When Fu Tinghan returned, only a lamp in the corner of the great hall was lit. Most of the area was dim. Zhao Hanzhang leaned against the bedside, motionless.

Fu Tinghan leaned over to look at her. Seeing her red eyes, he handed her a handkerchief and asked quietly, “Do you want to cry some more? I’ve sent everyone away.”

Zhao Hanzhang laughed despite herself, “Everyone advises me to cry less, not to cry, but you’re actually encouraging me to cry?”

“I’m afraid you’re suffering holding it in,” Fu Tinghan said. “I know how uncomfortable it is to hold tears and grief in your heart. So although crying during the confinement period isn’t good, I still hope you can release it.”

Zhao Hanzhang was silent for a moment, wiping away the tears at the corners of her eyes. She stopped being angry, “I’m fine. It’s just the hormones during breastfeeding that are uncontrollable. If it were before, I wouldn’t cry over something like this.”

Having said that, tears still fell one by one despite her words, though she had just wiped them away.

Fu Tinghan sighed softly, sat on the bedside and reached out to wipe away her tears. Zhao Hanzhang couldn’t help but sniff, turning her head to lean against him, saying quietly, “I really want to send troops to the Western Regions. Zhang Gui is dead, and there’s still no news of Zhao Xin and Zhang Shi. Although our cotton seeds increase every year, compared to the entire realm, it’s still too little…”

Fu Tinghan embraced her, reaching out to pat her back, saying, “If you’re sad, then be sad. You don’t need to find so many excuses. Over these years, Prefect Zhang has helped us considerably. Although we’ve never met face to face, just from letters we can know his character. He deserves your grief.”

Zhao Hanzhang’s mouth closed tightly. She quieted down and silently shed tears.

The next day, Zhao Hanzhang suspended court for Zhang Gui. The officials silently returned home and hung white lanterns to observe mourning for Zhang Gui.

Zhao Hanzhang personally wrote listing Zhang Gui’s many achievements over the years, posthumously appointing him as Governor of Liangzhou, Palace Attendant, and Grand Commandant, with the posthumous title “Wumu.”

The imperial edict was quickly sent to Xiliang by the Ministry of Rites officials handling the funeral. To stabilize Xiliang’s military and civilian hearts, the telegram first transmitted the edict in clear text.

Clear text meant information that could be received by anyone with a radio in each province—known throughout the nation. The Xiliang Prince had died; the entire nation observed mourning.

The joy over the eldest princess’s birth was diluted. Every household removed the red lanterns and red cloth strips from their homes, hanging white lanterns and white hemp cloth, respectfully observing mourning for Zhang Gui according to the edict.

Beigong Chun received the telegram and only then learned his old lord had passed away. With a “wah” he burst into loud tears, threw down his sword, put on hemp clothes, tied on mourning bands, and ran toward the military camp.

Huang An couldn’t catch up from behind. He could only stamp his feet, crying while returning to the general’s mansion. He asked Lady Beigong to bring out all the mourning hemp, then sent people throughout the city to buy more, pulling two carts of hemp cloth to the military camp.

The Xiliang army saw the general arrive crying in mourning clothes and were all startled. Their first thought was that Old Lady Beigong had died, but then they realized that wasn’t right—the general was filial to the old lady but distinguished between public and private matters. How could he bring mourning to the military camp?

Then a chill ran through them—could it be His Majesty…

In their panic, Beigong Chun went straight to find those dozen or so old soldiers who had once served as guards under Zhang Gui with him, crying loudly, “Old Meng, our old lord… has passed.”

The one-eyed Old Meng was stunned. Tears burst forth as he embraced Beigong Chun and wept bitterly, “When did this happen?”

Beigong Chun: “I just received the telegram. He passed on the twenty-second of the ninth month. I’m heartbroken, heartbroken!”

The Xiliang old soldiers came to their senses and all wept bitterly.

Among them were also many young Xiliang soldiers. Most had heard of Beigong Chun’s prestige and Zhao Hanzhang’s benevolent magnanimity. Plus Zhang Gui didn’t prohibit it, so they had come from Xiliang to enlist. They didn’t have deep feelings for the Xiliang Prince, but they also lowered their heads and shed tears.

In Beigong Chun’s life, he had met two good people who would use him and were willing to use him—Zhao Hanzhang was one, Zhang Gui was one.

If Zhao Hanzhang was the bright lamp he saw when he reached a dead end, then Zhang Gui was the talent scout who selected him from among ten thousand horses.

Beigong Chun respected him like a father. His passing left a void in Beigong Chun’s heart, leaving only the instinct to wail.

