Each soft pat of Cangjie’s hand on the willow chest fell as though it weighed a thousand *jin*.

When his hand finally left the chest, he murmured to himself: “Your Majesty — you had no friends, did you?”

He rose from the bedside, walked out into the courtyard, and tilted his head back toward the sky.

Night had settled over the earth. Darkness covered not only everything visible to the eye, but everything invisible to it as well — the inner world of a human heart.

He spoke again, to no one: “I have no more friends either. Once, I had one.”

—

Many years before. Daxing City.

Inside the imperial palace, he — still called Wuming in those days — met the Emperor of the Great Chu for the first time.

The man who had brought him to the palace was Liu Chongxin: the most feared eunuch in the realm, who was said to have killed more people than he had hairs on his head, the second-most-powerful figure in all of Chu after the Emperor himself — the “Five-Thousand-Years.”

The reason given for bringing him in was as offhand as a passing joke.

Liu Chongxin had said: *I hear you tell excellent stories. Come with me into the palace and tell the Emperor one.*

Liu Chongxin had added that the Emperor had loved stories since he was small — that it had always been so.

And then, with a trace of smugness, Liu Chongxin had said that most of the stories that had brought the Emperor joy in those early years had been his own.

But the next sentence — Wuming heard a note of quiet desolation in it.

Liu Chongxin had smiled faintly and said: *But my stories eventually ran out. The Emperor still wants to hear them.*

—

And so Wuming had been brought to the palace to tell the supreme ruler of Chu a story, and he had been terrified the entire way.

Because he did not know what kind of story could possibly satisfy this Emperor. And because once he had thought it through, he knew the story he had chosen was one that absolutely could not satisfy this Emperor.

He knew what sort of Emperor this was. A man who never held court, who — even in old age — loved to play games. A man who, by any measure, had done everything a fatuous, self-indulgent Emperor had ever done — and more besides.

Wuming had thought: if I tell this story badly, I will probably lose my head. And if I tell it too well, I will probably also lose my head.

And so he had prepared for losing his head — because he intended to tell an Emperor a story about foolish emperors.

—

People had always said he was a fraud, a schemer, someone who especially enjoyed tricking money out of women.

A man like him, they said, was destined for hell — where the first thing awaiting him would be the ripping out of his tongue, because he was simply too skilled at deceiving people, and too adept at making the wives and daughters of powerful men give him their money willingly, even eagerly.

But deep inside, Wuming knew there had always been one story he wanted to tell — nothing like the stories he spun for those society ladies. For years he had nursed a private fantasy: if he ever had the chance, he would tell the Emperor of Chu the story of how a foolish emperor had ruined his kingdom.

The story was not recent history. It was several hundred years old. It was the story of the final emperor of the Zhou dynasty — the dynasty that Chu had replaced.

He had imagined: *if I tell this story, the Emperor will probably have me hacked to pieces.*

But it didn’t matter. If one death could bring even a moment of self-reflection to this Emperor, he supposed he would feel a certain greatness in that — a death well spent.

Chu was riddled through with wounds. How desperately he wished he could be a medicine — something that could cure all of it in one dose. But he wasn’t. He knew he didn’t have that kind of power. His medicines were only good for making court ladies feel pleased with themselves.

—

And so he told the story of the last emperor of Zhou, and then he waited to be killed.

Liu Chongxin, sitting alongside the Emperor, had also prepared to kill him. In fact, Liu Chongxin had been ready to kill him long before the story was finished.

Only the Emperor had looked at Liu Chongxin and shaken his head — and so the man who had killed half the world sat back down without a word.

“You told that very well.”

The Emperor said: “I first heard this story when I was very young — my own father told it to me. You told it better than he did.”

Wuming could not have imagined this reaction.

“I know what I am,” the Emperor continued. “I know what I have done.”

He looked into Wuming’s eyes. “If you have the opportunity, tell my story to those who come after. Tell it to the Crown Prince. He has seen it with his own eyes, but hearing it from another person’s mouth — it will feel different.”

Liu Chongxin said: “Your Majesty, should this man really be allowed to live?”

The Emperor shook his head. “Why not? I think he tells excellent stories. Let him come and tell me stories often. And let him tell stories to the Crown Prince.”

He paused, and let his gaze rest on Wuming with a meaning that was hard to read. “The Crown Prince and I are very different.”

Then the Emperor waved his hand. “Go now. Come back tomorrow. Though I have no wish to hear that sort of story again.”

—

And so Wuming walked out of the palace alive, and received from Liu Chongxin a pearl as he went.

Liu Chongxin looked at him with a peculiar expression. “I knew yesterday that you had audacity. I didn’t expect it could get even bigger. You actually had the guts to tell that story.”

He patted Wuming on the shoulder and walked away.

Outside the palace gates, men from Liu Chongxin’s Bureau of Investigations were waiting for him. Wuming thought: *this time I’m truly going to die.* Liu Chongxin had been so furious he’d been swearing — you could imagine the depth of his resentment.

But the Bureau men didn’t touch him. They only looked at him as if he were some kind of freak.

And then they gave him an entire box of pearls, saying that the Director-Superintendent was presenting this as a reward.

In that moment, Wuming realized he had been wrong.

He had thought he understood what manner of man Liu Chongxin was. He had thought he understood what manner of man the Emperor was.

But in that moment, he felt he understood nothing at all.

—

From that time forward, he came often to the palace to tell the Emperor stories. Only he never again told any story about foolish emperors ruining their kingdoms.

From that time forward, many months passed before he saw the Crown Prince again — until one day the Crown Prince came to his temple.

They sat across from each other, and the Crown Prince asked: “Do you know why my father had you tell me that story?”

Wuming answered: “His Majesty said he feared he wouldn’t tell it well himself.”

“That’s not right,” the Crown Prince said. “My father was perfectly capable of telling it well. It’s that it would have been inappropriate for him to do so. Given the choice between something embarrassing and something even more embarrassing, he will always choose the former.”

“A dissolute emperor, delivering a lecture to his son about the dangers of being a dissolute emperor — he didn’t quite have the face for that. Of the two humiliating options, he naturally chose the lesser.”

Wuming did not dare to respond.

The Crown Prince looked dissatisfied, and shook his head. “I thought you had courage.”

Wuming could only smile with some bitterness — it was the last compliment he wanted to hear these days, but with the Crown Prince sitting before him, all he could do was smile.

The Crown Prince rose. “If one day I asked you to remove these black monk’s robes and put on purple court dress — would you have more courage than you do now?”

Wuming shook his head. “My courage has never truly been large. What I do is only ever a question of *dare* — never of *should*.”

The Crown Prince made a soft sound, said no more, and turned and left.

Wuming knew he had disappointed the Crown Prince — but he also knew he had no right or ability to wear those purple robes. The greatest courage he could manage was only ever the kind that might cost him himself. He dared not cost the kingdom.

—

Their third meeting: the Crown Prince was no longer Crown Prince. He was the new Emperor of the Great Chu. Yang Jing.

Yang Jing asked him: “I still want to ask you the same question. How large is your courage?”

Wuming answered with a question: “How large does Your Majesty need it to be?”

Yang Jing asked: “Can you kill a man?”

He answered: “Kill whom?”

Yang Jing asked: “If I tell you to kill someone, does it matter who?”

Wuming replied: “To kill an ordinary person — an innocent — Your Majesty could give me ten thousand measures of courage and I would still not dare.”

Yang Jing said: “And if it were a powerful regional lord?”

Wuming thought for a moment. “That — I could dare.”

Yang Jing looked at him, puzzled, for a long moment. “Why?”

Wuming answered: “I am a man of Chu.”

—