The Drama Queen Little Husband of the Straight Man - C2

Chapter 2 – Peach Blossom Pastry: “You Will Face Retribution”

Geng Yao sharpened several pig-slaughtering knives, and, having nothing better to do, went out for a stroll through the streets. His cropped hair drew curious glances from all directions, but he pretended not to notice.

By the time he returned home at dusk, his father and mother had already come back from the Yan residence.

“Mother,” Geng Yao hurried over, “what was that about calling off a marriage before you left? Calling off what marriage?”

His mother replied, “We didn’t call it off. We’ve arranged the engagement for you.”

The second son had reached the proper age for marriage. Today, they had originally gone to return an old token of betrothal, but who would have thought they would end up finalizing the match instead?

A mere pig butcher, matched with the Yan family’s young master—how could they possibly raise someone so pampered and refined?

They had assumed that the boy from the Yan family must have had some defect—either dim-witted, foolish, or unsightly. If that had been the case, they would have accepted it out of gratitude for the life-saving grace the Yan family had shown back then and treated him well regardless.

But after inquiring around upon leaving the Yan residence, they learned that the young master possessed a breathtaking countenance and was intelligent and courteous.

Although uneasy in their hearts, they were moved by Master Yan’s sincerity and integrity.

If they refused the match now, how could they face themselves as human beings?

“You… arranged a marriage for me?” Geng Yao was dumbfounded.

“Exactly so. You’re about to have a wife,” his mother teased. “From now on, you can’t complain that your mother never found you one.”

Geng Yao: ??? So this is what arranged marriages in ancient times are like?

“Where did this fiancée of mine even come from?”

As she picked vegetables in the courtyard, his mother recounted the entire matter to him.

His father concluded with unreserved praise for the Yan family, saying Master Yan was a man of integrity whose word was as solid as iron, and that it was their family’s honor to be so highly regarded.

Having been single for two lifetimes, Geng Yao fell silent. That afternoon, while wandering around the county, he had passed by the Yan family estate—it was simply not a place people like them could aspire to.

The difference in status was too stark; the whole thing felt odd in every respect.

Still, this was a promise made nineteen years ago. Though the Geng family was not destitute, they had little in the way of riches; surely there was nothing worth scheming for.

“Mother, this marriage should really be refused—”

Before he could finish, his father hurled a shoe at him: “The Yan family thinks highly of you, and you’re turning your nose up at them?”

Geng Yao sidestepped and tossed the shoe back. “Father, I’m telling you, you really need to fix that temper. We’re just having a proper conversation—why the tantrum? You can’t even beat me anyway.”

Geng Father: … The sheer audacity!

Indeed, he couldn’t win. Back in Wuping County, during one of his arguments with Geng Mother, he had glared and raised a hand to strike, only for Geng Yao to kick him aside and warn: fight if you must, but lay a finger on her and see what happens.

Now that the son had grown up, the father was forced to swallow his pride—what kind of logic was that?

“I’m not looking down on them,” Geng Yao said. “I’m saying our family isn’t worthy. I’m not worthy.”

A wife deserved to be cherished—he was willing to do that. But there were certain comforts he couldn’t provide. Why should someone so delicately raised be forced to endure such hardship?

His mother chuckled as she watched father and son bicker. “Your father’s just quick-tempered—when people treat him kindly, he has to repay them threefold. With the Yan family being so good to us, if you try to refuse, of course he’ll be angry.”

“I’m not saying I won’t marry,” Geng Yao clarified, “just that the disparity between our families is too great. Bringing someone into this life would surely wrong them—that would be repaying kindness with ingratitude.”

Mother Geng said, “Do you think your father and I don’t know that? We went today intending to return the token, but we never expected Master Yan to be such an honest man—he refused to break his word.”

“He even accused us of looking down on him.”

“Then…” Geng Yao scratched his head. “Does… does she agree to this?”

His mother paused, then laughed when she realized whom he meant. “Parental orders and the words of a matchmaker—how could she possibly refuse?”

Geng Yao was about to say more when his mother teased, “Master Yan said their A’Yao has been waiting every day for you to come marry him! How could he not be willing?”

Ancient women were often conservative—obedient to their fathers at home, to their husbands when married; marry a chicken, follow the chicken; marry a dog, follow the dog.

Geng Yao figured this girl would be no different.

“Mother.”

“What is it?”

“Just one question: is she good-looking?”

His mother, holding a bunch of greens, laughed heartily. “Beautiful—so beautiful! We’ve asked around: the most beautiful person in all of Ning’an County, well-educated and gentle-tempered.”

Thick-skinned as Geng Yao usually was, his face flushed faintly red.

Damn you, heavens—you’re forgiven.

You struck me with lightning for five li, but you gave me a wife. Fair trade.

“You’re willing?” his mother teased, having already read his thoughts.

“If she doesn’t despise me,” Geng Yao replied, “of course I’m willing. I’ll treat her well—I won’t let her suffer.”

His mother had been joking about a wife; naturally, Geng Yao assumed it was a woman.

