At the border garrison, inside a tent, Lin Wen was bent over, meticulously transcribing grain and fodder accounts. Qi Biao, clad in armor that accentuated his cold and unyielding demeanor, strode in hurriedly and sat opposite Lin Wen without uttering a word. Lin Wen didn’t bother to look up either. Since childhood, this had been their dynamic—together yet absorbed in their own tasks, sometimes not exchanging a single word the entire day.
Now serving under Qi Biao, their relationship remained unchanged. The soldiers found it curious, wondering who Lin Wen was to dare treat the dreaded “Black-Faced God” with such indifference, especially as his superior. Thus, even the roughest soldiers treated the gentle and refined Lin Wen with utmost respect, never daring to act out of line.
Sensing Qi Biao’s unusually restless aura today, Lin Wen finally spoke without lifting his head, his tone as flat as ever: “What is it?”
“Report just came in—Fang’er suddenly suffered a heart attack.”
The moment Qi Biao spoke, Lin Wen’s head snapped up. His brush smeared ink across the freshly transcribed accounts, but he paid it no mind, his gaze fixed intensely on Qi Biao.
“She’s been stabilized, but it drained her vitality. Sima Rusu, who was with her, also fell ill. The school is temporarily closed.”
With a clatter, Lin Wen slumped into his chair as if his bones had turned to water, papers scattering across the floor. After a few steadying breaths, he said in a low voice, “I know your background isn’t simple. I don’t care about anything else, but my sister’s life has been hard enough. You once said you regarded Fang’er as a sister. If she’s your sister, then find someone to cure her. I know you have the means.”
“Mn. No need to tell me—I’ll arrange it. From what I know, your second grandmother’s medical skills surpass even those in the Imperial Hospital. Back then, royalty offered her wealth and status, but she refused to be bound by rules, preferring to remain among the common folk.”
“Are you implying Fang’er’s condition is incurable?”
“My family’s tutor excels in crafting and countering poisons, and his medical skills are exceptional. He might be able to help.”
Lin Wen frowned. “Fang’er has a heart condition, not poisoning.”
“Medical principles are interconnected.” With that, Qi Biao left the tent. Alone, Lin Wen stared at the still-swaying flap, his longing for his sister deepening.
One by one, he picked up the scattered account sheets. Suppressing his emotions, he resumed his work.
Qi Biao returned shortly, his eyes fixed on the brush in Lin Wen’s hand. Sensing he had something to say, Lin Wen set down the brush and looked up inquiringly.
Qi Biao asked, “When we were children, I gave you a wooden carving. I know you didn’t pass it to Fang’er. Do you still have it with you?”
Lin Wen retrieved his bag from under the desk, rummaged inside, and pulled out a small wooden figurine. After a brief glance, he handed it to Qi Biao. The carving depicted a little girl with a perky topknot, her expression lively yet marred by blood tumors and a distorted mouth and nose—an exact likeness of Lin Fang at around one year old.
Qi Biao himself couldn’t explain why he had carved Lin Fang’s likeness back then. On New Year’s Day, he had inexplicably rushed to the Lin household and even offered his firecrackers to Lin Fang. But the tiny child ignored him. In his other hand, he had clutched this very carving. Young and unable to bear the humiliation of being overlooked, he had shoved it into Lin Wen’s hands before fleeing in embarrassment.
From the moment Lin Wen produced it, Qi Biao’s gaze never left the small figurine. Now, holding it in his grown hand, the carving seemed even smaller. His heart churned with emotion. After his mother’s death and his younger sister’s tragic demise, his heart had hardened, indifferent to others. Yet this less-than-one-year-old infant, Lin Fang, with her unusual appearance, had somehow stirred his soul with her every gesture and smile. It was truly baffling.
Back in his own tent, Qi Biao retrieved a palm-sized brocade box from his desk drawer. Inside, arranged neatly, were eight small wooden carvings—each depicting Lin Fang at a different age, the last one still unfinished.
Carefully, he took out the figurines and rearranged them in order of age. His expression softened, and occasionally, a faint smile touched his lips, as if recalling something pleasant.
