From the Hour of Wei onward, after Feng Wang, Xi Wang, and the senior commanders of both kingdoms had entered the Hall of Ding Tao, the palace gates were closed. Not a single palace servant or attendant was permitted inside. Only at the Hour of You did the gates open again.
Winter days turned dark early. By then the palace was already ablaze with light. Through the opened gates came Xu Yuan, Ren Chuanyun, Duanmu Wensheng, and He Qishu — all four with composed expressions and brows held firm and steady.
“The palace banquet should be nearly ready. Shall we go together?” Duanmu Wensheng asked, his gaze moving toward Xu Yuan beside him.
Xu Yuan glanced at him. His brows drew together ever so slightly, but in the end he nodded without a word.
The four set off at once toward the Hall of Qinghua.
That night, the Hall of Qinghua was the most festive place in the entire imperial palace. The great hall had clearly been lavishly decorated: high above, glazed palace lanterns hung from the ceiling, their light flowing down like liquid silver, making the interior bright as broad daylight. Crimson gauze curtains draped down along the carved pillars, lifting softly like wisps of smoke. Catalpa-wood benches cushioned in brocade, nanmu-wood side tables bearing lotus-flower lamp holders — all arranged in neat and elegant order throughout the hall. At the center of the hall’s head, the royal throne gleamed with brilliant golden radiance in the lamplight. Palace servants glided back and forth with light steps. Attendants hurried about on urgent errands, making final preparations for the banquet about to begin.
And the one working most busily and energetically of all was Feng Wei — one moment shouting at a palace servant not to damage that branch of coral cherry, the next directing an attendant to straighten a pot of purple jade bamboo, the next declaring the folding screen beside the throne too plain and insisting it be swapped for one depicting red plum blossoms over a jade-green lake, and then again insisting that the blue-leafed orchid must be paired with the misty-mountain Cloud Dream jade cup… All calling and bustling until the Hour of You’s end, when at last everything was finally in order.
“His Majesty the King arrives!”
When the attendant’s announcement rang out from beyond the hall, the civil officials and military commanders waiting inside all turned in unison, bowing respectfully in welcome.
Outside, the two Kings walked side by side at an unhurried pace. On this auspicious occasion, both wore formal royal robes and had placed the Eight-Dragon Crown of Cradled Pearls squarely upon their heads. Long streams of pearl fringe hung down, swaying gently as the two moved — the pearl-light shimmering like flowing water, magnificent and stately. The difference lay in this: one was dressed predominantly in white, but with a Red Jade Nine-Orifice玲珑 belt at the waist — like a streak of vivid rosy haze cutting across white clouds — a pale pink long sash draped over the arm, trailing behind like weightless smoke. The overall effect was radiant and refined, her bearing exalted and graceful. The other wore a royal robe of deep black. The white jade Nine-Orifice玲珑 belt at his waist gleamed like a meteor ringing through empty sky. Soaring dragons amid billowing clouds were embroidered in gold thread across the chest and the hem of the robe, making him appear all the more noble and extraordinary.
“Your servants pay their respects to the Kings!”
“Rise!”
Sovereign and subjects took their seats. The grand banquet began — cups raised and drained, the whole hall united in celebration. The dishes were as precious as jewels, the wine as fine as dew, the music of silk and bamboo instruments as celestial as the wind, and the dancers as lovely as blooming flowers.
On the final day of the eighteenth year of Ren Yi, Feng Wang and Xi Wang dined at the Hall of Qinghua with the court officials of both kingdoms and the imperial capital.
In years afterward, when court officials recalled that celebration banquet, it always seemed to them like gazing at flowers through fog — they could never quite bring the details back into clear focus. And yet, perhaps precisely because of that hazy, dreamlike quality, it was all the more impossible to forget.
What exactly had been different about that banquet?
It was not especially lavish — any minor imperial banquet of former days had exceeded it in splendor. Nor was it especially boisterous — it was simply a hall of sovereigns and subjects, not a single consort or royal princess present. Yet it was not cold or cheerless either. The kings seated on the royal thrones were warm and at ease, and the officials below them talked and drank with laughter. Everything was so harmonious… If there was truly one thing that set it apart, it was this — *stillness*.
Not the extravagant clamor of an imperial feast, nor the rigid formality of a solemn assembly. Rather, a stillness like a deep and wide lake — not a single ripple, not a single rise or fall. A stillness that was precisely as it should be.
