The tavern was small — it sold wine but served no food, or rather, it sold wine to others but cooked for no one. In all these years, there had been only one exception.

The tavern had stood for many years now, with the proprietorship passed down through three generations. The current owner was a young man barely eighteen or nineteen years old.

From his grandfather’s generation onward, this family had run their business on nothing but conscience. The wine they brewed was never adulterated, never watered down.

The neighbors all knew that this tavern was the most honest establishment around — you never had to worry about buying diluted wine here.

If some husband came home exhausted from work and wanted a drink but had no ready cash, he could come here and buy on credit. Three generations of proprietors had run this wine business without ever once needing an account ledger, yet there was hardly any bad debt either.

Three generations of integrity had sustained this small tavern’s legacy — but it had not brought them wealth.

Only when Fang Zhuhou came to drink would the young man personally go to the kitchen and stir-fry a couple of vegetable dishes.

Fang Zhuhou drew his gaze back from outside and looked at the young man. “Niu’er, if the Emperor himself invited you to cook for him, would you go?”

The young man called Niu’er shook his head. “No.”

Not a single word more — no meant no.

Fang Zhuhou laughed.

It was as though the fact that he could eat the food this young man cooked, while the Emperor could not, was something to be genuinely proud of.

“Let me ask you another question.”

Fang Zhuhou asked Niu’er, “Do you hate the late Emperor?”

The late Emperor — that ruler who had spent nearly his entire reign never attending court, who had spent nearly his entire life without accomplishing a single practical thing. Was there a single common person in Dachu who did not hate him?

That Emperor had spent his whole life inventing ten thousand ways to amuse and entertain himself, yet had not done one single thing to bring peace and comfort to the people.

Niu’er nodded. “I hate him.”

If those words had been heard by officials, the speaker would certainly have been dragged away and arrested. Given the current disposition of Dachu’s government, a case like this — if you had money, nothing would come of it; if you had none, it would be treason.

Fang Zhuhou said, “Do me a favor. See those three carriages parked outside? Go tell them that only the person sitting in the middle carriage may come in — and only alone. If he dares to come, good. If he doesn’t dare…”

Fang Zhuhou lifted his cup and took a sip, wondering whether he would truly give up if the man didn’t come.

So in the end, he only said: “If he doesn’t dare come, then let him go home.”

Niu’er asked, “Who is that? Quite the grand procession.”

Fang Zhuhou said, “The son of the man you hate.”

Niu’er was startled. “The Emperor?”

Fang Zhuhou gave a sound of affirmation. “The Emperor… a pitiful man.”

Niu’er didn’t understand why the Emperor could be pitiful. He was just a wine seller. His grandfather and father had taught him only to have a conscience — not the high-minded principles found in poetry, scripture, or great philosophical treatises. He considered himself slow-witted, so he couldn’t grasp why the Emperor would be pitiful.

“Dare you go?”

Fang Zhuhou asked.

“I dare.”

Niu’er stepped forward and headed outside. In his heart he was anxious and tense, but he walked toward the carriages. When the Imperial Guards spotted him, their hands had already moved to their sword hilts.

“Halt!”

Someone shouted at him. There was a faint ringing of steel being drawn.

“Someone sent me to deliver a message.”

Niu’er pointed to the middle carriage. “If the person in that carriage dares to come alone to my family’s tavern, then there is something to discuss. If he doesn’t dare, then go home.”

“Insolence!”

An Imperial Guard barked in fury. He waved his hand and made to bring men forward to seize the young man.

“Stand down.”

Emperor Yang Jing stepped out of the carriage and waved for the Imperial Guards to withdraw. He looked at the young man who was clearly quite flustered, yet still stood his ground with resolve. There was a measure of appreciation in his gaze. He didn’t know why, but looking at this young man — who was obviously not particularly brave yet had still come — felt infinitely more pleasing to the eye than gazing upon an entire court full of officials dressed in fine robes.

“Is Master Fang in the tavern?”

“He is.”

“Good.”

The Emperor said that single word, then turned and ordered: “No one is to follow.”

The Chief Eunuch Zhen Xiaodao stepped forward, believing himself exempt from the Emperor’s words.

