That day, before dawn, Emperor Wu Yang Zao led his officials out of Yandu to personally pay respects at the Tan family’s army camp.

Tan Shize was not old—only thirty-seven this year—yet he had never married and had no children.

The Ministry of Rites had thoroughly reviewed his military achievements and his character before settling on his posthumous title. In the chaos of the past wars, matters that should have been handled with rigor had all been done sloppily. But now that the new dynasty had risen, everything committed to writing would become precedent for how court affairs were conducted for generations to come. As the very first posthumous title bestowed in the first year of Yong’an, the Ministry of Rites handled it with complete impartiality, without any private motives.

Tan Shize had been a man of extraordinary ability, fierce in battle, undefeated in a hundred engagements. Yet he had also been hot-tempered and reckless by nature, cruel and stubborn by disposition, and in his wake he had committed a number of acts that violated the principles of humaneness. For this reason, the Ministry of Rites selected the character “Su” (Solemn) from the phrase describing one who is “outwardly deferential, inwardly reverent.”

This was already a concession made for the emperor’s sake—a quiet acknowledgment of Tan Shize’s loyalty to His Majesty personally, and of the friendship the two had once shared—not the kind of “loyalty” useful to future sovereigns that the Tan family had wanted.

His Majesty was rather pleased with this character. Yet the Tan family had submitted three separate memorials in a single day—requesting burial land near Yandu, requesting military supplies to reorganize their forces, and requesting rewards and titles for meritorious soldiers of the Tan army.

Did the Tan family not have burial land back in their ancestral home? Or were they taking advantage of Tan Shize’s death away from home to refuse him a return to his native soil? Did the old Tan family mean to claim a stretch of land on the strength of a single corpse?

A sovereign was always the type to overthink things.

The memorials had not come from Tan Shiyuan alone—ever since Shao Shang had raised his rebellion, the Tan family had already extended its reach into every level of the court. Many of them apparently believed that, during Tan Shize’s mourning period, the emperor ought to show the Tan family even greater favor and compensation.

But they had all miscalculated. The emperor cared nothing for such things—that was merely wishful thinking on the officials’ part. He was the founding sovereign, and these men were the first generation of ministers who had helped found the dynasty—all with an eye toward achievements that might be remembered through the ages. Who could resist such temptation?

Day after day, they murmured endlessly in his ear. Part of him wanted to laugh out loud and tell this bunch of fools that he hadn’t become emperor through such useless notions of benevolence and righteousness—he’d simply seized the throne, and everyone knew it. His family, too, had once received generations of imperial favor, yet from the moment he’d raised his rebellion, his reputation had been thoroughly ruined.

Look at how these court officials jumped and scrambled now, unable to sit still. Though throughout history, every emperor had to deal with such tangled webs of relationships, with ruler and ministers depending on one another—did he really have to play along the same way? He’d never had a single day of proper imperial education; he had no idea what these arts of statecraft were even supposed to be.

And that Tan Shiyuan—hmph! Tan Shiyuan! A fool who had once tried to contend with him for the realm.

He didn’t know what good deeds that man’s ancestors must have done—first there was Tan Shiyuan, whom he could never quite see through, and now there was Tan Shize, forever cleaning up messes behind him. As if it were some cosmic punishment, everything seemed fated…

His Majesty grew thoroughly displeased.

He was poor. Even so, when the Tan family deliberately set up the mourning hall inside the military camp, he had calmly brought his ministers there anyway.

Whatever—let those lingering malcontents say what they liked about him: low-born, from a lesser clan, undisciplined in his conduct, petty and stingy, coarse in speech, and so on. Coarse, fine, let it be coarse. As long as he wasn’t coarse going forward, he could at least be openly, unashamedly common.

Like today.

The new emperor arrived at the camp openly and without pretense, personally burning incense in worship, reading aloud a eulogy he had written himself. Afterward, he finally decided that rather than suffocate himself with frustration, he might as well find someone else’s fault to feel better.

He was already annoyed the moment he entered the camp—the Long Blade Battalion’s shouting was far too loud, the clashing sound of armor as they marched grated on him. He felt as if they were spending his own money just to show off in front of him.

His birth mother was still living out in the mountains outside the city, where a single meal barely stretched to four dishes. What right did they have?

