Spring Thunder Rumbles, Life Awakens.
After the Waking of Insects festival, each day grew warmer than the last. The once-silent town of Sifang was stirring to life after a long winter.
From East Street, the vendors’ cries pierced through two alleys and drifted into Wen Tian’s ears, leaving him momentarily dazed, unsure if what he was hearing was real or part of a fading dream.
He lifted a hand to shield his eyes. The spring sunlight wasn’t harsh, but it still made his eyes sting. From the distance came a crisp, youthful voice that dragged him back to the hazy present.
“Young Master! Young Master! Madam is looking for you!”
A plump young boy in festive red dashed toward him, looking like a white dumpling wrapped in a bright red cloth.
He wiped sweat from his forehead and stopped in front of Wen Tian, panting heavily.
“Madam says to hurry, she needs to see you right away!”
Tomorrow was his sister’s wedding day. As her only brother, Wen Tian would personally escort her to her new home.
The procedures had been rehearsed several times already, but their mother was still uneasy and insisted he go over everything one more time.
Yes… tomorrow was the day his sister was getting married.
Wen Tian’s gaze drifted across the courtyard, where red silk fluttered with celebratory flare. His memories surged like a breaking dam.
He remembered burying his sister himself at the foot of Mount Nanming.
He had pawned everything he owned but couldn’t even afford the cheapest coffin. All he could buy was a straw mat.
He wrapped her stiff, ashen body in it.
No monks to chant, no relatives to mourn—only him, alone, beside his mother’s grave, digging for half a day to make a shallow pit, burying both the mat and her cold remains in the earth.
Two humble dirt mounds stood side by side, holding the only two people he had ever truly loved. He couldn’t even afford a proper gravestone.
Dai Fu had no idea what Wen Tian was thinking. He tugged at his sleeve.
“Young Master? If you don’t go soon, Madam will worry.”
Wen Tian shook free from the crushing weight of his thoughts. He blinked slowly, dazed.
“Dai Fu… what year is it now?”
“Third year of Pingchu, the 18th day of the first month,” Dai Fu replied without hesitation.
“You’ve already asked me three times today.”
“Have I…?” Wen Tian followed him toward the rear courtyard, each step as if walking on clouds—light, floating, disconnected.
Pingchu, Year Three…
He was sixteen.
And tomorrow, his sister Wen Shuyue would marry.
“The biggest regret of my life… was marrying him!”
A hoarse, heart-wrenching scream echoed in his mind. Wen Tian stumbled.
Dai Fu caught him just in time, asking anxiously if he was alright.
Wen Tian shook his head, his gaze sweeping over the piercing reds decorating the courtyard.
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
His sister’s groom came from the Jiao family in nearby Lehe Town—a family famed for their scholarly lineage.
Jiao Changxian, her future husband, was young, handsome, and brilliant—he had passed the county-level exam at just eighteen.
Such a talented young man was rare, even across the entire Nanming district.
The engagement had been arranged years ago, rooted in an old connection between the two families.
Matched in status, blessed with good looks, the pair had long been seen as a perfect couple.
Wen Shuyue sat quietly at her dressing table while the face-threading woman twisted thin white threads across her skin.
Wen Tian stood silently, staring at her youthful, delicate face. It was so familiar—so full of life—it made his nose sting with emotion.
On the 19th day of the first month, Year Three of Pingchu, Wen Shuyue married into the Jiao family.
Her grand bridal procession stretched ten miles, stunning all of Sifang Town. People called them a match made in heaven.
But in reality, their fairy-tale marriage ended in tragedy.
Their child died young. Her husband cast her aside with a divorce letter and took another woman.
Wen Shuyue returned home in disgrace, clutching her mother and brother, weeping in anguish.
Their mother, Fu Youqin, had come from a wealthy merchant family. She was their only daughter, and her parents indulged her every whim.
Even when she insisted on marrying the poor scholar Wen Boli, her parents did not object.
Wen Boli married into the Fu family. Their love never waned. Together they had twins—a boy and a girl.
Seeing their happiness, Fu’s parents gave Wen Boli full control of the family estate and even let the children take his surname.
They had done it all out of love for their daughter.
But who could have foreseen that this gentle, seemingly virtuous man would be a two-faced schemer with ambitions as wild as the sea?
While he promised eternal devotion, Wen Boli had already fathered another child—one who was older than Wen Tian by two months.
Wen Tian’s hand clenched tightly at his side. His throat tightened.
