Realizing he had caused a serious accident, even the usually calm Shurui panicked. Forcing himself to regain composure, he dismounted, legs trembling, and approached cautiously, kneeling beside the man without touching him carelessly.
A quick inspection showed no large wounds or visible fractures. His legs seemed intact; to the naked eye, nothing appeared broken. He exhaled slightly, then carefully helped the man upright.
The man, struck by the cart, was young, with a striking, austere face—slender brows, high nose, thin lips, and strong bone structure, though not coarse.
From his clothing, he appeared to be a martial artist. He wore black sleeves tied at the wrists, with a heavy long sword strapped to his lower back. The blade, though sheathed, was nearly the length of Shurui’s arm and quite broad.
Shurui had rarely seen someone like this. His unusual appearance gave off an instinctive sense of danger.
His heart was thudding as he carefully swept his hand through the young man’s hair, from forehead down to the nape of the neck. Seeing no marks of a criminal brand or gang tattoo, he relaxed slightly.
He tried calling out to the man, but no response came. He had no way of knowing how badly the youth was hurt, and being far from any village or inn made the situation especially tricky. After a moment’s thought, Shurui resolved to place the man on the cart.
Recalling the prefectural maps, he knew there was a relay station about twenty li ahead. There he could find lodging and rest; some stations even had physicians on hand. If not, he could have the station master fetch one—far quicker than searching blind in unfamiliar territory.
The youth was tall but lean, seemingly light—but to Shurui’s surprise, he proved heavy. Shurui tried lifting him, but could barely move a step. Sweat broke out across his back. Finally, he set the man down, removed the sword from his back, and tried again. The absence of the sword alone made the task significantly easier, and with great effort, he managed to get the youth onto the cart.
Shurui wiped his brow, unsettled by the situation. But the matter was done; there was no time for fretting. He had to push forward.
The donkey cart raced toward the relay station. The youth lay silently, but his mind was chaotic, memories surfacing in a jumble:
—Childhood in a poor household, overhearing his middle-aged uncle plead for a child to be adopted.
—Years of harsh martial training in various schools.
—Serving the nobility in Kyoto, traveling through wind and rain.
Six months ago, he had suffered a severe injury; since then, his mind had been foggy, often forgetting things. Many physicians advised only rest. Recently, his master had summoned him, offering a generous reward for his loyal and careful service. He had also received word from home: his father had passed the imperial exams, his younger brother excelled, and the family was well—he could safely return to recuperate.
His mind whirled, tumultuous, until suddenly all memories—good and bad—faded, leaving an unprecedented calm.
——
By afternoon, the sun beat down, the heat radiating off the ground. Shurui stood tensely in the room, eyes following the old physician’s every move. The air was stifling; though his face appeared calm, his mind churned with anxiety.
When the physician withdrew his hands, Shurui hurried forward. “Doctor, is he badly hurt?”
“The young man is strong, pulse steady—nothing serious. Only surface wounds; some ointment should do. In a few days, he’ll be fine.”
Relief washed over Shurui, as if a heavy stone had dropped from his chest. Yet seeing the youth’s closed eyes, he worried: “If the injuries are minor, why is he unconscious? When will he wake?”
“His occiput was struck. Though the skull is hard, it’s vulnerable. I’ve prescribed medicine; with it, he’ll recover.”
Shurui thanked the doctor repeatedly and inquired about aftercare before returning. With the prescription in hand, he noted that two ingredients were unavailable at the relay station—they would require a trip to the county seat. Just as he pondered this, he looked up and saw the youth’s eyes open.
The young man’s eyes were narrow, with thin lids, lending him a striking, cold beauty.
“You’re awake!” Shurui’s eyes brightened. He hurried to the bedside, delighted that the doctor’s stimulant hadn’t been needed.
The youth surveyed Shurui carefully: a dark-skinned, pockmarked face, a prominent mole above the lip. He scanned the man twice, trying to recall who he was, but his mind remained a haze.
“…Who are you? Where am I?”
“This is Anping Relay Station. Earlier, a doctor came—said you hit your head on a roadside stone and have some abrasions.”
Shurui withheld his identity for now, calmly recounting the injuries. “How does your body feel? If uneasy, we can have the doctor check again.”
The youth sat up, tested his limbs, and found no major injuries—but his mind was still blank. Frowning, he pressed a hand to his head. “How am I lying here? I… can’t remember anything.”
Shurui paused, noting the genuine confusion on his face. Could this be a trick? “Forgetting everything” was usually something seen in low-tier plays. Yet the physician’s diagnosis had been clear—only minor injuries. The youth’s sudden amnesia seemed suspicious.
But the young man’s gaze was vacant, expression sincere. Even the cleverest deception could appear genuine, but Shurui decided to test him.
Tilting his head, he feigned concern. “You really can’t remember? Not even who I am?”
The youth scrutinized him again, still seeing a stranger. Shurui raised an eyebrow, then sighed and sat on the edge of the bed.
“I admit my fault—spooked the donkey, caused you to fall, and even got kicked. We’re practically… married; there’s no need to quarrel. I lower my head to you—so don’t frighten me with tricks.”
“…Married.”
The youth repeated the word, subconsciously comforted by the notion of a close relationship. For someone just awakening from amnesia, the idea brought security.
Shurui squinted, studying him closely. “You think that’s wrong?”
The youth said nothing, straining to recall, but only pain and emptiness returned. His brows furrowed.
Shurui pressed further. “You’re faking because I’m ugly and you don’t want to acknowledge me, right?”
