On this starry night, the evening sky was magnificent—the heavens were crystal clear blue, illuminated by torches until they appeared almost transparent. Strange, he had never seen such a sky before; it was as if seawater had been overturned above their heads, ready to pour down at any moment. Lan Zhou gazed up at the stars, the evening wind causing his cloak to flutter loudly behind him. “We attack Dabaotai in three hours. Pass down the order: light cooking fires at the third watch, mount up at the fourth watch, and prepare for battle.”

The deputy general received his orders and withdrew with a bow. Lan Zhou withdrew his gaze and looked north. The encamped tents stretched for hundreds of miles, with campfires scattered under the moonlight, following the contours of the mountain valley and spiraling into the shape of a coiled dragon poised to strike. For all these years, the descendants of the Yuwen clan had carried their ancestors’ dying wish. From dormancy to uprising had taken over two hundred years. He had been influenced by this since childhood—when first learning to read, he studied the map of Daye before anything else. Though he couldn’t even recite the entire Three Character Classic, he knew by heart how many prefectures and counties each feudal territory contained, even the population of each county. This was a sense of mission, constantly instilled, constantly reinforced, from initial indifference to eventually becoming one with his very life. The men of the Yuwen clan were born for conquest.

Throughout this campaign, passing through strongholds and defeating generals, there had been times when they encountered desperate resistance. Though their casualties were few, they couldn’t be completely avoided. In the battle at Wozhou, Sixth Uncle had his arm severed, yet with blood still flowing, he had to fight to the death. From Wuyi to Liangxiang, the battle line wasn’t long, but the Ye army had continuous reinforcements, making it somewhat taxing to handle. A dynasty lasting two hundred sixty years—a centipede dies hard. Father was someone who strove for perfection; even while attacking the capital, he hadn’t abandoned the suppression of rebellions in northern Nurgan. If those three hundred thousand troops were all recalled, breaking through the Nine Gates would be a matter of days.

He had once discussed with Father deploying some of those forces—even if they let the Kuyi people cross the Sanwan Guard, as long as they captured the capital, they could reconquer and drive those northern barbarians back to Tuomuhe Guard.

But Father wouldn’t allow it. “What’s the point of becoming king? It’s to pacify the world and save the people from suffering. Those barbarians burn, kill, and plunder without restraint—they’re as detestable as the Japanese. We absolutely cannot let them set foot in the Central Plains.”

This was probably the ambition of a true general—refusing to compromise, having his ideals.

Dachun brought battle reports from the Daxing front line. Reading by firelight, he saw casualties of five thousand men and eight hundred warhorses lost—the results were still quite good.

“Have Jishan’s forces rest in place. We’ll decide after tomorrow’s attack on Dabaotai. If all goes smoothly, the armies will converge on the second day of the fifth month, and we’ll launch a direct assault on the Nine Gates.”

Dachun responded with an “Aye” and glanced toward the leather tent. “How is His Lordship doing now?”

Lan Zhou made a soft sound of acknowledgment. “His chest has been hurting for over half a month now, coming in waves. Can’t tell what’s wrong—probably just exhaustion. The army doctors have limited skills. Once things settle down, we’ll find someone proper to treat him. Going into battle with illness like this is ultimately unsafe…”

He had barely finished speaking when he saw a single rider approaching at breakneck speed from the distance, a small banner planted on the rider’s back, particularly conspicuous in the night.

He rolled up the cloth and murmured, “Who is that?”

Finally reaching them, the Qi rider’s horsemanship was exceptional—the horse couldn’t stop its momentum and overshot, but the rider performed a flip from horseback and was already bowing deeply before him.

He looked the man over—dressed as Nanyuan Imperial Guard, and somehow his heart suddenly tightened. “In such a hurry—has something gone wrong in the rear?”

The messenger confirmed, “Reporting to Your Lordship, this servant was dispatched by Commander Ha to bring news to His Lordship. This servant traveled for three days. Three days ago, at exactly three quarters past noon, Her Highness the Grand Princess passed away in the inner courtyard of the Grand Princess’s residence.”

