“On the fifteenth day of the eleventh month of the eighteenth year of Ren Yi, Bai Wang breached the imperial capital and pressed upon the palace gates. Fortunately, Xi Wang’s reinforcing troops arrived in time. Bai Wang was defeated and took his own life. The imperial capital was delivered from peril. Moved by Xi Wang’s benevolence and virtue, the Emperor left behind a decree of abdication, whereabouts thereafter unknown. Yet Xi Wang, in humility, declined the throne and declared: he would sweep the realm clean and welcome the Emperor home!”

Nine days of devastating, brutal battle. Tens of thousands of lives lost. An imperial capital submerged in blood and snow… And the countless winding, hidden stories buried in the shadows — in the historian’s brush, all of it was resolved in nothing more than this brief passage.

“My King, Chang You has taken his own life.”

Before the Hall of the Roosting Dragon, Lanxi stood atop the high vermilion steps, his gaze sweeping outward — the entire imperial capital lay at his feet.

“Before his death, he said: ‘I gave my loyalty to my King, yet I have wronged the grace of my Bai sovereign. I have no face to live on in this world.'”

“Chang You…” Lanxi murmured the name softly. After a long silence, he gave a faint sigh. “Give him a proper burial — with the honor… of a loyal subject of Bai Guo!”

“Yes!” Ren Chuanyun bowed his head.

“It is deep winter already.” Lanxi suddenly spoke in a soft undertone, standing with hands clasped behind his back, head raised and gaze stretching into the distance, as though trying to see to the very end of the sky.

Ren Chuanyun stood quietly behind him, his gaze resting on that solitary silhouette — reverence mingled with a trace of deep contemplation.

“Chuanyun, look at this imperial palace — its expanse beyond sight. And now, it lies at our feet.”

After a moment Lanxi spoke again, his tone unhurried and mild, the composed smile on his face as elegant and perfect as ever, his voice as casual as though he had merely plucked a piece of fruit from a tree along the roadside.

“Not only the palace and the imperial capital — in time, the entire realm will lie at my King’s feet!” Ren Chuanyun said, bowing his head respectfully.

“Is that so.” It sounded like a question, yet the tone carried the composed certainty of one who already knows the answer.

Ren Chuanyun moved quietly a step or two closer, his gaze stealing a glance across his master’s face — a face that revealed nothing of the heart within. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but swallowed the words back down several times. He turned his head to look around him: solemn and imposing palace halls stood in every direction, and gazing far into the distance, the sweeping grandeur of the imperial capital spread before them. Only months ago, they had been standing on the Wulin Terrace in Feng Guo. Yet today they had arrived at the imperial capital and stood within the imperial palace itself! And the man before him — this was not the limit of what he should be. He should ascend to the summit of Changmang Shan. He should be the one to reign over all the world.

And so the last trace of hesitation in his heart settled. He closed his hand into a fist, bowed his head, and spoke with extraordinary composure and solemnity: “My King, please take Miss Feng as your… Consort.” His voice was quiet, yet his intent was absolutely firm.

Hearing such words, Lanxi finally drew back the gaze he had been directing into the far distance. He cast a light glance at the subject bowing his head at his side. The ink-black eyes remained as deep and unreadable as still water, and not even a fraction of the faint smile on his face was diminished.

“Miss Feng is a descendant of the Feng family. If my King were to take her as Consort, then in the hearts of all the people of the realm, my King’s right to be Emperor would be beyond all doubt!” The composure in Ren Chuanyun’s voice carried a current of excitement — the excitement of a traveler who has journeyed a great distance and suddenly catches sight of a shortcut that leads straight to his destination.

Lanxi regarded him for a long while. At last the composed, elegant smile on his face seemed to deepen by several degrees — a smile that made those ink-black eyes look even more profound and luminous, yet from which no one could draw any certain meaning. He tilted his head back to look at the magnificent and imposing Hall of the Roosting Dragon before him and spoke slowly: “Chuanyun, toward this King you have been unwavering in your loyalty. For the sake of this King’s realm, you have toiled without complaint and poured in your every effort. You have truly worked hard.”

“My King…”

Lanxi raised a hand, indicating he need say nothing more. He narrowed his eyes slightly, looking at the great signboard hanging before the hall, and in his unhurried voice a faint, indecipherable sigh was hidden: “How could one not think of it — and yet, with what has come before as a lesson, within the Hall of the Roosting Dragon, countless white jades have been shattered…”

By the end of the eleventh month, it could only be called bitterly, bone-deep cold. And Bai Guo, situated in the northernmost reaches of the Dong Chao Empire, had become a “White Kingdom” in the most literal sense — ice and snow arrived there earliest of all, blanketing everything in a boundless, unbroken expanse of white.

In the royal palace, the palace servants had long since cleared the snow from every corridor connecting the various halls, yet the snow piled upon the rooftops and the tree branches showed no intention of melting in the slightest.

“Your Highness.” Pinlin, swathed from head to toe in thick fur garments, called softly to Langhua, who had been standing before the palace hall for nearly two full hours.

“What is it?” Langhua’s voice was flat and lifeless.

