After The Coquettish Fake Master Was Driven Away - Chapter 21

A breath of wine escaped Xie Nong’s lips. Beneath the bright and flawless moonlight—so pure it seemed capable of washing away every stain in the world—he slowly drew out the filth that had lain sealed for years, crumbled it apart, and placed it before Xie Jinning.

He waited—for judgment, or for anger to burn him into nothing.

Hetian Village had not always stood here. Once, it lay further downstream, close to Mohe, which was why it bore the name Hetian.

Sixteen years ago, on the very day Zhou Fang went into labor, the heavens opened with a sudden storm.

That noon, a group of weary but noble-looking travelers arrived. Their ship had run aground, they said, and their master’s wife had been frightened. They asked to stay the night, and finally lodged in the house right next to the Xie family.

By afternoon, Zhou Fang’s contractions began. The midwife had already been staying in the Xie household—her third maternal aunt. Preparations were complete, but signs of difficulty lingered. Not until night did the child finally arrive.

At that same moment, the lady next door, shaken from travel, also went into premature labor.

Earlier that day, Zhou Fang had glimpsed the group and noticed the woman surrounded in the middle, adorned in gold and jade, her every gesture dripping with nobility.

And so, a wicked thought crept into her heart.

The Zhou family was poorer. Her parents had nearly sold her to a brothel to scrape together a dowry for her brother’s marriage. It was Xie Nong who saved her, offering up all his meager savings to marry her himself.

Though the Xie family was not rich, it was far better than her own—no beatings, no hunger, no parents-in-law to serve. After marrying in, husband farmed, wife wove, and life passed steadily. But the yearning for wealth, buried deep, had never truly died.

Now, a chance presented itself.

She could endure poverty herself. But she did not want her child to live a life with no end, each day the same, with no horizon in sight.

Her body strong, Zhou Fang could move about even after giving birth. While her aunt was called next door to deliver the other woman’s baby, she disguised herself as an assistant and secretly swapped the two newborns.

Infants, freshly born, were nothing but wrinkled red lumps. Coincidence favored her—Xie Zhu, born premature, was healthy and loud, while the full-term Jinning, chilled during the switch, cried weakly like a kitten. No one noticed.

Only Zhou Fang and her aunt knew the truth.

Three years later, her aunt died of sudden illness. Five years after that, another storm swelled the river, bursting the banks and drowning Hetian Village. The entire village relocated here.

When Zhu was twelve, Zhou Fang, sick at heart, wasted away. On her deathbed, she finally confessed the truth to Xie Nong.

“I always wondered why she suddenly cut ties with her natal family after giving birth. Perhaps she feared her aunt would let the secret slip.”

Xie Nong shook his head and sighed long. “Jinning…”

He took his son’s hand. On his rough, weathered face, two tracks of tears carved out gullies, like furrows drowned by rain, brimming with remorse and urgency.

“It was your mother’s sin. But she regretted it, too. In those final days, she was no more than skin and bones. Nothing could pass her lips, yet she kept whispering, ‘I’m sorry… I’m sorry…’”

His voice broke again, grip tightening unconsciously. “Don’t blame her…”

His eyelids swollen, he continued hoarsely: “After she passed, I searched, on and off, for news of that household. It took years, but I finally learned—them being the Xie family of the capital, in charge of canal transport.”

Jinning’s hand ached under his father’s grip, but he did not pull away.

“Don’t hate Zhu either. Of all of us, he is the one most wronged.”

Xie Nong’s voice grew heavy. “That boy was clever from the start, full of spirit, yet never won your mother’s love. As a child, he would sneak to me crying, asking why she didn’t like him, if it was because he’d been bad…”

“As he grew, he stopped clinging to me. I thought he’d become sensible. Never realized he was only burying his hurt deep inside.”

At the mention of Zhu, more tears fell. Words pent up for years spilled like floodwaters.

Remorse, and memory.

“Zhu had a gift for learning. No private school in the village, so he followed me to town, eavesdropping on classes, picking up discarded books to study on his own.”

“I wanted to send him to school properly, but town was too far, and we couldn’t afford rent. So he ran back and forth. More than once, he was caught listening outside, beaten for it.”

“Later, the old scholar teaching took pity on him, leaving windows open so Zhu could hide unseen and learn.”

“When he was twelve, he finally passed the county exam. He came home overjoyed, telling me he’d study hard, become a scholar, move us to town, and once he succeeded, his mother would surely love him then…”

“But no sooner had he spoken those words… than your mother fell ill.”

She never recovered, fading away day by day.

And just before death claimed her, she told me the truth of Zhu’s birth.

It was their household that had wronged Zhu—stealing the life of wealth that should have been his, leaving him trapped in a mountain village for so many years.

And wronged Jinning as well—ripping him from sixteen years of luxury and casting him into the mud.

Without realizing, tears brimmed in Jinning’s eyes. His lips parted, moved, but his throat was clogged—no sound would come.

