The autumn scenery of Shanglin Mountain was very beautiful—maple red interspersed with sparse yellow, dotting the cold mountain’s verdant green. Occasionally white birds flew in pairs, skimming over the blue waves, their graceful forms floating like reed flowers. The sky where their wings passed was distant and expansive, deep blue like satin, with light clouds like snow and smoke.
Qin Chang Ge held her son, sitting together in the rear courtyard pavilion enjoying the scenery. After watching for a while, Young Master Xiao suddenly said: “No wonder they say ‘clouds and smoke’—clouds and smoke really do look alike.”
Qin Chang Ge remained silent for a moment, then said: “Rong Rong, I’ve discovered that what people say about big eyes not necessarily having spirit is correct.”
“Why?” Young Master Xiao immediately turned his big eyes toward her, striving to display his “beautiful eyes filled with anticipation” charm.
“Because that’s not a cloud at all—it’s just smoke.”
“Ah… really? Except for being a bit blacker in color, I think they look about the same…”
Sighing, Qin Chang Ge was too lazy to talk with Little Xiao, and pulled her son up. “Come, let’s go see.”
Shanglin was an imperial garden where ordinary people couldn’t come. The Emperor had just left—who had come to light fires? Qin Chang Ge thought to herself. As she approached the smoke and fire, seeing that corner of clothing color, her smile became even more gentle.
In the billowing smoke, a bizarre and cruel scene was unfolding.
A group of beggars, barely clothed and emaciated to the bone, were pouncing, entangling, and fighting in a melee together. They screamed shrilly, tearing hair and grabbing at groins, gouging eyes and clawing ears, rolling together bloodily amid flying flesh. Occasionally a defeated beggar, unable to endure, would cry out miserably and try to escape, only to be immediately seized by several soldiers who would stuff their mouths with rags and tie them together with grass rope, fastening them to trees. In the center, a stone pit had already been dug and a fire pile erected. In the blazing, crackling flames, soldiers viciously took turns pushing the escaped beggars toward the fire pile.
The beggars struggled silently, their terrified eyes like leaves swaying in the wind. Wherever they fell, they startled roosting birds that fluttered up to obscure that patch of clear sky. In their gazes were layers of bloody panic, as if dripping to the ground would form pools of streaming blood.
Qin Chang Ge’s gaze swept over the group of beggars fighting each other with desperate, cruel bloodshed, and her eyes suddenly paused.
In the center of the crowd, a young, thin beggar with wasted form and protruding bones, his face muddy and bruised, filthy and deformed beyond recognition of features, seemed to have trouble with his legs as well. He leaned against a mountain stone, using it to protect his back. The group of mutually slaughtering beggars didn’t spare him either, constantly attacking him. However, though this young beggar struck weakly, defending more than attacking, his aim was remarkably accurate—every attack targeted his opponents’ vital points. Thus, compared to the many able-bodied beggars, though he inevitably had wounds everywhere, his condition was much better than their bloody, mangled state. But for some reason, though he clearly had many opportunities to strike killing blows or achieve victory, he abandoned them all himself.
Qin Chang Ge let out a soft “eh” sound and was about to walk closer for a clearer look when she heard, from behind the crowd and outside the fire pit, drum sounds rising with varying urgency and gentle brightness. The rhythm had a strange melody and clear cadence. Upon hearing it, Qin Chang Ge immediately knew this was a jiegu drum, not a product of neighboring countries, but from beyond the grassland desert, transmitted from the Kingdom of Gaochang. The drum was covered with sheepskin on both sides, narrow at the middle waist, and called the leader of the eight sounds. The former Yuan Emperor Yuanxiao was refined in musical temperament and especially skilled at drumming. Once, in front of Mingguang Hall, seeing the autumn sky distant and clear without a speck of dust, he composed the tune “Autumn Wind High.” Whenever he played it, distant winds would gently come and courtyard leaves would fall in profusion—its melody was exquisitely wonderful and renowned at the time. After the former Yuan fell, people who could play this jiegu drum gradually became rare. However, for someone known as Xiliang’s great musical master, proficient in all manner of instruments, this really wasn’t a problem.
At this time, the autumn sun shone high and the blue sky was washed clean, with wooden leaves flying and red clothes brilliant. The man lightly held drum sticks, his sleeves fluttering to reveal snow-white wrists, black hair scattered and flowing in charming arcs. He raised his head slightly; under the sunlight’s reflection, his upturned chin was refined and bright, his beautiful eyes slightly closed as if deeply intoxicated by that stirring melody. The drum sounds he struck were bright and clear—when intense like ten thousand armies advancing together, when slow like still water flowing deep, like hearing round lotus shedding dew in quiet night with resounding metallic tones. It was truly a very beautiful and artistic scene—if not for that group of pitiful beggars and that smoky, fire-roasted stone pit.
Why did this person always appear in such bizarre circumstances?
Focusing her gaze to scan among the gray-clothed, red-armored crowd, Qin Chang Ge pushed her son slightly behind her and asked: “Rong Rong, are you afraid of seeing dead people?”
“What kind of death?” Young Master Xiao blinked. “Uncle Qi Fan’s family runs a charity hall. Sometimes when beggars die, Uncle sends people to collect the bodies. Once he took me to see too—it was someone who starved to death, very thin, the bones could be directly used as clubs. Uncle told me to remember, saying when common people wander displaced and starve to death on the roads, it’s the fault of those who rule… Strange, why should I remember other people’s faults?”
Clubs… Qin Chang Ge fell silent for a while, abandoning the idea of re-educating her son at this moment. She sighed: “I don’t know what kind of death either. I just know a certain person really likes killing people and often creates strange reasons to kill. I’m afraid you’ll be frightened.”
“A certain person?” Young Master Xiao looked around, pointed with his finger, and said: “You’re not talking about that sissy, are you?”
Qin Chang Ge followed his pointing finger—the “sissy” was smiling at her, his eyes flowing with color like rippling smoke waves, each ripple infinitely charming.
“Haven’t seen you for a few days, and your child is already this big? Congratulations, congratulations.”
Qin Chang Ge smiled: “Haven’t seen you for a few days, and you look much younger—last time eighty-four, this time forty-eight. Congratulations, congratulations.”
Yu Zixi touched his face and said mournfully: “Ah, am I really that old? Could it be that despite all my painstaking efforts to maintain my appearance, it’s still useless?”
“Maintaining your appearance?” Qin Chang Ge’s gaze swept over the stone pit. “You’re not using that, are you?”
“That’s right,” Yu Zixi stood up happily, tossing aside the jiegu drum. “An alchemist told me that applying corpse oil to the face can preserve eternal youth.”
“Corpse oil?”