“Your Highness, let us return to the inner palace.” Pinlin said, her heart aching. The Princess who had once been as vibrant and lively as a budding blossom had now become like the bare and withered tree of winter — not a trace of life remaining.

“I have been staring at this tree for seven days now. The snow on its branches has not melted — if anything, it has frozen into thick ice all the way up the limbs.” Langhua’s gaze was blank and fixed upon a bare, solitary tree before the hall.

“Your Highness…” Pinlin opened her mouth, but her voice caught in her throat, a sharp wave of soreness swelling in her chest until she could say nothing at all. What was to be done? First General Xiu, and then the Great King — the calamitous news had arrived one after another. And the Princess… how could the Princess be expected to bear this?! The Princess was such a gentle soul — she would grieve and weep at length even over the death of her pet red parrot. Yet upon hearing the news of General Xiu’s and the Great King’s deaths, she had not shed a single tear. She had simply sat there like a wooden doll with a slow reaction, as though she could not understand what the reporting servant was saying — blinking in bewilderment, then sitting or standing in wooden stillness, her eyes gazing into the distance, vacant and unfocused, without life or spirit, like a puppet that did nothing but breathe.

“Pinlin, do not grieve.”

Pinlin suddenly felt an icy touch on her face. Only then did she realize that the Princess had, at some unknown moment, walked to stand before her and was now reaching out to wipe away the tears that had silently streamed down her cheeks.

“Pinlin, don’t cry…”

Langhua gently spread her arms and drew the silently weeping Pinlin into an embrace. These tears — they were surely being shed in her stead. Her own heart might be riddled with a thousand wounds, might be bleeding and festering — yet the tears could no longer flow. All that remained was a piercing, bone-searing pain, day and night without end… a hatred, day and night without end, boundless and without horizon.

“Your Highness… Your Highness… please get better… Pinlin wants you to get better…”

Pinlin’s voice broke apart between her sobs, and yet compared to the love and longing now departed forever, those words were all the more genuine and warm.

“Pinlin, I will get better. I will get better.” Langhua closed her eyes. “It is only that this place… is far too cold. Cold to the very heart and bone.”

Two days later, Princess Langhua vanished from the royal palace of Bai Guo. The palace was thrown into an uproar, and a search was mounted across the entire kingdom — yet not a trace of her could be found. From that point on, no one ever received word of her whereabouts again.

And even as the armies of Feng and Mo swept forward from one victory to the next, the Zhengtian Cavalry of Huang Guo had not rested for a single moment either.

On the twelfth day of the eleventh month, Huang Chao led the Zhengtian Cavalry and set out for Liang Cheng in the Wangyu region.

On the eighteenth day of the eleventh month, Huang Chao reached Liang Cheng and engaged in seven days of fierce battle with the city’s defending general — Dong Taoye, son of the great General Dong Shu Fang. In the end, the Zhengtian Cavalry broke through Liang Cheng, and Dong Taoye retreated in defeat to Liao Cheng.

On the twenty-seventh day of the eleventh month, Huang Chao advanced on Liao Cheng and engaged Dong Taoye in battle once more. But the disparity in strength between the two sides was too great, and Liao Cheng fell. Dong Taoye wished to perish alongside the city, but was stopped by his household retainers. Huang Chao entered the city and, recognizing the value of Dong Taoye’s abilities, dispatched men to seek him out — yet whether he lived or died was never learned. From that point on, no trace of him was found again either.

In early twelfth month, the senior commanders of the Fengyun Cavalry — Qi Shu and Cheng Zhi — together with the senior commanders of the Mo Yu Cavalry — Qiao Jin and Ren Chuanyun — each led fifty thousand troops, dividing into two separate columns and marching toward Qing Cheng and Pou Cheng respectively, under the declared purpose of “assisting the two cities in resisting the enemy.”

In mid-twelfth month, a heavy snowfall descended upon the imperial capital overnight, thick and swirling. By the following morning, a boundless white expanse lay over everything.

Some ten li outside the imperial capital was a place called “Fang Garden” — built in former years by Guan Di. Guan Di was known as one of the wisest and most virtuous rulers in the history of Dong Chao, a man of restrained and frugal character by nature, and so though “Fang Garden” was an imperial detached palace, it was plain and unadorned, simple and understated in its elegance. Guan Di had loved plum blossoms all his life, and along a natural hillside to the east of “Fang Garden,” plum trees had been planted in abundance. Whether it was some wish to contend for beauty with the snowflakes from above, the red plum blossoms had burst into bloom overnight — tree after tree ablaze like a wildfire in full fury. Red and white interwoven, fire and ice meeting — the hillside seemed a world of colored glass, radiant and crystalline.

“Xiyun, you have been out here for a long time. How much longer do you intend to stand here?” Jiu Wei climbed to the hilltop with light effort, slightly short of breath, leaving a line of deep footprints in the snow behind him.

Beneath a red plum tree at the hilltop, a solitary figure stood in stillness — plain white casual robes that blended her almost seamlessly into this world of white snow, with only the jet-black of her long hair catching the occasional gust of cold wind and lifting, strand by strand, into the air above her.

