Chapter 6: Inviting Him to Marry In
After Constable Wang departed, Fan Changyu sat amidst the wreckage of her home, holding her younger sister close while the Zhao couple hovered nearby. For a long while, none of them spoke.
At last, Madam Zhao ventured hesitantly,
"Marrying in… that's no small matter. In all my years, I've only heard of wealthy families with no sons doing such a thing. For a poor household like ours—who would be willing to marry in?"
Changyu remained silent.
Constable Wang's suggestion had been simple: find a husband quickly, one willing to marry into the Fan family. Then her father would be considered to have a son, and the property would legally remain hers.
But after the broken engagement with the Song family—and the rumours branding her an ill‑fated star—marriage itself had become difficult, let alone persuading a man to marry into her household.
The legal advisors she had consulted earlier had likely known this, which was why none had even mentioned the possibility.
Marrying into a wife's family was considered shameful. A man who did so relinquished his ancestral surname and would be mocked wherever he went. Even wastrels and ruffians rarely agreed to such an arrangement.
Carpenter Zhao sighed heavily, his calloused hands resting on his knees.
"Marriage is for life. We can't just find someone at random to go through the ceremony. Otherwise, Changyu will be the one to suffer."
Madam Zhao's eyes reddened again. When other girls married, their parents investigated the groom's character, family, and background with utmost care, ensuring their daughters entered marriage with dignity and security.
But Changyu had lost her parents. Now she was being forced to find a husband in haste. Forget assessing character—she would be fortunate if the man wasn't outright unpleasant.
Just as Madam Zhao raised her sleeve to wipe her tears, a thought struck her. She looked up sharply.
"That young man you saved—he isn't married, is he?"
Before Changyu could answer, she continued,
"He shouldn't be. You said he fled from the north and has no family left."
Changyu understood the implication, but she sat stunned, unable to respond.
Seeing her silence, Madam Zhao pressed gently,
"He's injured and has nowhere to go, right? How about… I ask him what he thinks?"
Perhaps because the idea had taken root, the more Madam Zhao considered it, the more suitable it seemed. Changyu was capable and strong; even if the young man remained disabled, she could support the household. And after witnessing Song Yan's cold indifference earlier, Madam Zhao's resentment toward him had only grown. The stranger's handsome face—far more striking than Song Yan's—only strengthened her conviction.
But Changyu's thoughts were in disarray. She finally managed,
"Madam, don't ask him yet. Let me think it over. When I've decided, I'll speak to him myself."
Knowing Changyu's decisiveness, Madam Zhao said no more. After helping tidy the room, she and her husband returned home.
Chang Ning, exhausted from crying, soon fell asleep. Changyu carried her to bed.
Then she lay down fully clothed, staring blankly at the canopy overhead.
Song Yan's face and the face of the man who called himself Yan Zheng drifted through her mind, overlapping and dissolving into one another.
In truth, though she and Song Yan had been childhood sweethearts and betrothed since young, their shared memories were few.
He had always been busy. Before entering the county school, he studied constantly. Though their families lived in the same alley, she rarely visited him for fear of disturbing his studies. When she did, it was usually to deliver something at her parents' request—meat, pastries, small gifts.
At that time, Madam Song had been warm and kind, always saying that Song Yan studied hard so that Changyu could enjoy a good life in the future.
After he entered the county school, he spent even less time at home. She saw him even more rarely.
Once, when she accompanied her father to the county fair, Madam Song had asked them to deliver a new set of clothes to him. It was Changyu's first time seeing the school. She had thought the buildings grand and imposing. When Song Yan came out, he accepted the clothes with a polite, distant expression.
A passing classmate had teased him, asking who she was.
"My younger sister," he had replied.
On the way home, she had felt strangely hollow. She had sensed then that he did not want her to visit him. A butcher's daughter as his fiancée must have embarrassed him.
She had even considered breaking off the engagement, but her parents admired Song Yan's ambition. Madam Song had also been fond of her then, often boasting that once Song Yan passed the provincial exams, he would marry Changyu.
She had only mentioned breaking the engagement once. Song Yan had looked up from his books and said coolly,
"Marriage is a matter of parental command and matchmakers' words. Are you treating it as a child's game?"
She had taken that as refusal and never brought it up again.
Later, her parents died, and Madam Song came to dissolve the engagement, citing incompatible horoscopes.
Perhaps her grief had already been spent, or perhaps there had never been much affection to begin with, but now, thinking of Song Yan stirred no sadness at all.
As for Yan Zheng—she knew almost nothing about him.
And he knew nothing of her. To suddenly ask him to marry into her family—while he was injured and without a home—felt like taking advantage of his vulnerability.
Her engagement to Song Yan had also been born of gratitude. She did not want another entanglement like that.
But she had no other choice.
After long deliberation, she thought perhaps she could ask him to pretend to marry in. She only needed to secure the property. Once he recovered, he could stay or leave as he wished.
