Dragon Head Pass.

Old Master Zhang had been sitting at the highest point of this pass for two full hours — atop the gatehouse roof. No one knew how the old master had gotten up there, nor what he meant to do.

He said nothing. He sought no one out. He simply sat alone in the quiet, his back to Yanzhou, his face turned toward Jizhou.

Below, Zhuang Wudi tilted his head up, took one look at the old man sitting up there, and turned back toward his quarters with what he was carrying.

He lived in a small residence just behind the Dragon Head Pass gatehouse — a few dozen steps from his door to the slope leading up to the walls.

What he was carrying looked something like a food container — and over this past month, his personal guards had seen Zhuang Wudi return carrying that same kind of thing many times.

Zhuang Wudi was as he always was when the others weren’t around: nearly wordless, almost entirely withdrawn, exchanging almost nothing with anyone.

Even in commanding troops, he did what needed to be done and not a syllable more.

Even his own lead personal guard often felt a helpless sort of frustration, finding that he could not warm to his general at all.

By ordinary custom, every general and the man who captained his personal guards would be on very close terms — a man to whom he could entrust his back, someone to live or die alongside. Many generals and their guards officers called each other brothers, down to every last man.

On the frontier especially, border generals understood better than anyone what the men at their backs could do in moments of danger.

But Zhuang Wudi’s guards knew their general cared for them — gave them everything — and yet could not be reached.

So when they saw Zhuang Wudi return to his quarters in that silent way of his, carrying that strange object that looked like a food container, they felt nothing was particularly unusual.

Strange as things were, they were never stranger than the general’s temperament.

From his vantage high above, Old Master Zhang saw Zhuang Wudi glance up at him. That faint, indifferent look gave the old master a slight sense of unease.

Even the well-experienced Old Master Zhang could sense plainly that Zhuang Wudi was a difficult man to be near.

Shortly after Zhuang Wudi returned to the residence, he came back out — having changed his clothes.

He looked at the guards at his door, paused for a moment, then said: “Invite Old Master Zhang to come and speak.”

The guard acknowledged the order immediately and craned his neck up at the gatehouse roof with some difficulty.

That height, with no ladder — no one knew how the old man had gotten up there. Even the young and vigorous men here would find it daunting.

After giving the instruction, Zhuang Wudi retreated back into his quarters without closing the door. He sat down directly opposite the entrance — as always, the sight of him gave a person the immediate sense that he was deeply alone.

Some people did not actually know what loneliness was — all they had was the affectation of it.

Some people’s loneliness, even those who had never known it could recognize in a single glance.

Very few people could truly enter his world. But those who did — they could never leave it.

“General!”

The guard came running back in and bowed. “The old master says to invite the general to come up — he says… it’s for the general’s benefit.”

Zhuang Wudi fell silent for a moment, then shook his head. “Tell the old master there is nothing the matter. There is no need to go up to a place like that.”

The guard was bewildered by these two. Old Master Zhang had come bearing a letter in Prince Ning’s own hand — clearly someone of unusual standing.

And yet this old man’s behavior since arriving seemed, in its own way, just as solitary as the general’s.

With no choice, the guard went back to Old Master Zhang and relayed that the general hoped they might meet below. The old master considered this for quite some time — and then, inexplicably, began to smile.

And before the guard even saw any movement, the old master who had been sitting at the very top was simply gone.

A moment later, Old Master Zhang came walking around from another side, his steps still trembling and slow — nothing like a man capable of climbing that height.

The guards stood there stunned, wondering — had the old master leapt from the other side? If he had simply jumped down from that height, these old bones would surely be shattered in dozens of places by now.

Old Master Zhang came down from the walls and looked at the quiet residence for a moment, then sighed softly, for reasons no one could say.

A strange smile on the gatehouse roof; a soft sigh at the entrance.

The smile was because he felt he might have miscalculated. The sigh was because he too had felt that loneliness.

Once Old Master Zhang entered the door, Zhuang Wudi drew up a chair and set it by the entrance — signaling that they should sit here and talk.

The yard was small. From the doorway of the house to the door of the compound was perhaps a dozen steps or so. Whatever they discussed, the guards standing outside would hear every word clearly.

“What did the general bring back?”

Old Master Zhang asked.

Zhuang Wudi glanced back at the inside of the room. Just inside the entrance, set against the northern wall in the place where a family altar might stand, was a long offering table.

In an ordinary home, such a table would carry ancestral tablets, incense, and candles.

But on this offering table stood a row of nine objects — the things he had called food containers, though one might hesitate to call them that, since what they held was certainly no food.

Old Master Zhang had asked what you brought back.

Zhuang Wudi replied: “Things.”

Old Master Zhang sighed.

The two of them sat in silence for quite some time. The air between them grew heavy with cold.

“Is the general weary?”

After a long while, Old Master Zhang asked another question.

Zhuang Wudi answered: “You ask — or someone asks?”

Old Master Zhang said, “The general is bristling with thorns.”

Zhuang Wudi answered: “If you do not draw close, the thorns cannot reach you. Whoever does not draw close, the thorns cannot reach.”

That he had answered with this many words at all was already unusual for Zhuang Wudi — he only became more talkative when Li Chi and the others were around. To answer Old Master Zhang with this many words was already making an exception.

Old Master Zhang gave a quiet sound. “That is true — like a hedgehog. If you do not reach out to touch a hedgehog, the hedgehog will not come and prick you.”

