June—the finest season on the grasslands. The vast wild plains stretched green to meet the sun on the horizon, and the clear, bright Tan River flowed down as though from the heavens themselves. The grass was cool, the earth parched dry.
A paradise-like wasteland of death.
Zuoliang Pass, once nearly emptied of all human life, had gradually gained population again as the new army of Daliang settled in—but this was a lonely kind of population. No women. No children. No elders.
The whole garrison town was nothing but a pitiful lot of bachelor soldiers, rough and weathered, rising each day at dawn to chant work songs as they rebuilt the city walls, singing songs to settle restless souls as they gathered bones and remains from every corner of the town.
They buried the remains not far outside Zuoliang Pass’s walls. So many bones that the pit they’d dug had grown enormous, until it became a small hill of its own, marked only by an unmarked stone tablet.
Any of Daliang’s garrison soldiers standing atop the city wall could look up and see that hill—there was no avoiding it, no escaping the knowledge that layer upon layer of the dead lay sleeping beneath it… And after looking, without fail, their eyes would fix, unblinking, on the direction from which the Tan people would come.
No hatred, no anger. Just waiting.
The wolf packs would always return—it was in their nature, bred into their very bones. But when people are bullied badly enough, they turn into vengeful ghosts themselves.
That day, Zhou Jizong finished his breakfast and, as always, went out of the city to spend a while by the unmarked tablet.
He was the only one among the living who’d returned to this place. In truth he hadn’t given it much thought—he’d simply told His Majesty about this city and his troops… and His Majesty had allowed him to stay.
He knew every single person sleeping beneath that hill—the old soldier who used to doze off at the gate, the plump owner of the fur-goods shop, the innkeeper’s wife who carried her child on her back while stewing mutton offal soup… He’d seen all their smiles once. Someone familiar coming to visit every day—surely that was a comfort, even to the dead.
This had once been a good city. Because of years of internal warfare and the constant transfer of court power, it had filled up with ordinary people fleeing the chaos elsewhere. His old comrade used to say Zuoliang Pass’s population had never been so prosperous—nor, now, had it ever been so bleak and desolate.
They’d arrived in a panicked rush, worked hard to build new homes, reclaimed wasteland into fields—and before they’d even harvested a few seasons’ worth of crops, they’d all become spirits fated to die in war.
What Tao Jiye said most often these days was: those fated to die can’t escape it no matter where they run. This life of his had been bought with his brother’s death, and so he had to come back and guard this place—there’d surely come a day when he too had to leave it.
He’d returned with the reinforcements, yet ended up the only Chiliarch who stayed behind. Zuoliang Pass held no great wealth or glory for him—only a demon in his own heart he could never let go of in this life. He didn’t want to be freed of this torment; being freed of it would mean letting go, and he couldn’t let go.
He’d gambled the whole night before and lost everything except what he’d already sent home. Coming back from the unmarked tablet to the city wall, Tao Jiye had found himself a ragged blanket to wrap around himself and dozed off leaning against the central parapet.
“Chiliarch, sir, Chiliarch, sir…”
He had no idea how long he’d slept; hearing someone call his name, he woke instantly, leapt up, and pressed himself against the watch slit. Peering closely, he saw faint, indistinct figures growing gradually nearer—like wanderers from some fairyland realm, come from the very ends of the earth.
Then those figures grew larger, more numerous, moving with halting, unsteady steps, the old supporting the young… carts and camels among them, and even, strangely, an old man carrying a lamb in his arms?
The distant travelers were remarkably patient—their pace was slow, so the men on horseback simply swayed along slowly to match them.
A new recruit, still untrained and fearful, asked in a trembling voice, “Chi-Chiliarch, sir… Tan, Tan people?”
Tao Jiye’s mouth split open into a silent grin. He suddenly reached out with a big hand, seized the recruit by the neck, pinned him against the wall’s alcove, and cursed with a laugh, “You think your Chiliarch’s scouts are all dead men? Make this same mistake again, boy, and I’ll make you call me ‘Grandpa’… Get familiar with this scent—this is family, coming home…”
He was overjoyed beyond words. Leaning against the wall, he let out a great shout: “AAAH!”
Not long after, a few answering shouts came back from across the distance: “AAAH!”
Having shouted, Tao Jizong forced down the overwhelming thrill in his heart and ran the whole way down from the watchtower, all the way to the city gate. He spat to both sides once, gripped the massive winch with both hands, and lowered the drawbridge, turning it round and round, then ran the whole way out to meet them.
