Two days after the new Emperor took the throne, Wumang led his troops to attack the city once more. At this time, Chang Zhao and that great army of uncertain loyalty were still several days’ march from Biandu.

Although the number of imperial guards in Biandu was sufficient for this battle, they ultimately could not compare with the fierce and battle-hardened northern cavalry. The disposition of the returning great army — to which side they inclined — very nearly determined whether Biandu, and indeed the entire Great Yin, would live or die.

It was heard that Generals Sui and Li had parted ways with Chang Zhao midway, taking their trusted subordinates out of the main force and heading early to the Youzhou battlefield. This left the enormous army entirely in Chang Zhao’s hands. Given his eloquence and methods, bringing them under his control would not have been difficult.

The fact that he had dragged his feet midway and delayed his return, disregarding the urgency of the military situation, was already clear to most court officials in its intent — though no one dared to say it openly.

On the fifth day of the sixth month, the Emperor and Empress together ascended the Zhuque City Tower at the end of Zhuque Front Street, armored and prepared for battle, standing guard alongside the soldiers.

This act greatly bolstered the morale of the troops. Moreover, word of the toppled stone stele on the Thorn Flower Terrace had only recently begun to spread among the common people. Some commoners and students even pressed together before the Zhuque Gate, prepared to use their own flesh and blood to block the advance of the barbarian forces.

Smoke and flames billowed; blood soaked every brick and stone of the Zhuque Tower.

The Ezhen tribe had schemed for twenty years, sacrificed countless spies in the Central Plains, and finally won a great gamble — opening the gates of Biandu.

Wumang had originally expected that after Song Ling returned to court, there would inevitably be a fierce struggle between him and Song Lan, only to find that Song Ling had settled the situation in Biandu in just a few days — even before Chang Zhao had led his troops back — without a single drop of blood spilled in battle.

He was slow to grasp what this meant: this was the last chance. If he could not summon every last ounce of strength to force open the Great Yin’s capital city in this one assault, once Song Ling caught his breath and won back the great noble families and lords who had been marginalized and suppressed by Song Lan over these years, Wumang would never again have the possibility of realizing his dream of unifying the Central Plains.

And so this battle was fought with fierce intensity and terrible carnage.

The dying sun bled like gore.

Luowei rested for a moment behind the city wall. Just then a young soldier collapsed with an arrow wound before her. She hastily crawled over to receive him. The soldier convulsed with pain, and blood overflowed from his wound onto her fingers.

The soldier was no more than sixteen or seventeen years of age. After lifting his eyes and recognizing her, he froze for a moment, then smiled: “Your Majesty the Empress…”

Luowei pressed down on his wound and realized he had been struck in the most fatal spot — there was no saving him.

Her eyes grew hot and damp. Just as she was about to speak, the young soldier looked up at her with a pair of clear, black-and-white eyes and said with difficulty: “Your Majesty the Empress… can we… win…”

Luowei wiped the bloodstains from his face with her fingers and made a solemn promise: “We certainly can.”

“Good… good…” The soldier was already losing consciousness; he stared blankly at the sky, still smiling. “I, I have an elder sister at home, just around Your Majesty’s age… she has only been married a few years… she must live on safely and peacefully, just like Your Majesty…”

Luowei suddenly heard a burst of frantic cries from afar. A battle flag snapped loudly in the wind, the sound growing louder and louder.

Someone had climbed to the top of the tall fire watchtower and cried out with a voice that tore at the throat: “Relief troops — they’re relief troops!”

Everyone knew that the army commanded by Chang Zhao had been dawdling on the road for many days without returning. Even though the Emperor and Empress had promised “there will certainly be relief troops” when ascending the tower, no one had truly believed it — yet today they had actually been waited for!

This army did not wear the dark red uniform of the royal troops, nor did it bear any resemblance to the northern barbarians. Iron armor and long spears, sky-blue tasseled caps — only when the commanding general’s battle flag drew close did people see: on the flag was the single character “Cheng.”

This was Prince Cheng of the southwest — who had gone to his vassal territory early and had never once returned to Biandu in these years!

The northern troops were caught completely off guard and were immediately scattered.

Luowei sat up straight and looked out, and at last let out a long-held breath. She gently shook the young soldier’s body and shed tears: “We — we are going to win!”

But he had already breathed his last in her arms, his lips curved in a smile, his face serene and peaceful, as if he had perhaps heard her final words.

Luowei gathered him close by his neck, her tears rushing down, yet she also smiled along with him.

“I also have a little brother. He will always be your age.”

