Chapter 33

Chapter 33

On the second day after Bian Hong's return, at the hottest hour of the day, Rong Feng and Bian Hong began breaking ground at Little Huagang behind the house.

It was already deep winter, and the soil was frozen solid, as hard as ice. Peeling back a layer of soil was like peeling back a layer of ice—each hard strike sent frozen chunks flying.

Bian Hong was soaked in sweat from exhaustion, his underclothes completely drenched. When the wind blew, it cut through his collar and sleeves, stinging with cold. Rong Feng told him to put down the pickaxe, saying he'd finish the rest in no time. But Bian Hong shook his head and kept working.

When the burial pit was fully dug, Bian Hong, his hands numb from the vibration of the pickaxe against the frozen ground, tidied the clothes of Gao Zhangfu, Zhao Sanyou, and Liang Erkuan.

Some had limbs nearly severed, sewn back on afterward. Others had taken a knife to the belly, their insides emptied out, so they had to be stuffed with something just to hold up their chests.

By the time Bian Hong saw them, their appearance was still decent—peaceful, at least.

He closed the coffins and covered them with earth. Bian Hong knelt on the ground, toasting each of them in turn—one cup to heaven, one to earth, one poured out before their gravestones.

Finally, Bian Hong poured a cup for himself. The cold wine radiated a chill, yet he tilted his head back and downed it in one go. The wine, both fiery and icy, coursed down his gut, stinging his eyes until they grew slightly damp.

He stood up, gazing at the pristine snow on the distant mountains and fields, and the pine green hidden within it that remained undefeated even in winter. He parted his lips and softly chanted toward the clear sky.

"Souls, return!"

Rong Feng knew he was grieving, but his young man's body was still unsteady and weak. It wasn't good for him to keep standing in the cold wind in soaked underclothes.

Just as he was wondering how to get him back inside, Yuan Ding and Guan Bao came tumbling head over heels down the steep slope behind the house and scrambled up Little Huagang.

The two brothers, one big and one small, were both bundled in thick new cotton-padded jackets with dense stitching that let no wind through. Their heads were wrapped in thick, fluffy, soft animal hides. Guan Bao's was pure white, with two wobbly rabbit ears standing upright on top—newly tanned by Rong Feng from rabbit pelts he'd hunted in the mountains.

Yuan Ding had one too, but he considered himself a grown-up now, and going out with two fuzzy rabbit ears would damage his authority as an adult. So although he liked it, he only vented by vigorously rubbing Guan Bao's head whenever the younger boy wore his.

The two children were practically wrapped into two round balls. After months of full meals and meat, and with their hearts settled and happy, they'd put on quite a bit of flesh. Climbing the slope now, they showed no sign of fatigue and looked quite sturdy.

Bian Hong took Yuan Ding's hand and, out of habit, reached out with one arm to pick up Guan Bao—but for a moment, couldn't lift him. He was briefly stunned.

Seeing this, Rong Feng set down his pickaxe, took a few steps over, and easily scooped both children up into his arms. Guan Bao flapped his "rabbit ears" and kicked his legs restlessly.

"Let's head back. It's cold—wouldn't want the kids to freeze."

Rong Feng said this while looking at the two ball-shaped kids in his arms—it was somewhat disingenuous, but his young man really fell for it.

Bian Hong indeed nodded, but before leaving, he had Yuan Ding and Guan Bao climb down from the man's arms and kneel by the three graves, kowtowing properly.

The cold wind shivered. The bleak, desolate winter hillside, because of the children's presence, became vibrant with life, filling one with hope and a sense of home.

This, surely, was why all the Tiger Guard soldiers, amid mountains of knives and seas of fire, did not fear death.

Finally, Rong Feng carried the two little meatballs and led Bian Hong step by step back home. On the way, Yuan Ding and Guan Bao chattered nonstop, mostly about the new horse at home—tall, gaunt, and wounded.

"Brother Xi, the horse's injuries are so pitiful. Let's protect it, or someone will kill and eat it."

"Brother Xi, Brother Xi, it licked my palm—it's so ticklish!"

The four crossed the small snow slope, their figures gradually disappearing from Little Huagang. They went home. When spring returned to the earth next year, this place would bloom with brilliant wildflowers, and they would meet again.

And that time wouldn't be long—the New Year was coming soon.

