Chapter Three: In Women's Attire

Lying on his cramped little bed, Han Bingyan mulled over the events that had just transpired. “Was it rude of me to dash away like that?” Now, as he replayed the scene in his mind, he realized that his Aunt Yun hadn’t, like so many others, sought to blame him with some fabricated excuse. “Am I just too suspicious?”
Han Bingyan had no answer. A trace of confusion flickered across his youthful face as he toyed with the jade pendant in his hand. The pendant bore the intricate image of a dragon—a treasure, the most precious thing he owned. It had come with him when his mother carried him back in swaddling clothes; surely, it must have been left by his father.

Suddenly, memories from his childhood surfaced. “Brother… brother, can I play with you all?” A frail child pleaded hopefully with a boy slightly older.
The fragile child’s clothes were patched everywhere—so dirty and colorful that he looked nothing like the older boy beside him.
The frail child was Han Bingyan, and the older one was Han Bingwu.
A few other children nearby looked at him, giggling with mocking, teasing laughter.
“Go away!” Han Bingwu waved him off impatiently, clearly unwilling to let him join in, then continued playing games with the group.
Han Bingyan walked away, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears he could no longer bear. He turned his head and wandered alone toward the shadowy corner.
Wrapped in tangled memories, Han Bingyan was overcome with a bitter ache. Both sons of the Han family—why was their treatment so different? Tears brimmed in his delicate eyes. Ever since he realized that his tears could not move those around him, he had never cried before others again.
Whenever he suffered wrongs outside, he always held back, bringing them back to his little nest to weep freely, unrestrained and alone.

He rose from the small bed and pulled a wooden longsword from beneath it. The workmanship was fairly decent; he’d carved it himself with a small knife. His sister Han Bingran had a real longsword, which he envied greatly, but he was born with blocked meridians, unable to practice martial arts.
His longing for an iron sword grew wild like weeds, so he secretly collected materials and fashioned a replica after his sister’s sword.
It was barely satisfactory to his heart. He twirled and sketched movements in his tiny room, his actions deft enough but sure to be scoffed at by anyone skilled in martial arts: “Just empty forms.”
Yet Han Bingyan was thoroughly engrossed. At least, being able to perform these moves proved he hadn’t wasted his efforts in stealthy study.

Immersed in swordplay, he lost all sense of time; nearly an hour slipped by unnoticed.
A series of knocks suddenly interrupted his enthusiasm. Hastily, he hid the wooden sword and opened the door. Standing outside was his sister, Han Bingran.

The little girl’s brows were furrowed, her face unhappy. Han Bingyan was both startled and delighted—startled and delighted because of his sister. She rarely spoke to him, and though her room wasn’t far from his, she almost never visited his little nook.
Now that his sister was knocking on his door of her own accord, how could he not be excited?

The girl paid him no mind, wrinkling her cute nose as she sidestepped him and entered the room. Seeing the mess of clothes and clutter, Han Bingyan smiled awkwardly.
But Han Bingran seemed unfazed, boldly sitting on Han Bingyan’s tiny bed. Compared to his awkwardness, she seemed more like the master of the room.
“Brother!” Han Bingran called.
“Wh… what is it?”
“Don’t be so stiff!” The little girl pouted, clearly displeased. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Noticing Han Bingyan’s strange gaze, she checked her clothes carefully, found nothing amiss, and asked with mock ferocity.
“No… nothing!” Han Bingyan hurriedly concealed his nervousness.
“Here!”
A heavy bundle was thrown at him, landing squarely in his arms.
“What’s this?” Han Bingyan asked.
“Open it and you’ll see.”
Seeing that his sister didn’t want to explain, curiosity got the better of him, and Han Bingyan smiled sheepishly.
Inside were several sets of brand-new clothes. Han Bingyan turned, puzzled, to his sister.
“These are for you, brother. I… it wasn’t specially bought at my request!” The little girl said proudly, head held high.
A wave of warmth swept through his heart. Han Bingyan suddenly felt something filling his parched soul—warm and full.
“Hurry, put on the new clothes and let me see! I bet you’ll look so handsome in what I picked!” She bounced off the bed, her face bright with excitement.
By “handsome,” she meant good-looking.
He was about to take the clothes from Han Bingran’s hand when, suddenly, she switched them out for something else—a set of women’s clothes appeared before him.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Seeing the dress in her hand, Han Bingyan was thoroughly confused.

A mischievous smile spread across Han Bingran’s face, her expression especially adorable for a girl her age. “Ah, someone gave me this not long ago. I tried it on, but it was a bit big. But I think it’ll fit you just right! Before you try on the men’s clothes, let me see what you look like in women’s clothes! I’m really curious to see how my brother, who resembles me so much, looks in my outfit.”
Han Bingyan stared dumbfounded, mouth agape.
“Can I not wear this?”
“No!” Han Bingran declared, then forcibly dragged him to the bathroom, opened the door, and shoved him inside with the dress.
“How did it come to this?” Inside, Han Bingyan was at a loss. For her to think up such a thing—making him wear these clothes! But remembering how their relationship had just started to warm, he couldn’t bear to upset her.
She was his sister, after all—why not humor her?
So he thought, and his hands moved mechanically. It’s just changing clothes, not difficult, he reasoned.
A few minutes later, Han Bingyan emerged, compelled to don the dress.
No sooner had he stepped out than something rushed at him.
“What’s going on? Ah!” Han Bingyan, panting, was about to ask what was happening when his sister pressed his head and forcibly turned him toward the mirror. Seeing the reflection, he couldn’t help but cry out.
In the mirror stood two “beauties,” almost identical, as if they were carved from the same mold. The illusion was so strong, it seemed they were one and the same.
Han Bingyan watched in astonishment, then raised his right hand and gestured a few times; the reflection followed suit. He blinked hard, and again the reflection matched him.
“Look! Standing together, don’t we look like a pair of inseparable sisters? If only you were born as my elder sister… ow, why did you hit my head?”
“I’m your brother, not your sister!” After tapping her on the head, Han Bingyan suddenly felt a pang of fear—afraid he’d upset his sister.
“I’m going to call you ‘sister,’ sister, sister!”

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