“General Peng!”

Bulegdi strode quickly to Peng Bo, then dropped to one knee. “On behalf of my people, I offer you gratitude and respect!”

Peng Bo raised a hand and wiped the sweat from his brow — but said nothing in return, and did not reach down to help Bulegdi to his feet.

In that moment, Bulegdi suddenly understood what General Peng’s silence meant — and he felt a rush of alarm.

Not long after, the Ning Army withdrew. They left cleanly and without a shred of hesitation — though this time, when they left, they did not take the provisions or equipment with them.

“I made a mistake.”

Bulegdi sat on a hillside, staring out at the Black Wu forces regrouping in the distance.

He looked at his son Saosang. “In my panic at the time, I didn’t think it through — I took everyone with me and left only the elderly and infirm.”

Saosang was a young man not yet twenty, direct by nature. Seeing his father’s deep remorse, he didn’t quite know what to say.

“Even if I had left behind just a few thousand men, it would have been something.”

Bulegdi let out a long breath. He recalled what Peng Bo had said that time at Beishan Pass.

Some wrongs can be forgiven — but not every time.

The Ning Army had fulfilled their promise and then departed. Heads held high.

Taking with them the bodies of their fallen brothers.

“Father, what do we do now?”

Saosang asked.

Bulegdi shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Just then, Shuyangchuan, supported by two people, came hurrying over. “Khan, the Ning Army has gone?”

Bulegdi looked at Shuyangchuan and nodded. “They’ve gone. I made another mistake.”

Shuyangchuan said urgently, “Khan, from now on we must watch Beishan Pass closely. If the Black Wu’s assault there becomes too fierce, we must send troops to assist the Ning Army — otherwise we will never have another chance to pass through the pass.”

Bulegdi said, “If you and I had traded places just now, you would not have made the mistake I made.”

As he said this, his son Saosang let out a derisive snort — clearly quite displeased.

Shuyangchuan said, “The Ning Army has its own pride. So when you took everyone with you, General Peng said nothing. They’ve left now — but they cannot reach Beishan Pass before nightfall, so we still have a chance.”

He spoke with great urgency. “Immediately dispatch cavalry. Spare no cost — if General Peng’s column is spotted by the Black Wu, go at once to rescue them, or at any cost escort them safely back to Beishan Pass.”

Bulegdi came to his senses and rose at once. “I’ll go myself.”

Saosang said quickly, “Father, let me go instead.”

Shuyangchuan shook his head. “You won’t do. The Khan must go in person.”

Saosang turned back to look at Shuyangchuan. “Are you hoping something happens to my father so you can be Khan in name as well as in fact?”

Crack!

Bulegdi struck Saosang hard across the face. “Apologize to the Khan!”

Saosang looked stubbornly at his father. Bulegdi ordered, “String him up. No one takes him down without my command.”

His men looked awkwardly toward Saosang. Saosang gave a scoff and held out his arms. “String me up, then — am I supposed to be afraid?”

Bulegdi said, “When you learn to reserve that pride and stubbornness for your enemies rather than for your own people, then you’ll be grown.”

With that, knowing there was no time to linger on this, he personally handpicked the men, making ready to escort Peng Bo’s Ning Army back.

The fighting in the northern frontier would not end anytime soon. With the Black Wu having mobilized on such a scale, they would not withdraw lightly unless utterly compelled.

Yet within the vast realm of the Central Plains, the great majority of people gave little thought to how things would unfold in the north. The northern frontier was too far away — they couldn’t see the Black Wu forces. They could only see the enemies right in front of their own eyes.

For the powerful, enemies were each other. For the multitudes of ordinary people, the enemy was life itself — yet they had to find a way to love it all the same.

In the fifth month’s beginning, the great bandit Li Xionghu led his army into Jingzhou, where his forces clashed with Prince Wu Yang Jiju’s army.

Daxing City, Shiyuan Palace.

Emperor Yang Jing sat on the palace steps, staring blankly at a fragment of roof tile in the distance.

For no clear reason, he suddenly found himself thinking back to his younger years — of Tingwei Liu Chongxin accompanying him in the game of kicking tiles.

That most universally loathed Grand Eunuch had, in fact, always treated him well.

His gaze went unfocused for a moment. He seemed to see, not far away, his father reclining in a rocking chair, watching several palace maids at play.

Yang Jing gave a start — and when he looked again, there was nothing there.

When his gaze drifted back, he saw Liu Chongxin’s figure once more — that eunuch dripping with sweat, with his robes tucked into his waistband, hopping forward on one leg: “Your Highness? How was that kick of mine?”

Yang Jing’s face went pale with shock as he lurched to his feet — only for the vision to vanish. There was nothing before him but an empty stretch of ground and a scattering of broken tiles.

“Your Majesty.”

The head palace attendant, Zhen Xiaodao, bent low and approached. “Your Majesty, the person the Prince Wu’s Consort selected for Your Majesty has entered the palace.”

Yang Jing was briefly startled.

Several days earlier he had sent someone to request the Prince Wu’s Consort to come to the palace — partly to see whether she was still in the capital, and partly because certain matters had come to mind that only she could help with.

The Emperor rose, straightened his robes, and followed Zhen Xiaodao back to the Eastern Study.

In the room stood a young woman, shy and ill at ease. At the sight of the Emperor in his dragon robes, she immediately dropped to her knees. “I pay my respects to Your Majesty. Long live Your Majesty, long live, long long live.”

The Emperor looked over this young woman — sixteen or seventeen years of age, with delicate and pleasant features. One could not call her strikingly beautiful, but there was something simply agreeable about her appearance.

