Yu Jiuling was perceptive enough to catch something out of the ordinary in what Changmei the Daoist said — and in the smile that accompanied it, he glimpsed a faint, quiet sadness.

The sadness was faint not because it was shallow, but because it was old.

It wasn’t that time had diminished the sadness. It was that the sadness had been borne long enough to be concealed more skillfully, and lived alongside more easily.

Li Chi knew something of it, but he had never asked his master directly. Because there had been one night, long ago, when he had felt the full weight of his master’s pain.

His master had woken suddenly from sleep, crying out, making sounds that frightened Li Chi into scrambling over to hold him. Li Chi didn’t know what his master had dreamed, but he saw the tears streaming down his master’s face.

Li Chi had been four years old.

Perhaps his master had felt that a four-year-old wouldn’t understand any of it. Or perhaps his master simply had no one else to tell. Either way, he had spoken a few words to Li Chi that night.

He had said: if he had been brave enough back then, he might have lived a very ordinary, very difficult, not necessarily consistently happy life.

He had also said: fortunately, that kind of dream had come only three times in thirty years — once a decade — and he thought that wasn’t so bad.

Yu Jiuling had asked. Changmei the Daoist smiled and said nothing.

He hadn’t summoned the courage to stop it. And so he had stood there on the riverbank and watched her put on her wedding dress, howling and raging into the air — and a passing Daoist had looked at him, shaken his head, and said: *Look at that. Another one gone.*

Changmei had ended up following that Daoist away, because the man seemed so unencumbered.

Later he learned that the Daoist was not unencumbered at all. The weight he carried was enormous — because he had come down from the mountain to save people, and could save one, but not hundreds.

The young Changmei had asked his master: “Why did you become a Daoist?”

His master said: “The heart died, but the person didn’t. When the person hasn’t died yet, doing something for those whose hearts also haven’t died — that’s merit.”

Changmei had asked: “And why do you seek merit?”

His master said: “To be born better in the next life.”

His master had also said: “About half of all men have their hearts die somewhere around their twenties. After that, what’s alive is cooking smoke and daily toil and the small stuff of living — which still makes them people, more or less.”

Changmei had asked: “And the other half?”

His master said: “Half human, half ghost.”

His master died eventually, and before dying he had never given young Changmei a Daoist name. He felt that a young man like him, after a lifetime, would never deserve one. A man whose heart had died but who had still failed to achieve the detachment of one who has left the mortal world — how could he deserve a name?

His own Daoist name had been Changmei. So after burying his master, the young man had taken his master’s divination banner, put on his master’s robe, and walked the world as another Changmei.

Only later did Changmei the Daoist understand: when his master said he was unworthy of a name, it was because his master’s own name was false too — he had simply taken it for himself because his eyebrows were rather long.

A master who felt himself unworthy of a Daoist name, and therefore unworthy of giving one to his disciple — and then said it was the disciple who was unworthy.

Both what he felt and what he said were, each in their own way, true.

Changmei the Daoist’s eyebrows were not particularly long. But he was Changmei the Daoist all the same.

Later, when Changmei had grown old, he finally understood something: his master had not given himself that name merely because of the length of his eyebrows.

A person with ordinary eyebrows, if they don’t look in a mirror, can’t see their own eyebrows at all. A person with long eyebrows is different — they’re always there, just at the edge of sight. His master had meant the name as a reminder to himself — *look up at others, look down to act.*

Yu Jiuling’s question did not draw out Changmei the Daoist’s past. What it did was fill the old man’s chest with thoughts.

The old Daoist closed his eyes. Two faces appeared in the dark behind them — a young woman with a pretty little tooth that showed when she smiled, and a master who let out one soft, broken sound before his eyes closed for the last time.

The old Changmei had cried out before dying: *Taiyi the Boundless, Savior of Suffering — but Heaven obstructs, Earth obstructs, and the world of men obstructs.*

The young woman had said: *If you dare take me away, I’ll leave everything behind.*

He hadn’t dared.

