Chapter 9

“How could it be that someone harmed her?”

“Isn’t it because Sister Ping cried too much that her eyes got damaged?”

Aunt Cui was utterly shocked, supporting Liu Xiaoping as she glanced anxiously at Zhu Congyun and Zhu Fenglian, her eyes silently pleading for their agreement.

If it was true that someone harmed her—

Then what had these past years meant?

How deeply wronged was Sister Ping.

“Someone harmed me?” Liu Xiaoping’s hand trembled slightly as she reached toward her eyes.

At that moment, the long-missed light fell upon her autumn-water-like eyes—clear and sharp as a crisp autumn morning. A ray of dawn shone across the waters of the Yuan River. Looking up at where she came from, her beauty was startling, fragile enough to stir pity.

Despite the pain, Liu Xiaoping’s gaze passed over Zhu Fenglian, Zhu Congyun, and Aunt Cui.

These were the familiar faces from her memories.

Her mother had aged considerably, Fenglian was more capable, and Uncle Zhu looked just the same.

She could see. She could finally see again.

She pinched herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, afraid she might suddenly awaken and realize it had all been a mere illusion—only to face a dark, blurred world, cold and regretful.

“I can see, Alan. Do you see? I can see!”

Suddenly, Liu Xiaoping collapsed to the ground, disregarding the sharp pain in her eyes, crying aloud.

Her demeanor was like a child playing in the mud at the village entrance, utterly unmindful of her age. Yet, because of her delicate appearance, she was far from ugly.

“Yes, yes, it’s no dream. Ah Ping, you can see!” Zhu Fenglian’s eyes glistened with tears, her voice choked with emotion.

“Mother, did you hear? It’s not that I am worthless or despicable. I was still thinking of that man and the children, and that’s what made me cry my eyes out… Someone harmed me. Someone harmed me!” Liu Xiaoping sobbed.

“Yes, yes, it’s not Sister Ping’s fault,” Aunt Cui cried alongside her.

She patted her thigh and muttered incoherently, “When I go back, I’ll tear into those foul mouths. I’ll bring my pole and confront them!”

Wang Chan listened but couldn’t quite grasp what was happening.

She looked up at her granduncle.

No wonder he was the eldest; he remained calm in moments like this.

The next moment, Zhu Congyun sniffled, turned his back slightly, and quickly wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

Wang Chan: …

So it wasn’t calmness, but pride—he even hid his tears.

How embarrassing~

Meeting Wang Chan’s gaze, Zhu Congyun looked awkward.

Then his eyes fell on the small Xiezhi stone statue in Wang Chan’s hand. Looking into Wang Chan’s eyes, he saw pure light, watching the mixture of sorrow, anger, resentment, and joy among the others—not disdain, nor pity.

Zhu Congyun’s spirit stiffened.

A child holding a treasure but with scant memory—he feared nothing more than someone with pure intentions turning malicious, leading others astray, and then harming them with a borrowed blade. No matter how formidable the girl was, she could only become a weapon in others’ hands.

“Chan has just come. You don’t know, Ah Ping’s life has been hard,” Zhu Congyun sighed as he stroked Wang Chan’s head.

Though Wang Chan was still young, today she had stirred the ancestral Xiezhi talisman to protect them, breaking the evil curse. She was already on the path of the Stone Keeper’s cultivation and could not be treated like an ordinary child.

There was no need for old-fashioned notions about what children should or shouldn't hear.

Having realized this, Zhu Congyun began to explain Liu Xiaoping’s story to Wang Chan.

...

Liu Xiaoping had grown up beautiful, beloved by all, and especially cherished by those who appreciated beauty.

Not only her parents but also the villagers looked upon her kindly.

One could say Liu Xiaoping’s life had been smooth sailing.

She had a gentle nature, soft-spoken and pleasant, and her peers loved being near her.

Zhu Fenglian had always favored the beautiful ones.

“Your cousin often followed her around, calling out ‘Ah Ping.’ At home, she’d even talk about Ah Ping at the dinner table,” Zhu Congyun said, somewhat exasperated. “When we were young and didn’t understand, she’d throw tantrums on the floor, insisting she’d marry Sister Ping. She wanted to be the groom on horseback, but the game only allowed her to be the matchmaker marking the bride’s lip mole!”

He glanced at Wang Chan.

As they say, a child’s nature can be seen from three years old. He knew his daughter and Ah Chan were so close not because of blood ties or mutual fondness, but simply because she adored the pretty little girl!

Hearing the words “matchmaker,” Wang Chan glanced at Zhu Fenglian and stifled a smile before composing herself and asking, “And then?”

Well—

Zhu Congyun sighed.

“No one expected that, though she had a smooth youth, marriage would bring hardship.”

Liu Xiaoping married into the Bai family in Qu Lan Town. The Bai family were vintners, passing down their brewing skills through generations. Not only had they amassed wealth renowned throughout the neighboring villages, but they also had extensive connections.

