Ji Hong: None of your busines, I’m going to kill someone.
Before the rebel army from Yue could even cross Ju River, news of a decisive victory arrived from the north. Heluo’a’s so-called two hundred thousand-strong force turned out to be nothing but a bluff. Of course, if a small northern Di tribe could somehow field such a massive army, surely even their hearthkeeping maids and infants at the breast would have had to be counted. For years, though Daxia had been stretched supplying its troops, it wasn’t so feeble as to be bullied by a band of northern Di raiders.
That scoundrel Heluo’a was beaten so badly he lost his helmet and armor. He marched in full pride and bluster; he fled with nothing but dust on his face, retreating through Beiyan Pass with only a few hundred old, weak, sickly stragglers, fleeing northwest along the foothills of the Yanshan mountains. He fled all the way to the ruins of the old Di imperial city, stood atop the charred bones of his ancestors, hemmed in by Daxia’s armies, wandered dozens of paces, and finally killed himself in apology.
Years ago, right here, Grand Duke Li, General Ji, set fire to the Di imperial city to avenge his only son lost in his youth.
And here too, Heluo’a, crazed and wild-eyed, brandished a nicked saber before his death, pointed at heaven and earth and at himself, laughing loudly three times, cursing and mocking himself: “All these years, I’ve slaved for nothing but to clothe another’s bride! And to think my father treated him as an honored guest, that I believed a single word of his, trusting I’d get reinforcements! Fool!” He pointed at the Daxia general in crimson armor and a silver helmet, tears and laughter mingling, “Everything in your Daxia is rotten from top to bottom! Go and tell that old Ji bastard that he avenged the wrong person! Hahahaha—”
Heluo’a died, leaving only one panic-stricken, uncommitted old servant, who was taken back to the army camp.
This old servant had served generations of northern Di royals—a veteran of palace storms, schemes, and betrayals. Old now, he could withstand neither torture nor beating, and the confession he gave was relayed to the capital, shocking the entire court. In those years, famine plagued the Di, who repeatedly raided Daxia’s borders for food, only to be driven back again and again by the Ji family’s troops. One golden autumn, an extraordinary young man came to the Di, claiming he had a way to save them.
And he did. He enabled the Daxia forces, undefeated for a hundred battles, to finally suffer defeat; he let Di scouts pass into the border as merchants, swaggering into the capital’s outskirts and kidnapping General Ji’s child.
That young man called himself a Daxia royal, coming with gold, silver, cattle, and sheep, proposing a century of harmonious alliance.
But who’d have thought that alliance would mean the end of the entire Di tribe!
The Ji family’s only legitimate son died; Grand Duke Li’s spirit was shattered. Even after avenging the Di royalty by killing three hundred of them in one night, he collapsed, holding the Di’s head on display at Beiyan Gate and winning Daxia thirteen proud years.
But so what? Back in the capital, back home, all he saw was white mourning ribbon.
Grand Duke Li coughed blood onto the coffin, white hair sending off black—such a grievance can never rest!
In the end, the Di had only served as a borrowed knife for murder.
The emperor, furious enough to reach the roof, ripped ancestral portraits from the clan temple, went personally to prison, and made the Di’s old servant identify the culprit. The old servant, bloodstained and shaking, held a candle and, with faded yellow eyes, scanned dozens of Yan family princelings. Trembling, he yanked out an old, yellowed portrait of a youth and said, without hesitation, “…It’s him. No mistake.”
Even if turned to ashes, he would not be mistaken.
The guardian of Beiyan was the Marquis of Dingbei, who also could not escape blame for letting the Di spies into the capital. Digging further revealed rot everywhere in the four prefectures north of Beiyan—corruption and filth at every level. That mere Marquis of Dingbei, in places so frozen half the year, somehow lived better than the princes in the capital.
His reach stretched even further south; his manors nearly touched the capital, his racetrack was three hundred acres bigger than the imperial one, able to run even a horse to death with room left over.