He whispered, “Sister, you look beautiful today.”
Wen Shuyue opened her eyes and met his gaze. Their features were nearly identical—gentle, refined, soft.
“Mother was just looking for you. Where have you been hiding again?”
He forced a strained smile.
“Just stepped out for some fresh air.”
“Youyou’s back?” she asked.
That was his childhood nickname—Fu Youqin had chosen it hoping he’d grow up strong and healthy.
Their mother entered gracefully, holding a small wooden box. She was plump, rosy-skinned, and elegantly styled, her dark hair pinned with just a single jade hairpin.
Yet her presence was majestic.
At the sight of her, Wen Tian couldn’t stop the lump rising in his throat.
His voice cracked: “Mother…”
Fu Youqin startled, quickly handed the box to a maid, and embraced him.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did your father scold you again?”
He shook his head hard and hugged her tightly—like a lost child finally finding his way home.
He buried his face in her arms and wept as if his heart would break.
The face-threading woman froze in shock. She glanced from Wen Shuyue to the sobbing boy, utterly at a loss.
Wen Shuyue came over to pat his back. She couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Still crying like when we were little, huh? How old are you now?”
Wen Tian knew he was making a spectacle of himself, but how could he not?
His sister and mother—long gone in his past—now stood before him, alive and smiling.
Eventually, he forced himself to stop crying. He wiped his tears, looked at their faces, and mumbled an excuse.
“I just… thought about Sister getting married tomorrow and got a little sad.”
“Oh, you…” Fu Youqin gently tapped his forehead, her eyes full of affection.
“When will you ever grow up?”
Wen Tian lowered his gaze, hiding the storm in his heart. But outwardly he just tugged her sleeve and whined, “Stay with Sister. I’m just stepping out for a bit.”
She frowned.
“Again? You memorized the wedding processions, right?”
He smiled weakly.
“I did, I did. I’ll be back soon.”
Reluctantly, she let him go.
“Take Dai Fu with you. Don’t be out too long.”
He waved and quickly left the courtyard.
Once outside, the smile vanished from his face.
He looped back to the gate and, from behind a tree, watched his mother and sister through the window.
His mother placed the wooden box into Wen Shuyue’s hands. They were laughing.
He exhaled deeply. His temples throbbed. He didn’t know why he had returned to the third year of Pingchu.
Moments ago, he was shivering by a drafty fire in a broken shack—his mother and sister long gone, his heart hollow, yet his will still alive. He couldn’t let himself die and make it easy for his enemies.
Then, a thunderclap—and when he opened his eyes again, it was fourteen years ago.
The day before his sister’s wedding.
Tomorrow, Wen Shuyue would wear her phoenix crown and red veil, and marry into the Jiao family.
The image of Jiao Changxian embracing his new lover flashed before Wen Tian’s eyes.
He bit his tongue hard. The pain made his eyes water, but it cleared his mind.
He glanced back at the courtyard one last time—then turned and strode away with resolve.
This time, he would never let his sister fall into the Jiao family’s pit of fire.
Wen Tian first returned home to change into a plain, coarse outfit. He undid his neatly tied hair, letting it fall loose, then casually tied it back with a cloth band.
He wrapped a wide linen scarf twice around his neck to cover his face and finally put on a worn straw hat.
Only after all this did he tuck some silver into his pocket and sneak out the back gate.
This marriage could not go through. But with the wedding set for tomorrow, a proper cancellation was impossible at such short notice.
He would have to find another way.
After passing through two quiet streets, Wen Tian entered the bustling East Street—where commoners gathered and trade flourished.
It was right next to the East Market, and both sides of the road were lined with stalls. Vendors shouted over each other, hawking their wares in a lively chorus.
Wen Tian hunched his shoulders slightly, hands tucked into his sleeves, and kept his head down as he walked through the crowd, completely unremarkable—just another face in the throng.
He headed for the very end of East Street, a narrow dead-end often haunted by the town’s lowlifes.
When they were out of money, these thugs would band together and loiter on the streets, extorting coin from passersby to survive a few more days.
For Wen Tian, these unsavory characters might actually be the perfect tools for what he had in mind.
The alley was dirty and disordered. Several unkempt men lounged along the roadside. When they saw him approach, they all straightened, eyes gleaming with interest.
In his past life, Wen Tian had dealt with men like these and knew exactly how their greedy little minds worked.
He slowly pulled five taels of silver from his sleeve and spread them out in his palm.