In ancient times, without towering buildings, summer breezes were unhindered. The shade beneath the June trees was pleasantly cool.

The Geng family members all wore teasing smiles; unable to protest, Geng Yao simply endured it.

Everyone busied themselves with their own tasks. In one corner of the courtyard, a small child crouched, backside sticking out, engaged in some unknown mischief. Geng Yao walked over and gave him a gentle nudge with his foot.

Little Hou-ge’er turned around blankly and, upon seeing him, quickly covered his mouth.

“Well now, what are you sneaking?” Geng Yao crouched down and held out his hand. “Share half with me, or I’ll tell Grandma and have her scold you.”

The little boy drooped his brows and eyes, reluctantly pulling a few candies from his tiny pocket.

“Where’d you get these?”

“Mmm… from Second Auntie,” the boy mumbled.

He had heard it: Second Uncle was going to marry Second Auntie.

“Second Auntie?” Geng Yao blinked. “Which Second Auntie?”

“The one Second Uncle’s going to marry.”

Since Geng Father and Mother had taken little Hou with them earlier today, the identity of this “Second Auntie” was obvious.

Geng Yao couldn’t help grinning. It seemed his not-yet-married wife truly had a gentle disposition.

Though they had yet to meet, he already felt a flicker of fondness.

A’Yao…

He memorized the name.

It sounded lovely.

The magistrate of Wuping County had died in battle. With his letter of recommendation, Geng Wu approached Ning’an County’s magistrate, who sighed upon reading it and appointed him a constable.

The tutors at the frontier were far inferior to those in prosperous regions; in Wuping, Geng Wen had been celebrated, but upon arriving in Ning’an, he was as unremarkable as a small fish in the sea. A mere licentiate hardly caught anyone’s eye.

The family spent silver to help him enter the county academy. Day and night he studied; even at midnight, when Geng Yao rose to relieve himself, he would see the candlelight still burning in Geng Wen’s room.

Meanwhile, the Geng family owed thirty taels of silver to the Jianshan Temple. Father Geng took on slaughtering work for several villages outside the city, leaving early and returning late each day.

Geng Yao handled deboning and meat preparation at home for sales on the butcher’s counter.

He had been an orphan, taken in by an unreliable master and trained in blade techniques, eventually becoming a blade cultivator.

Though never joining any official sect, he had been registered as a rogue cultivator, nurtured by the state and, in return, required to repay that kindness.

Thus, every rogue cultivator was obliged to complete two missions a year for a hundred years. After fulfilling this term, any subsequent missions earned rewards multiplied many times over.

Geng Yao harbored no lofty ambitions—he merely wished to finish his missions quickly, then spend the rest of his days traveling with his master, enjoying food and drink.

He began taking missions at fifteen, worked tirelessly for ten years, completed both his and his master’s quotas, and amassed enough wealth to last several lifetimes.

But just as he reached that goal, his master died. Before he could even grieve, he himself perished too.

All that remained were bank accounts with endless zeroes… and a grand mansion in the capital.

Old Ox Geng Yao sighed inwardly: …I’ve transcended caring.

Having transmigrated, he originally intended to butcher pigs for a living—not only because he lacked ambition, but also because the Heavenly Dao here had stripped him of spiritual energy, clearly warning him not to meddle too much.

Now, however, with a fiancée from such a prominent family, he felt uncertain.

Could pig-slaughtering truly support someone raised in luxury?

Time leapt to the Qiqiao Festival.¹

With Hui-niang minding the stall, Geng Yao slipped back to the courtyard, scooped up Hou-ge’er, and called to his mother: “Mother, I’m heading out for a bit.”

“Where to?” she asked, emerging from the kitchen. “We’re counting on you to help sell meat—your sister-in-law can’t manage alone!”

“I’ll be back soon!” he shouted.

Children selling flowers weaved through the crowd, pausing only before love-struck couples to ask if they wished to buy Qiqiao blossoms.

Older matrons, of course, were never asked; with only a few coins to spare, they would rather buy salt and rice than such frivolities.

Carrying a child, Geng Yao drew no attention from the flower sellers.

“Second Auntie.”

Hou-ge’er pointed to a courtyard across the way—Second Auntie’s home.

Beneath the cool shade, Geng Yao set the boy down and pulled from his sleeve a packet of peach blossom pastries he had secretly purchased. “Do me a favor, will you? See that servant by the gate? Tell him you’re Hou of the Geng family and ask him to deliver this packet of pastries to Young Master Yan.”

“For Second Auntie?” Hou-ge’er asked, chewing on his finger.

“Smart boy. Yes, for your Second Auntie,” Geng Yao praised.

That morning, while selling meat, he had overheard that the recent trend was to gift peach blossom pastries to one’s beloved during Qiqiao Festival. If an engaged couple failed to exchange such pastries, it implied indifference, inviting ridicule.

Penniless, Geng Yao had borrowed thirty coins from Hui-niang to buy a packet—pastries that normally cost fifteen coins were double in price today.

Holding the pastry packet tied with a red string, little Hou toddled off toward Yan residence’s side gate, his tiny topknot bobbing adorably as he went.

