Chapter 159: The Non-Human

"Everything the young miss instructed has been handled by this old servant."

Mother Qian trembled. From last night until now, she had yet to recover from the profound terror she experienced. Casting a cautious glance at Fang Qian, she tried her best to steady her voice and asked, "Would the young miss care to take a look?"

Disgust flashed across Fang Qian's eyes. She covered her nose with a handkerchief, waved her hand impatiently, and said, "Just make the arrangements. Make sure you instruct Old Woman Yang properly—sell her far away, send her to the vilest place possible. A cheap slut only belongs in a filthy ditch. Heh, I truly want to see if she can still manage to smile once she arrives in a place like that."

With a coquettish laugh, she stood up and walked out.

Her skirt swayed with every step, and she moved with a graceful, lotus-like gait—truly a captivating beauty. At eighteen years old, Fang Qian had developed remarkably well compared to her peers. Her breasts were firm and upright, and her full, voluptuous hips were highlighted by a tight-fitting bodice that laid her fiery figure bare for all to see.

Mother Qian curled her lips in silent contempt, bowing her head and waiting to the side until Fang Qian left the courtyard before heading toward the rear quarters.

The human trafficker, Old Woman Yang, was already waiting near the back gate. After bringing her to the woodshed and conveying Fang Qian's instructions, Mother Qian pocketed five silver taels from Old Woman Yang and allowed her to take the person away.

As the group passed through the back gate, the gatekeeper woman saw Wen Xing, who was bound and gagged, struggling incessantly, and sighed inwardly. It seemed her older brother had not thought of a way to rescue her. Alas, what a pity—such a fine young girl reduced to this wretched end.

Old Woman Yang and two lacklings dragged Wen Xing through the back alley and boarded a carriage waiting at the entrance.

The carriage wheels rumbled, and soon it departed the Fang estate, heading northward. Traversing streets and alleys, the surrounding sounds gradually faded away.

The carriage jerked to a halt. Old Woman Yang, sitting inside, lifted the carriage curtain and looked out, only to find herself not at her own courtyard, but in a desolate, deserted alley—a dead end.

Old Woman Yang flew into a rage. "Erniu, how are you driving this carriage? Do you still want to—"

Her voice choked back down into her throat the moment she looked at the driver, who was slowly turning his head. A completely unfamiliar face stared back, freezing her blood with terror.

The driver's eyes—cold and laced with murderous intent—gazed at her in absolute silence.

At that moment, several more men closed in from behind. One of them tossed an object into her lap and said, "Old Woman Yang, we are taking this person. We trust you are sensible enough to know what should be said and what should remain unspoken."

Old Woman Yang picked up the object in her lap and saw that it was a silver ingot weighing about ten taels. Joy surged in her heart; she had bought the maidservant for five taels and resold her for ten—not a bad deal at all. As for how to explain things to the Fang estate, they wouldn't bother investigating anyway. She could just fabricate some nonsense about wherever she supposedly sold her.

With this thought, she hurriedly stammered in reply, "Rest assured, rest assured! This old woman has seen the world and knows the rules."

She called her two subordinates down from the carriage and watched helplessly as the group strode away into the distance.

"Ah-ah..."
"Wu-wu..."

The muffled, sobbing sounds had never ceased. Ever since she was brought back, Wen Xing had remained unconscious, burning with a persistent high fever.

Doctor Jiang had examined her, diagnosing the condition as the combined result of a brutal beating and severe shock that triggered the fever. He prescribed a decoction to dissipate heat and calm the spirit, and asked his wife, who possessed some knowledge of medicine, to inspect Wen Xing's injuries.

When Wen Xing's garments were stripped away, Madam Jiang and the assisting servant girls, Cuiliu and Cuiyu, drew sharp breaths of dismay, unable to bear the sight.

The condition was utterly ghastly. Putting aside the injuries on her hands, her entire back was a crisscross of raised, finger-thick red welts from whip lashes—silent testimony to the ferocious strength behind the blows. Beneath those fresh red welts lay faded, scabbed scars of varying thickness, clearly left behind by older punishments.

Alas, what a pitiful child.

Even Madam Jiang, accustomed as she was to blood and festering wounds, let out a long sigh. After gently and meticulously washing the wounds, she dusted medicinal powder over Wen Xing's back and hands, wrapping them neatly in clean bandages. Even though she moved with the utmost care, the unconscious Wen Xing still convulsed with pain, her brow furrowed tightly as silent tears streamed endlessly down her face.

Wen Xing's vocal cords were beyond cure; once that particular poison was ingested, not even an immortal could restore them.