And so, having just come into his new status as emperor, Yang Zao fell prey to a fresh imperial ailment—petty jealousy. He glanced around the tent, and decided to give the Tan family a lesson.

The Tan family didn’t rank especially high in His Majesty’s estimation—they’d held him back plenty of times in the past. Still, their standing wasn’t so low that, having just ascended the throne, he’d move to eliminate them outright—merit was merit, and Tan Shize had marched with him through every campaign; some debts couldn’t simply be erased, so he ought to show a bit more grace instead.

Looking around at this tent full of wailing that could not be contained, with several people fainting from what seemed like overwhelming grief—yet examining the mourning hall closely, it was filled with nothing but third-class and fourth-class minor honors, fifth-class trivial merits… Tan Shiyuan himself already had great-grandsons, and yet at the funeral meant to preserve Tan Shize’s dignity, there wasn’t even a single relative in the deepest mourning garb. This was either an insult, or contempt for him personally.

Emperor Wu Yang Zao’s own background was not high, remarkably similar to Tan Shize’s, and in the end it was precisely this shared circumstance that had drawn them together in mutual sympathy. Back then, Yang Zao had made certain promises to win Tan Shize over completely.

The emperor’s principal mother had been unable to bear children, so with no other choice, when she was already in her thirties, he had been taken from his birth mother—a concubine, Lady Jiang, who had been sent out to the countryside. Fortunately, he was the only male heir in his family, without even a single sister.

Aside from the pain of being separated from his mother starting at age seven, everything belonging to the Yang family had been in his hands since childhood, and those he grew up with were distant paternal cousins.

Tan Shize’s situation had been different. Born to a servant-concubine, he was more than twenty years younger than his father’s principal-wife-born eldest son. Tan Er’s standing within the main family had never been high; he’d been treated harshly since childhood, and eventually, when the family truly had no place for him, he was sent to Siming Temple to study the Buddhist way.

According to the wishes of Tan Shize’s birth father, he had hoped his youngest son might become a renowned monk one day—after all, the two great state-protecting temples of the north and south had exerted lasting influence over the imperial court through the generations.

Yet Tan Shize had lasted less than two months at the temple before climbing the wall to the neighboring Southern School’s Qin residence to study martial arts…

Perhaps it was from the moment he was sent to Siming Temple that a fierce ambition began taking root deep within young Tan Er’s heart. He had no wish to become a monk, and everything he did ran contrary to compassion and righteousness—one could say he was utterly devoid of a benevolent heart, thoroughly cruel.

But even so—he had once been his friend.

The emperor finished burning the eulogy, took the cloth handed to him by chief eunuch Zhang Minwang to wipe his hands, and as he wiped, he studied the faces of the Tan family’s sons kneeling in the front row.

He seemed to recall someone mentioning that, among the Tan family’s third generation, he ought to take a look at the third son.

Tan Shiyuan personally came forward to collect the cloth from His Majesty once he’d finished. The emperor pointed and asked: “Who is that one? I feel I’ve seen him before.”

He pointed at a boy of thirteen or fourteen, with a face like warm jade, delicate refined features, wearing the mourning garb of great merit.

Tan Shiyuan looked up, startled for a moment, then the corner of his mouth curved slightly as he answered: “Reporting to Your Majesty, that is my unruly third son, Weixin.”

The emperor nodded and settled into a chair set off to the side. With that, the Ministry of Rites officials overseeing the ceremony outside, along with the court officials, were unable to enter to join in the mourning rites.

Chang Lianfang had escorted the various imperial princes to rest in a nearby tent. With his mind on his sworn brother, he found an excuse to slip toward the front of the mourning hall to look for his father.

After searching through a sea of dark court robes, Chang Lianfang finally spotted his father and sidled over, whispering: “Father!”

Earl Chang, lost in thought with his head down, looked up at his son’s voice and pulled him aside: “What are you doing here? Where are the young masters?”

Though they were all young lords now, after so many years the old habit of calling them “young masters” simply stuck.

Chang Lianfang rolled his eyes at this and said with some disgust: “You don’t know the half of it—there’s no room for me up front these days, what with the Feng family, the Liu family, the Yue family all crowding in. None of them showed their faces when there was actual fighting to be done.”

