Chapter 1: The Beautiful Butcher
Snow fell steadily in the twelfth lunar month, soft flakes drifting down upon the courtyard where a great cauldron of water boiled furiously. Each snowflake vanished the instant it neared the pot, consumed by the billowing steam that curled upward like pale ghosts. Underfoot, the once‑clean blanket of snow had long since been trampled into a grey, slushy mire. Beside the cauldron, a wooden door panel—pressed into service as a makeshift table—rested across two benches, and upon it lay half a pig's carcass, pale and heavy in the winter light.
Fan Changyu brought her cleaver down in a single, decisive stroke, severing a hind leg with practised ease. The improvised table quivered under the force, sending shards of bone and flecks of meat scattering. The cleaver itself was a fearsome thing: thick‑backed, broad‑bladed, its iron body blackened with age and use, save for the snow‑white edge that gleamed with a cold, lethal sharpness. A skinning knife and a boning knife lay neatly beside her, their dark iron and bright edges forming a matched set with the cleaver in her hand.
Today, the Chen family in town were slaughtering their New Year's pig, and had invited neighbours and clan relatives to share in the bustle and good cheer. The house was lively with chatter. Guests clustered around the fire pit indoors, warming their hands and stealing curious glances toward the courtyard where Fan Changyu worked alone. Their murmurs soon turned to hushed gossip.
"The Fan family only just completed their mourning rites. Why would the Chens invite that slip of a girl—Changyu—to butcher their pig?"
"The Chens have always been close with Second Brother Fan's household. They're not the superstitious sort…" The speaker faltered, as though suddenly remembering the Fan family's misfortunes, and cast another look outside.
Snow drifted like cotton wadding through the air. In the courtyard, the young woman wielding the cleaver wore a plain, slightly worn jacket and skirt. She was tall and slender, her black hair pulled back to reveal half of a fair, fine‑boned profile. Though she appeared slight, her movements were swift, efficient, and unerringly sure.
When Second Brother Fan's wife had first arrived in Linan Town with her husband, she had drawn many admiring eyes. Some jealous women had even whispered—behind closed doors, of course—that she must have come from a brothel, so striking was her beauty.Zhu Yu – Chapter 1: The Beautiful Butcher (Refined Version)
Snow fell steadily in the twelfth lunar month, soft flakes drifting down upon the courtyard where a great cauldron of water boiled furiously. Each snowflake vanished the instant it neared the pot, consumed by the billowing steam that curled upward like pale ghosts. Underfoot, the once‑clean blanket of snow had long since been trampled into a grey, slushy mire. Beside the cauldron, a wooden door panel—pressed into service as a makeshift table—rested across two benches, and upon it lay half a pig's carcass, pale and heavy in the winter light.
Fan Changyu brought her cleaver down in a single, decisive stroke, severing a hind leg with practised ease. The improvised table quivered under the force, sending shards of bone and flecks of meat scattering. The cleaver itself was a fearsome thing: thick‑backed, broad‑bladed, its iron body blackened with age and use, save for the snow‑white edge that gleamed with a cold, lethal sharpness. A skinning knife and a boning knife lay neatly beside her, their dark iron and bright edges forming a matched set with the cleaver in her hand.
Today, the Chen family in town were slaughtering their New Year's pig, and had invited neighbours and clan relatives to share in the bustle and good cheer. The house was lively with chatter. Guests clustered around the fire pit indoors, warming their hands and stealing curious glances toward the courtyard where Fan Changyu worked alone. Their murmurs soon turned to hushed gossip.
"The Fan family only just completed their mourning rites. Why would the Chens invite that slip of a girl—Changyu—to butcher their pig?"
"The Chens have always been close with Second Brother Fan's household. They're not the superstitious sort…" The speaker faltered, as though suddenly remembering the Fan family's misfortunes, and cast another look outside.
Snow drifted like cotton wadding through the air. In the courtyard, the young woman wielding the cleaver wore a plain, slightly worn jacket and skirt. She was tall and slender, her black hair pulled back to reveal half of a fair, fine‑boned profile. Though she appeared slight, her movements were swift, efficient, and unerringly sure.
When Second Brother Fan's wife had first arrived in Linan Town with her husband, she had drawn many admiring eyes. Some jealous women had even whispered—behind closed doors, of course—that she must have come from a brothel, so striking was her beauty. Both daughters of Second Brother Fan's wife had inherited her beauty, each in her own way. The younger, only five years old, had not yet grown into her features, but the elder—had she not been betrothed to the Song family's son since childhood—would surely have drawn suitors in droves, wearing down the Fan family's threshold with their eager visits.
