In early July, Hangzhou fell and chaos swept the realm, everyone scrambling to save themselves and find a way out. At the time, the seagoing docks south of the city, at the mouth of the Qiantang River, had offered the easiest and safest route of escape, and Ning Yi himself had once considered it—though never as his only option. Besides, everyone had believed the Wude Camp to be an elite force, and Ning Yi himself had held some confidence that Hangzhou could hold; he had never expected the city to fall so quickly.

During the flight after the city’s fall, he had heard bits and pieces of news, including that Qian Xiwen had fled by boat at the very first opportunity. In Ning Yi’s eyes, Confucian scholars tended to fall into one of two types—either rigid and hopelessly unteachable, or cunning and slippery, always playing at schemes—and he held little regard for either sort. That the man had fled the moment the city fell had struck him as unsurprising, and he had thought little of it at the time.

But in truth, after the city fell, the old man had never actually left by boat. It was said that after seeing off a number of the Qian family’s more promising younger members, he had taken several old retainers and secretly slipped off the boat himself. From beginning to end, even as one column after another broke out of the city, he had never left Hangzhou with any of them.

Having sent off those he could, the old man gathered together some loyal servants, relatives, and a handful of soldiers who hadn’t managed to flee in time, and mounted a resistance near the Qian family’s ancestral home. Their numbers were few, but the resistance, it was said, had been fierce, lasting a good night of hard fighting before Guo Shiguang finally led troops to level the place and capture the old man, who had been held prisoner ever since.

After his own capture, Ning Yi naturally paid little attention to the fate of the Qian family. It was only in recent days at the academy, amid some students wanting to kill him and others wanting to protect him—nearly splitting the place in two—that those on his side, who were on somewhat better terms with him, happened to mention the executions taking place, and it was only then that he learned Qian Xiwen had never actually left the city. That morning, he’d mentioned to A’Chang that he wanted to go see him, and A’Chang had agreed, accompanying him there.

The Overlord Blade Camp’s supervision of him was, on the surface, fairly loose—as Ning Yi understood it, they wanted him to go see things for himself. What the city looked like after its fall, just how bleak things had become, just how miserable the fate of those who refused to submit truly was—letting him come see it on his own was itself a form of psychological warfare.

Ning Yi, for his part, was naturally glad to get out and walk around, mainly in hopes of finding some opportunity to escape. But he understood well enough that his body had not yet fully recovered, and with Xiao Chan in tow, and given what the other side had already witnessed at Taiping Alley and in Huzhou, there weren’t likely to be many opportunities left for him to seize. Since taking reckless risks was out of the question, there was no point making it too easy for them to see through him—better simply to stay near the academy and recuperate quietly. So when he’d finally spoken up about wanting to go, they’d been rather pleased—a chance to let him visit the prison, watch an execution, nothing could suit them better.

“This Qian Xiwen you mentioned—I’ve heard of him too. Quite the scholar, they say, not just putting on airs. He’s a formidable one—he stayed behind on purpose. When we caught him, he didn’t try to kill himself either. Some of his family were captured too, to try to get him to submit… you know how it goes, all sorts of things happened. I heard one of them was supposedly his own son—had both hands cut off right in front of him, and he didn’t even blink… Anyway, his whole family’s set to be executed today. Since you know him, it wouldn’t hurt to go see him—and if you could talk him into staying alive, even better… though I doubt it’ll work.”

Of the two men accompanying Ning Yi, A’Chang was the more serious of the pair, while A’Ming was somewhat glib, but even he, speaking of Qian Xiwen now, showed a measure of genuine admiration.

Xiao Chan was left waiting outside. Passing through the long prison corridor, Ning Yi heard many people crying out—some were members of the Qian family who hadn’t managed to escape, most of them already having been tortured. One or two faces he even recognized; among them was the young man he’d once run into stealing Qian Xiwen’s coral brush rest, the first time he’d ever visited the Qian residence. Ning Yi couldn’t recall the man’s name, but he now lay in his cell with one leg broken, barely breathing.

Ning Yi was still turning this over in his mind, having already walked several meters past, when a voice suddenly called out behind him: “My name is Qian Weiliang!” He frowned and turned back—it was the young man calling out. The cells were full of people crying for help or shouting all manner of things, but this young man had simply given his name and said nothing more. Not long after, a few more voices called out their own names in turn: “My name is Qian Weiqi.” “My name is Qian Haiting.” The one called Qian Haiting turned out to be a middle-aged man whose hands had both been severed.

Then came the voice of a jailer: “Damn it, every time someone comes through, it’s the same thing…”

When they reached the innermost cell, Ning Yi finally saw Qian Xiwen. The old man appeared unharmed, aside from a scraped patch on his forehead that had already scabbed over; the rest of him showed no sign of injury. His clothes were neatly arranged, and at that moment he was using a basin of clean water to tidy his robes and hair. The light in the cell was dim, and he squinted for a moment before recognizing Ning Yi clearly.

At A’Ming’s urging, the jailer unlocked the cell door. Once Ning Yi had stepped inside, the others withdrew. The old man, still smoothing his hair, glanced at Ning Yi a few times. “You… you’ve been captured too.”

