Chapter 2: The Fallen Man
The wavering candlelight cast a soft, amber glow across the dilapidated room. Upon the narrow bed lay the man she had rescued, his face now cleansed of blood. Though pale, his features were striking—handsome in a way that startled the eye.
He appeared young, his frame slender but not fragile. Perhaps from the loss of too much blood, he had slipped once more into sleep. His long lashes rested against his cheeks, casting delicate, fan‑shaped shadows in the lamplight. His nose was straight, his thin, cracked lips pressed together with a stubbornness that seemed innate rather than conscious.
There was something quietly arresting about him. His battered body and proud, austere features brought to mind a pine tree bowed beneath winter frost yet refusing to break, or a piece of rough jade marred by countless blows but still sheathed in its stone skin. One could not help but feel a pang of pity.
Whether disturbed by the light or by her steady gaze, his lashes trembled, and he slowly opened his eyes.
They were dark—black as ink—yet devoid of discernible emotion. The slight upward tilt at the corners lent him a naturally aloof, distant air.
Fan Changyu, entirely unbothered at being caught staring, said evenly,
"You're awake."
He did not answer.
Noticing the severe dryness of his lips, she assumed his injuries made speaking difficult.
"Would you like some water?"
He nodded faintly. After a moment, he rasped,
"Did you save me?"
His voice was hoarse—like gravel scraping against a cracked gong—so ill‑matched to a face that resembled clear moonlight and fresh snow that it almost startled her.
She poured water into a chipped earthen cup and handed it to him.
"I found you collapsed in the snow and carried you back. But it was Uncle Zhao who truly pulled you back from death."
She hesitated before adding,
"You're staying in his house for now. He used to be a physician."
Though in truth, he had been a veterinarian.
The man struggled upright. His hand, when it closed around the cup, was covered in abrasions—barely a patch of uninjured skin remained. After a few sips, he began coughing, a soft but painful sound. His dishevelled hair fell forward, revealing a jawline even paler than before.
"Drink slowly," she said. "You're not from around here, are you? Since I didn't know your name or where you lived, I didn't report anything to the authorities. Were you attacked by mountain bandits near Huchako?"
He stopped coughing. Half his face slipped into shadow beyond the candle's reach.
"My surname is Yan. Given name Zheng. There's fighting in the north. I fled here from Chongzhou."
Linan Town was a small place under Jizhou Prefecture. Fan Changyu had never left Jizhou in her life. She knew little of the wider world, though she had noticed the government collecting grain in autumn—likely for the war.
Her eyelid twitched. A refugee, alone. His family had almost certainly met with disaster.
"Do you have any family left?" she asked quietly.
His fingers tightened around the cup until his knuckles whitened. After a long silence, he said hoarsely,
"They're all gone."
Indeed, they had perished.
Having recently buried both her parents, Fan Changyu understood the hollow ache behind those words. She pressed her lips together.
"I'm sorry."
"It's nothing," he murmured, but the words had barely left him before he began coughing again—this time violently, as though something inside him had torn loose. The cup slipped from his grasp and shattered on the floor. His coughing grew so fierce it seemed he might cough out his very lungs.
Fan Changyu froze for a heartbeat, then sprang into action, calling for Madam Zhao while patting his back to help him breathe.
His body was covered in sword and knife wounds, bandages wrapped from his shoulder blades to his chest. To avoid constricting them, he wore only a loose inner garment. Now, with each wrenching cough, the garment slipped aside, revealing his bandaged torso. Beneath the wrappings, the faint outline of defined muscles could be seen—but the coughing had torn open his wounds, and blood seeped slowly through the cloth.
"Auntie! Please fetch Uncle Zhao quickly!" she shouted.
Madam Zhao answered from outside and hurried off.
The man's face, once pale, was now flushed crimson. At last he leaned over the bed and spat out a mouthful of clotted blood.
Fan Changyu startled, fearing he might collapse. She steadied him by the shoulder.
"How do you feel?"
His forehead was slick with cold sweat; his neck and chest were soaked. He looked as though he had been dragged from a river, the metallic scent of blood clinging to him. His hair hung in disarray across his brow, giving him a wretched, tragic appearance.
"Better now," he whispered, "thank you."
He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand and slumped against the bedpost, gasping. His exposed throat made him look like a wild beast in its final moments, surrendering to exhaustion.
He did not look "better" in the slightest.
Fan Changyu found herself recalling the moment she had discovered him in the snow—how, even half‑conscious, he had forced his eyes open to look at her. Like a dying wolf.
By the time Carpenter Zhao rushed back, the man had already fainted, his breath thin as a thread.
