Given everything that had happened tonight—Liu Xigua waiting alone in this small shop for the Qi family’s men to track her down—it was, in fact, a reasonably sound guess that if the Qi family’s people had some source of information, the shopkeeper of this little establishment was a fairly likely suspect.
The Qi family’s assassins had come on with such sudden, fierce speed that Lou Jingzhi and the others had understandably had no spare attention left to take stock of the overall situation. But Ning Liheng was a man who had spent a lifetime studying the workings of people’s hearts, and it was no great feat for him to keep some measure of wariness even amid all this. The thought had only flickered briefly through his mind; he’d kept perhaps a small fraction of caution directed at the shopkeeper, with most of his attention still on the fight unfolding ahead of him. But Qi Xinyong’s roar had been startling enough that, on reflex, he’d already begun to draw his gun—and just as a figure sprang up beside him, the muzzle happened to find itself pointed straight at the man’s head.
However skilled a martial artist he might be, attempting to kill Liu Xigua under these circumstances was already an act of desperate, all-out effort—how could it possibly withstand a single shot from a firearm? What had begun with such promise ended in this anticlimactic way, startling everyone; the Qi family’s men, being decisive by nature, saw the situation had turned against them and fled without hesitation. The street quickly fell quiet again.
Having only just begun introducing himself, only to have the other party leave before he could even finish—it was, admittedly, rather rude of them. But by this point, hardly anyone ever really took his “Bloody-Handed Butcher” moniker seriously anyway; met with cold indifference so often, he’d grown rather used to it. Meanwhile, Lou Jingzhi’s group had suffered the heaviest losses of anyone involved in this whole affair—though the attackers had come and gone with equal speed. Still shaken from the ordeal, Lou Jingzhi’s hand, gripping his sword, was trembling, his expression carrying a look of utter bewilderment. Only Liu Xigua, after a moment, lowered the striking, almost theatrical fighting stance she’d held, and after standing quietly for a while alongside the others, her gaze shifting, let out a soft, unrestrained laugh.
“Heh heh… hahahaha ha ha ha…”
She had never once had any intention of chasing down the Qi family’s men. Now, the back of her hand pressed lightly to her lips, she looked at Ning Liheng, unable to hold back her laughter, before finally looking away—apparently it had been Ning Liheng’s final line about the “Bloody-Handed Butcher” that had set her off. The laughter kept coming, and yet it never sounded coarse or unbecoming—like mountain wildflowers, like the ring of silver bells, spreading through the dim, quiet street.
Ning Liheng pressed a hand to his forehead, then shook his head and laughed as well. “Heh heh… heh…”
Off to the side, Lou Jingzhi watched the two of them laughing, his expression darkening somewhat. When a guard came to ask what he wanted to do next, he found himself, for the moment, at a complete loss. Across the way, the girl’s laughter finally eased as she bent forward slightly; when she straightened up again, she wrapped a thick veil around her face, and after a moment, said simply, “Let’s go.” She walked over to the wall opposite, pulled the great blade free with both hands, dragged it back to the ruined shopfront, grabbed a length of felt cloth and wrapped the blade up, then slung it across her back. Throughout all this, the girl never once looked back at Lou Jingzhi again. Ning Liheng walked back alongside her; in the distance, soldiers who had gotten word of the disturbance were already making their way toward them.
Torchlight flickered past at the mouth of the street, voices rising in a clamor for a moment before fading into darkness once more. The street Ning Liheng and Liu Xigua now walked was a quiet, out-of-the-way one; the two of them walked slowly, and after a stretch of silence, the girl finally spoke again, her voice now carrying a heavier note.
