Xing Pingchun came home from school and burst happily into Xing Muzheng’s room, shaking his little hips at Qian Jiaoniang. “Mother! Madam didn’t assign lessons today, so I can play with Father!”
Seeing her son being so cheeky, Qian Jiaoniang couldn’t help herself. She smacked his little bottom. “Your father went out and got tired from playing. After dinner, you can read to your father, and I’ll listen too, see how many characters you recognize.”
“What book?”
Qian Jiaoniang pointed at the huanghuali round-cornered cabinet in the corner. Xing Pingchun dragged over a drum stool, stood on tiptoe, and pulled down a half-worn book from the top.
“Wei Zhi Bing Fa?”
“Yes. I heard your father’s been reading that one lately.”
Xing Pingchun stroked the book cover. “Alright! I’ll read it to Father later!” He carefully put the book back, and while doing so, noticed a wooden box above it. Curious, he took it down and looked it over. “Mother, what’s this?”
Qian Jiaoniang glanced at it and casually said it was a puzzle box—she’d brought it back because it looked fun.
Xing Pingchun’s eyes lit up. “Puzzle box? Can I play with it too, Mother?”
Just then, Qingya brought in dinner, cutting off the conversation. The three of them sat down to eat. As usual, mother and son gave thanks to the heavens before picking up their chopsticks. Qingya also quietly prayed that her flowers would bloom soon. The three of them happily finished the hearty meal, and Qingya took the dishes away. Xing Pingchun moved the stool over, retrieved the military book, sat beside Xing Muzheng, opened the book across his lap, and began reading from the bookmarked page.
Qian Jiaoniang lit a lamp, then lit another oil lamp and moved it closer to Xing Pingchun’s side. She then tiptoed to take down the puzzle box, sat by the table, and quietly began fiddling with it.
Xing Muzheng listened as his son read Wei Zhi’s Bing Fa. Truth be told, Xing Pingchun didn’t read very well—he stumbled and misread many characters. When Xing Muzheng recovered, he really should oversee his son’s studies more carefully. At his son’s age, he himself could’ve already read the entire book. Maybe Xing Pingchun had started learning too late. It was only half a year ago, when Jiaoniang came looking for him, that Xing Muzheng remembered his son had reached school age.
When Xing Muzheng left home, Jiaoniang hadn’t even started showing. By the time he returned, their son was already old enough to buy soy sauce. Pingchun still felt like a stranger—his blood, his name, but unfamiliar. And yet this little boy wasn’t out playing. Instead, he sat patiently reading a book to his crazy father. A strange, hard-to-describe feeling rose in Xing Muzheng’s chest—especially when he saw Jiaoniang sitting not far away at the table, quietly listening.
For a moment, Xing Muzheng felt like he had returned to his childhood—his father would ask him to recite books aloud, while his mother sat at the table embroidering, occasionally looking up at father and son with a smile.
Those were ordinary days, but back in the military camp, Xing Muzheng would sometimes recall that scene. Perhaps in the future, if he ever returned to the army, tonight’s scene would also become one of those memories.
His field of vision gradually narrowed into darkness.
What time was it? That ghost-thing was already falling asleep? Xing Muzheng tried his best to open his eyes, but it remained a void of darkness.
It was always at moments like this that Xing Muzheng burned with hatred toward the culprit who had brought him so low. Even tearing them into a thousand pieces wouldn’t be enough to appease his rage. But he had to constantly remind himself—not to get angry. Otherwise, it would be his wife and son who’d suffer.
“Mother, Father’s fallen asleep,” he heard Xing Pingchun whisper.
“Mm, then stop reading. Go get a blanket to cover your father’s stomach.”
“Okay.”
There was the sound of quiet shuffling, and Xing Muzheng felt someone gently lay a blanket over him, then stand beside him for a long time without moving.
“Chou’er?” Qian Jiaoniang called softly.
Xing Pingchun turned around and threw his arms around Qian Jiaoniang’s neck, whining sweetly, “Mother, tell me more stories about Father’s battles.”
“I’ve told you a thousand times already. You’re not tired of it yet?” Jiaoniang asked, laughing.
“Never! I could listen to them for a lifetime!”
Jiaoniang gave her son a look and pushed the puzzle box aside. “Alright then, one more time. Which part do you want to hear?”
“Any part, Mother. I love them all.”
Jiaoniang thought for a bit. “Then let’s talk about the battle at Lian River.”
“Okay!” Pingchun cheered.
Jiaoniang cleared her throat, slapped her palm on the puzzle box dramatically, and began: “One night the northern wind blew cold, thick clouds blanketed the skies for thousands of miles, snow whirled chaotically across the heavens, changing even the beauty of the mountains and rivers!”
Xing Muzheng couldn’t help but laugh inwardly—so she got her lines from storytellers.
Pingchun clapped excitedly.
“Back then, your father—General Xing—was still the Defense Commander of Lianzhou. Seven years ago, the fierce general of Western Li led a hundred thousand troops to invade, setting formation along the Lian River, vowing to take Lianzhou. The enemy was about to attack from both sides. The situation was dire. The Defense Commander said to General Yuan: ‘The enemy outnumbers us. We must strike swiftly. I ask to lead the cavalry while you take the infantry in front.’ General Yuan took his advice and decided to launch a surprise night assault to catch the enemy off guard. That night, the Defense Commander crossed the Lian River under cover of darkness with his troops, flanking through the forest and charging down to ambush the enemy. He rode at the front, wielding his treasured sword, slaughtering left and right!”