Spring Festival was approaching. Even with people's lives so hard, the New Year still had to be observed. And not long after, news spread that the Grand Preceptor had won a victory and peace talks had begun—even in mountain villages and small towns, many had heard.

People were elated, believing the hard times were finally passing, making the New Year all the more worth celebrating.

Rong Feng decided to go down the mountain into town, sell the hides and herbs stored at home, and buy some oil, salt, soy sauce, and vinegar.

In the past, his mother had preferred light flavors, and he'd eaten the same way. Only now did he realize he loved rich, deep flavors.

A man who as a child could only eat raw meat and drink blood, and later lived on plain tea and simple fare, had only now figured out his own palate. He loved spicy, loved sour, loved heavy oil and dark sauces—loved the young man by the kitchen stove wielding a spatula, that earthly, human warmth of cooking.

With a wounded horse at home, children to care for, and no certainty that the bandits Uncle Min had mentioned were truly wiped out—and with the New Year approaching, the most likely time for trouble, since even ruthless outlaws needed gold and grain to celebrate—Bian Hong stayed home.

He only told Rong Feng a few items to buy. Ginger was gone—buy some to grind into powder. Not just for daily use, but also for when they patrolled Mount Miemeng—wild game cooking couldn't do without this seasoning.

Vinegar too. Perhaps because vinegar and yellow wine could easily transform into each other with a slight misstep, vinegar-making was not uncommon here—some distilleries in town even sold it directly. But soy sauce was uncommon—perhaps because soybeans were precious, and salt was precious too.

Bian Hong kept adapting to this world, so vastly different from modern society.

He slowly preserved the differences, then carefully sought the commonalities.

The two children had no idea of their Brother Xi's tortuous inner journey. They only felt that Brother Xi seemed to know everything and could do everything—those raw, lumpy potatoes and sweet potatoes, those dried, shriveled meats and fruits, all became delicious meals in his hands.

Children's joy is simple, and the pain they endure fades quickly with a peaceful, stable life. This is heaven's gift to the young.

And Yuan Ding and Guan Bao's current joy was tied to the sick horse at home.

Its injury was mainly on its haunch, so it spent most of its time lying quietly in the straw pile in the kitchen. Bian Hong was grateful it was winter—the cold kept flies away, so the wound could heal on its own without being infected by maggots and rot.

The warmth from the stove's embers also kept it warm, far better than the windswept military stables.

The horse was remarkably intelligent. Every time Bian Hong changed its dressings, it stayed perfectly still, and when the pain became unbearable, it would only twitch the fur around the wound. It was gentle with the children too. Guan Bao loved hugging the horse's head, which was nearly as big as he was, pressing his warm cheek against it.

Bian Hong brought out the ground medicine powder from the house, took clean cloth strips, and went to change the horse's dressing. Yuan Ding and Guan Bao followed like little tails, crowding around the horse, touching it here and there.

Its body was covered in scars—slashes from blades, cuts from swords. A war horse was like a soldier: every campaign was a bloody return from the jaws of death.

The horse gently tugged at Bian Hong's sleeve with its mouth, then nuzzled his palm with its soft lips.

This was the person who had treated it best—who would silently walk it around the wide paddock after battle, waiting until it had eaten its fill before returning to camp. Who would sometimes hide a flatbread in his clothes and, when riding out for battle, slip it into the horse's mouth when the stable master wasn't looking...

Bian Hong looked at its big blinking eyes, let out a breath, and scratched its neck.

"The scab has formed. A few more days, and maybe you can get up and walk a little."

A horse couldn't lie on the ground for too long. Its relatively small heart couldn't pump blood through such a massive body without the help of all four legs to assist circulation. Without that, blood flow would gradually worsen.

Yuan Ding stood by its hindquarters, stroking the fur worn flat by the saddle.

"Brother Xi, what's its name?"

Bian Hong opened his mouth, then lowered his eyes. "It doesn't have a name. Just 'horse.'"

Men in the army came and went like flowing water. Perhaps it had once had many brief names, but they had all been buried with their fallen riders in unknown battlefields.

In the end, no one bothered naming war horses anymore. Men couldn't remember, and horses couldn't either.

With a name came attachment—a thing that made even the dead uneasy. Even with a blade across the throat, a man would turn back to see if his mount was still alive, whether it could run back to camp on its own.

And with a name came identity—no longer an unclaimed horse.

