Chapter 7: The Zhao Family’s Discovery

Within the main hall of the Zhao residence, the lights blazed brightly.

At this moment, the second son in charge of the Zhao family, Zhao Zi, and the fourth son, Zhao Yong, knelt in formal posture upon the central dais. Though Zhao Yong, in his mid-thirties, was burly and robust in stature, his face now bore clear traces of weariness. The faint shadows beneath his eyes betrayed a body much depleted by wine and women. This was hardly surprising—in these turbulent times, with famine everywhere, a powerful local clan like the Zhao family was never lacking in women, and it was unlikely that Zhao Yong had spared them from his excesses.

Beneath the dais, two younger members of the Zhao family, Zhao Han and Zhao Gu, along with three young Zhao women, all gazed with curiosity at the kneeling youth from the Fu family.

“So, Young Master Fu braved the midnight rain simply to deliver this sword on behalf of your teacher?” Zhao Zi took the sword from the attendant and drew it forth. The gleam of the blade caught his eye, and he could not help but pause in surprise.

Beside him, Zhao Yong, who had been yawning and drowsy, instantly revived upon glimpsing the sword’s patterned steel. Once his brother had finished admiring it, Zhao Yong eagerly took up the sword himself, examining it from all angles.

“Excellent! This is truly a rare and fine sword!” Zhao Yong’s delight was unmistakable.

“Yes, Uncle, it is as you say! My teacher only just arrived in the village and is unfamiliar with local customs. As his disciple, I remembered this and thus came uninvited. By chance, my father recently found a treasured sword and praised it highly, saying none but a Zhao uncle would be worthy to receive it! Seizing this opportunity, I have brought the sword to honor both my father and teacher, and to strengthen the bond between our families,” Fu Zihou replied with a warm smile and a respectful bow, skillfully praising Zhao Yong’s evident fondness for the sword.

“Well said! You may go—the sword is accepted. Your teacher may remain in the village henceforth,” Zhao Yong replied heartily, his broad face alight with pleasure. He had heard many flattering words in his time, but seldom from one so young as Fu Zihou. For a moment, his heart was truly gladdened.

Yet Zhao Zi, as head of the family, remained impassive. His gaze lingered on the sword before shifting to Fu Zihou.

“When did you become your teacher’s disciple?” Zhao Zi, after Zhao Yong’s response, did not answer directly, instead inquiring further about Fu Zihou and his teacher.

“Yesterday!” Fu Zihou, who had been about to thank Zhao Yong, turned serious at Zhao Zi’s question and answered earnestly.

Thereafter, Fu Zihou responded clearly and sincerely to all of Zhao Zi’s questions, even mentioning, without concealment, Old Liu’s misgivings that the teacher might not instruct him diligently and the villagers’ attempts to ridicule him.

“Are you concerned that someone might harm your teacher tonight?” After several questions, Zhao Zi, observing the rain-soaked Fu Zihou, immediately guessed his purpose.

At these words, everyone in the hall, from Zhao Yong to the youngest Zhao child, looked to Fu Zihou in astonishment.

“Yes, Uncle, I dare not conceal it,” Fu Zihou sighed. He knew that treating others as fools would only make a fool of himself. Realizing that Zhao Zi was a perceptive man, he did not disguise his intentions in the slightest.

“If my teacher faces danger and I do nothing, I cannot live with myself. I earnestly beg you, Uncle, to send men to accompany me!” Fu Zihou bowed low in entreaty.

A hush fell over the hall as all eyes turned from Fu Zihou to Zhao Zi.

In the tense silence, Fu Zihou’s heart pounded. He had little connection with the Zhao family and now came seeking aid. Were it not for the urgency of the matter and his fear that his father, unaware of the situation, might misspeak, he would never have come on his own.

At last, after what seemed an age, Zhao Zi’s voice broke the silence.

“Take the sword back with you!”

At those words, Fu Zihou’s heart clenched in dread. This was the very outcome he had feared most on his way here.

But as Fu Zihou looked up, he saw Zhao Zi turn to the elder of the two Zhao youths.

“Han, take some men and accompany Young Master Fu,” Zhao Zi instructed his eldest son. He then retrieved the sword from his brother Zhao Yong and handed it to his son, telling him to return it to Fu Zihou.

At this, everyone—Zhao Yong, the other Zhao youth, the three Zhao maidens, and the attendants, including the burly man who had just opened the door—stared at Zhao Zi in shock, then turned their astonished gazes on Fu Zihou.

“Yes, Father!” Zhao Han, several years Fu Zihou’s senior, dared not disobey. He rose, accepted the sword, and returned it to Fu Zihou.

“Thank you, Uncle!” Fu Zihou had not expected Zhao Zi to agree to help. Recovering himself, he quickly expressed his gratitude.

Soon, with Zhao Zi’s nod, Fu Zihou and Zhao Han departed with their men.

Once the hall had quieted, Zhao Yong could no longer contain himself. He turned to his brother in confusion. “Second Brother, why return the sword? I was rather fond of it!”

Zhao Yong’s regret was clear—such a fine sword was hard to come by.

The other Zhao attendants looked curiously at Zhao Zi.

“Do you recall, years ago, when I told you that judging by Fu Rui’s demeanor, his son was no fool?” Zhao Zi sipped his tea and turned to Zhao Yong.

Back when rumors first spread in the village that Fu Rui’s son was simple-minded, Zhao Zi had paid special attention when Fu Rui brought gifts to the Zhao family. Observing Fu Rui’s calm gaze, he had concluded that the rumors were false.

