Chapter 16: Two Years Later

Time flows like water, murmuring onward. Before one realized it, two years had passed.

In Huaniang Town, the peach blossoms bloomed and withered, withered and bloomed again, cycling without end. 

The stone-paved road at the town entrance had been washed even smoother by the rain. 

The swallows beneath the eaves of the Zhang family mansion had raised another brood.

Many things changed quietly. Many people shed their former appearances in the passage of time.

On that deep winter dusk, Nanxi finally returned to the thatched hut in the mountains.

He sat on the threshold the entire night, watching the setting sun sink behind distant peaks, watching the stars climb across the sky, and then watching the eastern horizon pale with the first light of dawn.

The mountain wind was bitterly cold, but he did not go inside. 

He simply hugged his knees, stubbornly gazing down the small path leading up the mountain. 

He was waiting—waiting for that familiar figure to return with the scent of alcohol on her, perhaps scolding him with a stern face before tossing him a charred roasted sweet potato.

But she never came.

By noon the next day, what Nanxi awaited was a group of servants in coarse blue hemp clothing and the small sedan chair draped with pale blue gauze that he had seen several times at the Zhang mansion.

The curtain lifted, revealing Zhang Yiwei.

She walked to Nanxi and paused for a moment at his lips, faintly blue from the cold, before letting out a soft sigh.

“Little Xi, stop waiting. Come back with me.”

Nanxi raised his head. 

Those dark eyes looked straight at her, carrying a silent calm and an almost imperceptible tremor.

“Where is my master?”

The boy’s voice was hoarse from a night without water, yet unexpectedly steady.

Zhang Yiwei crouched down to meet his gaze. 

She reached out as if to brush the dust from his shoulder, but he subtly shifted away.

Her hand paused in mid-air for a moment before naturally withdrawing. 

The smile on her face did not change, and her tone grew even gentler.

“Master Shuang has matters to attend to and must be away for a very long time. She entrusted you to me—to the Zhang family.”

She paused, observing the boy’s reaction, then continued.

“From this day forward, you are part of our Zhang family. Your food, clothing, studies, and martial training—everything will be arranged by me. Master Shuang hopes you will be well.”

Nanxi was silent for a long while, until the mountain wind once again stirred the fallen leaves on the ground—long enough that the Zhang servants began exchanging glances.

He lowered his eyelids. 

His long lashes cast faint shadows on his pale cheeks, concealing all emotion in his eyes.

When he looked up again, that deep, pool-like stillness had covered every ripple.

He asked no questions about Shuang Feixue. 

He did not doubt the truth of Zhang Yiwei’s words.

He simply rose slowly, his movements somewhat stiff. 

He stumbled briefly from sitting so long but quickly steadied himself.

He brushed the grass and dust from his clothes, turned to enter the hut, and soon emerged carrying only a faded old cloth bundle. 

Inside were a few changes of clothes and several books.

The short sword he used for daily practice remained hanging on the wall inside. 

He did not take it.

“Let’s go,” the boy said to Zhang Yiwei, his voice flat and without inflection.

A flicker of genuine surprise passed through Zhang Yiwei’s eyes, quickly turning to satisfaction. 

She personally lifted the sedan curtain for him.

“Get in. The mountain wind is strong.”

Nanxi did not refuse. 

He silently boarded the soft, comfortable sedan. 

The curtain fell, blocking the outside light and seemingly severing his ties to the past.

The sedan swayed gently as it began descending the mountain. 

The boy closed his eyes, leaning against the wall as if asleep, yet his fingers unconsciously clenched the light bundle on his knees.

From that day onward, Shuang Feixue seemed to vanish from the world, never again appearing in Huaniang Town or the surrounding regions.

The departure of that aloof teacher and mysterious retainer sparked brief speculation in town, but under the subtle guidance of the Zhang mansion, it soon faded into silence.

People simply said Master Shuang had perhaps sought better prospects or gone wandering the world. 

It seemed only natural that her reclusive yet beautiful disciple had been taken in by the Zhang family, who knew her well.

Nanxi formally moved into the Zhang mansion, though not as a retainer’s son. 

Zhang Yiwei settled him in a quiet, independent courtyard in the rear named Listening Bamboo Pavilion.

It was not far from her own residence, separated from her younger sister Zhang Lianwei’s only by an exquisite flower bed.

Bamboo shaded the courtyard, creating an elegant atmosphere. 

All daily necessities, even brushes, ink, paper, inkstones, and training equipment, were provided in abundance and of superior quality—finer than those of many legitimate official households.