From beginning to end, everything unfolded with calm and natural ease. They savored the exquisite dishes prepared by the imperial chefs, exchanged cups of vintage wine aged a hundred years, listened to the brilliantly crafted melodies of the court musicians, admired the graceful and enchanting dances of the palace servants as lovely as flowers… As midnight drew near, sovereign and subjects proceeded to the city tower of the Nanhua Gate to spend the final moments of the year together with the people.
Before the Nanhua Gate, an ocean of people had long since gathered. The citizens of the imperial capital had assembled there almost in their entirety, standing against the bone-cutting cold with heads raised in eager anticipation — all for a single glimpse of Feng Wang and Xi Wang, those kings who seemed like the gods of legend.
At last, when the two Kings ascended the city tower amid a great escort of officials, the crowds below — moments earlier boiling with noise — fell completely silent. Every head tilted upward. On the tower, the two Kings — stately and dignified — smiled and raised their hands in greeting to the people. In that instant, cries rang out like mountain thunder, and the tens of thousands below dropped to their knees in reverence, heedless of whether the ground beneath them was frozen ice or mud.
That act of kneeling held within it all the admiration and gratitude of the people of the imperial capital. They were ordinary commoners. They knew only that Feng Wang and Xi Wang had rescued them from the devastation wrought by the Bai army, helped them heal their wounds, helped them rebuild their homes, helped them find family members they had lost… They were grateful, they were full of reverent love… and they expressed it in the most unassuming way they knew.
When the two Kings’ gentle words of comfort, encouragement, and blessing traveled softly yet clearly into every ear, in that moment, the cold wind transformed into the warm wind of spring, sweeping away every trace of chill. Bodies and hearts alike grew warm. In that moment, ten thousand people bowed as one. In that moment, cries of “Long may you reign!” shook the heavens. It was no longer merely gratitude — it was complete and total submission. Submission at the feet of those Kings whose benevolence and virtue were matched by a bearing and presence without equal.
When the fireworks rose into the air, every face turned upward, watching those bursts of fire bloom open in the night sky — dazzling and brilliant, lighting up the entire canopy of night — then dissolving into cascades of brilliant star-rain falling to the earth.
In that moment, subjects and people alike rejoiced. In that moment, the entire city was stirred with elation… Even Ren Chuanyun and Jiu Wei, in this moment, smiled and pressed their hands to their foreheads in a gesture of moved appreciation — for this rare and splendid occasion in a world of chaos.
Feng Qiwu’s gaze shifted from the dazzling fireworks to the very top of the city tower — to the two Kings standing foremost at the tower’s edge.
The court officials on the tower all stood at a certain distance behind and to either side of them, and then came the palace servants and attendants, and then the guards, while below the tower, thousands upon thousands of common people pressed close. So many surrounded them, encircled them… and yet the two seemed to have departed from the crowd entirely, existing within an isolated space sealed off from all others. They stood shoulder to shoulder, heads tilted back, watching the flowers of fire bloom and die across the dome of the sky. Both wore the same composed and easy smile. Though countless brilliant fireworks blazed above, they could not eclipse the radiance of those two — that elegant, understated yet surpassing brilliance that stood above all else.
Court officials, commoners, clamor, and laughter — all of it suddenly ceased to exist. On the tower there remained only those two, framed against that sky full of fireworks behind them. In that moment, those two figures were so luminous they were nearly impossible to look at directly, so transcendent and extraordinary they seemed beyond this world… They were such a perfectly matched pair — so why was there such an abyss of distance between them? Though surrounded by a hundred officials, though embraced by ten thousand people’s cheers — why did those two emanate such an air of solitary, absolute isolation?
Amid a sea of fireworks, amid a roar of jubilation — high above it all, both hearts were suddenly, simultaneously flooded with that same sense of vast emptiness and absolute solitude.
No matter how many people, no matter how festive the atmosphere — they were far, far removed from all of it.
They turned to look at each other, only to find the other’s face blurred and indistinct in a smile they could not quite see clearly.
They stood shoulder to shoulder. Between them was no more than the width of a fist. They were so close — and yet so infinitely far apart. It was as though a wall of transparent glass stood between them: the person on the other side was clearly visible, and yet to reach out — was to touch nothing but an impassable chill.
“Today is actually also the King’s birthday. Only the King has never once celebrated it.”