Fu Rui had only one son, Fu Zihou. If the boy were truly witless, how could his father’s eyes remain so composed? Whenever Fu Rui spoke of his son, his face always reflected a father’s quiet satisfaction.

“Yet even I did not expect the young master of the Fu family to be so exceptional. In time, he will surely distinguish himself!”

Zhao Zi sighed, and seeing his brother’s silence, set down his tea and continued for the benefit of all present.

“To become a disciple yesterday and rush here alone tonight—this means his father knows nothing of it. To sense danger and unhesitatingly part with a treasured sword that is rightfully his—such resolve and character are rare indeed! Which of you, in his place, would have come through the night and rain? Would any of you willingly part with your beloved sword?”

As Zhao Zi spoke, his eyes moved from Zhao Yong to his second son, Zhao Gu.

He had always seen further than the rest of the family, which was why the clan’s patriarch, Zhao Tuo, entrusted him with great responsibility.

Observing the family’s reactions—especially the burly doorkeeper, Tiger, who now looked utterly dumbfounded—Zhao Zi glanced at the traces of rainwater still on the floor.

“A youth of such wisdom, yet he keeps his distance from our family. He bears the slanders of the villagers without protest. Is it fear of standing out, or is he biding his time?”

At this, Zhao Zi’s mind turned to the worthies in ancient texts, all men of great talent who endured in silence, awaiting their moment to make history.

He could not say whether this young master of the Fu family would rival the sages of old, but he was certain the boy possessed their forbearance and virtue.

“Such patience and discernment—Fourth Brother, the Fu family has found its successor!”

Zhao Zi’s gaze brimmed with envy as he declared, in the presence of all, that one so young and capable as Fu Zihou would excel in any age, whether in peace or turmoil.

Indeed, Zhao Zi was well aware—were he to help Fu Zihou, he would ensure that Fu Rui ceased his trading, spend the family’s wealth, and do everything in his power to publicize the matter. In so doing, fame would follow, and the path ahead would be assured.

A renowned scholar is respected wherever he goes.

“Second Brother, then what should we do?” Zhao Yong, who loved martial pursuits, had always deferred to his brother in such matters. Hearing Zhao Zi’s high praise for the Fu boy, he was now both amazed and respectful.

“In future, let Han and Gu associate more with Fu Zihou. As for his father, we need not exact any further profit. I do not know which girl is betrothed to the Fu family, but when the rain stops tomorrow, I shall call upon them personally. If the engagement can be rescinded, I will see to it that our family forms the alliance instead.”

With that, Zhao Zi looked to the three young women. Zhao Yong nodded his agreement.

At Zhao Zi’s words, the three Zhao maidens shrank back, exchanging uneasy glances.

“Jinxuan, Fangyun, Hui’er—you three are all unmarried. Would any of you be willing to wed the young master of the Fu family?”

Zhao Zi asked gently. Aside from Hui’er, his own daughter, Jinxuan and Fangyun were the orphaned daughter of a deceased elder brother and the child of a third brother. Since Zhao Zi had discerned Fu Zihou’s promise, he naturally turned first to his nieces.

The hall was silent. At Zhao Zi’s question, Jinxuan and Fangyun lowered their heads and instinctively looked to the younger Hui’er.

Despite Zhao Zi’s high praise of the Fu boy, the two girls could not help but recall the Fu family’s decline. The boy, once seen as a village simpleton, was of merchant stock—hardly an appealing prospect for marriage.

In their hearts, both were reluctant. Let Hui’er marry him!

“Hui’er!”

Zhao Zi, reading his nieces’ thoughts, frowned and turned to his youngest daughter.

Under everyone’s gaze, the eleven-year-old Hui’er hung her head, lips pressed tight, her eyes already brimming with tears.

“Father, perhaps we should first consult the Fu family?” Zhao Gu, moved with pity for his sister, rose and suggested gently.

Zhao Zi looked at his daughter, a trace of disappointment in his eyes, and sighed softly. He could not say why, but he suspected that one day his daughter would regret this.

Even he could not be sure whether the young man just now could restore the Fu family to its former glory as a noble house, but he was certain the boy would outshine most of his peers.

Night had fallen. As Zhao Zi quietly left the hall, the three Zhao girls exchanged glances, each making up her mind to plead with her mother—they must not be married off to the Fu family, must not wed that boy!

—

In the deep of night, rain still falling, Fu Zihou and Zhao Han led several men, swords in hand, hurrying to a wooden cabin.

In the dim light, the many villagers inside recoiled at the sight of Zhao Han’s party, bearing torches, and shrank back in fear. When Fu Zihou entered, he found Old Liu and his teacher Liu Zhiyuan, each gripping a sword, facing off against four or five villagers armed with sticks. Only then did he breathe a sigh of relief.

They had arrived in time!

Gazing at the bloodstains on the floor, seeing Zhao Han’s men apprehend the stick-wielding villagers and the rest cower in fear, Fu Zihou quickly stepped forward.

“Old Liu, Teacher—are you hurt?” he asked with concern.

“Young Master, we are unharmed,” Old Liu replied, not knowing what had transpired but relieved to see Zhao family men with young master Fu.

Liu Zhiyuan, too, nodded, though his gaze lingered warily on Zhao Han and his men. Noticing this, Fu Zihou understood his teacher’s unease. Once he was certain that his teacher and Old Liu were safe, he turned to Zhao Han and expressed his gratitude.

Within the humble wooden hut, Old Liu sheathed his sword, looking from the captured villagers to Fu Zihou, drenched from head to toe but smiling. Guilt weighed heavily on his heart.

He did not notice, however, that Liu Zhiyuan too was watching Fu Zihou, taking in the rain-soaked hair and sodden clothes.