Legend of the Female General – CH 003

Chapter 3. I Will Show You How to Chop.

He Yunsheng frowned and asked, “What did you say?”

He Yan remained motionless, repeating earnestly, “I said the way you are chopping firewood will not work.”

The young man grew impatient. “He Yan, if you are sick, go back inside. Do not come here looking for trouble.”

“If you keep chopping like that, you will not finish before dark,” He Yan said, unmoved.

He Yunsheng seemed to suddenly flare up in anger. The axe slipped from his hand and landed heavily on the stone slab with a loud thud. He took a step forward, furious. “If it were not for the money spent on your illness, Father would not have dismissed the servants. You know it will take until dark? If you’ve never chopped wood before, do not act like an expert. Since you are so good at it, why not do it yourself?”

He Yan’s heart stirred slightly. So the family had once had servants, but they were let go due to poverty to pay for her medical treatment, and this young man had taken over their work. Judging by his demeanor, his resentment toward his sister had been festering for a long time. His barrage of sarcastic remarks spared no feelings.

Poverty had its advantages—like the empty courtyard, where the awkward scene between these siblings would not be witnessed. If this had happened in the He or Xu families of her past, curious maids would have gathered like an army to watch the spectacle.

After his outburst, He Yunsheng expected He Yan to stomp her feet and start cursing. But to his surprise, this time, she did not scold him. Instead, she bent down and picked up the axe he had thrown to the ground.

The heavy axe weighed down her slender wrist, making it seem as though it might snap at any moment—an almost alarming sight.

He Yan looked at her hand and frowned slightly. She could not even lift an axe properly—compared to her past self, she was far too weak.

He Yunsheng was taken aback. Suspicious, he asked, “What are you doing?”

“I will show you how to chop,” He Yan replied.

Hearing this, He Yunsheng grew even angrier. “Stop messing around! You—”

Before he could finish, a loud “thud” cut him off.

He Yan had already swung the axe and cleanly split the log in front of her.

“See?” she said. “It’s simple. Do not grip the axe near the blade—hold it at the very end of the handle. Follow the wood’s grain, and it will take much less effort.”

He Yunsheng stared at her in shock. A moment later, his face flushed crimson with rage. Pointing at He Yan, he stammered, “Y-you—you are definitely up to something! Your hand… Father will scold me when he sees this! He Yan, you are so scheming, deceitful, and cunning!”

“Huh?” He Yan was puzzled.

The next moment, a panicked voice cried out, “Miss, you are bleeding!”

He Yan instinctively looked down. Unbeknownst to her, the skin on her palm had been scraped raw, and blood now stained her hand—vivid and almost striking in its contrast.

She had only chopped one log, and her hand was already injured? Just how delicate was this body? Had the Young Lady He ever lifted anything remotely heavy in her life? Was she made of cotton and tofu?

He Yan fell into deep thought as the maid Qingmei rushed over, pulling her toward the house in a hurry. “We need to apply ointment right away. Who knows if it will leave a scar…”

He Yunsheng shot her a resentful glare before turning to leave, throwing over his shoulder, “Keep acting up, He Yan. Sooner or later, you will be the death of yourself.” Then he ran off.

He Yan was both amused and exasperated. In her previous life, she had lived until marriage and remained that way until death. Yet now, for the first time, someone had accused her of being “delicate.”

This feeling was novel. To the soldiers, the word “delicate” was likely a distant concept.

Qingmei cradled He Yan’s hand on her lap, carefully applying ointment to her palm with her fingertips before tears began to fall again. “What if it leaves a scar? We must find a way to get some scar-removing ointment.”

“It’s fine.” He Yan could not bear to see a girl cry, especially one as young and pretty as Qingmei, who was only fifteen or sixteen—younger than she had been in her past life. She comforted her. “A scar is just a scar. As long as it heals, that’s what matters.”

Qingmei’s eyes widened, her tears forgotten as she stared at He Yan, speechless.

“What’s wrong?” He Yan asked.

“N-nothing.” Qingmei wiped her tears and stood up. “As long as the young lady is not upset, that’s all that matters.”

The tone in her voice… He Yan glanced at the cosmetics and jewelry on the dressing table and began to understand. The original Young Lady He had been extremely particular about her beauty, and this delicate skin of hers was clearly meant to be pampered. A mere scratch would have been treated as a catastrophe.

Were the heavens punishing her for living too roughly in her past life, never experiencing the life of a delicate maiden, by giving her this fragile body now—one that could not withstand even the slightest hardship?

Qingmei asked, “Young lady, shall I pour you a cup of hot tea? It was raining earlier, and you might have caught a chill.”

“Wait,” He Yan stopped her. “There’s something I want to ask. Since I woke up, some things have been unclear…” She looked at Qingmei. “How did I fall ill?”

There had been male servants in the household before, but they were dismissed after He Yan fell ill, suggesting this was not a congenital condition. Yet if it were a sudden illness, she had not felt any discomfort these past few days. Everyone around her treated her with such cautious care, as if fearing something terrible might happen, which struck her as odd.

At this, Qingmei turned pale with shock, grabbing He Yan’s hand as tears threatened to spill again. “Young lady, you’ve already grieved for Young Master Fan once—you must not torment yourself again! Even if not for yourself, think of the master and the young master!”

Young Master Fan? A man?

He Yan asked, “Which Young Master Fan?”

“Young lady, what do you mean… Ah, yes, Young Master Fan was so heartless—hardly a worthy match. It is right for you to forget him. This servant will not mention him again, as long as you are well.” With that, Qingmei wiped her eyes again.

This little maid really was too prone to tears. Even the newest recruits in her past life’s barracks had not cried this much during their first battle. Before He Yan could ask much more, Qingmei’s lapel was already soaked. At this rate, the room would be flooded before an incense stick could burn halfway.

“Alright,” He Yan conceded helplessly. “Then we will not speak of it. Go change your clothes first—they are wet.”

Qingmei stared at He Yan in astonishment. Seeing her calm expression, with no signs of distress, she hesitated before saying, “Then this servant will go change… Please wait for me, young lady. I will return right away.” With that, she left, glancing back every few steps.

The room fell quiet again.

He Yan stretched out her hand, examining her open palm.

The medicinal ointment Qingmei had applied still clung to her hand as she stared at the slender, delicate fingers in a daze. Women were naturally weaker than men in terms of strength. Back then, to train her grip, He Yan had slipped out through the back gate of the manor before dawn since childhood, climbing Donghuang Mountain in the capital to fetch water and chop firewood for the monks at the temple. At first, her hands had been rubbed raw just like this, but gradually calluses formed, and it got better. Later, she could easily carry two buckets of water and even practice martial arts with stones hanging from her wrists.

She was not clever, so she could only rely on sheer persistence. Day after day, she accumulated enough strength to compete with men.

But now, everything had returned to the beginning. Forget reclaiming what was rightfully hers—even this frail body could hardly bear the thorny, treacherous path that lay ahead.

“Then I will train again,” He Yan told herself. “Just like before.” Perhaps this was Heaven’s test, the price of her rebirth. But what was there to fear?

It was merely starting over from scratch.