Chapter 17: A Warm Light in the Ruined House Illuminates the Path Ahead

A few nights later…

Caught in the mountains by an unexpected heavy snow and worried about Xiuwai, Guilan Shen braved the storm to return home.

Halfway through, her consciousness began to slip away in the biting cold wind. Her body stiffened; even her breath felt as if it had frozen solid.

In a daze, she glimpsed a scene from her past life—her own son’s cold face as he locked her out of the Shen family home, leaving her curled up and shivering in the snow until she drew her last breath.

Was she destined to die again in front of this broken house?

Just as she was about to give up, a pair of large hands suddenly scooped her out of the snow.

Those hands were rough but burning hot, like embers searing into her freezing skin.

Then she was pulled into a man’s embrace.

He was broad-shouldered and strong-backed, wrapping both her and Xiuwai tightly in a cloak that blocked out every bit of wind.

Their footsteps crunched loudly on the snow, each step breaking the icy crust beneath—awakening the flickering beat of her heart.

“Still alive…”

His voice was low and hoarse, like gravel scraping stone.

“…you can’t freeze to death again.”

That was the last thing she heard before losing consciousness.

When she opened her eyes, the wind had ceased, and the room was warm.

The fire crackled in the corner, casting a flickering orange glow on the walls, illuminating a few skinned mountain hares and a gleaming gray mink pelt hanging from the beam.

She suddenly sat up and looked down at Xiuwai in her arms.

The child was bundled in a thick leather jacket, cheeks rosy, breathing steadily, the fever broken.

The hole in the roof was tightly stuffed with thatch—no snow could get in.

Who had done this?

Just then, the door curtain was lifted, and a gust of cold wind swept inside, carrying snowflakes.

Changshan Gu bent down and entered, carrying a bundle of firewood on his shoulder. The bandages over the wound on his back had been freshly changed, neat and clean.

He stacked the wood in the corner, moving steadily and silently, then turned to leave without a word.

“Stop!” Guilan Shen hurried forward, blocking his way, her voice trembling. “Why did you save me? This isn’t the first time!”

Gu Changshan paused, neither turning back nor speaking.

The room fell silent except for the fire’s crackle.

After a long moment, he finally raised his hand, unfastened the leather pouch at his waist, and poured out three dried flatbreads and a small package wrapped in oiled paper.

“Mountain folk can’t bear to see a life wasted,” he said quietly, still not meeting her eyes.

Guilan Shen reached out to take the offerings; her fingertips brushed his palm—calloused and hard as tree bark.

Her mind jolted: the iron chain that had fallen from him that night bore the words “Night Patrol Guard.”

These hands were not those of a mere hunter.

Was he a deserter?

A fugitive slave wanted by the court?

Or perhaps… someone who had lost his post and fled into the mountains long ago?

Her heart raced as she clutched the still-warm food, her throat tightening, unable to utter a word.

The next day, the snow stopped. The sunlight reflected off the snow, blindingly white.

But the village’s quiet was soon shattered by a sharp scream.

“Guilan Shen! You shameless woman, come out!” Mrs. Zhang stood with arms akimbo, flanked by several gossiping women, shouting loud enough for the whole village to hear. “A widow daring to bring a wild man home overnight? What shameful things have you done? You’ve disgraced the Shen family! Hurry to the ancestral hall to receive your punishment!”

Villagers gathered, pointing at the newly repaired roof of her house.

“Tsk, that Shen woman has quite the nerve.”

“That Gu the hunter is tall and strong, but who knows what happened last night…”

“Nothing clear or decent—how will she ever marry now?”

The door creaked open.

Guilan Shen stepped out, holding Xiuwai, her face calm and eyes clear, showing none of the panic Mrs. Zhang expected.

Ignoring the insults, she walked to the stone platform in the courtyard, brushed aside the snow, and pulled a gray mink pelt from her pouch. With a swift motion, she spread it out.

Sunlight caught the fur, making it gleam like silver satin. The entire street was dumbstruck.

“This,” she said softly but clearly, “I exchanged with Brother Gu for three embroidered handkerchiefs of Winter Hunt. Fair and square, no deception for young or old. This mink pelt is his thanks for saving me and my daughter, and payment for repairing the roof.”

She fixed Mrs. Zhang with a steady gaze, enunciating each word: “He repaired my roof—not my life. My life, Guilan Shen’s life, I bear myself!”

Having spoken, she hugged Xiuwai close, straightened her back, and declared loudly: “From today on, I, Guilan Shen, with my daughter Xiuwai, stand on our own feet! No reliance on men or family! Under my roof, only my own sky is recognized!”

The crowd fell silent.

Mrs. Zhang’s face turned pale and then flushed, mouth agape, unable to reply.

That night, after the rumors died down somewhat, old Granny Lin came leaning on her cane.

In front of several neighbors, she pointed at Mrs. Zhang and scolded, “What law forbids a widow from living on her own? You forced a daughter-in-law to death once—wasn’t that enough? Now you want to kill a second?”

Granny Lin’s words carried weight in the village; once she spoke, the onlookers shrank back and dispersed.

Late at night, Little Stone sneaked to her window and slipped a crumpled note through the door crack.

Guilan Shen picked it up, reading by lamplight the shaky handwriting: “Sister Guilan, Mountain Uncle hasn’t left. He comes every night to check your roof, worried it might collapse again. I’ve seen him several times.”