The entire bureaucracy showed its true, ugly face.
When the news reached the south and entered Ji Hong’s ears, Yu Jinnian nearly leaped from his small couch to drive Duan Ming (the messenger) out of the tent. Last time, over Ji Yan’s old sword, he nearly went mad—who knew what turmoil this might bring! But Duan Ming was fast-talking and rattled off the court’s power struggle as if reciting a crosstalk act, leaving Yu Jinnian squirming with worry. But he forced himself to sit still and carefully watch Ji Hong’s reaction.
Ji Hong had already found clues to this long ago and had never gotten over it. Hearing another recount the entire story made him feel like an outsider; he kept his eyes closed, silent for a long time.
Yu Jinnian grew uneasy. “A Hong?”
Suddenly, a commotion sounded outside, voices full of joy. This string of battles from Chunan had been all secret maneuvers and shadowy deployments, rarely a clear, open fight. But now it sounded festive out there—this was the first time since the start of the war.
Yu Jinnian lifted the tent flap. Outside, people shouted, “Victory at Fuzhou! Great victory at Fuzhou!”
A crowd welcomed General Min in his silver armor. Though, honestly, his armor could hardly be called silver anymore—caked in blood and grime. He held a man-high spear, laughed and talked with his officers, looking heroic. His horse had trampled its way back through enemy blood, leaving bloody pits everywhere it stepped, but everyone’s face glowed with excited smiles.
This is what victory looks like. The legitimate young master of the Min family—he seemed a scholar, but was full of hot blood and iron bones. He could wield a pen or a spear! Such flair could not be matched by another in all the land!
Yu Jinnian laughed too. “A Hong, hear that? We won at Fuzhou!”
Ji Hong moved and murmured, “We will win, and keep on winning—win until I can ask him to his face what my second brother ever owed him.”
He looked at Yu Jinnian, finding calm again, and took out his own hairpin, gathering the youth’s loose hair and tying it neatly atop his head. “Go, then. The field general has returned victorious; it’s the inner general’s turn.”
Yu Jinnian, skilled in medicine, could treat any wound or ulcer, all the usual camp afflictions—he led young imperial doctors from tent to tent, looking feeble, but was actually the greatest source of hope in the whole army. Min Ji could not win every battle, but Yu Jinnian could; Min Ji could not relieve every pain, but Yu Jinnian could. The wounded barracks secretly called him the “inner general”—a playful nickname, but the lives he saved were real.
Touching the jade hairpin, Yu Jinnian nodded, called Su Ting, woke up the dozing imperial doctors, and rushed off to the wounded tents—full of momentum, off to his own battlefield.
Ji Hong watched him disappear among the soldiers, handed Duan Ming a jade token, and turned to see Min Ji.
“General Min, congratulations.”
Min Xuefei waved, heavy armor shining under the sunlight, lips turned in a smile: “Strategist Ji, congratulations to you too!” He shooed away Duan Ming with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Strategist Ji, any ideas?”
Ji Hong was unusually calm. “Nothing for you. Just to kill a man.”
One after another, the wounded were carried in, bloody and groaning, and Yu Jinnian could barely tell who was who. Previous battles had been light; this time it was a true clash with Yan Chang’s well-trained flank army. For the first time, Yu Jinnian saw the brutal cost of war. In the heat of battle, no one saw the enemy as human. Blades hacked into flesh like butchers cleaving meat.
Basins of hot water and strong wine rang through the tents, making the wounded howl. When the wine ran short, they boiled scallion water that filled the tent with the pungent smell. But even this searing pain could not stifle the soldiers’ wild, victorious pride.
He worked with Su Ting, sewing wounds while half-flayed soldiers exulted over the thrill of killing scoundrels on the field.
There were also those beyond help, arms hanging by a thread, bodies torn with holes, white bone poking through, blood already gone. Yu Jinnian staunched one wound only for another to burst open, blood flowing like a river, obvious even to Su Ting that the man couldn’t last.
