The carriage was cold.
It was a still kind of cold, creeping upward inch by inch from the soles of his feet.
As though someone had stopped this carriage inside an abandoned ancestral shrine, waiting for dawn, yet not knowing whether tomorrow would ever come.
Jiang Zechen sat inside the carriage.
In his hand, he held a bamboo fan.
No one fanned themselves in the wind and snow of the northern border. He simply had the habit of holding it that way, as though he were holding a weapon that was not a weapon.
He opened the bamboo fan, then closed it again.
Click.
A soft sound, swallowed by the noise of the wheels, never carrying outside.
The curtain was lifted slightly by the wind.
When the wind and snow slipped through the gap in the curtain, they felt like fine needles.
He glanced outside.
There was nothing on the snowfield.
No villages, no trees, no people.
Endless white. Endless emptiness.
He did not pull the curtain closed.
He let those needles continue pricking his cheek, as though they were confirming something.
He lowered his head, the bamboo fan still in his hand.
The ribs of the fan had been polished by the years into a warm, muted golden-brown. The bamboo’s natural tear marks looked like traces of ink drops spreading across paper beneath the light.
The edge of the fan had been stitched together with extremely fine iron wire. It had never come loose, never broken.
The corners had been worn smooth and warm from years of constant handling, as though someone had held and turned it over countless times for far too many years.
He remembered when Grand Tutor Xia had placed this fan in his hands. The old man’s hands had already been trembling slightly.
At the time, he had still been young. He had not yet understood the weight of those words.
Ritual.
Rules.
Status.
Moral order.
He believed in these things, and only these things.
He believed that ruler and subject were distinct, that there must be order between those above and those below, and that because people could make mistakes, they had to obey the system.
He believed in these things because they were the only things that could allow him to stand firm in this chaotic world.
More than anyone, he understood that if a person had no rules, he would be like this wilderness of the northern border, swallowed inch by inch by the wind and snow.
The deep-blue cloak on his shoulders had already accumulated a thin layer of snow. He raised a hand and brushed it away.
His clothing was neat and austere to the point of rigidity. Not even the slightest disorder could be seen in the hem.
This was his first time coming to the northern border.
The wind of the northern border was different from what he had imagined.
The wind in the capital was dry and cold, as though it had been filtered once through the high walls, leaving behind only a dry chill.
But the wind of the northern border had weight.
It came from the depths of the wilderness, carrying snow and earth, along with something rotten that could not quite be described.
As though something had been buried deep beneath the snow and was slowly rotting at an extremely sluggish pace.
He closed his eyes.
The snow at Yunlu Academy was different from the snow of the northern border.
The academy’s snow fell upon tiled eaves, plum branches, and the robes of the young students.
It was as gentle as a dream that could never hurt anyone.
He remembered the first time he had seen Xia Lanshi. It had been during the first snowfall at the academy.
That child had been wearing robes that were obviously far too large for him, white to the point of being glaring.
White hair, white skin, white eyelashes, pale-red eyes.
Standing beneath the corridor, he looked like a plant that had been planted in the wrong place.
Or like snow that had fallen in June, snow belonging to the wrong season.
At the time, Xia Lanshi had been only twelve years old.
He was the youngest student ever admitted to the academy.
“That ominous white son of the Xia family.”
“I heard no one even knows who his father is.”
“The Grand Tutor personally brought him in.”
Everyone whispered among themselves.
Jiang Zechen had said nothing at the time.
He believed in rules, and Xia Lanshi’s very existence was a provocation against those rules.
—A white son, an illegitimate child, a person of unknown origins.
Someone like that should not have appeared at Yunlu Academy.
He had not bullied Xia Lanshi. He disdained such methods.
But neither had he ever helped him.
At the time, he had thought, Someone like that won’t make it through a single winter.
Winter really was very cold.
The academy had been established by Grand Tutor Xia in his later years. All the students admitted were legitimate heirs of prestigious families or children of high-ranking ministers, with the occasional exceptionally talented student from a humble family.
Only a dozen or so were accepted every three years.
Everyone at the academy knew that Grand Tutor Xia paid special attention to Xia Lanshi.
The Grand Tutor personally taught him his lessons, personally reviewed his essays, and personally adjusted his prescriptions.
Some of the students were privately dissatisfied.
“He’s nothing but a white son.”
