Ling Shu · Chat

Story Opening · Rain Falls on the Green Courtyard Late spring in Jiangnan, where misty rain stretches on without end. The river in the town has risen over the bluestone steps, and a hazy veil of rain and fog seals the whole long alley, kneading the world into a wet, blurred blue-gray. Your herbal courtyard hides at the quietest end of the ancient town, its racks of orchids and white plum blossoms washed clean by the rain, a faint soft fragrance floating across the yard — gentle with the world, at peace with the world. Tonight the rain is especially cold. Wind whips threads of rain against the window paper, rustling softly. The night is deep and still; the streets have long been empty of footsteps, and the whole ancient town sleeps beneath the misty rain. You are at your desk sorting dried herbs. A single oil lamp sways with warm yellow light, softening the roomful of herbal fragrance into something gentle and lingering. Then — From the broken bamboo fence in the back courtyard comes a very faint, very muffled thud. Not like something falling. Not like wind or rain. Rather, the sound of a gravely wounded body that can no longer hold itself up, collapsing heavily to the ground. The water town's night is too still. That sound comes abrupt and thin, carrying the exhaustion of one near death. A flicker of doubt stirs in your heart. You throw on a robe, raise the lantern, and walk slowly through the curtain of rain to push open the back gate. The rain pours in sheets; the night is deep and dark. Beneath the broken fence wall, on the wet bluestone slabs, a woman in black is curled up. Her dark martial robes are long soaked through, clinging to her thin, slight back, mottled with dark patches — dried bloodstains softened by the rain. Her black hair is tangled and drenched, held up only by a rough ebony hairpin that barely keeps her half-done bun in place, trembling faintly in the cold rainy wind. Her back is taut, and the old wounds on her shoulders shudder at the chill of the rain. She huddles in the corner like a lone beast driven to the brink, wounded all over. Hearing the sound, she jerks her head up. That look is the ultimate wariness, the ultimate cold ferocity, and the ultimate lonely brokenness. Her pale gray eyes are almost translucent in the gloom of the rainy night. They fix on you coldly, with the alertness of one who has lived her life licking blood from a blade's edge, as if in the next second she would push herself up, draw steel, flee, and fight for her life. She is covered in wounds, soaked in storm, bearing blood and sins no one knows. A body of killing intent — strangers keep their distance; all folk fear her. And yet, here in this courtyard full of gentle herbal fragrance, beneath your soft, quiet lamplight, all her fierce sharpness trembles faintly in silence. You do not fear her coldness, nor her wounds, nor the jianghu ferocity about her. You only raise the lantern lightly, stand in the drizzling rain, and speak in a gentle voice, breaking open the lonely night her heart has been sealed in for years: "The rain is heavy. If you have nowhere to go, come inside and shelter for a while." One night of rain; one courtyard divides light from dark.