The soft, murmured sigh came from Duanmu Wensheng behind her. Feng Qiwu felt a shock go through her, and an indescribable ache spread through her heart.
—
As midnight neared its end, the lights of the palace were extinguished one by one. The celebration had passed. Everyone had settled into their sleep.
In the sleeping quarters of the Hall of the Utmost Heaven, Zhong Li and Zhong Yuan attended Lanxi as he prepared to retire. Once everything was arranged, the two withdrew. As they closed the door, they saw their King reclining sideways on the cushioned couch by the window, a snow-white jade cup in his hand filled with wine as red as flowing cinnabar. The window was pushed open a crack, and the cold night wind drifted in, lifting the ink-black strands of his hair — drifting and scattering, spilling across his body, obscuring his face.
Ah! Both men sighed in unison within their hearts. Every year on this night, the King would lie awake until dawn without sleeping a single moment!
They turned to leave — and found a palace attendant hurrying toward them.
“What is it?” Zhong Li asked, and gestured for the attendant to slow down and not disturb the King.
The attendant halted quickly and answered in a lowered voice: “Miss… Miss Feng is outside requesting an audience?”
“Mm?” Zhong Li and Zhong Yuan exchanged a glance. Those two identical faces wore two identical expressions of puzzlement: what could she possibly want, at this hour of the night?
“The King has already retired. Please ask her to come tomorrow.” Zhong Yuan replied.
“This servant relayed the same message. Only… only Miss Feng…” The attendant hedged somewhat, stealing a cautious glance at the two identical faces before him — even now he could not tell them apart, only knowing they were the people closest and most trusted to Xi Wang, people not to be offended. “Miss Feng… it seems… she appears… quite insistent on seeing the King. And so…”
Hearing this, Zhong Li and Zhong Yuan exchanged another glance, then walked back together to the door. Zhong Li knocked softly: “My King, Miss Feng requests an audience.”
Inside, Lanxi had been gazing absently at the vivid red wine in his cup. At those words, he too could not help a moment of surprise. What business could that cold and indifferent beauty have that would bring her to request an audience at this hour? The corner of his lips lifted into a faint smile. “Please invite her to wait in the Warm Orchid Pavilion.”
“Yes.”
Zhong Li went to convey the message. Zhong Yuan pushed open the door and entered to help Lanxi dress. When he was about to tie up Lanxi’s hair, Lanxi waved him off. He walked out just as he was, with his hair down.
In the Warm Orchid Pavilion, Feng Qiwu stood quietly looking at a painting on the wall — an ink painting of snow orchids. Among petals white as snow, scattered dots of deep crimson glowed like drops of blood accidentally spilled. This was the painting Lanxi had completed that very morning.
The pavilion door was pushed open and a gust of cold wind swept in. She turned — the figure that seemed as though it might dissolve into the black night sky behind it was walking steadily closer.
She turned and offered a bow of greeting — but said nothing.
“What brings Miss Feng to find this King at such a late hour?” Lanxi asked with a faint smile. Behind him, Zhong Li and Zhong Yuan closed the door and withdrew.
Feng Qiwu looked at the person before her — the Xi Wang she had come to know so well over these days. The same handsome features, the same elegant manner, the same composed and easy smile, those same ink-black eyes as fathomless as ever… yet it was precisely that unfathomable depth that no one could reach that caused a dull ache to stir quietly in her heart. What lay within those deep and shadowed eyes? Those joys and angers, those sorrows and anxieties, those exhaustions and burdens — all of it was hidden within that dark, bottomless abyss, shared with no one. Yet when enough had settled in the depths, there would come a day when even an abyss was full. When the weight grew too great, there would come a day when even the strongest could no longer bear it.
Her gaze moved to the round table in the room, and she spoke in a flat, unhurried tone: “When Qiwu was young, she was unruly and did not care for needlework or cooking. Later she made her living by selling songs, and never had the chance to learn properly. Today she made something, and wished to ask Xi Wang to try a taste.”
“Mm?” Lanxi’s brow rose slightly. He looked at the beautiful woman who seemed to blaze with brilliance under the pearl lamplight, with a measure of genuine surprise. In the middle of the night, she had come to ask him to sample her cooking?
Feng Qiwu walked over and, layer by layer, unwrapped the thick brocade cloth bundled tightly around the food box on the table. Then she lifted the lid — inside the box lay a bowl of noodles.
