Ning Yi had not mentioned his intention to leave to any of them before now, and when he finally brought it up, Yao Zunian, Jueming, and Wenren Buer were all rather taken aback.

Among those gathered at the Qin residence, Yao Zunian was already advanced in years, having witnessed the rise and fall of many careers in officialdom. Jueming, before taking holy orders, had been of imperial blood; outwardly, his role had always been that of a wealthy, idle gentleman who mediated and smoothed things over between parties. Even amid such turmoil, he could always simply retreat back into idleness—at worst, he’d need to conduct himself more cautiously going forward, unable to make further use of his remaining influence, but as a member of the Zhou clan, he could never truly abandon this court. Wenren Buer, meanwhile, was one of Qin Siyuan’s personally trained disciples, too deeply entangled to be easily pulled away—there weren’t many who would even try to turn him.

By comparison, Ning Yi had far more room to maneuver. Both Tong Guan and Cai Jing had already extended their goodwill toward him; even after enduring some difficulty now, the whole realm still lay open to him going forward. Though the Qin family’s fortunes were being suppressed, at a time of such national crisis, it hardly seemed the moment to simply give up after a single setback.

Of course, over the years in officialdom, they had seen plenty of young men give up after facing adversity. It was only that Ning Yi’s abilities were so considerable, his temperament so different from the ordinary, that his wish to withdraw now struck them as a genuine pity.

Ning Yi merely shook his head. “Some time ago, I came across a story in a collection of romantic tales—about a small-time hoodlum from a Yangzhou brothel who went to the capital and ended up doing great deeds for the nation and its people…”

At that moment, the mourners outside carried an atmosphere thick with grief, and though the men in the room were all in low spirits, since they were sitting together talking, there was still room for the occasional smile. Ning Yi’s own smile carried a trace of mockery and weariness. The others waited for him to continue, and he paused.

“…The story goes that this hoodlum, back in Yangzhou, was a sly, shiftless sort of fellow, who loved nothing more than listening to storytellers and admired the exploits of the heroes of the greenwood he heard about in their tales. One day, as it happened, he really did run into some outlaws from the greenwood…”

Ning Yi related the tale in an even, unhurried tone, giving only the broad strokes—how the hoodlum got tangled up with these outlaws, and eventually swore brotherhood with them; how the outlaws, though they looked down on him, ultimately brought him along to the capital, meaning to rendezvous with others there to plot some uprising; only for fate to take an unexpected turn, and he ended up crossing paths instead with a deeply cunning old eunuch who had slipped out from the palace.

“…And so it went—he took on the identity of that little eunuch. The old eunuch, being blind, never saw through the deception. Inside the palace, he spent his days scheming over how to get out, but the palace’s defenses were tight, and it was hardly so simple… Until one day, the chief eunuch in charge ordered him to go clean the study, and there he happened upon a brawl among a dozen or so young eunuchs…”

“…And through this strange twist of fate, he ended up forming a bond with the young emperor, almost like brothers. Later, with the young emperor backing him, he swept all before him, unstoppable at every turn…”

He told the story simply, and by this point, everyone had more or less grasped his meaning. Yao Zunian said, “An interesting notion, that story.” Jueming laughed. “Though it’s hardly ever quite that simple. Throughout history, there have indeed been cases within the imperial household of bonds like brotherhood, or even closer than brotherhood… heh, and if one wanted to put it more delicately, something like Dong Xian in the Han dynasty—with sufficient ambition, one might well accomplish a great undertaking from such a position.”

Jueming’s tone in the latter half grew rather flippant. Dong Xian of the Han dynasty was, of course, the figure at the center of the “cut sleeve” story, from which that particular euphemism for male affection derived. It was said that Emperor Ai of Han was so fond of him, showering him with favor beyond measure, that the two were inseparable, sharing bed and board. One day the Emperor woke to find some matter requiring his attention, only to discover his sleeve pinned beneath Dong Xian’s sleeping form; unwilling to disturb his beloved’s rest by pulling it free, he simply cut the sleeve off with a knife. Beyond this, Emperor Ai showered Dong Xian with countless titles and rewards, even once telling him: “I wish to follow the example of Yao ceding the throne to Shun—what would you say to that?” He had even wished, it was said, to hand over the imperial throne itself.

