Chang Lianfang held a stack of military orders, his expression complicated as he looked at the seven squat figures crouched before him.
Over the years, he’d only managed a few hurried visits with Wanquanzi, each time affectionately brief, never anything so difficult as what Chen Dasheng was going through. In Wanquanzi’s words, everything was fine, no need to worry, who lived and who died was up to Heaven, everyone on the killing field just fought for their own survival, no one could help anyone else.
He’d spent all these years by His Majesty’s side, while the Tan family’s forces had held the right flank. Four years had passed in a blink—he was now a fifth-rank young general, but his sworn brother had ended up like this.
Chang Lianfang’s mind kept returning to Meng Wanquan’s empty sleeve, and his ever-smiling face.
There was truly no going back to how things were.
A foot away from him, the stench of a body that hadn’t bathed in years, mixed with the reek of blood, horse feed, horse dung, and rank sweat, surged into his nose in waves.
He wanted to gag but held it back. He couldn’t show the slightest disgust in front of a man like this—it wouldn’t be respectful. But the smell was truly sharp, stinging enough to bring tears to his eyes.
Among his own men, his father’s men, His Majesty’s men—no matter how ragged, none of them were ever like this.
In the early years, what he’d found hardest to bear was winter marches—when a subordinate’s frostbitten toes had to be broken off, he’d felt sick with pity, since those were soldiers he’d trained himself, day after day, on the drill grounds.
Seeing the old cotton bedding at his sister-in-law’s place, his first thought had been: how many pairs of cotton shoes could be made from this? How much less cold would his own men suffer this winter?
He and his father had nearly come to blows over some old padded jackets and bedding.
In the past, his soldiers had always looked up at him with adoring faces, and he’d taken pride in that adoration and respect. Looking back now, those soldiers had known exactly how other people lived—they hadn’t revered him for his rank, but because he’d treated them as human beings.
Heavy-hearted, Chang Lianfang turned over the yellowed, blackened, filthy military orders in his hands again and again. Military orders?
Most military operations relied on secret tiger tallies and various hidden seals; things actually written on paper carried no confidentiality at all. Like the ones his sworn brother mentioned—night ambush orders? How could such orders possibly be issued this way? To prevent leaked intelligence, transmitting messages on paper was the clumsiest and least advisable method. What general in command of troops would dare use something like this, gambling with his soldiers’ lives?
And here—not a single one of these was an actual military order. Not even half of one.
Instead there were discarded grain and fodder account slips, a child’s poorly-written copy of the sages’ teachings from who-knows-where, Taoist exorcism talismans, and worse still, hand-copied excerpts from that kind of vulgar book elders never let their children read.
Someone had apparently wanted to deceive these poor men into risking their lives for them—just grabbed a random page from some scrap reading material, dabbed on a red seal-like mark with a brush, and handed it over to fool them. After all, men like this couldn’t read, and had no idea what a real military order was even supposed to look like.
The Long Blade Battalion especially—Tan Er’s own blade-edge unit—had always been kept isolated and secretive, never allowed to interact with outsiders.
But how many lives had been paid for behind this kind of deception?
No wonder his father had never liked Tan Er, sometimes saying his name felt like it soiled his mouth. Whenever he’d wanted to visit his sworn brother, his father had forbidden it—surely afraid he’d see something that would disappoint him.
That among His Majesty’s own soldiers there could be men like this, risking their heads to conquer the realm for him… why should it be so different?
Chang Lianfang tilted his head back, looking up at the dim patch of sky above the corner, and murmured: “Your Majesty…”
In that instant, the godlike image of the emperor in his heart crumbled. It wasn’t disrespect exactly—it was simply that, from a clearer vantage point, he was seeing a new emperor.
Seeing his sworn brother’s expression grow uglier by the moment, Chen Dasheng asked cautiously: “Well?”
Chang Lianfang opened his mouth to speak, but another wave of that sharp stench hit him. He held his breath, and unable to bear it any longer, blurted: “Brother… how long has it been since you changed your padded clothes?”