“Jiu Wei, stay and look at the plum blossoms with me for a while. Look how brilliantly they bloom.” Xiyun’s voice was clear and cold as snow, her gaze fixed upon a single plum branch, yet it seemed to pass right through the tree itself, reaching further and deeper into some distance beyond.

“Xiyun…” Jiu Wei opened his mouth, yet could not find the right words. He looked at the figure beneath the plum tree, and at last simply walked slowly forward, draping the snow fur cloak he carried over her shoulders. He came to stand beside her, and together they looked up at the red plum tree.

Since entering the imperial capital, Feng Wang had, on the second day, relocated to Fang Garden to “recuperate in tranquility from her illness,” her “frail and weakened constitution” making it impossible for her to return to the palace. Xi Wang, meanwhile, had been “laboring from dawn to dusk with no rest” managing court affairs and comforting the people of the imperial capital in the aftermath of the catastrophe, leaving him no time to call upon the ailing Feng Wang. Counting the days, the two had not seen each other for nearly a full month.

“People say red plum blossoms are like fire. But do you not think they look more like flowers of blood?” Xiyun raised her hand as though wishing to touch a blossom at the tip of a branch — yet her hand stopped halfway and fell again without reaching it.

“Xiyun, are you still blaming yourself?” Jiu Wei turned his gaze to fix on her, and reached up to brush away the snowflakes that had settled at her temple.

“Jiurong and Lin Ji must have arrived home by now.” Xiyun’s gaze drifted away from the plum blossoms again, reaching far into the dim and boundless distance.

“Xiyun, it was not your fault.” Jiu Wei’s hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder. “The tragedy at Luoying Shan was not your fault. Nor was it Lin Ji’s or the others’ fault. It was only because… they were so desperate to save you!”

“As King, one must answer for everything.” Xiyun’s lips curved, and a fleeting, elusive smile crossed her face. “Whether merit or fault — none of it may be shifted onto another!”

“Xiyun…” The hand Jiu Wei had placed on her shoulder applied the faintest pressure. “If one truly must assign blame, then it should be…” But at that point his words were swallowed back down again.

“Then it should fall on Xi Wang?” Xiyun turned to look at him, with a smile that was not quite a smile, with a sorrow that was not quite sorrow.

“I have no right to pass judgment. Only… Xiyun…” He drew her shoulder gently around so they stood face to face, eyes meeting. In that moment, those eyes of Jiu Wei’s — eyes usually filled with a warm and vibrant intelligence — shot forth a penetrating, piercing brilliance. “Given everything that has passed between you two — do you still intend to walk forward alongside him? Why… why will you simply not take another path?”

“Jiu Wei…” Xiyun sighed softly.

Jiu Wei stared at her intently, as though trying to drive his conviction directly into the depths of her heart. But Xiyun only lowered her eyes and remained silent. After a long while, he gave a self-mocking smile and loosened his hold on her, letting go.

In that moment, the plum blossom hillside fell silent. Only the soft rustling of the cold wind sweeping up snow and sending plum petals drifting down could be heard. The two stood still in the quiet — one gazing forward, one with eyes lifted toward the sky. Snow-light reflected off the clouds, and everything was as clear and pure as glass.

“Jiu Wei, you very much wish to see your wish fulfilled, don’t you?”

A long while passed before Xiyun’s voice came again, slightly low.

“Of course.” Jiu Wei closed his eyes, as though the blazing snow-light had stung them. “We have waited for over three hundred years… three hundred years… generation after generation… It is no longer simply a wish. There is far too much contained within it — far, far too much…”

“I understand.” Xiyun’s gaze rested on Jiu Wei with quiet warmth, not missing the deep and fleeting anguish that crossed his face in an instant.

“You understand, and yet you still refuse to act!” Jiu Wei opened his eyes, and the look in them was sharp and clear, carrying an undisguised edge of reproach.

Xiyun, hearing this, raised a hand to her brow and exhaled a long, quiet sigh.

“Xiyun, I…” Jiu Wei could not help a flash of remorse.

That sigh was long and drawn-out, as though a great many deep and heavy things were being poured forth with it — heavy enough to pierce the heart of anyone who heard it.

Xiyun gave a small wave of her hand, and the gaze she turned upon Jiu Wei was still and gentle.

“For Xi Wang to have treated me as he has — perhaps everyone believes I ought to turn against him. With the strength of Feng Guo and one hundred thousand Fengyun Cavalry behind me, if I were to join the contest for the realm, who would prevail in the end remains uncertain, and perhaps I could truly forge something unprecedented and singular — a Empress who stands alone in all history! Only… how much blood and how many lives would be needed to bring that vision into being? That Empress’s crown — from how many shattered households, how many husbands and wives torn apart, how many broken hearts and anguished cries would it be forged? That kind of thing — I do not want it!”

Xiyun turned, and looked straight ahead. The light in her eyes was clear and resolute.

“War has always brought nothing but suffering and grief to the common people. My alliance with Xi Wang already spares the people of both our kingdoms from the ravages of war. If I were to draw my blade against him out of private grievance… then what right would I, Feng Xiyun, have to call myself the King of Feng Guo? To be King is not to pursue one’s own desire for power, but to secure peace for all the people under heaven — only that deserves to be called true kingship!”