He looked at Zhuang Wudi. “But there is an exception. If someone has been exceptionally kind to a hedgehog, the hedgehog feels close to that person — and will on its own initiative move toward the one it feels close to. Doing so, it will prick the very person the hedgehog has grown fond of.”

Zhuang Wudi looked at the old master once, and this time gave no answer at all.

Old Master Zhang exhaled, seemingly still somewhat crestfallen at Zhuang Wudi’s response.

“Let me tell you a story.”

Old Master Zhang asked, “Would you like to hear it?”

Zhuang Wudi said, “You go ahead.”

Old Master Zhang settled himself properly and smoothed his robes, making himself look grave and deliberate.

“Do you know of Dragon Tiger Mountain?”

He asked.

Zhuang Wudi replied: “Just tell your story. Don’t ask me questions.”

Old Master Zhang nodded. “Very well. I’ll just tell my story.”

He paused briefly, as though gathering his words.

“I am a Daoist from Dragon Tiger Mountain. Dragon Tiger Mountain accepts no incense money — but turns no one away from the gate. Whoever wishes to come may enter.”

“And yet most of those who come are not ordinary people. Because ordinary people do not have the time, nor the means — they are still scrambling for the next meal. How would they have the heart for incense and prayers? The day you see temples and shrines everywhere thronging with worshippers — that is probably a day when the country is wealthy and the people well-fed, when they have enough to spare. If Dragon Tiger Mountain accepts no incense money, then what of the cost of the road? The meals along the way? An ordinary family cannot spare that spending.”

“Those who came were high officials and men of great standing. They arrived in grand carriages attended by endless escorts — arrayed in splendor, and of course carrying great quantities of gold and silver.”

He looked into Zhuang Wudi’s eyes and spoke with care. “So in all my years at Dragon Tiger Mountain, I have seen more wealthy people than almost anyone — and among all of them, only one left a very deep impression on me. Because his wealth was the greatest. He wished to buy an immortal.”

Zhuang Wudi frowned, but still did not speak.

Old Master Zhang looked at Zhuang Wudi and asked: “Does the general know what people typically pray for when they come to a Daoist shrine to burn incense?”

Zhuang Wudi shook his head.

Old Master Zhang smiled. “You don’t know?”

Zhuang Wudi said, “I said it before — no questions. Old master, just tell your story.”

Old Master Zhang was not put out. He nodded and continued.

His tone was even as he spoke. “Ordinary people come to pray for wealth. The wealthy come to pray they will not face retribution.”

Zhuang Wudi gave a thoughtful nod — the look in his eyes suggesting he found this observation sound.

Old Master Zhang said, “I have seen so many wealthy and powerful people that I have lost count of who they all were. The one I remember, his surname was Cao.”

Zhuang Wudi glanced at Old Master Zhang — as if a realization were coming — and slowly exhaled. But still he said nothing.

Old Master Zhang said, “The wealthier a person is, the more superstitious they tend to be. And the means by which they seek to avoid retribution is no different from the means they use in daily life — and that is to buy their way out.”

He raised his hand and pressed it down. “This man told me that everything he had achieved, he had done by buying. First he bought lowly men to serve him. Then he bought men of middling rank to devise plans for him. Then he bought men of high caliber to conduct his affairs. Every person has a price.”

Then he pointed toward the sky. “This man also told me that the people of the earth he had all been able to buy — and he wanted to try whether the immortals above could be bought.”

Zhuang Wudi rose, as though he had already lost interest in the story. He walked to that offering table and stopped. He looked back at Old Master Zhang and asked: “Would you like to know?”

Old Master Zhang nodded. “Yes.”

Zhuang Wudi opened the first box — the one he had just brought back, closest to him. He stepped aside so the old master could see clearly.

Inside was a human head, packed in quicklime — which suppressed the smell and preserved it for a short time.

He opened each of the subsequent boxes in order. Each one held a human head. Each head was packed in quicklime.

He looked at Old Master Zhang and said: “From Yanzhou. Two months. Nine of them.”

Old Master Zhang was quiet for a long time. Then he bowed deeply. “General. You have my deepest respect.”

Zhuang Wudi said, “Old master, just now you said a hedgehog will not on its own go and prick others — unless the hedgehog feels close to someone. And that when it moves toward the one it is fond of, it will prick them. So what is to be done?”

Old Master Zhang exhaled heavily and said, “Pull out your own thorns.”

Zhuang Wudi gave a quiet sound of acknowledgment. He offered no further explanation. He picked up his iron helmet and the long blade beside it. “I am going up to the walls. The Shanhai Army will come.”

He passed by Old Master Zhang and stepped out. At the doorway, he heard Old Master Zhang ask something behind him.

“Why not refuse outright and make your position clear — instead of killing every one who comes?”

Zhuang Wudi turned back and smiled at Old Master Zhang. “Has Old Master heard the story about the village fool?”

Old Master Zhang shook his head. “What story is that?”

Zhuang Wudi said, “In a village there was a fool, and people would always tease him — holding out one copper coin in one hand and a string of a thousand in the other, asking which he wanted. He would always choose the single coin, never the thousand. So the villagers all laughed and called him a great fool.”

After telling the story, he strode forward, and as he walked he said: “Li Chi told me that one.”

Old Master Zhang exhaled deeply again, then said, “So the general kills every one who comes — because if he refused outright, no more would come at all.”

Zhuang Wudi had already reached the compound gate. He turned back once more and looked at Old Master Zhang. “You may go now.”

Old Master Zhang nodded. “Yes. Time to go.”

—