As Qian Jiaoniang narrated, she mimicked the motions of fighting on horseback.
Xing Pingchun clapped and cheered, “Father is amazing!”
Jiaoniang continued, “But it was night, and the enemy was many. During that battle, your father was slashed by an enemy general—from the left shoulder down to the right abdomen.
Even though he wore armor, blood soaked through the front of his chest. If that strike had gone any deeper, your father might have died. That scar is still there—Mother saw it just a few days ago.”
Xing Pingchun scrunched up his little face like a steamed bun, his eyes glowing with admiration. “That must’ve hurt a lot… Father is really brave!”
Xing Muzheng was enjoying listening. He hadn’t known Jiaoniang remembered his battles so well. The Battle of Lian River was years ago—these days, even the teahouse storytellers probably couldn’t recount it properly. He was just a little displeased that she had mentioned his injury. How could one kill on the battlefield and not get hurt? Such a small wound—why make a fuss?
Qian Jiaoniang nodded. “Your father was indeed brave. And at the time, General Yuan led the infantry in a pincer attack from the front—our army won a sweeping victory and captured 8,000 enemies. Then, one officer said to your father, ‘There are too many prisoners, I fear a rebellion.’ Your father replied, ‘We cannot kill surrendered enemies.’ He had those words relayed to General Yuan, and in the end, General Yuan killed all the prisoners.”
“Why? Didn’t Father say not to kill surrendered enemies?” Xing Pingchun asked, puzzled.
Qian Jiaoniang smiled. Unsure whether she should explain the truth to such a young child, she hesitated a moment before saying, “That line from your father was a hidden message. What he really meant was that he wanted General Yuan to kill all the prisoners.”
“Why, why?” Xing Pingchun pressed. “Didn’t the enemies already surrender?”
To prevent future threats—Xing Muzheng answered silently in his mind.
“I suppose he feared trouble later…” Qian Jiaoniang said. “Your father’s decisions are sometimes… rather ruthless.” She turned to glance at the sleeping Dingxi Marquis.
Sentimental woman—Xing Muzheng was displeased.
“Mother, he was afraid those prisoners might kill people in chaos, right? What Father did was right!” Xing Pingchun hurried to defend him.
Qian Jiaoniang smiled. “I didn’t say your father was wrong. We’ve never been to war—who are we to judge what happens on the battlefield? It’s just that I was thinking… even the soldiers of Western Li, they’re people too, with elders and children waiting for them to return home… Just think, what if one day, your father loses a battle and becomes a prisoner himself…”
“Father wouldn’t lose a battle! He’s an invincible general!” Xing Pingchun declared.
“Victory and defeat are both part of war. Your father has fought hundreds of battles—there must’ve been times he was outnumbered, or ambushed. I was just giving an example. But if one day your father really were captured, and the enemy commander gave the order to execute all prisoners…”
Before she even finished, Xing Pingchun’s big teardrops began to fall. “Then we’d be heartbroken to death!”
Xing Muzheng couldn’t see them, only hear the choking sobs of his son. His heart stirred.
“Good boy, don’t cry. Did Mother confuse you with all that? Come here, let me hold you.”
The ghost-thing sneezed, rubbed its nose, and opened its eyes. Xing Muzheng happened to see the half-grown boy nestle into his mother’s arms. Xing Pingchun sat on Qian Jiaoniang’s lap, pitifully leaning into her chest as she gently stroked his head, her face soft with tenderness—an expression Xing Muzheng had never seen before.
It was a warm scene, but too overly affectionate for his taste.
Qingya came in and told Qian Jiaoniang she was going to bed. Seeing that Xing Pingchun was crying, she couldn’t help but ask. Qian Jiaoniang smiled, “It’s nothing, you go on to bed.”
“Don’t scold or hit the little one,” Qingya added. She was quite fond of Xing Pingchun.
Xing Pingchun wiped his tears and piped up, “Sister Qingya, Mother didn’t scold or hit me.”
Qingya glanced at Xing Muzheng sitting there quietly. Seeing that there really was nothing wrong, she turned and went off to bed.
Once Qingya was gone, Qian Jiaoniang cupped Xing Pingchun’s face. “Chou’er, no matter what, your father is the great general of our Great Xie—a hero. If not for him, we might still be starving every day, bullied by bandits and thugs…”
Starving and bullied every day? It was only now that Xing Muzheng realized he knew nothing of the life his wife, son, and mother had endured in the nine years he’d been away. He had thought that leaving some money behind for them would be enough until he returned. During campaigns, he had sent remittances through friends—but they told him they couldn’t find his family. He had been marching across the land, and eventually lost all contact. Later, on their way back to the marquis’ residence, Jiaoniang told him that things had been fine all these years. His mother had been fine too—just missed him too much, fell ill and never recovered. She passed away. Back then, consumed by grief over losing his mother, Xing Muzheng hadn’t asked for details.
“It’s because your father defeated the enemy and later returned to wipe out the bandits, that we’re able to eat well and dress warmly. These are all thanks to your father’s efforts. You must never forget that—do you hear me? Even if your father never recovers, we must treat him well, never with the slightest neglect. Understand?” Qian Jiaoniang lowered her head, her expression unusually stern.
Xing Pingchun’s nose was still red. He nodded hard and gripped her sleeve. “Mother, don’t worry. I’ll definitely take good care of Father! But… he will get better, right? He will?”
Qian Jiaoniang tapped his nose with her finger and smiled faintly. “Of course your father will get better. I was just reminding you, that’s all.”