The Emperor knew who she was: the granddaughter of a former Minister of Rites. That elderly official had offended Liu Chongxin and been punished for it — at the command of the Emperor’s own father, the late emperor, a length of white silk had been sent to the minister, and the old man had hanged himself in his own study. His granddaughter had been only three or four years old that year.

After Liu Chongxin’s execution, the Emperor, seeking to win back the hearts of his people, had rehabilitated many court officials who had been unjustly condemned. This young woman’s father had been put back into service and appointed Vice Minister of Rites.

Some time ago, when the great bandit Li Xionghu and Prince of Heaven Yang Xuanji had sent their forces into Jingzhou, many people in Daxing City had quietly fled — including a good number of officials from the Six Ministries and Nine Courts. The Minister of Rites had fled without even taking his household possessions.

This young woman’s father had been elevated to Minister of Rites, reaching the same high rank as his own father had held — yet he took no pleasure in it.

When the Prince Wu’s Consort chose this young woman, her father, Minister of Rites Yu Wenli, was even less pleased.

Yu Ruoyan had told her father: if I don’t enter the palace, father will be held to account by the Emperor. Dachu still stands; the Emperor still reigns; we have no way to refuse.

And so she had come. Not because she harbored any ambitions of becoming Empress — but because she wanted to protect, by her own strength, the father who had always protected her.

“Rise.”

Emperor Yang Jing settled himself and studied the young woman before him carefully.

The faint scholarly air about her pleased him — pleased him inexplicably and deeply.

“Your name is Ruoyan?”

The Emperor asked.

“In response to Your Majesty, yes.”

“How old are you?”

“In response to Your Majesty — nearly sixteen.”

“You need not be so nervous.”

“In response to Your Majesty… yes…”

The Emperor sighed softly. Seeing the young woman’s obvious discomfort and unease, he felt, in this moment, something close to loathing for his own station.

This title of Emperor of Dachu — it could no longer strike fear into those rebels. It could only frighten a girl like this.

He even found it rather absurd — and then came a wave of desolation.

“Your Majesty…”

Yu Ruoyan noticed the Emperor’s deeply furrowed brow and bowed forward slightly. “If Your Majesty’s heart is troubled, I could play the zither for Your Majesty.”

The Emperor nodded without thinking. “Very well.”

Zhen Xiaodao promptly ordered a zither brought in. Yu Ruoyan sat, gathered herself for a moment, and played for the Emperor the piece called *Clear River, Still Current.*

This piece had been composed by Songming, the greatest literary figure of the age, and from the moment it was written, it had been beloved by countless people.

The Emperor knew this melody well. When he first heard it, he was mildly displeased — the piece was too bright and cheerful.

Then he thought: she probably just saw that my mood was poor and chose something lively.

But moments later, the Emperor’s heart grew quiet.

When others played this piece, it always conjured the image of a crowd of children out in the open fields, shouting and laughing, chasing kites, startling the fish in the river.

But the way she played it — it was as if one saw a young woman in the bloom of her youth, sitting by a riverbank, her bare feet dangling in the current, fish drifting lazily around her ankles.

It must have been sunset — the light of dusk is the most tender of all.

She sat there, and in the distance stood a small, modest house, smoke rising from the chimney, a few sparrows circling in the wisps of smoke.

“Enough.”

The Emperor said suddenly. The music stopped at once.

Yu Ruoyan immediately rose, stepped back, and bowed. “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon.”

The Emperor glanced at her, then walked out of the Eastern Study without a word to Yu Ruoyan.

He kept walking. He didn’t know where he wanted to go — only that he dared not listen any longer.

“Your Majesty, if you do not care for her, this servant will immediately arrange for Miss Yu to be sent back home.”

“Send her back.”

The Emperor replied.

Zhen Xiaodao hurried forward. “This servant will go and make the arrangements at once.”

“You will escort her yourself.”

The Emperor’s footsteps paused. He reached up and unhooked the jade pendant hanging from his sash, then handed it to Zhen Xiaodao. “Give her this as a token of meeting. And tell Minister Yu… he may begin preparing for a wedding.”

Zhen Xiaodao was taken aback. “Your Majesty, the Prince Wu’s Consort has also selected several other candidates for Your Majesty. Would Your Majesty not see them before deciding?”

“No need. This one.”

The Emperor felt a pang of guilt — and it was precisely that guilt that kept him from listening to her music any longer.

He had asked the Prince Wu’s Consort to help select a future Empress because, one day not long ago, a sudden fear had seized him. His father had not been a good Emperor — he had failed to stop Dachu from crumbling, but at least his father still had him, and passed the throne on. Yet he himself had no heir. If something were to happen…

At the very least, the Yang family’s imperial bloodline had to be continued. Even if… even if Dachu were no more, the imperial bloodline must endure.

As long as someone in this world still carried imperial blood in their veins, the spark to revive Dachu would never be extinguished.

When ordinary people place their hopes in the future, it is called faith in what is yet to come.

When an Emperor places his hopes in the future, it is called helplessness.

Yet somehow he had already convinced himself: just pick any capable and personable woman — whoever she was, as long as she could continue the imperial bloodline.

But today, the moment he set eyes on Yu Ruoyan, an irrepressible guilt welled up in him.

She should not be treated this way. Because she was the right person.

She had appeared at the wrong time.

The Emperor sighed deeply, then looked toward Zhen Xiaodao, who had already begun to depart. “Please… please invite the Prince Wu’s Consort to the palace. My… my imperial wedding… it should be held with due splendor.”

Zhen Xiaodao felt a pang in his heart, because he understood — the Emperor was asking the Prince Wu’s Consort to come because the court had run out of funds. The wedding could not be paid for.

He had no choice but to borrow.

The Emperor looked up at the sky and closed his eyes — and there, behind his eyelids, he saw that girl sitting by the riverbank, she too gazing up at the sky.

—