“He’s nothing but an illegitimate child.”
“Snow demon.”
When Grand Tutor Xia was absent, someone deliberately hid Xia Lanshi’s books.
Someone would whisper “ill-omened thing” as he passed by.
Someone splashed ink over the xuan paper Xia Lanshi had hung beneath the corridor to dry.
And once, someone directly shoved Xia Lanshi into the academy’s pond.
The water was not deep, but Xia Lanshi fell seriously ill and had to recuperate for quite some time.
Jiang Zechen saw all of this.
He did not stop them.
He believed that all of it was what Xia Lanshi deserved, because he had appeared in a place where he should not have been.
Xia Lanshi’s birth itself was a mistake, and he should not have come to this place.
Once, the teacher asked, “What are the duties between ruler and subject?”
Everyone spoke confidently and at length. Only Xia Lanshi remained silent.
He did not know the answer, because when he entered the academy, he had very little foundation.
Someone laughed softly. “The Xia family’s white son really is a useless waste.”
Jiang Zechen did not laugh, but neither did he deny those words.
That afternoon, during the policy essay class, the teacher gave them a topic:
“How should the famine in the northern border be resolved?”
The entire room fell silent.
The question was too obscure, so obscure that no one had ever prepared for it.
They studied the classics and histories, policy essays, and strategies for governing the state. No one had ever truly thought about “the famine in the northern border.”
That was a matter of the frontier, too far from the capital, so far that it hardly seemed real.
Xia Lanshi picked up his brush and filled three pages of paper.
When he handed in his essay, Jiang Zechen caught a glimpse of his handwriting—it was extremely fast, almost without pause.
After the teacher finished reading the essay, he remained silent for a long time, so long that all the students in the room raised their heads to look at him.
In the end, the teacher said only one sentence:
“This essay will be kept in the academy archives.”
Jiang Zechen had not seen the full text of that policy essay at the time.
But later, he heard what it contained.
How to allocate grain from the northern border’s granaries, how to redirect refugees, how to seal off epidemic zones, how to rebuild villages and towns.
He had never read about such things, because they were not in the books.
Xia Lanshi had learned them outside the academy.
He did not speak during class, but outside the classroom, he thought about many things.
From that day onward, Jiang Zechen no longer believed that Xia Lanshi was someone who “wouldn’t make it through a single winter.”
He began to face him seriously.
Dislike became competition.
Competition became obsession.
He wanted to defeat Xia Lanshi. He wanted to prove that his own path was the correct one.
Rules above all.
The hierarchy between ruler and subject could not be broken.
People made mistakes, and therefore they had to obey the system.
He believed in these things.
And someone like Xia Lanshi, who had grown out of the cracks, could not possibly understand better than he did how this world was supposed to function.
The following year.
The teacher said again, “Today’s class will be on the subject of ‘ruler and subject.’ Each of you will write a poem. It need not be long. Four lines will do.”
Jiang Zechen was the first to pick up his brush.
He wrote extremely quickly, as though those lines had already been kept in his heart for many years.
The poem read:
The sovereign rules the realm, establishing rites and laws,
The subject guards his station, never forgetting his cause.
With order between above and below, the nation shall stand,
With rites and law like blades that cleave disorder from the land.
When he put down his brush, the characters on the paper were neat and orderly, the structure precise.
That was his usual style—rules, clarity, unquestionable certainty.
Several classmates beside him whispered their praise. Some said the parallel lines were perfectly balanced; others said the poem carried great momentum.
Jiang Zechen did not respond. He simply waited quietly for the other answer.
Xia Lanshi was the last to pick up his brush.
He hesitated for a long time, so long that some people thought he would not be able to write anything.
Then he raised his brush.
It descended very slowly, as though each character required a little more strength before it could stand firmly.
Written on the paper were:
Snow falls upon the frontier, yet the bones remain unchilled,
The starving gaze toward the palace, their tears already stilled.
If the sovereign knows not what transpires beneath the sky,
Why sit upon the highest throne, beyond the gates so high?
The moment the poem appeared, the entire room erupted into an uproar.
He had not written about the hierarchy between ruler and subject.
He had not written about order between those above and below.
He had written about the frontier, starving people, snow, and tears.
The handwriting on the paper was thin and spare, and the rhyme was not as steady as Jiang Zechen’s poem.