Earl Chang chuckled at this: “Good, that’s fine by me. I noticed things looked off up front today, so don’t go back up there. Your Cai brother just told me your sworn brother is over at the horse ranch—go find him…”

Before his father even finished speaking, Chang Lianfang gave a soft cheer and dashed off.

Watching his son run off, Earl Chang shook his head helplessly, then slowly returned to the ranks of court officials, found his place, and settled in. He let out a soft sigh and murmured to the colleague beside him: “Ah! No fortune enjoyed at all, and already gone! What a pity.”

The colleague nodded gravely in response: “Ah, so pitiable… I hear his old mother is still out there, living quite miserably.”

“No help for it… he was her only accomplished son, and now she’s left with nothing to rely on.”

Inside the mourning tent…

His Majesty pointed at Tan Weixin: “Bring that child over here, let me have a look at him.”

Hearing this, Tan Shiyuan felt both startled and delighted, and quickly waved his youngest son over to pay respects to His Majesty.

Tan Weixin stood up in a daze, and had his mourning robe removed before being led forward to kowtow before the emperor.

His Majesty greeted him warmly, praising his refined bearing, asking where he studied and whether he had learned the Tan family’s ancestral text, the Treatise on Military Command. Once finished, he smiled and said: “Good, excellent! Composed and gracious, quick-witted and clever—he’s a fine talent. Going forward, he should study diligently and never grow slack.”

Tan Shiyuan was overjoyed and bowed in thanks—only to have His Majesty ask him to bring his other two sons forward as well.

Once Tan Weitong and his brother had changed into mourning garb and knelt before His Majesty, the emperor, for some reason, grew unusually talkative and warm toward the Tan family’s sons that day.

Just as the questioning continued, a gust of autumn wind swept in bringing fine rain with it.

At that very moment, not far from the mourning hall, at the horse ranch, a single autumn raindrop fell onto the yellowed military orders. Chen Dasheng hurriedly had his brothers gather the orders up.

He was a man of few words on ordinary days, with barely any temper to speak of—sometimes ten days or half a month might pass without him saying a single word to an outsider.

So what had come over him today? Why such a great outburst of temper?

Seeing his brothers frightened, Yu Qingguan took the stack of papers and handed them to Chen Dasheng: “Chief? What’s wrong?”

Chen Dasheng, expressionless, took the stack of orders and carefully placed them back into the sheepskin pouch.

What was wrong? How could he even begin to explain to his brothers that, ever since the twenty-sixth year of Hongshun, the lives of the Long Blade Battalion’s men had been nothing but stepping stones for other people.

“Chief, say something. Whatever’s wrong, tell us, so we brothers can talk it through together.”

Ma Ergu, being quick-tempered, fired off question after question.

Chen Dasheng had never felt such despair before in his life. He couldn’t explain it—he still carried more than a dozen locks of hair from fallen comrades on him. According to the Long Blade Battalion’s tradition, these locks belonged to men who had died for the brothers who came after them, who had died for this new dynasty.

Did that mean their lives simply weren’t lives at all? What exactly did these officials, these nobles, take them for? Worth less than pigs to slaughter…

When a man of the Long Blade Battalion died, his body was never collected—only the man who filled his place would take a lock of his hair.

And now, in Chen Dasheng’s pouch, there were thirteen locks of hair in total.

Had they truly died for nothing? Chen Dasheng stared blankly up at the drizzling sky, thinking, why does it rain whenever I feel this miserable? Could it be that even Heaven took pity on them, and shed a few tears on their behalf…

Just as he was gazing upward, a gust of wind carrying the scent of grass swept past from not far away. Before they could think twice, the seven of them instinctively gripped their blades and swiftly hid the haystacks back in place, all diving in to conceal themselves.

It happened in the blink of an eye—hidden within the haystack, Chen Dasheng and the others saw a woman, her head wrapped in a plain cloth veil, wearing wide-sleeved mourning robes, hemp sandals on her feet, and a lute case on her back, using the strength of her toes to leap along the tops of the tents, gliding into the camp like a gray swallow.

In all their years, this was the first time any of them had seen a woman who could fly—and fly so high, at that.