“Jiu Wei, I too have a wish.”

Xiyun’s voice was so faint and light it seemed it might scatter with the next breath of wind, and Jiu Wei found himself instinctively giving her his complete attention. Yet in that moment he could not read her expression clearly. A faint, thin mist seemed to have risen over that composed and clear face, leaving the countenance behind it hazy and indistinct.

“Though it was not my wish, yet since I was born into the royal house and have become King, I must bear the responsibilities that being King demands.” Xiyun raised her right hand slightly, the five fingers curling softly, as though closing around something formless and invisible in the palm of her hand. “And so… there are things that, though I dislike them, must be placed first. And there are things that, though I hold them dear, must be relinquished.”

“Xiyun…” Jiu Wei sighed, looking at her. His eyes held both deep respect and a tender ache. “Compared to you, I am far too selfish and narrow.”

“You too are simply fulfilling your own duty.” Xiyun shook her head, her gaze sweeping down the hillside to where a vast expanse of snow stretched out before them. “The human heart is always shifting. In this moment I am so certain of my responsibilities. But as time passes… it may be like this white snow covering the earth — even I may lose my sense of the original direction. And when that happens… war is the most merciless thing of all. Within the fire and blood, many things will disappear.”

“For this past month you have retreated to the detached palace and kept yourself from all affairs in the imperial capital. Is that also your act of letting go?”

“This place is so quiet and serene, and besides, there are such beautiful plum blossoms. Does Jiu Wei not like it here?” Xiyun said, without any particular inflection.

“Yes, I like it.” That was all Jiu Wei could answer.

“Ha…” Xiyun gave a soft, quiet laugh. Her gaze came to rest on those clusters of brilliant crimson petals, and she stared at them in a daze.

After a long pause, she suddenly said: “Look at these plum blossoms — the red is so vivid and bright. Does it not look joyous and festive?”

“Mm?” Jiu Wei looked at her with some puzzlement, unsure why she had suddenly said such a thing.

“These plum blossoms bloomed overnight. Perhaps they are foretelling some happy occasion.” Xiyun extended her hand, her fingertips lightly stirring the snow nestled among the plum stamens, then watching it melt silently into her palm.

“A happy occasion?” Jiu Wei echoed with a question. But a moment later something seemed to come to his mind, and he froze.

“Miss Feng has extraordinary talent and beauty, and a heart of deep, unwavering devotion. To take such a person as one’s wife would be a true blessing, would it not?” Xiyun bent a finger and plucked a branch of red plum blossoms. She gave her wrist a turn, and the petals fell like a rain of crimson, scattering softly upon the snow.

“You… agree?” Jiu Wei fixed his gaze upon her.

“From the time of Shi Di, through Cheng Di, Guan Di, Yan Di, Zhi Di, Yi Di, Qi Di, and Zhao Di — eight generations took women of the Feng family as their Empresses. In this way the Feng family gave rise to the legend of the ‘Phoenix Empress.’ In the hearts of the people of Dong Chao, a woman of the Feng family is synonymous with the title of Empress — and therefore, the husband of a Feng woman ought naturally to be Emperor. Even now, though he has used acts of benevolence to win the people’s hearts, the Dong family has governed this realm for over three hundred years, and there are things rooted so deeply in the people’s minds that are not easily overturned. But if he can take a woman of the Feng family, the effect will be a gradual and imperceptible transformation of hearts — a shift that takes hold without anyone quite realizing it!”

Xiyun looked at the bare plum branch in her hand. Her gaze was somewhat distant, yet her voice was calm and clear.

“Furthermore, the Feng family has not only produced Empresses — it has also produced three Grand Stewards, four military generals, six Historiographers-in-Review, and eleven Regional Governors. One can truly say it was a household draped in official distinction. In Dong Chao, the Feng family can be said to be the greatest and most illustrious family outside the imperial clan and the seven royal families of the kingdoms. Until the reign of Jia Di — that ruler who, in the historical record composed after his death, was described in the harshest of terms as a foolish and incompetent Emperor — the legend of the Feng family ‘Phoenix Empress’ was broken for the first time. He became the one and only Emperor in all of history to take a commoner as his Empress.”

“And from that moment on, the Feng family, which had long basked in the glory of the Phoenix Crown, began its slow descent from the very pinnacle of the Dong imperial dynasty — and the once powerful Dong Chao Empire itself began its decline. But no matter how low the Feng family had fallen, in people’s hearts, the surname Feng remained a symbol of nobility, an emblem of the imperial consort clan. In the minds of those superstitious, stubborn holdovers of the old guard, many perhaps still believed it was precisely because Jia Di had failed to take a woman of the Feng family as his Empress that the dynasty’s fortune had crumbled. And so, at this moment, a Ren Wang suddenly appears — and what is more, a King who takes a woman of the Feng family as his Consort. Can you imagine what stirs in the hearts of such people?”

“Xiyun, you — agree?”

