The Tears Behind the Broken Cup

Bang!

The porcelain cup in Yu Hanjun’s hand shattered with a crisp crack. Shards cut into his palm, and fresh blood welled forth. Yet he paid it no heed. His body trembled as he shot to his feet, his voice hoarse with disbelief:

“Your elder sister… is she—”

Gongsun Bai’s tone was solemn, carrying the weight of hidden truth:

“Qin Yan. She now bears the name Liu Yu. Yu—precisely the character of the Pavilion Master’s own surname. She carved it into her very name, as though to keep you by her side.”

Yu Hanjun turned abruptly, waving for the maids to replace the shattered tea set. As he walked away, I glimpsed a single tear fall to the ground, absorbed into the polished floor.

An incense stick’s time later, he returned. His face was calm once more, but the rims of his eyes betrayed the storm within.

“Qin Yan… she still lives?”

“Yes,” I said.

We spoke of her past years in broad strokes—her feigned death to escape calamity, her quiet toil to raise two children alone, and then the shadow of Zhao Jin looming over her once more, forcing her back into his grasp, threatening to snatch away her children.

We emphasized what mattered most: her children were her lifeline. Should they be taken, her will to live would vanish with them.

The finest lies are woven with half-truths. They shine so close to reality that none can tell falsehood from fact.

I chose carefully, offering Yu Hanjun only enough of Qin Yan’s plight to stir his long-buried guilt. For in my eyes, Zhao Jin was a rotten man, but Yu Hanjun was little better—a hypocrite in scholar’s robes. Rotten man, false gentleman. Truly, Qin Yan’s fate was bitter, to have fallen into the hands of such men.

Yet even a hypocrite harbors a spark of genuine feeling. When he heard Qin Yan’s need, Yu Hanjun did not hesitate to reach toward her shadow.

His fingers clenched tight, knuckles whitening. “What can I do for her?”

I spoke her unspoken wish, each word striking like steel: “Kill Zhao Zixuan. Burn the Swordsmith Manor to ashes.”

Yu Hanjun’s face stiffened. The veins at his temples throbbed.

I rose from my seat, stepping closer, pressing my words into his very chest:

“Sir Yu knows her nature better than we. She would rather shatter as jade than survive as clay. Eight years she has been trapped within the Swordsmith Manor, caged like a songbird, wings clipped. To send her back now is to drive her to the edge of a blade. And yet—should her children be torn from her, she would still choose death. You, too, are a father. You know what it means, the bond of blood, the fear of loss.”

My words still lingered in the air when a boy burst into the hall. Ten years of age, brimming with youthful vigor. Already, his brow carried three parts of Yu Hanjun’s elegance, though his eyes sparkled with innocent pride.

“Father! Father! I’ve mastered the Sword-Needle technique! Come and see—”

Yu Hanjun’s sternness melted away, replaced by boundless warmth. He knelt, brushing the boy’s hair aside. “I have guests now. Show me later, when they have gone.”

“You mustn’t forget!” The boy pouted, then turned and bowed to us with remarkable composure for his age. His every gesture carried the discipline of careful tutelage.

“This is my son, Yu Long’er,” Yu Hanjun explained softly.

Yes—so it was. In the second year after Qin Yan was taken into Swordsmith Manor, Yu Hanjun had married another woman, fathering three children. Even as he sent veiled signals to Zhao Jin, as if to say he still held Qin Yan in his heart, his hands were busy with another household.

Hah. Such is the way of men. With one breath they whisper love to a woman, with the next they father children with another. I, too, wear the body of a man, yet being born a hermaphrodite, I perhaps see more clearly the thoughts of women.

Yu Hanjun watched his son scamper away, his gaze tender, before turning back to us. His voice carried weight, but also caution. “I know of Qin Yan’s suffering. But to raise arms against Swordsmith Manor is not a matter to decide lightly.”

I sighed inwardly. My eyes drifted toward the layered halls and towers outside, each tiled roof gleaming beneath the sun. This vast wealth, this impregnable power—it all belonged to Yuluo Pavilion. Yet even with such strength, he hesitated.