“You don’t need to follow either.”

The Emperor pointed at the spot where Zhen Xiaodao stood. “Stay there and don’t move.”

Pushing aside the door curtain, the Emperor glanced around the simple yet spotlessly clean tavern — one table, two stools.

The room was heavy with the fragrance of wine. The Emperor looked at the blue-robed man sitting with his back to him and felt, unexpectedly, a trace of nervousness.

“Master Fang.”

The Emperor called out.

Fang Zhuhou did not turn to look at him, nor did he rise to bow. He simply raised a finger and pointed to the seat across from him.

The Emperor felt a flicker of dissatisfaction. He was the Emperor. Such an attitude from the other man could not, by any measure, be called respectful or deferential.

If people have lost all reverence for the Emperor, then it becomes difficult to say clearly just who is the more pitiable one.

Yet the Emperor did not flare up. He breathed slowly, then stepped forward and sat down across from Fang Zhuhou.

“Your Majesty.”

Fang Zhuhou glanced at the Emperor, then continued eating.

The Emperor looked at the dishes on the table — not a trace of meat anywhere — yet somehow just the smell of them made one feel they must be delicious.

He had been wandering the city for most of the day without eating, and his stomach was somewhat empty. But he was the Emperor, and the Emperor had to maintain dignity.

“We have come to thank Master Fang.”

The Emperor said, “Over these past years, We have faced crisis several times, and it was the Master who stepped in each time to help Us avert disaster. We should have come to express Our gratitude long ago…”

Fang Zhuhou looked up at the Emperor. “Don’t call me Master. You should call me Imperial Uncle.”

The Emperor’s expression shifted sharply.

A moment later he rose to his feet and looked at Fang Zhuhou. “The Master has saved Our life — We are deeply indebted. Yet such disrespect cannot be overlooked…”

“Your father has an old scar on his lower back. You should know it — the mark is shaped like a triangle, isn’t it?”

Fang Zhuhou asked.

The Emperor’s expression changed again.

Fang Zhuhou said, “When we were children, he and I played together. We were climbing a decorative garden rockery when I slipped and fell. Your father grabbed hold of me. We fell together, but he held me up and hit the ground beneath me. The scar on his lower back came from that.”

The Emperor’s eyes were filled with disbelief. He had never heard of this — that he had such an Imperial Uncle.

“Everyone hates your father. Every single person. Including you.”

Fang Zhuhou looked at the Emperor. The Emperor found himself unable to meet his gaze, even though Fang Zhuhou’s eyes were as calm and still as an undisturbed lake.

Because Fang Zhuhou had struck the truth. Yang Jing did indeed hate his father.

“I don’t hate him.”

After saying those four words, Fang Zhuhou gestured to the seat. “Sit down and talk.”

The Emperor was trembling slightly. When he sat down, he felt as though all the strength had drained from his body.

Fang Zhuhou said, “I know why you’ve come. And I know that once I go, I will not return.”

The Emperor’s eyes went wide. The feeling of having one’s innermost thoughts seen through — especially by someone like Fang Zhuhou — gave him the shameful sensation of a child who had been stripped bare in front of others.

“The rise and fall of the Yang dynasty has nothing to do with me. But you — you have something to do with me.”

Fang Zhuhou finished the last cup of wine, seeming somewhat satisfied.

He reached into his robe and drew out a small piece of silver, setting it on the table. He smiled at Niu’er. But Niu’er had already sensed something was terribly wrong — he had heard Master Fang say those words: once I go, I will not return.

“Can you not take payment today?”

Niu’er’s eyes had gone slightly red. “I’ve always said I wanted to treat the Master to drinks, but the Master always refused and insisted on paying every time. This time…”

He didn’t finish his words. Fang Zhuhou nodded. “Very well. Today’s wine and food — consider it your treat.”

He smiled at Niu’er. “Go back inside. What I say to His Majesty — don’t repeat it to anyone. It won’t be good for you.”

Niu’er nodded vigorously, then turned and went into the back room.

Fang Zhuhou looked at the Emperor. “Your Majesty came to find me — is it because you believe I alone can save Dachu?”

