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“With this useless body I can perform useful acts.
How lucky is that.”
Zhou Zishu
Zhou Zishu will never admit it out loud, but he isn’t immune to flattery. Along with his illusions, it has been his desire to be the best, to be valued for his talents that has allowed Prince Jin to use him as his personal weapon for so long. But no matter how vain he might be, Zhou Zishu is also a reasonable man. Wen Kexing can keep singing praises to his good looks as much as he wants, yet it doesn’t bring the same rush of pleasure as well-deserved commendations for a perfectly executed job. Because Wen Kexing’s admiration is erroneous.
Zhou Zishu is well aware he might appear beautiful—he knows how to, and it has been helpful in his spying business, sometimes just as much as his martial arts. But in truth, he isn’t beautiful at all.
When other people, women or men, ogle him with open interest, it’s a good thing, unless he wants to remain unnoticed. It’s a mistake on their part he can exploit to his benefit. They fall for his delicate features and a lean body and never get to see what’s hidden beneath his clothes, of which the nail marks aren’t the worst. But it’s their own fault if they assume things too eagerly. He’s used to giving others partial truth, used to wearing masks; it even feels satisfying when he succeeds in his deception.
When it’s Wen Kexing looking at him like that, it’s somehow different. Worse. There’s always a tug of uneasiness in Zhou Zishu’s chest whenever it happens. At first, he hasn’t given it a thought. He’s just rebuffed Wen Kexing’s flowery compliments like he’d parry a strike, not entirely sure whether they have been sincere or not. But Wen Kexing does seem to consider him attractive, that much is obvious by now. He never misses a chance to say how beautiful Zhou Zishu is and to admire his butterfly shoulder blades…
…But that’s simply because he doesn’t know—Zhou Zishu’s back is a mess of scars. They don’t look like honorable battle marks, like the neat slashes he has on his chest. These are burns, mostly. Zhou Zishu has suspected Wen Kexing might get a glimpse of them when he’s sucked the poison from the wound on his shoulder, but clearly, he hasn’t, given that his poetic declarations haven’t stopped.
It would have been honest to tell him, to show him. It would have turned Wen Kexing off, and wouldn’t it be a good thing if he stopped obsessing over a dying man? But Zhou Zishu has been lingering, on and on, until it has become a secret, not just something to say in passing.
Living in close quarters doesn’t combine well with keeping secrets, though. When they settle in Four Seasons Manor, it doesn’t take long for Wen Kexing to catch him unawares when he’s partly naked. Fortunately, he’s dressed from the waist down. Unfortunately, from the waist up, he isn’t.
His senses might fail him, one after another, but he does hear how Wen Kexing takes in a breath as he freezes on the threshold.
“I am sorry to have ruined your perception of me as a peerless beauty,” Zhou Zishu says mockingly, to cover the uneasiness he feels, and turns to face him, donning a fresh undershirt he’s planning to sleep in.
“How—” Wen Kexing asks.
And why not tell him? It’s a pathetic story, really. Just like the scars themselves, it also might show Wen Kexing his true self, and won’t it be for the best?
“It was…an exchange for an opportunity,” he says.
When he’s given a bitter speech about treasures, divine weapons, and secret martial arts scrolls that cause people to scramble for them, he’s known too well what he’s been talking about. Not just once, he’s had to acquire something like that for Prince Jin. Not because they both have ever believed such things really make a man invincible. But possessing them could be useful, since others might be convinced otherwise. Prince Jin has considered them valuable as tokens of power. Zhou Zishu has considered it his duty to follow Prince Jin’s command.
…And so it happened, to Zhou Zishu’s dismay, that instead of investigating a possible unrest in Lu, he had to survey a well-guarded manor, a maze of inner courtyards, with a dishonorable intention to get in and steal a certain drawing of a certain mechanism, possibly a leather scroll hidden in a bamboo case. Judging by Prince Jin’s description, it was a picture of a lock, but he hadn’t explained what it might be good for. Not that Zhou Zishu needed this to complete his mission, so it was fine. He’d gotten used to not being overly inquisitive and simply doing what he was told to.
It was better not to think sometimes.
There was another problem, though. The manor lord was expecting unwanted visitors, it seemed, or maybe he was just obsessed with security. Anyway, the task wasn’t going to be simple.
Zhou Zishu had taken only one subordinate with him, the young Han Ying, because he was good at breaking and entering. With more men at hand, it would have been possible to force their way in, but a bloodbath, with casualties on both sides, in exchange for a drawing of dubious importance seemed a bit excessive.
Jiuxiao might have told him bitterly that with so much blood already shed it didn’t really matter if he spilled some more … Zhou Zishu chose not to linger on this thought.
They could keep watching the manor and wait for a chance to get in. They could, and maybe sooner or later it would have paid off. But he didn’t want to wait. He should have been with the group he’d sent to Lu. His men were to watch without interfering, but Zhou Zishu suspected the situation might become hostile; it would be better if he was there to supervise.