The moment he said it, he was stunned at himself—how could he say something like that at a time like this?
Chen Dasheng’s face twisted strangely; he looked at his sworn brother, then sniffed himself: “What are you on about? Change my clothes? These are new! Yangdan found these for me last year, thick and warm too—you little lord are so picky, I thought you’d changed!”
Chang Lianfang held his breath and edged backward.
Chen Dasheng didn’t understand why anyone would need two sets of padded clothes. Back in the good old days, his family had never had the habit of spares—one outfit was one outfit, and you only made a new one once the old one was truly beyond repair.
His mother, his grandmother, his sister had woven cloth year-round, but cloth woven had to be handed over as tax. For as long as he could remember, his father had worn a single blue-gray padded jacket, patched all over.
His father wore those same trousers to farm, to go out, to marry off his sons—only back then, his mother would wash them from time to time. When they wore through, another patch would go on.
If his father’s padded clothes couldn’t dry in time, he’d wrap himself in a torn quilt and keep working in the yard regardless.
His own trousers didn’t even have a patch—was his sworn brother disgusted by his smell?
Realization dawned on Chen Dasheng, and he flew into a rage, smacking Chang Lianfang on the head: “What are you saying! You think everyone’s like you, sitting pretty at home with two sets of clothes to change into!”
Chang Lianfang didn’t dare say another word. Two sets of clothes—hardly. The hardest time of his own life had been in the new recruits’ camp, never getting enough to eat, thinking of nothing but his next meal, to the point he’d forgotten what smell even was—long exposure to a fish market and you stop noticing the stink. Back then he hadn’t even known if he smelled bad himself. After a few months there, he’d been injured and sent home, and it had terrified his father half to death.
By the time he’d recovered and gone back, his father hadn’t dared look him in the face for over a month. The next time he saw his mother and grandmother, he’d been so angry he’d told on his father. His grandmother had beaten his father up onto the roof with her cane, screaming at him: why didn’t you go yourself, why didn’t you go? You deserve to die, so go die yourself! I don’t feel sorry for you at all! My precious grandson is so young, he had the bad luck to be born into your family, and you still can’t treat him well? You sent him to that death trap—was he raked up out of some hearth pit? Are you trying to kill me!!
His father hadn’t said a word, just crouched on the roof while his mother pinched and scolded him. His grandmother had never spoken so harshly before—thinking back now, at her age, with her experience, she must have known exactly what the recruits’ camp was, and exactly what he’d face out there.
Two sets of clothes? He had far more than two. Ever since the family moved to Yandu, every time he went home he’d find he’d acquired even more clothing—not one or two pieces, but piles and piles. Different clothes for every season, different outfits depending on which guests he was meeting, which pavilion he was dining in.
Which jade pendant paired with which belt, which shoes matched which robe—and even so, among the old established nobility, these newly risen outsiders still looked like country bumpkins, never quite able to wear their finery with the same effortless elegance, always feeling like something was missing.
Whenever he felt slighted, he’d complain to Consort Xiao, and she’d take pity on him and gift him some of the fashionable new robes made for the sixth prince. He’d wear them and spin around in front of His Majesty, who would smile indulgently and have new decorative cords fetched to match his outfit.
He’d been born good-looking, and the elders both at home and in the palace all loved dressing him up. Even His Majesty had personally sketched armor designs for him and had the Bureau of Military Equipment craft it from the finest materials.
The group of young officers who’d once followed His Majesty had all grown up under his watchful eye. They’d assumed everything they had was simply the best there was, but back then His Majesty had laughed at them—you poor little things, what good life have you even seen?
And then all the adults would grow sympathetic together.
Campaigning north and south, being jostled along in their wake—perhaps in their parents’ eyes, that alone counted as suffering.
His Majesty must have known real hardship once. Living like the old nobility here in Yandu, sleeping in threadbare undergarments, six maids staying up all night swatting mosquitoes—it was only when times grew hard that His Majesty had rebelled…
Right. The old Tan family—they were old nobility, the same kind as those in Yandu who looked at people like him as if he were some country bumpkin. They were cut from the same cloth.