…

Even before heading to Chang’an, when Song Ling had raised the “Chengming” battle banner, he had sent out handwritten letters across the land. More than ten days apart, besides Prince Cheng, several other armies had also set off in the direction of Biandu. Among them were the garrison commander of Xuzhou, the soldiers of Jing and Chu, as well as other old friends of his and Luowei.

Wumang held out for three days before finally fleeing in defeat. Song Ling stood at the apex of the Zhuque sculpture and shot an arrow that struck Wumang in the shoulder.

The city defense battle ended in a hard-won victory.

As for those successive relief armies that had arrived one after another, on the very day the northern troops retreated they began to make their way back along their original routes. Not a single one crossed through the Zhuque city gate, and not even the main generals came around to pay a call.

Three li after the soldiers had departed, one person rode hard on a white horse to return. He entrusted the gatekeepers of the Zhuque Gate to send up to the new Emperor on the city tower a packet of oil-paper-wrapped fresh flower cakes.

The cakes had crumbled into powder from the long jolting journey. Song Ling cradled the pastries and called out from afar: “Many thanks, Elder Brother.”

He tugged at Luowei’s sleeve beside him, so Luowei also leaned out and called: “Many thanks, Elder Brother!”

Prince Cheng laughed heartily, dismounted, and performed the full ceremonial prostration of three kneelings and nine kowtows.

“This subject congratulates His Majesty the Emperor and Her Majesty the Empress!”

Then he galloped away on his horse, without a trace of lingering.

Song Ling watched the dust raised by the departing hoofbeats and said softly: “The year before I was installed as Crown Prince, Elder Brother left the capital for his vassal territory and never returned. Today is the day he has come closest to Biandu.”

The great prince had been renowned for his battle exploits before the age of seventeen. Song Ling had been barely twelve at the time — had Prince Cheng been so inclined, his chances in a contest would not have been nil. What is more, his mother was from a great noble family, with deep connections throughout the court. One could well imagine what kind of turbulent undercurrents must have been at play in those days.

He had then filed his own memorial, been granted his title, and left the capital for a remote southwestern vassal territory. For the sake of brotherly affection, he vowed to father no heirs and never to return to the capital.

Luowei sighed: “Prince Cheng is a true gentleman of noble character.”

She held back the tears in her eyes and continued: “A very good, very good elder brother — just like mine.”

The fifth day of the month. First quarter moon.

Luowei looked up at the sky. Stars filled the heavens.

Song Ling grasped her hand and pressed it against his own heart.

“We won.”

Luowei broke into a smile through her tears: “We won.”

“I knew it. I always knew we would win.”

*

On the seventh day of the month, Youzhou relayed back Yan Lang’s victory report, delayed by three days.

Even though the relief army had failed to arrive on time, even though old General Yan had already died, he and Song Yaofeng had held the city of Wancheng, repeatedly devising ingenious strategies, and had forced the northern allied forces back beyond the Youyun River.

Wumang, with great losses and a serious wound, barely managed to retreat beyond the Yin Mountains. When news arrived that the leader of the tribal alliance had suffered devastating blows, the Ezhen tribe was the first to withdraw its army. The allied forces’ morale collapsed entirely, and they even abandoned the city of Ping City, which they had previously captured.

Song Ling issued an order to reward the three armies and further promoted Yan Lang’s official rank.

After the fierce battle, Yan Lang suddenly learned that the “Crown Prince Chengming” had not died. He was completely bewildered for a moment. Old General Yan had left him a sealed pouch before his death, instructing him to pass it on to Ye Tingyan. Song Yaofeng shook his head in admiration, looking at him with great sympathy: “This pouch is not for him — it is for you.”

Only then did he learn the true identity of “the Third Son of the Ye Family.” He immediately sent back the victory report — beforehand he had been half-doubtful, always worried it was some trick concocted by someone who had captured Luowei.

After receiving his commendation, he was busy attending to the affairs of the three armies and the border refugees, and dispatched a contingent of soldiers to escort Song Yaofeng and the second son of the Ye family, Ye Lei, who had been honored in the army, back to Biandu first to receive the imperial grace.

Perhaps sensing that the tide had entirely turned against them, on the morning of the eighth day of the month, Chang Zhao came alone to the Biandu city gate and surrendered.

He submitted without resistance, requesting to exchange his own person for the lives of eighteen of his trusted subordinate followers. Generals Sui and Li had also returned to Biandu, testifying forcefully that the great army’s delayed return had been the result of Chang Zhao’s deception.

After Song Ling granted Chang Zhao’s request, Chang Zhao was taken into the prison of the Ministry of Justice. From that point on, he never spoke another word.