For a moment they all simply stared, dumbstruck.

“An im-immortal! Big brother, a female immortal!”

Chen Dasheng pinched Tong Jintai and said: “No, she’s one of those people we saw in Qiongzhou.”

Hearing this, Tong Jintai suddenly remembered who she must be, his expression shifting from shock to disdain: “Hmph, all flash and no substance.”

Chen Dasheng tilted his head, considered this, then suddenly laughed too: “Mm, all flash and no substance.”

Women were not permitted inside a military camp. The old lady, despite being so close with Meng Wanquan and having spent years with the wounded soldiers’ camp, always conducted her business right at the camp gate.

Back when Chang Lianfang had been injured, the army had been resting in a village they’d occupied, which hadn’t technically counted as a proper camp since no banner had been raised.

But His Majesty himself was present here, and yet this woman dared to fly straight in—utterly reckless.

Guan Si’er asked: “Big brother… so, should we do something about it?”

Chen Dasheng didn’t answer right away. He thought about it seriously for a moment before saying: “No.”

He didn’t want to get involved.

By the time the woman had leapt far into the distance, the group crawled back out of the grass and looked off toward where she’d gone.

“Big brother, that looks like it might be Tan Er’s mourning hall.”

Chen Dasheng’s gaze fixed distantly, and after a moment he said abruptly: “Pack up. We’re leaving.”

“Leaving?!” Guan Si’er lit up with delight upon hearing this, turning to ask Chen Dasheng: “Big brother, are we deserting?”

Deserting? Deserting to where? This boy really did say foolish things sometimes.

Back when their hometown had flooded, hadn’t the whole village wanted to flee too? When the Long Blade Battalion’s initial selection had the war horses charging at them, weren’t they trying to flee then as well? Beneath countless city walls, on countless battlefields, there was always someone who wanted to run—and they had all died.

For men like them, Heaven never offered a second option: forward! Live or die, there was no third way!

None of them had much in the way of belongings. Whatever they’d scavenged from battlefields and from the palace, they’d long since found ways to convert into silver and hide away. And so, without much delay, each man slung a small bundle over his shoulder and silently followed Chen Dasheng toward the mourning hall.

None of them asked their chief why they were heading that way. Wherever the head went, the rest followed.

If the head died, Yu Qingguan would take over.

Inside the mourning tent, His Majesty was still asking questions. Outside the tent, the civil and military officials stood quietly waiting. Ever since ascending the throne, the emperor’s temper had always been fairly even—no one could say what had come over him today, seemingly forgetting the very words “benevolent ruler” that everyone kept urging upon him.

Before long, a young eunuch came out holding an oiled umbrella, sheltering Grand Tutor Li Zhang beneath it.

After roughly the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, His Majesty finally finished, to the bewilderment of the entire Tan family and the assembled court, questioning Tan Shiyuan about his three legitimate sons.

Once done, he turned and said with a smile: “The Tan family has capable heirs. Lord Tan, you are blessed indeed.”

Hearing this, Tan Shiyuan’s anxious heart finally began to settle—only for it to leap right back up as His Majesty spoke again: “Good! Reward them! Grant the two eldest sons each a jade-studded belt of fighting-bull design.”

A belt like this carried significant meaning—yet Tan Shiyuan wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased, or to prepare himself to beg forgiveness.

His most beloved third son, Weixin, had received no such reward from His Majesty.

An attending eunuch soon brought out two wooden trays, upon which lay, indeed, two exquisite high-quality jade belts.

After Tan Weitong and his brother knelt to receive them, His Majesty turned with a smile to the visibly anxious Tan Weixin: “Today I’ll give you a word, child—’Longli.'”

Tan Weixin’s small face grew even more bewildered, but since His Majesty had bestowed a gift, he had no choice but to prostrate himself and offer thanks.

Once he had finished expressing his gratitude, he heard His Majesty ask him: “Do you know the meaning of ‘Longli’?”

Any well-read child would know.

Tan Weixin answered: “Reporting to Your Majesty, this comes from the words of the sages in commentary on the rites—it means to honor and follow ritual propriety with reverence…”

Before the boy had even finished speaking, Tan Shiyuan, standing to one side, had already dropped to his knees.