Jiu Wei paid no attention to the legend of the Feng family. He reached out and took the hand in which Xiyun held the plum branch, his gaze fixed intently upon her. Yet from that composed face, not a trace of emotion could be discerned.

“An opportunity that yields so many advantages at once — how could he afford to miss it?” Xiyun let go of the plum branch and brushed her hands together lightly, as if brushing away something that had been clinging to her palms. “And this marriage is to every party’s advantage. Why would anyone stand in its way?”

Jiu Wei said nothing.

The snowy hillside fell into silence once more. The cold wind swept through, carrying plum petals and wisps of snow, sending them drifting and floating, falling far into the distance.

Jiu Wei looked quietly at Xiyun. The flash of wistfulness and regret that crossed those clear eyes of hers was unmistakably evident. He raised a hand and brushed away the plum petals and snowflakes that had settled on her shoulder, then wrapped his arm gently around her and drew her close, the two of them now face to face. “Xiyun… have you truly let go? You and him…” His fingers moved with tender gentleness through the thick strands of her hair and settled her head against his shoulder. “Xiyun…” He wanted to say something but had no idea where to begin. In the end he could only tighten his embrace by the smallest degree, conveying in silence what words could not.

“Jiu Wei, you need not worry.” Xiyun leaned in his arms, and a smile drifted across her face — as faint as a snowflake settling softly to the ground. “I, Feng Xiyun, am a descendant of Feng Wang. We women of the Feng line, in our blood…” Her gaze rose toward the sky — a blue so deep and clear, so dazzlingly bright where it caught the snow-light that it was almost painful to look at. She lowered her eyes, rested her head against his shoulder, and let out a long, quiet breath. She said nothing more.

Jiu Wei drew his arms silently tighter around her.

In that moment, the two leaned against each other, close and still — no distance between them, no ambiguity. In the coldness of the winter snow, they offered each other a small measure of warmth.

Near the end of the twelfth month, Feng Wang “recovered from her illness” and returned to the capital.

“Seeing the state of things now, one cannot help but feel admiration for him.”

Wishing not to cause a stir among the people, Xiyun had slipped quietly into the city in an ordinary carriage. Inside the carriage, Jiu Wei lifted one corner of the window curtain and gazed at the streets of the imperial capital to either side, murmuring with quiet feeling.

When they had entered the city on that first day, broken bodies and blood had lay strewn everywhere; ruin and chaos extended in all directions; the people within the walls had been gripped by panic and fear. Yet now, in no more than a single short month, everything had been transformed entirely. Streets were clean and orderly. Buildings had been repaired and restored. Along the roadside, inn banners fluttered in the breeze and signboards gleamed. Shop after shop had opened its doors for business, voices calling out greetings and inviting customers in. The streets were alive with the coming and going of people, with cries of merchants hawking their wares, all filling the ear. Every face carried an air of ease and contentment — not a trace remained of the terror that had gripped the city when it had first fallen.

“His ability to govern — I have never doubted it.” Xiyun glanced briefly at the scene beyond the carriage window and said without much expression.

“And so you can let go with peace of mind?” Jiu Wei turned to look at her.

Xiyun said nothing. Her slender fingers moved against the jade ring at her wrist, turning it slowly. Her eyes were clear and luminous as a mirror, hinting at a light within.

“The year is ending. A new year is about to begin.” Her voice was calm and crisp, carrying a clear, metallic ring.

Jiu Wei looked at her — with a vague and unspoken question he did not press — and sat quietly at her side. The carriage rolled steadily onward, all the way toward the imperial palace.

And so the year drew to a close. Within the imperial capital, the mood was festive and lively. Every household hung lanterns, pasted up auspicious couplets, put on new garments, laid out fine wine, baked red celebration cakes, lit firecrackers, and gathered the whole family together to celebrate the final day of the year.

Yet compared with the joy of the common people, the vast imperial palace felt somewhat cold and sparse. Though the palace servants had, in keeping with the season, hung palace lanterns, strung festive colored satin, and decorated the entire palace in an air of cheerful splendor — the two current masters of the palace seemed to have both forgotten what day it was: one labored without pause in the Golden Hall and the Eastern Study, handling court affairs day and night; the other had, since entering the palace, remained in quiet seclusion in the Hall of the Roosting Phoenix, not setting foot outside, as though utterly oblivious to the occasion. And so, though the palace servants had received more generous gifts this year than in years past, they were no happier for it than before.

The winter sun shone warm and golden, bathing everything in a drowsy, languid warmth that made the limbs grow heavy and the eyes grow heavy with it, lulling one toward sleep.

Ren Chuanyun made his way along, nodding and smiling from time to time at the palace servants and attendants who came to greet him, occasionally letting his eyes drift upward to the palace lanterns and festive colored ribbons strung about the gardens, and the wax-plum trees pruned into graceful, elegant shapes… New Year was here. For ordinary people, this was surely one of the most anticipated days of the year — a day of reunion and celebration. Yet all of them here seemed to have forgotten it entirely. In years past, when they were still in Feng Du’s palace, the King’s residence had always held grand celebratory banquets. But the King… that perfectly composed Young Master Lanxi had never once attended a single reunion celebration banquet in the Feng Guo royal palace.

