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墨書 Inktalez
It’s quite cliché to say, but my encounter with Xie Wuyuan was rather ordinary.
A year ago, during a winter when heavy snow blanketed the mountains, I went into the hills to gather medicinal herbs. On my way back, I stumbled upon him. He was lying in the snow, dressed in thin clothing, covered in blood, with a terrifyingly deep wound on his back. He was already frozen stiff.
Without thinking much, I dragged him back to the Biao Ju. The Biao Ju left by my father was now only sustained by me and a few old friends, but it was spacious enough. I hired the best doctor in town, providing him with good soup and medicine. The doctor said he had a strong constitution and a tough life, but whether he would wake up depended on fate.
I watched over him for three days and nights, wiping his body and feeding him medicine until he finally broke his fever and opened his eyes. But he remembered nothing—his name, his family background, or how he got injured; he was completely clueless.
Seeing his bewildered expression and that he had nothing to his name, I couldn’t just throw him out. Once he recovered, I let him stay at the Biao Ju to help out. He was strong and skilled; chopping firewood, fetching water, repairing the courtyard walls, and even doing a bit of carpentry work. With more hands around the Biao Ju, it was always better.
He spoke very little, quietly going about his tasks or sitting alone in a corner lost in thought like a shadow without a past. So I called him A Ying.
At first, the old friends at the Biao Ju were wary of him, fearing he might be a fugitive wanted by the authorities or a spy sent by an enemy.
Then one time, we took on a short escort mission to a neighboring county and encountered some brazen bandits along the way. They outnumbered us; we only had five escorts and were about to be overwhelmed.
It was A Ying who surprised us all. He usually seemed quiet and reserved, but at that moment he grabbed a carrying pole and swiftly knocked down three of them, saving the injured Uncle Lin. His skills were clean and decisive—definitely someone trained.
After that incident, everyone truly accepted him. Uncle Lin even whispered to me, “Chief Escort, this kid A Ying is not simple; you should keep an eye on him.”
I just laughed it off: “Uncle Lin, we run a Biao Ju; who doesn’t have some skills? As long as he’s loyal to the Biao Ju and treats me sincerely, it doesn’t matter what he did before.”
Looking back now, I realize how naïve I was. He wasn’t just not simple; he was extraordinarily complex.
He treated me quite well. He would silently remember what I liked to eat and what I didn’t. He would secretly wash my dirty clothes and hang them up to dry. When I got tired practicing my sword techniques, he would hand me a bowl of tea.
He even offered suggestions based on my swordplay techniques, claiming he was just “fiddling around.”
As a young woman managing such a large Biao Ju is no easy feat; having someone like him around—quiet yet meticulous in every detail—made it hard not to develop feelings for him.
So when Uncle Lin and the others joked about how great A Ying was and suggested bringing him into the family as a son-in-law to support the Biao Ju in the future, I didn’t refute them.
Later, we set up two tables in the courtyard for a feast, inviting the brothers from the Biao Ju and a few familiar neighbors as witnesses, and we exchanged vows.
We didn’t register at the government office; after all, we were Jianghu Children, and there weren’t so many formalities. I believed that being together in heart was more important than any document.
On our wedding day, he used his hard-earned wages to buy me a silver hairpin from the Silver Shop in town. The design was simple, adorned only with a red agate the size of a small bean.
When he placed it in my hair, his eyes sparkled as he said, “Yan Er, when I have money, I’ll definitely get you a better one—golden, with gemstones!” He also promised to buy me many beautiful clothes when he could afford it.
Those words still linger in my ears.
But now, he stands beside another woman, claiming our marriage doesn’t count. It’s truly ironic.
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