“If Heaven did not love wine, the star of wine wouldn’t be in the heavens. If Earth did not love wine, there would be no Spring of Wine. Since Heaven and Earth love wine, the love for it is not unworthy of Heaven.”

Everyone loved wine—from commoners to nobles.

“Though not as noble as the aristocracy, such a family, with a lifetime of peace and plenty, no lack of food or clothing, was surely a good match. Without mishap, it would have been a happy union,” Zhu Congyun said.

Wang Chan nodded.

...

Usually, this is when the unexpected happens.

Sure enough—

Zhu Congyun continued.

“No one imagined the Bai family would fall into ruin. The fall itself wouldn’t be so bad; as long as one had spirit, ups and downs were natural. Who could say one could never rise again after the next wave? But the Bai son fell into gambling.”

“Gambling?”

“Yes.” Zhu Congyun’s eyes grew serious. “They say money in the yamen is like smoke, and gambling money is no different—once you bet, it’s just a fresh dish on the table.”

A tantalizing dish on the table, yet one cannot eat it.

The Bai son gambled, losing more and more money, his eyes growing redder with each loss.

Before, with their excellent brewing skills, the Bai family’s wine was naturally more fragrant and mellow than others’. But after losing the old master brewer, though using the same methods, the wine lost its flavor.

A discerning palate knows at once.

Old customers left, new ones ceased to come, and business plunged dramatically.

Grain was poured in by the sackful, but all that came out was bland water.

Funds were tight, stretched to the breaking point. After the son took up gambling, the rope on the knife’s edge suddenly snapped.

“The land was sold, the house was sold, the brewery was sold... in the end—”

Zhu Congyun glanced at Liu Xiaoping, who was clinging to Zhu Fenglian in tears. He couldn’t bear to say more.

Wang Chan looked on, her eyes widening as realization dawned.

Sold, sold, sold—only selling, no buying.

Could it be that next they would sell the person herself?

Before Wang Chan could speak, the elderly woman sitting on the ground suddenly sprang up swiftly, turning her head and spitting to the side.

“There’s nothing unfit to say. Brother Zhu, if you can’t bear to speak, I’ll tell Chan myself.”

Her cheeks were hollow, her eyelids drooping, and her scowl made her look fierce and unyielding.

“That bastard, when we married, he spoke sweet words: ‘My surname is Bai, I wish for one heart, till death do us part; my name already declares my intentions…’ Bah! Just a green-haired turtle! A turtle grandson! A bastard! He ruined our Sister Ping horribly!”

Liu Xiaoping’s tears fell in torrents. Zhu Fenglian patted her shoulder gently.

“It’s past, it’s all past.”

The old woman said, “Chan, this is not something to say lightly. I shouldn’t say it to a little girl like you—it’s dirty talk! But I must find the one who harmed my Sister Ping.”

Being hurt is not terrible; an infected wound is, but failing to confront it causes harm.

...

Her eyes were stubborn like a mule’s, her neck held high—picky, sarcastic, and hard to deal with. Even if ignored, she had at least some justice on her side.

Yet Wang Chan saw the pain behind those eyes.

Suddenly, Wang Chan’s heart ached too, like one scorched by too much summer sun—annoyed, restless, needing to voice the pain to feel relief.

Then, Wang Chan understood.

“Grandma, don’t worry. I’ll have the Xiezhi catch this villain,” she promised.

The moss-green Xiezhi stone statue seemed to come alive, rolling its eyes and flicking its tail before sitting down again, bored.

Catching someone just like that? How humiliating.

The little Xiezhi was petty and took to heart being called a wild boar by Liu Xiaoping earlier.

“Howl—” it roared magnificently. How could it be a wild boar?

Wang Chan pinched its pointed horns, like seizing its life force. In moments, the proud Xiezhi became a small, obedient lion.

“All right, all right,” Wang Chan said, reassuring the old woman.

She continued.

“Later, that Bai Shimao bastard gave up being a person, choosing to be that green-haired turtle bastard... He pawned my Sister Ping!”

Though she said she would pick at the infection, the old woman still wept at those words.

She beat her chest in despair.

The wounds were on her child, but the pain pierced a mother’s heart.

...

“Pawned?”

At first, Wang Chan didn’t understand, but soon learned that pawning meant mortgaging—putting something up as collateral in exchange for some copper coins to spend.

Bai family pawned Liu Xiaoping herself—pawning the wife, handing her over to another family as a bride. After a few months, the husband might grow tired or have a child. When the time came, they treated it as repayment of the loan and returned her.

The bright autumn light shone, the fierce autumn sun reddening cheeks, but Wang Chan felt a chill; the wind cooled her hands and feet.

How could people do such things to others?

Not strangers—her own wife.

...

During the pawning, Bai Shimao was gleeful; his strengths from the wine business days emerged.

He could speak with all classes—scholars, officials, and commoners alike.