The Emperor was silent. He could not answer. He was the Emperor, and even he could not save Dachu through his own strength alone — how could he truly believe that a single martial artist could save it? He simply had no other recourse. He would use whatever means he had available. But now he was already beginning to regret coming, because he had not anticipated that Fang Zhuhou would say what he had said. Even less had he imagined that Fang Zhuhou would be his uncle.

“My mother was Noble Consort Fang — she was your father’s Yiniang. Does anything come back to you now?”

Fang Zhuhou asked.

The Emperor remembered.

His grandfather — that ruler of Dachu who, defying court opposition and the petitions of the people, had insisted on personally leading a northern campaign against the Black Martial Kingdom — had led several hundred thousand elite imperial troops to their deaths.

If one were to speak of squandering Dachu’s fortune and vitality, his grandfather had done it far more thoroughly than his father. His father had merely done nothing. His grandfather had done everything.

His grandfather had believed himself destined to become a ruler for the ages. He was, in truth, utterly ordinary, yet brimming with such self-confidence that he believed he could destroy the Black Martial Kingdom and then unify the Western Regions.

With Dachu already beset by internal troubles and external threats, his grandfather had pressed ahead with the attack on the Black Martial Kingdom, resulting in catastrophic losses to Dachu’s elite imperial troops. The rebellions had begun from that time onward.

Noble Consort Fang’s father — the Chief Censor of Dachu’s Censorate at the time, a man named Fang Tang — had remonstrated bitterly with the Emperor not to launch the northern campaign. For this, the Emperor had ordered him cast into the imperial prison.

Noble Consort Fang went to plead with the Emperor on her father’s behalf, but only further enraged him. She was thrown into the Cold Palace — all because she had said one sentence: *Your Majesty did not heed my father’s counsel, and in the future you will surely be defeated at the hands of the Black Martial people.*

And so the Emperor was defeated. Upon returning to Shiyuan Palace in Daxing, his very first act was to charge Lord Fang’s entire family with colluding with the Black Martial Kingdom and order them executed — every last one. Noble Consort Fang was sentenced to death by slow dismemberment — the first time in Dachu’s history that a Noble Consort had been executed in such a manner.

At the time, Noble Consort Fang’s child was barely ten years old. Yang Jing’s father was only sixteen or seventeen.

That Emperor had been so ruthless that he had not even intended to spare his own son — he had ordered him killed as well. After the defeat, he had gone completely mad.

Fang Zhuhou said, “Your father secretly smuggled me out of the palace. He told me that no matter what happened, I must never return to Daxing — to go as far away as I could…”

Fang Zhuhou looked at Emperor Yang Jing. “But I didn’t listen to him. I didn’t leave Daxing. Because I knew my elder brother would need me to do something. Everyone in the world could hate him — I alone could not. I could not stop the world from hating him, but I could stop the world from killing him…”

After saying this, he asked the Emperor: “So — who do you want me to leave Daxing and kill?”

The Emperor shook his head. “There’s no need…”

He rose to his feet, still trembling.

He was afraid. Not because the person before him was his Imperial Uncle — that was not what frightened him. It was because… if what Fang Zhuhou had said was true, then Fang Zhuhou knew that he had killed the old Emperor.

Everything — every last thing — Fang Zhuhou knew.

It was even possible that Fang Zhuhou had been watching it all happen without intervening. And yet Fang Zhuhou had just said: *I cannot stop the world from hating him, but I can stop the world from killing him.*

The reason he had not intervened — Yang Jing thought — was because his father had forbidden Fang Zhuhou from doing so.

So…

The Emperor’s trembling grew worse and worse.

Fang Zhuhou glanced at him but said nothing more. Yet that silence made the Emperor feel even colder — as though he were sinking into a pit of ice.

After a long while, Fang Zhuhou said quietly: “Your Majesty will not refuse to let me go to my death simply because I am your Imperial Uncle, will you?”

His voice remained calm as he continued: “I’ve been thinking all along — it would have been better if Your Majesty hadn’t come. I also kept thinking — it would have been better if Your Majesty had come but I said nothing. But Your Majesty did come, and I did speak… So if I don’t die — will Your Majesty still be able to sleep at night?”

The Emperor shuddered violently. The corners of his mouth were quivering.

—