Clutching the note, she pushed the window open a crack.

Under the moonlight, a trail of footprints circled her yard, coming from the woods and returning again.

The size and stride of the prints—she recognized them.

So he had been here all along.

Guilan Shen covered her mouth, tears streaming down.

Not bitter tears, but warm—like ice melting, her heart coming back to life.

She blew out the lamp, re-stretched her embroidery frame, and started a new piece called “Plum Blossoms Reflecting Snow.”

She picked up a tuft of gray mink fur left by Gu Changshan, threaded the needle, and embroidered the softest stroke at the heart of the plum blossom.

“If you must hide in the mountains, then I’ll weave your light into the world,” she whispered to the night outside the window.

But peace lasted only a few days before trouble returned.

Landlord Zhang sent two henchmen, swaggering into her courtyard, demanding the “Hundred Butterflies Through Flowers” embroidery—as a birthday gift for the county magistrate.

“Our master says,” the leader sneered, “if the birthday banquet is delayed, your daughter Xiuwai will enter the manor as a concubine to repay debts.”

Guilan Shen held Xiuwai tighter, her fingers clenched, a cold gleam flashing in her eyes.

She did not lash out but stared at them calmly, saying, “I can embroider the picture.”

The henchmen laughed, thinking she had given in.

“But,” she shifted tone, “such a gift for the county magistrate must be presented by my own hand. If the magistrate praises it, all will know—my daughter is born for more than slavery or servitude.”

The henchmen paused, then sneered, “Fine, go ahead. When you’re at the county office, whether you come back whole or broken, it’s our master’s call.”

“Agreed,” Guilan Shen nodded, voice steady.

That night, the wind and snow returned, tapping on the window.

She settled Xiuwai to sleep, then sat by the lamp, spreading a bolt of plain silk.

The firelight illuminated her face, focused and sharp as if carved in stone.

She did not rest; the silver needle danced between her fingers.

Using gray mink fur for butterfly wings and gold thread to outline the stamens.

One night, two nights…

By dawn of the third day, the wind still cut sharply through the air.

But her eyes burned with fire.

Sleepless for two nights, bloodshot eyes, fingers rubbed raw and nearly broken.

The embroidery needle seemed alive, weaving across the silk.

She had wagered the century-old Shen family embroidery craft—and her daughter’s fate.

The treasured mink fur, a memento left by her late husband, she had cut.

The last precious gold thread from her dowry, she had used.

At first light, the “Mink Fur Golden Butterfly Playing Among Flowers” was complete.

The golden butterflies seemed vivid and lifelike, their fur trembling slightly in the light, as if ready to take flight at any moment.

Guilan Shen splashed cold well water on her face to banish fatigue, wrapped the embroidery carefully, and set off for the county office.

“Bang!” The gavel struck.

“Who stands before the court?”

She knelt, holding the embroidery high: “Commoner Guilan Shen, presents a rare treasure to Your Honor!”

Landlord Zhang stood smugly nearby, awaiting her submission.

But the magistrate instructed the clerk to receive the piece.

As the white cloth was peeled away layer by layer, revealing the golden butterflies, the courtroom fell utterly silent.

The magistrate suddenly rose, strode down from the bench, and reached out to lightly touch the embroidery, feeling the nearly lifelike butterfly wings.

“Bang!” He slammed the desk. “Masterpiece of divine craftsmanship! Speak! Who embroidered this?!”

Landlord Zhang attempted to speak, but Guilan Shen cut in, her words clear and firm:

“Your Honor, I embroidered it. Zhang Landlord coveted my little girl, trying to force her into concubinage. I could not bear my daughter’s life ruined, so I poured all my heart into this work—to prove to Your Honor that a Shen daughter deserves an honorable marriage, not to be a plaything for the powerful.”

She raised her head and met the magistrate’s gaze like a blade: “I only ask for justice to protect my daughter’s purity.”

The magistrate’s eyes flashed lightning as he scanned between her and Zhang, understanding immediately.

“Shameless Zhang Dewang!” he thundered, “You present rare treasures, and I thought you a good man, but you use them to coerce! Such an embroiderer is no one you can mistreat! Seize him!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Drag Zhang Dewang out! If he dares harass the Shen mother and daughter again, charge him with forcible seizure of a commoner woman!”

Zhang was hauled away, face ashen and eyes burning with hatred toward Guilan Shen.

The magistrate helped her to her feet gently. “This embroidery will be preserved in the county treasury. Ten taels of silver as reward, and the title plaque ‘Skillful and Wise Woman’ will be delivered today. With this plaque, who dares harm you?”

That very night, the gilded plaque hung above her door.

Xiuwai sobbed, burying her face in her mother’s arms.

Guilan Shen stroked her daughter’s hair, gazing out at the snowy ground—the footprints of those who came to congratulate, those who came to watch, and those who had left.

She whispered, “With one needle, I have kept the wolves at bay. From now on, my daughter will marry only for love.”

No sooner had she spoken than a sharp knock sounded at the door.

Opening it, she found the county clerk standing there, beaming, holding an exquisitely crafted brocade box.

“Madam Shen, congratulations!” he bowed. “The magistrate praises your skill endlessly. There is a great opportunity at hand—would you dare to take up the needle once more?”