In the dream, the sky was heavy and dark, rain mixed with thunder.

Amid the thunder and rain, the girl was running desperately. Louder than the thunder was the rolling thunder of hooves bearing down. The girl fell, covered in mud in the rain; she pulled herself back up and kept running. In the hazy shifting light, a wall of cavalry and infantry curved around out of the darkness like a crescent moon.

And so he sat bolt upright in the small hut. He shouldn’t have been able to see what lay in front of the hut, but this time his view was from above, looking down — the mud-covered girl still running toward him, the enemy line closing in from behind. He heard the sound of hooves and fumbled for his blade and spear; the window at the back of the hut stood open, and through it he saw, far off, his terrified wife trying to run toward him, only to be struck unconscious by the guard beside her.

He sat by the window and waved his hand.

Then came a scattering of broken memories — a weeping girl standing before the hut with her arms spread wide, the cavalry charging in, rising before them like a mountain, the door he pushed open, the flashes of light and sound in the raging storm, a blade of light cutting through the dark with a boom, blades and fists swinging toward him, a massive sword sweeping in sideways, a girl wielding that blade with her face veiled, cleaving a war horse’s body along with the blood it sprayed apart in mid-air, a furious argument…

When he opened his eyes, it was still dark outside.

He lay there, pulling himself free of the noise of the dream, quietly feeling this brief moment of peace. Beyond the screen, Xiao Chan, asleep on the narrow bed, shifted her body. Outside, the insects of the pre-dawn hour were calling, and the pulse of the city stirred faintly, in fragments.

This was… Hangzhou.

The first time in several days he had dreamed of what had happened those days before.

On the night of the thirteenth of the seventh month, in the chaos of the raid on the camp, he and the many guards around him had been scattered by the attacking army. After that, it was all flight and stumbling, his mind clouded and confused. A few days later he had come back to himself somewhat, having, in effect, clawed his way back from death — but the infection in his wound had taken a heavy toll on his body, and what followed was a state of extreme weakness. In truth, had he not already trained his body well beforehand, this injury alone might well have finished him.

During that time, the few soldiers who had remained with him had by then scattered as well. The only ones who had stayed with him after he’d fallen out of the main column were his wife Su Tan’er, the maid Xiao Chan, Juan’er, and Old Geng, the loyal estate guard who had always protected his young mistress. Xing’er hadn’t managed to keep up that night and had likely returned to Fuzhou with the main body of troops — which, in the midst of misfortune, was probably for the best.

And then came the events he’d just dreamed of again. When they failed to make it back to Huzhou and tried instead to hide in the surrounding countryside, they were finally discovered. He and Xiao Chan hadn’t been able to get away in time and were forced to face the enemy directly. His wife and Juan’er had been at the back of the house at the time, and once the enemy was spotted, Old Geng had knocked Su Tan’er unconscious and fled with Juan’er as quickly as he could.

Looking back on it, if the pursuing Fang La forces had pressed forward without letting up, Old Geng and the others likely wouldn’t have had a chance to escape. But those men, upon seeing him, had stopped in their tracks, arguing furiously among themselves — some wanting to kill him, others seemingly determined to protect him. After a chaotic stretch of this, the two sides had nearly come to blows, and then the girl called Liu Xigua had appeared, sweeping her great blade to hold everyone back with cold indifference. He himself, weak as he was, had only managed to fire a single shot from his spear before it was over, and in the end he and Xiao Chan had been captured together. When he next woke, he was in Hangzhou.

…

After a stretch of grey, overcast weather came a sudden downpour, plunging the whole of Hangzhou’s morning into a haze of pale blue-grey. The travelers, soldiers, and peddlers moving in and out near the city gates put on wide hats and rain capes, and the city — which had begun to grow a little livelier since the great battle — settled once more into a somewhat quiet mood.

A handful of boats had docked at the wharves along the Qiantang River near the southern part of the city, dockworkers loading and unloading cargo up and down the gangways, while laborers, escorted by soldiers, headed out of the city to begin preparing for this year’s rice harvest. In areas that had suffered heavier damage, houses and wooden sheds were being rebuilt one after another. On the somewhat livelier streets, women soldiers and workers were putting up scaffolding and decorations for the coming enthronement parade.

Hangzhou now had, as the foundation of its new order, a hierarchy built around the rebel soldiers and officers as its privileged class, and daily life here was naturally very different from before. A few lively spots buzzed almost unnaturally, while most of the rest of the city sat mired in confusion and gloom. There was quiet, of course, in places — but in the hearts of the people, nothing had yet settled; no one could truly feel at ease.

From a small courtyard on one side of the city came the sound of scattered reading voices, mixing faintly with the sound of the heavy rain.

This was a small academy, surrounded outside and in by dense trees. Next door was a clinic, and beyond that a ruined courtyard now occupied by some unit of soldiers or another. The clinic was a busy place, with the sound of cursing soldiers and officers often drifting over from it.

Fang La’s uprising was, at its root, a peasant rebellion, and in its earliest days the most direct expression of that had been killing every member of the privileged class they could find — officials, landlords, wealthy merchants, and scholars who looked down on them. But at the same time, they themselves wished to become part of that privileged class — to become officials, landlords, wealthy merchants. These ambitions weren’t things one said aloud, but the most respectable path among them was, naturally, to become a scholar oneself. When they stormed into any given place, if they came across some scholar who displeased them, who refused to fall in line, they would readily curse him as a weakling who couldn’t even lift a chicken, and kill him without a second thought. But those among them with any foresight, any real ambition, still hoped, once conditions allowed, that their own families might one day produce scholars, might amount to something — this was the value system a thousand years of Confucian rule had instilled: that only the educated could truly accomplish great things.

