Chapter 110: Bamboo Horse (III)

Nothing happened that night.

Qin Xingyue showed up early for roll call, then hunkered down in the back courtyard, waiting for Le Wuya to get up.

Le Wuya didn't get up. His bad leg was acting up again—whenever it was about to rain, it would ache like hell, so bad he could barely stand steady.

He just plopped down on the courtyard steps, stretched his legs out, tilted his head back, and watched the sky, the red dawn clouds washing half his body in crimson light.

Qin Xingyue propped his chin on his hand and zoned out.

In the Tianlang Camp, he and Jiang He both came from nothing.

Jiang He was a born martial-arts nut, whereas he himself didn't give a damn about dying—he'd earned every bit of his military record through blood and grit, one cut and one stab at a time.

After the Tianlang Camp broke up, Qin Xingyue kept on with his death-defying stunts—scouting, sneaking, standing watch—whatever was most dangerous, he was all over it.

First, to put decent food on the table for his widowed mother.

Second, he was dead set on proving that nobody from the Tianlang Camp was a coward.

But once he lost a leg, there was no room for him in the army anymore.

In the end, Pei Mingqi made the call for him, got him a spot in the county's military affairs office, and handed him a steady job for life.

But Qin Xingyue had been a fit, able-bodied young man for over twenty years—quicker and nimbler than most. Then suddenly he's a cripple—how could that not cut deep and eat at him?

What drowns your sorrows? Only the bottle.

Before his mother died, he could still hold himself back a little; after she was gone, he threw all restraint out the window.

During the mourning period, he drank till he couldn't tell morning from night, day from night.

But recently, with just one word from the Magistrate, Qin Xingyue actually tossed his flask, smashed his jug, and went completely dry.

Thinking back, even he found it weird.

He'd only met the Magistrate once—so why did he feel like laying his whole heart and guts out for the man?

The first few days off the sauce, the cravings nearly tore him apart.

But once he gritted his teeth and powered through it, the urge faded.

What made him happiest was that his hands—which had started shaking a bit six months back—had gotten a lot steadier lately.

Yesterday, when he heard Le Wuya was back in Nanting, Qin Xingyue wanted to drop by and show off his new look.

He'd planned to wait for Le Wuya, but who showed up first? Pei Mingqi.

When Pei Mingqi walked out of the side room, Qin Xingyue scrambled to his feet and gave him a good once-over.

Pei Mingqi's eyes were a little red, like he hadn't slept a wink.

But his spine had been forged in the army since he was a kid—no matter how down or beat he felt, his back stayed straight.

Pei Mingqi cut him a sideways look and said flatly, "Scrub those dirty thoughts out of your head."

The second he finished talking, the main door swung open.

Unlike Pei Mingqi in full uniform, Le Wuya was totally laid-back—with a toothbrush covered in green salt hanging from his mouth, his long curly hair loose over his shoulders, slippers barely staying on his feet.

Even a mess, he was gorgeous.

Qin Xingyue was floored.

Back in the day, the young general would crawl out of his tent looking like a wreck too, bossing them all around, sending them to grab this and haul that.

The guys he called on served him happy as clams—now that he thought about it, there was almost something pathetic about how eager they were.

Just as he was drowning in bitter memories, Le Wuya, just like in his memory, held up his empty enamel mug at him: "Fetch me some hot water. Mine's gone cold in my room."

Pei Mingqi couldn't help it: "His leg's bad—how can you have the nerve to boss him around?!"

Le Wuya took the toothbrush out of his mouth: "You talk like he's a cripple."

Then he turned to Qin Xingyue: "You up for it?"

Qin Xingyue hopped over fast, nimble as a rabbit: "You bet!"

As he took the enamel mug, he couldn't help himself and carefully bragged, "Your Honor, I did what you said—I quit drinking."

Le Wuya swept a sharp glance at him: "Cut the 'did what you said' crap—I don't want to hear it. Your mouth is yours, your body is yours. Handle yourself—don't go blaming me."

"Yes!"

Qin Xingyue barked out a response. He wasn't offended at all—the scolding actually felt good, and it loosened his tongue even more: "I... my archery is more accurate than before too. I truly thank you for your guidance. How can I repay you?"

Le Wuya shot him a look: "Serve with utmost loyalty until death. Will you do it?"