A sigh drifted through the gathered crowd.
"Second Brother Fan and his wife were killed by mountain bandits, leaving behind only two young girls. And Big Brother Fan is heartless—thinking only of seizing his brother's property. Changyu and her sister have suffered terribly. We all thought her life would improve once Song Yan passed the provincial exams and she married into the Song family, but who could have predicted that the engagement would fall through? Still, that girl Changyu is made of sterner stuff than most. She's taken up her father's trade as a butcher to support the household. The Chens hiring her today is their way of helping her keep the family afloat."
The listeners murmured their sympathy, though one voice, barely more than a breath, added,
"I heard the elder Fan girl is cursed—that she brought misfortune upon her parents. Even her younger sister was born sickly because of her ill fate. The Song family had her fortune read, and that's why they broke off the engagement…"
The previous speaker snorted.
"And do you know where the Song family had those fortunes read?"
A ripple of resigned sighs followed. Everyone understood perfectly well why the Song family had chosen this moment to sever ties.
There was an old saying: When a man rises in rank or fortune, his wife dies. Song Yan had passed the provincial examinations and was destined for an official career. How could he still marry a butcher's daughter?
The chopping block in the courtyard was close enough to the main house that Fan Changyu could not help overhearing every word. Yet her expression remained utterly composed. Her parents had been gone for over a month; she had long since learned to swallow grief and gossip alike.
Her story with Song Yan was nothing more than a living echo of Qin Xianglian and Chen Shimei.
Years ago, when the Song family could not even afford a coffin, Madam Song had knelt in the street with her young son, kowtowing to strangers, begging for enough money to bury her husband. Her forehead had bled from the repeated blows against the ground, yet no one had stepped forward to help—until Fan Changyu's parents, unable to bear the sight, purchased a coffin for the burial.
Overwhelmed with gratitude, Madam Song had proposed the betrothal herself, promising that once her son achieved scholarly success, he would marry Changyu and give her a life of comfort.
Later, when the two families became neighbours, the Fans continued to help the widow and her son. Madam Song was determined that Song Yan should sit the imperial examinations, but she could not afford the tuition. Before he was admitted to the county school, much of his schooling had been paid for by Fan Changyu's father.
Song Yan proved gifted. He passed the county examinations early, and this autumn he achieved the rank of juren in the provincial exams. Local gentry now sought his favour, and even the county magistrate was said to be considering him as a potential son‑in‑law.
Madam Song's attitude had shifted accordingly. A butcher's daughter no longer seemed a suitable match for her rising son.
Sensing the change, Fan Changyu's mother had suggested dissolving the engagement, fearing they might be accused of clinging to past favours. But Madam Song had refused vehemently, insisting the Song family would never forget a debt of gratitude.
Then the Fans died unexpectedly, and rumours—no one knew from where—spread that Changyu's fate was so ill‑starred it had killed her parents.
When Madam Song came to break the engagement, she used that very rumour as her shield. She claimed a fortune‑teller had declared the couple's birthdates incompatible, that marrying Changyu would bring calamity upon Song Yan, and now that her parents were dead, the misfortune would fall upon Madam Song herself.
Thus Song Yan severed the engagement without bearing the stain of ingratitude. Only Fan Changyu was left branded as an ill‑fated star.
She exhaled slowly, pushing the thoughts aside. There was no sense dwelling on bitterness.
Once she finished butchering the pig, she collected her wages. Without stepping into the main house, she offered her farewells. It was the New Year season, a time when people prized auspiciousness. Though the Chens had been kind enough to hire her despite her family's recent mourning, she understood the delicacy of the situation.
They did not press her to stay, and they sent her off with a bucket of pig offal—an unwritten custom in the village. Those hired to slaughter pigs were always given a portion of meat, though more often than not, it was the offal rather than the prized cuts.
Before returning home, Fan Changyu stopped by the pharmacy to collect two prescriptions.
One was for her younger sister.
The other was for the man she had rescued.
Yesterday, after slaughtering a pig in the countryside, she had found a bloodied man collapsed in the snow—clearly attacked by mountain bandits.
Because her own parents had died at the hands of such men, compassion had stirred in her, and she had carried him back.
To her surprise, none of the town's medical clinics dared treat someone so close to death. Unwilling to abandon him in the street, she had brought him home and begged a neighbour—Uncle Zhao, who had been a veterinarian for fifteen years before turning to carpentry—to attempt treatment.
She had no idea whether his efforts would succeed, but at least the man still breathed.