Lan Zhou’s ears buzzed, and for a moment he didn’t hear clearly. “What did you… say?”

The messenger swallowed hard and pulled out a letter from his chest to present. “Reporting to Your Lordship, Her Highness the Grand Princess passed away three days ago. This is Her Highness’s final letter, please review it.”

This was truly earth-shattering terrible news. His eyes widened in fury as he grabbed the messenger’s collar and shook him violently. “Passed away? How could she pass away when she was perfectly fine? Are you mistaken? If you dare speak nonsense, I’ll have your head!”

The messenger, shaken until his feet left the ground, said with tears in his voice, “My Lord, please accept my condolences. There’s no mistake—Commander Ha personally went to look. They say Her Highness swallowed a golden seal…” He struggled to present the letter. “Please look, it was left by the Grand Princess.”

He took the letter, his knees going weak as he collapsed to the ground. Through blurred tears he saw the handwriting on the envelope—written in bold, elegant strokes: “For Lan Zhou to open personally”… It was her writing, he recognized it. She had never liked soft, coquettish decorative script. She excelled in rough grass script and flying white style—her calligraphy was like her character, soaring and bold, solid as rock.

Her final words were brief, requesting that her people be allowed to return to their homeland and not be made to suffer. Her suicide was her own choice, unrelated to others. Also, one more thing—she would not be buried with his Father. Whether in heaven or earth, she wished never to see him again for all eternity.

He clutched that paper, this general who had traversed battlefields, crying like a child.

Why? He had planned it all out—when they achieved victory, he would treat her well, never letting her suffer the slightest grievance. He knew she was a proud princess, and with the wheel of fortune turning, she certainly couldn’t accept it, but if he treated her twice as well, her heart was soft—slowly she would find peace. But he had miscalculated. Her character was more fierce than he had imagined. She would rather die than become a captive of a fallen nation. Had he known this would happen, the war should have been delayed a few more years—at least it wouldn’t have let her wither in the prime of her life. Death by swallowing gold—what a decisive method, with no chance of rescue. Thinking of this, his heart felt as if someone was gripping it tightly. Such a beautiful person, who had inspired all his longing and aspiration, was simply gone…

He knelt facing south, unable to rise. Dachun had to step forward to support him. “My Lord, please accept my condolences. You should think about how to inform His Lordship.”

Even he could barely bear it—he dared not imagine Father’s reaction. After steadying himself for a long while, he barely managed to calm down. Her letter said she wouldn’t be buried with Father—that was too hurtful. It was better not to let Father know about this letter.

“Go back and tell Ha Tu not to mention this letter to His Lordship. You must also keep this secret.” After giving these instructions, he tucked the letter into his chest, took a deep breath, and turned toward the main tent. But the closer he got, the more fearful his heart became. He knew Father’s feelings for her—if he was a grain of sand, then Father was a mountain, an ocean. Lovers have a spiritual connection, so the reason Father’s prolonged chest pain showed no identifiable cause lay here.

He stopped before the thick felt curtain, gathering courage several times before reaching out to lift it. Inside the tent was quiet—the meeting had just ended, soldiers had collected the cups and plates and tiptoed out. Father was resting on the tiger-skin throne, eyes closed, brow furrowed, his complexion very poor.

He called softly, and Father’s reaction was slow—after a long moment, he opened his eyes. “Is everything arranged?”

He responded affirmatively, then paused before saying, “Your son has received news… that must be reported to Father.”

But grief came from within, and he couldn’t help but break down first, choking and sobbing, almost unable to control himself.

Liang Shi stared at him blankly. “What’s happened?”

He fell to his knees with a thud, using all his strength to force out those words: “Father, Mother passed away three days ago.”

Shock and catastrophe are unpredictable. One was already gone; the other absolutely could not have anything happen to him. He watched Father intently, afraid he would lose control, afraid he would do something to harm himself, but there was nothing. He was so calm, except for his face being pale as paper, there was no sign of anything unusual.