Qin Yan, you gave your heart to the wrong man.

“Since Master Yu has no desire to aid us,” I said, reaching toward the sword manual upon the table, “then we shall trouble you no longer—”

But Yu Hanjun stood swiftly, his sleeve brushing my hand aside. “Since you are Qin Yan’s kin, you are my honored guests. Please, remain here for the night. We shall speak again tomorrow.”

Before I could react, he swept the sword manual into his robes. A servant entered at his call, leading us away to a guest chamber.

Gongsun Bai and I exchanged a long glance.

“This Yu Hanjun,” I muttered, “does he mean to swallow my sword manual whole? With Yuluo Pavilion so vast, should he decide to silence us, there is not even a mountain cave where we might hide our corpses.”

Gongsun Bai was unperturbed, lounging onto a chair. “Indeed. These hills for miles around belong to him. If he wished, he could toss our bones to the wolves. But why fear? He seeks only to copy the manual. When the ink is dry, he will return it.”

Still, I clung to his leg with both arms, my voice shaking. “Promise me, Brother Gongsun—if things go ill, you will not flee alone. Do not leave me behind!”

He chuckled helplessly, prying my fingers one by one. “Su brother, what has become of you? Were you not the boldest of us all? You dared to pit yourself against Swordsmith Manor and even Yuluo Pavilion. Where is your gallant spirit now?”

Inwardly, I cursed. In illusions, perhaps, I was unmatched. But here in the flesh, I was but a weak scholar, unable to lift a bucket, let alone fend off assassins. And this pavilion was filled to the rafters with killers! Even the bravest heart cannot fight against such odds.

Night fell, and Yu Hanjun arranged a banquet upon a river pavilion. Lanterns swayed in the wind, their glow reflecting upon the water, casting ripples of gold and silver. Wine flowed freely, dishes piled high, musicians plucked strings from a passing barge.

At the feast, his wife was present. Madam Wu—her bearing was bold, her dress plain. No silks, no jewels, but a short tunic fit for swordplay, her hair bound simply, her figure upright as a pine. Though her features were not breathtaking, there was vigor in her smile, strength in her carriage.

I learned then: she hailed from a martial clan. From childhood she had loved spear and sword. But as a woman, she could not inherit her house. She was married off as a pawn, offered to Yu Hanjun.

Unlike Zhao Jin, who forever sought concubines and playthings, Yu Hanjun had never taken a second wife nor courted another woman. For a time, his marriage was praised throughout the land as a paragon of virtue.

Madam Wu knew nothing of our ties to Qin Yan. To her, we were mere guests. She welcomed us warmly, speaking without restraint. She hungered for stories of the outside world, her eyes wide as Gongsun Bai spun tales of distant mountains and seas. She listened with rapt wonder, sighing often at the vastness she would never see.

After the feast, we withdrew to rest. On a winding path beneath the moon, we encountered her once more.

The silver light bathed her features as she gazed upward at the stars, lost in thought.

“Madam Wu,” I greeted softly.

She nodded, smiled faintly, then spoke with candor. “I know. You were sent by Qin Yan.”

I froze, startled. But she did not scold, nor glare. Her voice carried only weary understanding.

“When I wed him, I had already heard of her name. Their affair then… shook the martial world.”

Her tone held no malice.

So I told her, truthfully, of Qin Yan’s present plight. Of the farmer’s life she had embraced, plain yet steadfast. Of the years spent in obscurity, only to be dragged back into the fire.

Madam Wu’s expression softened, pity clouding her eyes. “Such a woman, to fall so low… it is cruel.” She paused, then asked gently, “Is there aught I might do for her?”

“She desires only freedom,” I answered. I dared not speak of her wish for vengeance—not before the wife of Yu Hanjun.

Madam Wu’s gaze flickered between me and Gongsun Bai. A sudden, knowing smile curved her lips.

“Tell me, gentlemen,” she said softly. “Would you care to make a bargain?”