The Fearless Husband - Chapter 9

Chapter 9 — Qinglong Ge’er and Fang Shu’s…

Yu Qinglong hadn’t actually meant for things to go that far. But what could he do? That old woman was just plain unlucky—probably because she’d accumulated too many sins, and even the heavens couldn’t bear to watch anymore.

Before long, his voice went hoarse from all the wailing, so he simply rolled his eyes back and pretended to faint.

Someone pressed his philtrum, someone else rubbed his chest, and soon he felt himself being lifted and cradled against someone’s leg. From the voices, it seemed his family had arrived after hearing the commotion.

Zhou Yuehua was genuinely frightened at first. But this time, he was wiser—he took his son’s hand immediately, and when the boy gave a light scratch on his palm, he knew right away that Qinglong was faking.

He secretly breathed a sigh of relief, though his heart ached at the sight of the cut on his son’s lip. Still, having been through this once before, he quickly composed himself and began asking the neighbors what had happened.

They gave him a rough summary, then asked, “So, Zhou Ge’er, did you know they were planning to marry your Qinglong Ge’er off to Old Zhao the widower?”

Zhou Yuehua’s brow furrowed immediately, his expression darkening as he glanced toward the old house. “Nonsense. There’s no such thing. My Qinglong will never be given to a man like that.”

“I knew it,” one neighbor said. “That family might have a bit of money, but anyone who marries in is bound to suffer. I figured you’d never agree to it.”

Zhou Yuehua nodded. “Jian’er, help your father. Let’s take Qinglong home.”

But Zhou Jian’er said, “Father, Doctor Mo’s on his way. Maybe we should wait and have him take a look first?”

Zhou Yuehua hesitated. He knew his son was pretending, but his daughter-in-law had a point—if they dragged him away now, it might look suspicious. Besides, he hadn’t seen how the boy got hurt, and if there was an injury he’d missed, he’d never forgive himself. So he decided to wait.

It was cold outside, though, and he couldn’t bear to let the boy lie on the ground freezing. He gestured for Jian’er to help him carry Qinglong into a neighbor’s house. But before they could, Qinglong slowly opened his eyes.

The first thing out of his mouth was, “Father, you’re here? What about Grandma—how’s Grandma?”

He looked so anxious, so heartbreakingly sincere, that Zhou Yuehua almost burst out laughing. He coughed to cover it, forcing his face back into seriousness. “Your grandmother’s been carried inside. She just woke up.”

Yu Qinglong struggled to his feet, saying, “Then I’ll stay here. I won’t leave until Doctor Mo confirms that she’s fine.”

The neighbors all praised his filial devotion, cursing Yu Daguai and his family for being heartless.

Just then, Doctor Mo and Yu Qingcai came hurrying down the road. They’d been delayed at the Mo household—and had coincidentally crossed paths with Fang Shu and his father along the way.

Doctor Mo knew that Fang Shu was supposed to come for a follow-up that morning; someone had told him the day before.

Still, he was surprised to see them arriving so early. “Master Fang, Young Master Fang, I’m terribly sorry,” he said politely. “I’ve been called to tend an injury—would you mind waiting a short while?”

“Not at all, not at all,” Fang Dingman said with a genial smile. “You go ahead.”

Doctor Mo turned back toward the courtyard and called, “Mo’er! Bring Master Fang and his son inside to sit!”

“Okay, Grandfather!” a small, clear voice answered.

The gate creaked open, and a little boy came trotting out—round-faced, bright-eyed, and full of manners. He walked up to them, held out his small hand toward the courtyard, and said, “This way, please.”

His grandfather was a doctor, so he’d seen many patients come and go. Though he didn’t go out much, he knew how to receive guests properly.

As the crowd outside began to disperse, Fang Dingman and Fang Shu followed the boy into the yard.

They didn’t enter the house—Mo Xiaoning wasn’t there, and it would’ve been impolite.

The boy set out two stools and poured tea.

Fang Shu didn’t dare sit; he stood awkwardly, one hand pressed to his back. His father took a seat on the long wooden bench and accepted the tea.

It wasn’t good tea, just ordinary leaves steeped lightly—but the child’s manners made Fang Dingman chuckle. “What a well-behaved boy. Shu’er, you should hurry up and marry too, so I can have a grandchild like this.”

Fang Shu barely heard him. His eyes were fixed on the small wooden toys the boy was fiddling with—a tiny boat and a miniature well with a crank. The craftsmanship was exquisite, every edge sanded smooth, every joint perfectly fitted. He couldn’t look away.

“Yes, Father, you’re right,” he replied absentmindedly.

Fang Dingman blinked. That’s suspiciously agreeable of him. Following his son’s gaze, he instantly understood.

Ah. Of course.

Fang Shu crouched down a bit, smiling. “Mo’er, right? Could you tell me where you got those toys?”

“They’re from my Uncle Qinglong,” Liang Mo said proudly. “Aren’t they amazing?”

“Yu Qinglong?” Fang Shu asked in surprise.

“Mm-hmm! Uncle Qinglong made them himself. He said he’ll make more for me when he has time. He wanted to make more now, but he’s too busy.”

Too busy?! Fang Shu thought, astonished. If he can make something this fine while busy, what could he do with proper time?

He thought of his own clumsy “campfire pen stand” and winced. What had once looked creative now just looked ugly. Compared to this—he didn’t even deserve to call his work handmade.

If only Yu Qinglong weren’t a ge’er! If he were a man, Fang Shu would’ve gone straight up to him to ask how he made these.

Still, he couldn’t resist crouching lower. “Mo’er, may I see that little well?”

The boy hesitated—it was his favorite toy—but good manners won. “You can, but please don’t break it.”

He handed it over carefully.

