The three men wound through alley after alley, turning so many corners Wan Qingping lost count. At last, nearly half an hour later, they stopped before a small courtyard tucked deep in a shabby neighborhood. Most of the houses here were little more than hovels, but this place was better than most—no thatched roof, but neat green tiles, and a bit more space behind the walls.
Chen Kefà strode up the steps and pounded on the door with both fists. Bang! Bang!
"Cuier! Cuier! Open up!"
From inside came a woman's irritated voice. "Who is it? Stop knocking or the whole door will fall apart!"
The hinges creaked. A pretty young woman peeked out—only to be shoved back as Chen forced his way in.
"What on earth—Kefà! What's gotten into you? Don't be so rough!" She stumbled inside, cheeks flushed, as if she thought he'd dragged her off for something shameful.
"Quiet. Friends, get in—quickly!" Chen was slightly winded from the hurried walk.
Wan motioned to Zhou Minghu, and the two stepped through without hesitation. Chen slammed the door behind them and ordered the woman to fetch water.
The courtyard was small but tidy: three main rooms, a pair of storage sheds, a few flowers, even a cherry tree. A big water jar sat in the center, stacked firewood beside it.
A boy of five or six stood by the doorway, wide-eyed. He called Chen "Father," then went silent, wary of the strangers.
"This is my other house," Chen explained. "You can stay hidden here. I'll fetch a doctor for your brother—but don't worry, he's my uncle. Blood, not gossip."
Wan bowed slightly, sincerity in his voice. "Brother Chen, I owe you a debt I'll never forget. If we live through this, you'll have two lives in your pocket." He meant it. Chen had risked much—bringing them to his mistress's home, where his own family was exposed. A man plotting betrayal would never do such a thing.
"Cuier, leave the water here. Then go buy wine and some dishes. I'll drink with our friends tonight." Chen's tone was brisk.
The woman carried in the basin, set it down, then dipped her head politely to Wan. "Since you're my husband's friends, you're family too. No need for thanks. I'll fetch food." She disappeared into the street with a purse of coins.
Zhou Minghu sat dazed, silent since they'd arrived. Even Wan, who'd been in his share of street fights, felt shaken. But Zhou was no killer. What he'd seen, what he'd done—tearing a man's arm off—was beyond him.
Wan gripped his shoulder. "Don't think too much. We survive this, brother, and one day you'll eat well, drink well. Your mother will wear silk and walk proud."
Zhou's lips trembled. After a long silence, he stammered, "Big Brother… what if the constables come for us? What do we do? Big Brother, tell me what to do…"
Wan forced calm into his voice. "Don't fear. What's done is done. From now on, just follow me. They won't catch us."
"I'll listen to Big Brother. Always listen to Big Brother!" Zhou repeated it like a charm, clinging to his brother as if Wan's presence alone could shield him.
When they had washed the blood away, Chen returned with an old man carrying a wooden medicine chest. His uncle, no doubt. The elder worked with practiced hands, binding Zhou's leg and leaving several packets of herbs.
Food and wine soon arrived. Chen's mistress cooked a few dishes, and the three men sat down together. Wan downed two cups in quick succession. Only then did his chest loosen, the weight of his first kill easing. He had beaten men bloody before, but never stabbed one to death.
On the table, Chen lowered his voice. "Word on the street is the magistrate's men have already sealed off the fight scene. They're questioning shopkeepers nearby. They've even dragged off two of the punks who were there. But don't worry—the dead weren't important, and this courtyard is new. Even my own boys don't know it yet. The storm will pass in a few days."
Wan inclined his head. "Brother Chen, we'll depend on your eyes and ears. And another favor—our families. Tell them we've gone off to take care of something, ease their worries. Here—three taels of silver. Use it to buy them food."
He gave Chen their names, faces, and addresses: his stepmother and younger brother, Zhou's widowed mother.
Chen waved away the silver. "I'll handle it."
So the days passed. Wan and Zhou stayed hidden, venturing nowhere. Each night Chen came to check on them, bringing news.
A week later, Chen entered the courtyard grinning. "Brothers, good news—the heat's cooled off."
Wan's eyes lit up. "Is that certain?"
"Of course. The yamen's got bigger problems. They're shipping disaster victims back to their villages. The bailiffs are run ragged. Who cares about two punks and a street brawl? The dead were nobodies."
Wan breathed easier. "Good. Minghu, stay here a while longer. I'll test the streets."
It wasn't sacrifice—it was strategy. Zhou was clumsy, transparent. One look from a constable and he'd crumble. His wound hadn't healed, either.
So Wan dressed in fresh clothes Chen had provided, his posture steady, his face calm. On the busy street, he looked less like a refugee and more like any other native-born citizen of Chishui.