“When Zhu was sixteen, the old scholar who helped him died as well,” Xie Nong said. “Not long after, I finally traced that family’s identity. I told Zhu the truth.”

“I still remember that night. He stared at me, face blank, tears falling. Not a word spoken. But the hatred in his eyes—it was knives to my heart. I will never forget it.”

So Zhu had known who he truly was, long before coming to the Xie household.

“Then… I…”

Jinning’s hand trembled. A teacup slipped, water spreading across the table. His emotions roared like a waterfall crashing down, suffocating him.

He thought of Zhu—shunned by his mother, deceived by his father. After all the hardships of returning, dusty and weary, to the home that should have been his, he had seen nothing but parents and brother lavishing affection on an impostor.

And himself—foolishly clinging close, smugly branding him an illegitimate son, scheming to drive him out, even ruining his ancestral initiation at the shrine.

How must Zhu have seen him?

I am the greatest fool alive. The stupidest of all!

Near collapse, Jinning clutched his lips, chest heaving, his face paler than the crescent moon above.

Tears fell heavy onto his hands, rolling down to soak his clothes.

He wanted to hate—but who could he hate?

It was Zhou Fang who had given him sixteen years of false splendor.
It was Zhu who dragged him down from the heavens to the mud.
It was Xie Nong who had laid bare the truth.

But all of them were people broken by fate. A single wrong thought, a single misstep—and only endless regret followed.

A jade left uncared for shatters into dust, but bamboo grows resilient in soil.

Perhaps the one he should hate most… was his own willful, arrogant self.

“He hates us—and he should. It’s what we owe him. What we…”

Xie Nong slumped onto the table, drunk and weeping, muttering the same words Zhou Fang had before she died:

“I’m sorry.”

Zhou Fang—a wrong thought, regret to the grave.
Xie Nong—selfish desire, regret for half a lifetime.

Xie Nong slept. Jinning only sat frozen, mind blank.

His robe had slipped from his shoulders. Night deepened, wind cut through him, leaving him cold to the bone—but nothing colder than the chill within his heart.

Footsteps approached. His robe was draped back onto his shoulders, yet he still shivered.

Then, his hand—red and raw from his own grip—was lifted, each finger gently pried open, the stiff joints smoothed and massaged, his palm wrapped warm in another’s. That dry, fiery warmth slowly brought him back to himself.

He raised his eyes.

The tall man stood at his side, broad shoulders like a wall shielding him from the night wind.

His face as calm as ever, yet the dark eyes gazing into him no longer held authority or sternness—only quiet pity.

The heart that had been crushed beneath such weight was lifted again by this gentle warmth, returning slowly to its place.

His lips quivered, then closed. A sudden sob escaped him. Like a weary bird returning to its nest, he flung his arms around the man’s waist and wept.

In the kitchen wing, the cleaning had long been done. Yan Yi stood behind the curtain, never stepping out, yet hearing it all.

As an outsider, he had no place to blame anyone—only sorrow.

But now, with the boy trembling in another’s arms, tears soaking through fabric, the sound of his sobs struck at Yan Yi’s chest like chisels, leaving scars.

It hurt.

And from those cracks, something sprouted, curling vines binding his feet, keeping him rooted where he stood.

Yan Yi reached out, gently stroking Jinning’s head.

Time passed. The sobs faded. Arms slackened. The boy tilted, falling silent.

Startled, Yan Yi caught him, fearing he had fainted. But steady breathing eased his worry.

On Jinning’s pale face, damp with tears, the tip of his nose and the corners of his eyes glowed faintly red. His cheeks flushed softly, as if tipsy.

Had only a sip of wine made him drunk?

So delicate.

A strand of black hair clung to his fair neck. Yan Yi carefully brushed it aside. When his fingertip grazed the cool skin, it felt as though ants swarmed across his flesh.

He sighed softly, yet still lifted his hand to wipe the wetness from Jinning’s face. His calloused touch left faint redness blooming there, like a bud in snow.

Finally, he pulled out a clean cloth he had carried with him, wiping his cheeks and neck. Then, without hesitation, he hooked an arm under Jinning’s knees and carried him into the room.

…

The night was deep, the moon high.

At dinner, there had been roasted venison. Yan Yi had eaten too much. Venison was hot in nature, and with his own fiery constitution, it left him restless, burning.

He dreamed of an endless desert. All around, only scorching sands, every grain radiating heat. He seemed trapped inside a vast steamer.

He walked endlessly. At last, on the horizon, a patch of green shimmered. Parched, he quickened his pace.

Closer—it was no pool, but a verdant lawn, emerald against the dunes.

On the grass stood gauzy tents, veils fluttering in the breeze. Within, a figure moved—or perhaps it was illusion.

Too hot, too desperate, Yan Yi broke through the curtains without pause.

Inside—only a body like carved jade.

A beauty, back to him, hair cascading like a waterfall. Smooth, bare skin glowed beneath, though faint bruises marred the slender waist.

Startled by his intrusion, the figure turned—

And revealed eyes as deep and clear as autumn water.