“No.”
The youth looked up, frowning, offended by the accusation. He pressed his temple, but nothing came—his headache worsened.
Shurui was puzzled. Despite being suddenly recognized as a husband by an unattractive young man after an accident, the handsome youth endured it without protest. Perhaps he truly had lost his memory.
Just as Shurui considered how to proceed, the youth’s vacant eyes met his. “I’m hungry.”
The tone was familiar, trusting, as if Shurui were family.
“…”
Shurui stared, unsure how to respond. He hadn’t eaten either, caught up in rushing, seeing the doctor, and tending the youth.
He brought a cup of warm water to the bedside. “It’s not mealtime yet. Rest for a bit; I’ll see what food is available.”
“Mm.”
Afternoon lingered; the inn had little ready to eat. The cook offered some cold, hard flatbreads, but Shurui judged them unsuitable.
Hearing fisherwomen calling outside, he changed plans. Nearby villagers had returned from the sea, selling fresh seafood—fish, shellfish, kelp—still alive. Shurui purchased some for a few coins, enough for himself and as thanks to the inn staff and doctor.
He borrowed a pot, made a stack of pancakes, and simmered a small fish soup.
As he prepared the meal, he pondered the youth. No matter how convincing the act, Shurui doubted true amnesia existed. Still, he couldn’t discern the youth’s intent.
After a while, he decided it was better to confront him directly. At least if the youth intended deception, he could settle it.
Shurui delivered some pancakes to the staff, then carried a tray of fish soup and remaining pancakes back to the room.
Just outside the door, he heard a rush of slicing air—“swish, swish, whoosh.” His heart leapt; could someone be attacking in broad daylight?
“Crash!” Shurui shoved the door open—only to see a large, cold steel blade swinging straight at him.
He had never seen a scene like this. His hands went weak, and the tray of soup and pancakes slipped from his grasp.
Just as he feared the liquid would spill everywhere, the broad cold blade—surprisingly agile—twisted in midair, catching the soup and pancakes perfectly. Not a drop was lost.
“You’re alright?”
The youth set the food on the table and hurried to ask after Shurui.
Shurui’s heart thudded violently; he let out a long breath. “What are you doing in here?! I thought it was a thief!”
“I saw the sword by your bed while getting water. When I heard the door break, I thought it was an attacker—didn’t realize it was you.”
The youth stood before Shurui, explaining, then couldn’t help asking, “This sword is mine? Very handy… I used to practice martial arts?”
Shurui eyed him suspiciously but didn’t answer. “First, eat.”
The youth didn’t press further and sheathed the sword, clearly quite hungry. The soup, creamy white, was drunk quickly, every drop gone. Shurui then pushed over a seafood pancake.
The golden pancake was crisp outside yet soft within, filled with bits of shellfish, clams, and shrimp. The youth devoured five in a single sitting.
Seeing his appetite, Shurui guessed the youth’s spirits were not bad. Seizing the opportunity, he decided to speak plainly.
“I’ll be honest. I only said those things before to gauge your reaction—my mind wandered. Whatever compensation you want, just say it. We can negotiate. Going in circles is troublesome. Your injuries were caused by my donkey; I must take responsibility.”
The youth wiped his mouth, confused.
They stared at each other, squinting as if trying to spot a flaw. Finally, the youth asked, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t know you. On the road, my donkey lost control and struck you.”
“Now that’s clear, why keep pretending? This game has gone on long enough. Whatever you want, just speak. If I can, I will; if not, the authorities will decide.”
Shurui had no intention of going to court; his words were meant to intimidate. Settling privately was far easier, especially since the youth was not seriously injured.
The youth studied Shurui, frowning. After a long pause, he said, “I just… can’t remember anything. I’m otherwise fine, same as before.”
Shurui braced himself for a demand or complaint—but none came. He sighed, “I’ve told you, I don’t know you!”
“Then why cook for me?”
“This soup and pancakes happen to be my favorites.”
Shurui blinked. This composed, handsome youth—how could he say such a thing and still claim amnesia?
“My head injury… yet you remember what you like to eat?” Shurui asked, baffled.
“I don’t recall, but having eaten so much, I must like it.”
“Besides having a big appetite… what else could it be?”
The youth frowned, a trace of emotion surfacing.
“Then I won’t eat what you make next time.”
“Who said there will be a next time!”
The youth suddenly stood. Though lean, his tall, straight posture and cold expression in the shadows made him imposing. Shurui’s heart tightened—if the youth attacked, his chances were slim. As he scanned for an escape, a firm, righteous voice fell from above:
“Even as a married couple, I was injured, don’t recognize you, and yet you show no concern! Earlier, you acted like it was none of your business. How can someone be so heartless?”
Shurui froze. Never before had he been so cornered by reason. Even when wronged by the Bai family, he could argue or stay silent at will—but now, words failed him completely.
At that moment, a relay station attendant knocked, saying:
“Folks say couples argue at the head of the bed and reconcile at the foot. I brought a pot of chrysanthemum tea to ease the fire.”
“Please forgive him, sir. Earlier, you were unconscious and injured, and he rushed you to the station, even making soup himself. He may be clumsy with words, but he cares.”
Shurui’s head ached at the words of reconciliation. He stopped arguing and drank a large bowl of tea. Before it reached his throat, a steady hand guided the liquid gently into him.
He looked up to see a pair of clear, puzzled eyes filled with concern. He set the bowl down, muttering, “Your brain must’ve really been knocked about.”
He left the room in large strides, determined to fetch the doctor for a proper check.