The scorching sun at noon was blazing and poisonous. In Dali City, which had just experienced the ravages of war, everywhere the eye could see were broken walls and ruins. The originally lush streets lined with flowers and trees were now stained with blood, and several bloated corpses still floated on the rippling blue waters of Erhai Lake. On the verdant Cangshan Mountain in the distance, thick columns of smoke billowed up, burning the Dali soldiers who had died in battle or been killed for refusing to surrender.

Throughout the city were fully armed Mongol soldiers, all sporting ridiculous queue hairstyles. Though these resembled the three-tuft haircuts worn by children in the Central Plains, no one dared mock them to their faces. All the Dali Bai ethnic people driven to the roadside kept their heads down—some silent, some quietly weeping, some suppressing the anger in their chests—until a prison cart creaked slowly from the south gate.

Gao Taixiang stood in the prison cart, secretly grateful that these Mongol soldiers, to demonstrate their mercy, had specifically sent someone to bathe him and change his clothes that morning, covering his scarred body from torture. At least now, aside from his simple clothing, haggard appearance, and somewhat disheveled state in the prison cart, he still retained some dignity befitting a Dali Chancellor.

Seeing the shock and despair flash in his subjects’ eyes on both sides of the road, Gao Taixiang’s heart felt like it was being cut by knives. It was he and Duan Xingzhi who were incompetent—when Dali City fell, they failed to live and die with Dali, instead separately leading troops to abandon the city and flee, allowing the ancient city of Dali, bestowed by heaven, to suffer the ravages of war.

Gao Taixiang had always believed that Dali belonged to the Gao family, even though both in the past and now, Dali’s emperors were surnamed Duan.

Since the fourth emperor Duan Sicong’s reign in the Kingdom of Dali, the Gao family had replaced the Dong family to seize the chancellorship, and from then on held power over the court. Even during his great-grandfather Gao Shengtai’s time, they had deposed Duan Zhengming and established themselves as emperor. Although they returned the throne to the Duan family of Dali two years later, the reins of power in Dali had always been firmly grasped in the Gao family’s hands, passed down through generations. Whenever a Dali emperor on the throne showed the slightest disobedience, they could demand that person go to Wuwei Temple to abdicate and become a monk, replacing them with an obedient member of the Duan family as emperor. In fact, eight Duan family emperors had gone to Wuwei Temple to become monks.

So in Dali, almost everyone knew that the emperor was merely a figurehead, while those who truly held power were the contemporary Gao family chancellors.

The Gao family had an ancestral teaching: never usurp the Duan family’s throne. Gao Shengtai had once violated this ancestral teaching and to this day was not even qualified to be buried in the Gao family ancestral graves. So despite his unwillingness, Gao Taixiang strictly observed the ancestral teaching, never crossing that line. Because he knew that no royal family in this world could rule forever—if the Gao family usurped the Duan family’s throne, someday others would replace the Gao family too.

But now, it seemed the entire kingdom of Dali was about to cease existing.

Watching the Dali people on both sides of the street successively kneel in bewilderment, Gao Taixiang felt their gazes upon him were even more unbearable than the blazing sun overhead, causing sweat to pour down his back like sap.

The beautiful scenery of households growing flowers and water flowing through every street had now become devastated beyond recognition. Flowers had withered and decayed, and the prison cart crushed camellia petals mixed with bloodstains remaining on the bluestone bricks, creating a heart-stopping sense of despair.

In the distance, one could see Wuhua Tower at the end of the road. The magnificent building still displayed exquisite wood carvings—this guest pavilion built during the Nanzhao period had not been ordered destroyed even by Kublai Khan. Instead, after Dali City fell, he stationed his army there. What differed from the past were the banners flying from Wuhua Tower, all bearing foreign script.

Gao Taixiang’s prison cart creaked to a stop in the square in front of Wuhua Tower, and he was led by soldiers to the newly constructed wooden platform in the square.

This was to execute him publicly, giving those Dali subjects who still harbored rebellious thoughts a show of force.

Gao Taixiang kept a wooden expression on his handsome face, his bound hands behind his back, his spine straight as a rod. The noon sunlight shone directly down, forming a golden aura around him that gave him an inviolable dignity—for a moment, no one dared approach to force him to kneel.

In reality, Gao Taixiang was standing purely through willpower; a single gust of wind could blow him over. Every bone and muscle in his body ached unbearably, yet he still stood with righteous bearing. Glancing up at the shadowy crowd of figures standing on Wuhua Tower, Gao Taixiang could vaguely see beneath the canopy a man wearing a folded waist-style helmet and golden brocade robes—this was the Mongol prince, the fourth son of the regent Tolui, Borjigin Kublai Khan.

Before long, someone from Wuhua Tower shouted down—nothing more than the usual worn-out words of persuading surrender with promises of high office and generous rewards. Gao Taixiang had heard these so many times in recent days he could recite them. When the messenger soldiers grew tired of shouting, the square suddenly fell into suffocating silence, with thousands of eyes watching Gao Taixiang’s choice.

If he had chosen to surrender, he would have done so long ago. If he wanted to end his life early, why endure such humiliation? Kublai Khan surely intended not only to intimidate but also to root out all resistance forces in Dali City in one sweep. What a fine calculation.