The instant he saw the noodles, the smile of composed elegance that seemed never to leave Lanxi’s face finally, slowly, began to fade.
“It is late, I know. But this is Qiwu’s first time making anything like this. Would Xi Wang be willing to condescend to taste them?” Feng Qiwu lifted out the bowl of noodles and set it gently on the table.
In that moment, Lanxi’s gaze rested on the bowl of noodles with a somewhat unfocused look — his expression was perfectly unreadable, utterly without any discernible feeling.
“They are still warm.” Feng Qiwu laid the chopsticks across the bowl and looked up at him.
He moved slowly, walked to the table, and looked at the bowl of noodles. They were, in truth, very ordinary — and a single glance was enough to confirm that the taste could not possibly be “delicious.” The noodles had clearly been boiled too long and had clumped together in a sticky mass. A layer of green vegetables lay over the top, but having been covered and steamed too long, the leaves had turned slightly yellow. Atop the vegetables sat two hard-boiled eggs — peeled by someone who was evidently not skilled at the task, their surfaces pitted and uneven. The one thing that could be said with certainty was that they truly were warm: in this freezing night where even dripping water would turn to ice, wisps of steam curled upward from the ceramic bowl.
“That… mm… because it was the first time… so… mm… the appearance… mm… although… this…” Noticing Lanxi’s scrutinizing gaze on the noodles, Feng Qiwu found herself beginning to stammer in explanation, but after hemming and hawing at length, she could not string a coherent sentence together. Her slender fingers knotted together tightly. Her eyes moved between Lanxi and the bowl. A flush of red crept up over her snow-white face. She lowered her head, and her voice dropped to barely a whisper: “These… should… be edible, shouldn’t they?” Even she herself seemed no longer certain.
*As if from a very long time ago, a gentle voice had said softly: “Xi’er, remember — by the customs of our Dong Chao, on one’s birthday, a mother and child each make a bowl of noodles by hand for the other to eat. Xi’er is still so young, so for now you shall eat the bowl Mother makes. But when Xi’er grows up, you must make many more bowls to make up for it…”* A soft, warm hand had stroked lightly over the top of his head. That gentle warmth had wrapped all around him…
*Birthday… noodles…*
After his mother’s death, no one had ever made noodles for him again. As for his birthday itself — from that blood-stained evening onward, not a single person had ever mentioned it again. He had never permitted anyone to mention it. To forget what kind of day today was each year. To remember what had happened today each year… With time, it all seemed to have receded, seemed to have sunk into the very marrow of his bones. And yet…
His gaze fell on the person before him. This woman, who in ordinary times was so cool and aloof she could be said to have eyes for no one — at this moment her face was flushed red over a bowl of noodles, and she was fidgeting with nervous uncertainty. On this cold winter night, on this evening when everyone else had gone to sleep tired and content after the festivities, she had walked into a kitchen alone and made a plain, ordinary bowl of noodles. Without a single word of congratulation or blessing. Without a single word of warm comfort or consolation. Only: please taste this first bowl she had ever made in her life…
A trace of warmth drifted quietly upward into his heart — a warmth he had not felt in over twenty years. And now, in this moment, he felt it again. A faint smile rose of its own accord, genuine and clear, tender as flowing water.
“They are edible.”
He sat down at the table, picked up the chopsticks, and began to eat those warm noodles.
The knotted fingers finally loosened. The lowered head finally lifted. She settled gently into her seat and looked quietly at that person eating the noodles, eating the vegetables, eating the eggs, drinking the broth… The Warm Orchid Pavilion was so warm and fragrant. This moment was so still and unhurried, as though it might never reach its end — as though time itself might stop here, stopped in this moment of small, trembling happiness and small, bittersweet ache.
The chopsticks were laid across the bowl with a clear, crisp sound. The bowl was empty.
Feng Qiwu reached out and silently began to clear the table.
Lanxi watched her movements quietly — watched as the bowl and chopsticks were placed back in the box, watched as the lid was softly lowered into place. He closed his eyes lightly: “These years, apart from things passed to me through Zhong Li and Zhong Yuan’s hands, I have eaten almost nothing made by anyone else.” A faint smile touched his lips — less a smile of mockery than of desolation.
Hearing this, Feng Qiwu’s hand gave a slight tremor. She looked up at him, and that faint smile was like a fine needle inserted with a gentle, imperceptibly slow touch into her heart — the pain it caused was a quiet, long, and lingering thing.