“…My family and Uncle Qi were, once, old friends. Not as close as with Uncle Fang, perhaps, but the kind of bond shared among people of the rivers and lakes carries its own unspoken understanding. I used to think that friendship would carry on for generations. I never imagined it would end like this. We’re all people of the rivers and lakes, in the end—fighting and fighting each other, and in the end, everyone just says they had no choice, that they were forced into it…”
The night had grown late; the girl’s face, hidden behind her veil, betrayed nothing of her expression, though her low, murmured words carried more the quality of talking to herself than of true conversation. Ning Liheng walked beside her without answering. Ahead lay a small stone bridge; the grasses and flowering trees along its banks lay silent in the darkness, and across the river, a faint light shone from within a small courtyard, while a black-canopied boat swayed gently beneath the bridge.
The relationship between the two of them, for now, remained more that of host and guest than genuine friends. Having said this much, the girl seemed to feel she shouldn’t say any more, and let the matter drop. After a moment, she gave a soft “Mm—” and abruptly pressed a hand to her mouth. Ning Liheng turned his head. “What’s wrong?”
She said nothing, only waved a hand toward him before hurrying ahead, coming to a stop by the railing of the stone bridge, leaning her upper body slightly forward as though about to be sick—but instead, only coughed lightly a couple of times. Ning Liheng watched her figure sway for a moment, then tilt forward toward the water below the bridge.
The girl, still carrying that heavy blade on her back, leaned over the railing; unable to check her own momentum, she continued tipping slowly forward, her hands already hanging limp at her sides, and then her feet suddenly left the ground, her lower body pivoting over the railing like a seesaw—an oddly comical sight, seen from a distance. Ning Liheng could tell she had already begun to lose consciousness, perhaps clinging to only the faintest thread of awareness; her hands gave a brief flail, but in the end, top-heavy, she began falling headfirst toward the river below the bridge.
The instant she toppled past the railing, Ning Liheng was already there, reaching out to grab hold of the cloth strap binding the great blade to her back, leaving the girl’s body dangling below him. After a moment of swaying like this, it became clear the cloth strap wasn’t especially sturdy, and looked about to snap—just then, the girl below stirred faintly, and a sudden burst of force pulled both her and the blade downward together. Ning Liheng’s grip slipped, and the girl’s body flipped wildly through the air.
With a splash, then a crash, the girl’s figure spun through the water several times before her foot caught the now-freed great blade and kicked it aside, sending her own body hurtling toward the shore. The blade sank into the water with a tall spray, while a small patch of grass lay along the riverbank on that side; the girl’s body landed on the grass, rolled twice, and struck the embankment. Still dazed, she swayed a few times, then propped herself up with one hand and spat out a mouthful of blood.
Once that blood was out, the girl seemed to begin coming back to her senses. She lay half-reclined for a moment, tore off her blood-stained veil, shuffled backward, and settled herself against the embankment, drawing several deep breaths before finally curling her legs up, wrapping her arms around them, and huddling in the darkness by the bridge.
However great her martial skill, it still had its limits. Ning Liheng knew nothing of the particulars of the Qi Yuankang affair, but it seemed clear enough that the girl before him, weighed down by old ties of friendship yet feeling she had no choice but to see the matter settled, had led troops in to kill Qi Yuankang—likely still holding, even then, to the old customs of the martial world, doing her best to settle it in single combat, sending him off with her own hands, before turning to face this latest wave of assassins from the Qi family. She had held her breath the whole time, forcing herself to see through what she felt her code demanded of her—but by now, that internal injury had finally proven too much to suppress any longer.
Internal cultivation techniques were built entirely on controlling one’s breath; that the accumulated internal injury had now reached the point of coughing up blood meant the wound itself was already severe. Ning Liheng walked around from the bridgehead and climbed down the embankment. The girl glanced at him and gave a faint laugh. “The Bloody-Handed Butcher, Ning Liheng? This one is Liu Dabiao of the Overlord Blade… pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, likewise,” Ning Liheng said, settling down to sit beside her, then adding quietly, “I’ve long admired your reputation.”
