew into a temper. "I'm going to name him Ground Mud."
Mazi and Chuanzi shouted in unison: "No!"
Mazi, already dreading the day the beggar would come to resent him for the name, pleaded, "Liu Gē, at least come up with something else."
Chuanzi chimed in, "Yeah, yeah, think of another one — something as nice-sounding as Liu Gē's own name."
That did the trick. Xiaoliu brightened at once, casually plucked a medicinal herb from the bamboo mat where they dried their stock, and tossed it to Mazi. "Count the leaves. Whatever the number is — that's what we'll call him."
"One, two, three… seventeen leaves."
Xiaoliu turned his head and called out loudly, "Beggar! From today on, your name is Ye Shiqi."
Ye Shiqi dipped his head in a nod. Mazi and Chuanzi turned the name over in their minds for a moment, decided it was quite decent, and beamed as they greeted him by it.
Old Mu hollered from the front hall, "Xiaoliu, patient!"
Xiaoliu aimed a kick each at Mazi's and Chuanzi's backsides, hummed a little tune, and ran off to see his patient.
Days drifted by in their unhurried way, and another half-year passed. Of Shiqi's wounds, those that could heal had done so completely. Those that couldn't — there was truly no remedy. The spot on his right shin where the bone had been snapped had knit back together, but the treatment had come too late. When he walked, there was no hiding a certain hobble, a slight drag. As for the other, hidden injuries — how well they had healed, even Xiaoliu couldn't say for certain. Because ever since Shiqi's hands and feet had regained enough mobility, he no longer let Xiaoliu change his dressings.
Mazi slipped his savings to Shiqi on the sly. "Our Huichun Hall… heh heh… you can probably tell by now that Liu Gē's medical skills aren't exactly… heh heh… You've heard of Emperor Yandi Shennong's medicine, right? Heh heh… Go to the east end of town. There's a medical hall there called Baicao Hall. The shaman-physician is a disciple of a disciple of a disciple — going back a few generations — of Shennong Yandi himself. His medical skill is profoundly brilliant. He might be able to heal your leg." Shiqi silently returned the money to Mazi.
Mazi grew anxious. "Don't be like that! The money — pay it back slowly, that's fine! But your leg is a serious matter. At worst, you can just pay me back double later."
Shiqi kept his eyes lowered. "This… is fine."
"How is this fine? You want to be a cripple your whole life?"
"Ah? Who doesn't mind?" Mazi scratched his head. "Oh! You mean Liu Gē doesn't mind, so that's good enough? What use is him not minding? Look at that slovenly way of his — he'll eat a second meal straight out of the bowl he used for the first, his clothes are practically dishrags…"
Shiqi looked past Mazi's shoulder. Mazi was just about to press his case further when a palm cracked against the back of his head, startling him into immediate silence.
Xiaoliu's face loomed in. He snatched the money pouch straight out of Mazi's hand. "Well, well, that's quite a bit of coin! Drinks are on us tonight!"
With his eyes dazzled by the sight of money, Xiaoliu couldn't be bothered to ask what shady business Mazi had been up to. He grabbed the pouch and rushed off. Mazi went wailing after him, "No, Liu Gē, that's the money I've been saving to get a wife… that's for serious business…"
That evening, everyone feasted — big cuts of meat, big bowls of wine. Xiaoliu and Chuanzi, operating on the principle of "what's free must be devoured," ate with unbridled delight. Mazi, following the logic of "every extra mouthful recovers a little of the loss," ate in exquisite agony. Old Mu drank his wine, eyes straying to Shiqi now and then.
By the end of the meal, Xiaoliu, Chuanzi, and Mazi had all drunk themselves into a stupor. It was Xiaoliu's turn to do the dishes today, but somewhere along the line — nobody quite remembered when — the rules at Huichun Hall had shifted. Now, Shiqi's chores were Shiqi's chores, and Xiaoliu's chores were also Shiqi's chores. Shiqi gathered the bowls and chopsticks, filled a large wooden basin with water, crouched down in the courtyard, and set to scrubbing.
Old Mu stood behind him and asked, "Who are you?"
In the evening breeze, a hoarse, rasping voice answered: "I am Ye Shiqi."
· "Some people are born to be clouds in the sky, while others are like mud on the ground" — Mazi's line is a folk proverb about the immutability of social station, delivered with the unthinking acceptance of someone who has never questioned his place in the world. The poetry of it — clouds and mud as metaphors for high and low — is classical in origin but thoroughly naturalised into everyday speech. Mazi means it as comfort; Xiaoliu takes it as provocation.
· Ye Shiqi / 叶十七 — "Ye" (叶) means "leaf," and "Shiqi" (十七) is simply "seventeen." The name is born from pure chance — a stem plucked from the drying mat, seventeen leaves counted. On the surface, it's utterly arbitrary, Xiaoliu at his most casual. But "Ye" carries quiet poetic weight: a single leaf is humble, fleeting, one among countless others — and yet it is also alive, green, part of something larger. The name lands as both offhand and oddly fitting. Mazi and Chuanzi's approval confirms what the reader already senses: this name, for all its accidental origins, suits him.
· "He… doesn't mind" — Shiqi's response to Mazi's plea about his leg is devastating in its simplicity. Three syllables in English, just as spare in the original ("他、不嫌弃"). He is not saying he doesn't care about being lame; he is saying Xiaoliu's lack of disgust is reason enough to accept his own body as it is. This is the first time Shiqi has spoken about Xiaoliu in the third person, and it reveals the shape of his attachment: absolute, uncalculating, undemanding. The translation must keep it stark and unadorned — no embellishment, no emotional commentary. The power is in the restraint.
· Mazi's savings — The comedy of Mazi losing his wife-fund to Xiaoliu's shameless money-grab is pure farce, but under it runs genuine pathos. Mazi, whose own name means "Pockmarks," who has no illusions about his own prospects, was willing to give everything he'd saved to a stranger for a chance at healing his leg. And Shiqi returned the money without hesitation. The whole exchange — Mazi's desperate generosity, Shiqi's quiet refusal, Xiaoliu's oblivious thievery — captures the household's rough-hewn code of care in action.
· "Shiqi's chores were Shiqi's chores, and Xiaoliu's chores were also Shiqi's chores" — This is a throwaway line that says everything about how thoroughly Shiqi has integrated himself into the household, and how thoroughly Xiaoliu has accepted — and exploited — his devotion. The wry, understated humour of it is classic narrative voice for this novel.
· Old Mu's question — The chapter closes on a quiet, tense beat. Old Mu, who warned Xiaoliu from the start that this man was trouble, has waited until the others are passed out drunk. His question — "Who are you?" — is direct and deliberate. And Shiqi's answer is the name Xiaoliu gave him. Not whatever name he carried before. The refusal embedded in that answer is as clear as it is silent: whatever he was before, he has chosen to be Ye Shiqi now. The chapter ends on this unresolved note — Old Mu's suspicion, Shiqi's quiet defiance — like a held breath.