Seeing their commander charge out, the garrison soldiers followed along in confused excitement, running until they drew close enough to see their Chiliarch standing before the horses, the veins in his neck bulging, his expression almost savage, baring red gums as he shouted, “Where’s the vengeance, brothers?!”
The men on horseback looked utterly filthy, as though they hadn’t washed their faces in a lifetime, their bodies caked in the filth of hell itself, features unrecognizable. Hearing Tao Jiye’s question, their faces cracked open like drought-parched earth, dust crumbling off in showers as they too bared pink gums and said, “Brother! Our apologies! Not many of us—only a small measure of vengeance to report. Don’t hold it against us—we’ve only managed a little payback for now. Give us three or five years to recover, brother, and we’ll go back out again!”
Tao Jizong’s chin trembled. He walked up to the lead horse and suddenly threw himself down beneath the stirrup, shouting, “Done! Brothers… let me be your footrest.”
“Don’t talk like an outsider, brother, it’s only our duty!” Chen Dasheng said, then turned his horse aside to reveal two wooden carts behind him.
He dismounted from the other side, reached out, and pulled back the cloth covering both carts.
Ten thousand flies swarmed up at once, and a foul stench spread instantly through the air.
It was two entire cartloads of human heads—at a glance, nearly two hundred of them, stacked layer upon layer.
The new recruits who’d rushed out from Zuoliang Pass all drew in a sharp breath together, then stood frozen, too stunned by the sight to move.
Tao Jizong slowly rose to his feet, his eyes bloodshot, staring at the scene—the devils’ shapes reduced now to nothing but rotting matter. Yet in his ears still rang the sound of iron hooves and blood-soaked blades, the cries of the helpless calling out for rescue, and that final moment of pure terror—so it turned out even devils could die, and die this ugly a death.
Tao Jizong looked on quietly, looked on and on, and finally said, “Even if you hadn’t come back, it would’ve been more than enough, brothers, truly. We’ve got plenty of people here—our children and grandchildren will just keep coming after us. I’m all set. Tomorrow, if we run into any more of them, we’ll bring a few more cartloads back too.”
Chen Dasheng patted his shoulder. “Good. You’ve suffered enough for now, brother. From now on, you’re my brother…”
Suddenly, an old man’s weeping voice called out: “Zuo… Zuoliang… home… the, the big market fair…”
The little lamb dropped from the old man’s arms. His mouth was entirely toothless, his body withered like a ghost’s, and he wept like a small child. He’d been away from home for so many years he’d forgotten how to speak the language of the Central Plains; it took him a long while to remember that this was his home, that his own family lived in a village not far from this city. His mother used to say—if you’re good and don’t misbehave, on market days, the first and the fifteenth of the month, Mother will take you along…
But in the end, he’d never gone, not even once.
He stumbled forward, and more and more people wept and staggered forward with him, all rushing ahead together… running up to the city wall to collapse, to roll on the ground, to eat the very dirt, weeping and wailing as though their hearts would break.
Tao Jizong walked over to Chen Dasheng and asked, “Who are these people?”
Chen Dasheng thought a moment. These were people who’d been carried off bit by bit over the past several decades—thanks to their help, at the cost of countless suffering slaves’ lives, he and his men had managed to make it out alive. Whether they counted as subjects of the previous dynasty or the current one, he wasn’t sure, but he answered all the same: “They’re ours, brothers!”
Tao Jizong nodded. “Then they’ll live here with us. Plenty of space in the city—empty houses everywhere.”
Having said this, he turned back to stand silently before the carts, undid his trousers, and urinated onto the pile of heads in the cart.
Once finished, he tied his trousers back up, returned to stand before Chen Dasheng, and said awkwardly in a low voice, “Everyone, come with me a moment.”
He then ordered his subordinates to bring out the six oxen and two sheep they’d already prepared in the city.
Standing before the tablet, Tao Jizong announced, “His Majesty’s decree.”
The travelers, startled, all knelt down at once, one after another.
For how many days now, Tao Jizong had stood before that parapet every single day, reciting this ancient war song over and over. His Majesty had told him that Daliang had no war song of its own to send its warriors off with, but the sages of old had left one behind; that night, His Majesty had stood solemnly beneath the open sky at the palace and taught it to Tao Jizong himself, twice over.
