Bai Zongnan

The knife in his hand had grown dull, so Bai Zongnan fetched a whetstone from inside the house, scooped up a basin of clear water, and, pressing three fingers against the blade, began to sharpen its edge with brisk strokes.

“Sister-in-law,” he murmured, “though you are as beautiful as a flower, with a figure to match, it cannot be denied you were born in a brothel. Your lowly status is written in black and white on the official household registry. To have married my brother, a humble clerk, was already more than you could hope for.”

He rinsed the blade, once dark and tarnished, now gleaming and cold, and nodded in satisfaction at the edge he had achieved. His gaze shifted toward the adjoining room, where a young woman, her hands and feet bound behind her with hemp rope, lay on the heated brick bed. Her hair was disheveled, and she wore only a thin camisole and undergarment, exposing a pale, fragrant shoulder and the length of a slender thigh curled beneath the bedding. His eyes betrayed no emotion.

For this was his own sister-in-law.

She wept bitterly, her youthful, enchanting face streaked with tears, dark hair falling over her features. Her eyes shone with grievance, but though she shook her head desperately atop the kang, the cloth gag in her mouth—stuffed with two walnuts to numb her tongue—rendered her unable to speak or protest.

In truth, Bai Zongnan required no explanation.

He picked up a rag and wiped the sharpened blade, murmuring softly, “Sister-in-law, my brother went to great lengths for you, spending sixty taels of silver to have the magistrate’s clerk change your registration, swapping your name with that of a woman who died of illness. From this day forth, you are a proper peasant woman. Sixty taels—the world outside is in famine; a girl of thirteen or fourteen fetches only five taels, and a prime acre of irrigated land by the river is but twenty. Even in peaceful times, sixty taels took my brother from his youth until the age of thirty-eight to save.”

The young woman on the kang, whom Bai Zongnan had met only a few times, now sobbed harder, tears and snot soaking her tangled hair, her bound body writhing helplessly.

“Sadly, at thirty-eight, my brother succumbed to illness and died.” Bai Zongnan stood, looking at the now-murky water, and tossed the rag into the basin with a touch of regret.

He turned and entered the room, both hands cradling the ox-tail knife, his expression solemn yet detached.

Sister-in-law, sensing what was about to unfold, thrashed wildly on the kang; her camisole and undergarment rode up, exposing even more of her pale, rounded chest. Her small, delicate feet—tied and struggling—peeked out from under the bedding, white and tender as spring onions.

“You are indeed a beauty, sister-in-law,” Bai Zongnan said, taking in the view. He reached out, adjusted her clothing, and tucked her feet back beneath the covers, his tone sincere: “But, auntie, in my past life, I saw much of this sort of thing. Those internet beauties were never my true love—Kwai Tsu beneath a beauty filter was the only one for me.”

His sister-in-law struggled even harder, terror filling her large, beguiling eyes as she stared at the man who had once been merely a strong, silent uncle in the family.

She did not understand his words, nor did Bai Zongnan intend to explain.

“Sister-in-law, my knife is sharp. Endure it for a moment.” With reverence, as though about to make an offering, he gripped the ox-tail knife, and without hesitation, drove it downward toward the heaving chest beneath the bedding.

But instead of the familiar sensation of steel sinking into flesh, there came the sharp crack of splintering wood, fragments flying as the kang broke apart.

A dark shadow flashed past at incredible speed.

“How did you realize something was wrong with me?” A crisp, alluring voice rang out, laced with anger and shame.

There, perched on the beam behind him, stood a tall, shapely woman wrapped in a thin blanket. She shielded her creamy shoulder—the color of freshly made tofu—while sweat-dampened hair clung to her exquisite face, its beauty flushed with indignation.

“It was when Little Hei exposed his claws,” Bai Zongnan replied with a slight smile, tightening his grip on the knife. In an instant, his waist and legs tensed, and he launched himself forward like a hunting hound—or a panther exploding into motion—swinging the ox-tail blade viciously at the woman on the beam. “My brother was an ordinary man, plain but honest. As the saying goes, ‘a fair lady is the prize of a gentleman’—no shame in loving a beautiful woman. But if you had no true affection, why ensnare my ill-fated brother in marriage? You left him childless, and now, at thirty-eight, he is in the grave—his life cut short, gone forever!”

“So today, I, Liang Erlang, uncle of the Zhao family, ask you, sister-in-law, to meet your end!”