“In the past… many of those who tasted food on my behalf died. Afterward I only ate what Zhong Li and Zhong Yuan prepared, and only then did people stop dying.” The tone was so flat as to be nearly devoid of warmth. The expression was as cold as though it held no feeling at all. Lanxi turned his head slightly, his gaze resting on the Snow Orchid painting on the wall. “After my mother died, I found no peace in sleeping or eating.”
The scene before her eyes blurred. Something flowed down her face — cold against her skin. She blinked, trying to see the person before her clearly. When she did, the sight brought a suffocating wave of pain. She lowered her head, raised her hands, and with trembling, mechanical movements began wrapping the brocade cloth back around the food box, layer by layer. Something dripped onto the cloth, spreading in ring after ring of wet marks.
“Hidden arrows lurk on all sides. Every step is a struggle…” His gaze was fixed unwaveringly on the dots of deep crimson among the snow orchids. The ink-black hair fell from his shoulders, concealing his face, blurring his expression, softening his voice. “Every year on this day it reminds me… only… a bowl of noodles like this — it is the first time I have ever had one.” He turned back, and the gaze he rested on the figure with bowed head across from him was gentle. “Qiwu, this is the first bowl of noodles since my mother died.”
The person across from him raised her head. Her face was snow-white, yet her eyes shimmered with warm, glimmering wetness. A smile pulled at the corner of her lips — the faintest, most breathtaking smile: “Qiwu is very fortunate!”
“Qiwu…”
A long sigh. He reached out and touched her gently — his fingertip brushing away the teardrop at the corner of her eye. In the coldness of that night, his touch burned like fire.
“Qiwu…” He called her name softly, with boundless, wordless feeling.
He had always known she held feeling for him — yet he had not known her feeling ran this deep! This woman, outwardly so cool and aloof, yet at her very core possessed of the most fierce and proud self-respect — and yet she had chosen to stay at his side. When called upon, she would play him a piece on the pipa, sing him a clear and quiet song. When not called upon, she would stand quietly in her place — making no demands, and harboring no regrets… In all his life, this was the first time anyone had been this way toward him. Not even she… would be like this. In that moment, even one as emotionally restrained as Lanxi was moved, deeply and genuinely moved.
In those ink-black, fathomless eyes, there was now — truly and unmistakably — tenderness. A soft light of gentle, precious care, the likes of which had never been seen there before. *This is for me… this is given to me, Feng Qiwu.* She closed her eyes. The warmth of his hand was at her cheek. A heart that had been hollow and aching all this time was, in this moment, filled with boundless contentment and happiness. There was no need to discuss what had come before or what would follow. There was no need for any history or future. In this single moment — it was already enough.
“Qiwu…” That expression made Lanxi’s heart go soft and tender in that moment. He reached out and took her hand gently in his. And then those words — thoughts that had never once before entered his mind — were spoken quietly, just like that: “Would Qiwu be willing to become…”
But at the very instant those words were about to leave his lips, the faint sound of qin music drifted in from somewhere — causing both people in the pavilion to startle. For a single instant, both thought it was an illusion. But at once, Lanxi was on his feet in a single motion, striding quickly to the window, pulling it open swiftly — and then the sound of the qin came through with clarity.
When he recognized the melody, Lanxi’s eyes flew wide open. Those eyes — ordinarily still and black as a calm sea — were instantly swept through with surging waves of storm. His gaze blazed as he stared into the night sky, as though he could pierce through the vast darkness and see straight to the place where that music was coming from.
“Is this… the Qingping Tune?!” The words escaped him in a soft, faintly trembling voice — as though he feared that speaking too loudly might frighten the music away. There was such careful, tentative disbelief in the way he said it.
The Qingping Tune? What was that? What could make him react this way? Feng Qiwu watched Lanxi as he stood motionless by the window, watching expression after expression pass across his face — emotions so complex they were beyond any description. A thousand feelings churned in her heart. Who was playing the qin in the middle of this night? And who was capable of stirring his feelings in such a way?
As a performer, she had the ear to judge the quality of any music and the skill of any player. This Qingping Tune was not a composition of world-shaking renown — the melody was extremely simple, something anyone with even a basic knowledge of the instrument could play. Yet the person playing it now was clearly of extraordinary skill: this simple, plain melody was rendered with such free and flowing ease, like wildflowers growing in their natural state across a mountain forest — effortless, unhurried, and soothing to the spirit.