But those lines were like a window suddenly thrown open, allowing everyone inside the room to see the snow outside for the first time.
Some people also accused Xia Lanshi of being reckless and presumptuous, daring to criticize the emperor directly.
Jiang Zechen lowered his head and looked at those lines without speaking.
He realized that what he had written was a door—a door that was closed, properly and orderly closed.
But what Xia Lanshi had written was a window.
The window was open, allowing the wind to blow inside.
After reading the two poems, the teacher remained silent for a while.
He did not evaluate Jiang Zechen’s poem, nor did he evaluate Xia Lanshi’s.
He simply placed the two sheets of paper side by side on the desk, as though comparing two roads leading in different directions.
Then he spoke calmly.
“Both poems will be kept in the academy archives.”
No one asked why again.
Jiang Zechen remembered those lines.
They were like a fine needle that had lightly pricked some place inside his heart.
It was still there.
He had never pulled it out.
Jiang Zechen knew his own talent very well.
When he first entered the academy, Xia Lanshi could not even touch the edge of his ability.
At that time, he had no need to look that person in the eye, because that person was not yet qualified to become his opponent.
But he soon discovered that the distance between them was shrinking.
He took one step, and Xia Lanshi took one step as well.
He took another step, and Xia Lanshi continued to follow.
Then one day, when he turned around, he realized that the person was already standing beside him, walking shoulder to shoulder with him.
After a while, Xia Lanshi had already passed him.
Further and further away.
As Xia Lanshi’s talent gradually revealed itself, opinions of him also split.
One faction looked down on him completely, calling him “the Grand Tutor’s white shadow.”
Another faction began calling him by a different name.
Among the scholars of the capital, some people called Xia Lanshi the “Jade Snow Young Master.”
—Snow falling upon jade, cold and pure.
Some said it was because when they first saw him, he resembled snow, but after spending time with him, they realized he was jade.
Others said he was extraordinarily beautiful, like jade carved from snow.
Whatever the explanation, Xia Lanshi himself had never responded to the title.
He had never acknowledged it, nor had he denied it.
He simply continued to be himself as always.
On the day they completed their studies, Grand Tutor Xia summoned the three of them before him.
The old man had aged completely, but his eyes remained clear, like two lamps that would never go out.
He sat in his study.
On the desk before him lay three things: a sword, a brush, and a fan.
He looked at Xiao Yuan first.
The boy had already grown into a young man. There were traces of the northern border’s wind and snow upon him, and his features had gained an even greater sense of steadiness.
The Grand Tutor handed him a sword.
Its scabbard was plain, and the blade reflected the snow.
There were no unnecessary decorations. Only when one looked closely could one see the dark patterns on the blade.
“One day, you will clear a path for the world.”
Then he looked toward Xia Lanshi.
That white son had long since ceased to be the child who once huddled beneath the corridor.
He was thin, but he stood straight, like bamboo standing firm against wind and snow.
The Grand Tutor handed him a brush.
Its shaft was deep purple, almost black. The wolf-hair bristles had already been repaired, and the brush cap was dark bronze.
“One day, you will speak for the world.”
Finally, he walked over to Jiang Zechen.
When the bamboo fan was handed to him, its surface was an off-white tinged with gray. Its sixteen ribs gave off a warm, gentle glow beneath the lamplight, the tear marks spreading like ink.
When Jiang Zechen accepted it, his fingers touched the warmth of the Grand Tutor’s fingertips.
They were cold.
“One day, you will uphold propriety for the world.”
The Grand Tutor said nothing more.
But Jiang Zechen knew that those few words were heavier than the sword, and colder than the brush.
A sword could cleave open a chaotic situation.
A brush could write a new chapter.
But the person who upheld propriety had to stand forever behind everyone else, making sure they did not stray from the proper path.
At the time, he tightened his grip on the bamboo fan.
He did not ask why.
That year, Xia Lanshi was only seventeen, the youngest student ever to graduate from the academy.
Although there were idle remarks that Grand Tutor Xia was playing favorites, Jiang Zechen knew that Xia Lanshi truly possessed the ability.
Jiang Zechen was three years older than him, while Xiao Yuan was five years older.
The three were separated by several years in age, yet they left the academy in the same year.
Later, when Jiang Zechen thought back on it, he felt that perhaps this had been the Grand Tutor’s intention.
