The day Shen Zechuan was brought into the Zhaozui Temple, Qu Du was graced with rare clear weather. Snow blanketed the palace tiles, and red walls contrasted sharply with green plum trees. Sunlight streamed through the eaves, casting a diagonal line of shadow and light at his feet.
He had just recovered from a serious illness, his frame reduced to skin and bones. At fifteen, the memories of the past seemed like ashes, swept clean by the biting northern wind the moment he opened his eyes.
Ge Qingqing descended the steps first and looked back at him. “It’s getting late.”
Shen Zechuan supported himself on a pillar, slowly making his way down. Exposed to the sunlight, he neither flinched nor showed fear. The softness of youth seemed to have been crushed by his pale appearance; only weakness remained, nothing else.
At the temple entrance, Ji Lei waited, accompanied by Xiao Fuze. The boy craned his neck to inspect the ancient temple, exclaiming in wonder, “What a strange temple! It doesn’t look like a place for prisoners at all.”
“You don’t know its history,” Ji Lei said. “Originally, the Zhaozui Temple was a royal place of worship. It once housed the sacred edicts of Lord Guangcheng. At its peak, eminent monks from all over the country gathered here; it was famed for philosophical discussions and scholarly gatherings.”
“Why haven’t I heard the master mention it in recent years?” Xiao Fuze looked the temple over. “It seems neglected—long hasn’t it been maintained?”
Ji Lei paused, then said, “Twenty years. The Prince of Sin, then, incited Qu Du’s Eight Regiments to rebellion. After his defeat, he holed up here, struggling like a trapped beast, eventually bleeding upon the statues before taking his own life. Since then, the previous emperor never set foot here again, and the temple’s name was revised to Zhaozui.”
“Twenty years…” Xiao Fuze muttered, astonished. “I wasn’t even born yet! And Master Ji had just joined the Jinyiwei then?”
Ji Lei ignored him, turning back to bark, “Why aren’t we there yet?”
Xiao Fuze lingered by the stone stele marked “Zhaozui,” spinning around it, then asked, “I’ve never heard anyone mention who’s been held here before?”
Ji Lei, clearly impatient, said, “Those imprisoned were ministers implicated in the Prince of Sin’s case. Civil and military officials alike were executed along with their nine clans; only a handful survived. Twenty years have passed—who would even remember now?”
The prisoner carriage approached. Ge Qingqing saluted Ji Lei. “Sir, the person has arrived.”
“Bring him in,” Ji Lei said to Shen Zechuan. “This farewell may well be our last. The emperor’s grace is vast—remember it for the rest of your life.”
Shen Zechuan paid no heed. The carriage rolled into Zhaozui Temple, the weathered red gates creaking as they closed behind him. He stood within, meeting Ji Lei’s gaze. The officer stiffened, about to speak, but Shen Zechuan’s face broke into a smile.
Madness.
Ji Lei heard Shen Zechuan calmly say, “Sir Ji, until we meet again.”
The gates slammed, raising a cloud of dust. Xiao Fuze coughed and stepped back repeatedly, while Ji Lei remained rooted in place. He was called several times before realizing, muttering under his breath, “…Damn bad luck!”
Later, Xiao Chiye rode his horse through the street, colliding with Ji Lei. Laughing, he said, “Old Ji, weren’t you on duty at court today?”
Ji Lei’s eyes lingered covetously on the warhorse under Xiao Chiye. “I was escorting that leftover scion to the temple, rushing back to the palace. Second young master, what a horse! All tamed by yourself?”
“Just a pastime,” Xiao Chiye replied, cracking his whip. A sea-eagle descended onto his shoulder. “Training hawks and horses is all I’ve got.”
“After the New Year, you’ll have your hands full once you take up official duties,” Ji Lei said. “Qu Du’s new aristocrats! If I’m not on duty tomorrow, let’s drink together?”
“No wine,” Xiao Chiye said.
Ji Lei laughed. “Good wine it must be! Who dares invite you otherwise? I’ll come by later—will the young master have time to join me?”
“My eldest brother? He dislikes such things. So if I go alone, does it count?”
Ji Lei quickly clarified, “Not what I mean! Second young master, it’s settled.”
Xiao Chiye nodded, spurring his horse onward. Before leaving, he remembered to ask, “How’s the scion? Can he walk?”
“He can walk,” Ji Lei replied, “but not very nimbly. Some of the judicial lashings were merciful, not leaving lasting injuries. Walking at all is his luck.”
Xiao Chiye said nothing further and rode off.
Later, temple servants delivered food. Shen Zechuan lit an oil lamp but did not touch the meal. He carried the lamp and circled the side corridors. Dust had accumulated for years; some rooms were dilapidated, doors and windows rotting. A few corpses toppled with the wind. Finding no living being, he returned to the main hall.
The Buddha statues were toppled; the incense table was old but sturdy. Shen Zechuan hung tattered curtains and lay down, wrapping himself in his robe. Cold made his legs ache, but he endured, eyes closed, counting the hours.
By midnight, fresh snow fell. Two owls called. He sat up and saw Ji Gang stepping into the hall.
“Eat first,” Ji Gang unpacked a bundle. “Then we practice. At night like this, the wind is harsh, too cold—if you sleep, I worry you’ll fall ill again.”
Shen Zechuan looked at the paper-wrapped roast chicken. “No rich foods while ill, Master. You eat instead.”
“Rubbish! You need to eat well. I love chicken tails—at home, I’d devour them. You leave them to me?”
Shen Zechuan said, “I follow your lead. You eat what I eat.”
