After returning from the rear alley, Qiu Yang did not sleep soundly all night. She kept the key clenched tight in her palm until her skin grew slick with sweat.
Early the next morning, she said goodbye to Auntie Hu.
Hu Yinglian tried for half the day to persuade her to stay. When nothing worked, she sighed and wrapped several steamed buns for her journey.
“Eat these on the road, child. And take care of yourself. These are dangerous times for a woman traveling alone. Back when I...”
Qiu Yang accepted the buns and patiently endured the rest of her chatter. When Hu Yinglian finally finished, Qiu Yang bowed deeply and left the Drunken Immortal Inn.
Sweetwater Alley was easy to find because an old scholar tree stood at its entrance.
Qiu Yang walked from door to door until she reached the third house inside the alley.
She stopped before it and hesitated, then pushed open the door.
Beyond the entrance lay a tiny courtyard. The center was bare, and miscellaneous things were piled in all four corners. Yet everything had been cleaned and arranged, so the place did not feel untidy.
Qiu Yang stood there, uncertain where to go.
Then the door to the main room opened.
Zhao Jian'an stepped out in plain gray clothes. He looked at her without surprise.
“Come in.”
She followed him across the courtyard to a small room at the back. Inside were a plank bed, a table, and a single chair. A neatly folded set of clean, porcelain-white clothes rested on the table.
Zhao Jian'an remained by the doorway. “You can stay here. Tell me if you need anything.”
Qiu Yang turned and bowed. “Lord Zhao, thank you.”
He frowned. “That sounds strange. Your mother and I were old acquaintances, after all. Call me Uncle Zhao. If you truly can't get used to it, though, I won't force you.”
Qiu Yang blinked. “...Uncle Zhao.”
He acknowledged it and turned to leave, then seemed to remember something.
“Have you eaten?”
Qiu Yang tightened her grip on the steamed buns and shook her head.
Zhao Jian'an glanced at them but said nothing. He went toward the kitchen and returned a little later carrying a bowl of noodles, which he placed on the stone table in the courtyard.
“Come eat.”
Qiu Yang looked into the bowl. The broth was clear, with a few leaves of greens floating on top and a poached egg nestled against the rim.
It had been a long time since she had eaten an egg.
Without thinking too much, she sat down and began to eat.
Zhao Jian'an stood beside her. Whether he was lost in thought or watching her, she could not tell. Qiu Yang did not dare look up. The uncertainty made the skin along her back crawl.
She bit into the egg. The familiar taste burst across her tongue, and suddenly she thought of her mother.
As if compelled by some unseen force, she asked, “Uncle Zhao, may I ask how you and my mother...met?”
Zhao Jian'an paused. “At an opera performance.”
“Only at a performance?”
He turned his head and looked at her. “What else did you imagine?”
Qiu Yang lowered her gaze to the noodles. “Nothing.”
After a moment of silence, Zhao Jian'an seemed to sink into old memories. He sighed and continued without prompting.
“Ten years ago, I held a minor post in the Far North. One day, I went to the opera. Your mother was performing The Palace of Eternal Life. Halfway through, she came down from the stage to offer wine. I watched her sway toward me. She slipped a handkerchief into my hand, her fingers lingering against mine.”
A faint smile touched his lips—whether bitter or joyful, Qiu Yang could not tell.
“She looked into my eyes and said, ‘My lord, I will remember you.’ I was young then. I thought she truly favored me, and naturally my heart was stirred. Only later did I learn that performers say such things to everyone.”
Qiu Yang took a sip of broth. “She did say that to everyone.”
Zhao Jian'an glanced at her. “You knew?”
“She wanted me to follow in her footsteps, so she taught me sometimes.” Qiu Yang set down the bowl and smiled. “She said that if a performer wants to keep an audience, she must make each person believe he is special. Everyone is special—and no one is.”
Zhao Jian'an did not answer. The courtyard remained silent for some time.
By then, Qiu Yang had finished every noodle and every drop of broth. She stood to wash the bowl, but Zhao Jian'an reached out to stop her.
“Leave it. I'll do it.”
Qiu Yang shifted aside before he could take it. “You gave me a place to stay and cooked for me. What's wrong with my washing one bowl?”
He froze, then withdrew his hand and watched her carry it into the kitchen.
Zhao Jian'an remained in the courtyard for a long while, staring after her.
—
Qiu Yang settled into the Zhao residence. During the first two days, she barely saw Zhao Jian'an.
In her eyes, he was a man forever occupied. He left for the government office at first light, returned only near sunset, and then shut himself in his study until late at night. She almost never saw him emerge.
Her mother had raised her too well for her to feel comfortable living there for nothing. On the third morning, she began to work.