His Majesty had said his warriors deserved a proper song when they marched out, and even more so, a proper rite of celebration when they returned—he was to follow the ancient rites, bringing two sheep and six oxen.
These past days, Tao Jizong had wondered again and again: he’d memorized it so thoroughly, but would there be any of them left alive to actually hear it? If none came back, he’d resolved to sing it to heaven and earth alone regardless…
Every day he sang it, over and over, until he’d taught the entire garrison to sing it too.
Having just now counted heads, of the eleven men from Daliang who’d gone out, nine had returned bringing former captives back with them. And so he began to slowly intone before the unmarked tablet:
“The King said: Come forward, all you people, and listen well to my words. It is not that I, a mere subject, dare to raise rebellion recklessly—it is because the ruler of Xia has committed grave crimes, and Heaven has commanded me to go and punish him.
Now you will ask: ‘Does our lord not care for us, that he takes us from our labors in the fields to make war on the King of Xia?’ Such words I have long since heard. But Jie of Xia is guilty of crimes, and I stand in awe of the Lord on High—I dare not fail to correct this wrong.
Now you will ask: ‘What exactly are the crimes of Jie of Xia?’ Jie of Xia has exhausted the strength of his people, oppressing the men of Xia. The multitude, weary and uncooperative, said among themselves: ‘When will this sun finally perish? We would rather perish together with you.’ Such is the corruption of Jie’s virtue that I must now go to punish him.
If you will only assist me in carrying out Heaven’s punishment upon him, I shall reward you greatly. Do not doubt me—I shall never break my word. But should you fail to follow this oath, I shall enslave you in punishment, and none shall be spared.”
As he sang, he slaughtered the oxen and sheep alone with his own hands, offering them to heaven and earth, to the departed souls… Because Daliang was still newly founded and its state authority not yet firmly established, this covert operation against the Tan people could never be officially announced, and so the achievements of these brave men were destined to be buried in the dust of history.
Nor could those heads ever be brought back to Yandu. Tao Jiye, ever calculating, buried them evenly beneath the latrines of Zuoliang Pass and beneath the main roads of the city, meaning to curse the Tan people with misfortune for generations to come, their severed heads trampled underfoot by the people of Daliang for all eternity, cast eternally into hell.
The day they left, Chen Dasheng, a man of few words, asked Tao Jiye: Going home?
Tao Jiye only smiled and said, this—this is home now.
And so, that clever, dutiful son raised by the scheming old Madam Tao stayed on at Zuoliang Pass, keeping company with those departed souls, never to return, even unto death.
As Chen Dasheng looked back one last time at that departing figure, Guan Si’er asked him, “Brother, what are you looking at?”
Chen Dasheng swung up onto his horse and led everyone away at a gallop, whip cracking. He said nothing of it, but for a moment, he’d seen himself in that figure—identical, down to the very last detail.
September arrived, warm and languid. The modest little Immortal Garden bloomed with a whole yard of fine chrysanthemums, and the very first batch of blossoms was sent straight to Qinwei Lane.
Fresh flowers put everyone in a good mood, and the whole household pinned blossoms in their hair—even the two old women of the house tucked a large bloom each behind their ears.
An’er had no hair on his bald little head to pin anything to, so they clipped a small blossom onto his ear instead. The boy, quite pleased with himself, kept touching his ear and giggling.
Unfortunately, this household’s grandmother had gone out early that morning to pay respects at Yushu Grandmother Temple.
Qiqian’er herself didn’t quite understand why she had to worship herself, but one had to find some excuse to get out of the house, didn’t one?
Since Uncle Xin had left, she’d taken to regularly receiving notes tossed over the wall from the Beggars’ Guild. Though she never accepted their offerings directly, the money still passed through her hands on its way to the court, and so, whenever disputes among the wandering folk of Baiquan Mountain couldn’t be settled internally, they were brought to her for arbitration.
Qiqian’er had once assumed such “arbitration” would amount to nothing more than letting the feuding parties duel it out while she simply kept things fair.
The wandering world, after all—wanderers from the ends of the earth, mountain bandits and vengeful spirits, blades flashing amid blood, leaping across rooftops in the dead of night.
But that was Qin She, the very top tier of that world.
What landed in front of her these days was… a leaking roof dispute? She wasn’t some upright, all-seeing magistrate—why should she have to deal with something this trivial?