Before the Eastern Study, an attendant announced him and then gently pushed the door open, ushering him inside.

“Chuanyun pays his respects to my King.”

“Rise.”

Lanxi closed the memorial he had been holding and exhaled a quiet breath. The memorials stacked on the desk rose in a high pile, though at last every single one had been reviewed and annotated. He raised his eyes to glance at the person standing before the desk. “The affairs of the imperial capital are nearly in order. How are your preparations coming along?”

“Ready at any time.” Ren Chuanyun answered with full respect.

“Good.” Lanxi gave a satisfied nod. “Inform them — the Hour of Wei, the Hall of Ding Tao.”

“Yes.”

“You are dismissed.”

“Your servant takes his leave.” Ren Chuanyun bowed and withdrew. But after only a few steps, he suddenly turned back around, raised his eyes to glance at the King seated above, and spoke with a slight hesitation: “My King…”

“Is there something else?”

“Today… is New Year.” Ren Chuanyun kept his tone as light as he could manage.

“Mm?” Lanxi’s gaze drifted over toward him with a slow, unhurried ease.

“New Year is the holiday the common people cherish most. The people of the imperial capital are all hoping to welcome the new year together with my King.” Ren Chuanyun offered the reminder with a meaning beneath the words.

“Is that so.” Lanxi understood perfectly well what Ren Chuanyun was implying. He pondered in silence for a moment before speaking. “Old Feng Wei is always complaining of having nothing to do — let him prepare the palace’s celebratory banquet. As for the people… at the stroke of midnight, this King and Feng Wang will ascend the city tower together and celebrate with the people.”

“Yes!” Ren Chuanyun replied. To him, an event like New Year might be of great importance to ordinary people, but as far as he was concerned, it was nothing more than an opportunity for his King to display a posture of “closeness to the people.” Still… there was a faint stirring of something like exhilaration in his chest. For this was, in all the time he had followed the King, the very first time the King would spend New Year together with another person.

After Ren Chuanyun withdrew, Lanxi sat alone in the study, looking absently at the vermilion marks his brush had left across the memorials, and found himself drifting into a distant trance.

“New Year…”

The words that slipped out were a dazed, half-conscious murmur. He pushed open the carved lattice window — and what met his eyes was a blazing, searing crimson. In that instant, without any warning, the red silk transformed into a blood-lake that crashed down and swallowed the world, engulfing the entire palace. White silk slippers stepped upon a deep crimson carpet — and were soaked through in an instant, saturated with blood. They crawled across it, stumbling and unsteady, a hand reaching forward, grasping for the jade-green skirt that drifted and bobbed in the blood-lake — yet closing only on a palm full of fresh blood, trickling thread by thread from between the fingers and flowing back into the blood-lake… A face pallid as ash, drained of all life. Black hair spreading across the body like dark seaweed. That jade-green figure sinking and rising in the blood-lake, now near, now far…

Thud! Without conscious thought, his hand had already slammed the window shut. He moved — his steps somewhat unsteady — yet at last made his way back to the chair. In that moment, he was like a person who has been submerged for a very long time and has finally reached the shore: his breath came rapid and shallow, and he collapsed into the chair in complete exhaustion. He raised a hand to press tightly over both eyes, as though trying to block out that tide of blood that crashed in like the sea, trying to suppress the trembling that had spread through his entire body. But the blood tide kept coming, endlessly — accumulating, thickening, layer upon layer deepening in hue, until at last it condensed into a black so dark it had no bottom.

“Mother…” That whispered word was thin and fragile — pulled at gently, it would have snapped.

Though the imperial palace held countless halls and chambers, if one looked down from atop the Eight Desolations Tower — the building standing at the very center and highest point of the palace — the first things to meet the eye were these eight palaces: the Hall of the Roosting Dragon, the Hall of the Forging Flame, the Hall of the Still Sea, the Hall of the Utmost Heaven, the Hall of Flowing Ease, the Hall of the Golden Cord, the Hall of the Roosting Phoenix, and the Hall of the Young Moon. These eight palaces were arranged according to the eight corners of the Eight Desolations Tower, and every other palace hall, audience chamber, pavilion, terrace, tower, gallery, and garden in the imperial complex encircled these eight palaces as its center, while the eight palaces in turn encircled the Eight Desolations Tower — making the imperial palace resemble a magnificent, sweeping circle of the sun.

The eight great palace halls had, in the early years of Dong Chao, been the residences of Shi Di and the Seven Generals. In those days, the bond of loyalty and affection among those eight was deep beyond measure. The Emperor had declared: The rivers and mountains may be shared with those one loves — what is a mere palace? And so within the imperial palace — which, beyond the Emperor, Empresses, Consorts, concubines, ladies of the court, and servants had never housed any others — these eight men had truly lived together. Only later, as the Seven Generals one by one took wives and formed their own households, they gradually moved out of the palace and established their own residences in the imperial capital, until at last they were enfeoffed with kingdoms of their own, and the eight were scattered to the ends of the earth.

