Chapter 354 Grave

Chapter 354: The Burial Ground

In every village, large or small, within Springwater Town, regardless of their past standing, Sanquan Village now held the leading position. Once the Song clan patriarch spoke, the Yang village head fell silent. Only Yang Chun continued to shout.

"Divorce? In your dreams!"

"The marriage certificate is still with the Yang family. As long as I live, you're a Yang in life and a Yang in death!"

His nose, still throbbing from Chi Yu's punch, was muffled behind his sleeve, blood still seeping through. His words came out garbled but carried a sinister, clinging persistence, as if he'd cling to this forever.

But when Chi Yu pretended to take another swing at him, he cowered behind others, showing his bully's nature perfectly.

"So you won't hand over the marriage certificate?" Meng Wan called out. "Songshan, get the carriage ready. We're taking Que Geer to the county seat to file a report. We'll report an attempted murder. The new county magistrate of Guyang County happens to owe our family a favor. I'll go ask how many years we can get that Yang bastard."

No one doubted Meng Wan was telling the truth. Everyone for miles around knew Song Tingzhou held a huge official post and saw the Emperor every day. They couldn't say exactly how high, but definitely way above a county magistrate.

The Yang village head snapped out of his fake daze and advised, "Yang Chun, since you and Que Geer can't get along anymore, just settle it peacefully with a divorce. Don't drag this to the officials. Don't say I didn't warn you—we're not going with you to the county seat for any lawsuit."

The thing was, Que Geer had people protecting him now. It was obvious they wouldn't win at the yamen anyway.

Yang Chun's parents caught the hint in the village head's words and quickly tugged at their son. "Er Lang, if it's divorce, then so be it. We're not short on money, and you're better looking than most—you'll find another wife easy. This Que Geer isn't even good-looking; he doesn't deserve you."

Yang Chun just couldn't accept it. He stared at Que Geer like he wanted to rip a chunk of flesh off him. If he'd been the one to dump Que Geer, that'd be one thing. But a mutual divorce? Where would his face be then?

The Song clan patriarch called over a strapping young man. "Go to the clan school and ask Master He to write up a divorce agreement."

"Yang Chun!" The Yang village head gestured for him to go home and get the marriage certificate.

Yang Chun didn't budge. His older brother grabbed him and dragged him home to get the certificate. Que Geer's in-laws, afraid their son might do something stupid, hurried after them too.

"Wait."

Meng Wan stopped them. "Que Geer's been recovering at my place. The medicine and doctor's fees come to three hundred and ten wen. Your son caused these injuries, so the Yang family should foot the bill."

Luckily, Yang Chun had already been dragged off by his brother. His parents wore sour expressions. The Yang villagers had no clout compared to the Song family in Sanquan Village, and scared of official authority, they reluctantly said, "Fine, we'll go home and get the money."

By now, many of the Yang villagers regretted coming. Except for Yang Chun's relatives, the rest told the village head and headed back home.

The Song family members could stay or leave as they pleased. In the sweltering heat, everyone found a spot under the trees. Que Geer, still not fully healed, was led inside by Chang Jinhua to rest. His parents hesitated, then followed inside, only to come out a moment later looking grim and defeated.

Before leaving, Que Geer's father shouted at the window, "Stubborn as always! If you insist on this divorce, don't you dare come back home to live."

Que Geer shouted back from inside, "If you're so set on driving me to death, I'd rather gnaw on tree bark and beg than step foot in your house!"

The people in the courtyard exchanged looks. "This Que Geer is really stubborn. Can he really cut off his own parents?"

"Big brother, sister-in-law, come have some melon. It's so hot—our husband sent us out to offer everyone a cool treat." Zhifan and Zhimao carried out two plates of sliced watermelon and set them on the stone table in the yard for the Song clan members.

"This... Wan Geer is too kind. We didn't really do much." Though some families grew melons, they were few and far between. In these times, anything edible was precious, and people were tight-fisted with their own stuff—nobody was that generous to share with others.

Zhimao set down the plate. "Our husband said today's matter with Que Geer was settled thanks to everyone's help. Que Geer will remember everyone's kindness for the rest of his life. Clan members should look out for each other. Today it was Que Geer who needed help, but in the future, if any other family has any trouble, big or small, we'll all count on the patriarch and everyone else to see justice done."

Those who'd been gossiping about Que Geer felt a chill and shut up. They didn't say anything, but they all thought—if their own kid ever ended up in that situation, others might talk smack about them too. The nasty remarks died on their lips.

After a while, Master He arrived from the village. He brought brush, ink, paper, and an inkstone, and wrote out the divorce agreement on the spot for Que Geer and Yang Chun. When he was done, he showed it to Meng Wan first. "Meng Fulang, does this work?"

Meng Wan took it and read it carefully, then said politely, "Master has written it very thoroughly, laying out the reasons and circumstances of their divorce clearly. Thank you very much."

Master He was very respectful toward him. "It's my duty. If there's anything else you need, Meng Fulang, just say the word."

