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墨書 Inktalez
There was also… a mad love.
Liu Chu's blood burst before my eyes, like the most mournful red plum in winter.
The pursuers rushed over his fallen body, but that moment of hesitation gave Xiao Yuan a final chance to breathe.
He helped me onto the horse, the wind howling in my ears, like Liu Chu's last cry.
We rode day and night, fleeing from the burning, weeping town.
It wasn't until the cold wind whipped against our faces and the snow blurred our vision that we finally stopped.
The borderlands were bitterly cold, and the sandstorm lashed at our faces like knives.
On the desolate Gobi Desert, we erected a simple mound for Liu Chu.
There was no coffin, only a rough stone and a half piece of moldy malt candy placed lonely before the grave.
That was secretly tucked in by Xiao Yan; he still didn’t understand life and death, only remembering that Brother Liu Chu liked sweets.
I knelt before the grave, the cold wind tousling my hair and drying the tears on my face, but it could not disperse the pain in my heart or that shocking splash of red.
He exchanged his life for our chance to breathe; this debt weighed heavily on my heart.
Once settled down, life was poor but stable.
One day while I was in town to gather supplies, I took a break at a tea stall and overheard the merchants at the next table chatting.
"Have you heard? The Liu Family's salt business has collapsed; all seventy-two salt warehouses were burned to the ground in one night!"
"Indeed, they say it involves remnants of the previous dynasty, and there’s also a... embroiderer?"
The storyteller happened to walk by their table, striking the wooden block with a loud thud, raising his voice to begin his tale: "It is said that during the Jing An years, the salt and iron case shocked the world! Fortunately, there was an embroiderer with eyes like torches and skilled hands that cleared the clouds, unraveling the Zhi Po mystery..."
My fingertips trembled, crushing the coarse porcelain teacup in my hand.
Around me, the clamor of voices and passionate storytelling felt like a dull knife scraping back and forth across my heart.
My "Zhi Po" was the blood of countless people, the cold, stiff body of Liu Chu, and a home I could never return to.
Returning to the humble courtyard, smoke rose from the kitchen, bringing a hint of warmth.
Xiao Yan was holding a newly acquired wooden sword, chasing a reed chicken with bare feet across the yard filled with embroidered goods.
The embroidery frames were neatly arranged under the eaves; on them lay knee pads I had hurriedly made for the border troops—our new livelihood.
Watching Xiao Yan's innocent and carefree smile, and seeing Xiao Yuan silently polishing a blade under the eaves, that place in my heart soaked with blood finally felt a trickle of sweet spring.
As night deepened, snowflakes fell silently, landing on the window sill and glimmering faintly in the light.
Xiao Yuan had already fallen asleep, breathing softly.
I sat under the oil lamp, my fingers deftly weaving as I stitched linings for the knee pads.
A piece of extremely thin silk was hidden in my sleeve, upon which fine stitches depicted the list of Prince Jing's secret agents I had obtained before leaving the capital.
The needle pierced the tip of my finger, and a droplet of blood oozed out, staining the thread red.
I carefully folded the list and tucked it deep into the inner layer of my knee pad.
This item was both a blade to protect my family and a potential root of disaster that could bring about my demise.
The snow continued to fall that night, silently accumulating on the window sill.
My fingertips wove through the threads, but the glow of the oil lamp could not warm the chill deep within my heart.
I remember Liu Chu coughing up blood, like flames staining white rice paper, searing my eyes with pain.
At that time, he was already gravely ill, yet somehow he forced himself to go to Qionglin Garden.
At the place where names were inscribed on the golden list, the dazzling characters danced like dragons and phoenixes.
With trembling hands, he carved a crooked "Su" next to the most prominent name on the list with a small knife.
Blood flowed down the blade, dripping onto the portrait of the top scholar's robe, resembling an eerie red plum blossom.
He began to cough violently, blood frothing and splattering, staining the white walls and his pale face crimson.
It seemed he wanted to say something, but only hoarse gasps escaped his throat, like a broken bellows.
That was not just a golden list; it was his final stroke, etched with morbid obsession and unwilling hatred.
Later, I heard that he passed away on a snowy night.
In the final moments, faint sounds of children singing drifted in from the street corner outside the window.
It was an old lullaby that I had hummed countless times during Liu Chu's childhood.
His vacant gaze suddenly focused, as if he had returned to that warm embrace.
He reached out his hand toward the empty snow-laden night outside, as if trying to grasp the ethereal melody or to seize the childhood that had long since faded away.
His fingers fell weakly, carrying a hint of unfulfilled longing.
His body finally ceased its struggle, like a withered leaf abandoned by the winter wind.
Beside me, on the embroidery frame, I was stitching a small garment for Xiao Yan, each stitch tight and imbued with warmth.
Suddenly, a sharp gust of wind swept through the small courtyard, lifting the snowflakes and the drying embroidery threads from the ground.
At that moment, something light and airy was carried in by the wind, swirling around before landing on my embroidery frame.
It was a piece of burnt paper money, its edges charred, and the black ashes carried a chilling coldness.
I stood frozen, watching as the paper money and embroidery threads danced together in the snowstorm, unable to discern whether it was him waving at me or if it was the past I could never escape.
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