And so, even amid the devastation left behind by the fighting, there were always some who held power who chose to protect certain scholars — as advisors, or as tutors for the younger members of their households. This academy in front of him was, as it happened, the only academy left operating in Hangzhou these days, said to have several military officers backing it. After the fall of the city, food supplies had grown extremely tight, and a number of scholars — men without power or connections, not part of the “notorious” great families, but educated nonetheless — had survived the fall of the city by chance and been placed here as teachers.

At present the academy’s students weren’t numerous; most came from families with some connection or another, though not particularly powerful ones. If someone of the standing of Shi Bao or Wang Yin wanted a tutor for their household’s children, they would simply seize some renowned scholar directly for the purpose.

Though there weren’t many students, there were plenty of teachers. Some had already served in Fang La’s army before and had adapted to the new order; having entered the city, they’d been placed here, and most of them carried themselves with some arrogance — they already had connections among the military officers and received plenty of benefits, no longer at risk of persecution. The others were scholars originally from Hangzhou itself — the “defeated,” so to speak — and no matter their learning, they now had no choice but to keep their heads down and wait out the situation. What little pay they received was barely enough to live on, though in Hangzhou these days, that already counted as a fine job. Occasionally provoked, but mindful of the wives, children, and dependents they had to care for, they could only grit their teeth and endure it, clinging to whatever scholarly dignity they had left.

“Ahem… class begins. My surname is Ning. Today I’ll be lecturing on the Records of the Grand Historian…”

Rain wove a curtain beneath the eaves, veiling the world outside. As the students that morning still sat among their desks slapping at their damp clothes and murmuring to one another, a rather young man sat down on the lecture platform, tapped the desk once with his pointer, and, with a faint air of illness about him, spoke — his words brief and even.

Below, the students chattered and laughed noisily; above, the young teacher went on with his lesson regardless. He looked frail, even somewhat unwell, and most of the students below had little sense of respect for him. A few sturdily built boys among them even interrupted him mid-sentence, asking bluntly: “Hey, where’s the best fun to be had around Hangzhou these days?” The teacher only laughed and named a few places worth seeing — and that was how this Teacher Ning’s first day at the academy went.

That, more or less, was an ordinary morning in this one small corner of Hangzhou’s present chaos. By late morning, the students scattered off happily like birds released from a cage, and the young man who had just given his lecture returned to the teachers’ room, exchanging a few words with the others there. The teachers here, too, were a mixed bag — those who’d already served in Fang La’s army mostly had their own business to attend to, while those originally from Hangzhou tended to be anxious and withdrawn, teaching quietly and asking few questions.

One of them recognized him and said simply, “Ning Liheng…,” cupping his hands together but saying nothing further — an unspoken understanding between them. Times were hard, everyone had it difficult, and no one was in the mood for idle pleasantries.

The rain kept falling in sheets. After half a day’s lessons, the academy had grown a little quieter. Passing by a section of leaking eaves, Ning Yi collected his pay for the day from the academy’s steward — a small bag of coarse rice and a wilted handful of vegetables. As the other scholars scattered out into the misty rain, Ning Yi made his way toward the back of the academy.

Part of the wall behind the academy had collapsed, connecting it to a small courtyard that also joined the clinic next door. Only two or three of the rooms in that small courtyard were still usable. At the door of one of them, Xiao Chan stood shyly, waiting for his return; when she caught sight of him, she snatched up a broken umbrella and dashed out into the rain to meet him…

…

As for Ning Yi himself, even he couldn’t quite say what his present situation truly amounted to.

When he’d been brought back to Hangzhou, his body had been weak to an alarming degree, and he’d been placed in the clinic just ahead. Since then, apart from two blade-bearing guards who lingered nearby and made him feel rather like a prisoner, no one else had come to deal with him one way or another — as if the person who had rescued him had simply brought him back to Hangzhou and then… forgotten about him.

Xiao Chan had stayed by his side the whole time, caring for him. The little maid hadn’t left him once since they’d been captured together and brought to Hangzhou; she’d deliberately made herself look plain and unremarkable. Only once Ning Yi had truly regained consciousness had she calmed down somewhat. According to her, Su Tan’er and Juan’er had likely not been captured, but with Huzhou in such chaos at the time, whether they, under Old Geng’s protection, had managed to make it back to Huzhou remained uncertain. Su Tan’er was a stubborn woman by nature, and what had become of them since was the thing that weighed most heavily on Ning Yi’s mind these days. But worry was worry — here he was, with nowhere to go, and all he could do was take things as they came, at least with Xiao Chan still there to look after.

Over these past days, as his wounds had slowly healed, he and Xiao Chan had been settled into the small courtyard behind the clinic. Master and servant, the two of them weren’t under any explicit restriction of movement, but for people without any backing, wandering about outside these days rarely turned up anything pleasant to see. Supplies in Hangzhou were scarce of late, and the two of them, as prisoners, received two meals’ worth of rations each day, which they cooked themselves.

No one knew whose courtyard this had once been; most of its furnishings were long gone, and what remained was worn and shabby — since the earthquake, part of the building had collapsed, and it wasn’t a particularly comfortable place to live. Xiao Chan, though, had seemed rather pleased to tidy the place up over the past few days. A few days ago, the elderly physician had asked what Ning Yi used to do for a living. Ning Yi had thought it over and answered: teaching. And so that day he’d been sent to the academy — putting him to use, back to his old trade.