“Heh, well, you should. That was my father… I’m Liu Xigua of the Overlord Blade…” she said softly, then thought a moment. “What if people hear it as ‘the Overlord Blade Slices the Watermelon’? They’d laugh at that… Someday, people might start saying things like ‘Watermelon-Blade, Liu Dabiao,’ or ‘Watermelon-Blade, Liu Xigua’—maybe even ‘Watermelon-Blade, Liu Dongua.’ When I was little, everyone called me Xigua, and anyone who wanted to needle me would deliberately call me Liu Dongua instead—Winter-Melon Liu, Winter-Melon Liu…”
Having let out a breath of relief, and setting down, for the moment, the weight on her shoulders, the girl’s voice had turned soft and light, reminiscing, poking fun at herself. Ning Liheng looked at the river flowing past before them and said, “There’s also Liu Nangua—Pumpkin Liu… Though if someone tried ‘Liu Beigua’—’North-Melon’ Liu—people would have to stop and wonder what exactly a ‘north melon’ is supposed to be. Still, once you’ve cut down enough people, it hardly matters what blade or melon they call you—no one’s going to be laughing. I may go by the Bloody-Handed Butcher, but I’ve got no real skill to speak of. However impressive the name sounds, people aren’t necessarily going to be afraid of me for it.”
“The Bloody-Handed Butcher isn’t much of a name either, if we’re being honest.” The girl laughed, then looked him over. “Though anyone who says you’ve got no real skill has clearly misjudged you. However unflattering a nickname you’ve been saddled with, I, the illustrious Liu Xigua of the Overlord Blade, have a feeling that one day your name will be known across the entire martial world.”
“I’ll take Xigua’s good word for it, then.”
“Mm… ‘Xigua’s good word’…” She nodded, repeating his line back, and gradually broke into laughter, stifling the sound, even pounding a fist against the grass a couple of times, before finally coughing hard enough to have to catch her breath. “Actually, tonight I’d originally meant to go give Li Tianyou some trouble—but with this injury, and then having to fight again after, that plan’s rather fallen through. Since you’ve already killed one of his men tonight, let’s just call the matter settled there, shall we?”
“Sure. I hadn’t really planned on doing much more anyway—no sense pushing things too far.”
“Pushing things too far… heh.” Liu Xigua smiled. “There’s nothing pushy about it. Back when Uncle Fang and my father and the others were first plotting the uprising, Auntie Baihua, Uncle Seven, and the rest of them used to come by often too. I’d be practicing my martial arts every day back then, helping my father manage the affairs of the Manor, ordering people about here and there. They asked me once what great ambitions I had for the future, and I told them—someday I’d be a female emperor, ruling over ever so many people. Everyone agreed then and there: if the uprising really succeeded, they’d crown me a female emperor, ruling over whatever I could see with my own eyes.”
In her ordinary dealings with people, the girl sometimes put on airs of bold, sweeping confidence, but underneath it, there was a certain stubborn, detached quality to her—something not unlike what later generations would call an emotionally distant young woman. Ning Liheng, picturing her at eleven or twelve, already ordering people about the Manor as she pleased, couldn’t help but find it rather amusing. As for the notion of becoming a “female emperor,” it wasn’t so hard to understand, either—given her current standing before Fang La, if the uprising truly succeeded and the Overlord Blade Battalion came to govern a whole prefecture or county, letting her be crowned some sort of empress hardly seemed like a big ask.
“Li Tianyou relies on his brother’s reputation and assumes anything I say is just idle talk—always testing the waters, reaching out to probe. He always thinks whatever scheming and infighting goes on among his own circle can be brought right to my doorstep. He always thinks I’m just like everyone else. If it weren’t for the whole business with Uncle Qi, every man he brought with him tonight would already be dead. But in the end… with Li Tianrun still around, I still can’t afford to kill him outright, so… let’s just leave it at that.”
By the end, there was still a faint edge of scorn in her words. Li Tianyou, with all his testing and provoking, had assumed tonight’s affair remained within acceptable limits—not realizing it had, in fact, already crossed well past what this girl before him was willing to tolerate. Yet however unreasonable the girl might be willing to act on other matters, she was, in the end, still a part of this world of rivers and lakes; there were many things she could not simply do exactly as she pleased. It was likely with this thought in mind that she’d let this rather deflated remark slip out.