The prescription she now carried had been written by Uncle Zhao himself.
Medicine in hand, she made her way home.
The Fan residence lay in a cramped alley in the western quarter of town, where houses pressed tightly together. The alley was dark and damp, moss creeping along the walls. The plaster on the houses was mottled, the wooden doors and windows warped with age, and the air carried a faint mustiness.
As fate would have it, just as she entered the alley, she encountered Madam Song and Song Yan.
Both wore newly tailored winter garments of fine fabric. Madam Song's gold earrings glinted in the dim light, and her once‑meek demeanour had transformed into something decidedly proud.
Since Song Yan's success, local gentry and wealthy merchants had showered the family with gifts—silver, even houses. The Songs were now comfortably prosperous.
As the saying went, A man relies on his clothes as a horse relies on its saddle. Song Yan wore a long robe of raven‑blue silk embroidered with bamboo leaves, giving him the air of a cultivated young scholar. The poverty‑stricken boy of years past had vanished entirely.
Fan Changyu, by contrast, had come straight from the Chen household. A leather bag containing her butcher's knives hung across her back. Her patched jacket was spattered with blood. One hand held a packet of medicine; the other, a wooden bucket of pig offal. She looked every inch the labourer she was.
Madam Song discreetly stepped aside, lifting a handkerchief to her nose. A gold ring gleamed on her finger.
They had indeed risen in the world.
The alley was narrow. Neither mother nor son spoke. Fan Changyu did not spare them a second glance. She strode forward as though they were strangers.
"Make way," she said curtly.
As they passed, the bucket of offal brushed against Song Yan's new robe, leaving a dark, wet stain of blood upon the fine silk.
Madam Song's face turned a mottled shade of green.
"That careless girl! This is Hangzhou silk!"
Song Yan's expression remained unreadable.
"Mother, let it be."
Madam Song huffed.
"Fine. In a few days, we'll be moving away from this wretched neighbourhood anyway."
Meanwhile, as Fan Changyu approached her home, a small figure burst out from the neighbour's doorway—a five‑year‑old bundle of snow and excitement.
"Sister, you're back!"
The child was exquisitely pretty, a tiny porcelain doll with rosy cheeks. She flung her arms wide, eager for a hug, her grin revealing a missing tooth.
Fan Changyu caught her by the collar before she could touch her.
"Don't. My clothes are filthy."
Little Chang Ning obediently halted. Seeing her sister burdened with parcels, she reached up and took the medicine packet without being asked.
Her almond‑shaped eyes were identical to Changyu's, though rounder with youth. Her cheeks were still plump, giving her the look of a cherubic snow sprite.
The neighbour's wife emerged at the commotion.
"Changyu, you're back," she greeted warmly.
The neighbours were an elderly couple. Uncle Zhao, the husband, spent his days making furniture or selling wicker baskets at the market, returning only in the evenings. The two households were close; whenever Changyu had to work, she entrusted her younger sister to Auntie Zhao's care.
Changyu acknowledged her with a nod, then reached into the bucket and pulled out a piece of pig liver tied with palm leaves.
"Uncle likes this. Stir‑fry it for him to go with his wine."
Auntie Zhao accepted it cheerfully, then added,
"The young man you brought back last night has woken."
Changyu blinked in surprise.
"I'll check on him shortly."
With her parents gone and only her sister beside her, it was hardly proper to house a strange man. After Uncle Zhao had treated him, she had borrowed a spare room from the neighbours to settle him for the night.
Little Chang Ning piped up,
"That big brother is so beautiful!"
"Beautiful?" Changyu laughed, tapping her sister's topknot. "You can't describe a man as beautiful."
But truthfully, she had no idea what he looked like. His face had been caked in dried blood when she found him, and in the rush to seek help, she had not thought to clean him.
After changing out of her blood‑stained clothes, she went next door.
Winter evenings fell early. By the time she entered the borrowed room, the sky outside had already darkened.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a charcoal brazier. The air was thick with the mingled scents of herbs, blood, and sweat—an oppressive, cloying mixture.
Fearing the man might not survive the night, Uncle and Auntie Zhao had sealed the windows and doors tightly and lit the brazier to keep him warm, intensifying the smell.
But Fan Changyu, who had spent her life in pig pens and slaughter yards, merely wrinkled her nose and stepped inside. She went to the table and lit an oil lamp.
A warm, amber light filled the cramped space.
When she turned back toward the bed and saw the man's face clearly for the first time, she paused—startled despite herself.
At last, she understood why Chang Ning had called him beautiful.