The little beggar clasped his hands in a jianghu salute toward Song Huiya, imitating the manners of the martial world. His movements were deliberate, his exaggerated expression almost farcical. This sly, sharp-tongued child, face full of humility yet eyes burning with resentment, spoke in a clear, melodious voice.
“My lord, I’m just a pitiful creature. It’s not worth killing me. A great person like you wouldn’t bother with a barking dog on the street, would you? That’d be beneath your gentlemanly pride.”
Song Huiya pondered the words, hearing the cutting edge of mockery beneath the flattery. Compared to the trembling, desperate beggar she’d seen moments ago, the yellow-haired child before her now seemed more like a feral jackal—untamed, indifferent to life and death.
Sharp claws. Sharper temper. A disdain for the world.
A strange melancholy stirred within Song Huiya, as if she glimpsed a shadow of something long lost within this child. But it was fleeting—like a mirage, gone before she could grasp it. Her mind was still a blank slate; she remembered nothing.
She tightened her fingers around her sword and asked calmly,
“Aren’t you going to sell me out?”
The little beggar slapped his mouth, then grinned sheepishly.
“My mouth’s full of nonsense. How can you take it seriously? I’ll kowtow to you three times—please forgive me!”
He bent neatly and knocked his head to the ground—“bang, bang, bang”—so sincerely that for a moment, Song Huiya thought she was being worshiped like an ancestor. After several more bows, she finally told her to stop.
The child curled up on the ground, glancing up from the corner of her eye. Noticing Song Huiya’s curious gaze, she tilted her head and asked shamelessly,
“Are you angry now?”
Song Huiya smiled.
Though the girl acted like a scoundrel, there was nothing to be angry about—only a faint helplessness. The world was full of greedy, petty people who masked their ugliness with gold and jade, seeking praise even as they betrayed others. Compared to them, what was a little beggar crawling in the mud? At least she was honest in her ugliness—raw, unhidden, free.
“I’m not angry,” Song Huiya said gently.
The little beggar didn’t believe her. Song Huiya noticed and asked,
“Do I look angry to you?”
The girl hesitated, covering her neck nervously.
“I don’t know if you’re angry, but I’m scared. When you smile like that… are you thinking of chopping me up like vegetables?”
“Why?” Song Huiya asked curiously. “Are you so afraid of me?”
The little beggar sighed weakly.
“I’m just a child. You’re an adult—with a sword. Of course I’m afraid.”
“So you’re afraid of death,” Song Huiya said with mild amusement. “Funny. You’ve said so many things that could get you killed.”
The beggar rolled her eyes.
“I’m afraid of pain, sure. But if fear could make me live longer, wouldn’t that be nice? Since it can’t, I curse the world instead.”
Song Huiya shook her head.
“You’re not afraid of death. People who live one day at a time rarely are. For you, being alive is just slightly better than not.”
The beggar said nothing. These so-called noble folk, she thought, always lectured about virtue and life’s meaning, never caring about what stray dogs like her felt. Her life rested in Song Huiya’s hands, so she only muttered obediently,
“Yes, yes, you’re right. I’m brave and noble, not afraid of death at all!”
Song Huiya didn’t mind the sarcasm. Talking to this little thing was a distraction from the dull ache spreading through her body. She reached forward suddenly and grabbed the beggar’s collar.
The child froze. Fear surged through her, making her lean back as far as she could. Her gaze fell upon the gruesome wound on Song Huiya’s palm—the torn flesh, the slow drip of blood, the metallic scent filling the cold air. Song Huiya lifted the ragged fabric of her clothes and poured the blood toward her nose, the gesture calm and deliberate. Her fingertips brushed lightly against the girl’s neck.
For the first time, the little beggar felt what murderous intent truly was. Her breath caught; all her wild defiance vanished.
Her face flushed as Song Huiya asked softly,
“What’s your name?”
The beggar shrank back like brittle grass under winter frost.
“Call me whatever you like, lady. Bitch, bastard, little rat—anything’s fine. If you don’t like any of those, just ‘hey you,’ or ‘dead girl’ works too.”
Song Huiya regarded her quietly, eyes calm and unreadable. Under that gaze, the child’s scalp tingled as if every secret had been stripped bare. She spoke again, this time earnestly.
“I was raised by an old blind singer in the city. He wanted to cripple me so I could beg, but later thought it’d be inconvenient—so he planned to raise me and sell me instead. Before he could, he fell sick and died. I was left alone, with no name. He used to call me ‘Little Bird’ because he said I chirped too much.”
“Little Bird,” Song Huiya repeated, chuckling softly. “I thought you were more of a little fox.”
“Then I’ll be Little Fox!” the beggar said quickly. “You decide.”
Song Huiya looked at her small, cautious form, her hand falling from the sword hilt.
“Why so scared? I haven’t hurt you. I never said I’d kill you.”
“Look at what you’re saying.” The beggar rubbed her thin hands together, hunched and frail. “You can’t kill me later either—wouldn’t want to stain your sword.”
Song Huiya couldn’t help but laugh.
“Little Sparrow, you truly have a talent for survival.”
“I dare not, I dare not,” the beggar said, kowtowing again.
“Relax,” Song Huiya said at last, leaning back against the wall. “I won’t kill you. I don’t kill children.”
“Really?” the girl asked skeptically.
Her whole body felt cold now. Song Huiya only closed her eyes, sword in arms, breath shallow and fading.
The little beggar watched her for a while. Seeing that Song Huiya truly had no interest in her and wasn’t pretending, she shifted her position slightly—moving from kneeling to sitting—and quietly edged backward.
Her knees were numb from kneeling too long. She rubbed them through the worn fabric of her clothes, wincing as pain shot up her legs. Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, and she pressed her cold face against her knees for comfort. After a moment, when the ache dulled, she lifted her gaze again toward the swordsman opposite her.
The gray night stretched endlessly between them, like a pale Milky Way dividing heaven and earth. With her poor eyesight, she couldn’t make out much in the dim light. She had been alone for so long, yet somehow, the silence of the temple felt heavier than solitude itself.
Perhaps it was the distance between them that made her feel a faint, fragile sense of safety. The little beggar hesitated, raised her head several times, and finally called out tentatively,
“Hero?”
Song Huiya’s eyelids were half-closed. He gave her a lazy glance, waited for a beat, then replied indifferently,
“Speak.”
The little beggar asked quickly,
“What’s engraved on your sword?”
“My name,” Song Huiya replied simply.
Her heart sank. Whatever faint hope she’d been holding onto vanished in an instant. Dizzy with dread, she realized she’d truly stumbled into disaster tonight.
What kind of hero engraves their own name on a sword? she thought bitterly. Why not hang a sign around your neck while you’re at it? Afraid someone might lose you?
She opened her mouth, wanting to retort, but thought better of it. Swallowing her frustration, she turned toward the temple door, bowed low, and began to mutter prayers to the gods beyond.
Song Huiya turned his head slightly, curiosity flickering across his face.
“What are you doing?”
The little beggar’s tongue felt bitter as she spoke.
“I used to pray to Heaven to make me rich, but Heaven ignored me. Maybe He finally remembered me and decided to be generous—so He tossed me a thousand taels of gold. But I was too unlucky to catch it and nearly got crushed to death instead. So now I’m begging Heaven—forget the gold, just let me stutter instead.”
Song Huiya was silent for a long moment, then asked softly,
“A thousand taels of gold? I have great fortune—I can catch it. Tell me where.”
The little beggar blinked, speechless.
“...”
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