The divorce agreement was written. Que Geer couldn't read, but Meng Wan, just to be safe, had him hold the brush and scribble his own name as best he could, then press his fingerprint.

After a while, the Yang family showed up in an ox cart. They were clearly scared of a lawsuit and wanted to get this over with fast, which is why they'd rushed over.

Yang Chun couldn't read or write. The Yang village head guided his hand to write his name on the divorce agreement and press his fingerprint in ink. The marriage certificate was handed to the Song clan patriarch for safekeeping, to be turned over to the authorities after the autumn harvest.

With the matter settled, the Yang villagers scattered. Before leaving, Yang Chun's parents grudgingly handed the copper coins to Que Geer, adding a mocking jab: "Que Geer, after divorcing our Er Lang, you'll never find a husband's family like ours again. If you can't make it on your own and come crawling back, you'll only ever be a concubine!"

Meng Wan leaned against the doorframe with a sneer. "What kind of family are you? One that kills their daughters-in-law? That's a new one. I'd like to see which family is dumb enough to marry their kid into a house with a murderer for a son."

Yang Chun's mother was left speechless. Seeing everyone looking at their family with contempt, she didn't dare stick around to argue with Meng Wan and slunk off.

The Song Tingzhou household was right at the village entrance. The stragglers from Yang Family Village hadn't even left Sanquan Village when a horse-drawn carriage came rolling in from outside. Horses were rare in the countryside—even well-off farmers preferred oxen. Only rich gentlemen from outside could afford to keep fine horses.

"Why's another carriage coming into Sanquan Village?"

"Their village has a big official now—of course the country gentry and landowners are lining up to suck up. That's why the Song family can be so bold. Their village head doesn't dare say a peep in front of them."

"Can't be jealous of them. Their village has already produced two xiucai scholars."

"I have a cousin who works in their village. He says the Song family is planning to expand their clan school. What do you think about sending our kids there too?"

"They're picky, you know. I heard gentlemen from other towns have come wanting to send their children to study. You think they'd take our dull-witted sons? Forget it. Save the money for their wedding dowries. We weren't born to be the parents of scholars."

"Look at Yang Chun's attitude. That fellow might still go after Que Geer."

"Won't do him any good. The marriage certificate's already been handed over. And Que Geer's got a fierce temper—every wife gets beaten now and then, but he's the only one who makes such a fuss."

"Easy for you to say. Look at what they did to Que Geer! If no one had stood up for him, Yang Chun would have skinned him alive."

"At the end of the day, the Song family protects their own. They can even accept a divorced xiaoge..."

The carriage passed them by, moving slowly. The villagers' talk about the Song family drifted through the carriage windows, but most of it concerned today's divorce between Que Geer and Yang Chun.

In this era—whether in prosperous Yangzhou, the imperial capital of Shengjing, or ordinary countryside—the word "divorce" was so unfamiliar that it seemed strange to hear.

"Que Geer? Divorce?" The person inside the carriage spoke with a hoarse, slightly unusual tone, peering through the gap in the carriage curtain at the family lagging at the back of the procession.

That injured man covering his nose and mouth, combined with what the villagers were saying and their pointing, whispering expressions—this must be Yang Chun, then?

"Yan, are we really returning to the capital?" The carriage held more than one person. A swordsman with a long blade sat across from him.

Yan withdrew his gaze from Yang Chun, his eyes still holding lingering malice and disgust. Between him and the swordsman sat two burlap sacks, taking up considerable space, with traces of blood seeping through.

"Yes. Once I finish my business, I'll head straight to Shengjing to rescue His Highness."

His slender, bony fingers pointed through the gauze curtain at the pathetic figure of Yang Chun. "That man makes me sick just looking at him. Kill him."

The swordsman followed his gaze and gave a low "Mm" in acknowledgment.

He was used to this person's erratic temperament.

The carriage didn't enter the village but stopped at the graveyard where the fields met the mountain at the village entrance.

Most families in Sanquan Village bore the surname Song. The Song dead were buried on another mountain. This graveyard held those surnamed Tian, while the wasteland between the two mountains buried those of other surnames.

Yan got out of the carriage, pulled out an iron shovel, and walked step by step up the narrow path toward the mountain. The swordsman followed close behind, holding his sword.

"Is this village your hometown?" the swordsman asked.

"Home?"

Yan's robes, luxurious yet understated, were snagged in several places by the mountain's branches and leaves. Dappled shadows fell upon him. Though it was midsummer and everything was vibrant green, standing amidst the lush vegetation before the uneven graves, he gave off a chilling coldness.

The surroundings were eerily silent, even the cicadas' chirping sounded like a desperate cry, as if they knew they'd die before summer's end. It was unspeakably gloomy, with a chill that wouldn't lift.

"No, this is where I'm buried."

The graves before him bore no headstones, yet Yan found four adjacent mounds with precision. The coachman stayed below with the carriage; only the swordsman came with him.