But the beggar responsible for delivering messages told her that both households had, ever since the second year of Daliang, contributed at least one hundred strings of cash each to her temple annually.
Had she taken their money? Heaven and conscience be her witness, no! Every last coin had gone to the court.
Qiqian’er, wearing a mask and dressed in red brocade robes with silver armor, sat cross-legged before her own idol statue—a round-cheeked, jade-smooth likeness of herself, decked in phoenix crown and ceremonial cape, draped in an oversized red cloth mantle, layer upon layer, perhaps dozens deep.
There were petitioners praying for exam success, for children successfully conceived, for a mother’s recovery from serious illness, for a traveler’s safe return… What exactly was it she was supposed to be in charge of, anyway? Qiqian’er felt embarrassed on behalf of her own wooden statue.
In the square before the idol, two groups of burly men stood, thick with muscle, iron arms and pillar-like legs—and, curiously, both combatants sported identically thick, horizontal eyebrows?
The thick-browed man on one side wielded a pair of “heaven and earth” rings, opening with a move called “Spring Swallow Spreads Its Wings”; his opponent, another thick-browed man, countered with an Emei piercer in a move called “Outward Lotus Kick.”
Ah, how did she know all this? Because seated beside her was a beggar serving as running commentary, a man of thirty-six named Jiu Bushe—”Wine, No Credit.”
He’d once been an orphan taken in and raised communally by the beggars. Uncle Xin, the first time he met him, had happened to walk in just as a drunkard tried to run a tab at a wine counter, and the shopkeeper’s wife, leaning over the counter, had said flatly, “Wine, no credit.” That was how the name had stuck. That same day, another orphaned girl had also been unlucky enough to be there, and the old rascal had promptly named her on the spot too—”Settling Old Debts.”
Both of them had been trained well by Uncle Xin, and now served as the two junior elders of Qingfeng City’s Beggars’ Guild. With Uncle Xin away, household affairs fell to these two—one handling internal matters, the other external. The two of them were, in fact, a married couple of beggars, with three children already.
Jiu Bushe was quite the chatterbox, and as the fight below unfolded, he explained everything to Qiqian’er, having had a bit to drink, speaking with great animation.
The fight itself, however, was thoroughly clumsy. The two men’s weapons were knocked flying within a few exchanges, and the thick-browed pair descended into hand-to-hand combat, throwing punch after punch without pause, shouting, “I’ll kill you! Kill you! Kill you!”
Then they locked hands together, grabbing at fists to twist joints, roaring, “I’ll strangle you, strangle you, strangle you dead…”
After that they tangled together entirely and began rolling endlessly across the ground…
Jiu Bushe apologized to Qiqian’er with some embarrassment. “Truly sorry to offend your eyes, Goddess. These Zhang boys, big and small, get worse with every generation—this really isn’t a pretty fight to watch.”
Qiqian’er sighed helplessly, propped her cheek on one hand, and had nothing more to say. The two men brawling in the square were both blacksmiths, four generations descended from the same grandfather, their houses built right next to each other.
However close and dear such relatives might be, live too close together for too long, and sooner or later you become enemies—these two were about as close to sworn enemies as it got.
Things had gone smoothly the past few years—everyone had enough to eat, business was picking up again—so the elder Zhang blacksmith had renovated his house. The man had questionable manners, and had quietly shifted the shared wall between the two properties over by a foot. The younger Zhang blacksmith noticed and grew furious—wasn’t this bullying, encroaching right up to his doorstep? Unable to afford renovating his whole house, he settled for rebuilding just the wall instead.
Foot by foot, the wall kept creeping closer, until eventually the two walls stood flush against each other, blocking off the eaves’ drainage entirely in between. In the course of this, the wall had been rebuilt and torn down five times over, and there’d been five separate brawls between the two families, each side taking damage, the money and resources wasted enough to have built three whole houses instead.
Tempers flared higher and higher, both sides speaking of blood feuds too deep to forgive, and with relatives and friends unable to talk them down, the matter had finally escalated all the way to Yushu Grandmother’s temple, demanding a proper witness.
The two fools had even hired outside fighters from the wandering world to back them up—this was already their third bout, having split the first two, and this one was the decisive match.
Qiqian’er, thoroughly exasperated, asked Jiu Bushe quietly, “Isn’t this just an ordinary dispute between two households? Why bring it all the way to me?”
