Days bled into weeks, and weeks dissolved into seasons. Unnoticed, a full year slipped quietly away—like a candle burning to its final inch of wax. No matter how much ink I spilled or how many pages I devoured, it was never enough. My hunger for knowledge was a flame that refused to die, even when the wick grew thin.
Lao Li's wisdom, once an overflowing well, now felt like a shallow pool whose waters had long been drawn. And then—one day—a thought, reckless and glinting, whispered itself into being.
"Lao Li," I began, my tone light yet trembling beneath its calm, "as heir of the Yang Clan, the eldest young master must have received the finest education, must he not?"
He froze mid-motion, the rag in his hand suspended above the shelf. For a breathless instant, the air held still—thick with the ghosts of unspoken things—before he continued, his movements measured and slow.
"Yes…" The word came softly, threaded with caution. Perhaps he sensed the strange current beneath my voice, for I had never asked such questions before. When we met, he would teach me the few characters he knew, recite old poems and proverbs once spoken by my grandfather, or share tales of the old master's youth. We never spoke of the present—least of all of those who still lived within these walls.
"The papers, brushes, and ink you brought me—those were his, weren't they?"
I lifted a page between my fingers. Despite Lao Li's attempts to press them smooth, wrinkles still marked the surface; faint circles of tea and water lingered like pale ghosts. So much white space remained, yet they had been thrown away.
I could not read what had once been written, but the indifference spoke clearly enough.
He treated learning as a trifle, knowledge as dust. What he scorned was everything my soul starved for.
"Yes…" Lao Li's voice barely rose above the whisper of the wind.
"What a waste," I said, bitterness coiling through my words like smoke. "These are costly things, yet he casts them aside as if they were worthless pebbles. He does not treasure what heaven has placed in his hands. If only—"
"No, Second Young Master, no!"
Lao Li's voice struck through the quiet, trembling but firm. He stepped closer and caught my shoulder with his rough, cold fingers. The lamplight flickered between us, catching the tears glinting in his eyes.
"Why?" I asked softly. "You don't even know what I was going to say."
He released me slowly, his gaze heavy, ancient, filled with the weight of things he dared not name.
"I have served this house since I was a boy," he said at last, each word slow, as though drawn from deep stone. "I have seen glory turn to ash and watched ambition devour good men whole. And in you, Second Young Master—I see the same eyes your grandfather once had. Bright. Unyielding. Burning with a hunger no fear could tame."
He paused, his voice thinning like a candle flame in the wind.
"You think I do not know what you intend? You wish to cross the forbidden threshold—to the eldest young master's study—to learn what he learns, to see what he sees. Am I wrong?"
A faint smile touched my lips, hollow and bitter — a curve born not of joy, but of quiet despair.
"He and I share the same blood, yet heaven and earth divide our fates.
He feasts until his heart grows weary, while I starve until my bones ache.
He is wrapped in silk and fragrance, while I wear the coarse cloth of servants.
He basks in his parents' love, while I am despised for the sin of merely being born."
I met his gaze without wavering.
"I dare not dream of claiming what he possesses. But for the knowledge he casts aside—for the wisdom he does not cherish—I would steal it without shame.
Once, I heard Father tell him that knowledge holds the power to change a man's life, even to shape the fate of a nation.
Back then, I was too ignorant to understand those words. Yet when I found these forgotten books, I began to believe they might conceal a secret—one that could rewrite my fate as well."
Tears slipped down the furrows of Lao Li's cheeks, yet his voice, though trembling, held steady.
"Second Young Master," he said, "letting you into this old library is already near to blasphemy. We are fortunate this place is so hidden—where no servant passes, and even the master seldom comes. But if you go any further… you know what awaits you."
I knew what he meant. He spoke of Madam Wu Niang—the madam (Fūrén 夫人) of the house—whose beauty was as sharp as glass. Mercy was not among her virtues; compassion was a defect she could not tolerate. Her temper struck like a whip, leaving no soul unscarred. Her son was her only treasure—the center of her narrow universe of silk and fragrance.
And I—
I was her flaw.
A blemish upon her perfect world.
The reminder of a love she could not forgive her husband for.
The blows she dealt, the curses she spat, the hunger she imposed—each was her way of reminding me I was unwanted. To her, my very breath was an offense she could not forgive, a stain she could never scrub away.
No one in the residence dared to help me; no one dared to stand against Madam Wu Niang. Any kindness toward me had to be given in secret, far from watchful eyes, in the silence where pity whispered but never spoke aloud. Yet, in the end, no one ever did—no one but Lao Li.
My father—Yang Bao, head of the Yang Clan, master of the house—was a man who feared storms more than injustice. Though power rested in his hands, he wore silence like armor. So long as peace and prosperity sheltered his name, he allowed cruelty to thrive beneath his roof.
Thus, I never called him father in my heart.
He bore the title, but his blood ran cold within me, thinner than air.
He saw the bruises, heard the cries, knew the sins committed under his roof—
and still, he turned away.
Only once did he stir: the day Madam Yang nearly beat me to death. When he saw the blood spill from my mouth, his fury rose—but not for my pain. He was enraged only that my death would bring disgrace to his name.
Not even a physician was summoned to tend my wounds. He left the task to the servants, and when his eyes fell upon me, they carried only disdain—as though I were filth that had stained his floor. His coldness cut deeper than any whip or bruise upon my skin. When my body finally mended, he sent me away to the farthest corner of the Yang residence, a place forgotten by footsteps and light, then locked me there, as if in time,
my very existence might fade from the world.
Each morning, I awoke to find three buns placed before my door—my daily mercy, yet never enough to still the hunger gnawing within me. So I wandered the courtyard in silence, searching for scraps to ease my emptiness. Even then, I dared not stray beyond the gate—neither toward the side halls nor the main residence, where the true family and their servants lived.