“The Qingping Tune… so she did not forget after all.” Those words seemed drawn up from the very deepest part of his heart — drawn out like a sigh, unhurried and lingering, trailing out in threads as fine as silk, drifting in a slow circle through the warm pavilion before spilling out through the window on the night wind, floating softly away into the distance.
In that moment, Feng Qiwu understood everything. Who else in this world could bring him to this state, if not her? On that face of peerless, elegant beauty — bewilderment, sorrow, joy, and helpless resignation all appeared, one after another, each unmistakably clear. When had she ever seen him like this? In this single moment, a bittersweet ache and a kind of happiness formed a single knot in her chest — half for herself, half for him.
She lifted the food box, bowed and took her leave.
The figure by the window turned. He looked at her. Those eyes that were always so dark and bottomless were now clear as still water — and the light that moved within them could be seen plainly.
“Qiwu, this bowl of noodles — Lanxi will never forget it, not for as long as he lives.”
“Mm.” A smile. She stepped toward the door, opened it with a gentle hand, and walked through without a moment’s hesitation. Then she closed it softly behind her.
Inside and outside the door — two different worlds. Inside: bright, warm as spring. Outside: pitch darkness, the cold of bone-deep winter.
Inside and outside the door — two different people. The one inside: stirred, joyful, and perhaps even happy. The one outside: aching and desolate, yet also at peace.
The qin music played on — softly turning, beautifully winding, clear and gentle as the wind.
The figure outside raised her eyes and looked up at the night sky. Cold stars flickered with faint light. She drew the still-warm food box tightly to her chest and let a faint smile bloom across her face — faintly bitter, and yet composed: “May Heaven grant them its blessing.”
The figure inside raised a hand to cover his eyes, and his entire body and spirit relaxed completely. A smile drifted across his lips — warm, and yet sorrowful: “Has Heaven not yet abandoned Xi after all?”
—
*”What song are you playing? It sounds quite nice!”*
*”The Qingping Tune. Every year on today, my mo— my mother used to play it for me.”*
*”Used to? She doesn’t play it anymore?”*
*”She… is gone.”*
*”Oh?… That’s all right though — you already know how to play it yourself. How about this: you give me your roasted chicken, and from now on I’ll play it for you.”*
*…*
The figure standing by the window of the Hall of the Utmost Heaven, and the figure seated quietly beside the qin in the Hall of the Roosting Phoenix — both minds were suddenly filled with that same exchange of words. Before both sets of eyes floated the first image in the oldest memory: that cold night at year’s end when two young people met for the first time, under that old peach tree, beside that heap of campfire embers, a composed and quiet young man, a bright and laughter-loving young girl. That night they had leaned against each other for warmth. That night they had talked until they lost track of time…
In those days they had been young and pure. In those days they had been strangers who had just met and found a sudden, easy kinship. In those days he was learned and gentle, genuine and unguarded. In those days she was quick and lively, fond of eating and full of mischief. In those days there were none of the divergences that would come later — none of the weighing of interests that existed today. In those days they had recognized something of themselves in each other, heart drawing close to heart…
The music ended. The qin fell silent. The deep, deep palace returned to stillness. The figure by the window still stood there in a daze. The figure by the qin sat staring into nothing.
Why did they still remember? Why had those notes been played on this night of all nights? Neither knew — or perhaps both knew and neither was willing to admit it.
One collapsed forward over the qin, face buried in the crook of an arm, hiding deep within — yet unable to bury or suppress the deep and sweeping grief welling up from the depths of the heart.
No matter how beautiful those bygone days had been — they could never be returned to. No matter what the days ahead might hold, smooth or difficult — they could no longer be walked together. Even those memories carved into the bone — today’s you and I could no longer possess them. They could only be buried or… cast away.
—
The same night. The same hour. Across mountains and rivers, across city walls and ranks of soldiers — in Yan Cheng, there was also someone lying awake through the night.
*Tap.* A brush was set lightly on its rest. The hand came to rest naturally on the table surface spread with jade-silk paper. That hand — as though carved with great care from the finest white jade — was slender and clean, emanating a gentle, warm jade-like luster. Perfect, and yet somehow not quite real.
“Finished at last.” Yu Wuyuan exhaled a long breath of relief.