"I will." Qin Xingyue smiled beautifully at the empty enamel mug. "...I will."

Watching him limp away in high spirits, Pei Mingqi clicked his tongue slightly: "You both came from the Tianlang Camp—why haven't I seen you treat Jiang He like this?"

"That kid's different from Jiang He. Jiang He's mind—you know it yourself—has formed its own system, containing three thousand great worlds inside. Who knows what he's thinking? He needs to be carefully managed and coaxed." When it came to the art of handling people, Le Wuya always had plenty to say. "This kid's different. He was disciplined by his formidable mother since childhood—he likes being managed. If you treat him gently and kindly, he wouldn't even enjoy it."

Pei Mingqi saw that Le Wuya was chatting and laughing with him as easily as ever, just like old times, and felt both joy and an unspeakable heaviness: "Since you like them so much, why didn't you transfer them to the capital back then?"

Le Wuya scrubbed his teeth with a rustling sound: "I can barely save myself—why would I drag others down?"

As they spoke, Qin Xingyue limped back cheerfully, went into the room, and came out carrying a big teapot of cold water, adjusting the temperature of Le Wuya's mouthwash.

Le Wuya rinsed the green salt from his mouth and remembered something: "What about that one? The gift you gave me."

Pei Mingqi glanced toward the outer courtyard: "Probably still not up yet."

Le Wuya saw that Qin Xingyue was still holding that big teapot, and the corner of his mouth curled up in a mischievous grin: "You know how to water flowers, right?"

Qin Xingyue: "Yes."

"Go to that room. If the person inside isn't awake, water him until he is."

...

Half a stick of incense later, Yuan Zijin, wearing half-soaked underclothes, stood in the central courtyard of the Nanting county office, hopping mad, vowing to kill Qin Xingyue as a sacrifice to heaven.

Qin Xingyue held the empty teapot, listening with a blank expression.

His Honor only said to water him awake—he never said anything about using the teapot to crack his skull open.

So even though he was a bit annoyed, he wouldn't lift a finger beyond what was strictly necessary.

Meanwhile, Yuan Zijin, faced with Qin Xingyue's grim, demonic scowl and a teapot bigger than his own head, felt his guilt grow with every insult hurled his way, and gradually shut his mouth.

Le Wuya had thrown his hair into a simple high ponytail, planning to test Qin Xingyue's archery and riding skills later: "Sleep it off?"

Yuan Zijin sniffled, feeling like a delicate flower dropped into a cesspool—on the verge of tears, but too stubborn to cry, just hanging his head in defiance.

Le Wuya perched on the brick rim of the little flower bed: "What the hell am I supposed to do with you?"

He mulled it over, then asked, "What do you do back home?"

Yuan Zijin plucked up his courage and put on his best spoiled-rich-kid act: "I tend flowers and walk my birds, of course. I'm a whiz with thrushes—any young lord in the capital who keeps one has to show up at my door with fancy gifts just to beg for my advice."

He could tell that in this godforsaken backwater, sparrows might survive, but a thrush would be dead in a week.

"And what else?"

"Hang out with girls," he declared with shameless confidence. "In the capital, what famous courtesan or top-tier beauty isn't one of my Yuan Zijin's bosom buddies?"

He laid it on thick, all slick and oily, clearly just trying to get under Le Wuya's skin.

But Le Wuya didn't even blink. Instead, he clapped his hands and laughed: "I know exactly what to do with you!"

He craned his neck and bellowed, "Old Duan!!"

The echo had barely died down when Clerk Duan appeared in view, bowing respectfully: "Magistrate, here I am."

Le Wuya smoothed out the wrinkles in his robes: "Before I left, I told you to put together that mediation team. How's that coming along?"

Le Wuya had been county magistrate in Nanting for six months now, and he'd learned a thing or two.

A lot of folks stormed into the yamen over petty nonsense, too worked up to let it slide, and raised a racket demanding the officials set things right.

His plan was to have the Household Office spearhead a mediation squad to nip problems in the bud—saving the common folk the cost of hiring a scribe to file a complaint, and freeing him up for bigger fish to fry.

Dealing with domestic squabbles day in and day out was entertaining, sure, but it wore him out.

Clerk Duan shuffled closer, looking like he had something awkward to say, and muttered, "We rounded up some folks, but they're all a bunch of idle old biddies..."

