But between the lines of the letter, there was always a hint of worry that did not match Fan Ruoruo's age. Thinking about it, the concubine who had given birth to a son had become more and more arrogant after the death of the first lady. The little girl was alone in the capital, and Count Sinan was busy with official business. Perhaps there were some problems with her life.
Fan Xian picked up his brush and dipped it in ink. After a moment's thought, he began to write. In the letter, he was very vague. He wanted his sister to spend more time with Count Sinan, and to appear weak and lovely in front of their father. She should never complain, but she should occasionally show her hidden bitterness.
The second step was to show off her strength in front of the concubine and her arrogant younger brother. As the saying goes, a kind person can be bullied. If you don't want to be bullied, you have to at least show that you have the will to resist.
The third step was to treat the servants in the family better, especially Count Sinan's aides. She had to look at the uncle with pure, innocent eyes, and look at him with idle admiration.
After that, she had to offend the current mistress of the capital, suffer a little, and then find a way to let the master know. Any man would have an inexplicable desire to protect someone, especially his own daughter. He believed that under the influence of his surroundings, Count Sinan would remember that his dead wife had left him a daughter.
But this kind of family strategy needed to be mastered. Fan Xian casually gave a few pointers, thinking that if Ruoruo was smart enough, she would understand what he meant. But he didn't know if these tricks, which he had learned from the romance novels of his previous life, would be useful.
He waited anxiously for a reply, afraid that his blind suggestions would bring trouble to the eleven-year-old girl.
After two months, Fan Ruoruo's reply came. He didn't know if it was because of these tricks, or if there was no such thing as a stepmother abusing her daughter in the capital, but Fan Xian could clearly see that his sister was very happy.
But in the letter, Fan Ruoruo asked, puzzled, why should he treat the servants in the family better? Only then did Fan Xian realize that in such a stratified society, not everyone saw the relationship between people the way he did. So he wrote another letter, and told a few short stories to show that respect was not only good for others, but good for oneself as well.
Originally, Fan Xian had wanted to copy a few stories from the Decameron from his memory and send them to the capital. He remembered that when he was reading textbooks in his previous life, the authoritative critics had always praised Boccaccio for praising love and advocating social equality and equality between men and women. But after a moment's thought, Fan Xian felt a lingering fear. He remembered that the Decameron contained quite a few dirty jokes.
This was a small interlude in Fan Xian's life, but it gave him some sort of spiritual sustenance. It seemed that whether the little girl in the capital was doing well or not had become an indicator of his happiness index.
Although Fan Ruoruo, who was far away in the capital, was young, she could feel from these letters that her brother, who was far away in Danzhou, was different from other children. This pair of brother and sister, whose mental ages differed greatly, continued to write to each other. It was clear that Fan Xian had influenced Ruoruo quite a bit. The way she spoke in her letters was much more mature than the average young girl, and her view of the world had begun to change slightly.
There were kites in spring, fish in summer, blue birds in autumn, and geese in winter. Letters came and went, and the days passed just like that.
— — —
Every time Fan Xian wrote to Ruoruo, he would smile bitterly and shake his head. His arm had not been well for the past few years. It was either swollen or painful, as if it was being pricked by needles. Sometimes he could not lift his right hand, so he had to write with his left. When Ruoruo, who was in the capital, received the letters, she would marvel at her brother's carefulness, changing his handwriting from one letter to the next.
All of this stemmed from that night six years ago.
After Elder Fei left, little Fan Xian was lonely. One night, he snuck out of the doghole and arrived outside the strange grocery store that was often closed. He found the back door, took out the key from the thick grass at the bottom of the stone steps, and opened the door.
The grocery store was pitch-black until Fan Xian arrived at the back door, where a weak oil lamp was lit. Little Fan Xian sniffed, and easily found the millet wine that Wu Zhu had prepared for him. He smiled sweetly, picked up a bowl, and began to drink.
Wu Zhu did not drink, and Fan Xian had never even seen him eat, so he was used to it. However, this scene inevitably looked a little absurd. A six-year-old boy was actually drinking like a heroic ranger in the world. No matter who saw it, they would think that their eyes were playing tricks on them.
But Wu Zhu allowed Fan Xian to drink as he pleased, never showing any intention of stopping him. He even began to prepare a few cold dishes for Fan Xian to accompany his drink.
Although he was drinking millet wine, drinking too much would still make him feel a little dizzy. Fan Xian squinted his cute little eyes and looked at the expressionless blind man, who seemed to never grow old. "Uncle, why haven't you changed after all these years? It's like you don't age. "
He then answered his own question. "It seems that the best of the best can stay young forever … but you've never practiced neigong, have you?"
"Uncle, how many people are there in this world who are truly powerful? How are they ranked? "
"Ninth level? Why is it nine again? "The drunk little boy did not notice the loophole in his own words.
"What level are you?"
"No level?"
"What level is that idiot who practiced the Sigu sword in Dongyi?"
"No level either?"
"What level is Ye Liuyun, the uncle of so-and-so in the capital?"
"Still no level?"
Actually, Fan Xian was answering his own questions. In the end, he laughed and said, "That won't do. I'm going to train to no level too."
The blind Wu Zhu's hands were slowly and firmly cutting the radish. His knife was fast, but the blade would retract as soon as it touched the wooden board. His precision was terrifying, and the radish that was cut out looked as if it had been measured with a tool. There was not the slightest difference, and the crystal-clear pieces of radish lay on the chopping board. It was a beautiful sight.
Wu Zhu raised his head, hesitated for a moment, then walked to Fan Xian's side and put the kitchen knife in his hand.
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