A strict, scheming teacher v. a mischievous apprentice who keeps making mistakes
"Awake?" Guan Yinheng asked, his voice low.
Song Yaotian knelt on the ground, his head bowed so low he didn't dare look Guan Yinheng in the eye. He stammered, "I'll accept whatever punishment you decide, sir."
Guan Yinheng gave a cold laugh and tossed his folding fan at Song Yaotian's feet. "Hit yourself."
The chill of the blue-brick floor seeped through Song Yaotian's knees and into his bones. He stared at the familiar pattern of Xiangfei bamboo on the fan beside him, his throat bobbing as he swallowed the metallic taste in his mouth.
The glow of the glass lamp swayed before his eyes. His ragged breathing mingled with the rustle of bamboo leaves outside the window.
"How... how many times should I hit?"
Guan Yinheng picked up his teacup. The lid scraping against the porcelain rim made Song Yaotian's back stiffen. "Until I tell you to stop."
Trembling, Song Yaotian reached out and picked up the fan. The Xiangfei bamboo brushed against his palm, but it felt as if it were burning hot.
He took a deep breath, raised his arm high, and brought the fan down hard on his own palm. The sharp crack startled the birds roosting beneath the eaves.
A burning pain spread along his palm lines. Song Yaotian watched the red mark on his left hand swell rapidly and let out a muffled groan.
Guan Yinheng lowered his eyes and blew away the foam on his tea. "Too light."
The second blow came down with a rush of wind. His knuckles struck the raised ribs of the fan, and Song Yaotian bit down hard on his lower lip. The taste of blood spread through his mouth. Suddenly, he remembered last Mid-Autumn Festival, when his teacher had lifted his chin with this very fan and smiled, saying, "You're a quick learner." Back then, the fan ribs had still carried the sweet scent of osmanthus honey.
