Beyond the window, everything was hazy and indistinct, the glow of burning lanterns, sounds drifting in from far away. It was hard to tell what hour of the night it was. Ning Yi turned over on the bed and sat up, rubbing his throbbing forehead.

At the Right Chancellor’s residence, the funeral rites were still underway, and the late-night vigil was far from quiet. The third day of the third month—the seventh day since the death.

Qin Shaohe was dead.

On the twenty-fifth of the second month, Taiyuan had finally fallen to Zonghan’s assault, and the defenders had been forced into street fighting. Though the garrison had made extensive preparations for such fighting beforehand, after months of holding out alone with no reinforcements arriving, and with the walls now breached beyond recovery, the will of the remaining defenders to resist in the streets finally crumbled, offering no further effective resistance.

The massacre began.

At that point, the defenders, gathering their last remaining strength, still attempted a breakout. Under cover of the army’s breakout, a large number of civilians with any remaining strength also tried to flee. But this was only a final, desperate struggle. The Jurchen had surrounded the city on all sides and had prepared meticulously for a long time; even amid such chaos, barely one in ten managed to escape, and after the one or two hours’ window for escape had passed, no more could get out.

Qin Shaohe was among the last to withdraw. Once outside the city, he raised his banner in his capacity as commanding officer, drawing a large body of Jurchen pursuers toward himself. In the end, that evening, he was surrounded and killed by his pursuers along the banks of the Fen River. His head was taken by Jurchen soldiers and hung above the gates of Taiyuan, now a scene of utter hell.

As a member of the intelligence bureau, Ning Yi naturally knew more of the details.

On the twenty-fifth of the second month, after Taiyuan’s walls fell, the city descended into chaos. Qin Shaohe led his personal guard in resistance, fighting street by street, already resolved to die. He charged at the front, and by the time he made it out of the city, he had already suffered numerous sword wounds, his whole body drenched in blood. Fleeing by a winding route to the banks of the Fen River, he had ordered the men with him to keep dragging the banner along, so as to hold the Jurchen pursuers’ attention and give those who might still escape a chance to scatter and flee in different directions.

Qin Shaohe finally leapt into the Fen River. But the Jurchen had boats waiting downstream nearby, and using harpoons and fishing nets, they hauled him aboard, trying to take him alive. One leg pierced through by a long harpoon, he still fought back with everything he had, and in the chaos of his sudden resistance, a Jurchen soldier struck him down with a blade. The soldier cut off his head, then hacked his body into several pieces and threw it into the river.

While at Taiyuan, Qin Shaohe had kept a minor concubine named Zhanmei by his side, who had already been carrying his child when the city fell. During the breakout, he had entrusted her to another group attempting to escape, but that group had later been ambushed and scattered, and the concubine’s whereabouts remained unknown—whether she had died, or been captured by the Jurchen, no one could say.

Li Pin was, for the time being, missing. Cheng Zhouhai was on his way back to the capital.

This flood of information was enough to give anyone a headache, and the atmosphere at the Qin household was heartbreaking to witness. Qin Shaoqian had tried several times to head north himself, determined to bring back his elder brother’s head, or at least his remains, only to be sternly rebuked by Qin Siyuan, who was suppressing his own grief through sheer force of will. That afternoon, Ning Yi had shared a round of drinking with him; by the time he woke, it was already deep into the night. He pushed open the door and stepped outside, and beyond the courtyard wall, over one side of the Qin residence, a glow of light spread across the night sky—the spontaneous mourning of ordinary citizens still continuing.

Under Bamboo Records’ propaganda these past two days, Qin Shaohe had, within a certain circle, already become a hero. Ning Yi rubbed his forehead and looked at that distant glow, knowing full well that, at this very moment, a thousand li to the north, in Taiyuan, the ten-day massacre with no order to sheathe blades was still ongoing, and Qin Shaohe’s head still hung on that city wall, exposed to wind and rain.