So he decided to speed things up. To make a diversion, like setting fire at the stables, and if it didn’t distract most of the household, add another one—an unsuccessful attempt at a theft. He let himself get caught when breaking in through the kitchens. While the guards were busy with him, Han Ying was to do the real work.
He knew they would beat him up, badly, and had to let it happen—he was pretending to be a common thief after all. He hadn’t expected them to get more creative than that, but when they did, he let it happen, too. Boiling oil, first, splashed on his back. Then a whip over the fresh burns.
He played his part accordingly. He cried and howled and begged—please, please, I just needed some money, please don’t kill me—to an accompaniment of colorful curses: one of his overly enthusiastic interrogators had accidentally burnt his own hand. It made Zhou Zishu laugh—fortunately, the sound came out muffled, almost as a sob. Amateurs. There might be many of them, but Han Ying should manage. It was a good thought, and he held onto it. For a while.
But at some point, something must have shifted in him. First, he just pretended to cry. Normally, he wouldn’t. Not when he was injured, not when his disciples died, not when it was his fault. There was always somebody watching him, and he needed to be strong, to set an example. But now, with people he didn’t know and did despise, pain had allowed him this, being able to weep like an ordinary person would. And it was…it was liberating, these ugly tears and screaming his lungs out, with nothing holding him back. Later, he realized he hadn’t felt this human in years.
He almost regretted it, as much as he was relieved, when they had stopped.
Zhou Zishu’s slender, almost delicate complexion had often deceived his adversaries, especially those who associated strength with a mass of bulging muscles. These ones were no different, so they hadn’t put much effort into restraining him. Besides, they must have thought he was barely conscious when they decided to take a break. They only left two men to guard him. Which was another mistake on their part.
He made it to the meeting point later than planned, but Han Ying was still waiting for him. Zhou Zishu scolded him, albeit half-heartedly—he should have already been on the way back by now. He’d gotten the scroll. Why linger?
Han Ying was eying him warily as he mounted his horse with obvious effort, but didn’t say anything. Subordinates weren’t supposed to ask their commander whether he was fine, especially if it was evident he wasn’t.
Things weren’t that bad, though, even if Zhou Zishu’s whole body objected to a horse ride. No bones had been broken at least, and he’d already set his dislocated shoulder. His ribs were certainly bruised and his undershirt had stuck to the oozing wounds on his back—a crust that tore off with every careless movement, but this was a pain he could coexist with. He’d toughed through worse, which probably contributed to the myth of him being invincible.
They traveled fast, stopping only for a short while to spare the horses and Han Ying, in that exact order. Zhou Zishu was too vexed with any delays to think about himself as well. Not because he was wary of being followed; not because Prince Jin was impatient to lay his hands on the scroll he’d ordered to be brought to him. There was something else nagging at Zhou Zishu’s conscience. He should have been in Lu now, instead of fulfilling a petty whim. That was what he was meant to be used for—real-life politics, not chasing legends that might or might not be of value.
It hadn’t even crossed his mind to ask Han Ying for help with bandages. In a while, the untended burns started to fester.
The journey back took almost a week. By the end of it, he was feverish, barely holding on his feet. No wonder he fainted when…
“I arrived to the news of Jiuxiao’s death,” he says. “I don’t remember much after that.”
The words feel bitter on his tongue, just like a herbal elixir Prince Jin’s physician has tried to make him drink when he’s finally come to.
Jiuxiao had thought Zhou Zishu had been trapped in Lu during the siege, along with his men, and hurried to rescue, despite their previous quarrel over Zhou Zishu’s life choices.
An accident, they kept saying.
Grief was dull, temporary muted by fatigue and pain, and therefore both were welcome to overshadow it for longer, to take control over his useless body and useless mind.
He had a vague memory of Prince Jin sending servants to inquire on his recovery. It should have felt like an honor. He should have felt proud. He felt nothing.
Han Ying kept coming, too. Zhou Zishu suspected there might be a case of misplaced hero worship. He made a mental note to himself to talk to the youth about it later.
It was as if Prince Jin had deliberately chosen to visit him when the healer was about to change the dressing on Zhou Zishu’s back, or maybe it was simply bad luck. Zhou Zishu would rather go through the ordeal without witnesses, but a prince could disregard the privacy of his subjects, so he got to watch.
“This will scar,” Helian Yi remarked with something akin to disappointment and maybe even annoyance, as if a bejeweled scabbard of his sword had gotten scratched and the imperfection was too visible to be ignored.
“Yes, Wangye,” Zhou Zishu said mildly.
“If this was absolutely necessary, why didn’t you use your subordinate as a distraction?”
“It was easier for me to escape, Wangye. Han Ying might have been not able to.”
“So what if he didn’t? He’s just a lowly orphan, who cares. Next time, don’t risk your life that recklessly, Zishu. Remember I need you.”
All these years, he’d been hoping to bring a light to this world, carrying fire in his bare hands if necessary, burning himself on the way, as well as others. But the flame had died into an ugly coal, still seething his flesh but giving no light at all. What was the point of him then?