If he left, she would not stop him. She had saved his life; he would help her through this crisis. They would be even.
If he stayed…
She thought of his face—clear and cold as moonlight on snow—and felt she would hardly be at a loss.
---
In the Zhao family attic, Xie Zheng—who had just removed a message from his gyrfalcon's leg—suddenly sneezed.
He frowned. Had he caught a cold?
The white gyrfalcon perched on the windowsill, its talons gripping the wood, its bright eyes fixed on him.
Xie Zheng unfolded the message. His expression darkened at once, followed by a cold, mocking smile.
That person could not rest without seeing him dead. They had already sent someone to Huizhou to seize his command—and the one sent was that person.
He tossed the message into the brazier. It curled and blackened, turning to ash.
He leaned back against the headboard. The cold wind through the open window stirred his hair, but could not dispel the gloom on his face.
The one who had taken over his forces likely wanted him dead even more than the faction in the capital. His old subordinates were barely surviving; they would not dare act rashly, lest that person sniff out their trail like a hunting dog.
Until his wounds healed, he could only lie low and plan.
He glanced at the fresh blood on his clothes, irritation flickering across his features.
"Coo?" the gyrfalcon chirped, tilting its head.
"Get lost," he muttered.
The bird, accustomed to such treatment, flapped its wings and flew away.
Xie Zheng had indeed caught a cold.
---
Changyu spent the entire afternoon rehearsing what she wished to say. In the evening, she stir‑fried two small dishes and sliced a plate of braised pig's head meat to bring to him.
But when she called outside the attic door, there was no response.
Alarmed, she pushed the door open—and found him lying on the bed, face flushed, eyes unfocused.
She immediately summoned Carpenter Zhao. After checking his pulse, Zhao consulted his battered medical book and wrote a conservative prescription for a cold.
Changyu knocked on the closed pharmacy door until someone answered, bought the medicine, decocted it, and fed it to him. Soon he broke into a sweat.
But when Carpenter Zhao changed his bandages, he noticed the wounds had reopened, the gauze soaked with fresh blood. He found it strange.
---
When Xie Zheng woke again, it was morning.
The fever had passed, though his throat was painfully dry. A stool beside the bed held a teapot and a coarse cup.
He pushed himself upright and reached for the teapot—just as the door opened.
Changyu entered carrying a large bowl.
"The tea is cold. You've just recovered from a fever; don't drink it. I've made you pig lung soup."
Carpenter Zhao had said pig lung soup cleared heat and soothed coughs. They had slaughtered a pig yesterday, and she had used the lungs.
Xie Zheng thanked her hoarsely. Since it wasn't intestines this time, he drank without hesitation.
But the moment it touched his tongue, his expression shifted.
Under her expectant gaze, he forced himself to swallow and asked,
"Did you make this?"
She nodded.
"Yes. Why?"
"It's nothing."
He simply could not reconcile the delicious intestine noodles with this… concoction.
"You should drink it while it's hot," she urged. "Uncle Zhao said it's good for your lungs."
"…It's a bit hot. I'll drink it later."
He expected her to leave. Instead, she pulled up a chair and sat down.
"I don't think I've told you my name. I'm Fan Changyu. People here call me Changyu—you may do the same."
He nodded. He had already heard her name shouted many times.
Silence settled again.
Changyu, awkward but determined, pressed on.
"You said your surname is Yan and your given name is Zheng. Which characters?"
"The 'Yan' of 'speech' and the 'Zheng' of 'upright'."
Seeing she might not recognise them, he dipped a finger into the cold tea and wrote the characters 言正 on the stool.
His fingers were long and elegant, though marred by scars. Even writing with his fingertip, his strokes carried a natural strength.
Changyu found herself momentarily entranced.
When he finished, he said quietly,
"These two."
She blinked back to awareness.
"Were you a scholar before?"
His handwriting was even more refined than Song Yan's.
But he replied,
"I'm merely a warrior. How would I dare call myself a scholar?"
His tone held a faint, disdainful mockery—as though he held little regard for scholars.
Changyu exhaled in relief.
"Then… what did you do before?"
He hesitated, then said,
"Nothing respectable. I worked for an escort agency."
Her face lit up.
"What a coincidence! My father worked as an escort when he was young!"
"…Indeed," he said dryly.
Fortunately, she did not pursue the topic. Instead, clasping her hands nervously, she asked,
"Are you married?"
He studied her. She looked embarrassed—but not shy. He could not guess her intention.
"No," he answered.
Her fingers reddened from how tightly she pinched them. At last she blurted,
"I want to ask for your help. My family is in trouble. After my parents died, my uncle has been trying to seize our house and land. Yesterday he tried to take the deed by force. I'm afraid he'll file a lawsuit next. If the magistrate rules, since my parents had no sons, the property will go to my uncle. The only way to keep it is for me to find a husband quickly—one who will marry into my family."
Xie Zheng's eyelid twitched violently.
"You want me to marry into your family."