The gentlemen dispersed only at the hour of Xu (7–9 p.m.). The door curtain rose and fell repeatedly, yet Yao Wenyu calmly lifted his teacup, slowly stirring the foam on the surface. When he was deep in thought, his face showed a distinct sickly pallor. Yuan Zhuo had returned to the capital of Jue, neither seeing old friends nor returning to the Yao family ancestral residence.
Shen Zechuan looked over the official documents and said, “This morning you said you wanted to see Xue Xiuzhuo?”
The warm hall was silent inside and out, so quiet that only the sound of falling snow could be heard. Yao Wenyu stared at the rising and falling foam in his cup and replied, “We are all dying men. We should meet.”
Shen Zechuan turned his gaze away. Even with his usual restraint and composure, he was still moved by those words.
Yao Wenyu did not drink the tea. He looked toward the window lit by lantern glow, where snow shadows drifted down in pieces.
“It’s New Year,” Yao Wenyu smiled faintly. “Lord, may the new year be smooth for you.”
In the Ministry of Punishment prison, Xue Xiuzhuo was held captive. His tied hair remained neat and orderly; even without official robes, he still maintained his usual calm.
When Yao Wenyu arrived in his wheelchair, Xue Xiuzhuo set down his chopsticks. Through the prison door, he showed no surprise. He said, “It’s the cold of the first month. Has Shen Zechuan sent people to clean the streets?”
Yao Wenyu turned his wheelchair. No snow rested on his shoulders. “The imperial guards have their arrangements.”
Xue Xiuzhuo supported his knees and looked straight at Yao Wenyu. They had both lived in each other’s shadows. In the first half of life, Xue Xiuzhuo was that nameless blade; in the second half, Yao Wenyu was the shattered piece of jade.
Xue Xiuzhuo said, “When spring comes and the mountain snow melts, the teacher’s tomb is not in a good place. Go and have it repaired.”
“You have lived in the capital of Jue,” Yao Wenyu said. “You haven’t gone to see it?”
Xue Xiuzhuo’s straight spine stood against the falling snow behind him. He answered honestly, “I don’t dare go.”
The prison fell into silence.
Yao Wenyu lowered his eyes, as if faintly mocking. He placed the white chess piece he had been holding onto the table, and in the dim light pushed it silently toward Xue Xiuzhuo.
Xue Xiuzhuo stared at that chess piece. In the long silence, it seemed as if he heard the rain of Mount Bodhi.
“Many years ago,” Xue Xiuzhuo said evenly, “the teacher did not judge me by noble or common birth. He promoted me into office. I read Qi Huilian’s policy writings and learned the world was vast. There was a kind of person called ‘court officials’—they ran across the lands of the Great Zhou, becoming its essential pillars. In the Yongyi era, Qi Huilian was imprisoned. The teacher often lingered on the watchtower where he could see the Zhaozui Temple. I asked what he was looking at. He said he was looking at the last ‘minister’ of this world. I found it strange then, because Qi Huilian was a minister, and so was the teacher. Later, in the Xian De era, when we gathered evidence against Hua Siheng, many people died—officials, clerks—loyal local officials. Almost all of them died.”
Xue Xiuzhuo had thought about these things for too long. So long that it had become numb, turning into iron-hard indifference, no longer able to make him cry in the middle of the night. He deeply respected Hai Liangyi, but reality was too cruel.
“These people had no graves, no tombs. They died in the chaos, and with a wave of the aristocratic families’ sleeves, they were erased cleanly,” Xue Xiuzhuo said without emotion. “That court remonstrance at the hunting grounds in the Xian De era was the hope of countless people whose names you never heard. We brought down Hua Siheng, but the teacher did not continue.”
Because of this, the Empress Dowager survived, and the aristocratic families remained unshakable. Li Jianheng ascended the throne. Xue Xiuzhuo had once wanted to assist him, but Li Jianheng simply could not bear such responsibility.
What exactly was Hai Liangyi persisting in?
Xue Xiuzhuo did not understand. He stood at the fork in the road and no longer wished to follow Hai Liangyi. He could not see any light on this path.