The knot that had coiled in his heart for so many days finally came undone—all that vague envy, that vague inferiority, dissolved entirely into contempt.
Heh. So that’s all it was.
Chang Lianfang pointed gravely at the stack of papers: “Second brother, these… aren’t military orders.”
Chen Dasheng seemed to have already guessed as much, and simply nodded: “Not… right. Not orders.”
As Chang Lianfang uncovered this truth, guilt welled up inside him—not guilt toward Chen Dasheng, but toward his own father. These past years, he hadn’t treated his father well at all, just trailing after His Majesty everywhere, leaving his father to watch them with a face full of resentment.
He’d always avoided thinking back on the time his father sent him to the recruits’ camp.
Only now did he understand what his father had meant back then. His father had said: you spoiled brat, living in comfort—don’t think one trip to the recruits’ camp means you’ve seen the whole world. You have no idea how much filth exists out there, gorging yourself full and putting on airs with me…
Every time he was chosen for a mission, and returned triumphant from the battlefield to report back to His Majesty, hadn’t His Majesty always smiled and said: “Well, our little general’s grown up. Didn’t cry this time, did you? Well done! You’ll be rewarded!”
Back then, His Majesty hadn’t been anything like he was now—spoils from the battlefield came easily, and rewards came just as easily. He himself had thought nothing of it.
So whenever he saw something nice on His Majesty’s person, he’d pester and beg for it as his prize, and once he won it in some contest he’d shamelessly demand it. If his father didn’t see, fine, but if he did, he’d chase him down for a beating—while everyone else stood by smiling, all of them smiling…
How ugly he’d been. Chang Lianfang suddenly felt like crying, and did. He raised a hand to wipe his tears and said to Chen Dasheng: “Second brother, they’ve just been fooling you all along.”
Chen Dasheng was startled for a moment, thinking Chang Lianfang was grieving on his behalf, and tried to comfort him: “Don’t be like that. Actually—actually we’d sort of thought about it too, really, we had.”
Chang Lianfang, embarrassed and at a loss for words, found his mind replaying old memories—of the time he hadn’t gotten something from His Majesty and got beaten for it instead, stamping his foot and sighing at his father: “Father! Forget it, I’ll just be the Grand Marshal’s son instead! Being your son is too hard!”
He’d stormed out through the tent flap in a huff, laughter erupting behind him, his father calling after him: “I’ve never wanted you anyway! Who’d want you? Go on, get lost, get lost!!”
His Majesty had laughed too: “Fine, I don’t mind more sons! It’s settled then, you’re mine now, no take-backs!!”
“Your subject… doesn’t regret it at all… but, but the old lady, the old lady might not agree, this humble general, this humble general has matters to attend to…”
And then a crowd of uncles had all laughed together.
Thinking back now, every single mission they’d ever been given, the elders had weighed and calculated endlessly beforehand, making absolutely certain of victory, before they’d let them go out to test their blades in blood.
Protected like that, even with over thirty of them—the princes included—some had still been frightened off, claiming they were off to study instead. Now, aside from the princes, only two or three of those childhood companions remained by His Majesty’s side.
His Majesty had never blamed those who left—after all, in fighting for the realm, he had no right to throw other people’s flesh and blood into the fire against their will. If they didn’t want it, so be it.
But for those who’d died by accident, every anniversary of their deaths, His Majesty would change into plain mourning clothes and personally hold rites, sitting in silence for a long while.
The few of them who remained—His Majesty truly treated as his own sons.
And among that group of young generals, Chang Lianfang could say with confidence he was the only one who’d ever seen real blood in the recruits’ camp. On the strength of that real blood, not a single one of his achievements had been false. As long as His Majesty was willing to use him, he could make His Majesty proud… but now, all those achievements had turned to smoke.