Doctor Jiang and Madam Jiang departed with heavy sighs, and a profound gloom hung over the Plum Courtyard.

Chang Kang kept vigil beside Wen Xing's bed, his eyes bloodshot, his fingernails digging so deeply into his palms that blood welled, though he felt no pain at all. Compared to what Xiaoxing had suffered, what was a mere scratch like this?

*It's all my fault! It's all my fault!*

Chang Kang hammered his fist against a tall stool beside him, shattering the wooden seat into splinters. Splinters pierced deep into his knuckles, yet it felt no more than a reflection of the agony in his heart.

If only he had looked after her more carefully and asked the right questions, if only he hadn't been so timid and irresolute, perhaps Xiaoxing would have been rescued from the den of wolves long ago, sparing her this day of torment.

Pain—bone-deep pain! Hatred—overwhelming hatred!

Both surged into his mind, utterly drowning his senses...

Three days later, Wen Xing finally opened her eyes.

Her gaze slowly focused, sweeping over the circle of people surrounding her, before finally resting on Chang Kang, who stood closest.

She wanted to call him "Brother Xiaoshun" just as she always had, but all that escaped her lips were broken "Ah-ah..." sounds. Her expression froze as those painful, heartbreaking memories slowly flooded back into her mind, flashing before her eyes one by one. Fear, terror, agony—a torrent of emotions surged through her. Suddenly, she let out a muffled, anguished cry and buried her face in her hands.

"Xiaoxing, don't be afraid. Brother Xiaoshun is here. Brother Xiaoshun is right here."

Having completely forgotten all conventional proprieties between men and women, Chang Kang pulled Xiaoxing into his arms in a panic, patting her gently to soothe her.

"Ah..." Wen Xing collapsed against his chest, clutching his lapel with a desperate grip, holding on as if it were a straw in a drowning sea, weeping silently in bottomless despair...

Wen Xing temporarily settled into the side chamber of the Plum Courtyard. Unable to speak and illiterate, she found herself completely cut off from communicating with others. Confined to her room day after day, her expression grew increasingly melancholic, and only upon seeing Chang Kang would a long-absent smile touch her face.

This could not go on. Once her body healed, her mind would break.

Liu Qin pondered the situation in secret and finally decided to teach Wen Xing how to read.

Once she learned characters, even if she could not speak, she could write, which would remove the barrier to communication. More importantly, it would divert her attention and keep her from dwelling endlessly on the agonizing traumas of her past.

This task fell upon the gentle and patient Cuiliu. Cuiliu had pitied her from the start, and through days of attentive, meticulous care, Wen Xing had grown much closer to her than to anyone else.

And so, within the side chamber, Cuiliu would write out large characters every day, teaching Wen Xing without a shred of impatience, repeating the lessons over and over.

Though mute, Wen Xing was neither deaf nor dull-witted. With her sharp mind, it didn't take much effort for her to quickly master a vast number of characters, including her own name.

The lessons eventually moved from the side chamber out into the courtyard. The bright sunlight streamed down, illuminating Wen Xing's pointed chin and catching the increasingly cheerful smiles blooming on her face.

One day, Wen Xing blushed deeply, gesturing awkwardly to Cuiliu for a long while without the maid understanding a single thing. It wasn't until Chang Kang came to check on her that Wen Xing secretly tugged at Cuiliu's sleeve from behind, pointed at Chang Kang, and lowered her head with a flushed face.

Cuiliu finally understood. After Chang Kang left, she took out a sheet of paper, wrote the characters "Chang Kang" on it, and read them aloud to her.

Wen Xing nodded, then shook her head.

Cuiliu wrote "Xiao Shun" instead, and Wen Xing finally broke into a radiant smile. Cuiliu watched as the girl cradled the paper, beaming from ear to ear, tracing each character over and over with her fingertip. Her expression was tender and brimming with deep affection.

Cuiliu froze, an involuntary pang of personal sorrow striking her heart. Once upon a time, she too had been like Wen Xing—writing someone's name on a piece of paper, tracing it meticulously over and over again, etching it so deeply into the core of her soul that she could neither pull it out nor let it go. But...

The sunlight had slanted westward, and a brilliant crimson sunset painted the horizon like a bashful young maiden in the bloom of first love, her face flushed with shyness. Yet, woven into that bashfulness was the unyielding regret of a longing that could never be reclaimed, a bond that could never be sustained.

Until, bit by bit, it sank into the distant mountains.

An infinitely gorgeous sunset, an exquisitely ephemeral night-blooming cereus—both were glories of a single evening, blooming in a transient instant, magnificent for a breath.

And in that same instant, withering away.