Fang Shu turned it over in his hands, studying every detail—the rounded edges, the taut string, the symmetry. It was flawless.

He adored clever, beautiful things like this.

Only someone with a free mind could create something so ingenious. Why, oh why, does he have to be a ge’er?!

He turned it this way and that, enchanted, until guilt crept in. He wanted it—badly. But to ask outright would be rude.

At last he couldn’t help himself. “Mo’er,” he whispered, “what if I trade you some candy for this?”

The boy frowned. “No. If I want candy, Mother will buy it for me.”

“…”

Indeed, the Mo family wasn’t lacking in candy money. And of course, he couldn’t just ask Yu Qinglong to make him one—that would sound ridiculous. Nor could he snatch it from a child.

Thinking quickly, he said, “Then how about this—you ask your Uncle Qinglong to make another one. I’ll buy it from you fair and square, and you can use the money to buy candy for both of you. How’s that?”

The boy scratched his head. “I’ll have to ask Uncle Qinglong first.”

“That’s fine,” Fang Shu said. “You like him very much, don’t you?”

“Of course!” the boy said brightly.

“Then this must stay a secret,” Fang Shu warned, leaning closer. “Don’t tell anyone except your Uncle Qinglong. If others find out, they might scold him—or even lock him up, and then you’d never see him again.”

Liang Mo’s eyes went wide with fright. “Really?!”

“Really,” Fang Shu said solemnly.

The boy nodded hard. “Okay. I won’t tell anyone.”

The two of them crouched there whispering. Fang Dingman wanted to eavesdrop, but he didn’t need to—he could guess easily enough. His son must’ve been trying to buy the toy without looking like a fool.

After a long while, Fang Shu reluctantly returned the toy and straightened up, rubbing his sore back.

He rejoined his father, and they sipped their tea together.

Before long, Doctor Mo returned—with Yu Qinglong beside him.

Qinglong’s lip was split, though his eyes were as sharp and dark as the first time they’d met. Fang Shu could see that same indomitable spark—the kind of willpower not everyone possessed.

But he was a ge’er. What was the point of noticing such things? It only made Fang Shu’s chest tighten in frustration.

Doctor Mo said, “Forgive me for the delay. Young Master Fang, please come in and lie down.”

“No rush,” Fang Shu said quickly. “Please, see to your other patient first.”

So it was because of an injury.

Sure enough, Doctor Mo said, “I’ll just give this child some medicine—it won’t take long.”

He fetched a small porcelain bottle and called, “Mo’er! Help your Uncle Qinglong clean his wounds.”

The boy, already looking upset over Qinglong’s split lip, took the bottle at once and hurried to him.

Qinglong actually had other injuries—on his arm and back—but he only let the boy tend to the ones on his face and hands. He’d refused to let his father come, not wanting him to see the bruises. There had also been two buckets of water to carry home, so Zhou Yuehua had agreed to go back ahead.

He hadn’t expected to run into Fang Shu here.

Fang Shu and his father had already gone inside.

Once they were alone in the courtyard, Liang Mo whispered, “Uncle Qinglong, that young master said he wants to buy my little well. I told him no, so he said maybe you could make another one for him, and he’d pay us. Then we could buy candy together!”

Yu Qinglong immediately understood—but he wasn’t sure whether Fang Shu was serious or just humoring a child. If serious, though… then selling handmade crafts could be a way to earn money.

“Mo’er,” he said softly, “do something for me. Go ask that young master how much he’d pay for it. But make sure no one hears you—if others find out, I might never be allowed to visit you again.”

The boy paled. “I won’t tell anyone! I promise, Uncle Qinglong!”

“Good,” Qinglong smiled. “I’ll wait here.”

His heart was pounding—harder than it had even during the fight earlier.

This was about money!

Was this it? His first step toward making a living in this world?

He decided not to go fetch water for the Mos just yet—better to stay nearby in case Liang Mo needed him.

Since Mo Xiaoning had gone to the mountains early that morning and the yard was already spotless, he turned to the vegetable patch instead.

“Master!” he called toward the house. “Has the garden been watered? It’s been dry for days—if not, I’ll go do it!”

Doctor Mo groaned inwardly and pretended not to hear.

Fang Dingman, curious, asked, “Doctor Mo, why does that boy call you ‘Master’?”

While inserting an acupuncture needle into Fang Shu’s waist, the doctor sighed. “Ah, he’s been pestering me to take him as an apprentice. Comes every single day. Poor kid’s had it rough. But I’ve no intention of taking students right now, so we’ve been at a stalemate.”

“Tell me,” Fang Dingman said, grinning, “that scuffle we saw earlier—was he really telling the truth?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the doctor said honestly. “I was inside working. Didn’t hear what they said.”

“He claimed his uncle wanted to sell him to a widower. Old Zhao, you know him? Said his cousin even knocked over his food when they were kids.”

Doctor Mo sighed. “It’s complicated. That old lady’s a step-grandmother. When she married in, her husband already had a son—that’s Qinglong’s father. Later, they split households. Officially it was because the family grew too big, but truth is, Qinglong used to go hungry there. His father found out and moved out in anger. What parent could bear to see their child starve?”

“Starving? With a build like that?” Fang Dingman chuckled. “If that boy had eaten properly, he’d probably be taller than my Shu’er.”

“That’s true,” the doctor said with a laugh. “You won’t find another ge’er that tall for ten miles around. But he’s a good kid. Used to walk with his head down, scared to speak a word—his step-grandmother crushed the spirit out of him. Lately, though, it seems he’s found his courage again.”

“Why’s it so quiet out there?”

Fang Dingman looked up just as his son said sharply, “He’s not fainted again, is he?!”

Both the doctor and the father froze.

Well… technically, it could happen.

But honestly—why did this young master sound so concerned about a ge’er?