A trace of mockery flashed across Gao Taixiang’s handsome face as he declared in a clear voice: “The Duan fortune cannot return—heaven wills it so. My cause is finished!” Having said this, he closed his eyes and remained silent, stretching his neck to await execution. No matter what, Duan Xingzhi was still alive—hopefully he would have a chance to return to Dali…

Duan Xingzhi, remember our promise. I will watch over you from heaven.

The executioner received orders from Wuhua Tower and raised the giant axe in his hands.

The blazing sun was suddenly obscured by heavy dark clouds. In an instant, fierce winds arose, making banners flutter and snap loudly. Thunder and lightning immediately followed, with sand flying in their faces, and as torrential rain fell, so did a spray of blood rain…

The heavy carved door of Mute House creaked open, and Lu Zigang then heard the sound of a walking stick striking the floor. Too lazy to even raise his head, he continued focusing intently on gripping his kun knife while carving the jade piece in his hands.

The curator needed no greeting from him, familiarly placing a brocade box in his hands on the counter before carefully picking up a tea bowl nearby, admiring it with gentle movements. What a joke! Looking at this glaze color, rough rim, tear marks, and unglazed rim—one could tell at a glance this was a late Song Ding kiln piece, and moreover a rare black Ding variety. Looking at the clear leaf pattern visible at the bottom of the bowl through the clear tea, without needing further authentication, the curator had already confirmed this was a Song Ding kiln black glaze leaf pattern bowl.

His hands couldn’t help but tremble slightly. The curator quickly placed the tea cup back on the counter. What a crime! This quality of antique would qualify to be displayed in a glass case for admiration even in the treasure-rich National Palace Museum in Taipei. But here at Mute House, it had become a vessel for casually brewing tea. Although originally this tea cup was meant for drinking tea, no matter how many times the curator had seen it, he still couldn’t get used to it.

The curator was torn between fear of breaking it and desire to hold it in his hands for fondling. After staring blankly at the black Ding tea cup for a while, he shifted his gaze to Lu Zigang’s side, and upon seeing became even more shocked, pushing up his reading glasses on his nose bridge.

Was he seeing things? When did Lu Zigang develop such excellent craftsmanship? Could he really have been possessed by that Ming Dynasty Lu Zigang?

Looking at the peony carved on this jade piece—even the vein patterns on the petals were carved crystal clear, and even the dewdrops on top gave one a feeling they were about to drip. Adding to this the jade material used was Hetian jade seed material, mutton-fat white and lustrous, even the remaining skin’s yellow color perfectly fell on the peony’s stamen, which Lu Zigang was currently carving with his kun knife.

The curator was completely mesmerized, knowing he couldn’t casually interrupt. If this cut went slightly off in force, this ingeniously crafted jade piece might be ruined. He watched as the peony’s stamens appeared one by one before his eyes, while the darker colored areas nearby were skillfully carved by Lu Zigang into a bee, with wings thin as cicada wings that seemed ready to take flight the next moment.

During this process, the curator was afraid even his breathing might disturb Lu Zigang, so he kept quietly lightening his breath, directly causing Lu Zigang to forget there was someone watching beside him. When he finished carving the bee and used his kun knife to inscribe a poem on the back of the jade piece, casually adding a Zigang signature, only then did he raise his head, planning to pick up the tea cup beside him for a drink to moisten his throat.

When his hand reached out and grasped nothing, only then did he notice there was an additional person in Mute House. Lu Zigang saw that black Ding leaf pattern bowl placed in front of the curator and knew without guessing that it had definitely been examined all over by Uncle Curator. He curled his lips in disgust, rummaging through the counter to find another tea cup about the same size as the previous one, picking up the teapot to brew himself a fresh pot of tea.

Even with another Song Ding kiln black glaze partridge spot bowl now in front of him, the curator wasn’t as excited. His expression was somewhat dazed—he hadn’t seen wrong, had he? Such exquisite and perfect carving work! Such authentic Zigang signature! If he hadn’t personally watched this jade piece being carved, after adding a series of counterfeiting methods like vinegar treatment, luster removal, and stain dying, he might even think this was a genuine Ming Dynasty Lu Zigang piece…

Could it be that Mute House was actually a counterfeit goods shop?

The curator immediately dismissed this suspicion. Counterfeiting also required specialization in certain areas—it couldn’t be possible for all antiques to look so authentic. Besides, how many good things had he obtained from Mute House? Surely they couldn’t all be fakes? Moreover, there had been imitation Zigang signature jade pieces throughout history—it was just that this young man carved too realistically.

Lu Zigang didn’t care what the curator was pondering. He wished this uncle would overthink things and stay as far away from Mute House as possible. This uncle had been coming every day recently without stating any business, always beating around the bush. After sipping hot tea, Lu Zigang glanced at the additional brocade box on the counter this time and sighed: “Uncle Curator, I’ve already told you the boss isn’t here recently. Even if you bring things to find me, it’s useless.”

With this reminder, the curator finally remembered his purpose, hurriedly saying: “Little Lu! Uncle really couldn’t find anyone else to help! Come help me take a look!”

Lu Zigang reluctantly took the black Ding wood pattern bowl from in front of the curator, washed it, and poured him a fresh bowl of tea, making a posture of listening attentively. To be honest, Lu Zigang had originally approached this with the mentality of passing time, but as the curator’s slightly hoarse voice continued, his expression became increasingly serious.