Chapter 4

Four: Auntie Is Fierce

Ting—!

A blade’s glow poured like a curtain of water before the bed.

The narrow bed left no room to maneuver.

Ouyang Rong snapped awake—but instead of a blade, he heard a roar: “Still claiming the magistrate’s fine? Look at him now… you bald monk, give me your life!”

He froze, turned his head.

The dark blue “constable’s robe” that had stood by the bed was now charging toward the half-gleaming “egg” protruding from the doorway.

“How could the magistrate be ill? False accusation! False accusation!” The monk with flowing hair bolted for the exit.

“The magistrate’s bed is soaked—he’s had a stroke or is in a catatonic state! Is this what your temple calls ‘rest’? Damn you!”

“Ah… this… this can’t be right… it’s a misunderstanding, surely a misunderstanding… Constable, put down the knife, let me explain, let me explain…”

“Explain it in the afterlife. I’ve endured you long enough. Today, I take your head.”

“!!!”

Listening to the two men sprinting down the corridor like their lives depended on it, Ouyang Rong blinked, then looked down at the damp bedding—he’d rushed back under the covers after washing his hands without drying them…

But you two really are a pair of clowns.

Ouyang Rong was speechless.

As he hesitated whether to intervene in this medical disturbance, a delighted cry rang out from outside: “Abbot, you’re finally here! Save me…”

At the gate of Donglin Temple appeared several figures; the two foremost were an old monk with white beard and a woman in a silk skirt.

The monk Xiu Fa shrank behind the old man like a monkey.

“Put down the knife. What are you doing in my courtyard? Where is my Tanlang?” The woman in the silk skirt stepped forward first, frowning.

The woman was tall, in her thirties, with a mole at the corner of her mouth; her bearing carried natural dignity and severity, yet now she looked weary from travel, her attendants and servants carrying bags and chests behind her equally exhausted.

Yan Wuxu paid no heed—he was still furious, brandishing his dagger and charging forward.

“Madam, please step aside. Let this old monk handle it.” The white-bearded abbot stepped forward, calmly blocking the woman and calming his disciple behind him.

The old monk wore black monastic robes, his white beard neatly groomed, giving the first impression of profound wisdom and calm.

The abbot of Donglin Temple gently turned his prayer beads and faced the charging constable with solemnity: “Namo Amitabha Buddha, Young Master Yan, calm yourself. Let us speak. Put down the blade…”

“Bullshit! He was conscious two days ago, now he’s paralyzed and incontinent! All you Donglin monks are to blame—I’ll cut you all down!” The fiery Yan Wuxu didn’t wait—he swung the blade down.

“You’re making this impossible for me… Ah!” The abbot’s clasped hands, holding the beads, trembled.

The next instant, a flash of blade—and only broken beads remained.

The abbot and Xiu Fa had both dodged aside with practiced speed.

Sandalwood prayer beads scattered through the air, then fell at their feet, bouncing… for a moment, like large and small pearls pattering on jade.

Who would’ve thought—the abbot, looking seventy or eighty, moved with surprising agility, as nimble as his disciple.

Both old and young stared at the broken beads, wiping sweat from their brows.

“Master, no killing in a sacred temple!”

“Give me your bald heads!”

Seeing the reckless constable strike again, the master and disciple fled in a blur of pursuit and escape.

Yet despite the blade’s gleam under the sun, one person did not retreat.

“Madam, run! Constable Yan is enraged…” The old monk cried out, reaching out.

The woman in the silk skirt flipped her hand, snatching a staff from the shoulder of a trembling maid, eyebrows drawn, lips pressed, and stepped forward.

The staff’s tip carved a long arc through the air.

A slap, a pull, a thrust, then a flick.

The dagger flew from the constable’s trembling grip, soaring into the sky.

“Don’t brandish blades before me. Where is my Tanlang?” The woman tossed the staff behind her and demanded sharply.

Yan Wuxu froze, staring upward at the flying blade. Even the fleeing abbot and disciple halted, staring at this frail-looking woman.

Ding dang ping—

The blade clattered to the ground. The courtyard fell silent.

“What Tanlang? Who are you looking for?” Yan Wuxu seemed doused in cold water—his composure returned.

The abbot straightened his posture and sighed: “This is the magistrate’s aunt, Madam Zhen. She’s just arrived from his hometown, Nanlong…”

Yan Wuxu glared at the abbot and Xiu Fa, interrupting: “The magistrate was conscious two days ago—now he’s had a stroke and is catatonic!”