Jiu Bushe advised her carefully. “Please bear with it a bit longer, Goddess. They’re not so ordinary as they look. However these two Zhangs may seem, plenty of the finest weapons in the hands of legendary retired swordsmen of this world came from their hands. Have you heard of Gu Hongyun of the Northern school?”
She’d happened to ask the right person—no one else might have known, but this man certainly did. Qiqian’er nodded.
Jiu Bushe smiled. “The famous swordswoman Gu’s Azure Simurgh Sword was forged by the elder Zhang’s own hands. And that silver armor you’re wearing, Goddess, that came from the younger Zhang’s craftsmanship.”
The weather was sweltering, the two men still rolling around on the temple floor. Qiqian’er watched patiently a while longer, then asked, “How long do they intend to keep this up?”
Today, Qiqian’er’s role was merely that of a witness—no one had formally requested her arbitration.
Jiu Bushe sighed. “Looks like… a good ten days to half a month, most likely, until they’ve burned through what’s left of their savings and can no longer afford to keep hiring fighters. Then this’ll finally resolve itself.”
Ah—so she had to keep coming back every single day, then?
Qiqian’er felt an immediate wave of irritation and was about to say something, when a young girl came running up outside the temple. The girl looked about twelve or thirteen, carrying one child on her back and holding another, with three more little ones trailing behind her.
She stood at the temple gate and called out, “Papa! Mama says there’s a job come in, and they’ve asked for you by name to take it…”
Before the poor child could even finish, the elder Zhang, still sprawled on the ground, roared furiously, “Get lost, you brat! Can’t you see where—”
Seeing his father exposed and humiliated like that, the younger Zhang burst out laughing, then went right back to rolling around.
The girl with the children jumped in fright and ran off crying.
Qiqian’er, who couldn’t bear to see a child scolded like that, was rather taken aback. “That close by?”
Jiu Bushe looked pained. “Ah, yes, right in the village below your temple. His family causes more trouble than anyone else around—the old man’s been driven half to distraction by them over the years. One moment it’s business rivalry, the next it’s disputes between apprentices—that hundred strings of cash a year is money well spent, I’ll tell you that…”
Perhaps because the elder sister had run off too quickly, the smaller children couldn’t keep up and wailed after her at the top of their lungs, calling for her to wait, their cries growing fainter and fainter in the distance…
Qiqian’er grew angrier the longer she watched. Seeing the hour growing late, and missing An’er terribly, she stood up, walked over to the two grappling lumps of flesh, and looked down at them.
The two men, mid-brawl, hearts full of imagined blades and blood, thunderous heroics and flying gore—suddenly found themselves startled by Yushu Grandmother’s presence, both freezing and blinking up at her with wide, bull-like eyes beneath their thick brows, panting hard.
Huh?
Qiqian’er, strong as she was, wasted no further words. Like grabbing a couple of chicks by the scruff, she picked them up one in each hand and started walking off.
As she walked, she asked, “You two share the same ancestor, don’t you?”
Jiu Bushe hurried after her, pleading on their behalf. “Forgive them, Goddess. They’re just rough, uncultured men—but yes, they do share the same ancestor, no mistake about that. They’re notorious troublemakers here on Baiquan Mountain.”
Qiqian’er wasn’t angry yet. She simply shook the one in her left hand and asked, “Your family’s around here—your ancestral graves can’t be too far off, can they?”
The two men went pale with terror and began begging for mercy. “Mercy, Goddess! Our ancestors have long since passed—vent your anger on us if you must, we truly didn’t mean to cause you any trouble…”
“I asked where your ancestral graves are! With all this trouble you’ve caused?”
Her tone this time carried real anger.
Knowing this Goddess’s temper—someone capable of smashing whole formations to pieces—the younger Zhang couldn’t hold out and, dangling in midair, pointed with a trembling finger toward a spot beside the dirt road behind the village.
The elder Zhang was about to curse him out for it, only to suddenly find himself airborne as well.
He was terrified of heights and let out a heart-wrenching scream.
Half an hour later, both Zhang blacksmiths, elder and younger, were buried up to their armpits in the earth before their ancestor’s grave, only their heads and shoulders sticking out, facing directly toward the gravestone.
Was—was this some kind of dream?
Qiqian’er took the two mourning-rite sutra booklets from Jiu Bushe’s hands and dropped one in front of each man. Still without any real anger, she instructed, “Starting today, recite the rules of proper conduct to your ancestors. You’re not to go home for three days, and you may only eat and drink once each day.”