The seventh day since his death—there was no telling whether even his soul would find its way back…

…

With a “clink,” the copper coin dropped neatly into the mouth of the wine cup, splashing a bit of liquid, and up at the Fan Tower, the man surnamed Long burst out laughing.

“Young Master Long is quite the master at this game—keep this up and no one will dare come play with you anymore,” said the woman beside him, her eyes carrying a look of mock resentment, coquettish and charming. But in the end, still under the sound of his laughter, she drank the wine in her cup.

Just then, a faint clamor of voices drifted up from below.

“…Of course we must drink deep of these golden dogs’ blood—”

Someone else called out in agreement.

The man surnamed Long’s expression grew subdued. He picked up his wine cup, and finally sighed. The courtesan beside him said, “Young Master Long, are you grieving over the matter of Taiyuan too?”

“…The nation has come to this—what fault is it of the common people.” He said this, then drained his cup in one go. “Naturally, one can’t help but feel moved.”

“This lowly one has heard the details of Taiyuan too. Young Master Long must have just heard about General Qin’s fate downstairs as well—truly… those golden dogs are no better than beasts!”

The woman’s cursing came out with a delicate, coquettish air, but the emotion behind it was genuine all the same. The Young Master Long beside her turned the wine cup slightly in his hand, offering no clear response.

This Young Master Long, who had visited the Fan Tower several times now, was, of course, none other than Zhou Zhe himself.

The Wusheng Army’s relief effort had been crushed, Chen Yanshu had died, and Taiyuan had fallen—this sequence of events had all cut him to the bone. For days now, both court and populace had been abuzz with talk of it, and among the common people especially, stirred up by figures like Chen Dong, there had been repeated large-scale petitions. As Zhou Zhe moved incognito through the streets, all manner of stories about Taiyuan were circulating, and among the storytellers, Qin Shaohe’s tragic death was already being spun into a heroic legend.

But while others might be swept up by all this, he saw it with perfect clarity.

That Bamboo Records was calculating indeed—these little tricks of stirring public sentiment, they had grown quite skilled at using!

Still, Ning Liheng’s endless stream of unorthodox tactics was, by now, nothing particularly novel to him.

In any case, in a time of such crisis, even a clown had his uses!

Turning the wine cup in his hand, a thought occurred to him, and he asked idly, “Oh, by the way—when I came in, I happened to ask after that Miss Shishi. I hear she’s out again. Where has she gone?”

“So Young Master Long was hoping to find Sister Shishi…”

“Not exactly,” Zhou Zhe said with a smile. “It’s only that, of the most talented and beautiful ladies here at the Fan Tower, all the others happen to be present tonight, yet she’s the one who’s gone out. I was simply curious.”

“Sister Shishi went over to the Chancellor’s residence,” the woman beside him said, not at all put out, pouring him more wine. “Today marks the seventh day since Lord Qin’s passing, and many people have gone to keep vigil beside the Chancellor’s residence. This afternoon Madame said she’d send Sister Shishi over on our behalf. We’re women of the pleasure quarters, after all—this small gesture is the least we can offer. When the Jurchen were attacking the city, Sister Shishi even went up to the walls to help. We all admire her a great deal. Has Young Master Long met Sister Shishi before?”

“Though she dwells among the pleasure quarters, she still troubles herself over the affairs of the nation—Miss Ji, you needn’t belittle yourself so.” Zhou Zhe’s gaze drifted as he thought it over for a moment. He himself wasn’t entirely sure whether that glimpse of her beneath the city wall that day counted as having “met” Li Shishi, and in the end he simply shook his head. “I’ve come by several times hoping to see her, but each time she’s been out. It seems fate has arranged for Long to be better acquainted with Miss Ji instead.” In truth, the woman beside him was named Ji Yanluo, currently the most sought-after courtesan at the Fan Tower—sweeter and more endearing than the somewhat faded Li Shishi. On that account, not meeting Li Shishi could hardly be counted much of a disappointment.