Wiping his tears away with his sleeve, Chang Lianfang felt his mind grow strangely clear. He had never felt this calm before.
He had to help his sworn brother work through what lay before them, using his own experience—otherwise this injustice alone would keep him from resting even in his coffin.
He held up the “military orders” and asked: “Second brother! Are you going to bring this before His Majesty as a formal grievance?”
Chen Dasheng froze, then stood up, left the corner sheltered from the rain, and crouched down out in the open, letting the rain fall on him. He wrapped his arms around his head and crouched there, helpless as a baby bird exposed to the rain with no mother to shelter it.
His brothers moved to follow him, but Chang Lianfang held them back.
“Don’t. Let him think it through.”
Yu Qingguan looked at the stack of orders, his throat working up and down as if a walnut were lodged there. After a long while he finally managed two words: “Ah… fine.”
With that, he led the others to an even darker spot, where they crouched together, motionless, watching Chen Dasheng.
They all knew now, yet felt little pity for themselves—only for their chief. How had they turned out so useless, leaving their capable, all-knowing chief brooding there in such misery?
The rain grew heavier. From the mourning tent came the long, mournful call of an ox horn, followed by the clear, resonant recitation of a eulogy carried on the wind: “…Alas, the whole nation grieves in sorrow! Our late Grand General, Marquis Wu Su, gave his life before his years were spent… The people’s hearts are shaken, countless multitudes weep aloud, their grief shaking the very earth. Speaking of our late lord, tears soak their collars… Hearing of the general’s virtue, honoring those who died in service, sustaining the orphans of the fallen, personally pushing the funeral cart to comfort the living with honor for the dead…”
Chen Dasheng slowly rose in the rain, listening quietly to the eulogy. He couldn’t understand the words, but he strained to memorize every single one.
Once the recitation ended, he finally walked back into the corner, crouching once more before Chang Lianfang, and asked: “Can’t win, can we?”
Chang Lianfang shook his head: “Can’t win. His Majesty holds three armies in his hands; the Tan family commands one hundred sixty thousand troops. My father says it’ll soon be split into five armies, and their family will still command at least one.”
Chen Dasheng nodded: “What you’re saying, I don’t understand. Two thousand of us went into the Long Blade Battalion, only seven of us survived. Died for nothing…”
He raised his own two hands. From the darkness, six more mottled pairs of hands were offered up beside his—together, not even a hundred fingers among them all.
Chang Lianfang’s face turned grave: “One thousand nine hundred ninety-three.”
Chen Dasheng nodded: “One thousand nine hundred ninety-three, plus one Yangdan.”
Chang Lianfang didn’t know who Yangdan was, but the fact that Chen Dasheng singled him out told him the name mattered greatly.
He said: “Ever since Shao Shang formally raised his troops, the Tan family army has helped His Majesty conquer the realm. The losses reported to the Ministry of War the other day: over eight hundred officers lost, over one hundred ten thousand troops lost. It’s true their family has bankrupted itself for the new dynasty.”
Chen Dasheng nodded: “Can’t win. My name as captain probably isn’t even on the roster.”
Chang Lianfang nodded: “Since ancient times, armies have padded their payrolls and stolen credit from subordinates—it’s common practice. Everyone does it. It’s just that his family did it so shamelessly.”
Chen Dasheng glared at him: “It’s not about shamelessness. Everyone doing wrong doesn’t make it right. Does Heaven not forbid this either?”
Chang Lianfang laughed bitterly: “Heaven?”
Chen Dasheng nodded earnestly: “Outside Qingfeng city, I saw it.”
Chang Lianfang pressed his lips together: “But… Heaven hasn’t struck down the old Tan family either, and His Majesty won’t wish misfortune on them.”
Chen Dasheng looked up at the sky and asked: “Why not?”
Chang Lianfang: “No reason. He’s nobler than you, more capable than you, has more men than you, more power than you… better than you in every way. The Tan family lost over two hundred men this time, and His Majesty can’t afford not to acknowledge that! As for Heaven—on the first and fifteenth of every month, on every festival, the offerings on their altar outnumber yours…”
Chen Dasheng held back: “The previous ones didn’t shortchange us either.”