Due to the rough journey, Yuan Li and Tang Manyun’s pregnancies were unstable. Combined with Lin Fang and Chen Dong’s weakened states after their illnesses, Tong-shi was constantly occupied. By the time Liu Lang and Wang Hongbang (who had just learned of his wife’s pregnancy) arrived, Tong-shi was already exhausted, her energy spent.
Given her medical experience, tending to these four shouldn’t have been so taxing. But her overwhelming guilt made it so. No matter how the family consoled her, it had little effect. In the end, they had no choice but to summon the monk Zi Xing. First, the monk was skilled in medicine and could diagnose and treat Tong-shi. Second, his profound understanding of Buddhism might help calm her mind.
The monk arrived but ignored Tong-shi entirely, heading straight for Lin Fang’s room. Standing outside the window, he bellowed, “Fang’er, hurry up! The black fungus has sprouted. If you don’t pick it, this old monk won’t hold back—I’ll harvest it myself and cook up a feast. Don’t you dare throw a tantrum and cry later!”
Black fungus? Oh, right. Lin Fang had nearly forgotten. She’d entrusted the fungus farm to Qian’er’s husband, taught him the methods, and then neglected it entirely. With so much happening, she’d completely forgotten about it. Now, spurred by the monk’s shouting, she scrambled out of bed to check.
But she rose too quickly. Darkness clouded her vision, and she collapsed back onto the bed. Liu Ma rushed to help, but Lin Fang waved her off, slowly sitting up again. Still weak, she let Liu Ma dress her in a padded coat and boots before heading outside, Liu Ma hovering protectively beside her like a brooding hen.
“Aiya, Fang’er, why so slow? Come quickly! Your black fungus is ready, and this old monk can’t wait to taste it. Help me see which ones can be picked!” The monk crouched before Lin Fang, ready to carry her on his back.
“Wait! This is my granddaughter. If you want to carry someone, get your own granddaughter. It’s not your turn yet—move aside!” With that, Tong-shi yanked the monk away and crouched in front of Lin Fang herself. She hoisted Lin Fang onto her back, and Liu Ma quickly adjusted the hood of the coat to shield her mistress from the cold.
The monk fumed. “You old hag! Why must you rub salt in my wounds? Before taking vows, I never married—how could I have a granddaughter now? Unless you expect me to conjure one out of thin air!”
“Hmph! That’s your problem. No granddaughter? Too bad. Don’t go stealing mine.” Tong-shi marched toward the courtyard gate, Lin Fang giggling on her back.
Lin Zhongsi chimed in, “That’s right! Fang’er is our Lin family’s granddaughter. No use being jealous, old monk!” He trotted after Tong-shi, leaving the monk fuming behind them.
“Giggle—” Lin Fang clung to Tong-shi’s back, amused by the bickering elders.
*Whack!* Tong-shi lightly smacked her bottom. “You little imp! Laughing at us old folks arguing, are you? Why didn’t you mention the fungus farm these past few days, letting that old monk steal the show?”
Lin Fang patted Tong-shi’s back soothingly. “That gluttonous monk remembered it before I did! He must’ve been eyeing my farm all along.”
“Rusu, how about this old monk carries you instead?”
Lin Fang peeked out from her hood and turned to see Qi Shi bending to carry a bundled figure—undoubtedly Chen Dong, wrapped up just as snugly, her head hidden under the cloak. Sure enough, Chen Dong’s hoarse, weary voice came from within: “Thank you, Master Zi Xing, but my shifu can carry me.”
Chen Dong had overheard the monk’s excitement and, curious about Lin Fang’s fungus farm, wanted to join the fun.
Undeterred, the monk turned to Chen Shiyuan. “Shiyuan, look—both your sisters are being carried. Only you, a child, have to walk. How about this old monk carries you?”
Chen Shiyuan ignored him, sticking close to Qi Shi and occasionally tugging Chen Dong’s cloak to cover any exposed limbs.
Rebuffed, the monk huffed and hurried to walk beside Tong-shi, hoping to chat with Lin Fang. But Lin Zhongsi wedged himself between them, pulling Lin Fang’s hood firmly over her head before smugly raising his chin at the monk. Xian’er, trailing behind, burst into laughter.
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