“Until today,” Xue Xiuzhuo lifted his eyes, “I still do not agree with the teacher’s path. No one can persuade me in this game. Yuan Zhuo, neither can you.”
Yao Wenyu turned his wheelchair and headed toward the prison exit.
Xue Xiuzhuo watched his back and said, “Heaven gave birth to me, Xue Xiuzhuo. Take my life as you wish, my name as you please. Between you and me, who won? I merely lost. My lord was born at the wrong time and lost to Shen Zechuan. The mistake was timing, not fate.”
Yao Wenyu’s wheelchair stopped. He did not turn back, only tilted his face slightly, and in the shadow said word by word: “Time, fate, fortune.”
The prison gate slammed shut with a “clang,” separating them completely into light and darkness.
Yao Wenyu moved his wheelchair along the narrow passage. Near the gate, he suddenly began coughing violently. The lantern light at the entrance was dim; he grasped the armrest, and in his panting could no longer see the road ahead.
“Sir…”
The jailer beside him cried out in alarm.
“Time, fate, fortune—not within my control.”¹
His fingers grasped emptily at the air. Then, toward the front, he collapsed straight down.
Yao Wenyu awoke to a faint lamp lit in the room.
Shen Zechuan was by his side and said softly, “Since Songyue and the others are about to arrive, talk to me. Wait for them a little longer.”
Yao Wenyu looked at the curtain and replied softly, “I told Songyue to go to Mount Bodhi and plant a bodhi tree to wait for me.”
Shen Zechuan lowered his eyes, sorrow pressing close, as if tears would fall at any moment.
“Winter is so long,” Yao Wenyu said mournfully. “Before I entered the capital, I thought I might still see the flowers on Mount Bodhi bloom.”
“Wait a little longer,” Shen Zechuan said hoarsely at once, his voice breaking, “Yuan Zhuo.”
Yao Wenyu did not respond and began coughing again. This time, blood soaked through the handkerchief and could no longer be hidden. After a moment, he said, “In Western Ji, the household registers have been implemented for many years. Jiang Qingshan is a good official. Lanzhou, keep him—he is the father of Western Ji’s people. The Great Marshal dares to refuse war for peace in the world. If she becomes ruler, the five eastern prefectures can all submit. Fei Sheng has minor flaws but is still usable. With Yin Chang’s stone stele, send him back to Duan Prefecture—it can be secured. Cheng Feng…” Yao Wenyu’s breathing grew heavier. “Cheng Feng originally intended to retire in glory… I already left him a letter… Lanzhou, the new emperor cannot lack strategists. After I leave, with Cheng Feng’s insight and talent… he can assist you in stabilizing the realm…”
Sweat soaked Yao Wenyu’s body as if a seizure had struck him; even his complexion turned pale. He raised his hand and grasped Shen Zechuan’s sleeve.
“This world…” Yao Wenyu struggled to rise, eyes reddened in broken breaths, “must be ruled by you! Xun’er is still too young… not the time yet…”
Shen Zechuan held him back, and in the candlelight said slowly, “I am not suited to be an emperor.”
“You are a warlord. A warlord of this world,” Yao Wenyu said firmly. “In the future, the throne may be handed over, but at this moment, only you, Shen Lanzhou, can sit it! Old injustices must be cleared… Shen Wei must be retried…” His breath tore at his throat, his voice turning hoarse and broken as he coughed blood, “Lanzhou… you are upright and bright…”
Shen Zechuan’s tears had already come first. His lips trembled, unable to speak a single word.
“When Ce’an returns… returns…” Yao Wenyu tightened his grip. “You will have no more worries… I wrote documents half a year ago, covering all administrative offices in various regions. My understanding of governance in the eight cities is still rough… rough… you take them… from now on…”
Yao Wenyu, leaning on Shen Zechuan’s support, suddenly coughed out a mouthful of blood. The red stains soaked his sleeves, and he no longer wiped them away, forcing a faint smile.
“…The realm and its affairs will be entrusted to you.”
Hai Liangyi had laid down the burden; Yao Wenyu had taken it up. He did not follow anyone else’s path—he walked his own. No matter how the world judged him, he was still the wandering immortal who arrived riding a donkey.
