Chapter 29
On the road, Zhao Ger secretly glanced at the person beside him a few times.
The faintly warm light of the early morning sun shone on Fang Zichen's tall figure, making him seem to glow. His face was fair and handsome, his eyebrows bold and striking—truly a rare standout figure within a hundred miles.
Zhao Ger suddenly asked, "Did you often get into fights before too?"
"How could that be?" Fang Zichen naturally couldn’t tell the truth and replied with a half-truthful smile. "I only started fighting after coming here. I used to be very kind."
Zhao Ger seemed doubtful. "Really? You looked very skilled and impressive."
"No one dared to mess with me before," Fang Zichen said somewhat nostalgically. "Back home, my parents were wealthy, and my uncle was a high-ranking official. At school, my eldest brother was a top student, and my second brother ruled the school. No one dared to provoke me. I could strut around anywhere I wanted. I was untouchable."
But a true hero doesn’t boast of past glories. He sighed lightly. "Not like now, where every blind fool comes looking for trouble."
[好汉不提当年勇 (hǎo hàn bù tí dāng nián yǒng): lit. A true hero doesn’t boast of past glories; fig. One should not dwell on past achievements]
They walked side by side, chatting and laughing. Ma Wen emerged from the crowd, staring motionlessly in the direction they had left.
Fang Zichen must have said something that annoyed Zhao Ger, who then smacked him on the back. Fang Zichen didn’t get angry—instead, he clasped his hands and grinned apologetically. Zhao Ger turned his head away, but the corners of his eyes were full of laughter.
Ma Dazhuang tugged at him. "See that? You’ve been pining for him, but does Zhao Ger even remember you?"
"Dad, stop talking." Ma Wen’s heart was a mess. The moment he heard Fang Zichen had come to settle accounts with Liu Laizi, he dropped what he was doing and rushed over, as if seeking some kind of confirmation.
Ma Dazhuang harbored resentment toward Zhao Ger. "I just want you to see Zhao Ger for who he really is. It’s only been a month! Look at how he acts around Fang Zichen, does he even remember you? I don’t think he ever cared about you at all." Ma Wen’s face darkened, but his father ignored it and continued, "Just forget about him! Your mother and I will find you someone better."
Ma Wen stayed silent until Zhao Ger and Fang Zichen disappeared around the corner. Only then did he finally look away.
"Dad, let’s go back."
After breakfast, Fang Zichen found himself with nothing to do.
The cargo at the dock had been unloaded yesterday, and the dock foreman wouldn’t take him to Zuixiao Restaurant for the "interview" until noon the next day. That meant today was free.
He heard that the official ship would arrive at noon, so he asked Zhao Ger if he wanted to go see it together.
The field by the fence still needed plowing, so Zhao Ger shook his head. "You go ahead. I won’t join you."
Before noon arrived, Fang Zichen hadn’t even gotten close to the dock when he faintly heard wails of grief.
It sounded like a funeral procession had just passed—scraps of white paper still littered the streets.
The dock was packed, the crowd suffocatingly dense. Fang Zichen scanned the area—every face was grim.
Some were weeping, others looked anxious. He even spotted a few women wearing hemp mourning clothes with white cloth wrapped around their heads.
"Will my son come back this time? He’s been gone for years," murmured an old man nearby.
"Who knows? By the way, is Lao Wang here?"
"No, I heard he can’t even get out of bed now."
"Ah, Lao Wang is pitiful. His only son died young on the frontier. How could he not be heartbroken?"
"They say Jiang boy is bringing his son’s ashes back this time—to return to his hometown and be buried. At least there’s that small comfort."
Three large ships with billowing sails approached from the distance, slowly entering the harbor. Soldiers armed with spears and swords stood guard on both sides of the decks.
The gangplank was lowered.
The crowd surged forward. Fang Zichen couldn’t push his way in, so he relied on his height to watch from afar.
People began disembarking.
A soldier hobbled down on a crutch, missing half a leg. Behind him were several wounded men supporting each other, their white bandages stained with blood.
More followed.
Some were carried down, others piggybacked by fellow villagers.
Out of an entire ship, barely anyone was unharmed.
The crowd pressed forward. Fang Zichen heard cries of reunion, laughter, and chaos.
"My son, you’ve finally returned!"
"Big brother, where… where is your hand?"
"Why isn’t my Xiaohu here? Xiao Li, where’s Xiaohu… why didn’t he come back?"
"Mother, where’s Father? Where is he—?"
"He promised to marry me when he returned. I waited three years… Everyone else is back. Why… why didn’t he come?"
"Brother Qian, look! That guy only has one leg, hopping around like a crippled toad. Isn’t it hilarious? Hahaha—!"