The woman in the silk skirt turned to stone, as if struck by lightning. Her maids burst into wails.

Xiu Fa waved his hands frantically: “It must be a misunderstanding—the bedwetting could have another cause…”

“Still lying!” Yan Wuxu lunged barehanded, grabbing Xiu Fa by the nape of his robe, raising a fist the size of a sandbag…

“I’m fine.” Ouyang Rong stepped out, wrapped only in a thin robe.

The entire courtyard fell silent.

The young magistrate, pale and weak, surveyed the scene: “I haven’t… haven’t wet the bed. It was just water spilled from the basin. Constable Yan, eager to help, misunderstood.”

This had to be explained immediately—it would be a lifelong stain. But truthfully, right now he was more annoyed by the absurd design of his socks and brocade boots—how was it so hard to put them on? He’d spent ages just getting his shoes on before stepping out…

He continued, expression unchanged: “Constable Yan, release Xiu Fa and the abbot. Auntie…” He turned, memories surfacing, then corrected himself: “Auntie, you’re unharmed? Your nephew is fine. You’ve come all this way for nothing…”

Before Ouyang Rong finished speaking, a graceful figure swept forward, nearly knocking him backward into the room—but someone steadied him instantly—he was now enveloped in the broad embrace of the woman in the silk skirt; all he had to do was bask in the warmth of family. But this auntie… was a bit fierce.

Madam Zhen rested her chin on her nephew’s shoulder, eyes reddened, breathing softly: “Thank heavens it’s not a stroke or bedwetting… Thank heavens it’s not a stroke or bedwetting… You’re the only male heir of our Ouyang family, the only seed of scholarship—if anything happened to you, how could I face your parents and your uncle below? Tanlang is safe, not bedwetting—that’s all that matters. Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid…”

The woman in the silk skirt murmured on, still trembling from her journey’s fears.

“...” Ouyang Rong’s head filled with black lines—can we please stop mentioning the bedwetting farce?

But he understood—in this slow-paced world, stroke or vegetative state meant a cruelty worse than death for a scholar-bearer of a poor family’s hopes, and for his family too.

He whispered beside her ear: “Auntie, don’t say more. There are outsiders.”

Madam Zhen loosened her embrace, looked at him, and whispered:

“You’re embarrassed? When you were a child and wet the bed, I changed your linens for your mother—I’d just married in then. But then again, you’ve grown so fast—you’re twenty, a county magistrate, you’ve even been to the Divine Capital and met the Son of Heaven, seen people and scenes I never have… It’s time you found a match worthy of your station.”

Ouyang Rong only smiled, pretending he hadn’t heard the last part.

On the other side, Yan Wuxu stared at the living magistrate, slowly released Xiu Fa, and even patted the monk’s bald head—clearly embarrassed: “Magistrate, I… I was terrified just now. I didn’t mean it. I… I apologize to both masters! I spoke too loudly.”

“Constable Yan need not…” The young magistrate began to soothe him—but then suddenly frowned, glancing around: “Who’s tapping the wooden fish?”

Madam Zhen frowned: “What wooden fish? Only we’re here. Tanlang, are you still dizzy?”

The abbot, from nowhere, produced a new string of prayer beads, clasped his hands: “Young Master Ouyang, why not rest inside? Let this old monk feel your pulse again?”

Ouyang Rong said nothing, silent, staring ahead. Directly before him stood the young monk Xiu Fa, quietly trying to wriggle free from Yan Wuxu’s affectionate head-pat.

Seeing everyone follow Ouyang Rong’s gaze, Xiu Fa looked bewildered.

But only Ouyang Rong knew—he was staring at a familiar pagoda shadow, stubbornly lingering before his eyes.

Now he realized why the wooden fish sounded so familiar!

“Tanlang… don’t frighten your auntie.” Madam Zhen gripped his arm, her sharp yet tender phoenix eyes watching him carefully.

The entire courtyard held its breath. The young magistrate’s silent authority quickly restored his calm expression.

“I’m fine.” He smiled.

From the sudden twists and shocks, everyone finally exhaled.

Madam Zhen ordered her servants to rest, Ouyang Rong gave a few instructions to Yan Wuxu, and they all laughed, entering the room together.

Ouyang Rong’s expression never changed.

Truly, nothing serious—nothing worth mentioning. He’d merely seen a familiar merit pagoda. Old actor, that’s all.

…