Chang Lianfang: “Heaven isn’t blind. This world can’t have two emperors. My emperor is better than the last one!”
Chen Dasheng argued seriously: “That’s just what you say.”
Chang Lianfang, holding his patience, tried to persuade him: “So many have died. There’s no more fighting now, at least the Tan family won’t cause you as much trouble. Think about it—your grandmother found you a wife back home… Brother, you survived, through everything you survived. Why put yourself through this?”
Chen Dasheng’s voice rose: “I can’t live with it! Behind me stand one thousand nine hundred ninety-three wronged souls, plus one more—Yangdan.”
Chang Lianfang: “But Tan Er is dead.”
Chen Dasheng paused, then glanced aside and said: “This pile wasn’t all his doing.”
Chang Lianfang looked at the thick stack in his hands: “You remember all of them?”
Chen Dasheng nodded: “I remember. Tan Shiyuan, Tan Weitong, Tan Weizheng, Tan Shikun… Wu Xiu.”
His memory was extraordinary—he recited over a hundred names like a storyteller, half the Tan family genealogy.
Chang Lianfang had long known Chen Dasheng had a remarkable memory; he himself had once memorized the great clans’ genealogies. Hearing this, he sighed: “Shou, Shi, Wei, Xing, Xiu, Cheng, Zhao, Zheng—those generation characters run through eight generations of their family without a single break. The Tan family has been an established clan in Hengtai Prefecture for over five hundred years.”
Chen Dasheng looked at Chang Lianfang earnestly: “I need to learn how to write those characters too. You’ll write them down for me later—teach me to recognize them.”
Chang Lianfang laughed despite himself: “And what good will that do you? Write their names every day, playing at being some underworld judge summoning souls?”
Chen Dasheng told him with utter seriousness: “From Tongyan Mountain to Wucheng Pavilion, Zhuoning Pass, Huayang City, the four southern prefectures, thirty-nine cities along the banks of the two rivers—two thousand men, born of mothers, raised by fathers, blood that ran red, flesh that could feel pain. Every blade that struck down was cutting into someone’s own flesh and blood, torn from their mother’s body! Who doesn’t feel pain, who isn’t afraid! Five hundred went out, and only…” The veins at his temples strained as he forced the words out: “I don’t know anyone! I don’t know anything! I only recognize one thousand nine hundred ninety-three! Plus one more, Yangdan! General, sir—this humble one has been wronged!!”
Yu Qingguan’s voice drifted over slowly from the side: “We signed the contract, thumbprint and all—sold ourselves to their family for pay and grain, our lives for money. Even in death, we were promised fifty jin of grain as compensation. The pay was never given, and in death, no one cared. It’s an injustice!”
Chen Dasheng looked at them, then nodded at Chang Lianfang: “That’s right.”
Chang Lianfang stared wide-eyed at Chen Dasheng: “This is all over that?”
Chen Dasheng nodded earnestly: “One mouthful of grain, one life. Fifty jin could keep a whole family alive. Without that grain, we died for nothing.”
Silence.
After a very long while, Chang Lianfang said slowly: “Tan Shize is dead, but his father Tan Shouyi arrives next month. His Majesty has still granted him a marquisate—now their family holds two marquis titles in one household. Tan Shouyi’s rank has reached Junior Tutor, with an annual salary of two thousand piculs, not even counting his fief income or stipends. Even my father fears that man.”
Chen Dasheng’s face showed none of Chang Lianfang’s difficulty. He simply asked, plainly: “Can he be killed?”
Chang Lianfang rolled his eyes: “He could be! But behind him stands Tan Shiyuan—annual salary fifteen hundred piculs, Left Vice Minister of War, Upper Second Rank!”
“Can he be killed?”