He rose and walked to the window. He pushed it open, and a wave of cold air swept in, entering the warm room and bringing with it a freshness that cleared the mind.
He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath of the clear, cool air. In an instant his thoughts settled into clarity. He raised his head and opened his eyes. The black dome of the sky was like the finest ink-dark silk, stars scattered like pieces on a game board, each competing to shine, reflecting their light down upon the earth — mountains, forests, and buildings all rendered in dim and wavering suggestion.
“The stars draw near. The destined meeting is about to begin…” The tone was light and unhurried, his eyes clear as a mirror. “Or perhaps… its end?” A faint, elusive smile drifted across his lips. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, still as a white jade sculpture, gazing quietly at the shifting constellations above.
“Wuyuan.”
A low, steady voice sounded close nearby. He turned — it was Huang Chao.
“Why are you not yet asleep?”
“I lay down. I simply could not sleep.” Huang Chao pushed the door open and entered. He wore only a long robe over his sleeping clothes, clearly having just risen from bed.
“Your wound has flared up again?” Yu Wuyuan’s brow drew together. That arrow wound had been extremely severe, striking through to the heart and lungs. He should by rights have been resting and recuperating carefully. But Huang Chao had been consumed by one military campaign after another, causing the injury to relapse repeatedly, never fully healing.
“No.” Huang Chao answered simply, and walked toward the table. His gaze was immediately drawn to the scroll of silk on the table, its ink not yet fully dry.
“Huang Chao, beyond the realm, think occasionally of your own body.” Yu Wuyuan looked at him with worried eyes.
But evidently, Huang Chao paid not the slightest attention to his counsel. His entire mind had already sunk into the scroll’s contents.
Yu Wuyuan sighed in silence. He turned his gaze back toward the sky — that vast ink-sea of stars, boundless and immeasurable. The shifting turns of human affairs were all contained within it. Every life, every creature under heaven and earth — could they truly only follow the track of fate wherever it led? No matter how great the effort, could one never surpass what heaven had ordained?
The star of kings had already appeared in answer to heaven’s call. The stars of great generals had already gathered in response to fortune’s summons. The rising and falling, the blazing and extinguishing of those stars — was all of it solely for the sake of that one game of chess atop Changmang Shan? What role had they — the people of the Yu family, those called “Tianren” — truly played in this turbulent and chaotic age? Bloodless executioners? Saints who created life and shaped worlds? Was all of this truly destined?
*Destined?* For the first time, a faint mocking and faintly bitter smile crossed that face which was perpetually without any ripple of feeling. His eyes closed without strength, letting body and spirit sink into that boundless, edgeless void. Had not all of these questions been precisely what the people of the world came to the Yu family seeking answers to? And since the Yu family were called “Tianren,” naturally they understood all of this most clearly. Only — *fate*… that was the very thing the Yu family hated most.
“Perhaps you are the true sovereign of all the realm.” The steady, forceful voice of Huang Chao rang out suddenly in the silence of the room. Those ever-bright golden eyes were fixed, blazing, upon the figure by the window. “The ‘Yu family, whose wisdom surpasses all under heaven’ — truly, their wisdom surpasses all under heaven! If the Yu family wished to claim this realm, it would be as simple as reaching into a pocket!”
Yu Wuyuan turned back to look at him. In Huang Chao’s hands was the scroll he had just finished writing.
“This ‘Inaugural Code of Huang Chao’ — on the day you are enthroned, it may be proclaimed to the entire realm.” He spoke without inflection, turned and walked back to the table, and carefully put the scroll away. “When the new dynasty is established, you may proceed according to these codes…” At this point he paused slightly, then continued: “Or perhaps… take it as a reference.”
“I believe there will never be anything more perfect in this world — not even from those two kings, Feng Wang and Xi Wang!” Huang Chao accepted the scroll Yu Wuyuan passed to him, and said with deep feeling.
Yet Yu Wuyuan seemed not to have heard. He walked back to the window, his gaze passing through the vast night sky. “A new year has already begun. I wonder if the snow on the summit of Changmang Shan has melted yet.”
“Climb Changmang Shan and you will know.” Huang Chao walked to the window and stood shoulder to shoulder with him.
“Changmang Shan… the unfinished game of Changmang?” Yu Wuyuan’s voice fell low and soft into the wind, barely audible. “Perhaps it is better to leave it as an unfinished game…”