To say that a deity's constitution was resilient was a huge understatement. Any physical damage, no matter the severity, automatically healed within three months, and the skin rejuvenated to its fresh, smooth state within four. After subjecting Jing to excruciating pain at having needles inserted under his fingernails that first day, Hou used a pair of pliers to extract all twenty nails altogether from Jing's hands and feet. Hou repeated the process every time the nails grew back to a healthy set every quarter.

Within two years, Hou had broken every joint of every limb, and seared every part of Jing's body with hot iron. He had whipped, stabbed and slashed as easily and randomly as ruining a piece of silk cloth. Hou took extra care not to damage any part of Jing's skull. He wanted Jing conscious and lucid through the greater part of the repeated ordeal.

Jing's quiet endurance through it all only hardened Hou's resolve. Why was Jing being so stubborn? Why wouldn't he beg for mercy? Why wouldn't he admit that he was in on the joke at Hou's expense? Why did he continue to pretend that he cared? Even his tears denoted something else other than a plea for his life.

Hou and his assistant got more and more creative as time passed, devising new forms of physical and mental torture aimed at breaking body, mind, and spirit. At some point, Hou added the routine of submerging Jing's head in a tub of turmeric water that scorched his throat and constricted his lungs. Hou pulled him up only seconds before he succumbed to asphyxiation, then submerged him again at least ten more times in one given day. Every time Jing was pulled up from the tub, Hou would scream at him, throwing insults, and demanding a confession.

"You're nothing! Nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing! Say it! YOU'RE NOTHING!"

Jing endured the daily verbal abuse without giving in, and this only incited Hou further to inflict more pain. Even though he knew that the memory of each type of torture would linger in Jing's mind, Hou was far from satisfied. He detested that the healed wounds left no trace. If Jing's attractive form got restored to its original state, it would render Hou unable to prove his point. Hence, in the next six months after the second year, Hou spent time looking for a means to make the damage permanent. He finally found the perfect substance smuggled through an underground source, and it was worth its hefty price.

Hou poured the clear liquid substance on Jing's body before each torture session, and since then, every inflicted wound produced scarring that did not disappear. And so, by the last half of the third year, Jing's body was an eternal hot mess of burns, whip marks and stab wounds. Hou gave particular interest in damaging Jing's hands by hammering nails through them, just as he did to Jing's feet. He was no longer able to get up due to the broken right leg that had regrown crooked from the last breaking. He had lost his ability to speak from a badly damaged throat, which was another focus of Hou's ire. Jing's singing voice had the power to entice and enchant. Hou cackled gleefully in between his taunts.

"Oh, handsome Master Jing, no one can match your talent with the guqin. Play for me. Play for me," Hou mocked in a high-pitched voice imitating the endless number of women who flocked in admiration of the young master. Jing said nothing. "Can't play? Sing for me then. Come on, sing!" Jing gave no reaction.

Hou might not have gotten the confession he wanted after nearly three years, but he was satisfied with the unrecognizable visage of the former junior master of the Tushan Clan. He decided it was time to deal the final blow and show Jing what he really was.

In the last month of the third year of Jing's captivity, Hou instructed his assistant to clothe Jing in order to hide his tortured skin. The burlap rags made Jing look beggarly, which matched his thick matted hair that fanned around his face. Jing was practically skin and bones by this time as the only source of nourishment came from getting forced-fed bland porridge on a daily basis.

Jing saw sunlight for the first time since his abduction. He was carted off from the dungeon and tossed inside a carriage that bore no banners. He lay face down on the carriage floor with no idea what was in store. This activity diverted from his daily routine of pain that it almost felt like a reprieve, though he held no hope that he would be set free. He flinched every time the wheels of the carriage hit a bump underneath him, which aggravated the newer wounds he sustained. He heard a snicker from Hou who was sitting in the carriage with him.

"You're in for a treat. I'm going to take you for a tour of the entire realm. But first, we go to Qingqiu."

Jing's heart leapt at the mention of Qingqiu. Did that mean he was finally going home? Had he paid the debt in behalf of his mother at last? But how was Hou going to explain what he did? What would their grandmother say?

Chapter 3: Broken

The carriage halted and Jing sensed Hou hovering above him. "Guess where we are." Hou grabbed Jing by the back of the collar and lifted him up toward the window. He parted the curtain and gave Jing a view of the outside.

A famous teahouse stood at the side where Jing used to be invited often as a special guest. A large group of people would gather there to hear a new poem he wrote. The patrons outbid each other to get a copy of the poem. He never enjoyed the attention they gave, so he accepted the invitation only once in a year, which only raised the value of his rare poems even higher.