The brotherhood and the achievements of those eight were a legend more extraordinary than legend itself — one that no one in all of history could surpass. Even today, though the Dong Chao Empire had become unrecognizable from what it once was, those eight remained inviolable, like gods. And these eight halls — eight great palace complexes, independent yet connected by covered corridors — stood as proof of that act of “sharing the realm” in ages past.

And yet… could such a bond of friendship truly endure forever? Why had those eight, who had once been as close as blood brothers, come in the end to part and separate? What had truly been in the heart of Shi Di — that Emperor who had divided his kingdom and given it away with his own hands? Was the realm and the imperial legacy truly not the most important thing in the world to him? Then what was? If the bond of brotherhood among the eight was the most important thing, then why had there been any division of kingdoms, any parting of ways? Why could the eight of them not have lived on together in the imperial capital…

Walking along the winding, twisting covered corridor, gazing at the long, meandering railing that stretched beyond sight, Ren Chuanyun found himself, in a rare moment, letting his mind wander in idle contemplation. On either side of the corridor, trees and flowering plants had been planted throughout; in the cold of winter, the most abundant were the wax-plum trees blazing red as fire. Their faint fragrance drifted in on the winter wind, cool, cold, and subtly intoxicating.

“Is that not Elder Jiu Wei?”

The person coming toward him prompted Ren Chuanyun to call out on instinct, and a warm smile spread across his face at the same time. Beneath the surface of his composed gaze, a measure of alertness lay concealed. He had not forgotten that piercing, cold gaze from atop the Wulin Terrace that day.

“Ah, it is Military Advisor Ren.” Jiu Wei returned an equally warm smile.

“What fine dish has Elder been preparing for Feng Wang this time?” Ren Chuanyun’s gaze flicked briefly to the tray Jiu Wei carried — upon it, a porcelain vessel with its lid firmly closed.

“Today is a festival — the palace’s royal chefs are more than capable of preparing Feng Wang’s meals. Jiu Wei has merely gathered white plum blossoms that opened just this morning, to brew a pot of ‘Cold Fragrance’ tea for Feng Wang to rinse her palate.” Jiu Wei answered with composed courtesy.

“Oh?” Ren Chuanyun narrowed his eyes in a smile and spoke in measured, deliberate tones, syllable by syllable: “Come to think of it, with Elder personally attending to Feng Wang’s ‘daily care and nourishment,’ Feng Wang has not only been in excellent health, but positively radiant — truly Elder’s great credit to claim. It puts my King’s heart greatly at ease, and likewise greatly reassures those of us who serve him!”

“You—!” Jiu Wei’s expression changed at the words. He stared at the person before him — smiling with an air of warm and harmless amiability, yet those eyes of his concealed the cold wickedness of a snake and the cunning craft of a fox! This man… Jiu Wei’s face went cold. He fixed the person before him with a hard, unwavering stare.

“It is rare for anyone outside the Emperor and sovereign to be housed long-term within the imperial palace. Yet Elder is permitted to come and go from the detached palace at will — which speaks plainly to how exceptionally Feng Wang regards Elder… and how generously she bestows her favor.” The words were spoken with the lightest, most offhand ease, yet on those final syllables the enunciation fell with heavy, deliberate weight. The expression on his face remained the same cloudless, easygoing amicability; the glance he cast toward the other person was casual and unhurried, barely skimming the surface — yet when it landed, it fell with the weight of a thousand catties.

“…” Jiu Wei said nothing.

The two stood apart at a distance of three feet, motionless. Farther along, palace servants went about their busy work, but here there was a silence as suffocating as a held breath. The cold wind blew through, stirring fallen blossoms and lifting the hems of robes — yet it could not stir the gazes of the two locked in unwavering opposition.

“I have long heard that Military Advisor Ren is a clever and formidable man. Today I finally believe it.”

After a long silence, Jiu Wei suddenly smiled. With one hand balancing the tray, the other swept a strand of hair back from his temple. His eyes were half-open, half-closed, and in that single instant, a blazing radiance burst from within — that ordinary face suddenly possessed a power to captivate and bewitch all who looked upon it.

“Not at all. Chuanyun is dull and slow — it is I who should seek much guidance from Elder.” Ren Chuanyun returned a smile equally gracious and refined.

“I would not dare.” Jiu Wei turned his head to look out beyond the corridor. A branch of wax-plum extended sideways, leaning against the railing of the covered walkway. He reached out and touched the branch lightly — an unhurried, elegant gesture. “But having lived a few years more than the Military Advisor, I do have one small thing I can share with him.”

“Chuanyun is all ears.” Ren Chuanyun bowed his head with a smile, his gaze resting on the person before him, feeling a genuine measure of respect — that someone could remain this composed and unruffled.

“Those who live by the blade die by the blade; those who live by schemes perish by schemes!” Jiu Wei let the words fall one by one, each syllable weighted and deliberate. Then he spun sharply around — and his eyes shot forward like a blade clearing its scabbard, cold, sharp, and piercing straight at the other person.

Ren Chuanyun recoiled at the impact of that gaze. He was just about to speak when his eyes flew wide open — staring in sheer disbelief at Jiu Wei, at the hand he had drawn back from the plum branch, at the slender thread of red energy coiling around his fingertips. And that one densely blooming branch of plum blossoms — withered in an instant.