With the situation in Biandu settled, Zhou Xuechu did not wait for Song Yaofeng’s return before heading north to meet them. The two encountered each other in Yanzhou. Ye Lei happened also to be there, and with one casual remark, he suddenly caused Zhou Xuechu to have a moment of enlightenment.

Luowei looked at the letter she had sent back, her fingers trembling slightly.

In those days, the eldest son of the Ye family, Ye Kun, and Liu Yun had together held Ping City. Setting aside their private grievances, they had discussed with Liu Yun a strategy for withdrawing the troops. Liu Yun proposed that Ye Kun lead elite soldiers as the vanguard, and that after they had pushed deep into enemy territory, they would work in coordination from within and without. Ye Kun led his troops into an ambush at the Youyun River and held out there for three days.

The relief army never came.

Ye Kun was a general of formidable reputation in the northern borderlands — young and accomplished, highly versed in military strategy. He had not fully trusted Liu Yun, and so before the battle of the Youyun River, he had kept half the Ye family’s troops in Yanzhou as a reserve. If Liu Yun and he could not cooperate, there would still be this contingent as backup.

But the letter he sent to Yanzhou was intercepted by Garrison Commissioner Chang Mu.

Chang Mu was a shallow man who had always been a kindred spirit with Liu Yun, so the two conspired together, and used that half of the Ye family’s troops to lure them into the heart of the northern army.

And so they were entirely annihilated in the battle of the Youyun River — not a single one came back.

Ye Kun, having failed to receive relief troops, then “defected to the enemy” at the Youyun River, and nearly let the northern army into Ping City. It was Liu Yun who “fought to the death” that saved Ping City.

After Ping City was held, people spread the rumor that Ye Kun had defected to the northern barbarians and then been deemed useless, having already died.

At the time Ye Lei had not gone with the army to Ping City, so he knew little of the details. But when passing through Yanzhou, he mentioned in passing that Chang Mu had been on friendly terms with Liu Yun and had often been dismissive of the young Ye Kun.

Earlier, Zhou Xuechu had been investigating Chang Zhao’s identity at the border and had found it exceedingly difficult. Chang Mu had made enemies everywhere, and it had taken some time before she grasped this particular entanglement.

Chang Zhao deeply resented the imperial family — his resentment seemed not to be aimed solely at Song Lan. Earlier, when making the wager, he had clearly been resolved on mutual destruction. So why now had he thrown away the chips still in his hand, not even fled, and returned to Biandu of his own accord?

She gradually realized the connection between the Chang family and the Ye family, and tracing the thread to its end, finally delivered the evidence to Luowei’s hand.

On the ninth day of the month, Song Yaofeng and Ye Lei returned to Biandu together.

Ye Lei had always been the most ordinary of the Ye family’s children since childhood — inferior in military command to his eldest brother, and inferior in scholarship to his third brother. He was honest and straightforward by nature. Except for his steadfast refusal to believe that his elder brother had committed treason, he had never quarreled with anyone in all these years of falling from the son of a general to an ordinary foot soldier.

When Song Ling had first borrowed the identity of Ye Huo, he had specifically gone to pay his respects to Ye Lei. Thanks greatly to his assistance, Yu Qiushi and Song Lan had never uncovered any flaw in his former identity.

Now that the new Emperor had ascended the throne and truly exonerated the Ye family, Ye Lei was so moved at meeting the Emperor and Empress that words failed him. He only knelt on the ground and kowtowed heavily.

Song Ling bent down to help him up. Luowei hesitated for a long while and finally said: “Second Young Master, would you be willing to do something for this palace?”

Ye Lei immediately said: “Anything Your Majesty commands.”

Luowei said: “Go to the prison of the Ministry of Justice and visit someone.”

Ye Lei did not understand why, but he agreed nonetheless. As it turned out, Luowei still felt it was not right even after he had agreed, and had Liu Mingzhong go to the prison first to ask Chang Zhao.

Chang Zhao reacted with great agitation — threatening to die rather than see him.

Such a reaction confirmed their previous conjecture entirely.

…

Chang Zhao leaned against the cold stone wall and had that familiar dream once more.

The Youyun River had been dyed red with blood. Utterly exhausted, he collapsed by the riverbank, pierced by multiple arrows — fortunately none had struck vital points, but it was as good as death. The northern troops dragged him past the deathly still Youyun River, leaving a vivid red streak on the ground. He heard their mocking laughter, and thought at first that in the next moment he would be thrown into the lake to perish alongside the other generals.

But in the end, that did not happen.

