Volume One: Fresh Rain Chapter Fifteen: Dialogue

“Mingke.”

“I don’t want to go back.”

Qiao Qiao’s words sounded softly in the cool night breeze.

The town’s roads at night were dim, with only scattered houses shining distant points of light.

Ye Mingke still carried Qiao Qiao on his back, walking along the uneven path.

“Why?” Ye Mingke asked.

“I’m scared. I’m afraid of being beaten, afraid of being locked up at home forever.”

Qiao Qiao rested her chin gently on Mingke’s shoulder, her eyes narrowed as she gazed at the distant glow from someone’s window.

After a long while, she spoke again.

“I hate her.”

As if to strengthen her resolve, she repeated herself.

“I hate her.”

She didn’t say who “she” was, but Mingke knew—she meant that sallow-faced, unattractive middle-aged woman.

“But… if you never saw her again, could you bear it?” Mingke probed gently.

Qiao Qiao opened her mouth to answer, but Mingke cut her off softly.

“Don’t rush. Try to imagine a life where you never see her again.”

Qiao Qiao’s reply stalled on her lips. She bit down hard, holding her words.

Never see that woman again?

That woman who had always looked at her with distaste since childhood, who had scolded her with the harshest words, who… brushed her hair every day and cooked her medicine.

Qiao Qiao couldn’t answer.

She hated her, but she was also used to her, and reluctant to let her go.

She loved her, too.

Perhaps only those bound by blood could be the ones you hate most yet love most dearly, the ones you can never truly let go.

From her silence, Mingke heard her answer. He spoke softly.

“Auntie may not know why she holds such resentment toward you.

But I think, all the same, she must love you.

Look—her clothes are so plain and simple, she barely dresses up, her hair is always a mess.

But the Qiao Qiao she raised wears a white dress, has straight black hair, and is a clean, lovely little girl.”

If there is love, why the cruel words? If there is no love, why so many hopeful expectations?

Human love and hate are always wound together, tangled and inseparable.

And people, too, are often full of contradictions.

“Don’t be afraid, Qiao Qiao.

I’ll go back with you. If there’s punishment, we’ll face it together.

If they never let you out again, I’ll come and steal you away once more.

Trust me—even if your aunt builds a wall ten stories high, I’ll climb over it.”

Mingke’s warm words slowly calmed Qiao Qiao’s heart.

She let out a quiet “mm,” eyes fixed on the familiar lights drawing nearer ahead.

They were close now. Even slowing their steps, the journey left was not long.

From a distance, Mingke set Qiao Qiao down. She followed half a step behind as they walked toward the dyehouse, its windows glowing in the night.

As they drew near, they realized with some surprise that the light was not only seeping from the windows, but also spilling from the dyehouse’s great door—usually shut tight day and night.

A spark glimmered in the darkness before the door, flickered, then went out, and a faint haze of smoke drifted in the candlelight.

Ye Mingke and Qiao Qiao hesitated, inching closer until they saw a thin middle-aged man sitting in the shadows by the door.

He held a pipe in his red- and green-stained hands, smoking as he stared into the darkness, lost in thought.

Upon seeing him, Qiao Qiao’s steps, which had been creeping forward, froze abruptly. The sudden stop was too sharp—a loud “bang” echoed as her foot struck the ground, ringing out on the deserted street.

Qiao Qiao’s face flushed instantly.

The middle-aged man raised his head at once and saw Qiao Qiao. His face was shrouded in shadow, his expression unreadable.

“Girl, come here!”

He waved his pipe, his voice louder than usual.

Qiao Qiao, cheeks burning, wanted to slip away but didn’t dare. She shuffled step by step toward him, head bowed.

The man swung his pipe high, making Qiao Qiao tense with nerves—Mingke’s heart clenched as well.

But the pipe only came down lightly, tapping Qiao Qiao’s head as he spoke gruffly, “Do you know what time it is? Hurry up and eat—your aunt is waiting, isn’t she?”

“Mm.” Qiao Qiao looked up in surprise, her eyes sparkling.

But as she stepped through the door, she hesitated, remembering the woman inside. Mingke, worried, took a step forward behind her.

The man glared at Mingke, exhaling smoke. “What are you doing here, boy? No need to meddle. The women run things at home—I run them.”

He took a deep drag, then knocked his pipe on the threshold, his voice both low-key and commanding.

“No one in this family will let our girl be wronged.”

“Understood,” Mingke replied, delighted.

Qiao Qiao’s steps inside grew lighter.

Watching her disappear into the inner room, Mingke bade the man farewell and turned to leave.

“Hold on, boy.” The man suddenly called him back.

Mingke turned, the man shaking his pipe at him.