Ji Gang glanced at him, chuckled, then chewed through the chicken bones with remarkable strength. He handed Shen Zechuan a gourd. “If it gets unbearably cold, drink some wine. But don’t overdo it—sip like your brother does.”
These days, they never spoke of Zhongbo, Duan Zhou, or the Chashi Pit. Both master and disciple seemed to conceal old wounds, unaware that blood had already spilled and pain persisted.
Shen Zechuan took a sip and passed it to Ji Gang.
Ji Gang refused. “I quit drinking, Master.”
Silence fell over the hall; without doors, the fine snow outside became the only scenery of the long night.
Ji Gang said, “What are you staring at?”
“Master.”
“Speak.”
“I’m sorry.”
Ji Gang was silent a long while. “Not your fault.”
Shen Zechuan clenched his fingers tightly, staring into the snow, as if a blink would spill tears. His voice was hoarse. “Did you go to Chashi to find us?”
Ji Gang leaned against the incense table, swallowed for a long moment, and finally said, “I went… and found them.”
Found them.
Ji Gang had found his son, riddled with arrows, in the deep snow pit. He stepped over the thick bodies, pulling Ji Mu’s corpse out.
Ji Mu was only twenty-three, recently promoted to the small banner of Duan Zhou’s garrison. His armor was new; on the day he donned it, Hua Pingting hung a talisman for his safety on the lock. When Ji Gang found him, he was blue and cold, frozen with his comrades.
Shen Zechuan lifted his head slightly. “Master, I’m sorry.”
Ji Gang, old now, rubbed his white hair. “He was your brother, wasn’t he? That’s how it should be. None of this was your fault.”
The snow fell a little more.
Ji Gang curled his limbs. “Who could’ve guessed Biansha Tuzi would come? He joined the army, rushed to the front. I taught him martial arts; he had that temperament. If you let him run, better to kill him. He couldn’t bear seeing others suffer—how could he escape?”
“It wasn’t your fault. It was my fault, Master. I drank without restraint. Your wife scolded me endlessly, and I didn’t stop. When the cavalry came, I couldn’t fight properly. At my age… I’m old, useless, ruined.”
The gourd was dampened. Shen Zechuan held it in silence.
“Old, useless.” A head suddenly peeked from behind a Buddha statue, grinning. “Old, useless!”
Ji Gang leapt like a leopard, shouting, “Who!”
The figure, disheveled, slowly emerged, mimicking Ji Gang: “Who, who!”
Ji Gang, recognizing the voice, pressed Shen Zechuan down in shock. “…Grand Tutor Qi!”
The man shrank back suddenly, kicking the Buddha statue, shouting, “No! Not the Tutor!”
Ji Gang chased after him, catching his ankle as he tried to escape. The man let out a pig-like scream: “Your Highness! Highness, run!”
Shen Zechuan clamped a hand over the man’s mouth; together with Ji Gang, they brought him back.
“Who is this?” Shen Zechuan asked.
“You’re too young to have heard of him,” Ji Gang’s voice wavered as he held the man. “Grand Tutor Qi… alive! Lord Zhou too?”
The tutor, thin and frail, could barely move, eyes wide. “Dead… dead! I died, Your Highness died, everyone died!”
Ji Gang said firmly, “Tutor Qi, I am Ji Gang! Jinyiwei Assistant Commander Ji Gang!”
Still trembling, Tutor Qi raised his neck, hesitating. “You’re not Ji Gang… you’re a demon!”
Ji Gang, stunned, said, “Tutor! In the 23rd year of Yongyi, I escorted you into the capital. The Crown Prince received you here—don’t you remember?”
Tutor Qi’s eyes flickered, madness in his gaze. “They killed the Crown Prince… the Crown Prince! Ji Gang, sir! Take the prince away! The Eastern Palace is a target—what did he do to deserve this!”
Ji Gang let go, dejected. “Tutor… in the 29th year, Ji Lei adopted a traitor as father. I was exiled from Qu Du. For twenty years, I lived as a fugitive, married and had children in Zhongbo and Duan Zhou.”
Tutor Qi stared. “…The prince just left, the imperial grandson remains! You take him—take him!”
Ji Gang closed his eyes. “In the 30th year, the Crown Prince took his own life here. No one survived in the Eastern Palace.”
Tutor Qi murmured, “Yes… yes…” crying like a child. “How did it come to this?”
Ji Gang, exhausted that night, said, “A fleeting farewell… ten years of flowing water. Who could have known our reunion would be under such circumstances?”
Tutor Qi turned, covering his face. “Were you locked up too? Lock them all! Let them slaughter the scholars of this world!”
Ji Gang said, “My disciple suffers in my place.”
Tutor Qi: “In your place… good. His father… angered the emperor, yes?”
Ji Gang sighed. “Last year, Shen Wei’s army was defeated…”
Upon hearing “Shen Wei,” Tutor Qi suddenly lunged, crawling toward Shen Zechuan, asking, “This… is Shen Wei’s son?”
Ji Gang sensed danger, moving to intercept, but Tutor Qi had already reached out, fingers skeletal and feral. “Shen Wei! Shen Wei killed the prince!”
Shen Zechuan acted swiftly, grabbing Tutor Qi’s wrist. Ji Gang joined, restraining him. “Tutor! Why must the imperial grandson die today, and why must my disciple die in his stead? Whatever evil Shen Wei committed, what does it have to do with my disciple!”
Tutor Qi panted, voice trembling: “He… he is Shen Wei’s son… Shen Wei’s son…”
“He was born Shen Wei’s son,” Ji Gang said, pressing the tutor’s head down, “but he became my son. If I speak falsely tonight, may I not die in peace! Tutor, do you wish to kill my son?”