He even forgot to cry, crawling forward two steps on his knees. “Father…”

The person on the throne stared ahead vacantly, as if talking to himself: “Why?”

He wiped his tears and stood, not daring to tell him she had killed herself by swallowing gold. He only said she had died of illness from excessive worry and grief.

Father stood up, standing like a clay sculpture for a while, then turned back to take the whip from the wall, murmuring, “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have left her alone… I must go see her, I must go see her…” But after taking two steps, he suddenly collapsed, large amounts of blood gushing from his mouth and nose, as if he wanted to drain all the blood from his body. Those bewildered eyes stared at the tent ceiling, regret and sorrow intertwined—truly injured to a certain degree, great sorrow is silent.

Everyone rushed to help, and officers from outside the tent hurried in to check on him. At such a moment, the commander couldn’t afford the slightest mishap.

The main tent had been stationed in this mountain hollow for five days, and countless entrances and exits had packed the earth solid. But when they moved him to the sleeping couch, they discovered he had grabbed two handfuls of dirt, his fingertips bloody, some nails completely torn off.

Lan Zhou feared something would happen to him, urgently calling, “Father, please take care of yourself, look at your son, look at the army… Please cry it out, don’t hold it in and make yourself sick.”

He wanted to cry too, but had no tears. He stared with dried-out eyes, feeling his soul drifting away. It turned out his conquest of this realm had been completely wrong from beginning to end.

Only now did he understand—her death was the best revenge against him. She had used such cruel methods, cutting his heart piece by piece. He still remembered seeing her gentle profile before leaving—at that time her breathing was steady, she was alive and breathing. But it had only been one year, and suddenly they were separated by life and death. He had a premonition of following her to the underworld, saying dazedly, “She’s gone, and I won’t live much longer either…”

Love is invisible, yet it’s the most tormenting thing. Imperial glory and dominance, achievements for the ages—in the end, all empty. He couldn’t see glory, only despair. His sky had collapsed and could never be propped up again. What use were rivers and mountains, the state and its altars? Without her, he was about to lose even the instinct to breathe.

His chest was soaked through with blood. Regaining a bit of consciousness, he struggled to rise and staggered outside. When they tried to stop him, he waved them away weakly. “I’m not a good commander…” He removed the tiger tally and commander’s seal, handing them to Lan Zhou, then ran out of the tent in a confused daze. Standing in the wilderness looking around, unable to distinguish directions, yet urgent to return, he wandered like a trapped beast, howling in anguish.

Someone help him, someone take him back! He knelt on the ground trying to force himself to be calm, but it was useless—he shook uncontrollably. He felt he might die right here.

It was Cui Guixiang who carried him on his back. The honest eunuch gritted his teeth and said, “Master, you must hold on. Her Highness is waiting for you to return for the funeral.”

Cui Guixiang had been specially appointed by the old lady to attend him. Last year during the attack on Huailai, heavy snow blocked the mountains, cutting off his connection with the Guanrong army. It was Cui who crawled on the ice on his knees, going back and forth to deliver messages. As a Han eunuch, he had done his duty. Now that the Grand Princess who had shown him kindness had passed away, he would become an ox or horse to carry him back for the funeral.

The night wind finally cleared his mind. Looking back at the officers behind him, he knew what a shock his leaving without care or consideration would cause. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t leave—there had to be proper arrangements.

He patted Cui Guixiang’s shoulder and staggered to the ground, unable to stand steadily, still needing support.

“My beloved wife has died, and I am in agony. However, the war is urgent and cannot be delayed. Tomorrow proceed according to plan and capture Dabaotai. All you officers and men are good brothers who have shared life and death with me. My inner quarters have suffered great tragedy, and I am truly exhausted in heart and strength, with no mind for battle. Temporarily, let Left General Yuwen Lan Zhou act in my place while I return to Nanyuan… to see my deceased wife one last time. After the funeral is complete, I will rejoin the army. Lan Zhou is young and will rely on all you brothers for much support.” He spoke tremblingly, bowing with clasped hands to everyone. “Liang Shi thanks you all in advance.”