It was with a scorching feeling of having failed that he drove the first nail into himself, not much later.
“Was there someone to be with you while you recovered?” Wen Kexing asks.
It isn’t a question Zhou Zishu has been expecting.
“I didn’t need a healer sitting by my bedside all the time. At least not after the fever broke.”
And when he’s started inserting the nails, one by one, it has been better to be alone during his fits of pain, lest someone might notice and hurry to inform Prince Jin ahead of time. He’s had to be careful.
With his qi blocked, his injuries have been healing poorly, but he hasn’t cared much about it back then.
“I mean—not out of necessity,” Wen Kexing says. “Just…to be there? Like when I threw up blood and you sat by my side.”
Zhou Zishu shakes his head. “Those who were still left…I felt estranged from them. Even if someone wanted to, I wasn’t worthy.”
“Is it always about being worthy?”
Something strange, almost desperate flickers in Wen Kexing’s gaze. Is he thinking about himself? Zhou Zishu wonders. Now he feels selfish for what he’s said. Wallowing in self-loathing, it’s easy to miss someone else’s insecurities.
It’s an instinctive gesture—to reach out, to touch Wen Kexing’s arm.
“I’m only saying how I felt.”
Wen Kexing catches his palm in both hands. “Do you still feel like that? Is it why you always bristle whenever I offer help?”
To be honest, it’s harder and harder to refuse.
Wen Kexing has moved his bedding beside Zhou Zishu’s and he either must be a light sleeper or he’s often lying awake in the middle of the night, when the nails start acting up, because he always sneaks up close to share his qi and warmth—and Zhou Zishu lets him. He could have pulled through the agony on his own—gritted his teeth, curled up and bore through it silently, like he’s done so many times before—and he feels like he should, but it’s too tempting, giving in.
They never talk about it in the morning.
He’s tried to persuade Wen Kexing to open his heart to him, but now there are cracks in his own, growing wider and wider, and blackness is oozing out of them, uncontrollably. It’s not right, to pour this poison, this bitterness he’s been containing for so long on someone else. But sometimes, sympathy does the same job as torture: makes people give away what they really feel. Except that there’s no relief when it’s over.
There’s always been a certain logic in his life: people want you when you are beautiful and acknowledge you when you are useful. Otherwise…who cares about you?
Now he’s suddenly at a loss—will Wen Kexing stop being so clingy, after such a disillusionment? But his hand is still resting between Wen Kexing’s palms. Is it pity? Does he want pity?
Duan Pengju would have had a laugh if he saw the former Tian Chuang leader like this, indecisive and speechless, standing in the middle of the room in his undergarments, and letting another man hold his hand. As for Prince Jin, he would have been dismayed. He didn’t like other people touching his valuables.
It can’t get more ridiculous than this, so he may just as well ask what bothers him.
“Are you disappointed?”
Wen Kexing tilts his head. “With your attitude?”
“With how ugly I really look.”
He watches Wen Kexing’s reaction closely and once again finds not what he’s been expecting—Wen Kexing’s expression changes from bewildered to almost amused.
“Zhou Zishu, you stupid bastard. Remember what you looked like the first time I saw you? Like a dirty beggar with a mop of uncombed hair and a sorry excuse for a beard. Remember how you asked me if I thought you were pretty and I said, ‘Perfect’? I wasn’t joking. To me, you are. You always will be. The way you move, the way you smile, the way you scold me—I want all of it, no matter how much you try to scare me off. I just wish—” he trails off for a moment, and the look in his eyes turns wistful. “I wish you felt the same way.”
And something in Zhou Zishu’s mind goes, Oh.
He remembers asking Wen Kexing to show his real face and Wen Kexing answering, What if it’s covered in scars? Not literally, no, but are their inner scars less disturbing, less painful? Is it what Wen Kexing is afraid of—that he will be repulsed?
But it’s not going to happen.
People had said Zhou Zishu was the soberest person in this world, and he’d thought they weren’t wrong. He’d always been calculating and efficient, and considered himself in the terms of efficiency too. He’s not used to being appreciated for simply being alive, simply being himself. He’s also not used to appreciating someone else for the exact same reasons. But here and now, that’s how he feels.
Everyone who had respected and loved him hadn’t known the real Zhou Zishu at all, regarding him through a veil of illusions, but maybe Wen Kexing is someone who can know him, who does know him and still doesn’t turn away in disgust, no matter what. And maybe he’s the one to answer in kind.
He isn’t sure how to deal with this unfamiliar warmth blooming inside of him, so he just puts his free hand on top of Wen Kexing’s—as a seal, as a promise.
I just wish you felt the same way…
“What if I do?” he says.
Isn’t it what love is about—seeing the horrible along with the beautiful and not closing your eyes to it because you can see through both? Bodies crumble under the weight of time on their shoulders; beauty and ugliness turn into ashes. But nothing of it matters when you look at the right person. And if he still can have this, even for a short while—he wants to.