She swept the courtyard, heated water, wiped the tables, then cleaned the railings beneath the veranda.
Passing the kitchen, she glanced inside and saw rice and vegetables. On impulse, she lit the stove and cooked a pot of porridge.
When Zhao Jian'an emerged from his study, the porridge was already on the table. He looked at it, then at Qiu Yang, sat down, and noisily finished a bowl.
“You don't have to do these things.”
“I'd only be idle otherwise.”
He looked at her and thought how stubborn the girl truly was. “Then don't busy yourself at night. I have servants here.”
Qiu Yang nodded.
From then on, she and Zhao Jian'an ate dinner together each evening. They rarely spoke, but the silence was not uncomfortable.
On the fourth night, Zhao Jian'an did not leave after the meal. He sat at the table and tapped the rim of his bowl twice.
“Qiu Yang, let me ask you something.”
“Hm?” She looked up with half a mouthful of steamed bun still unchewed.
“Are you strong?”
She blinked. “Fairly.”
“How strong is ‘fairly’?”
Qiu Yang considered. “When my mother and I traveled, I carried our luggage. A trunk of her opera costumes weighed at least forty or fifty jin, and I could carry it ten li without resting.”
Zhao Jian'an studied her. “And now?”
“Now?” She thought again. “I haven't tested myself, but I should be stronger than I was as a child.”
He asked nothing more. He rose and returned to his study.
The lamp there burned late into the night.
The following evening, Zhao Jian'an came home from the government office carrying something new: a wooden staff, neither long nor short, one end rounded smooth so it would not chafe the hand.
When Qiu Yang came outside, he offered it to her. “Here. Take this.”
She accepted the staff, unsure what he wanted.
“Give it a few swings. Any way you like—whatever feels natural.”
Qiu Yang hesitated, then swung it hard, without technique, merely testing its weight.
Her first strike swept sideways.
Her second chopped down from above.
Zhao Jian'an watched from beside her. His expression gradually changed, as though a private suspicion had just been confirmed.
“What is it?” Qiu Yang asked.
He did not answer. He simply took the staff back and said, “Let's eat first,” before disappearing into his study.
Once again, the lamp burned late.
From her room across the courtyard, Qiu Yang watched light glow through the study window. She did not know what he was thinking, but she had noticed that after seeing those two swings, he had barely looked her in the eye.
Two days passed before Zhao Jian'an mentioned it again.
That evening, Qiu Yang was gathering clothes from the courtyard when he stepped out of the study and stopped beneath the veranda.
“Qiu Yang.”
She turned. He hesitated.
“From now on...don't show that in front of others.”
“Show what?”
“Your strength. Your reflexes.” His voice was low, each word measured. “When you're outside chopping wood or carrying things, avoid heavy work if you can. If anyone is watching, don't do it.”
Holding the clothes against her chest, Qiu Yang stared at him. “Why?”
He came down from the veranda and stood before her. After a moment, he said, “Do you understand that strength like yours is no blessing in this world?”
Qiu Yang said nothing.
His voice dropped further. “You look like your mother. That already draws enough attention. If people also learn that your strength is unusual, it will take only the thinnest veil of paper for them to discover who you are. You don't want anyone to know you're Qiu Chengye's daughter, do you?”
Her fingers tightened around the clothes.
“Then the staff...”
“I'm not telling you not to train,” he interrupted, his tone gentler now. “But you must train behind closed doors. When I'm here, I'll teach you. When I'm away, practice alone. Never let anyone see.”
Qiu Yang nodded.
That night, Zhao Jian'an began teaching her martial arts. She started with the most basic standing posture.
He showed her how to sink her shoulders, loosen her waist, and drive force upward from the soles of her feet into her hands. Qiu Yang studied with complete attention.
Midway through the lesson, Zhao Jian'an abruptly stopped. “You've truly never trained before?”
“Never.” She found the question baffling.
He looked at her with an expression both gratified and afraid. Without another word, he continued the lesson.
At sunset, Zhao Jian'an put away the staff and murmured, “If you had been born ten years earlier, into a military family...”
He cut himself off, shook his head, and walked away.
Qiu Yang watched him vanish into the study. She did not understand why he had left the thought unfinished, but two words stayed with her.
Military family.
That blood did run in her veins.
She was simply the daughter that family had cast aside.
—
Life continued in this fashion.
Qiu Yang worked during the day and practiced with the staff behind closed doors at night. Every few days, Zhao Jian'an corrected her. He never praised her, only pointed out what she had done wrong.
Qiu Yang did not know what purpose the training might serve. She only knew that when she held a weapon, her heart felt steadier.
One day, she went out to buy vegetables. On her way home, she passed an alley and heard a scream from within.
“Young Lord, have mercy!”