A few years after Emperor Ai’s death, Wang Mang seized the throne.

Jueming had spoken this with a rather mischievous air, and Yao Zunian and Wenren Buer smiled faintly along with him.

Ning Yi smiled too. “Only, if achieving anything required going down that road, then there wouldn’t be much point in trying to accomplish anything at all.”

The group fell silent for a moment, and Yao Zunian glanced at Qin Siyuan. “In the year His Majesty first took the throne, he showed old Qin much the same kind of regard and favor—otherwise, the strategy to destroy Liao would never have come to be.”

At this, Qin Siyuan let out a soft sigh as well. “In truth, back when His Majesty had just ascended, eager to rouse himself and act with resolve, this old man’s way of handling things was often decisive and unyielding—which happened to suit His Majesty’s tastes at the time. But that was then, and this is now. In His Majesty’s heart these days, there are… there are simply more considerations weighing on him. It’s only that, in drawing all of you into this, I failed to see through to His Majesty’s true intentions, and so, step by step, I erred. Shaohe’s death, in a sense, might well be counted as… my own punishment for it.”

To speak of Qin Shaohe’s death in such terms grew visibly harder for the old man as he went on, his voice growing heavier toward the end. Yao Zunian shook his head. “His Majesty’s thinking these past few years… ah, no one could have foreseen it. None of this can be laid at your feet.”

“With Taiyuan already lost, if the Jurchen come again, there’s little point dwelling on any of this now,” Ning Yi said, taking a sip of ginseng tea. “As for playing all sides, let’s set that aside. I’ll return to Jiangning, perhaps seek the help of some friends, reopen Bamboo Records there, become some wealthy local gentleman with influence in his own corner of the world—or perhaps pack up entirely and head somewhere further south. I have no wish to involve myself further in Bianliang’s affairs. Though I’m no hoodlum myself, I am a man who married into another family. As far as the affairs of this realm go, I’ve done what I could—that should be enough.”

“If it’s the affairs of the realm, and Liheng is a man of this realm, where could you possibly flee to?” Yao Zunian sighed. “Should the Jurchen come again in the future, Liheng, you know as well as anyone what suffering that would bring upon the common people. To simply withdraw now—what have the common people done to deserve that? However chilling this whole affair has been, we scholars, if we remain here, might yet find some sliver of hope to fight for. Marrying into another family is a small matter; shedding that status is a simple thing too, if you wished. You are a man of great talent, Liheng—you shouldn’t leave.”

“Amitabha,” Jueming said as well. “After this affair, this monk will find it hard to accomplish much of anything more in the capital. But Liheng, you’re different. This monk hopes you’ll think it over carefully—if you leave now, the capital may not escape great calamity.”

“Even if I stayed, I doubt the capital could escape calamity regardless. This is the Wu dynasty’s calamity—it hardly stops at the capital’s gates.”

“Still, every bit of strength helps. You once said, Liheng, that going north to do what you did was born of witnessing others’ suffering, out of the compassion in your own heart. If you leave now, how will that compassion ever find peace?”

“A gentleman keeps his distance from the kitchen—seeing a creature alive, he cannot bear to see it die; hearing its cries, he cannot bear to eat its flesh. I do have compassion in my heart, but that compassion is mine alone. In truth, heaven and earth show no favor, treating all things as mere straw dogs. If, among the tens of millions of the Wu dynasty’s people, a true slaughter is to come, then that too is a shared karma, a shared burden, belonging to all those tens of millions together. When outside enemies come, what’s needed is resistance from all those millions together, as one. I’ve already done what I could. The likes of Cai Jing and Tong Guan in this capital cannot be trusted—if the Jurchen ever push south of the Yangtze, I will resist them myself, without question. But as for those tens of millions who may yet die—then let them die.”

