The Slave Sister’s Curse: Begging for Survival in a Town of Shadows

It was fortunate that they had not traveled far before stumbling into Nan Chuan’s border town, a shabby little place known as Shuigen Town.

Perched on the crossroads between kingdoms, Shuigen was a place of shifting tides and unsteady ground. Merchants from the four corners of the realm came and went, each with their own dialect, clothes, and customs. Strangers were too common to notice—no one cared when two ragged children arrived, faces smeared with dust, eyes hollow with hunger.

The first thing Wan Ling did upon reaching Shuigen was to smear both their faces with black mud, blotting out any recognizable features. Then she exchanged their tattered clothing for local rags scavenged from the marketplace. Their new home became a broken-down temple at the edge of town, its cracked statues and mossy walls sheltering them from the wind.

By day, Wan Ling left Kun Hong behind with strict orders not to wander, while she went out to beg. At night, she returned with scraps of food—half-eaten buns, leftover porridge, the dregs of a feast thrown away by others. The two of them would divide it as evenly as possible and choke it down together.

The meals were meager and foul, a bitter contrast to the delicacies Kun Hong had grown up with in the Grand Priest’s household. At first, the boy gagged, unable to accept such degradation. But hunger is a merciless teacher. In the face of survival, even silk-robed heirs learn to swallow filth.

Thus their days blurred, one into another. Begging, eating, sleeping. A year passed, then more.

Why stay? Wan Ling had two reasons. First, Shuigen’s very chaos provided cover. With travelers and merchants from every land, it was an excellent place to overhear whispers and glean intelligence. Second, her enemies would never expect fugitives to linger so close. Logic dictated that escapees would flee as far as possible. But as the old saying went: under the lamp, the shadows are darkest. And so Wan Ling hid herself in plain sight.

Just as Qin Yan once had, Wan Ling now lived in obscurity, concealed by the very noise of the world.

From the gossip of traders and wanderers, she pieced together fragments of the wider story.

First: the position of Grand Priest in Beiji was no more. After Kun Buyu and the Kun clan had been wiped out, the usurper Xue Liangbi laid seventy-seven charges upon them—abuses of power, corruption, debauchery, treachery, cruelty. Each accusation more venomous than the last. The name Kun became synonymous with evil, cursed and spat upon by the people.

Second: the abolition of the Asking-Heaven Cauldron. For centuries, the people of Beiji had relied upon the sacred vessel, their traditions intertwined with its power. Xue Liangbi smashed it, declaring all such rites forbidden. From then on, every shred of authority flowed to him alone.

Third: the execution of Kun Hong. At least, that was the tale told in Beiji. Though the boy himself had escaped, a substitute had been found, displayed on the city walls, hung high for all to see. The crowd hurled curses, rotten food, stones. The child was spat upon, reviled, until he rotted beneath the sun.

In truth, this grotesque theater of death was their salvation. For with Kun Hong “dead,” there was no reason for assassins to keep searching.

And so, after a year and a half of quiet survival in Shuigen, Wan Ling finally decided it was safe to move on.

This part of the story was not crucial, and so the pace quickened in the whirlpool of memory. Clouds rolled above, seasons shifted in the blink of an eye.

I watched Wan Ling fade further into silence. Twelve to thirteen—a year in which a girl should blossom from childhood into maidenhood. Yet Wan Ling’s growth twisted inward. Each day she grew darker, harsher. Her temper with Kun Hong soured until even the smallest mistake could spark a sudden outburst.

Kun Hong, bewildered and wounded, bore it all. Often, after she lashed out, he would creep timidly to her side, tug at her sleeve, and whisper like a child pleading forgiveness:

“Jiejie, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad at me, okay?”

She would yank her sleeve away and retreat to some lonely corner, hiding her tears.

The bitterness inside her heart had no outlet. Left to fester, grievance becomes poison. And poison, left too long, becomes madness. I could sense it—Wan Ling was already shifting, inch by inch, toward the twisted state that would one day make her an assassin.

Yet her descent was not inevitable. If she had only confessed to Kun Hong—if she had told him of the curse, of the blood oath forced upon her—then surely the boy’s innocent heart would never have allowed her to sacrifice herself so. He would rather die than see her enslaved to his fate.

But Wan Ling did not speak. Instead, she smothered her pain in silence, letting it spill out as cruelty toward him, tormenting them both.