“In truth, there’s not much difference for me either—living in the rivers and lakes, it’s all scheming and infighting, one way or another. Still, I like to think I’m quite good at it. I’m good at managing the people around me—the people of the Overlord Blade Battalion live better lives than most, and more of them get to live those good lives than in most other places. Across five hundred years, plenty of emperors have come and gone; in the end, the difference between them was always just a matter of a little better or a little worse. All that talk you scholars go on about—eternal legacies, grand unifications—none of it amounts to anything real… Ning Liheng, wouldn’t you agree?”
Ning Liheng nodded. “Mm. It’s exactly that—a little better, a little worse, then a little better again, then a little worse again.”
Seeing him nod, Liu Xigua laughed, rather pleased with herself. “Even the best emperor can only govern for the hundred-odd years he’s alive. I hear they all dream of building a legacy that lasts for generations—but if the son happens to be a fool, the whole realm falls right back into ruin. When I see the people around me living well, it makes me happy. Sometimes I think of myself as a kind of shepherdess—when the sheep in the pen are plump and healthy, I’m delighted; if one of them falls sick, I get so worried I could cry. I raised sheep myself, as a child. As for what happens after I die—that’s their business. If they want to live well, they’ll have to fight for it themselves. I just can’t stand to watch them suffer too much, so I keep them, the way you’d keep pets for the joy of it. It’s not really for their sake at all—I just can’t bear to watch it, that’s all…”
Ning Liheng listened to all this. “That’s what makes a true hero.”
In truth, he had already understood for some time that the girl’s ambitions weren’t especially grand. She spent her days studying the art of scheming and infighting, probing at human nature, discussing with him how best to manage a mountain stronghold, taking quiet satisfaction in stirring up people’s sense of rebellion with a few extra buns and bags of rice—but what she truly cared about, in the end, amounted to little more than this one stronghold and the area immediately around it. Unable to bear watching others suffer too much, live lives too far beneath basic dignity, she had stepped forward to do something about it. At least to Ning Liheng, that sentiment felt, if anything, all the more genuine for its modesty.
“I’m no hero. As long as no one around me is crying, I feel at peace.” The girl shook her head, falling silent for a long moment. “Everyone rose up in rebellion, originally, wanting a better life, wanting a fairer world—but somehow, by now, everyone’s turned into something different. In the old days, it was the officials who robbed the common people; now, they don’t just rob the officials, they rob everyone, fighting each other over and over. Even if Uncle Fang really does succeed, what real difference would there be between the Yongle Dynasty and the Wu Dynasty? I already had food to eat before all this—what does the uprising really have to do with me? A hundred years from now, someone else will rise up in rebellion all over again… but I can’t be bothered thinking that far ahead. Uncle Fang started this uprising, and because of it, I get to be my own little female emperor, ruling over my own stronghold, and the people around that stronghold get to live a bit better. Across a thousand years, I suppose that’s about the best outcome one can hope for… Ning Liheng, you’re a scholar—across a thousand years, it’s always been the same, isn’t it? There’s no better outcome to be had, is there?”
Ning Liheng nodded. “Actually, that’s already pretty good.”
Liu Xigua laughed. “‘Already pretty good’ means it’s not good enough. Go on, then, say what you actually mean.”
The stars hung faint and sparse overhead, the river murmured softly beside them; the two of them sat by this small stream, and having drifted this far in idle conversation, Ning Liheng found it rather amusing. He shook his head. “It’s… about as good as it’s going to get, for now. Being able to be a good shepherd isn’t such a bad thing, either.”
“You scholars are always going on about the Great Unity of All Under Heaven, always thinking and thinking about it—just treat this as idle chat and say your piece.”
