Returning Home in Splendor

The carriage came to a steady halt before the Lin Manor's vermilion gates, their paint peeling in patches.

Old Zhao the gatekeeper, leaning against the doorframe and picking his teeth, saw the carriage blocking the entrance. His brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to bark a reprimand:

"Where'd you blind fool come from? Don't you see where this is? Dare to..."

Before the words died out, the carriage curtain was swept aside.

A foot stepped down, shod in an official's satin boot with a white sole, followed by a figure in a blue silk long gown. The bronze waist token at his hip gleamed in the sunlight, nearly blinding Old Zhao's eyes.

The token, issued by the government for the Imperial Military Examination, bore the engraved characters "Qinghe," radiating an unassailable authority.

Old Zhao's curse got stuck in his throat, turning into a violent fit of coughing.

When he finally made out the face, his legs went weak, and he nearly dropped to his knees.

That face was all too familiar—the face of the once meek, scolded little book boy.

"Ch-Chen..."

Old Zhao stammered, cold sweat drenching his back.

Chen Ping paid him no mind, standing with hands clasped behind his back at the foot of the steps.

The autumn wind swept up a few withered leaves, landing at his feet.

He lifted his gaze, falling on the two fierce, imposing stone lions.

Three years ago, also in deep autumn, his former self had knelt beside those very lions, begging for leftover food. His knees ached from the biting cold, his forehead bled from kowtowing, all for a chance to enter the manor as a servant.

Back then, that threshold loomed like a mountain.

Now, standing here, the threshold remained, but the man was no longer the same.

"Like a lifetime ago."

Chen Ping sighed inwardly, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the bronze token at his waist. It felt cool to the touch, its texture hard.

From within the manor came a flurry of hurried, chaotic footsteps.

The Head Steward came scurrying out, his usually neatly worn skullcap slightly askew.

The moment he saw Chen Ping, his wrinkled face twisted into an expression of profound complexity.

"Aiya! If it isn't Master Chen, the Imperial Graduate!"

The Head Steward bent low, his waist curving deeper than when he greeted Master Lin himself, his voice cloying to the point of grating.

"This lowly one's eyes are dim—didn't recognize your honored arrival. How remiss, how remiss!"

From "Brother Ping" to "Chen Ping," and now to "Master Chen, the Imperial Graduate."

This shift in address laid bare the rigid class divide of The Liang Dynasty.

Chen Ping shot him a glance, a faint, ambiguous smile on his lips. He neither returned the greeting nor spoke, simply stepping over the high threshold.

The Head Steward hastily sidestepped to make way, trailing behind him like a shadow, not daring to breathe too loud.

Inside the main hall, Master Lin was already seated in the host's position.

Though he was the master of Lin Manor, facing a man with the official title of a military graduate, he too had to rise to greet him. Such was the rule, such was the way of the world.

"Nephew Chen, what a rare guest."

Master Lin clasped his hands in greeting, a polite smile plastered on his face, but his eyes roved over Chen Ping, sharp with scrutiny and wariness.

"Master Lin is too kind."

Chen Ping returned the gesture with measured ease, then, at Master Lin's signal, walked straight to the seat of honor on the left and sat down.

A maidservant soon served tea.

Chen Ping lifted the lid, gently skimming off the floating leaves. A delicate fragrance wafted to his nose.

Yuqian Longjing.

Back when he served in the study, he hadn't even been worthy of smelling this tea's aroma, forced to drink only bitter water steeped from tea dregs.

He took a small sip. The tea was slightly astringent at first, then sweet. Truly fine tea.

Setting down the cup, the porcelain clinked softly against the table.

The atmosphere in the hall tensed.

"One doesn't visit the temple without a reason."

Chen Ping didn't beat around the bush. He reached into his bosom, pulled out a thick stack of banknotes, and lightly slapped them onto the table.

"Here's five hundred taels."

His voice was calm, but his words carried weight.

"I'm here to buy Yun Niang's freedom."

Master Lin's gaze swept over the banknotes, his eyelid twitching slightly.

Five hundred taels for a widowed maid—it was an exorbitant price.

But what concerned him more was Chen Ping's current status.

A military graduate—if he could be won over through Yun Niang—would greatly benefit the Lin Family's future business.

"My worthy nephew," Master Lin said, lifting his teacup and blowing on it with deliberate slowness. "Yun Niang has served in my manor for many years—diligent and proper. My wife is quite fond of her. As for this matter of redeeming her contract..."

