Chapter 133: Being a husband is not worth regretting

Autumn frost rises everywhere, the trees have shed all their leaves.

Yet the Zhoufu of Lingnan Prefecture is bustling at this hour.

Streets crisscross, pedestrians throng, shops line both sides in close ranks, wine flags and tea banners sway gently in the wind.

The cake seller lifts the steamer basket, white steam rises, mingling with the licorice scent drifting from the pharmacy, and blending with the laughter of women before the cloth shop.

Wherever carriages and horses pass, the copper bell chimes incessantly.

On the teahouse, the storyteller claps the wooden block; downstairs, applause erupts immediately.

Silk-clad, cloth-wearing, burden-bearing, donkey-riding folk throng the stone-paved streets, heating the great city to a swelter.

Outside the city, a great flood had just struck the previous month, fields and homes submerged, wild geese crying across the wilderness, yet that grim scene seemed blocked by the city walls.

Inside the city, not a speck of damp earth is to be seen; still, music and revelry abound, a picture of peace.

A young servant in green robes darts through the crowd.

He clutches a stack of newly bought scrolls tightly in his arms, bound with rope, though a thin sheen of sweat already appears on his face.

He skillfully passes two streets, turns into a quiet lane, and at its end stands the black-lacquered gate of the Ruan Manor.

Under the gatehouse eaves, his keen eyes spot the steward standing by the screen wall; he hurries a few steps forward and opens his mouth:

"Uncle Liu, I've finally found you. I've scoured every small shop on East Street, but the sort of Clear Heart Hall paper the master wants simply isn't to be found anywhere—"

He paused, then lowered his voice:

"However, the proprietor of Gather Literature Studio, mindful of our Jingchuan Ruan clan's dignity, has dug two bolts from the storeroom, saying they're specially reserved for the manor."

He had spoken halfway when he suddenly felt something was off.

The old steward's face turned ashen, his gaze sweeping past his shoulder to fixed on the doorway behind him, lips pressed into a line.

The servant's voice trailed off as he quietly turned his head along that line of sight.

In the shadow of the doorway stood a person, unseen until now.

That person was extremely tall, thin and supple, like a bamboo stalk blown askew by the wind.

The thin autumn light leaked from the eaves, falling on his pallid face—high, steep brow bones, yet his eyes were black as deep, cold pool water.

His nose bridge was straight, thin lips slightly pursed, his whole bearing exuding a chilly aura, as if he had just recovered from a serious illness, or as if he were naturally meant to be this wan.

He wore a somewhat faded blue-cloth robe, cuffs faintly whitened, washed clean, standing among those vermilion-lacquered pillars, he seemed somewhat out of place.

The old steward's face sank completely.

He strode a few steps to the corridor, lowered his voice and rebuked:

"Where do you come from, scholar? This is the Ruan Manor, not an academy; our master dislikes those who take crooked paths. You'd do better to leave now and study more."

The young man remained utterly still, not even lowering his head.

He lifted those deep, dark eyes, calmly gazing at the old steward, and spoke:

"I have already sent word ahead; I came today to see Mr. Ruansizong."

To utter his name directly is a grave taboo, let alone for a noble clan—even ordinary households consider it a serious offense.

The old steward, already annoyed by the man's faint familiarity, flushed with rage at the words, his voice rising several notches:

"Bold madman! Do you think you can call our master's name? Seize him—"

He was about to summon the gatehouse servant when a young attendant rushed out from the inner courtyard's moon gate, breathless, and whispered a few words into the steward's ear.

The steward blinked, his anger not yet faded, now tinged with suspicion.

He stared hard at the young man, gritted his teeth, and stepped aside:

"Follow me."

The two walked one after the other, passing through the covered walkway, circling a fake mountain, as the courtyard layout gradually opened up.

Blue-brick paved ground, with a few old osmanthus trees on either side; the flowering season had passed, leaving only dark green leaves that rustled shasha in the wind.

The main hall's door stood open; inside, an elderly man with white hair and beard sat upright.

The old man was frail, yet his spine was ramrod straight, his eyes bright and sharp, showing no sign of age.

He held a celadon teacup, slowly skimming off the foam.

Footsteps sounded in the hall; the old man lifted his eyelids, his gaze cutting like a blade.

This man, who ought to be refined and scholarly, had long since had his genteel demeanor shattered by anger.

He neither rose nor set down the teacup, merely twitching the corner of his mouth into a cold arc.

That smile never reached his eyes, instead making them look even more icy.

"Chinu."

The old man's voice was low, yet each word sounded as if ground from between his teeth:

"I would never have thought anyone bold enough to dare utter my name—yet it is you."

He set the teacup down on the table with a clear chime:

"How is it that killing my grandson back then wasn't enough—you now come to my door, intending to have me collect your corpse?"

The young man stood in the hall, under that piercing gaze, his expression still calm.

He lowered his eyes slightly, his voice neither loud nor soft, yet each word crystal clear:

"Your grandson relied on the Ruan clan's prestige to run roughshod over the countryside, bullying men and women; he deserved death. I have come today not to argue over that."

He paused, lifted his eyes, and locked gazes with the old man.

"I have come to urge Mr. Ruan to surrender to the Wise Lord."

The hall fell silent, so quiet that a dropped pin could be heard.

The old steward's breath caught, and he instinctively stepped back half a pace.

He finally, finally recalled who this person was——

No wonder he looked so familiar—not because he resembled a deceased acquaintance, but because that person had never died at all!

Ruansizong shot up to his feet, his gaunt face flushing crimson, his white beard stirring without wind.

He stared fixedly at the young man before him, his chest heaving violently, ragged breaths issuing from his throat.

Suddenly, he snatched the teacup from the table and hurled it with all his might at the young man before him.

The celadon cup, filled with scalding tea, struck Chinu squarely on the shoulder, splashing tea over half his body, tea leaves clinging to his blue-cloth collar.

The teacup fell to the ground, shards scattering in all directions.

Chinu did not dodge, not even furrowing his brow.

He merely remained silent, silent, slowly and directly kneeling down, the hem of his blue robe spreading across the cold brick floor.

Afterwards, he lowered his body, forehead touching the ground, emitting a muffled thud.

Ruansizong shuddered all over.

He stood where he was, gazing at the kneeling figure, the anger in his chest as if smashed by something, scattering outward, leaving only a vast emptiness of shock.

His lips twitched a few times, yet he could not utter a single word.

On that aged face, anger, doubt, and turmoil ultimately turned into an incredulous blankness, lingering in his brows and eyes, like a stone statue suddenly endowed with a living expression, yet frozen by the scene before him—

Chinu has come, Chinu has come.

Back when this person killed his grandson, how lofty and merciless he was!

Over these years, everyone knows that Ruansizong, even in his dreams, longs to flay Chinu and pull out his tendons!

Now, now that times have changed, Chinu knows he will provoke him, yet still wishes to come alone, and... even willing to kneel before him?!

Who is Chinu's Wise Lord?

Why is it worth his doing this?!

?? Today still a lord-and-retainer group walking the road to darkness...

? Shasha: For the world, not worth regretting.

? Chinu: For the Wife Master, not worth regretting.