“The Great Unity of All Under Heaven.” Ning Liheng laughed. “There’s no such thing. It’s exactly as you said—it’s all just a matter of a little better or a little worse. A few thousand years ago, out of every hundred people, ninety were slaves and ten lived in comfort. Moving forward from there, eighty-nine became peasant farmers, and eleven lived well. That’s roughly the shape of the world’s progress. What you’d call true ‘Great Unity’ would be all hundred people living well—but even in the worst of times, there are still some ten people living comfortably; which means even in the very best of times, there will still, inevitably, be some ten people suffering…”
“So what about us, right now?”
“To put it simply—say, outside, thirty out of a hundred live well; within the Overlord Blade Battalion, forty out of a hundred live well. Out there, a ruler capable of letting forty live well would be called a wise emperor; one who manages only thirty would be called a tyrant. Looking at it this way, the difference between thirty-percent fairness and forty-percent fairness—that’s the real distinction.”
The girl laughed. “The pot calling the kettle black, fifty steps mocking a hundred.”
“That’s just how things work in this world—fifty steps mocking a hundred. Being even a little bit better is still being better. As for those who say that because your actions can’t bring about the Great Unity of All Under Heaven, you shouldn’t bother doing anything at all…” Ning Liheng let out a sigh. “Those people are nothing but parasites.”
The girl fell silent for a long while. “Ning Liheng—you have thoughts of your own about all this, don’t you?” Then she laughed. “You’re a scholar. Scholars are always dreaming of the Great Unity of All Under Heaven. You’ve thought about it too, haven’t you.”
“No—well, there is one possibility, actually…”
“What’s that?”
“What if there were two Liu Dabiaos in the Overlord Blade Battalion?”
“Hm?”
“The two of you—whichever one makes the people of the stronghold happier, makes their lives better—that one gets to be the leader of the Manor. Let everyone choose.”
“…I’d play them against each other, divide their loyalties, and then have her killed.”
“What if everyone could be a Liu Dabiao? What if, say, I wanted to be leader of the Manor—I’d come forward and say, I can do a better job than you. I’ve already done some things, and people are starting to trust me. Then say the Overseer of Tiannan also wants to be leader—he’s done plenty too… The three of us, then, could let the people of the stronghold choose between us…”
“The stronghold is the legacy my ancestors built—since when do any of you get to hold a vote on it? If you tried something like that, it’d amount to rallying people to kill me, and I’d have people take care of you three in turn. Besides, all the old veterans who followed my father are still around—even if you wanted to be leader of the Manor, Liheng, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Having thought through this hypothetical, the girl lifted her chin slightly, answering with a certain self-satisfied confidence.
“But the law makes everyone equal, with no one above another. We’re all people the same as anyone else—why should you get to be the leader, and not me?”
“The stronghold is something my father earned through his own effort. Everyone’s equal, sure, but this is still my family’s property. You can’t just say there’s no difference in standing and then go take what’s mine simply because my family happens to be wealthier.”
“…” Ning Liheng found himself somewhat at a loss for words.
“See? You’ve got nothing to say.”
“‘No one above another’ means people are all equal as people. Right now, the stronghold belongs to your family, sure—but the people living in that stronghold aren’t your family’s property. They’ve gathered together because they all want a slightly better life; the value they create together… hmm, the underlying relations of production get a bit complicated here…” What had started out as an offhand remark now had Ning Liheng feeling a genuine headache coming on—he was about to end up lecturing all night on Das Kapital at this rate. “But… to put it more simply: imagine converting your family’s stronghold into cash. You’d be an extremely wealthy person. After that, all that’s left is everyone working together, splitting what they earn between them. As the leader of the Manor, you get to take a larger share. If you’re a good watermelon, with a conscience, the people of the stronghold get forty percent fairness. If you’re a bad watermelon, only interested in lining your own pockets, then the stronghold’s left with only thirty percent fairness.”
Liu Xigua pressed her lips together, smiling.
“If you want fifty percent fairness, then you have to let everyone have a say—where the goods get sold each year, how the money gets divided—it can’t just be you deciding everything alone. Someone has to watch over you. In the end, if everyone feels the money’s being divided fairly, then it really is fair. And if people feel it isn’t fair, then next year, you’re no longer leader of the Manor.”