Liu Xiaoping endured years of hardship, giving birth to a son and a daughter in between. Yet, as a pawned wife, she was merely collateral, neither fully a mother nor a wife.

...

Aunt Cui wiped her tears. “He was a scholar too, how could he do such a thing... a heartless beast!”

“Later, Sister Ping’s health failed, and the family gathered some copper coins to bring her back... but that bastard Bai Shimao would not agree! We were just a common household; our money was worthless compared to what he got from pawning Sister Ping.”

“I was helpless,” she said, her face darkening.

“If we couldn’t outmatch them, then we’d just be worthless!”

“I have nothing, only a life worse than Bai Shimao’s!”

“...That day, I took a cleaver and jumped on him, pressing down on his neck. I thought, if I had to go to the underworld, I’d take him with me. I’d bear the sin and suffer the fires of hell, and he must come too. Bah! Such a disgusting man doesn’t deserve to be with me. The fires and blades despise him; he belongs in the cesspit prison, a stinking place for stinking things.”

The cesspit prison, as recorded in the "Guang Yizhi," is said to be vast, covered with filth and foul odors.

There, evildoers are doused repeatedly in excrement until their wickedness is cleansed.

Aunt Cui sneered contemptuously. “Coward! Afraid of a knife, trembling when signing the wife's release papers.”

“Grandma—” Seeing the old woman, Wang Chan’s eyes filled with tears. She no longer found her difficult.

Being difficult was a blessing.

A difficult mother was a child’s fortune.

“Since then, I’ve hated scholars and their dogs that bark at me. They bark first, so I argue back.”

The old woman wiped her face and looked honestly at Wang Chan. “I disliked your father too. When Sister Ping said she wanted to see you, I thought and came along.”

Aunt Cui was relieved.

If not for Wang Chan’s scholarly father, she would have harbored resentment. Seeing Wang Chan yesterday, reminded of Sister Ping’s past, she wouldn’t have bothered with such trouble.

Carrying the water jar, putting things down, then going home to bring her poor-eyed girl, with a basin of longan hanging at her waist to visit—it was a hassle!

And now, look—Sister Ping’s eyes had improved!

Amitabha!

May boundless blessings be upon us!

Aunt Cui worshipped the gods chaotically, greeting each one.

From now on, little Chan would be their new little deity, and on the first and fifteenth days of each month, maybe they'd even offer incense?

She hesitated, then shook her head secretly.

Better to stick with fruits today—more practical.

Wang Chan, of course, was unaware that in just this short time, Aunt Cui had gone through countless thoughts.

Listening to Aunt Cui’s words, Zhu Congyun and Zhu Fenglian showed no surprise; evidently, many in Yanzhi Town knew of Liu Xiaoping’s plight.

Liu Xiaoping had given birth to a son and a daughter. During the early years of her marriage, when the Bai family was still prosperous, Bai Shimao was handsome and educated—though only literate and knowledgeable, and having passed the elementary civil examination, he was considered a respectable scholar.

The couple had once shared happy times.

After returning, recalling her fate, she often wept, and unknowingly, her eyesight worsened.

At first, it blurred slightly, then worsened until finally, she was plunged into complete darkness.

A bright pearl dimmed—many said it was a pity.

Others, cruel and sharp-tongued, said she deserved it, spat on her.

Even after all this, she still thought of that man, those two children, crying herself blind—such a wretched life, wretched fate, and wretched self! Leaving suffering only to torment herself further, until she lost her sight!

Suffering told too often becomes like crushed sugarcane husks—spitting on it brings relief.

Liu Xiaoping increasingly stayed indoors, but voices still circulated at home.

“It’s not that I’m worthless; I didn’t cry myself blind...” Liu Xiaoping choked back sobs, nearly pouring all her grievances and bitter words out with her tears. “I only cried a few days—why can’t I cry? I hate it, I hate it... Someone harmed me. My eyes were harmed by someone—not because I cried.”

The painful sensitivity to light remained, but she paid no mind.

“Don’t cry anymore, Aunt Ping. Don’t cry,”

Through tear-blurred eyes, Liu Xiaoping looked up to see a soft cloth gently wiping her eyes.

Holding the cloth was Ah Chan.

The little girl stood, making her taller than the fallen Liu Xiaoping. Looking down at her, she inexplicably reminded Liu Xiaoping of a small temple deity’s statue—compassionate and merciful.

But a clay deity, no matter how fragrant its incense, would not care or respond to mortal woes.

Ah Chan, however, was real—alive, flesh and blood, not clay or wood.

Wang Chan’s fingertips paused, tracing a line of qi over Liu Xiaoping’s eyes.

It was the same qi she had seen within the stone earlier.

Somehow, Wang Chan knew that this qi field, shaped as such, could ease Liu Xiaoping’s eye pain.

She whispered, “Aunt Ping, don’t cry. The pain will fade. When your vision clears, the light will be bright again.”

Liu Xiaoping looked up, her tears wiped away, gazing at her mother and then around.

The autumn light was truly radiant.

...