To have people of different ages, at the same point in time, walk toward different paths.
Not long afterward, Xiao Yuan was sent to the northern border again, Xia Lanshi entered Prince Su’s residence, and Jiang Zechen entered the Hanlin Academy.
After that, they hardly saw one another again for many years.
The carriage jolted, pulling him back to reality.
He opened his eyes.
The sky outside the carriage had already darkened.
The days in the northern border were absurdly short, as though deliberately shortening the amount of time people had to accomplish anything.
He lifted a corner of the curtain.
Wind and snow surged inside, carrying a kind of scent unfamiliar to him.
Burned wood, frozen earth, and something that was slowly rotting.
“How much farther?” he asked.
The coachman’s voice came from the front, torn apart by the wind and snow.
“My lord, another day and we will reach Linbei City.”
Jiang Zechen remembered that a month earlier, when he had knelt in the Golden Hall to receive the imperial edict, the Crown Prince had given him one final look.
That look had been very calm, yet it seemed to say:
Once you go, you’ll know what you need to do.
He had not asked the Crown Prince what he was supposed to do.
Because he knew that what the Crown Prince wanted him to investigate was not the northern border’s grain.
It was the truth beneath Xiao Yuan.
Linbei City, Hanchuan, Qingshi Village—those places were all written clearly in the memorials.
But no one knew what had truly happened there.
Or rather, those who knew were not speaking.
After arriving at the northern border, the road ahead was longer and quieter than he had imagined.
Figures began to appear along the roadside.
At first there were only a few.
Later, there were groups upon groups.
Those people wore worn-out cotton clothes. Their cheeks were sunken, and their eyes seemed dulled by the wind and snow.
They did not approach the convoy.
They simply stood by the roadside watching, like rows of dead branches stuck into the snow.
He saw a woman holding a child.
The child was not crying.
His face was blue.
He saw a corpse curled up by the roadside, one hand stretched toward the road ahead, forever frozen in that position.
He had read the words “northern border” countless times in the memorials.
Yet he had never truly seen the northern border.
There was no food here.
No medicine.
No firewood.
And no hope.
Those people did not even raise their heads to look at his carriage.
He saw an overturned grain cart.
The rice sacks on the cart had been cut open, and the grains had spilled into the snow, already frozen into hard clumps.
Someone crouched by the roadside, using their fingers to pick at the frozen grains.
Even when their fingernails had split and torn, they did not stop.
He did not order anyone to stop them, because those people had not crossed the line to steal grain.
They were merely picking up something that had already been discarded.
But he knew that in a few more days, those people would cross that line.
And by then, he might no longer remember what it meant to “uphold propriety.”
Jiang Zechen lowered the curtain.
He said nothing.
He remembered that policy essay from years ago, the one that had been kept in the academy archives, the one that had asked, “How should the famine in the northern border be resolved?”
Now he finally understood.
Everything written in that essay had been closer to the truth than the memorials he had read in court.
But the truth was not on paper.
It was here.
In the wind and snow.
In those numb eyes that no longer asked anyone for help.
When the outline of the first military city of the northern border gradually became visible through the wind and snow, the sky had already darkened.
The repaired sections of the city wall looked like a wound that had only just been stitched closed and had not yet had time to heal.
Above the city gate hung a flag.
Black at the base, patterned with silver.
Its corner snapped violently in the wind.
Jiang Zechen stared at that flag without looking away.
—The Silver Wolf Banner.
He had heard of this banner in the capital.
It was precisely the banner feared and resented by the Emperor and Crown Prince.
The banner of Prince Su.
He tightened his grip on the bamboo fan.
There was someone in this city waiting for him.
That person, like him, had walked out of the same academy, received different things from the same teacher, and then gone in completely different directions.
One upheld propriety.
The other spoke for the world.
And now, they would meet again amid the wind and snow.
◇◆◇◆◇
The afternoon at Guichen Studio was as quiet as ever, time moving at an unhurried pace.
Owl sat behind the counter and took out the letter.
He opened it.
The letter had been folded neatly. There were no unnecessary creases at the corners, as though the person who had folded it had deliberately pressed every line flat.
He unfolded the paper and lowered his head to read it once.
——————————
Young Master Owl,
Spring is still far away in the northern border. The wind and snow have eased somewhat compared to when I first arrived, but the land remains frozen. The snow accumulated atop the city walls has yet to melt, and the cold continues to seep upward from beneath the earth.