Across the courtyard stood a large locked room—silent, untouched, yet curiously well kept. Its windows gathered dust, but the walls showed no decay, as though someone still cared for it in secret. My curiosity often drifted toward it, but I never dared to approach.
Until one day, when hunger hollowed me to the bone and despair left me weightless, I found myself standing before that door. My existence felt like a burden; life itself, a punishment without purpose. I thought, if I must end it, then at least let me die without curiosity gnawing at my soul. And by some twist of fate, the lock on the door was gone.
I had gone there seeking death, yet found myself mesmerized instead. The room was lined with shelves of neatly arranged books and scrolls, bamboo slips stacked in perfect order, their surfaces untouched by dust. Paintings adorned the walls, each bearing graceful strokes of calligraphy, and on the table, a single stick of incense burned faintly, its thin ribbon of smoke curling through the still air. Yet even the fragrance of incense could not drown the scent of old paper and ink. That scent wrapped around me, seeped into me—comforting my hollow soul, as though the books themselves were whispering to my heart.
I took one book from the shelf and opened it to writings I could not understand. Yet somehow, they illuminated something within me—igniting a faint spark where only darkness had lived. For the first time, I felt purpose stir beneath my ribs, fragile but alive. Overwhelmed, I sank to the floor, clutching the book to my chest, and wept.
It was then that I heard footsteps approaching—soft, deliberate, echoing faintly against the wooden floor. A shadow moved behind the shelves before an old figure emerged—it was Lao Li, the one who kept the incense burning and the dust at bay. His voice, roughened by age and long silence, broke the stillness.
"Who are you?" he asked, his tone neither harsh nor gentle, only filled with quiet astonishment—the first words he ever spoke to me.
When his gaze fell upon my face—upon the bruises blooming across my skin—understanding dawned without the need for words. A faint, weary smile touched his lips. Hearing the low growl of my empty stomach, he knelt beside me, drew a small bun from his sleeve, and placed it gently into my hand—as if offering not food, but mercy itself.
He was the first person to show me kindness—true, wordless kindness. From that day onward, he would allow me into the library, sometimes bringing scraps of food when he could.
Lao Li was a servant, once from Jiang Nan—the southern nation of Gifu—sold into the Yang Clan in his youth. He had long served under my grandfather's command, and because of that, not even my father nor Madam Wu Niang held sway over him. He possessed the rare freedom to move throughout the residence, including this hidden library, once my grandfather's private chamber.
From him, I learned that even in a world as cruel as mine, there was still kindness worth living for. Though he was a slave—the lowest rung of society—he carried a wisdom that far surpassed those who ruled over him. Much of it, he said, came from my grandfather. He would often speak of how the old master recited poems to him, shared tales of history, and whispered fragments of ancient knowledge. He revered my grandfather deeply, and whenever he spoke of him, a trace of pride would soften his weathered face.
To me, he became more of a father than the man who merely lent me his blood. With patient hands and tired eyes, he taught me to read and write—sharing what little he knew as though it were treasure. Through him, I learned to tell right from wrong, to see the world not as a cage but as a vast, uncharted horizon. He opened my eyes to realms beyond walls and cruelty, to the quiet power hidden within words and ink. In him, I found not a servant, but a refuge—someone I could trust, someone I could depend upon.
"I know," I said quietly. Who else could know better than I? Beyond the gates of this lonely wing lay the side and main halls—those gilded chambers where my torment began and never ceased. Day after day, pain carved its mark upon my flesh; night after night, I swallowed insults and mockery as though they were the only sustenance I was allowed.
"Then why do you still insist on going?" His voice broke as he seized my shoulders, his hands trembling, tears spilling unchecked down his weathered face.
Seeing him weep for me—an old man shedding tears for one so undeserving—tore something deep within my chest. A part of me wanted to stay, to surrender to his kindness. But my will burned fiercer than my fear. I thought of my grandfather's stories, of my father's words to Yang Zhen, about knowledge, and how it could change a man's life, even the fate of a nation.
What was that knowledge? What power did it hold? If it could shape destiny, then I would seek it, no matter the cost. I had nothing left to lose. And if my body was fated to die within these walls, then so be it. At least I would die reaching for something greater than my pain.
"Lao Li," I whispered, my voice trembling between sorrow and resolve, "can you still call this living? Tell me, what difference lies between this existence and death itself?
To be forgotten—slowly erased until not even a memory remains, as though I was never born, never breathed—what kind of life is that?
No one will reach down to pull me from this pit. Not even the Grandmaster you often speak of. Perhaps he does not even know I exist. And if he does…"
I paused, bitterness curdling in my throat. "Would he come to save me?"
The silence between us felt heavier than the air itself.
"I have no one, Lao Li. No hand to lift me, no voice to call my name. Only I can drag myself from this darkness. And if that path leads to death—" I looked at him, my gaze steady despite the tears burning in my eyes.
"—then let it be death. At least it will be mine."
He looked at me long and hard. When he saw that my resolve did not waver, something in his eyes softened. At last, he sighed, brushing the tears from his weathered cheeks.
"Second Young Master," he said quietly, "you truly have inherited the Grandmaster's will—strong, unbending, and resolute. If you are so determined, I will not stop you. But listen well—determination alone is not enough."
He straightened his frail back, the lamplight catching the deep lines of his face.
"If you go without a plan, all your courage will be wasted. The Grandmaster once said, 'A man cannot win a war by will alone.' You must have a path before you step into danger."
I met his gaze, my voice low but steady.
"If I have a plan, Lao Li… will you help me?"