He deliberately drew out his final words, savoring the leverage.

Chen Ping's smile slowly faded.

He leaned forward slightly, and those eyes—usually downcast and deferential—now fixed directly on Master Lin.

What eyes they were.

Calm. Deep. Yet carrying a chilling indifference.

Just like the look Wang Meng had seen in the alley that night, moments before his death.

Master Lin's heart jolted. The hand holding his teacup trembled faintly.

He suddenly remembered: this young man before him was someone who had "accidentally" killed a man in the arena, a military graduate who had crawled out of a pile of corpses—no longer the bookish servant boy he could push around.

"Master Lin," Chen Ping said, tapping two dull knocks on the silver banknote with his finger. "Five hundred taels for a single sheet of paper. A fair deal."

The air froze.

A fine sheen of sweat broke out on Master Lin's forehead. The invisible pressure made even breathing difficult.

Weighing the pros and cons took only a moment.

"Haha! My worthy nephew speaks well!" Master Lin let out a dry laugh and quickly dropped his pretensions. "Since my nephew shows such loyalty, how could I stand in the way of a good deed? Head Steward, go fetch Yun Niang's contract!"

The Head Steward, relieved, scurried out.

Moments later, a yellowed deed of indenture lay on the table.

In front of Chen Ping, Master Lin tore the paper that had decided Yun Niang's fate for half her life into shreds. Then, personally taking up the brush, he wrote a deed of manumission and stamped it with the Lin Manor seal.

Chen Ping took the document, blew on the ink to dry it, folded it carefully, and tucked it into the place closest to his chest.

The heavy stone in his heart finally settled.

"Thank you," Chen Ping said, rising without even glancing at the silver notes on the table. "I'll go fetch her."

Master Lin opened his mouth, about to suggest sending someone to call Yun Niang, but looking at Chen Ping's straight-backed retreating figure, he swallowed the words.

Through the corridor, past the rockery.

Chen Ping had walked this path for three years.

Servants and maids along the way, seeing this silk-clad guest of distinguished bearing, stepped aside and bowed, their eyes full of envy and awe.

A few old matrons who had once bullied Yun Niang shrank into corners, trembling.

Chen Ping looked straight ahead, heading directly for that remote, cold firewood shed courtyard.

The autumn breeze was cool, stirring up dust on the ground.

In the small yard, a familiar figure sat on a low stool, back to the gate.

She wore thin, coarse clothes, sleeves rolled high, revealing hands reddened from cold water as she scrubbed a large basin of laundry.

Thump, thump, thump.

The mallet struck the wet clothes, producing a dull, monotonous sound.

Chen Ping stopped. His throat tightened, a sourness rising.

He called softly, "Sister Yun."

The voice was quiet, but the working figure froze.

The mallet slipped from Yun Niang's hand with a clatter, splashing water.

She turned her head slowly, her movements stiff, as if she couldn't believe her ears.

When she saw the young man standing at the courtyard gate—dressed in a blue silk robe, tall and graceful—she was utterly stunned.

Sunlight fell on Chen Ping, gilding him in a golden edge.

The person before her had shed the patched clothes of his boyhood and become a man who truly stood tall between heaven and earth.

Yun Niang's lips trembled. She tried to speak but no words came. Tears spilled from her eyes, blurring her vision.

Chen Ping strode forward, ignoring the mud beneath his feet, and grasped Yun Niang's hands—drenched, icy to the bone.

Those hands were covered in chilblains and calluses, rough enough to prick the skin.

But in Chen Ping's palms, they were the most precious treasure in the world.

He held them tight, the warmth of his palms flowing steadily into hers.

"Sister Yun,"

Chen Ping looked into her eyes, his voice gentle yet firm, "Come home with me."

Those four simple words shattered every shred of Yun Niang's composure.

She could no longer hold back. She threw herself into Chen Ping's arms, tears streaming like rain, sobbing like a wronged child.

Chen Ping patted her thin back softly, letting her tears soak the silk of his chest.

It was a long while before Yun Niang's crying subsided. Flustered, she tried to wipe the tearstains from his clothes.

"Dirty..."

"It's not."

Chen Ping caught her hand, pulled the emancipation document from his chest, and pressed it into her palm.

"From now on, no one can call you dirty, and no one dares bully you again."

He took her hand, interlacing their fingers.

"Let's go."

Chen Ping led her, step by step, out of the cage that had trapped her for years.

Through the corridor, through the courtyard.

Countless eyes watched from the shadows—some envious, some jealous, some moved.