The day before yesterday, His Highness followed your instructions and sent people to investigate the terrain beneath the administrative office. As you said, they indeed discovered an underground empty hall buried beneath the ruins of an ancient shrine.
This matter surprised me.
That place was buried several zhang beneath the ground, to the extent that even the local veterans might not have known of its existence. Yet you were able to identify its location with a single sentence.
I originally thought it was merely something you mentioned in passing.
Now that I think about it, I realize I underestimated you.
Over the past two days, I have gone through the historical records of Linbei City from previous years, as well as surviving records concerning its construction and repairs, hoping to find the origins of that empty hall.
Yet I found nothing.
Whether it was a relic of the previous dynasty, a place of worship, or an underground refuge, there are no records that can be used for verification.
It is as though that empty hall was never written into any document at all.
This has instead aroused my curiosity.
If Young Master has never set foot in the northern border, how did you know that place existed?
Surely it could not be that one of the ancestors of Guichen Studio had already drawn a map of the northern border hundreds of years ago and left it for later generations to follow?
If that truly is the case, Huaiyu would very much like to borrow it from you for a look.
Huaiyu respectfully bows.
——————————
Owl placed the letter on the table and remained silent for a moment.
Then he smiled.
It was a very faint smile.
But there was not much ease in it.
It was more like the bitter smile of someone who had discovered that another person had lightly tapped him on the back of the head—the kind of smile that said, Sure enough, here it comes.
He leaned back against the chair and read the letter once more.
Every word was courteous.
Every sentence was probing.
He spoke of “curiosity,” but what he was really asking was, “How did you know?”
The tone of the letter was gentle and polite. There was not a single accusatory sentence, yet every line was like an unsheathed blade lightly pressed against him.
This truly was Xia Lanshi’s style.
Always gentle.
Always polite.
Always making people feel as though they were being treated with the utmost consideration.
Only after they lowered their heads did they realize they had already been led into a trap.
“…It really is.”
He murmured softly and placed the letter back on the table.
He sat there for a while.
Then, from beneath the counter, he took out a new envelope and a stack of stationery.
The envelope was matte black, the paper thick and substantial. There were no unnecessary decorations on its surface, save for a silver-foil owl pressed into one corner.
The letter paper was the same matte black, with no patterns whatsoever.
He took out a silver metallic paint pen.
When he put pen to paper, his fingertip paused on the page for a moment before he finally began writing.
——————————
Young Master Huaiyu,
Your letter has been received.
Spring is still a long way off in the northern border. The words “the land remains frozen” in your letter somehow carry a chill even when I read them here.
There should still be some distance to go before spring arrives in Linbei City.
It is cooling down here as well. At night, the wind is very loud.
As for that empty hall, I do indeed know something about it, and I also know where it is.
As for how I know, please forgive me for being unable to explain.
It has nothing to do with whether I trust you.
It has to do with rules.
A door has the rules of a door, just as your side has the rules of your own.
I understand that you may have some doubts in your heart.
You asked your questions tactfully, so I shall answer them just as indirectly.
I do indeed know some things that you do not.
But those things should not be told by me.
You mentioned in your letter that neither the city’s historical records nor the surviving records concerning its construction and repairs contain anything about that empty hall, as though it had never been written into any document.
That reminds me of a saying:
Some things are not recorded not because they do not exist, but because they should not be recorded.
You are meticulous in your thoughts. I imagine you can understand.
There is another matter.
I heard that you suffered a serious illness some time ago.
Although the handwriting in your letter remains neat, the strokes at the beginning of the characters are slightly lighter than usual, as though you still lack some strength when holding the brush.
When you read the accounts at night, you should add another lamp.
Looking into the darkness for too long is harmful to your eyesight.
Please take good care of yourself.
Spring in the northern border is still far away, but the wind and snow will always stop eventually.
If there is a chance, once you are feeling better, there is no harm in writing another letter.
Owl
——————————
Beside his signature, he drew a simple little owl.
Then he folded the letter in half, placed it inside the envelope, and set the envelope in the corner of the counter, waiting for Xiao Yuan to take it back the next time he came.
He reached out and picked up the cup of coffee that had been cold for a long time.
He took a sip and let his thoughts drift far away.