The clear, crisp sound of shovel meeting soil. Yan wasn't in great shape, and his breathing, still uneven, quickly grew heavier. The swordsman walked over, silently took the shovel, and things went much faster after that.

Yan leaned against a tree, watching the swordsman dig up the first grave, his eyelids slowly drooping. He'd rushed from Lin'an to the north and now back to where it all started—he was drained, both in body and mind.

Half-asleep, half-awake, he seemed to hear the sound of silk and bamboo instruments. His limbs moved on their own, his black-and-red robes fluttering, all around him magnificent jade towers and golden halls.

A man embraced him intimately from behind, whispering in his ear, "Yan, you won't betray me, will you?"

At that moment, Yan felt like a venomous snake had coiled around him, its poison numbing his nerves and freezing him in place, yet he could only answer, feeling both pleasure and suffocation: "No, I will never betray you."

"Yan?"

Yan's eyes flew open, soaked in cold sweat. The suffocating, near-death feeling still gripped his throat, and his insides felt flooded with ice-cold water. Every breath came with a pain that felt all too real.

"Hmm?"

The swordsman stood in front of four big pits and tossed the shovel aside. "Done."

Four sets of light brown human bones were taken out of the rotted coffins. Yan stretched his numb limbs, walked over slowly, and crouched down to pick up the bones one by one, putting them into a burlap sack.

As dusk approached, the two of them descended the mountain. The coachman just asked where they were headed and then went quiet again. Three people, but it felt like they were in a silent movie.

Their next stop was a small mound in a secluded spot at the foot of the mountain. It was so small you might not even think it was a grave, but it had a wooden plank stuck in it—a thick one, with two holes at the top, like it had been a bench before it became a grave marker.

There was no writing on it. Yan knelt in front of the grave marker, pulled a sharp dagger from his sleeve, and made a small cut on his fingertip, blood welling up.

He didn't seem to feel any pain. He hugged the wooden marker and used his blood to write four characters—Qu Xing's Grave.

There was no pain in Yan's eyes, no satisfaction, no relief. Instead, he'd let down all his defenses, looking as fragile as if he'd never killed anyone—just an ordinary young man afraid to face the dead.

After writing the inscription in blood, he bowed his head and stayed silent, his posture stiff, like he didn't want to be there. He knelt there for a long time before finally speaking, his voice hoarse. "Xiao Liu, I came back to see you. After all these years, do you hate me?"

Yan wanted to say more but didn't know where to start. He slowly looked up at the grave, his eyes hiding something deep and unreadable.

The moonlight fell on his black robes but didn't reflect off them at all. He seemed wrapped in a shroud of secrecy, his presence cold and mysterious, making you want to know his story.

The swordsman's gaze lingered on his delicate, plain face—ordinary features, yet strangely captivating, drawing you in like a moth to a flame, pulling you deeper.

"Give me the flint." His voice was soft and hoarse, like a lover whispering in your ear.

A moment later, flames blazed up in front of Qu Xing's grave. When the fire died down, all that was left were four piles of white ash and two piles of charred remains. The mountain winds quickly scattered the black and white mess.

"Ouch, who the hell would dig up graves?"

"Lots of people do this kind of thing; nothing to get worked up over."

An old voice and a young voice came from halfway up the mountain. It was already night, and they were heading up now—how weird.

Yan looked up the mountain but saw no torch or lantern light. Perhaps the vegetation was too dense, blocking the view.

"Go kill them."

"Hmm." The swordsman acknowledged lightly and dashed up the mountain.

No screams came as Yan expected. Instead, a few branches severed by sword qi were tossed down, along with a child's excited exclamations.

"Old Ge, can you handle it?"

"What do you mean handle it? Just a young lad?"

"Grandpa, let me help!"

Yan stepped back, hurrying toward the carriage. The next moment, a small figure dashed down the mountain path, moving swiftly until it jumped before him.

"A Yan, there really is someone here."

A fair-skinned, exquisitely featured little boy followed closely down the mountain. "I told you, Dad said this is a gang operation."

Then an old man and the swordsman clashed, fighting their way down the mountain.

The old man, advanced in years, soon tired and gradually fell behind.

Yan stared at the strikingly beautiful boy before him. "You're called A Yan?"

He spoke while moving forward. A Yan assumed a martial stance, his unbroken voice somewhat sharp. "Stop right there, or I won't be polite!"

Despite his words, he quietly reached for the medicine pouch at his side.

Yan halted. "Fine, I won't move. You go."

A Yan, sensing the mysteriousness of the person before him, remained wary. He grabbed Tong'er's hand and ran toward Old Ge.

Yan clenched and released the dagger in his hand, then called out lowly to the swordsman, "Let's go, back to the capital."

If he were to die, it should be by that man's side—not out of love, but a morbid obsession.

Stripped of everything Prince Lian had given him, he was merely an ordinary young man. Prince Lian had given him everything; if the prince died, he had no reason to live either.

This journey, then, was a farewell.