“That’s useless,” the girl said. “Say I’m a bad watermelon, and I become leader of the Manor. I say the stronghold’s always been badly run with all this voting nonsense—the stronghold is my family’s, so I decide everything. Anyone who disagrees gets driven out, or killed. After that, everything stays the same, always. Whereas if I’m a good watermelon, I might rule for a few years and then step down—only a few years of that forty percent. But the moment a bad watermelon takes over, it stays at thirty percent for decades on end.”
“That’s exactly why you need oversight—a separation of powers, so the leader’s authority isn’t so unchecked, and the oversight mechanisms can’t just be one or two layers deep… And most important of all, you have to spread the idea among the people of the stronghold. Not spreading anything else—just spreading the idea that the law makes everyone equal, with no one above another, and getting people to genuinely believe it, deep down, why that principle holds true, why no one stands above anyone else. You’d need many people studying this, writing book after book about it, so these ideas can be passed down generation after generation, the same way Confucian thought has been. Fairness and justice aren’t just about letting everyone vote once and then washing your hands of everything afterward, acting like some absentee overseer who does nothing… This shift isn’t only about passing power down from the top—what gets passed down along with it has to be responsibility, too. If people only ever see the power and never the responsibility that comes with it, then no matter how many steps you take, you’ll never actually get there…”
“…And there’s one real benefit to reaching that fifty-percent fairness—if I ever wanted to rise up in rebellion, I could rally a great many people to my side, and the first thing I’d think of wouldn’t be rebellion at all, but simply letting everyone vote to make me their emperor instead. That way, even a thousand years from now, no one would ever need to rebel again…”
The words drifted on, murmuring like whispers by the ear, the night growing later and later. At some point, without either of them quite noticing, the scholar had lifted the girl onto his back and was making his way home through the darkness, occasionally still murmuring some jumble of thoughts as he went. What Ning Liheng was describing wasn’t especially obscure or difficult to follow—ideas of democracy and freedom were, after all, common enough sights in the world to come, and he was only sketching a rough outline of them here. Of course, some of what he said came from things he himself had come to see and understand on his own—in an age to come, where many would sing the praises of such hard-won fruit without ever stopping to examine how it had grown, few paused to consider that in the long march from slavery, to feudalism, to capitalism, what trickled down from the top of the pyramid was never just power the lower ranks slowly came to share in—what mattered most, in the end, was whether those below were willing and able to shoulder more and more responsibility in turn. This sense of civic responsibility required an entire, well-developed body of theory to sustain it, so that people would genuinely come to believe the state belonged to them, and genuinely come to want to protect and uphold it. The systems of the West, in ages to come, were built upon an entire framework of theory concerning democracy and freedom—built into their films, their novels, their books, even into the very look in every person’s eyes. Culture and spirit, in the end, were the true root of everything.
By the time these words had run their course, the girl was simply lying against his back, listening. Her internal injury was not life-threatening, but it was more than enough to leave her utterly exhausted. Ning Liheng himself was bandaged and bloodstained at the moment; the two of them, equally bedraggled, looked for all the world, at this moment, like a pair of martial-world companions who had weathered hardship together, side by side. Ning Liheng’s voice was not loud, speaking quietly and calmly—after all, he had mostly just been thinking aloud. But as Xiliu Street came into view, Liu Xigua lifted her head and said softly, “Ning Liheng. You want to kill the emperor.”
Ning Liheng fell silent for a moment. The girl went on, “You want to kill… the emperor of the Wu Dynasty. You want to kill the emperor of the Yongle Dynasty. You want to kill the emperor of the Overlord Blade Battalion… You want to kill every emperor there is…”
“I was only saying it idly.”
Liu Xigua slumped down against his back and said nothing more. By the time they reached the gates of the Overlord Blade Manor, she had fallen into a deep sleep, still leaning against him. He carried her the rest of the way in, and the soldiers of the Overlord Blade Battalion who saw them looked on with no small confusion. Before long, Liu Tiannan arrived as well, along with several others. The group made their way to Liu Xigua’s bedchamber, where Ning Liheng set her down on the bed. A physician had already arrived by then, and as Ning Liheng turned to leave, the girl caught hold of his hand.
She opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling, a strange light in her gaze—calm, and yet resolute.
“Ning Liheng. Let’s start, tomorrow.”
The words carried a certain ambiguous undertone, but the sheer resolve in her voice was enough to dispel whatever thoughts anyone present might have entertained along those lines. The girl lay there on the bed and said nothing more. Not long after, the old physician from the clinic arrived, and soon Xiao Chan came as well, nearly bursting into tears at the sight of Ning Liheng’s condition.
Still, Ning Liheng was, in the end, in no serious danger. They waited a while in the courtyard outside, and once it was confirmed that Liu Xigua’s condition had stabilized, Ning Liheng finally left, taking Xiao Chan with him. Once outside the courtyard gate, he turned to glance back, his gaze sharp, and carrying, too, a trace of something like pity.
None of it would ever come to pass.
Ning Liheng did believe in the superiority of democracy—even though he himself was, in many ways, a man given to autocratic instincts. He even believed that beyond capitalist society, there might come some further state that could rightly be called socialism—one where, once material abundance had grown truly immense, and fairness had been carried further still, and people’s participation in society had grown far deeper, it would genuinely deserve that name.
But for now, all of it remained nothing more than empty talk.
In an age where Confucian principles still held overwhelming sway, where people had long grown accustomed to living like cattle and swine, always waiting for some “great lord” to arrange their lives for them—even if the seeds of democratic thought were sown now, it would take a hundred years or more of steady persuasion before people would genuinely come to believe in it. Just as Liu Dabiao herself had said: the stronghold belonged to her family—what right did anyone else have to vote for its leader? Ask ninety-nine percent of the people alive in this era today, and they would all think exactly the same way. However good a system might be in theory, without a culture to sustain it, it could never truly stand, because people simply wouldn’t believe in it at all—they would want only the benefits, without ever participating. And that hundred years didn’t even account for all the internal strife, the bloodshed and arrows, that would come along the way—especially in the East, where challenging Confucianism’s entrenched position would provoke a backlash on a scale that no one could truly imagine.
Fang La did not have that kind of time. Neither did Liu Dabiao. Not even the Wu Dynasty itself had that much time. When someone poured themselves, with utter devotion, into pushing in this direction, the harder they pushed, the more it would all, in the end, collapse into nothing but two words: internal strife.
Liu Xigua was a genuinely good girl, and if it were at all possible, he wished for her to come to a good end—but for now, there was simply no other way forward. Fang La’s rebellion could not possibly succeed; going by the history he knew, this uprising wouldn’t even amount to as much as the later rebellions of Li Zicheng or the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom. A rebellion with no chance of victory, the longer it dragged on, would only leave the Wu Dynasty in an even more wretched state—and with figures like Qin Siyuan and Qian Xiwen already in play, Ning Liheng, having already prepared himself to head north, could only choose to let Fang La’s cause collapse as soon as possible.
He hadn’t, in that moment, been deliberately peddling or stirring up such ideas—but the instincts he’d cultivated over long practice had still steered his words in that particular direction all the same, some vague sense telling him it would work in his favor. He hadn’t given much thought, really, to what kind of ideal outcome he hoped for—yet somehow, in the end, things had still turned out this way.
He had no idea how this whole matter would ultimately unfold. Perhaps, come morning, this clever girl would simply abandon such impractical notions on her own. But whatever happened, this particular matter, in itself, was unlikely to bring him any real consequence, good or bad—for now, at least, he could simply treat it as an idle diversion and watch how things played out.
The starlight faded, and the unrest in the city had only just begun to settle. This night—the seventh day of the ninth month, in the ninth year of the Wujinghan era—passed quietly away amid a mingled air of grim severity and stillness. No one could have known what was, even now, quietly taking shape within these nights and dreams—or what manner of monstrous, terrible thing it might eventually grow into…