Ning Yi nodded.

“Submitted to them?” Qian Xiwen studied him, then nodded. “Well. He who reads the times clearly is the wise one—you’re a practical man. Keeping your life… that’s for the best too.”

“I’m not sure whether I’ve really submitted or not, myself. I’d heard you’d fled by boat right away, but yesterday I heard you’d stayed behind, so I wanted to come see you.”

A trace of confusion crossed Qian Xiwen’s eyes. “Oh? How did that come about?”

“I…” Ning Yi thought for a moment, then finally shook his head. “I… heh. Qian Haiping and the others fled and should already have reached Huzhou by now. There were a few among them I knew—I thought you might want to hear this. They made it out alive.”

“Oh.” The corner of the old man’s mouth curved faintly. “These past few days, people have come one after another, trying every argument they could think of to talk me around. You’re the last one, and I have to say, this news is the best of the lot. How are you doing yourself?”

“I’m not entirely sure. But I didn’t come here to talk you around—I just wanted to see you.” Ning Yi nodded.

“Go on, tell me about it, no harm in that.” The old man smiled. “It hasn’t been long since Fang La and the others took Hangzhou—this is exactly the time they most need capable men. If you truly want to distinguish yourself, it shouldn’t be difficult at all. This old man has been navigating this world for decades now, and I’ve picked up a thing or two about how these things work. If Liheng is facing any difficulties right now, don’t hesitate to share them—perhaps this old man can offer some advice.”

His tone was earnest and warm; he clearly assumed Ning Yi had already thrown in his lot with Fang La, and seemed eager, if anything, to help him secure his position or rise further. Ning Yi looked at the old man for a long moment before finally speaking. “Would you like to hear what’s happened to me recently, sir?”

“Go on, go on…”

“Heh. Qian Haiping, Elder Tang Xiuxuan, Chen Xingdu and the others, on the day the city fell…”

Ning Yi’s original purpose in coming had certainly not been to tell stories, but by this point he found he didn’t mind sharing it after all. As he told the tale, Qian Xiwen came to realize something was different here. The old man listened as the fleeing column pushed north and fell into mortal danger, and the light in his eyes gradually began to shift. By the time he heard how Ning Yi had set his trap, rallying the Wude Camp’s spirit to turn the tables and kill three of the enemy’s commanders, the old man finally gave his thigh a light pat and said slowly, “Good.” He said nothing more after that, listening all the way through to the end of the story, and only then nodded again and said, “Good.” This time, the look in his eyes as he regarded Ning Yi had changed entirely—nothing at all like the earlier tolerant, understanding gaze of a man who assumed Ning Yi had simply defected.

“Only an extraordinary man could accomplish such extraordinary things… Good. Chancellor Qin was right to think highly of you—he wasn’t wrong about you. You must preserve this useful life of yours, and wait quietly for what’s to come… Fang La’s army doesn’t hold the greater advantage; it may well stop right here at Hangzhou. This can’t last long. You must live, you must live…”

He murmured this to himself. Ning Yi looked at him. “I’ve heard stories before, of stiff-necked, pedantic scholars dying for their principles. Some of them sound truly great; others, honestly, seem less than necessary. Sir, if Hangzhou fell and you had no chance to flee, I could understand that. What I don’t quite understand is why you came back after having already gotten away. You’re a practical man who understands statecraft—if you’d left, you could have done far more good.”

Qian Xiwen looked up at him. “Liheng… you don’t approve?”

Ning Yi drew a breath. “Those people out there—they’re not worth it.”

Qian Xiwen paused visibly at this, and after a long moment nodded. “That’s true… they were all good children. Such a shame…”

“I…” Ning Yi was about to speak when Qian Xiwen suddenly looked up again. “What does Liheng think is the thing we scholars ought to do, above all else?”

Ning Yi thought it over. “I won’t flatter you with grand words—everyone has their own view. There are things scholars ought to do, but as for the single most important thing, I doubt anyone could say for certain. And besides… I’m not really a scholar myself.”

Hearing this answer, Qian Xiwen laughed. “Indeed—and that’s precisely why you’re capable of such extraordinary things, why you could… turn the entire situation at Huzhou around in a single stroke.” Speaking of this, the old man seemed almost excited. “But… this old man has studied Confucianism for decades now, and I’ve come to one conclusion. What we Confucians ought to do, above all else, in the end, is still… to guard the Way.”

Ning Yi frowned. Qian Xiwen laughed for a while. “Since I first met Liheng, we’ve never spoken much, but over these past months I’ve come to understand exactly what sort of man you are. As for me, I imagine you’ve heard something of my history too—the Start-of-Autumn poetry gathering back then, this year’s as well, all the comings and goings of officialdom, the political maneuvering. You said yourself just now that this old man is a practical man. Indeed—practical…”

He sighed, seeming rather moved by the word. “But, Liheng, think about it. If it weren’t for how things stand now in officialdom, in the army, if everyone hadn’t chosen this clever, practical path—when the enemy came, the moment people felt the cause was lost, everyone simply turned tail and ran. How else could Hangzhou have fallen so quickly? If, day after day, we speak only of the words of the sages, of how a true man should die for his principles, and yet when the city actually falls, not a single person is willing to do anything so foolish—then who would ever believe those sagely words again?”