He had been only a cowherd boy, a hired hand in a wealthy house. She had been the family’s eldest daughter. She should not have had to endure all the hardships of the world because of one man saying *I’ll take you away.*

Changmei the Daoist had not let go because he did not practice Chan Buddhism.

Changmei the Daoist had not regretted it because he practiced the Dao of the human world.

He had not moved himself with grand thoughts of self-sacrifice either. He simply felt it would have been too selfish.

But what is selflessness?

Selflessness is sainthood.

And so now Changmei had a young student named Li Chi — a boy in his teens who could already see something of the human world for what it was.

Li Chi had been watching his master from the side all along. He was, truthfully, afraid of what his master might say.

If the old man said *I have let go* — there was nothing to let go of at his age, nothing worth letting go of. A man who reached this time of life and still arrived at *release* — call it serenity if you were being kind, and call it flavorlessness if you weren’t.

How much serenity was only self-deception?

—

It was nearly dawn when Li Chi shook the sleeping Yu Jiuling awake. Yu Jiuling rolled upright, remembered what he had to do, and decided he needed to wake himself up properly first. His chosen method was direct.

He scratched his foot, then held his finger under his nose.

A jolt.

“Time to go make some noise.”

Yu Jiuling threw on his clothes and went out. He stretched a few times, then opened the courier station door, stepped outside, and immediately let out a sharp cry — then started bellowing for help.

The constables who had been keeping watch outside for most of the night all startled and came running, asking what was wrong.

Yu Jiuling said he had twisted his ankle, that it hurt dreadfully on his delicate constitution, and could someone please carry him.

About a third of the assembled crowd nearly died of disgust on the spot.

While they were distracted, all three members of the Liu family slipped into the horse cart. Li Chi had thought ahead and stuffed in two quilts so they wouldn’t freeze.

Then it was a matter of waiting — waiting for dawn, at which point Changmei the Daoist was due to perform. He announced loudly that this place was intolerable — too cold, too dry — that he hadn’t spent a night in a room this wretched in the better part of his life, and proceeded to berate Li Chi without pause. Li Chi responded with a steady stream of apologies, insisting that the failure was entirely his own.

The courier station staff had long since been instructed that anything involving these guests counted as a matter of the highest priority, and any development at all must be reported immediately. They didn’t dare be casual about it and went straight to Prefect Cui Hansheng’s residence to report.

In under half an hour, Cui Hansheng arrived in person. He poured apologies over Changmei the Daoist without stopping, declaring the hospitality an absolute disgrace, at which point Li Chi quite naturally raised the possibility of finding somewhere better to stay — since he still had to wait for General Xiahou and Liu Wenju to return before heading back to Jizhou.

Cui Hansheng’s eyes lit up at the mention of General Xiahou coming to Xinzhou.

Li Chi said: “As Your Lordship knows, His Highness can’t bear to have General Xiahou spend the New Year at Daizhou Pass — but he can’t go to Daizhou himself, as it’s too close to the battlefield, and it would look bad if it got out that the General had left his post. So His Highness intends to have General Xiahou come to Xinzhou for New Year. And His Highness may come as well.”

For Cui Hansheng, this was happiness arriving with overwhelming abruptness.

He immediately resolved to prepare one of his properties in the city. He had so many residences in Xinzhou that he had lost count of the exact number.

Everything went smoothly. They moved into the new compound. Li Chi politely declined Cui Hansheng’s offer to send servants along, explaining that they were not accustomed to strangers in the household — Cui Hansheng would not have dreamed of pressing the point.

Once they were settled, it was time for Yu Jiuling to set out. He would travel with Liu Wenju’s convoy to Daizhou Pass, which put Cui Hansheng’s mind further at ease.

On the road, Liu Wenju’s manner toward Yu Jiuling could only be described as fawning to an exceptional degree.

From Liu Wenju’s perspective, this young man might not hold a high position within the manor, but at this stage of affairs, anyone connected to Prince Yu’s household was worth flattering.

