He Yunsheng’s brow furrowed. "What did you say?"
He Yan remained still, repeating earnestly, "I said, you’re chopping wood like this, it’s not okay."
The young man’s impatience flared. "He Yan, if you’re sick, go back inside and stop picking on me."
"You won’t finish chopping like this until nightfall," she said, voice calm but unwavering.
Suddenly, He Yunsheng’s temper erupted. He slammed the axe onto the bluestone slab, sending a reverberating clatter through the courtyard. Stepping forward, he spat out his anger.
"If it weren’t for you spending money on your illness, Dad wouldn’t have sent the servant away! And now you still lecture me about chopping? If you’ve never chopped wood before, don’t tell me how to do it! If you know how, then show me!"
He Yan’s heart quivered. So there had been a servant, but poverty forced him to take over the work. Judging by his expression, he held a long-standing grudge against her, lashing out without mercy.
Yet poverty had its hidden advantage. The courtyard was empty; no eyes witnessed this sibling clash. Had this been the old He or Xu households, the maids would have formed a silent army, watching, whispering, judging.
He Yunsheng expected He Yan to flinch, curse, or retreat. Instead, she bent and picked up the axe he had thrown.
The weapon’s weight hit her wrist with merciless force, threatening to buckle her slender arm. Her fingers trembled under the load.
He Yan frowned. She couldn’t even lift the axe—not remotely close to her former strength.
Suspicion flashed in He Yunsheng’s eyes. "What are you doing?"
"I’m chopping it for you to see," she replied, steady and unflinching.
Anger boiled over in him. "Stop your nonsense, you—"
A thud cut him off.
He Yan’s axe struck true, splitting the log in front of her with a single, precise swing.
"Look," she said, breathing evenly, "It’s very simple. You can’t hold the axe at the front; hold the end of the handle. Chop along the grain—it saves effort."
He Yunsheng stared, dumbfounded. After a moment, his face flushed crimson. Fury laced his voice as he pointed at her.
"You… you… you really have ulterior motives! Your hand… Dad will scold me when he sees it! He Yan, you are scheming, cunning, treacherous!"
"Huh?" He Yan blinked, puzzled.
A panicked cry cut through the air. "Girl, you’re bleeding!"
Instinctively, He Yan glanced down. Her delicate palm, rubbed raw by the axe, bore vivid streaks of blood.
She had only swung the axe once—her hand already wounded. Such fragility! Had the former Miss He ever lifted anything heavier? Was this body truly cotton and tofu?
Lost in thought, she didn’t notice Qingmei rushing in, tugging her inside. "We need ointment first! Will it scar?"
He Yunsheng’s resentment burned as he shot over his shoulder, "He Yan, act like a spoiled child! You’ll get yourself killed!" And then he stormed off.
He Yan’s lips twitched between a laugh and a sigh. In her former life among soldiers and battles, “stunted” was a word she had never heard applied to her.
Qingmei knelt, carefully dabbing ointment onto her palm. Tears welled in her eyes. "What if it scars? I must find scar cream…"
He Yan softened. "It’s okay. It will heal," she reassured, unable to bear the girl’s distress.
Qingmei froze, speechless, staring at He Yan.
"What’s wrong?" He Yan asked.
"No, nothing," Qingmei whispered, wiping her cheeks. "As long as you’re not angry, young lady."
He Yan glanced at the cosmetics and jewelry on the dressing table. She understood now—the former Miss He had been delicate, pampered, unaccustomed to pain. Perhaps the heavens had gifted this fragile body in recognition of her past life’s hardships.
Qingmei stepped forward with a cup of hot tea. "Young lady, drink. You must have caught a chill in the rain."
"Wait," He Yan stopped her. "I remembered something… when I woke, I couldn’t recall clearly… How did I get sick?"
The household had once had a servant, but sent them away after her illness—suggesting sudden onset. Everyone had cared for her cautiously, as if expecting calamity. Strange, He Yan thought.
Qingmei clutched her hand, nearly crying. "Young lady, you’ve been heartbroken for Master Fan. Don’t go through that again. Think of yourself, and Master and the Young Master!"
"Master Fan?" He Yan asked.
"Yes… heartless, not a good match. You’re right to forget him," Qingmei sobbed, wiping her eyes.
The little maidservant’s tears were endless. Even the new recruits in her former army, on their first campaign, hadn’t been this emotional. At this pace, the tent would flood before long.
"Alright," He Yan said, smiling faintly. "Let’s stop talking about it. Go change your soaked clothes."
Qingmei hesitated, then nodded. "I’ll be back soon." She left, glancing over her shoulder.
Silence returned.
He Yan studied her palm, tender and delicate. Women were naturally weaker than men. In her previous life, she had trained in secret—fetching water, chopping wood, climbing Donghuang Mountain before dawn. Calluses hardened her hands. She had grown strong.
But now, all was lost. Her body, frail and fragile, faced the thorny road ahead.
"Then practice," she whispered to herself. "Like before."
A test from heaven, perhaps. A rebirth challenge. But what was so terrifying about starting over?
It was only the beginning.
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