Some horses would stand beside their fallen soldiers, circling and refusing to leave. The lucky ones would be brought back by their own side during the cleanup. The unlucky ones—blades and arrows don't discriminate, and in the chaos of battle, they'd be cut down with their riders, dying together.

This horse had once carried the gravely wounded Bian Hong, crossing mountains and rivers all the way back to camp from a desolate battlefield.

Bian Hong did not want to drag others into trouble, not even a horse that stood waiting for him, unflinching against swords and arrows. So he never rode a horse again.

Whenever he thought of it, he could only sigh to himself, "Oh, that horse without a name."

Now, gazing into its eyes, Bian Hong thought, it needs a name.

After a moment's thought, he pointed at the younger brother who was stroking the horse's back. "This is Yuan Ding."

He pointed at the younger brother who had picked up a vegetable leaf to feed it. "This is Guan Bao."

"Yuan Bao means money. You come after those two, so you'll be called Yin, Yin..."

After hemming and hawing over "Yin" for a while, Bian Hong looked at the horse's snow-white hooves.

"Then you'll be called Silver Frost."

In winter, the days were short, and before long it was nearly dark, but Rong Feng had not yet returned. Bian Hong began to worry.

These were turbulent times. He'd figured that if he didn't tag along, the man would make better time, get back before dark, and not have to travel at night—but this time he'd been gone even longer.

He lit the oil lamp and cooked dinner. After the kids ate their fill, they lay back on the warm kang, drowsy, and fell fast asleep. Bian Hong, meanwhile, waited by the door. After a long while, it had gotten dark, but the mountain trail was still empty.

Just as Bian Hong turned to head inside, grab a heavy coat, and go look for him, a familiar figure finally emerged at the end of the path.

Even the "crunch, crunch" of footsteps on the snow seemed to have its own rhythm, and Bian Hong knew right away it was the man coming back.

Rong Feng wasn't carrying much, moving quietly and lightly—just a bag of spices.

So Bian Hong hurried over, puzzled. It wasn't like he'd gone to buy a bunch of stuff. "Why are you so late getting back?"

The man, though, seemed really pleased. He just walked with Bian Hong straight into the kitchen.

The oil lamp flickered on the stove, and the pot held a warm meal. Bian Hong finally relaxed, sat back down by the stove, and fed the fire.

Rong Feng shook off the frost and cold at the door, took off his conical hat and fur cloak, then stood beside Bian Hong and pulled a small pouch from inside his coat.

The lamplight was dim, so at first Bian Hong didn't notice.

It was only when the man opened the pouch, set its contents in his palm, and held it out to him, that he asked in a low voice,

"This is yours, right?"

Under the flickering oil lamp, a bronze token lay still in the man's palm, as if it still carried the warmth from his body.

It was a child's longevity lock, engraved with delicate birds on the front, and on the back, someone's birth date was written in Chinese characters—all of which made it clear it wasn't from this era.

Bian Hong froze in place for a moment, staring intently at the longevity lock.

That was the proof of his identity as "Bian Hong" ever since he'd been abandoned at the orphanage gate.

But life here was too hard. To pay for Guan Bao's medicine, he'd pawned that proof.

A dead pawn, for two taels.

And after that, he could only be "Min Xi."

Now, in the candlelight, this thing that had been with him since birth had come back into his sight.

Rong Feng had expected the young man to be happy. He especially remembered the first time he'd seen him at the pawnshop—the young man, with a sick child in tow, had pawned a bronze token. His eyes showed reluctance, but his movements were decisive. He'd found it curious.

It must have been something important. He'd put in a lot of effort, even calling in a favor with the old physician at the pharmacy, and had thrown in all the herbs for this trip, before the old man led him to buy back the dead-pawned item. It was pricey—the cost seemed to have doubled or tripled—but Rong Feng thought it was worth it.

But he hadn't expected the young man not to smile, but instead suddenly broke down in tears, which, in the dim candlelight, was shocking to see.

Instinctively, he wanted to pull his hand back, maybe to stop the young man's tears, but before he could, his hand was grabbed—and the bronze token was grabbed along with it.

"My name isn't Min Xi."

"Huh?"

As the man asked in surprise, Bian Hong suddenly lifted his head and stared steadily at Rong Feng. His eyes shimmered with tears, but his expression was so determined—as if crying and smiling, as if grieving and rejoicing.

"My name isn't Min Xi."

"My name is Bian Hong."

At the desolate horizon, a wild goose leaves its nest.