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The main hall lay in silence, only the faint murmur of wind stirred the curtains, carrying with it the scent of dust and extinguished incense.
Han Yan's footsteps echoed softly as he entered.
Madam Wei stood near the center of the hall, her expression composed yet strained. All trace of earlier arrogance had faded, leaving behind a chill, brittle calm. Her gaze swept over the bundle in his hands, and her eyes darkened.
"Hopefully you did not take anything beyond your clothes," she said at last, each word clipped and cold. "We can no longer afford to provide for you."
The sarcasm in her voice cut through like a sharp blade. She spoke loudly enough for those lingering outside to hear desperate to reclaim some shred of authority after being humiliated before the villagers.
Han Yan halted beneath the eaves. The light from the courtyard fell upon him, drawing his shadow long across the floor. He looked at her just once eyes calm, unreadable, as though she were no more than another obstacle on his way out.
"There is nothing here worth taking," he replied evenly.
The words were quiet, yet they struck like a blade sheathed in silk.
Madam Wei's breath caught. Her fingers curled within her sleeves, nails biting into her palms. She wished to retort, yet no sound would come. The humiliation from earlier still weighed heavy upon her chest; her anger could find no escape.
Han Yan adjusted the bundle in his arms and turned toward the doorway, his steps were steady each step echoing softly against the floor, neither hurried nor hesitant.
The pale light spilled across the threshold as he passed, stirring the dust into brief motion. The curtain brushed lightly against his shoulder before falling still again.
Behind him, Madam Wei remained motionless.
Her gaze lingered upon the empty doorway, and the faint line between her brows deepened.
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Outside, the wind had shifted. The scent of earth and dust lingered in the air, carrying the faint hum of the village.
Beyond the gates, the afternoon sun hung low, behind the thin clouds and the wind carried the scent of distant woodsmoke.
Han Yan adjusted the bundle on his shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly against the sun as he set his gaze upon the road ahead.
He turned down the path leading away from the Han household. Not far ahead, the sound of raised voices broke through the afternoon stillness shouts echoing through the narrow lane, sharp and heated it was impossible to ignore.
He had no intention of involving himself yet before he knew it, his steps had already carried him forward.
A small crowd had formed by a wooden fence. Dust swirled as voices clashed, overlapping.
In the center stood a young ger, slender and worn from work, clutching a squawking brown hen to his chest.
Opposite him was a heavyset man with a dark beard, voice booming as he pointed.
"I told you all before! This thief's been sneaking around my yard. Look caught him red-handed!"
"It's not true!" the ger's voice shook but held firm. "This is my hen! She's mine, she's been with me since she was small!"
"Yours?" the man snorted angrily. "Half the birds in this village look the same. You just picked one to call your own."
Han Yan stopped a few paces away, watching the commotion quietly. The crowd murmured some uncertain, others already siding with the louder voice.
The man barked angrily again. "That hen is mine! I found it wandering in my yard!"
"It wasn't wandering!" the ger's voice trembled with anger. "She got out through a hole in the fence this morning. I've been looking for her all day!"
The man snorted. "Convenient story. You can claim any bird that way."
A few villagers murmured. Some nodded at the man he was known for his temper and his way of twisting things to his favor.
The ger's face was pale from exhaustion, his hands shaking as the hen struggled in his arms.
"She's mine," the ger said again, more quietly now. "Her name's Su Su. She always sleeps by the back coop. There's even a red string on her leg. Look."
Han Yan's gaze lowered there was indeed a bit of red thread tied just above the chicken's foot, though frayed with age and dirt.
The bearded man crossed his arms. "That means nothing. Anyone can tie a string."
The ger's cheeks were flushed, his fingers trembling as he tried to shield the hen. The bird clucked frantically, wings beating against his arms.
Han Yan sighed inwardly and stepped forward.
"That's a strong accusation," he said, his voice calm, unhurried. "Do you have proof the bird is yours?"
The man turned sharply. "Who are you to interfere?"
"Someone who prefers fairness over noise," Han Yan replied simply. "You say the bird is yours what makes you so sure of it?"
The man puffed up. "She's one of my brown hens! All my hens are brown."
Han Yan's eyes shifted to the ger. "And yours?"
The ger swallowed. "There's a small scar on her left leg, from when a fox got into the coop last year."
Han Yan crouched slightly, careful not to startle the hen. "May I see?"
The ger hesitated, then nodded, holding the bird still. Han Yan brushed aside the feathers and looked there it was, a faint pale line near the joint.
He straightened, turning towards the crowd. "The scar is there, just as he said. Do any of you recall this man losing a hen with such a mark?"
There were murmurs heads shaking, a few shrugs. No one spoke for the accuser.
The man's face darkened. "That doesn't prove anything!"
Han Yan tilted his head slightly. "Perhaps not. But tell me then, do you know this bird's habits? Where she roosts, what she eats?"
The man hesitated, his bluster faltering. "How should I know that?"
The ger looked up quickly. "She always follows me when I scatter rice near the well," he said, voice rising with hope.
Han Yan nodded at him. "Then show us."
The ger glanced uncertainly at him, then at the crowd. Finally, he knelt, setting the hen on the ground and opening the small pouch at his waist. A few grains of rice slipped through his fingers, scattering on the earth.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the hen stretched her neck, clucked softly, and began pecking at the grains not nervously, but comfortably, as if used to this familiar hand. When the ger moved a step away, the hen followed, her feathers brushing against his ankle.
A soft murmur rippled through the onlookers this time one of quiet agreement. The man's mouth opened, then closed again, his face turning an ugly shade of red.
"She only went missing this morning," the ger said quietly, as he stroked the bird. "The fence broke while I was feeding my son. I patched it after, but she'd already gone. I searched half the village before noon."
Han Yan's gaze lingered on him the worn sandals, the dirt under his nails, the genuine relief in his eyes. There were no lies but only weariness.
Han Yan's tone remained even, but his words cut through clearly.
"It seems she knows her owner well enough. I think that settles it."
The man opened his mouth, then shut it again. He muttered something under his breath and pushed through the crowd of onlookers, vanishing down the path.
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