Seeing his father kneel, Tan Weixin was too frightened to say another word, simply staring blankly at the emperor.

His Majesty smiled and nodded, reaching out to pat the boy’s head: “Good child, truly bright and clever. I hope you won’t disappoint my expectations. From now on, take good care of your grandmother…” Turning to the side, he instructed Zhang Minwang: “Take him down and have him change into the deepest mourning garb…”

Watching his own son being hastily led away, Tan Shiyuan could no longer hold back his grief and cried out: “Your Majesty!”

Yes—Your Majesty now. No longer the “penniless Yang Zao” they had once looked down upon in their hearts.

Emperor Wu Yang Zao slowly walked up to Tan Shize’s memorial tablet and stared at it for a long while before speaking: “Yesterday the Privy Council presented me with three memorials. Your family asked me for burial land, asked me for military supplies, asked me for rewards for merit. Everyone knows I’m nothing but a pauper right now, but fine—turn my pockets out, I’ll give it all to you, since my vanguard general is gone after all…”

He turned back to face Tan Shiyuan: “I never want to see the day my Marquis Wu Su comes to me and asks—he once entrusted me his very back, so how could I bear to let him go alone, without even a complete corpse, without so much as someone to smash the mourning bowl for him? Since I’ve already taken so much from you, Lord Tan, you might as well give up a son too…”

Before His Majesty had even finished speaking, a sound of plucked strings suddenly rose from outside the tent. A woman’s voice called out from atop the mourning hall: “So you do have a conscience after all! Good—it wasn’t for nothing, the friendship between the two of you.”

“Who’s there?!”

“Protect His Majesty!!!”

In an instant, chaos broke out all around as guards drew their blades and moved to defend the emperor—only for His Majesty to bark out a command: “Don’t panic! It’s an old friend!!”

With that, the tension gradually eased, though everyone remained tense, staring up at the top of the tent.

The woman spoke again: “Did he ever speak of me?”

The emperor’s lips trembled, but he managed to steady his emotions and answer: “He said, if I ever ascended the throne and rewarded merit, he wanted me to grant him a marquisate, and a courtyard with an osmanthus tree—so that he’d finally have the nerve to bring up marriage with your father.”

The woman gave a soft laugh, and from atop the tent came the slow, drifting sound of a zither. The music cut through the rain, neither sorrowful nor resentful, like sending off a friend on a long journey, tender and heartfelt…

Once the melody finished, the emperor looked up and asked toward the top of the tent: “Miss Qin?”

The woman laughed: “An old spinster past thirty, and still ‘Miss’? I’ve changed my name, you know.”

The emperor raised an eyebrow and finally sighed: “The two of you were always equally stubborn. Very well—might I ask what Miss Qin goes by now?”

“Qingbuyi—the qing of unwavering feeling, from the phrase for the seven emotions and six desires, meaning a resolve that never wavers.”

“Why don’t you come down and pay your respects to him?”

“He wouldn’t let me into his military camp.”

“You’re already in, aren’t you? Since you’ve come, I pardon you of any offense—at least let him see you properly.”

“If I don’t enter the tent, it doesn’t count. I used to do this in secret too, back then. Today, I… won’t show myself either. I’ve troubled you enough already—please, burn this for me, would you?”

From atop the tent, a single sheet of paper drifted down. The emperor reached out to catch it, and had only begun reading when Meng Dichen, who had just rushed in to guard him, spoke: “Your Majesty, she’s gone.”

The emperor nodded, turned, and walked to the burning brazier, holding the paper to a candle flame to light it. In that instant, everyone present caught sight of what was written on the page:

“The grave may open again one day, but a face once aged can never grow young again. The flower may bloom anew in its season, but this love shall never see that year again.”

(For the origin of this poem, please see the author’s note.)

The woman leapt away across the top of the camp like a swallow once more…

And at that very moment, Chang Lianfang found himself dragged into a corner, a hand clamped over his mouth, unable to move. He was terrified—until he saw a woman in mourning white pause atop a nearby tent, then turn to look toward the direction of the mourning hall.

A gust of autumn wind swept past, blowing the hemp veil from her head, revealing a gleaming bald scalp in the rain.

A low voice murmured beside his ear: “Third brother, don’t make a sound. It’s me!”