Yao Yuanzhuo never entered officialdom; he achieved it. Yao Wenyu wished to fulfill his teacher’s wish; he achieved it too. He came into this world bare and unafraid of shattering. Apart from Qiao Tianya, he owed nothing to anyone.
“If I had met you earlier…”
Yao Wenyu looked toward the window, where the richly colored hanging decoration still had not been removed. He smiled wearily and moved his hand tied with a red thread.
“…ah.”
Qiao Tianya rode through the snow at full speed. Carrying his zither on his back, he broke through the barriers and, amid the jeers of the imperial guards, fell from his horse. Fei Sheng rushed to help him, but he pushed Fei Sheng away and struggled up from the snow, his gaze piercing through the long corridor—seeing the lights at the far end go out.
Qiao Tianya took a few steps and was tripped by the stairs. He fell, suddenly shaking his shoulders, then threw his head back and laughed bitterly while tears streamed down his face.
“…Damn heaven! Playing tricks on me… humiliating me…” Qiao Tianya cried out uncontrollably. “I endured it all…”
Why must it still treat him like this?
Qiao Tianya raised his arm and ripped the zither from his back.
Fei Sheng hurried forward to stop him, calling urgently, “Qiao—”
But it was already too late. Qiao Tianya lifted the zither and smashed it down the steps. The instrument he had cherished all his life let out a “buzzing” broken-string sound, then shattered into two halves and fell into the snow.
The wind and snow obscured Qiao Tianya’s eyes. His disheveled hair flew in the air. As the zither broke, his heart died with it.
“If there is no Yao Yuanzhuo in this world,” Qiao Tianya slowly closed his eyes, as if mocking this absurd fate, “then Qiao Songyue is dead.”
Fei Sheng chased after Qiao Tianya through the heavy snow and asked, “Where are you going?”
Qiao Tianya did not answer. As he turned away, he removed the heavy sword of resentment and staggering walked back the way he came.
A carriage stopped. Jiran came out from the carriage, running after Qiao Tianya. He clapped his hands and sang in a childlike voice:
“I have no attachment to all things, so why not let all things surround me? O benefactor, there is no frost on the road ahead, only your clear mirror light. In the blink of my Buddha, past matters turn to ashes.”
Qiao Tianya ignored him. Jiran followed him. The two figures of one tall and one small drifted together and disappeared into the snow.
The sky was vast like a glass realm, unstained by dust.
Shen Zechuan alone guarded the snowy eaves, sitting from night until dawn. He listened to the sound of snow falling from the eaves, as if time had frozen. He eventually returned to the capital of Jue, gazing at the sky from here, memories unfolding one after another.
“Do you know that year,” Shen Zechuan said slowly, wrapped in a cloak, “why I agreed to Ce’an and wore the ear pendant?”
Fei Sheng stood far behind and said, “Because Your Lordship and Second Master had a deep bond.”
Shen Zechuan reached up and broke off the plum blossoms blocking his view. “…Because I knew someone would leave. Those who disappear into the snow never return, except Ce’an.”
When Xiao Chiye put earrings on Lanzhou, it was an act of dominance, but hidden within it was love and tenderness. Every time he held Lanzhou’s face, his gaze was always burning—love without retreat, desire without concealment.
Shen Zechuan wore the earrings Ce’an gave him as well, a declaration of possession, yet within pain and cruelty there was still tenderness. That was his softness, and he only gave it to Xiao Ce’an.
Fei Sheng did not dare approach. After Yuan Zhuo and Songyue left one after another, Shen Zechuan rarely showed any brightness. He had already stood at the peak of the world; even without wearing the crown, he was no longer the same as in Zhongbo. This difference was not because Shen Zechuan had changed, nor because Fei Sheng had changed, but because the place had changed—so much so that in this capital standing for centuries, even the steps themselves seemed oppressive.
Fei Sheng tried carefully to comfort him. “My lord, the Princess and the young heir have already set out. They will arrive in a few days.”
Shen Zechuan gave a soft “mm.” Fei Sheng stood silently.