“He could, but behind him stands Tan Weitong, Fourth Rank Loyal Martial General, annual salary three hundred piculs, currently lobbying for an actual post in the Ministry of War—likely something better than what I have. Handling a captain like you would take him barely a raised eyebrow, and he wouldn’t even need to lift a finger himself—one word around a corner would do it! And you’re not even confirmed to be a real captain.”
“Can he be killed?”
“Can you kill them all? You think Meng Dichen’s Jiu Si Tang is a joke? Behind them stands Tan Weizheng, Tan Weixin, seven branches of the Tan family, six generations living under one roof, so deeply entangled that even His Majesty won’t touch them lightly—never mind that you have no evidence now. Even if it were a genuine injustice, so what? People like us… people like you and me, our crimes can be redeemed, reduced, pardoned…”
Before Chang Lianfang could finish, Chen Dasheng had already stood up and returned to the rain, standing there letting it pour down on him.
Over by the mourning tent, the mournful ox horn sounded again throughout the camp—time to seal the coffin, perhaps.
After a long while, the man slowly raised a hand, wiped his face, and came back to the corner to ask Chang Lianfang: “If I were a real captain, how many piculs would I earn a year?”
“Genuinely?”
“Mm!”
“Ninety piculs, seventy strings of cash. Why do you ask? Their family would never give you that much.”
“I want to go before your emperor. People like us—either we keep selling our lives, or we die. The Tan family won’t let us leave. The only one who can pull us away is His Majesty. I have a blade! Of the last seven long blades left standing against the black cavalry in this world, I am the spearhead!
I’ll sell myself to His Majesty! I’ll fight for him, starting from ninety piculs… Once I earn a hundred piculs, I’ll kill a hundred piculs’ worth of theirs. Once I earn three hundred piculs, I’ll kill three hundred piculs’ worth of theirs! One day, when I earn two thousand piculs, I’ll settle accounts with them, one by one!!”
In that instant, Chang Lianfang was so struck by the surging killing intent before him that he nearly sat down on the ground.
This was what people called murderous aura. He’d claimed to have it once; his father had said he didn’t.
Now he finally understood—he didn’t have it at all.
He opened his mouth, and it took him a long while to catch his breath enough to ask: “And, and what if you die along the way?”
This time Chen Dasheng didn’t answer. Instead, Yu Qingguan said, unhurried: “There’s still me. If I die, there’s still them.”
Right. This wasn’t just one man.
This time, it was Chang Lianfang who fled outside, crouching motionless in the rain.
He thought of so much. His family had come from fallen scholar-gentry stock, and only through his father’s careful scheming had the four men of his family, along with relatives, risked their necks to claw their way up—finally becoming newly risen nobility. They hadn’t enjoyed the good life for long. He couldn’t get involved in this, couldn’t afford to send his whole family to their deaths.
What did it matter that he and Chen Dasheng were sworn brothers bound by oath?
He couldn’t drag his entire household along behind Chen Dasheng on a path of vengeance—his family would never agree to it either.
But if he didn’t help Chen Dasheng, then everything he’d read, all the righteousness he’d studied, all the morals he’d been taught—had it all been for nothing?
The deep boom of the army’s cannon sounded—the coffin was being raised.
Chang Lianfang slowly stood, walked over to Chen Dasheng, and said: “My household has over eighty people. They can’t afford to indulge my recklessness.”
Chen Dasheng nodded, understanding: “That’s fine. I don’t need you for that. I only ask this one thing—I need to see His Majesty.”
Chang Lianfang stared into his eyes: “Brother. No regrets?”
Without hesitation: “None!”
“Then… let’s go.”
Chang Lianfang turned to leave. Chen Dasheng called after him: “Where to?”
Where indeed?
This time Chang Lianfang actually laughed. He pinched his nose and turned back to Chen Dasheng: “To see His Majesty, I need to take you all to see Liu Pangzi first. We’re going to put on a little show for him. Liu Pangzi—ha, he’s quite the little immortal!”
Author’s note: For the sake of irony, nineteen characters were borrowed from the “Memorial Requesting Honors for Zhang Xun.”