“Talk of patriotism, talk of dying for one’s principles—when death actually comes, and no one is willing to go through with it, doesn’t Confucianism become something no one can see or touch? Liheng, this may sound rather too practical put this way, but we Confucians ought to have a few people die each year—a few people… with names, dying beneath the executioner’s blade, dying at the foot of the golden throne, dying before the eyes of ten thousand people. When the moment truly calls for death, one cannot retreat—only that way can we remind the world that this Confucian Way is real, that we are willing to die for injustice, and only then can we truly say we’ve carried forward the unbroken learning of the sages. My dying here in Hangzhou is also meant to remind everyone that yes, some people did resist—so that when they want to speak of it later, in a moment of passion, they’ll have a name to point to…”

He grew somewhat agitated as he spoke, his arm trembling as he fumbled to put on his cap. “I’m already old—this is exactly the right place for me to die. You, Liheng, shouldn’t have to die yet, and neither should those children out there, but there was no other way. Among them, there are some I taught to believe in these things myself—so I suppose they too… died in the right place.”

A faint light filtered in through a crack, dust drifting in the air. Having said this, the old man gave a faint smile. “So it may not sound very good put this way, but what’s called guarding the Way is, in the end, really just… dying before your eyes, at the appropriate moment. Quite a few have already died. Because I happen to be somewhat more well-known, I found myself, ironically, put off until last, which meant those children suffered a few more days of hardship on my account… a burden of empty reputation, I suppose…”

Ning Yi fell into a brief silence. Toward Confucianism, he held both admiration and disdain. What he admired was, in essence, this vast, self-consistent system of governance built up under the guise of Confucian ideals to serve the rule of a single family over all-under-heaven—an intricate art of governance, dense and interwoven like a spider’s web. What he held in contempt was the way most Confucian scholars had read themselves into a kind of foolishness, either unable to think for themselves at all or thinking about everything to an absurd degree, presenting all manner of unseemly spectacles. But this old man before him had, in truth, made the very word “Confucianism” seem, for a moment, genuinely great.

Practical and pragmatic in ordinary times, and yet, at the appropriate moment… willing to die before your eyes.

Like the many Confucian scholars throughout history who had dashed their heads against palace pillars and died before the throne; like Lu Xiufu of a later age, who had drowned himself at Yashan; like Fang Xiaoru, who had cursed Zhu Di without pause even after being executed by dismemberment. Looking back from later ages, many of these men might seem, in some sense, rather foolish—accomplishing nothing at all in the end. But if one considered Confucianism a kind of undertaking, these were, in truth, the very people who had actually accomplished something—who had genuinely carried forward the unbroken learning of the sages. If one wanted to put it plainly, it really was, in a sense, “dying before others’ eyes.”

Ning Yi himself would never do such a thing, and yet he found it very hard not to admire it. He thought it over, considering how the killing outside had gone on for days now, and how there must, in the end, still be a great many people who had died this way. Then, recalling the few people who had called out their own names as he’d walked in, he asked, “Just now, when I came in… a few people were calling out their names. What were they really…”

The old man laughed. “They wanted to be remembered—wanted people to know there had been such people, that they too had died before your eyes like this… They were all good children. The ones who called out their names, and the ones who didn’t, all the same…”

He thought for a moment, then patted Ning Yi’s shoulder. “You should live, since you’re able to. You have to live to accomplish things. You’re still young—don’t dwell on this too much. Someday, take this and turn it into a story to tell others…”

The old man then set aside talk of Confucianism, and instead asked after the safety of Su Tan’er and the rest of the Su family, before rambling on to mention a number of other names, asking whether any of them were among the fleeing column. Ning Yi didn’t remember many of them, but he chatted with him a while longer. What lingered in his mind by the end, though, was that coral brush rest of the old man’s. The old man had run a strict household, and the younger members of the family were kept short on spending money; whenever one of them was truly desperate for cash, he’d go steal the old man’s brush rest, since the old man had put out a standing reward of ten strings of cash for its safe return—no questions asked, just hand over the money. And so the younger members of the family had made a habit of stealing it and returning it, over and over, each time collecting their ten strings of cash. One of those young men had been none other than the very Qian Weiliang who’d called out his name outside…

Ha—that thief, and here he was, showing this kind of backbone in the end…

Turning all this over in his mind, Ning Yi found his heart had grown almost old with weariness; it had been a long time since he’d heard a story quite this compelling, and he felt himself faintly moved by it…

At noon, the jailer came in and unlocked the cell door. Not long after, under the blazing midday sun, out on the packed-earth square outside, a row of heads was struck from their bodies. In the crowd, some cheered and shouted their approval, while others stood silent, their expressions somber. Ning Yi stood among them and watched the entire execution through to the end…