Fortunately, his grief came fiercely and departed quickly. When Huang An pulled over a cart of hemp cloth to distribute mourning attire to the entire army, Beigong Chun was hiccupping intermittently as his reason returned, “The whole army wearing mourning must—must request His Majesty’s permission.”

Beigong Chun was extremely law-abiding and dutiful to military orders.

Huang An said, “His Majesty has ordered the entire nation to observe mourning. The military is also part of the nation.”

But Beigong Chun stubbornly insisted on requesting permission. Although this Bingzhou army was called the Xiliang Army, it belonged to the court. Their food, clothing, and supplies were all paid for by the court; they no longer belonged to Xiliang.

His wearing mourning for Zhang Gui was his personal action. Whether the army wore it or not had to be up to the emperor.

Zhao Hanzhang agreed and even allowed two people from the Xiliang Army to return to Xiliang for the funeral.

Hearing this, Beigong Chun immediately selected Huang An and another old soldier. He cried, “How I wish I weren’t this provincial governor or general. I too want to go back and see our old lord.”

At this point, Beigong Chun paused, murmuring, “If I resigned now…”

Huang An was startled and quickly advised, “General, His Majesty will certainly not allow it. She might even blame Xiliang, thinking Xiliang is too close to us.”

Beigong Chun wiped away his tears and said, “Shut up. His Majesty isn’t that kind of person. Though I said that, I also know I can’t resign.”

Huang An held his breath in his chest. If you know you can’t resign, why say it? Scaring him for fun?

Not far from Bingzhou in Youzhou, after reading the telegram, Shi Le sighed, “He was a hero. If at the end of my life I can achieve what he did, it will be enough.”

Zhang Bin smiled without speaking, but in his heart he knew Shi Le couldn’t obtain the posthumous title “Wumu.” His honors existed only in life. After death… alas, he had made too many mistakes in the first half of his life. There were more people in this world who wanted to kill Shi Le than the emperor; countless people hated him to death.

Zhang Bin now had only one goal: to let his lord have greater and more achievements, reduce the impact of the first half of his life, and strive for a good outcome after death as well.

In Xiliang, after sending the telegram, Zhang Mao sat in the telegraph room waiting. He waited for over an hour. The telegraph that had been silent suddenly began to sound.

Everyone in the telegraph room sat up straight, anxiously watching.

Soon the telegraph operator brought over the decoded message and respectfully presented it.

Wang Rong reached out to take it. With red eyes, he read, “The emperor heard the tragic news and was deeply grieved. She orders the Xiliang Prince’s heir apparent to prepare the body for burial, orders Ministry of Rites officials to go and assist with funeral arrangements, and further orders the entire nation to observe mourning and send off the Xiliang Prince with grief.”

Zhang Mao’s spine relaxed all at once. He leaned back in his chair, his mouth trembling, tears rolling down. The grief he had been suppressing finally had solid ground to land on and could be freely cried out.

National mourning meant His Majesty didn’t blame them for the funeral conflicting with the princess’s joyous occasion.

Only then did the Xiliang Prince’s mansion fill with wailing as they began the funeral arrangements.

The next day, they received another telegram from the capital—the imperial edict sent in advance.

Zhang Mao led his entire household to kneel outside the telegraph room to listen. Hearing Wang Rong report the posthumous appointment of Grand Commandant and the posthumous title “Wumu,” Zhang Mao knocked his head on the ground, prostrating himself and saying loudly, “I kowtow in gratitude for the imperial grace. Our Zhang family has passed down filial piety and fraternal love from early Han times until now, generation after generation loyal and obedient. I, Zhang Mao, will never forget our ancestral teachings. I will defend territory and expand frontiers for Huaguo, for the people, for His Majesty, until death!”

He raised his tear-filled eyes and turned to look at his nephew Zhang Jun and daughter Zhang Ruo kneeling behind him, “You two must also remember the ancestral teachings and never disappoint Huaguo and His Majesty!”

Seven-year-old Zhang Jun and eight-year-old Zhang Ruo maintained serious expressions, solemnly agreeing and bowing down.

Those present, the one most bewildered was Zhang Mao himself. He hadn’t recovered yet. At this moment, his head was full of thoughts about how to explain this to his brother when he returned.

After finishing their discussion, Zhang Gui became more spirited. He said, “I must live to see His Majesty give birth to her first son, to see Anxun return. Bring me the medicine.”

Zhang Mao snapped back to his senses and quickly got up from the floor to fetch the medicine.

Everyone exchanged glances. The emperor was also a woman, and Zhang Mao’s daughter was only eight years old. Everything was still in time; they could educate her now.