Ji Yanluo gave a radiant smile and exchanged a few more words with him, before Zhou Zhe’s brow furrowed slightly. “Still, Qin Shaohe was a high official, and the mourning hall is at the Chancellor’s residence itself—however well-known Miss Li may be, would she even be able to get in today?”

“Er, that… Yanluo isn’t entirely sure. Though, I did hear once that Sister Shishi has some connection to the Chancellor’s household.” She said this, then smiled again. “Honestly, Yanluo thinks that for a great hero like this, so long as we’ve shown our sincerity in mourning, that’s enough—whether we actually get inside or not doesn’t much matter.”

“True enough…”

Zhou Zhe answered, but inwardly gave a faint scoff. On one hand, he thought of the people of Taiyuan still being slaughtered even now, while Qin Siyuan’s side played these small tricks to build Qin Shaohe up into some great hero—truly detestable. On the other hand, he recalled that Li Shishi was, in fact, on close terms with that Ning Yi, who served as an advisor to the Chancellor’s household—naturally he could bring her inside. Ostensibly a vigil, perhaps, in truth, more of a rendezvous.

Both thoughts flickered through his mind in an instant, and even he couldn’t say which weighed heavier in his heart.

…

Only, on this point, Zhou Zhe’s guess happened to be mistaken.

Though she had gone near the Qin residence to pay her respects, Li Shishi had not asked Ning Yi to let her into the mourning hall. That night, she had simply lit some incense to one side of the Qin residence, like the other ordinary citizens keeping vigil, and quietly offered her prayers for the deceased’s peace in the afterlife. And Ning Yi, inside the Chancellor’s residence, had no idea that Shishi had come by that night at all.

Passing through the corridor behind the Qin residence’s rear courtyard, Ning Yi made his way toward the courtyard where the household’s advisors usually gathered.

That night, keeping vigil for Qin Shaohe were a good number of the Qin family’s relatives and descendants; those who counted as Qin Shaohe’s elders were, of course, exempted from the duty. Ning Yi, though not technically an elder, was also not required to remain at the front at all times—the true intimates of the Qin family among the guest-advisors mostly rested and stayed in the rear courtyard.

Since midnight had not yet passed, Yao Zunian and Jueming, who had been here during the day, had not yet gone home, and Wenren Buer was there as well, keeping them company. Qin Shaohe had been the eldest son of the Qin family, heir to Qin Siyuan’s legacy, and it would hardly be an exaggeration to say that Yao Zunian and Jueming had watched him grow up. When word of his death arrived, everyone had been struck with grief, but by now, that first wave of raw emotion had begun to settle.

And given the current circumstances facing the Qin household, that settling only made the sorrow weigh heavier still.

Qin Shaohe’s birth mother, Qin Siyuan’s principal wife, was already elderly, and news of her eldest son’s death had made her collapse from grief. Qin Siyuan spent what free moments he had by her side. After Ning Yi had spoken with Yao Zunian and the others for a while, Qin Siyuan finally came over. The upheavals of these recent days, and now his eldest son’s death, did not seem, at present, to have left him more haggard or aged—his eyes still held their light, only now lacking their former warmth, appearing calm and deep instead.

“For Shaoqian’s sake, we’re grateful to Liheng and Buer—having you both here has eased things for him somewhat. I’ve heard Liheng has been drinking too much, though. I’ve had the maids prepare some ginseng tea; you should drink a little later, Liheng…”

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, everyone settled into their seats in the room, listening to the faint sounds drifting in from outside. For the citizens who had come of their own accord to the street outside to mourn Qin Shaohe, Qin Siyuan also expressed his gratitude to Ning Yi—it had taken Bamboo Records’ tireless promotion over these past two or three days to organize such a display.

Ning Yi shook his head. “The dead are gone; I doubt Brother Shaohe would much concern himself with this. It’s only that public opinion outside is in such turmoil—I merely… found something worth talking about, that’s all. Balancing things out is really just self-interest on my part; hardly worth taking credit for.”