The younger Zhang blacksmith glanced nervously at the fighters they’d hired with real silver and gold; some kept their heads down in silence, while others wore expressions of clear approval.
The younger Zhang pleaded, “Ma’am—Goddess, we hired you to come watch the fight…”
Qiqian’er scoffed. “Do you think this old lady has nothing better to do than come watch you two roll around in the dirt every day for entertainment? Both of you heads of household, neglecting your businesses, ignoring your family affairs, estranged from your own children, betraying your own shared blood, and not a shred of sense between the two of you—can’t even tell what matters and what doesn’t as heads of your households. Kneel before your ancestors and feel properly ashamed of yourselves, feel ashamed!”
Having said that, she glared at the hired fighters and scolded them too. “Truly, are your legs so idle they ache for something to do? Nothing better to occupy yourselves with? Aren’t you ashamed, bringing disgrace on Baiquan Mountain like this? Think of the elders at the charity pavilion—grown men in your forties and fifties, half buried in the ground already yourselves, and you still haven’t grown up!”
The moment she finished scolding them, the crowd scattered like startled birds.
Jiu Bushe held back his laughter as he watched Yushu Grandmother stride off; once she was out of sight, he finally burst out laughing. “Heh heh, oh my, the old man’s always been too soft-hearted—should’ve brought in our Goddess ages ago…”
Having said this, he crouched down in front of the two buried Zhangs, scolding them imperiously. “This is all your own doing. Whose family doesn’t have troubles of their own? Recite properly now. In this scorching heat, who wants to watch you two make fools of yourselves? You heard her—three days! Short even one hour and this beggar here will get punished to death by the Goddess himself! Hurry up and recite… tsk! Such unfilial descendants!”
Grown men, hammered into the ground like stakes in an instant—and even without doing anything further, that display alone was enough to thoroughly frighten the two Zhangs into submission.
Left with no other choice, the two men picked up their sutra booklets and began reciting, utterly resigned to their fate…
Behind them, the two wives bowed devoutly toward the sky, wiped their tears, and hurried home. Not long after, each came running back carrying a large basket, holding incense and candles, heading straight for Yushu Grandmother’s temple.
A muffled clap of thunder rolled across the sky. Qiqian’er stepped down from her carriage and had barely taken a few steps, skirts lifted, when she heard a familiar wailing cry coming from inside her own home…
Without stopping to think, the young mistress leapt down from the carriage. All around, every household sounded like they were mourning a dead father. Lifting her skirts high, she rushed into the courtyard, and the moment she entered, a foul stench hit her full in the face—her precious baby, wailing, was being tossed up into the air and caught again, over and over.
Chen Dasheng, his weathered face streaked with two lines of tears—was this really his own son? Was this truly his own son? This was… An’er.
Overcome with emotion, he strode into the courtyard, scooped up his son, tossed him into the air, and shouted, “My boy! I have a son now! I have a—ugh!”
The warrior slid down the courtyard wall like a flattened pancake. Qiqian’er, holding Gennu with one arm, pointed at Chen Dasheng and scolded, “You blind fool! That’s Gennu! Your own son would never cry like that!”
She looked around and spotted plump little An’er, just having woken up, lying by the bedside, looking thoroughly delighted with himself. This child had no sense of alarm whatsoever—thrown into the air twice already, any other baby would have long since burst into tears.
Not this one! In fact, he seemed rather eager for more.
Chen Dasheng looked around, only to find that everyone in the courtyard, seeing the mistress of the house had arrived, had tactfully withdrawn, leaving no one to help him up. He couldn’t walk yet, but he certainly could scoot—planting his little legs firmly and giving a good push, he propelled his bottom forward, inch by inch, in rapid little hops.
Chen Dasheng scratched his head, glancing at Qiqian’er a little sheepishly, still overcome with emotion. He walked over to the bed, rather embarrassed, and this time got a proper look.
What a wonderful child this was—plump and fair, so chubby his eyes had become mere slits, both cheeks like halved red fruit. Seeing his father, he wasn’t the least bit afraid; he opened his mouth, drool sliding down, eyes squeezed to slits as he grinned in eager delight.
An’er spread his little chubby hands wide and spoke his very first word in this life—not “Papa,” not “Mama,” but: “~Again!”
Gennu was utterly heartbroken. No, no, no, no…