“Come by and keep Qiao Qiao company when you can—apart from you, the girl has no friends. Let her go out and play, but—”

He pointed the pipe at Mingke, his voice gruff.

“You need my permission. If you ever dare sneak off with my girl again, I’ll break your legs.”

“Yes, Uncle, I promise I will,” Mingke answered eagerly.

“That’s all. Off you go,” the man waved him off, impatience clear.

No father wants to show a kind face to a young boy who might steal his daughter away.

Even if that boy is only ten—but damn it, at ten he already dared sneak off with his girl right before his eyes.

What would happen in the future!

At the thought, the usually steady, taciturn man unconsciously knocked his pipe harder, the sound ringing out sharply.

He was more than a little agitated.

Mingke ran home in high spirits, humming a tune.

At his own gate, he swung it open and called toward the bamboo cottage, “Uncle, I’m back!”

He shut the gate, then saw his uncle sitting beneath the tree in the yard, looking up at him. In the darkness, the uncle’s usually calm eyes seemed brighter than ever.

No candlelight burned in the yard, only a faint glow from the cottage, which was why Mingke hadn’t noticed him at first.

Somehow, Mingke sensed what his uncle was waiting for.

“Uncle.” Mingke looked at Sword Uncle with clear, determined eyes. “I want to accept the training. I want to know the secrets, even if they’re painful or hard to accept.”

“You’re sure?” Sword Uncle asked.

“Yes.” Mingke’s voice held no hesitation.

“Good. Training begins tomorrow. Be ready.” Sword Uncle’s tone was as calm as ever, but in the shadows, a faint, involuntary smile lifted the corner of his mouth.

“How will the training goals and secrets be counted?” Mingke asked.

He had to be certain. Though his uncle wasn’t the type to trick him, if he let his guard down and got caught in a trap, he’d have no grounds to complain.

“It’s simple. There are three types of training, each with several goals. For every goal you reach, I’ll tell you a secret.”

He paused.

“When you reach the first goal, I’ll tell you what hidden puzzle lay within that trial.”

Mingke’s eyes shone. In his excitement, he forgot all about the pain that training might bring—he could only think of the joy of learning secrets.

“What’s the training?” Mingke asked, curious and expectant.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Sword Uncle replied.

“All right,” Mingke said, a bit disappointed, but his good mood quickly returned, and he smiled again.

“Uncle, have you had dinner?”

“Yes.”

“So where’s the leftovers?”

“There aren’t any,” Sword Uncle replied.

“Why?” Mingke rubbed his rumbling stomach, feeling a little wronged.

“When the sun was about to set, your Aunt Long saw you carrying a girl around town. She figured you wouldn’t be back for dinner,” Sword Uncle said, still utterly deadpan.

“Ah?” Mingke blushed. “Still, I need to eat, don’t I?”

Well, nothing could ruin his good mood tonight.

“Never mind. I’ll go cook for myself.”

Mingke grinned. He spread his feet in the yard and declared grandly, “Tomorrow, I will train hard and soon become the strongest man in this town!”

“It’s just training, not cultivation,” Sword Uncle quietly corrected him, cutting his ambitions in half.

“And it won’t be soon.”

He tilted his head, calculating.

“Well, still fairly soon. In two or three years, you’ll probably reach the first goal and learn the first answer.”

“Ahem.” Mingke felt as if he’d been doused with cold water; all his grand ambition suddenly fizzled.

He looked at his uncle dispiritedly.

“Uncle, you could have waited until tomorrow to tell me that—just like the training.”

“You were too happy,” Sword Uncle said mildly. “I was afraid you’d be too excited to sleep and wouldn’t wake up early tomorrow.”

“Pfft.” Mingke almost choked.

“Wait, that’s not right.”

He crept over to Sword Uncle’s wheelchair, grinning mischievously and studying his uncle’s face.

“Uncle, are you happy?”

“No,” Sword Uncle turned his face aside.

“Hmph, liar. Whenever you’re happy, you start telling deadpan jokes—though your jokes are only cold, never funny.”

Mingke teased him, and seeing his uncle a little embarrassed, he finally stopped and said cheerfully, “All right, I’ll stop. I need to cook.”

Sword Uncle watched Mingke head toward the kitchen, lost in thought.

Could he really be happy? Happy to be raising a boy who’d grow up just like himself?

Surely not.

At the kitchen door, Mingke heard Sword Uncle suddenly call out, as if remembering something.

“There’s no food at home.

The meal is at your Aunt Long’s house.

You didn’t come back to cook, so I ate over there.”

Mingke looked back helplessly, tilting his head at his uncle.

“Uncle, your jokes are really cold.”

A happy uncle was a sly one.

But if Uncle was this happy, maybe his decision had been right after all.

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