“You…” Ren Chuanyun was struck dumb with shock.

“What is the matter, Military Advisor?”

Jiu Wei’s voice was gentle, his smile was gentle. His gaze swept across the face of Ren Chuanyun — now drained to a pale white — and the cold edge in his eyes sharpened further still. He flicked his wrist, and that slender thread of red energy at his fingertips began to move, writhing like a serpent’s tongue, drifting slowly toward Ren Chuanyun. And Ren Chuanyun stood frozen, hands and feet gone numb with cold, watching helplessly as that red thread crept closer inch by inch, unable to move a single step.

“You… you are…”

The words were barely halfway out when something tightened around his throat. He could not draw in a breath. His voice was cut off in an instant. A thread of red was winding around his neck — one loop, then another — slowly, gradually cinching tighter. He reached up toward his throat to claw at it, yet his hands closed on nothing. The loop drew tighter and tighter still. His face slowly reddened, then from red turned white, from white turned ashen, from ashen turned violet. He opened his mouth, trying to speak, yet he could make no sound at all. His throat seemed gripped by iron tongs. A sharp pain spread through his chest. His head filled with a roaring, droning sound. His limbs went gradually weak. Everything around him blurred. Rings of light flickered at the edges of his vision, gradually scattered, and at last faded into absolute darkness… In that moment, he seemed to hear the sound of death’s door swinging open — a chill wind swept through, desolate and bone-deep, and his body began to sink, sinking into a lightless, boundless abyss…

“For Jiurong, I would gladly cast you into the deepest pit of suffering!” The voice was as thin as a thread — fine, and barely audible — yet every word fell clearly and precisely into the ear, like blades of ice piercing through to the bone. “But Xiyun… for the sake of Feng Wang, I spare you. If you ever dare harm Xiyun again, I will make certain your life becomes worse than death.”

Then — a sudden loosening at the throat. Exhale. At last, he could breathe again. Sensation flooded gradually back through his body. The scene before his eyes came gradually back into focus. The corridor stood as tranquil and ancient as before. The red plum blossoms were as fragrant and brilliant as before. Even the person before him appeared as gently composed and smiling as before. He raised his hand and pressed it to his throat — nothing. His fingers met warm, living skin… Had everything that had just happened been an illusion?

“You…”

“Oh my, I have taken up quite a bit of time — Feng Wang must not be kept waiting. Another day, Military Advisor, let us speak again. Jiu Wei takes his leave first.” Jiu Wei smoothed back the strands of hair the wind had blown across his face and stepped past Ren Chuanyun with unhurried ease.

“You… wait…” Ren Chuanyun turned, trying to call him back. But the other person heard and did not heed him.

That silhouette was lean and upright, the blue-grey robe clean and unadorned, long hair reaching the waist, loosely tied with a single ribbon. The wind passed through, and the robes billowed out — light and free, as though untethered from the earth. Yet in that moment, Ren Chuanyun found the figure unbearably, deeply unsettling. That person seemed to be enveloped in an aura of cold and sinister darkness.

“You are… you are one of the Jiu Luozu!” The forbidden words burst from his lips.

But that retreating silhouette continued on, unhurried and steady. Not even a single step faltered. It grew smaller and more distant, until it disappeared at the far end of the corridor.

He turned back. The corridor stretched empty and long. Beyond it, palace servants moved like flowers in bloom. The red plum blossoms were in full glory. And he himself stood entirely unharmed in the middle of the passageway. Had it all truly been an illusion just now? And yet… he raised his hand and pressed it to his chest. His heart hammered in rapid, frantic beats — proof of the terror of those moments when his life had hung by a thread. His gaze drifted — and froze. On the railing, the branch of plum blossoms that had leaned there at a slant was now withered black and dry.

Thwap! A weight landed on his shoulder — he started violently. He turned his head — He Qishu was standing right beside him.

“Chuanyun, what are you standing here in a daze for?” He Qishu looked at Ren Chuanyun with a measure of puzzlement. This blank, dazed expression — one might even call it a slightly stricken expression — was exceedingly rare on his face.

“Qishu.” Ren Chuanyun let out a long, sharp breath of relief. The tension that had gripped his body released all at once. Only now did he notice that his palm was slick with sweat.

“The way you look…” He Qishu studied him with a searching gaze, and his brow began to furrow in its habitual way. “Did something happen?”

“No… nothing. I was just about to come find you.”

“Find me?”

“Mm… the King has given instructions…”

The two walked on together, passing through the corridor, crossing through the courtyard, disappearing into the depths of the vast and sweeping palace halls.

A group of palace servants came carrying palace lanterns, hanging them one by one.

“Oh! This plum branch was blooming so beautifully — why has this one branch alone gone and withered?” one of the servants exclaimed in surprise.

“Quickly, snap it off. On a day like today, this is no good omen!”

The withered branch leaned crookedly against the corridor railing, set in sharp relief against the full, brilliant red blossoms on every tree beyond. In a gust of cold wind, a few withered petals trembled and fell.