“Why doesn’t she say it? Why not just tell him?” I muttered, clutching my chest as though a cat’s claws scraped at my heart. It was like reading one of those torturous romances where lovers destroy themselves over a misunderstanding so small it could be cleared in a breath. But instead they choke on silence, until one dies and the other follows in despair.

I wanted to seize the two of them, shake them until their teeth rattled. Is your saliva really so precious you cannot spit out the truth?!

Gongsun Bai heard my whispering and tilted his head. “What are you mumbling about?”

I spilled my complaints, and he listened thoughtfully, chin propped on his hand.

“Simple misunderstandings,” he mused, “often elevate a story’s theme. Perhaps Wan Ling doesn’t speak because she truly does not wish to. Not everyone is willing to bare their pain. Some secrets are locked away, never voiced until death forces them out. Isn’t it the same with you, Su Qi?”

His eyes glittered with knowing mischief.

I stiffened. Of course he was curious. Who could look at me—at what I had become—and not wonder? I took a deep breath. “Fine. A quick round of questions. You ask, I answer. One chance only.”

His eyes lit up.

“How much do you weigh?”

“…What?!”

“The night at Baixiang Pavilion, when I caught you, my arms nearly broke. You look skinny as a stick, but you weigh a ton. Tell me honestly—how heavy are you?”

I gaped at him. He was always like this—utterly unpredictable. Grinding my teeth, I spat, “Do you really have no better questions?” I swore if he pushed me further, I would collapse the illusion itself and trap him here forever.

At last, he sobered, his playful grin fading. “I do not pry into others’ lives. Su Qi, my next question you may refuse if you wish. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Then tell me. Who are you, truly? Are you afflicted with a curse like Wan Ling’s—one that makes you a man one day and a woman the next?”

I inhaled sharply. “…My case is different.”

I would not reveal that I was born a hermaphrodite. Instead, I blamed it on the cultivation of the Posuo Technique.

“And why must you take the lives of others? Why the contracts, the stolen years? When you signed with Qin Yan, you took her lifespan.”

I pointed to my own chest, bitterly smiling. “Because I’m short-lived. Illusions—true illusions—are not meant for mortals. They belong to gods and immortals. For humans, every step into that power extracts a price. My price is an early death. Unless I bargain, unless I trade lives, my candle will burn out too soon.”

His brows drew tight. “You once said those who share their life with you must do so willingly, without doubt or regret. Otherwise the exchange fails. Was that true?”

“Yes. It’s like buying a bun from a vendor—if he won’t sell, the trade falls through. And life is far more precious than a bun. So I must earn it honestly, serving others, trading one thing for another.”

“Then hear me,” he said suddenly. His eyes burned with an intensity that startled me. “If one day you cannot find the last fragment of your soul, I will give you mine.”

I blinked, stunned. “Really? What would you want in return?”

He looked me up and down, as though stripping away every layer of disguise. I shivered, tugging my clothes tighter. His voice was dismissive, almost scornful.

“Tell me—what do you have that I don’t already?”

“…The Posuo Technique. You want me to teach you, don’t you?”

“…Caught me.”

Fair trade. Since I had bared my secrets, I pressed him for one of his.

He sighed. “My childhood name… was Xiao Ba.”

“Xiao Ba?” I stared. “What, you were the eighth child? Your mother must have been a powerhouse!” I gave him a thumbs up.

“…There was only me. But I was sickly. My parents feared the ghostly reapers would take me, so they gave me a false name—pretending I had seven elder brothers. A folk custom, to ward off death.”

Understanding dawned. Looking at his sturdy frame now, it was hard to imagine him frail. Out of camaraderie, I slapped his arm. “Xiao Ba, then.”

He flinched. “What did you call me?”

“Xiao Ba.”

“…I don’t like it.”

“Then Ba-ge? Brother Ba?”

“…I’m not a bird.”

“Fine. Bird-man, then?”

“…”

Time swept on.

Two years in Shuigen passed like drifting smoke. At last, Wan Ling decided it was time to leave. Though the town had hidden them well, it was still too wild, too dangerous for a girl and a boy alone.

She set her sights on Shaodu, the thriving capital of Nan Chuan—where the crowds were larger, the opportunities greater, and perhaps, safety easier to find.