Le Wuya's face didn't twitch: "And what's wrong with that?"

Clerk Duan had to admit that when it came to mediating family squabbles, he—a grown man—was nowhere near as good as those old women.

But having to deal with women old enough to be his mother every single day? That he couldn't stomach.

Just as he was scrambling for a reply, Le Wuya shoved a young stranger forward: "Then you don't go. Take him along—have him handle the logistics and run the errands."

The young man pointed at his own nose, baffled: "...Me?"

"Yep," Le Wuya said with a grin. "Young Master Yuan is young and pretty, and he's spent so long wallowing in powder and rouge that he's gotta be a natural at this kind of thing."

Yuan Zijin: "..."

He felt the words had a weird ring to them, like he was being sized up as some pretty boy peddling smiles at a brothel door.

He tried to puff up his chest: "You—you're full of it! How dare you order me around? You're just a lowly—"

Le Wuya let out an "Oh": "Don't wanna go? Fine. General Pei."

Pei Mingqi caught on right away, striding over with a tiger's swagger and snatching him up by the collar like a chicken: "Master Yuan, if you don't want to stay in Nanting, you're coming with me."

Yuan Zijin's eyes bugged out.

He didn't want to join some damn mediation team, but he sure as hell didn't want to join the army either.

He'd heard the army was wall-to-wall men, not a woman in sight for months on end. With a face like his, if he landed in a military camp, wouldn't he be a plump rooster tossed into a den of weasels?!

Seeing that Le Wuya was dead serious about ditching him, Yuan Zijin flailed his arms in desperation: "Magistrate Wenren! Hold on! Let's talk this out!"

...

Watching Yuan Zijin slink off after Clerk Duan toward the Household Office, looking thoroughly deflated, Le Wuya turned to Pei Mingqi: "...You're heading out today?"

Pei Mingqi answered, glum. "Mm."

He clapped Qin Xingyue on the back: "Go wait for me at the archery range."

Qin Xingyue, quick on the uptake, scurried off.

"Phoenix," Le Wuya said, patting his shoulder. "Squat down a little."

Pei Mingqi obediently bent his knees, dropping down a few inches.

Then he got a careful, polite hug.

Le Wuya said softly, "This time I'll be real careful. I won't fly off and get lost."

Pei Mingqi's eyes stung, and he yanked him tight against his chest: "I'll keep you safe too."

He murmured in his ear, "The emperor called me to the capital. Reading between the lines, he thinks I've got too much military clout. He asked if I'd be willing to come back, camp outside the city, and drill the imperial guard."

Le Wuya zeroed in on the key point: "Isn't that Old Tiger Yuan's gig?"

Pei Mingqi let out three loaded words: "Who knows?"

"What'd you say?"

"I answered straight," Pei Mingqi said. "I told him, 'Right now, Venerable General Yuan handles the imperial guard training, and he's got plenty of experience. I'm not fit to lick his boots.'"

Le Wuya let out a soft sigh: "Old Tiger Yuan... he's forty-seven this year, right? He's getting up there, no doubt."

Pei Mingqi: "That's what I figure. So I'm wondering if Old Tiger Yuan, by shoving his second son onto me to be whipped into shape, is also carving out an escape route for the Yuan family."

Le Wuya's mind raced, clicking the pieces into place.

Finally, he nodded, getting it.

That was it.

He'd been wondering why Old Tiger Yuan had personally played the roadblock, openly jumping out to get his carriage smashed, then shipped his son off to the border with Pei Mingqi—such a show wasn't just for the court officials, but for the emperor himself.

Otherwise, if the kid kept running wild out there, the emperor would eventually grab this wastrel second son by the tail and rake the Yuan family over the coals.

Only by putting on this show of goodwill and weakness could the Yuan family hope to come out of this in one piece.

Le Wuya said, "A tiger, after all, always has a nose for danger."

After swapping these words that couldn't be shared with outsiders, Pei Mingqi reluctantly let him go: "You'd better keep a tight leash on him. When I brought him out of the capital, Old Tiger Yuan told me this lump of mud had to be shaped into something resembling a man before he could go home."

Le Wuya was about to nod when he caught a figure out of the corner of his eye.

He turned and found Wen Ren standing silently by the moon gate, book box in hand, with no telling how long he'd been watching them.