Jueming frowned. “But the elderly, the women, the children in this capital—what strength do they have to resist?”

“And yet does heaven and earth show favor, sparing you simply because you are old, a woman, a child?” Ning Yi’s gaze did not waver. “I happen to find myself caught up in this, and so I contribute what I can, unable to do otherwise—just as all of you do. Only, you contribute for the sake of all under heaven, while I contribute out of my own private compassion. By reason alone, whether old, woman, or child, so long as one exists within this world, there is no way to protect oneself except through one’s own resistance. When they suffer, my heart is troubled—but even that unease, perhaps, ends here.”

Then he added with a faint, bitter smile: “Of course, I don’t mean them in particular. Hundreds of thousands of scholars, a court governing millions—when mistakes are made, naturally everyone must bear the consequences. So let them be beaten, let them flee… I’ve already given my all, fought with everything I had. Perhaps this ordeal will leave lasting scars, ones that never fully heal in this lifetime. Given how things stand now, I have no choice but to flee. If more die as a result, then even if my heart cannot bear it, I’ll simply have to consider it their fate.”

His words came out cold and detached, and the others fell silent as well. After a while, Jueming sighed too. “Amitabha. This monk finds himself recalling those affairs of yours in Hangzhou, Liheng. It may sound harsh, unfeeling even—but if everyone possessed the will to resist, if everyone truly understood what that meant, the realm might yet know long-lasting peace.”

Ning Yi laughed. “Master Jueming, going on and on about resistance like that—hardly sounds like a monk.”

“Liheng’s thinking runs differently from ours,” Yao Zunian said. “Which is, perhaps, no bad thing. If, one day, you were to write these thoughts down, pass them on—that alone would constitute no small body of learning.”

Though Ning Yi’s words had sounded cold and detached, Yao Zunian and Jueming were hardly ordinary men themselves to miss the deeper point: a single person might, out of compassion, act to save millions—but millions of people should never simply wait for that one person, or a handful of people, to come save them; otherwise, should they die, it would only be their own doing. Behind that idea lay a kind of stubborn, unyielding resolve, precious in its own right. To call it the true meaning of “heaven and earth show no favor” would not be entirely wrong.

He had never, in truth, owed this world anything to begin with.

Ning Yi shook his head. “Writing books and the like—that’s your domain, not mine. Once I’m in the south, running Bamboo Records again, I might take an interest in setting up publishing houses, private academies, that sort of thing. I’ll keep printing the Chancellor’s collected writings; if you or the Master have anything you’d like published, I’d be happy to make a bit of silver off it for you. In truth, this realm belongs to all its people. If I leave, and all of you step back, who’s to say others couldn’t rise to hold it up in your place? Perhaps we’ve all been a little too arrogant, thinking otherwise.”

“One can only hope so,” Yao Zunian said with a smile. “When that day comes, even if all I manage is to become some idle old gentleman, my heart, at least, would find peace.”

“Still, the situation in the capital remains unresolved—Liheng, withdrawing now won’t be easy, I imagine,” Jueming cautioned. “Having drawn the attention of Grand Preceptor Cai and Prince Tong, withdrawing now won’t be simple. You’d best keep that firmly in mind, Liheng.”

“I know.”

“If this truly comes to pass, and we still have strength left to spare, we’ll naturally do what we can to help you as well,” Jueming said. “Well then—when the Way does not prevail, one may set sail upon a raft across the sea. Just take care of yourself. There will surely come a day when we meet again.”

They talked on a while longer about this and that, the rises and falls of officialdom, the shifting tides of power—all cause for lament, yet common enough occurrences for men of such standing. With Qin Shaohe’s death, the Qin family was unlikely to be pushed too aggressively; going forward, even if Qin Siyuan were dismissed from his post and censured, there would surely come another chance to rise again. And even if there weren’t, what else was there to do now but accept and come to terms with it? Cursing fate’s unfairness, the darkness of the court, drowning one’s sorrows in wine—none of it would change a thing.