On his first day there, Nanxi caught a glimpse of the master and servant from Liang, but due to house rules, he only saw them from across a wall. 

He had no deep connection with the imperial princess.

Moreover, a few days later, she left the Zhang mansion.

Over these two years, Nanxi was nominally the future son-in-law betrothed to the second young miss, Zhang Lianwei—an arrangement made by Master Zhang before his death a year prior.

The Nanxi who once despised matters of marriage accepted it all calmly. 

He sometimes attended the Zhang family’s private school for the young, studying the Four Books and Five Classics, even texts like Male Virtues.

He continued practicing martial arts, though no longer with his master’s guidance and corrections. 

He relied solely on pondering past teachings and studying the few thin sword manuals Shuang Feixue had left behind.

Zhang Yiwei seemed not to restrict his training. Occasionally, she would casually send strengthening tonics or supplements to aid inner breath, and sometimes handwritten copies of martial treatises that were far from ordinary.

These two years, Nanxi’s life was highly regimented—even rigidly so.

He rose at dawn to practice sword forms, attended lessons after breakfast, spent afternoons reviewing books or training, and after supper usually read alone in the Listening Bamboo Pavilion study until deep into the night.

He rarely initiated conversation. 

He was polite yet distant with the mansion servants, respectful yet reserved with Zhang Yiwei, and toward the increasingly lively and spoiled Zhang Lianwei, he showed a helpless tolerance.

Only in those eyes, when no one noticed, would there surface a calm beyond his years—and beneath it, complex emotions deeply buried.

He observed, listened, and thought, pressing all his doubts, unease, longing, and loneliness firmly into his heart, revealing nothing.

It was as if overnight he had shed the exuberance and sharp edges of youth, learning to use silence and compliance as a shell for surviving in this entirely unfamiliar world.

Yet this carefully maintained calm, in Zhang Yiwei’s presence, was as fragile as paper and often shattered.

The first probe came on the evening of his third day in Listening Bamboo Pavilion. 

Zhang Yiwei visited the courtyard under the pretext of checking whether his needs were met. 

Nanxi was in the study reading Han Feizi’s Five Vermin.

She approached silently from behind and suddenly reached out—not to take anything, but to lightly press her hand against his slender waist before pinching firmly downward.

“Little Brother Xi’s figure has truly been shaped perfectly.”

Her voice sounded against his ear, carrying laughter and a trace of warm breath.

“Nnh…”

Nanxi’s body stiffened abruptly. His fingers tightening on the page let out a soft, delicate sound.

He lowered his eyes to the accidentally creased page, his throat bobbing once as he murmured, “Eldest Miss.”

There was no questioning, not even his former resistance—only that single address, betraying no emotion.

“Heh.”

Zhang Yiwei forced a laugh. 

Her fingers lingered a moment longer before casually withdrawing as if nothing had happened. She picked up the book on the desk instead.

“Quite the scholar, my brother—reading Han Feizi’s works.”

As though that transgressive touch had never occurred.

This was merely the beginning. 

Zhang Yiwei’s visits to Listening Bamboo Pavilion gradually exceeded what might be expected from a future sister-in-law.

Sometimes she would lean against the corridor watching him practice sword forms, her gaze unabashed as it lingered on his thin training clothes clinging to his sweat-soaked body, or on the taut lines of his waist and legs as he leaped and turned.

Occasionally, she would personally bring cooling plum soup or nourishing broth, brushing his fingers as she handed it over or lightly tracing the back of his hand when he accepted the bowl.

At times, under the guise of discussing texts or tutoring lessons, she would remain in the study for half an hour, the two seated at the same table, close enough to smell each other’s scent.

When speaking, she often leaned in, her hair occasionally brushing his cheek or neck, carrying a faint, clear fragrance.

Once, pointing to a classical allusion in the book, she turned her head to ask his understanding—her lips nearly grazing his earlobe.

Nanxi’s responses remained restrained. 

He would subtly shift to create distance, lower his eyes to avoid direct stares, and answer questions concisely with a steady voice.

Yet that ever-present sense of intrusion, along with the growing heat of possessiveness in Zhang Yiwei’s eyes, wove an invisible net that slowly tightened around him.

The boy could not fully refuse, for she was the Zhang family head who controlled his current circumstances—his nominal elder sister-in-law.

All of Zhang Yiwei’s actions were cloaked in concern, beyond reproach.

Nanxi could only endure, meeting these increasingly frequent boundary crossings with heavier silence and impassive calm.

And the greatest routine was that every few days, Zhang Yiwei would stay overnight in Listening Bamboo Pavilion.