Translator: Nyoi_Bo_Studio Editor: Nyoi_Bo_Studio
It was apparent from what was written in the letter that there was always something troublesome going on that didn’t match Fan Ruoruo’s age. Thinking back, after the head wife died, the woman who had given birth to a son started to become more and more arrogant in the capital. Because Uncle Sinan was always busy with official affairs, Fan Ruoruo was alone in the capital. Perhaps there were some minor problems in her daily life.
Picking up a brush and dipping the tip in ink, Fan Xian paused for a moment to think before writing his reply. In his letter, he was rather roundabout in telling her to spend as much time with Count Sinan as possible, and to behave herself in a lovable and mellow manner. She must not openly complain, but she should occasionally show her hidden bitterness.
Secondly, she must stand her ground in front of that woman and a certain proud younger brother. As people would often say, make yourself too kind and people will take advantage of you. If Fan Ruoruo didn’t wish to be treated unfairly, at the very least she should show her willingness to defend herself.
Thirdly, she needed to be kind to the house servants, especially to Count Sinan’s aide. She needed to observe the uncle with a pure, innocent gaze as the latter displayed his boring methods.
Finally, and as slightly as possible, she should offend the female master in the capital and bear the consequences for a bit. Then she should find a way to let the male master know about it—any man would have a strange desire to protect, especially his own daughter. Under such circumstances, Count Sinan would certainly remember the daughter left behind by his late head wife.
But there were still limits to such methods, and Fan Xian hinted s in the letter. Fan Xian didn’t know if this trick he picked up in his previous life from romance novels would work, but he believed that if Ruoruo was bright enough, she would figure it out.
Afterwards, he impatiently waited for her to write back. He was afraid he might bring trouble to the eleven-year-old girl.
Two months later, Fan Ruoruo’s letter came. From the content, Fan Xian could tell that his younger sister had been happy recently. He didn’t know if it was due to his suggestions or if there was never an incident of mistreatment in the capital in the first place. In the letter, Fan Ruoruo asked why treat the servants kindly. Seeing this made Fan Xian realize that, in a hierarchical society such as this, not everyone was equal. In response to her question, he wrote back a few anecdotes to explain to her that kindness benefits both others and oneself.
Fan Xian had originally planned on copying down some stories from the
Decameron
and send them along with the letter. In his previous life, Fan Xian remembered the leading critics always praising Giovanni Boccaccio for glorifying romance and equality between men and women in his words. But after giving it some more thought, Fan Xian gave up on the idea, as he remembered there were a lot of adult content in the
Decameron
.
This was a small episode of Fan Xian’s free time that somehow provided him with some mental sustenance, and it got to the point where seeing how that girl was doing in the capital became one of the highlights of his life.
Although Fan Ruoruo was very young, she could sense her older brother in Danzhou was no ordinary child. Despite their age difference, the siblings’ exchange of letters like these showed that Fan Ruoruo was slowly being influenced by Fan Xian. Her vocabulary was much more mature than that of other girls her age. She had also started to notice the minute changes occurring in the world.
Kites in spring, fish in summer, bluebirds in autumn, geese in winter. Between the exchange of letters, seasons passed.
When he wrote to Fan Ruoruo, Fan Xian always shook his head and smiled uneasily. His arms during these years had never been healthy, either swollen or in stabbing pain. Sometimes he could not raise his right hand and had to resort to writing with his left. Fan Ruoruo was astonished by how her older brother’s handwriting seemed to change with every letter.
Everything began on that night six years ago.
After Old Fei left, little Fan Xian was feeling lonely and sneaked outside through a doghole. He arrived at the strange grocery store that was often closed. Familiar with the route, Fan Xian came to the back door, took out the key from the dense vegetation under the stone steps, and entered.
It had been pitch-black inside the store, but with Fan Xian’s arrival, a small oil lamp was lit. Little Fan Xian sniffed the air and easily found the yellow wine Wu Zhu had prepared for him. Smiling sweetly, he took up the bowl and drank.
Wu Zhu did not drink. Fan Xian had never even seen him eat, and this was something he had gotten used to early on. Understandably, such a scene was rather absurd, a six-year-old boy indulging himself in alcohol like some free wanderer. Anyone who saw this would surely do a double take.
Wu Zhu always let Fan Xian drink with no intention of stopping him. He even prepared some appetizers for the young master.
While yellow wine was not very strong, drinking too much would still make one a bit tipsy. Intoxicated, the cute Fan Xian squinted, watching the forever expressionless blind man, who didn’t seem to age: Uncle, how come after all these years your appearance hadn’t changed? It’s like you don’t get old.
Fan Xian then continued to answer himself: It looks like after becoming strong enough, you can obtain eternal youth… but Uncle, didn’t you say you never trained using neigong?
Uncle, how many people in this world are truly strong? How are the levels established?
Nine levels in total? Nine again? Why?
the drunk little thing didn’t realize he was conflicting himself.
What level are you?
Don’t have one?
Then, what level is that idiot who does the Sigu sword style in Dongyi?
Don’t have one either?
What about the uncle of what’s-his-face?
Still no level?
All those were spoken by Fan Xian himself. Finally, he chuckled:
could it be that I too will train to no level?
The blind Wu Zhu was chopping radish into thin strands. His hand was slow yet steady. The knife was quick on the way down, but as soon as the blade came in contact with the chopping board it was immediately withdrawn. The level of accuracy was scary. The result was strands of radish of equal thickness, as if they had been shaped by industrial tools. They lay flat on the chopping board, looking very exquisite.
Wu Zhu raised his head and blanked out slightly. He walked up to Fan Xian and put the kitchen knife in the boy’s hands.
