That time when Shi Binhua tried to harass Lin Cui’e but failed, he was instead brought before his own father. His father took him to apologize to the Lin family and even lost a good piece of farmland in the process. Though resentful, his father strictly forbade him from provoking the Lin family again, warning that any trouble caused by their servants would be blamed on him. Thus, Shi Binhua decided he needed a more calculated approach this time.
He gave a gold ingot to a thug he was close with, instructing him to hire some skilled street ruffians. Only after arranging everything did Shi Binhua feel at ease entering the competition venue. By then, the semifinals had already been underway for half an hour. As he eyed the beautiful women on stage, he fantasized about the Lin family’s female members being humiliated and their reputation ruined—how satisfying that would be.
Little did he know, not only would his revenge fail this time, but the retaliation he’d face would be far worse than the mere scare he got the day before.
“Hmph, this fool dares to provoke me again and again. Uncle Qi, I want him to suffer a fate worse than death.”
“Young Master Seven, why go through the trouble? Why not just cut off the Shi family’s lineage or wipe them out entirely? That would eliminate future threats.”
“Not yet. Even if we remove the Shi family, others might take their place. Better to make an example of him first.”
“Understood.” The youthful attendant vanished in an instant.
That very night, Shi Binhua suddenly let out agonized screams. He thrashed in bed before rolling onto the floor, completely unaware of his surroundings, only screaming, “It hurts! It hurts! Help me! It hurts!”
By the time the steward fetched a physician, Shi Binhua was laughing hysterically, writhing on the ground in pain while clutching his stomach, unable to stop laughing. The physician tried to administer acupuncture, but Shi Binhua, despite being a child under ten, displayed unnatural strength—several grown men couldn’t restrain him. Only when Shi Liaoliang, in a fit of rage, struck his son’s neck with a blunt object, knocking him unconscious, could the physician finally take his pulse.
“Doctor, how is he?”
Shi Liaoliang had only this one son. Though he had no choice but to strike him earlier, he was still deeply distressed. Seeing the physician repeatedly checking the pulse without speaking, he pressed anxiously.
“Forgive my incompetence,” the physician said before packing his medical kit and leaving.
Several doctors were called throughout the night, yet none could diagnose Shi Binhua’s condition. Some even advised Shi Liaoliang to visit a temple for prayers or invite a master to perform exorcisms—perhaps that would help.
Unexpectedly, when Shi Binhua woke the next day, he immediately ordered servants to prepare for the embroidery competition, not once mentioning the previous night’s ordeal. The servants hesitated, “Young Master, the event is nearly over. If we go now, we’ll likely arrive just as it ends.”
Only then did Shi Binhua notice the sun was already setting. Furious, he berated the servants for not waking him earlier. Yet, as the conversation continued, it became clear he had no memory of the previous night.
That evening, the same torment returned—pain followed by uncontrollable laughter. Servants rushed to fetch doctors, but none were willing to come. The chaos escalated until Shi Liaoliang prepared to knock his son unconscious again, but this time, Shi Binhua began screaming about unbearable itching, clawing at his own skin. Had the servants not restrained him in time, he might have torn his own face apart.
In the end, Shi Liaoliang had to knock his son out himself, finally bringing temporary peace to the household.
The cycle repeated until Shi Binhua was reduced to a skeletal figure. Even renowned physicians from the city could only shake their heads, suggesting a ritual might be the only solution. Shi Liaoliang sought out Huiyuan, but the monk was away—no one knew where he’d gone. On the seventh night, Shi Binhua suffered pain, itching, numbness, and laughter all at once, driving Shi Liaoliang to the brink of despair.
By the eighth day, all symptoms suddenly vanished, but Shi Binhua was left utterly drained. It would take months before he could regain his former vigor. Rumors spread through the town that the Shi family’s ill-gotten wealth had invited divine retribution. Shi Liaoliang knew his son often acted recklessly and without restraint. Investigating his recent deeds nearly made him vomit blood. While he himself occasionally used money to pressure others, he knew limits—yet his son had nearly committed unforgivable crimes against women. Had he succeeded, the Lin and Li families might have wiped out the Shi family entirely.
Lin Dalang, managing such a vast household, had maintained peace for years by maintaining ties with both officials and underworld figures. Before the semifinals began, he had already learned of Shi Binhua’s malicious intent. He had planned to beat Shi Binhua senseless in the chaos—preferably to death. But then Qi Biao sent a messenger: their young master had a plan and urged Lin Dalang to remain patient.
The messenger was none other than Steward Qi, who had once posed as Qi Biao’s father in the village and now maintained the same disguise in town. Knowing his true identity, Lin Dalang listened as Steward Qi bowed deeply and pleaded, “Master Lin, forgive this old servant’s bluntness. Though our young master is not yet twenty, his life’s hardships surpass what most adults endure. Orphaned young, he found solace in your second son’s friendship. Though unspoken, I’ve watched over him since childhood—I know his heart. He deeply envies the harmony of your family, which is why he visits daily. Our young master is usually cold and rarely compassionate. That he now offers help means he sees your family as his own. I beg you, Master Lin, honor his sincerity—do not let him feel unappreciated.”
After another bow, Lin Dalang sighed. “Very well. Let your young master handle it. But keep me informed.”
“Of course,” Steward Qi replied, relieved as he took his leave.
The competition proceeded unaffected by Shi Binhua’s absence. The next day’s semifinals went as scheduled. Lin Cui’e and Lin Juan dressed similarly in lake-green dresses, with Lin Cui’e wearing a brown gauze shawl and Lin Juan a white one.
Among the judges, Guo Siniang watched her disciples with pride.
Lin Cui’e remained composed as ever, offering a graceful bow before taking her seat. Lin Juan, slightly nervous, steadied her breath and sat down after her bow. Encouraging glances came from Lin Cui’e and their family behind her. Up in the private seating, Lin Fang raised a tiny fist in support, while her aunt smiled warmly. Her mother and sister grinned, and though her brothers pretended solemnity, their eyes betrayed their concern. Following Lin Fang’s advice, Lin Juan took deep breaths, gradually calming herself.
Of the forty semifinalists, only six sat on the eastern side—the “unmatched.” The other thirty-four were “matched.” The challenge was to embroider a self-selected landscape, using limited materials provided by the competition, within two hours. Lin Cui’e pondered briefly before sorting her threads. Lin Juan took slightly longer but soon began as well.
Unlike the quiet focus of the eastern side, the western “matched” contestants constantly fidgeted, subtly sabotaging rivals. As long as they didn’t cause a disturbance, the judges allowed it—survival of the fittest. Though Lin Fang pitied their lack of choice, she couldn’t condone their methods. Were it her, she’d rather live humbly than become “matched”—or even compete at all.
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