Chapter 61: The Female Thief

Wang Yang paused, then asked, “Is it your idea, or your father’s?”

“It’s...”

Father said that if I follow Master Wang, I’ll only ever be a concubine—maybe not even that, just a kept woman.

But this is a kept woman of the Langya Wang clan! Far more refined than being the lawful wife of some wealthy commoner clan! If I bear a son, and fortune smiles, I might even be added to the family genealogy! Then I’d truly enter the scholar-gentry—first-rank scholar-gentry!

“This is a once-in-a-hundred-years chance for our Jiao family—you must seize it! Of course, I won’t force you. If you don’t want to, then forget it.”

Scholar and commoner are worlds apart, worlds apart!

Jiao Yan heard Jiao Zheng’s words echoing in her ears, recalled the elegant scholar-ladies laughing and chatting as they boarded ornate ox-carts, glanced at Wang Yang’s refined features, and declared firmly, “It’s my idea.”

Wang Yang shook his head. “I don’t need attendants.”

“Rejected?... Did I tell you to bend over and you didn’t?”

“He doesn’t want me—what can I do?” Jiao Yan flushed with shame and anger.

Seeing his daughter’s eyes reddening, Jiao Zheng sighed:

“It’s fine. Such men are either raised under strict discipline, or grew up surrounded by women. I thought he was a playboy, assumed he’d be restless without a woman tonight—perfect chance to strike. But I never expected this boy to turn down food right at his mouth—”

“Father!” Jiao Yan stamped her foot and burst into tears.

“Stop crying, stop crying! If he won’t have you, fine! With our family’s wealth and my official rank, we can’t reach the scholar-gentry—then aim for a humble clan. Even that will bring glory to our door.”

The moonlight was like frost; the breeze, like water.

After seeing Jiao Yan off, Wang Yang sat alone before his desk, gazing at the bright moon outside the window, thinking of his family and friends left behind in the modern world—longing filled him. Without thinking, he felt the urge to write. Seizing the moment of his drunkenness, he dipped his brush in ink and began writing:

“Once I saw Yang Shuzi lament that misfortunes in life always outnumber joys by seven or eight out of ten.

Though young and untried, I too cannot forget these sorrows.

Whenever I recall things I can never reclaim, sorrow clings, hard to shake.

Sometimes I pour out my buried feelings in dreams, entrusting them to fleeting moments.

Then, seeing the moon’s shadow, I realize it cannot be relived—I rise in despair, feeling as if something precious is lost.

Zhuangzi spoke of drinking in dreams and weeping at dawn—there is deeper meaning here.

In days past, I had no cares, often wandering with friends.

Alone, I amused myself with poetry, books, and music; in company, I laughed carefree, hat askew, boasting and jesting.

But since my crossing, not one relative, close friend, or intimate companion remains by my side—”

Just as his writing grew passionate, a shadow flew in through the window!

The bamboo prop holding the window open was swept away—the carved green lattice window slammed shut with a sharp crack!

In the blink of an eye, the candlestick toppled, the flame died, papers scattered.

A cold object pressed against Wang Yang’s throat.

A dagger!

A woman’s voice sounded beside him, cool and steady: “Don’t make a sound.”

Immediately, heavy footsteps echoed in the courtyard; torchlight pierced the gaps between the window’s carvings, casting the woman and Wang Yang’s faces in flickering, murky shadows.

“It’s you!” Wang Yang gasped upon recognizing her face.

A straight, delicate nose; sharp, clean brows; eyes like deep, still pools; skin pale as frost and snow—radiating an air of otherworldly aloofness, untouched by mortal concerns.

It was the green-clad girl who had saved Ah Wu at the market yesterday!

“Stand up,” the woman said, her face icy, pressing the dagger to force Wang Yang away from the window, shielding him from the torchlight.

She was tall—nearly to his forehead—her night attire clinging tightly to her lean, powerful frame.

They faced each other, stepping in unison, as if dancing.

Her breath brushed his face, adding a strange, tender warmth to the tense air.

Ding-ding-ding.

A knock came at the door.

“Master? Are you asleep? Just now, thieves broke in—they’re skilled. Did they disturb you?”

The dagger shifted slightly, ready to slit Wang Yang’s throat.

Wang Yang steadied his breath and called out: “I’m asleep. Nothing happened here. Thank you, Jiao Canjun.”

A pause outside. Then: “Good. Glad you’re unharmed. I’ll take my leave.”

Footsteps faded into the distance.