"Look!" Hou said excitedly. "The proprietor is at the entrance. See if he wants to say hi."

With that, Jing felt himself get hoisted out of the carriage and he fell with a thud on the side of the street a few paces from the teahouse. All Jing could think of was to yell for help but his damaged throat rendered him unable to utter a word. He stretched out his hand to get the attention of the tea house proprietor. The man shortly caught sight of him, but his expression was that of disgust. He called out to one of his attendants then he pointed at Jing. "That beggar will drive away our patrons. Get him away from there."

At once, two servants came forward. One lifted Jing from the armpits, the other from under his legs, and they carried him to a nearby alley. They placed him in the corner near a dumpster. One servant took pity on him and tossed a coin before leaving. Jing tried to stop them but his groans were futile. He couldn't utter one comprehensible syllable.

Hou's feet came into view and he hunched down on Jing with a satisfied smirk. "And to think that man made so much money from Master Tu Shan Jing, eh? But Tu Shan Jing is a joke. He's nothing without his regal clothes. Nothing without the Tu Shan name. Do you get it now?"

Jing sobbed out of frustration at not being able to speak. If only he could identify himself, they would surely recognize him.

"You still don't get it, do you? Don't worry. We have a lot of places to visit still."

The next stop was a famous inn where a long line of calligraphy fanatics formed every time it was announced that Jing would make an appearance. Just one character brushed on a scroll with his signature strokes sent people scrambling to get a view.

Third was a pavilion where once, a famous old scholar from a foreign nation came to challenge Jing to a game of Go. The man went home more than satisfied at losing to the great young Master Tu Shan.

In each place he was dropped, someone he knew would be there and looked at him with revulsion. It was one thing for a beggar to ask for alms, but for him to touch them, and tug at the hem of their robes, it was too much.

Once he got hauled back inside the carriage, Hou taunted him mercilessly. "Did you think anyone would give you a second glance? No one ever liked you. They only liked your money."

Jing's shoulders shook as he sobbed, though he had already run out of tears. After stopping by a couple of places more, Hou brought him back to the dungeon. He no longer bothered to hang Jing up on the beam or restrain him with dragon bone. Jing's body was so broken there was no point. All Hou needed to do left was to completely break his proud spirit. Jing curled up in the dark as the memory of his public degradation haunted him all night. So it wasn't just to pay a debt. Hou was telling him he didn't deserve to be clan heir. But he never aspired to be the clan patriarch to begin with.

The next day, Hou tossed Jing in front of more inns and teahouses, as well as marketplaces just to prove that no one from a large crowd would acknowledge the once revered Tu Shan master. Jing tried to ask for help as always, a few times recognizing someone he knew, someone he helped at least once, someone who had asked a favor or two. Some of them crinkled their nose at him, some tossed a spare coin, others a piece of bread, but all eager to be rid of him as quickly as possible. Most ignored him and went about their normal day.

Hou continued Jing's humiliation in the days to come unless he had urgent matters to attend to. In which case, he left Jing to wallow in grief inside the dungeon. The physical torture continued, but no longer as frequent or as severe. The routine had become dull since Jing no longer responded even slightly to the pain. His breathing had become slower and Hou knew his brother was reaching his end. He had whipped Jing a few times, punched, and kicked him, mainly out of impatience after receiving no response to his verbal provocations.

"Today is special," Hou said. "You're going to meet one of your close buddies. Surely, he'll know you, right?"

Jing found himself by the gates of Chengrong Mansion. Fenglong and his twin Xin Que often hosted grand parties and invited Jing to play the guqin. His cousin and good friend, Fenglong, would rib him endlessly afterwards as he would always be the talk of the town the next day due to the enchanting music he produced.

Hou made it a point to know Fenglong's schedule for the day, and right then, Fenglong came out from the front gate getting ready for a daytrip somewhere. He immediately noticed the dirty beggar eyeing him from below the stone steps. Jing reached his hand out to him. Surely, Fenglong would recognize him. Fenglong averted his attention from the beggar when his carriage arrived. He hopped on without a second thought. Jing dropped his arm and let his brow hit the ground in resignation. Hou wasn't just telling him he wasn't deserving to be clan heir. Jing didn't belong in the clan at all.


Notes:

The part about the liquid substance that made the scars permanent is from canon. The part about getting challenged to a chess game (Go) and other adoration, also mentioned in canon.