After all, this was not an age in which a powerful minister could simply seize control of the court unchallenged—with so many factions at play, if the Emperor wished to strip Cai Jing of his position, even Cai Jing could do nothing but watch and endure it.

That day, after finishing the mourning rites for Qin Shaohe, the sky had begun to lighten faintly. Ning Yi returned to Bamboo Records and sat on the rooftop, reflecting on everything that had brought him to this point. From arriving in this era in the spring of the seventh year of Jinghan to now, it had been just seven years—from an outsider to someone gradually immersed in this age, and by now, the very spirit of this era had seeped into him as well.

From Jiangning to Hangzhou, from Qian Xiwen to Zhou Tong, he had gone north out of compassion, having once thought that if things proved unworkable, he would simply withdraw. Given his understanding of society’s darker corners, he’d had no illusions about the resistance he might face. But once caught up in it, he always found himself wanting to do more, do better, and for that, he had, on many occasions, staked his own life and fortune, trying to carve a path through by force. In truth, this already went far beyond what he had originally intended.

In his original plan, whatever he chose to do could never be allowed to endanger his family, and he had never wished to risk his own life either.

If everything could truly have gone that way, it would have been a fine thing indeed. Thinking back on it now, he was often reminded of the development zone he had botched in his previous life, where a once bright and noble vision had ultimately warped his entire path. Here, he had certainly resorted to many extraordinary measures, but at least his path had never twisted out of shape. Even set down in writing, it would still be enough to offer some comfort to those who came after.

If he could manage it, that truly would be a perfect thing.

But of course, in life, things rarely go as one wishes. When Yun Zhu had set out to do her own work, he had reminded her never to forget her original intention—looking back on it now, since he could no longer press forward himself, letting go seemed the only option. In truth, even years ago, when he had calculated these matters from the perspective of an outside observer, he had already foreseen an outcome much like this one. It was only that the deeper he waded into worldly affairs, the easier it became to forget those clear-eyed warnings.

Only, the promise he’d made to Hongti remained unfulfilled—that, he would simply have to see to later.

As for everything else here, let Jingkang be Jingkang, then…

With one faction losing power, what awaited next was a struggle for authority between the Emperor and the court. The affairs ahead would be complicated, but the direction was already set. The Chancellor’s household might take some steps to protect itself, but the overall situation was bound to bring no comfort to anyone. Ning Yi and the others already understood this well enough; what remained for him to do, during this period of severing Bamboo Records from the intelligence bureau, was to preserve as much of what was genuinely useful within Bamboo Records as he could.

Having already decided to leave, perhaps it wouldn’t prove too difficult after all.

Or so he estimated.

History flowed on like a great, surging current. Looking back from some later vantage point, if everything unfolding now truly matched what Ning Yi, Qin Siyuan, and the others had predicted, then perhaps, afterward, the Jin would come again, and later still, the Mongols would rise—that demon known as Genghis Khan, Temujin, still destined to drive his iron cavalry and sweep his long spear across the realm, plunging all under heaven into suffering. And yet, within that unfolding history, the fate of the Wu dynasty might still turn out somewhat differently—perhaps its life extended by a few more years, or perhaps some foundation for resistance laid down in time.

And yet, however much the great tide itself might remain unchanged, there would always be unexpected waves rising and crashing within that torrent. In the third and fourth months of this year, as the situation continued to unfold, all manner of events emerging, there was still much that left people genuinely shaken. And just as the sudden reversal in the Emperor’s intentions had left the Chancellor’s household reeling at the height of its confidence, so too, when certain signs of malice began appearing again and again, did Ning Yi and the others suddenly realize just how deep and dark that malice truly ran—and that their earlier estimations had, after all, been far too simple.

Waves crashed against the rocks, the current splitting apart with a roar.

In that moment, the sunset burned so brilliantly. And what followed was iron hooves trampling all before them, long spears dancing without end, a slaughter as merciless as demons at war, the azure dragon’s blood spilled wide, the fires of karma spreading unchecked, as tens of millions of souls in this mortal world were plunged into a long, unending night of hell…

That final ray of sunlight’s fading began with this very miscalculation.