Qin Siyuan shook his head as well. “Whatever the case, those who’ve come to pay their respects to him are, at the very least, sincere in their feelings. Now that he’s gone, receiving that sincerity might offer some small comfort… And as for tracking down that concubine Zhanmei at Taiyuan—your men have responded quickly on that front too, Liheng. If she can be found… that would truly be a blessing.”

The old man’s words were brief, and Ning Yi nodded along. In truth, though the men he’d sent were still searching, they had found nothing so far—what comfort was there to be had in that? The room fell silent for a moment, until Jueming spoke. “Let’s hope that after this, the palace shows some restraint.”

Yao Zunian nodded as well.

Though word of the move against the Qin family had leaked from within the palace itself, and Cai Jing and the others already seemed poised to strike, now that the Qin family had produced a hero who had died for the nation, whoever held the reins might well have to ease off, at least for a while. Moving against Qin Siyuan would carry that much more caution now, and that was precisely one of the purposes behind Ning Yi’s propaganda campaign.

The group then exchanged a few lighter words to lift the mood. Jueming laughed. “I hear Wang Fu sent someone to seek out Liheng again yesterday?”

Ning Yi’s expression remained calm, a faint trace of mockery at the corner of his mouth. “I’m attending a banquet in a few days.”

“Playing all sides at once,” Yao Zunian said with a small smile. “This old man, in his younger days, went through much the same.” Then he added, “Old Qin, you as well, weren’t you?”

Though sorrow still lingered in his eyes, Qin Siyuan managed a smile at this. “Indeed. Those days of youthful success—it’s been decades now. The chancellor at the time was Lord Hou Qinggao, who did a great deal to advance my career…”

They were, all of them, remarkable men of their age, having distinguished themselves while still young, and had long since grown accustomed to such matters. It was only as their standing rose ever higher over the years that such experiences had grown rarer. Wenren Buer, sitting nearby, said, “I confess I’m quite curious what Grand Preceptor Cai and Liheng discussed.”

“Sitting down to discuss principles, quietly trying to win me over—that sort of thing.” Ning Yi made no attempt to hide it, glancing at Qin Siyuan. In fact, Ning Yi had just received word of Taiyuan’s fall when he’d gone to call on the Grand Preceptor’s household, and Cai Jing had received the same news at nearly the same moment. With the two events colliding, the mood had turned rather delicate. Cai Jing had said a few things, which Ning Yi now relayed to Qin Siyuan. “Grand Preceptor Cai said that Chancellor Qin writes treatises and essays, grand and eloquent arguments, but firstly, in establishing such principles and rules of governance, he’s securing power for the scholar-officials, and secondly, now that the Wu dynasty faces such a turbulent season, he also wants to restore honor to the military men. If both scholars and soldiers are to rise, where is the power meant to come from… Roughly speaking, that was the gist of it.”

Ning Yi related this calmly. Qin Siyuan’s gaze remained steady, while the others fell into a brief silence, until Wenren Buer gave a soft scoff. After another moment, Ning Yi shook his head as well.

“To speak plainly—once this matter is settled, if the Chancellor’s household is no longer here, I intend to withdraw.”

Everyone raised their eyebrows. Jueming sat up straighter. “Withdraw to where? You won’t be staying in the capital?”

Yao Zunian frowned deeply as well. “Liheng, you have such promise ahead of you—has this really left you so disheartened?”

Rises and falls within Wu officialdom were, after all, a common enough occurrence. This time, though the matter was severe, and for many it cut close to the bone, even if old Qin were dismissed from office or even convicted of some crime, with the nation still facing hardship, Ning Yi—young, capable, and clearly favored by multiple factions—could still accomplish a great deal in the end. Which was precisely why, hearing him speak of leaving, Yao Zunian and Jueming felt it all the more a pity.