“I need three men. Twenty taels total—this is your deposit.”
“What’s the job?” the tallest thug sauntered over, eyes gleaming with sly amusement as he reached for the silver.
Wen Tian quickly closed his hand and said coolly, “I’m still short two men.”
The man snorted, then turned and waved over two other burly types. They were thick-necked and heavyset—brutes, just like him.
“Alright, we’re in. What’s the job?”
“Follow me, and you’ll find out.” Wen Tian deliberately lowered his voice to sound mysterious and serious, then turned and led the three men out of town.
Between Sifang and Lehe lay the rugged Qitian Ridge.
There were only two main routes to cross it: one was the official road, smooth and safe but winding and long; the other was a narrow trail that cut through the West Mountain—infamous for its bandits, and rarely traveled.
But today, Wen Tian took a third route.
Through the middle of Qitian Ridge ran the Sihu River, connecting Lehe Town to Sifang. Aside from a few local fishermen, no one ever used it.
But Wen Tian remembered: a weathered old fisherman lived by the riverbank.
When his mother had fallen gravely ill all those years ago, it was that fisherman who ferried him across to Lehe in a desperate search for medicine.
Guided by memory, Wen Tian found his way along the winding path—and sure enough, there was a small boat moored by the shore.
Not far off stood a rickety thatched hut.
Wen Tian told the three men to wait, then went up to the door and knocked. After a brief negotiation, the old fisherman agreed to help.
He rowed all four of them toward Lehe Town. Even by water, the trip took nearly an hour.
By the time they arrived, dusk had fallen, and the faint glow of red lanterns shimmered along the distant riverbanks.
The boat docked at a crude little pier. Nanming was a southeastern district, far from the imperial capital of Qingyang. It lacked trade, travelers, and even a proper harbor.
Wen Tian paid the old fisherman and told him to wait at the dock. Then, he led the three hired thugs toward the Jiao family estate.
The Jiao family, despite their scholarly reputation, wasn’t rich. Their residence sat right beside the town’s noisy market.
Across the street was the Flower Alley—where lanterns and red silk fluttered in the night breeze, indicating the kind of entertainment that filled its rooms.
Tomorrow was the wedding. The Jiao residence was already decorated: red lanterns hung at the gates, red silk wrapped around the stone lions.
Wen Tian let out a cold, mocking laugh, then pointed toward the estate.
“That’s the place. I want you to snatch the young master of the Jiao family. Do it, and the twenty taels are yours.”
He handed them five more taels.
“This is the rest of your deposit. Complete the task, and you’ll get fifteen more.”
The three men exchanged glances. The leader grinned, pocketed the silver, and said, “Deal.”
Wen Tian tucked both hands into his sleeves and hunched slightly, hiding his expression beneath the straw hat. His gaze, though, stayed fixed on the Jiao family gate.
The lead thug sent the other two ahead to scout. He stayed beside Wen Tian in the shadows, eyeing the seemingly quiet courtyard.
“So… I heard the young master’s getting married tomorrow. What’s your beef with him?”
Wen Tian’s hands clenched tighter in his sleeves. His voice was low and steady.
“Jiao Changxian isn’t worthy of the Wen family’s daughter.”
The man chuckled, clicking his tongue.
“Ah… fighting for a beauty, huh? I get it…”
“There he is.” Wen Tian cut him off, pointing toward the swaying figure being helped down the street.
It was Jiao Changxian, drunk and stumbling, propped up by a delicate maid. He was humming something—off-key and vulgar.
As he drew closer, Wen Tian could hear the lyrics clearly. A surge of fury rose in his chest.
This man was carousing in the brothels on the eve of his wedding! How blind they had been in the past to think this scum was a good match for his sister!
“Strip her robe, untie her sash… take off the red… pull off the green… ah, let me have a taste…”
Jiao Changxian was groping the maid clumsily, slurring lewd lyrics under his breath.
They were about to kiss in the middle of the street when Wen Tian’s voice rang out, cold and sharp:
“What are you waiting for? Don’t want your silver?”
The lead thug clicked his tongue again, muttered “man’s got some nerve,” and signaled to his companions. They moved in swiftly, forming a triangle.
One of them knocked the maid out with a quick blow. The other two grabbed the drunken Jiao Changxian.
“What now?” the lead man asked, propping up their thrashing target.
Wen Tian stared at the swaying, oblivious Jiao Changxian. For the first time in his life, he felt a genuine urge to skin someone alive.
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