Fan Changyu sat at the doorway, frowning in thought like a farmer facing a barren harvest. If the man died, should she—as a dutiful rescuer—buy him a thin coffin, or simply dig a hole and bury him?
Feeling the few copper coins in her pocket, she concluded the latter was more realistic. She and her sister still needed to eat. A simple burial would have to suffice.
After a while, Carpenter Zhao emerged with a grave expression. He said nothing, merely poured himself a cup of cold tea.
Assuming the worst, Fan Changyu said,
"Uncle Zhao, don't blame yourself. If he can't be saved, it's fate. Once he passes, I'll carry him up the mountain and find a place with good feng shui to bury him."
Carpenter Zhao choked on his tea and coughed violently before managing,
"What nonsense! He's very much alive!"
Fan Changyu blinked, then scratched her head.
"He coughed up blood, and you came out looking so serious—I thought he was gone."
"That young man has a strong constitution," Carpenter Zhao said. "Coughing up that clotted blood saved his life. But that's all—saved it. Whether he recovers fully will depend on careful nursing and his own luck."
In other words, he might become an invalid.
"Do you know where he's from? Any relatives?" he asked.
Fan Changyu repeated what she had learned. Then she slumped again like a disaster‑stricken farmer.
"He fled from the north. His family is dead. He escaped only to meet bandits. He has nowhere to go."
The elderly couple exchanged a troubled glance.
Saving someone once was one thing. Caring for an invalid indefinitely was another. Medicine was costly. An extra bowl and pair of chopsticks meant another mouth to feed.
After a long silence, Carpenter Zhao asked,
"What do you think we should do?"
Fan Changyu picked up a stick and drew two circles in the dirt.
"I already carried him back from the snow. We can't turn him out now."
Madam Zhao fretted.
"Your parents are gone, and Ning's health is poor—she needs medicine constantly. How will you manage another idle person?"
Fan Changyu knew she had brought home trouble, but she saw no alternative.
"Let him recover first. When he's better, we'll see what plans he has."
Inside the room, the man—newly conscious after acupuncture—heard every word. His ink‑dark eyes shifted toward the doorway.
Outside, snow began falling again. The candle's warm glow softened the cold.
The young woman crouched on the doorstep, wearing her old apricot‑coloured jacket. One elbow rested on her knee, her cheek cupped in her hand, the other hand idly poking the ground with a stick. Her delicate brows were drawn together, as though she had made a difficult decision.
The elderly couple sighed.
The man's gaze lingered on her for a moment before he closed his eyes, suppressing the rising urge to cough.
That night, after returning home and waiting for her sister to fall asleep, Fan Changyu retrieved a wooden box hidden in the rafters.
Inside were several stamped land deeds and a small pile of copper coins.
The deeds were her parents' legacy. The coins were her earnings from slaughtering pigs.
Her family had once been comfortable. Their current hardship stemmed from her father's decision the previous year to invest heavily in building a pigsty.
He had been a renowned butcher and believed raising his own pigs would be more profitable than buying from traders. He planned to build a pigsty in the countryside and hire help. But before construction began, he and his wife met with tragedy.
The funeral costs had drained nearly all their savings. With no income, Fan Changyu had taken up her father's trade to survive.
She had considered selling a few mu of land, but under the current dynasty's laws, daughters could not inherit property without a written will. If the deceased had no sons, the property passed to the parents' siblings.
Thus, she could neither sell nor mortgage the land.
Her uncle—a gambler drowning in debt—was desperate to seize the property to pay what he owed. He often came to cause trouble, demanding the house deed.
Fan Changyu refused. The house held her parents' memories. And without it, where would she and her sister go? Into the streets?
She had not even told her sister where the deeds were hidden, fearing the child might be tricked.
She poured out the coins and counted them: 370 wen. All she had saved after daily expenses.
Even without the injured man, they would soon struggle to survive.
Pig slaughtering was not a long‑term solution. Business thrived only in the twelfth lunar month. After that, work dwindled. She needed to reopen the family pork shop.
She calculated: a live pig cost 15 wen per jin. An 80‑jin pig cost 1 guan and 200 wen. After slaughter, it yielded about 60 jin of meat. Sold at 30 wen per jin, it would bring a profit of 600 wen.
If she braised the head and offal, the profit would be even greater.
During the New Year season, families needed dishes to entertain guests. Most lacked the spices and skill to prepare impressive food, so they bought prepared dishes—braised meat was especially popular.
The idea was sound. The problem was simple: she did not have enough silver to buy even one pig.
She sighed softly, tucked the coins into her sleeve, returned the deeds to the box, and hid it once more in the rafters.
She needed to find a way to gather enough money to buy a pig.