Chapter 35: A Motherless Child Can Still Stand Tall

The force was terrifyingly strong. A’Ruo felt as if she had slammed into a wall of burning iron, her bones about to snap under the pressure.

The man’s body was scorching hot, mixed with the scent of blood and medicine, suffocating her.

Yet she neither cried out nor struggled.

The more terrifying it was, the clearer her mind became.

She could hear his teeth chattering, feel his body trembling—this man wasn’t trying to harm her; he was barely holding on.

“Gui Lan…” he rasped out a few broken words, like a dying man’s last plea, “The… map… is with me… don’t let them… take it…”

Gui Lan?

A’Ruo’s heart sank.

She had never heard that name before.

But the word “map”—she understood it clearly.

“Don’t panic,” she steadied her voice with effort, trying to sound calm. She felt his grip tighten, like a drowning man clutching a lifeline.

“The map’s with me. No one can take it. You’re safe now.”

As soon as she spoke, the iron-like arm loosened slightly.

The man gasped for air, his forehead pressed against her shoulder, sweat soaking through her clothes.

His mind was clouded, relying solely on instinct to hang on.

Seizing the moment, A’Ruo raised her hand—not to push him away but to gently pat his back.

His back was as hard as stone, covered in scars—new ones pressing over old ones, rough even through his clothing.

This was no ordinary mountain man’s body.

“Listen to me,” she slowed her voice, coaxing like a child, “I’m not Gui Lan. My name is A’Ruo. You’re badly hurt and need to rest.”

“A’Ruo…” he murmured the unfamiliar name, as if it was the last straw breaking him.

His whole body went limp and collapsed straight down.

A’Ruo let out a muffled grunt, forced back several steps, her back hitting the earthen wall just in time to stay upright.

Gritting her teeth, she half-dragged, half-carried him back to the tattered bed.

The firelight flickered, revealing his face—pale as paper, features sharp and tense, brows furrowed, sweat clinging to his eyelashes.

A’Ruo, panting, suddenly realized her own back was soaked with sweat as well.

She looked down at his clenched fists, then glanced at a bulge at his waist—and her heart skipped a beat.

The map was on him.

Those “they” were after this—and deadly serious.

The person she saved was a huge problem.

At the village entrance, the Shen family embroidery workshop told a different story.

It was the first time in his life Shen Yongzhi had held a broom, and it felt far heavier than a brush. Mechanically, he swept the packed snow before the door.

The wind cut at his uncalloused hands like knives, his fingers red and numb from the cold.

Even harder to endure were the eyes around him.

“Isn’t that the Shen family’s top scholar? Why is he sweeping the ground now?”

“I heard he argued with the teacher at the clan school and was kicked out! His mother’s harsh—punishing her own son with chores!”

“Serves him right! Always looked down on everyone else, now he’s covered in mud too!”

Each whispered jab burned on Shen Yongzhi’s cheeks.

He wanted to throw away the broom and curse at them.

But when he thought of his mother’s calm eyes as she handed him porridge, and his little sister tiptoeing to cover him with a blanket, he couldn’t move.

Shame, anger, resentment—all clogged in his chest, turning into a sour bitterness he couldn’t swallow or spit out.

He bit his lip, pouring all his strength into the broom, wishing he could sweep the ground clean through, burying his pride along with it.

“Hey, isn’t that Mrs. Wang? Not gossiping by the river today, but hanging around my embroidery shop?” a cold voice cut through.

Everyone turned; Shen Guilan stood in the doorway, holding a wooden ruler, her gaze sharp as a blade aimed at the fiercest of the women.

Mrs. Wang paled and forced a dry laugh. “Sister Guilan, you must be joking. I was just passing by…”

“My threshold is thin; your golden words might break it,” Shen Guilan said calmly, but her words were icy. “If there’s nothing else, best you take another route. Otherwise, if your husband’s unpaid tavern debts in town slip to butcher Liu’s ears, don’t blame me.”

Mrs. Wang’s face flushed, like a dog with its tail stepped on, and she hurriedly dragged the others away.

The farce ended with three words, silencing the crowd.

Shen Guilan didn’t glance at Shen Yongzhi but turned to her apprentice: “Look carefully. Su embroidery hinges on ‘fineness.’ The threads must be evenly separated, the needle steady. One silk thread can be split into eight, sixteen, even thirty-two strands. The finer the thread, the more vivid the embroidery.”

Shen Yongzhi froze.

He looked up at his mother’s hands spinning thread in the light, at her focused profile, and somewhere deep inside, a crack split open.

This woman—his mother—was completely different from the weak woman in his memory who only knew how to cook and read her husband’s moods.

She possessed a strength he did not understand; no matter how fierce the wind, it had to detour around her.

By evening, Shen Yongzhi finally finished sweeping all the snow around the embroidery shop.

Dragging his body, he collected his wage—two bowls of hot rice and a bowl of clear soup.

Xiu Wei ran over with a bowl, took a piece of pickled vegetable from her own, and whispered, “Brother, Mother said you’ll sleep in the woodshed tonight.”

Shen Yongzhi’s hand tightened, nearly crushing the bowl.

The woodshed?

A scholar sleeping among firewood?

Humiliation surged up again.

But he said nothing, only took the pickled vegetable and lowered his head to eat ravenously.

This meal was the roughest he’d ever had, yet it was the first time he truly tasted the warmth of food.

Late at night, the snow glowed faintly blue.

Shen Guilan stood under the porch, watching her son’s bowed back as he ate, her gaze deep and thoughtful.

She ignored her apprentice tidying tools, instead staring toward the back mountain—where a wisp of cooking smoke drifted into the dark sky.

In the woodshed, Shen Yongzhi shivered with cold, but his shoulders felt warm—the old cloth shoes his mother had placed beneath his head.

His eyes stung as he pulled out the “Declaration of Independence” from his pocket. By the moonlight sneaking through the door crack, he bit his finger and pressed a bloody seal beneath the words “No dependence on parents.”

After the moon set, outside the small mountain cabin.

Gu Changshan was able to rise and walk, the scab on his shoulder healing. He carried his bundle and nodded farewell to A’Ruo.

Standing at the doorway, A’Ruo suddenly spoke, “Could you… take me outside to see the world?”

Her voice was soft, but her eyes shone with startling clarity.

Gu Changshan hesitated.

He hadn’t failed to notice these past days—the hesitation when she handed him medicine, the furtive glances when she tended the fire, the moments of silence as if wanting to say something but holding back—it was affection.

He was silent a moment, then shook his head. “I already have a wife. Next time, I’ll bring her to thank you.”

A’Ruo said nothing more, only bowed her head and smiled faintly, as if nothing had happened.

Gu Changshan turned and strode down the mountain, his steps firm.

Behind him, the smoke from the cabin slowly dissipated into the sky.