Wang Yang feigned delight: “Don’t you remember me? Yesterday at the Jingzhou market—you saved a little girl from under a horse’s hooves! I meant to thank you properly, but you vanished before I could.”

He reached out casually to push aside her dagger.

The woman tightened the blade against his carotid artery, coldly warning: “Don’t move.”

Wang Yang forced a smile, trying to bond: “I won’t move. Just move the dagger away a bit. You saved my little sister—I haven’t repaid you yet. I won’t harm you.”

The woman’s dagger didn’t loosen. Her voice remained emotionless: “Why are you here?”

“Shh.” Wang Yang pointed to the door, whispering, “Get on the bed.”

The woman, thinking she heard footsteps outside, strained to listen—then saw Wang Yang begin undressing.

Rustle-rustle...

Her deep, clear eyes widened instantly.

It took her three full seconds to comprehend what was happening—then her face flushed crimson, like a cold plum blossom blooming in snow, breathtakingly beautiful.

Her wrist flipped—the dagger flashed, slicing through the air...

Bang!

The door burst open!

Jiao Zheng stormed in, sword in hand, followed by six or seven guards holding weapons and torches.

The scene before them froze them in place.

Wang Yang sat before his desk, pants half-down, his lower body covered by scattered papers; one hand gripped the extinguished candlestick, wax dripping in splotches across the floor.

Wang Yang’s face was pale. He clutched the papers over his groin, roaring in fury: “Get out—all of you!”

“We’re leaving!”

Jiao Zheng led the men hastily out of the room, each suppressing laughter, expressions twisted with disbelief.

Once they were far enough, Jiao Zheng burst out laughing—then the others grinned openly.

Jiao Zheng waved his hand: “Enough! Keep this quiet. Anyone who speaks of it—I’ll cut out their tongue!”

All the guards bowed in unison: “Yes, sir.”

Jiao Zheng turned back toward Wang Yang’s quarters, his thoughts heavy.

No wonder he’s from the Langya Wang clan—his tastes are truly unusual!

And he even drips wax? What an elaborate game...

Inside, Wang Yang wiped sweat from his brow. Remembering the wind that stung his eyes, the dagger grazing his skin, he still trembled. As he pulled up his pants, he said:

“See? I didn’t harm you.”

A cold voice came from within the bed’s gauze curtains:

“Within seven paces, my blade never misses. If you doubt it, feel free to test me.”

“Why would I test that? You saved Ah Wu—I owe you. Don’t say you’re deadly with your knives—you could be useless with them, I still wouldn’t run. No grudge, no hatred—you won’t kill me.”

Wang Yang wanted to run—had almost done so before Jiao Zheng burst in.

But if he had, two outcomes were likely: either the woman killed him with a flying dagger, or took him hostage.

He didn’t know her identity. If she were just a common thief, Jiao Zheng would’ve fought to protect his life. But if they had deep enmity? Who knew? It could end in mutual destruction.

There was a chance he could escape—but he dared not gamble.

So after careful thought, he chose to conceal her presence, and repeatedly reinforced the idea that he owed her a debt—to lower her guard.

The woman asked: “How did you know they’d come back?”

She showed no reaction to his earlier words; her voice remained icy.

——————————

Note: In the Southern and Northern Dynasties, “humble clan” referred to local powerful families and lower-ranking official landowners—socially far above commoners. For example, if the Jiao family maintained positions like “External Troops Canjun” for several generations, they could rise to humble clan status. Once admitted, the clearest sign was exemption from taxes and corvée labor, distinguishing them from ordinary people, who were called “corvée households” (since commoners were conscripted for labor).

The humble clan tier was fluid; if a family declined, it could be downgraded back to commoner status. For instance, the Book of Song, Biography of Zong Yue: “Zong Yue, from Ye County, Nanyang. Originally of the secondary clan. When General Zhao Lunzhi governed Xiangyang, where many mixed surnames resided, he ordered his Chief Secretary Fan Jiji to rank lineages by status. Jiji classified Zong Yue as a corvée household.”

“Secondary clan” meant below the high scholar-gentry; broadly synonymous with humble clan. Zong Yue’s family was downgraded from humble clan to commoner; later, through his promotions, he petitioned the emperor and restored his family’s status.

The emperor could intervene in the rise or fall of humble and secondary clans, but not in true high scholar-gentry families. The phrase “Scholar-officials are not appointed by the Son of Heaven” originated in this era of the Southern Qi, rooted in deep historical and cultural context—this will be further explored in Volume Three, when the capital is reached.