The oppressive heat was dispelled by three tubs of ice placed in Qingting Courtyard, where guests had gathered.

“Yan Yao must be drowning in peach blossom pastries today!” one youth teased.

Another added, “I heard the prefectural city has a new kind—made with last year’s first snow and fresh peach blossoms, blended with other flowers. There’s even a savory version with minced meat instead of just sweet.”

“Indeed,” said a young woman behind a fan, giggling. “I’ve yet to taste it—I thought surely Yan Yao would have some today, so I shamelessly came to sample.”

Yan Yao, seated before a carved food box, gave an innocent smile and turned to look at Qiu Yu.

“We did receive two boxes from the prefectural city,” he said lightly, “but I’ve yet to try them myself. Not sure if they’re the ones you’re talking about.”

Where there were blossoms, butterflies would follow. Ever since this Qiqiao custom of gifting peach blossom pastries began, even the courtyard mice were sick of them; catch a whiff, and they’d scurry away.

As they conversed, another servant entered. “Young Master, more peach blossom pastries have arrived at the side gate.”

“Oh my, even at this hour?”

“Yan Yao’s blossoms truly inspire envy.”

“Surely he’s received twenty by now—eighteen at least! And from every notable family.”

“Wonder which house will win this flower in the end?”

Their teasing masked thinly veiled jealousy; Yan Yao lowered his gaze, sipping tea with a gentle smile, though inwardly he found it all tedious.

A peach blossom pastry wrapped in plain oil paper was carried in, startling the crowd.

“Whose son sent this? Was there a mistake? Who wraps pastries in oil paper?”

Yan Yao, faintly surprised, looked toward the servant delivering it.

This gatekeeper knew little of the engagement’s details, only that Master Yan had ordered special courtesy toward the Geng family. Smiling, he explained, “Young Master, this was sent by your future husband’s little nephew, addressed to his Second Auntie.”

Silence fell; astonishment rippled through the group.

Someone feigned surprise: “I heard rumors a few days ago—Yan Yao betrothed to a pig butcher? No house, no land—I thought it nonsense. But judging by this oil-paper pastry… could it be true?”

“How could that possibly—”

Gasps followed one after another, each like a slap across Yan Yao’s face.

Yet he only lowered his eyes, smiling faintly as he spoke softly: “A betrothal is, after all, a joyous occasion. Since we are close as siblings, I should have told you sooner. But as Zhaonian said, my future husband is a pig butcher. I feared you’d scorn me and distance yourselves, so I kept silent.”

As he spoke, tears welled in his eyes—a thousand sorrows shimmering within them. Even the King of Hell would have softened; how much more so these sheltered maidens and young gentlemen?

Jealous though they were, they were too thin-skinned to press further.

One by one, they hesitated, pity softening their expressions. Ji Zhaonian, who had meant to humiliate Yan Yao and force him into disgrace, found himself undone yet again by the fox’s honeyed tongue.

“You—your husband is a pig butcher,” Ji Zhaonian stammered, furious. “Your future spouse is a pig killer. That makes you a pig butcher’s wife! Even if you steal my clothes, even if you dress like an immortal, you’ll still reek of pork!”

The highest authority in Ning’an County was the magistrate; Ji Zhaonian was the magistrate’s son. Handsome and well-born, he should have been the object of pursuit.

But in the same county lived Yan Yao.

In the presence of such beauty, all the handsome sons were bewitched—none spared a glance for the magistrate’s child.

Thus, Ji Zhaonian detested Yan Yao beyond measure.

Their rivalry was long-standing; though envious, Ji Zhaonian never resorted to underhanded tricks.

When Yan Yao was in good spirits, he teased Ji for fun; when in bad spirits, he pricked at Ji’s temper.

Ji Zhaonian had plotted this humiliation for two days, sleepless with anticipation, convinced Yan Yao would be mortified and unable to show his face.

Yet now Yan Yao merely blinked away tears, his gaze brimming with reluctant farewell:

“I know… after today, we shall never share such laughter again. We’ll be worlds apart. My life is set—I lost my mother at two, unloved since. To marry a pig butcher and end my days thus… this is simply my fate.”

A beauty in tears stirred the deepest pity. Ji Zhaonian flared up, shouting, “Stop pretending to be pitiful!”

Always the same trick!

“Zhaonian, enough,” one girl whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “Yan Yao is pitiful enough already.”

Others murmured agreement; though unspoken, their disapproving looks spoke volumes.

Ji Zhaonian met Yan Yao’s gaze—saw the sly triumph glinting behind those tear-streaked lashes—and his vision went red with rage.

“Yan Yao,” he bellowed, “you will face retribution!”

Then he stormed out.

Footnote

1. Qiqiao Festival (乞巧节): Also known as the Double Seventh Festival or Chinese Valentine’s Day, it falls on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month. Traditionally, young women pray for skill in weaving and sewing (hence “begging for skill”) and express romantic wishes; customs include gifting flowers or pastries, especially peach blossom pastries in some regions.