Who could accept such a bow from him? All the generals knelt to receive his orders. He said nothing more, turned to mount his horse, raised his whip, and galloped away madly.

The jolting on horseback made his brain feel like it would shatter. His countless journeys between south and north, traveling day and night—looking back now, it had all been to see her. His girl, graceful and elegant, merciful as Buddha… She should have lived a carefree life, but because she fell into his hands, she ended up like this.

Had he known this day would come, he should never have been so selfish, determined to marry her. He would rather she had married some ordinary man and lived a peaceful, comfortable life, better than dying young in the bloom of youth. All the misfortunes were his doing, and all he could do was grip the reins tightly to keep from falling off his horse, forcing himself to return to see her one last time.

He kept refusing to believe this was real. He felt he must have fallen into a nightmare—perhaps when he woke up, everything would be fine. But day and night alternated, he changed horses several times, yet he couldn’t wake up. Only then did he know he had truly reached the end, with nowhere to escape.

The wind made it impossible to keep his eyes open. Fortunately it didn’t rain, allowing him to race back to Nanjing in one breath. But the miracle he expected didn’t happen. He had harbored the delusion—was she perhaps playing a joke on him? Was she actually still alive, just frightening him to force his retreat? But when he saw the white banners flying everywhere before Yin’an Hall and the enormous character for “mourning” on the altar, all his hopes burst like bubbles. Reality struck his head like a heavy hammer. He couldn’t walk—he crawled into Yin’an Hall.

“Wanwan…” His voice was hoarse, barely audible. The blood that had congealed in his chest began surging upward again. She was dead, his heart and liver were shattered too. After crossing the threshold, he couldn’t help it—leaning against the altar, he spat out a mouthful of blood.

The Dowager Consort was extremely alarmed. “My son, how did you get in such a state…”

He pushed her away. “Mother, before I left I begged you to look after her. You promised me!”

The Dowager Consort stammered, unable to speak.

He paid her no more attention and went to the coffin. The precious golden nanmu wood casket was carved all over with layered lotus flowers and countless immortals. Before he could return, they had already placed her in the coffin. He stroked that heavy lid and turned to see Tonghuan dressed in mourning clothes, asking hoarsely, “Is Wanwan really inside?”

Tonghuan’s face was ashen—she showed him no kindness. It was he who had caused her death. How did he still have the face to return for the funeral!

She said, “Today is Her Highness’s seventh day. If Your Lordship doesn’t mind the taboo, see for yourself.”

He tried to push the coffin lid, but couldn’t muster any strength—he couldn’t move it.

Cui Guixiang kowtowed three times to the coffin and came to help him. Only then could he see her inside the coffin. Though seven days had passed, her appearance was still the same as when she was alive.

These eyebrows, these eyes, these lips and nose, this bright and beautiful face, and this raven-black hair… She was in full ceremonial dress, grand robes and sash, supremely noble. During their wedding, when he lifted her bridal veil, she had looked just like this.

He smiled unconsciously. “Wanwan, it’s time to get up. Sleeping in there is so inauspicious!” He reached out his hand, afraid she would blame him, pausing slightly before saying gently, “Let me touch you. You must be deceiving me—I know…”

He extended his fingertip. The wound split open, and a drop of blood fell, landing right on her face. He panicked, quickly using his sleeve to wipe it away, then switched to his other hand to touch her—ice cold, no warmth. His slow mind finally understood—she really was dead.

He looked up, the world spinning. Oh Heaven, how could this be! He was in agony, breath like gossamer, his legs unable to support his body any longer. He collapsed beside her coffin.

No one dared help him up. At this moment, trying to separate him from the Grand Princess would surely result in murder. The mourning hall echoed with his crying—heart-rending sobs that would soften the hardest heart. Everyone lowered their heads and wept with him. Outside, the sky darkened, a muffled thunder rolled past, and torrential rain poured down.