The Ezhen commander of this particular battle was Wumang, who harbored a deep grudge against the Ye family — after all, his own father had died under the sword of old General Ye. He had also used this very personal vendetta as the cover story to deceive Liu Yun, making him believe that what he wanted was only Ye Kun’s life and the destruction of his good name.

After capturing the near-dead young general, Wumang kept him imprisoned for two months.

Two months later, he told Ye Kun that his own country had abandoned him — together with the Ye family’s personal troops — branding them as “traitors,” all for the sake of pacifying public sentiment at the border.

And that Liu Yun, who had stood by and watched him die, had become a great hero.

Ye Kun naturally did not believe it. Wumang did not force him, but instead set him free.

Barely clinging to life, he stumbled and staggered across the Youyun River, returning to Ping City. He heard people extolling Liu Yun from every direction, heard the curses directed at himself, and even saw children sitting by the road, noisily performing a re-enactment of him defecting and then fleeing in panic to his death.

Fortunately, he had been injured in the face during his dragging and was not recognized.

Thereafter, Wumang, with great patience, played his cat-and-mouse game with him again and again, repeatedly shattering his hopes until he was left with a heart cold as dead ash.

He heard that both his second and third brothers had suffered on his account — fortunately, the Crown Prince and Emperor in the capital had made a great scene about it, barely managing to save the Ye family line and smother the rumor of “treason” before it could take hold.

…But what good did that do?

He covered his face and made his way back to the family home. The third son had already left; the once-glorious household had only Ye Lei remaining. He hid before the gate of what had once been a magnificent family residence and came close to going in several times, yet his heart was inevitably seized by dread.

— His kin, implicated to this extent by him — could they truly believe he had not committed treason?

He dared not know the answer.

Wumang set him free ten times in all. Before he departed on the tenth occasion, Wumang suddenly asked: “The imperial family has treated you thus — do you not wish to take their place?”

But he remained unable to make up his mind.

On this particular occasion he encountered in Yanzhou the Ye family’s personal troops, who had been dispatched by him. Of that enormous contingent, after fierce battles with the northern army in the heart of their territory, only eighteen had survived. They dared not reveal their identities, hiding and fleeing all day long, searching along the Youyun River for the body of their commander.

From their lips, he learned the truth of why the relief troops had been so long in arriving.

Hatred flooded his mind. That very night, they slaughtered the entire Chang household.

Fearing arrest by the authorities, he appropriated the identity of the young master Chang Zhao, who had just returned home from a long period of wandering.

Chang Zhao’s wet nurse, who was nearly blind, arrived home a day later. He had hesitated for a moment when striking, and could not bring himself to kill this old woman. So he pretended to be her charge and lived with her, learning to pass himself off as Chang Zhao attending school at the academy.

He had not yet made up his mind at that point, so he simply buried himself in books, seeking a moment’s peace.

Having studied somewhat in his youth alongside his third brother, and having read countless volumes of military texts — old General Ye had been a scholar-general, and so were the nephews and nieces of the family — after a few years had passed, he had acquired some modest scholarly attainment.

Then news came from Biandu that Crown Prince Chengming Song Ling had been assassinated on the night of the Lantern Festival, and the Emperor had passed away immediately after.

It was not only Liu Yun who had been in Ping City at the time — how could his crimes have been concealed so completely? Since the Emperor had been so guilty at heart as not to punish the whole Ye family household, how could he have been unaware of what had occurred that day?

Wumang’s words rang in his ears again — that power was always thus: cold and without mercy. So long as it served the interests of the ruler, what sovereign would care about this insignificant sacrifice?

And Crown Prince Song Ling had also died in their treacherous and tumultuous power struggle.

The young Emperor who ascended the throne had even summoned Liu Yun back to the capital. All these years he had found no opportunity to kill Liu Yun at the border. Once Liu Yun gained favor in the capital, it would become even harder — did this new Emperor know his true face? He no longer cared. He had thought it through clearly over these years: this matter implicated the allegiances of the border generals, implicated the dignity of the imperial family. Even if the Emperor knew, he would absolutely, absolutely never acknowledge his own father’s error!

But what of those souls hovering over the Youyun River, refusing to disperse? What of those who had turned into blood-red clouds hovering over the borderlands, transformed into wind and rain beating down on the people of the world? Every night he would be plagued by nightmares, his ears stuffed full with the cursing of their families directed at him.

He rode hard on horseback, crossed the Youyun River that had nearly become a demon haunting his soul, and struck a deal with Wumang.

It did not matter. After seizing power and taking revenge on the imperial family, the debt owed to the northern barbarians could always be settled.