Yu Jiuling had the time of his life. Having a genuine villain lavish praise on him gave him a distinct sense of accomplishment — and Liu Wenju, it turned out, was genuinely skilled at flattery. Compliments flowed from him with effortless fluency, every one landing exactly right, leaving you feeling thoroughly comfortable.

For the length of that journey, Yu Jiuling held himself with the cold dignity of a cat who has no particular feelings toward its devoted servant, while very much enjoying the scratching and the attention.

Several days later, they arrived at Daizhou Pass. The moment Yu Jiuling entered the city, he knew something was wrong. The small fortress town was full of wounded men everywhere he looked — there weren’t enough buildings to hold them all, and the injured were being treated outdoors in the cold.

Their convoy was heading in while another convoy was heading out — carts piled with the dead. The two processions passed each other in the narrow street. The men pulling the dead carts looked at Yu Jiuling’s group with hollow eyes, their faces holding nothing. Once, the sight of people arriving might have lifted their spirits. Now there was only numbness.

Word reached Xiahou Zuo that Yu Jiuling had come. He came down from the city wall to meet him. When Yu Jiuling saw Xiahou Zuo, the sight stopped him cold. In just these few days, Xiahou Zuo looked like a different person.

“How many days have you gone without sleep?” Yu Jiuling asked urgently.

Xiahou Zuo smiled. “I’ve lost count.”

He could still smile, because he was Xiahou Zuo.

Yu Jiuling pulled him aside and gave a full account of what Li Chi had sent him to report. When Xiahou Zuo heard that Li Chi had put together a sum of silver for the soldiers’ wages, the expression that crossed his face was not the smile Yu Jiuling had expected.

“If only it were grain,” Xiahou Zuo said.

He looked over at the several carts. His eyes held no disappointment — he couldn’t be disappointed in Li Chi. There was simply no feeling, one way or another.

“The Black Wu forces number in the tens of thousands, attacking in relentless rotations. Not a moment’s pause.”

Xiahou Zuo took the ration Li Chi had pressed into his hands and began eating as he spoke. “Men still capable of fighting number under four hundred.”

“What about Prince Wu?” said Yu Jiuling. “His army arrived, didn’t it?”

“It arrived. It didn’t come.”

“At Daizhou City,” said Xiahou Zuo. “Not even a hundred li away.”

Yu Jiuling’s anger flared. “He’s already at Daizhou — why hasn’t he sent reinforcements?!”

Xiahou Zuo let out a long breath and smiled again, though the smile was full of bitterness.

Prince Wu’s tens of thousands had been encamped at Daizhou for days. A hundred li away. Xiahou Zuo had sent messenger after messenger to request support. Prince Wu had not moved.

Xiahou Zuo pointed toward several figures standing a short distance away and lowered his voice. “Those are Prince Wu’s people. They’ve been here, watching coldly. I think they’re waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Yu Jiuling asked.

“Waiting for the volunteers to be mostly dead. That way he doesn’t have to do it himself, and he doesn’t have to carry the blame. Several of the rebel factions had men among the fighters, and most of them got frightened and left — but in Prince Wu’s eyes, the volunteers are just as much rebels.”

Just then, a wave of sound rose from outside the city walls — cheering, the hollow cheering of exhausted, numb people.

Xiahou Zuo looked toward the gate. Column after column of the Left Martial Guard, in bright clean armor, marched in with crisp discipline. They looked powerful and fresh.

The relief had finally come. But Xiahou Zuo’s face remained unreadable — no elation, no relief.

The reinforcements had come now because the only fighters left on the wall were Xiahou Zuo’s own soldiers. It wasn’t that the volunteer fighters had been unwilling to die for this — it was simply that his soldiers were better trained and had held on longer.

Xiahou Zuo exhaled slowly and sank down against the city wall. He shoved another mouthful of dry ration into his mouth. He chewed, and then he wept.

He should have been named Yang. He had always said he had been utterly disillusioned with Dachu. But in truth, a flicker of hope had persisted in him all along.

Today, the reinforcements had come. And that last flicker went out.

Yu Jiuling watched Xiahou Zuo eat and cry at the same time, and wanted to kill someone.

—