Fang Zichen had been born in prosperous times. This was the first scene of its kind he had ever witnessed.
He didn’t know a single person on that ship, yet the sight weighed heavily on his heart.
Those who grew up in peaceful times, basking in sunlight, could never truly grasp the darkness and brutality of war.
He saw a soldier pull out an old, bloodstained cloth bundle from his tattered pack.
He said something to an elderly woman in front of him, then slowly unwrapped the cloth.
It was… ashes.
The old woman trembled as she accepted it. She didn’t wail—just gently stroked the bundle, thanked the soldier, and walked away with unsteady steps.
The scene was jarring.
Death was something too distant for someone his age. Fang Zichen had never truly grasped its meaning.
But now, faced with this reality, it suddenly became tangible.
For the soldiers who died far from home—abandoned on battlefields, their corpses picked apart by vultures and insects, their bones turned to dust scattered by the wind—being brought back as ashes was a small mercy. But for those of them living safely in the rear, shielded from war’s horrors, their fate was nothing short of tragic.
Fang Zichen couldn’t help but wonder, how old had that person been?
Had he even reached thirty? Was he as young as Fang Zichen himself? So young, yet dead in a foreign land. What would become of his parents, his wife, his children? In his last moments, had he been unwilling to go?
No one wanted to die.
Everyone wanted to live.
But in this era, human life was as cheap as grass, as insignificant as ants beneath a boot.
Fuan Town was barely a thousand li from the border. To the villagers of Xiaohe who had never left Fuan, that distance was insurmountable. But to Fang Zichen, a man from the future, it felt like it was right next door.
[1 li ≈ 500 meters]
So close, yet no one remembered the sacrifices of those who had fought. No one realized that the peace they enjoyed now had been bought with flesh and blood.
To the common folk, the only things worth caring about were this year’s tax hikes and the latest conscription notices.
They didn’t think to thank anyone. The only ones who earned their gratitude were the great generals.
The nameless soldiers who left no trace behind—who remembered them, besides their families?
In this poor, broken era, how would these wounded soldiers survive? Would their families resent them for being unable to work? Would people mock them behind their backs? Would they themselves struggle to accept their broken bodies?
Whether they had been forced or had volunteered to leave home for war, they deserved respect.
Knowing death awaited, they still marched toward it.
Fang Zichen exhaled sharply and strode toward the group of young men watching the spectacle from the sidelines.
Tall and striking, he drew their attention the moment he turned in their direction.
As Fang Zichen approached, a young man in blue robes spoke first. "Who are—"
Fang Zichen punched him in the face.
Sun Shangcheng collapsed. Before the other two could react, Fang Zichen straddled him, grabbed his hair, and slammed his head into the ground.
"Funny?" he asked coldly.
Sun Shangcheng's head slammed into the dirt with a sickening crack. Dizzy with pain, he clutched at Fang Zichen’s wrist. "Who the hell are you? Are you insane?"
"Sir, what are you doing? Stop this!" Qian Haoyu reached out to pull Fang Zichen off.
Fang Zichen shook him off with ease, sending the frail young man stumbling. Ignoring Sun Shangcheng’s struggles, he smashed his head into the ground again.
"Funny?"
Again.
"Funny?"
Warm blood trickled from the back of Sun Shangcheng’s skull. His ears rang. "You bastard—I’ll kill you!"
"Sir, please stop! You’ll kill him at this rate!" Li Jing pleaded urgently.
He and Qian Haoyu both grabbed at Fang Zichen’s arms, pulling with all their strength—but it was like trying to uproot an oak tree. Fang Zichen didn’t budge an inch, his body rigid with barely-contained rage.
No one noticed the scuffle. Facing three weak scholars, Fang Zichen had no fear.
He ignored their pleas, staring down at Sun Shangcheng with a chilling half-smile. His handsome face was usually bright and sunny, but now it was twisted with cold fury, terrifying to behold.
"Still think it’s funny?" His voice was icy. "Tell me—who’s the crippled toad now?"
Li Jing and Qian Haoyu finally understood.
They had thought Fang Zichen was just picking a fight for no reason, or that Sun Shangcheng had somehow offended him earlier. But now they realized—he had overheard Sun Shangcheng’s cruel joke and come to teach him a lesson.
Their earlier disgust at Fang Zichen’s violence vanished. Now, they thought he was doing the right thing.
Serves him right.
Let Sun Shangcheng scream.
Qian Haoyu let go and stopped interfering.
Li Jing frowned. "Sir, a lesson is enough. Don’t actually kill him. The three of us came together—if something happens to him, we’ll have a hard time explaining when we get back."
Fang Zichen only wanted to teach him a lesson, not commit murder. After a few more hits, he stopped.
Later, after wandering around town, he returned home—only to find his son had been beaten.
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