The blood feud of many years with the foreign nation could not compare to the sting of a blade thrust from behind.

…A blade from behind.

The northern borderlands had many sunny days, and the Youyun River dried out under the heat, giving off a heavy, fishy smell. He was dragged along with half his face against the ground — grit, fragments of flesh, bones — slowly passing each inch of skin. At that moment, hatred had almost drowned out the pain of arrows shot into his body — Relief troops! Relief troops! For their own selfish ends, they had driven him to this!

“Ugh —”

Chang Zhao’s eyes blazed red as he jerked awake from the dream. The prison cell was as silent and dark as usual, yet there was an added trace of a scent barely perceptible.

Chang Zhao slowly raised his head, narrowing his eyes, then widening them in disbelief.

Song Yaofeng crouched down before him and placed a bright red rose into his hand.

“There are not many roses in the palace gardens. I searched through many different palace courtyards before I found this one.”

Chang Zhao felt himself trembling uncontrollably. He wanted to open his mouth and ask “how did you come here,” but already felt it was pointless — if Song Yaofeng had come carrying this rose to see him, she must already know his true identity!

The first time he entered the capital, he had been so young. In the crowd, he had caught sight of the jade-carved, exquisitely beautiful imperial princess with her pair of luminous, bright eyes.

Had he not seen her, he would not have been willing to show off before that group of noble young scions, or to draw back and release that arrow.

Before leaving the capital, the princess had given him a rose.

That flower had also been this shade of red.

Chang Zhao gripped the flower tightly in his hand, did not raise his head, and did not dare to speak. Song Yaofeng rose to her feet, and there was a trace of grief in her voice: “You incited the tyrant Emperor to kill indiscriminately, causing the death of the Empress’s elder brother, the death of the favored consort whom I treated as a sister, and the deaths of soldiers in Youzhou and Biandu who were desperately defending against the foreign enemy… too many people have died because of you. No matter the reason, you must pay for it with your life.”

She turned away and waited in silence for a long while. She felt a sharp ache in both eyes, yet she understood the timidity that had prevented him from lifting his head.

He did not wish to see Ye Lei, and did not want to raise his head to look at her — the feelings were probably the same.

Song Yaofeng asked softly: “Is there truly nothing you wish to say to me?”

After a long while, she finally heard Chang Zhao’s hoarse voice: “…The wager with Her Majesty the Empress — she won.”

“What?”

Chang Zhao still had his head bowed, enunciating each word clearly: “She won. My surrender without resistance is proof of it. But… may I ask the Princess to convey — what crime do they intend… to use to execute me?”

Song Yaofeng reached up to wipe away the tears she could not suppress, doing her best to keep her voice sounding calm: “Treason.”

Chang Zhao’s voice faltered: “Treason… treason. Then who is the traitor?”

“It is Liu Yun and Chang Mu, who destroyed the entire Ye household. His Majesty has already issued the order, stripping them of all official titles and entering them in the historical records under the crime of treason.”

Chang Zhao raised his head and looked for a moment, then quickly lowered it again.

Song Yaofeng continued: “It is… Chang Mu’s son, who brought misfortune to his hometown and bullied others with his power and connections — the young master Chang Zhao. All eighteen people you sought to protect are survivors of the Ye family’s troops. Their merits and crimes cancel each other out; there is nothing to charge them with.”

Having heard everything she said, he finally let out a long breath, unable to help breaking into a smile: “The traitor is naturally Chang Zhao… it has nothing to do with others, nothing to do with the Ye family.”

He straightened his body and knelt down, kowtowing deeply: “This subject… respectfully thanks His Majesty and Her Majesty the Empress for permitting this subject to parade through the streets wearing this false face.”

Song Yaofeng could no longer hold herself together and strode away quickly. Stepping out through the prison gate, she could still hear Chang Zhao’s earnest and repeated reassurances from behind: “The traitor is Chang Zhao! Only this one person!”

She leaned against the prison door, giving him her assurance: “…Yes, only him.”

After her figure had completely disappeared, Chang Zhao slowly opened his fingers. The rose had been gripped so tightly that it had split into fragrant, vivid crimson fragments — like hands that could not wash away the stains of blood.

He let out a bitter laugh, then clutched the remains with the reverence one would show a treasure. Leaning against the wall, he began to sing, haltingly, a song often heard in Youzhou — “The Song of No Return.”

“Going to quell the chaos, going but not returning; the gold-armored troops march, going but not returning; Youyun has fallen, going but not returning; blood becomes a river, going but not returning! The soldiers bow and depart, going but not returning — year after year the spring departs… and spring returns once more.”