Before death, he only wanted a hot drink. Strong liquor meant for sterilization was poured into his mouth, but spurted out his nose; he could not swallow.
The joy of victory at Fuzhou lasted only an instant; what lay before Yu Jinnian was enduring helplessness and pain, death close at hand. This war, stirred up by Yan Chang, would shatter tens of thousands of families, leave countless children fatherless, and wives widowed.
The further the front lines advanced, the fiercer the fighting, and death became a common sight.
Autumn deepened, well past the Mid-Autumn Festival and Double Ninth. Leaves likely had fallen in the capital, but the south was still lush and green. Min Xuefei recaptured Lingchang. The city, full of water and flowers, had clusters of hibiscus by the river, blooming at dawn and fading by dusk—pale purple and pink, now stained red like bloodstains.
Lingchang was cultured and elegant; through the ages, it had produced many scholars and poets. The tavern walls in the city’s elegant quarter still bore lines of poetry, but now the city lay in ruins. The hibiscus riverside, trampled by steel-hoofed cavalry, was scattered with shattered blossoms, blood-red in the evening light, clouded with the stink of war.
The gentry and rich in Lingchang were terrified, hoarding food and valuables, locked indoors. Yan Chang’s banner lay crumpled and scorched by the roadside. On the street, aside from soldiers cleaning up and patrolling on horseback, only a band of doctors in sky-blue coats went about rescuing the wounded.
A soldier whose face had been half-blown away gripped Yu Jinnian with his bloody hand, struggled to pass over the tag from his waist, coughing up blood with every breath, hoarsely gasping, “Remarry… let her remarry…”
Yu Jinnian barely caught the tag before the man died staring, leaving a long bloody smear on Yu Jinnian’s collar with his half-hand—dying with his eyes wide open.
If a victorious battle was this bitter, what of defeat?
…If given the choice, Yu Jinnian would rather die than return to the battlefield.
Yan Chang, boasting an army of hundreds of thousands, had seized seven or eight of the thirteen southern commanderies; his front stretched from the east coast to the central Mu Yang, too ambitious, not realizing greed would only bring ruin.
But the western front, cut down by Min Ji at Lingchang, left fifty thousand troops stranded at Mu Yang, unable to advance—becoming Min Xuefei’s captives.
Yan Chang could only lead his troops east, toward Zhongling—a major southern city with high walls and deep moats, rivaling the capital for wealth and charm. To the north of Zhongling lay the river; across the river was the fertile Daxia north plain, straight to the capital’s gates.
At worst, he could retreat and hold Zhongling, dividing the country along the river with the emperor.
Zhou Feng entered the main tent, kicked Yu Xu out, snatched the cold wine from the commander, sat down cross-legged, and took out a big box of mugwort. He filled bamboo tubes thick as a finger, while Yan Chang stared at the “Qu Ji” sword hanging on the wall. Zhou Feng kneaded his injured shoulder with familiar care.
Yan Chang gazed fiercely at the sword, as if he could see through and seize the late emperor’s spirit by the collar, to ask why bestow him the sword but not the throne. Why, after years of war and glory, was the mediocre seventh brother chosen, while he was banished south to Yue, three thousand miles from the palace, as good as exiled?
Was fate truly set so that no matter his efforts, he could never prevail?
His shoulder bore fresh wounds. In autumn, it hurt so much he couldn’t lift his arm. Zhongling’s winters were wet and cold, unlike Yue’s eternal spring. The doctors said his illness was longstanding, impossible to cure—and could only be managed.
But once, a youth had said: “Your illness is easily cured.”
Zhou Feng massaged the lumps under Yan Chang’s skin, sighing: “Why don’t we go back south? It’s warmer there. The doctors know you well. Zhongling’s in chaos—there’s no more mugwort left.”
“No mugwort, do I just die?!” Yan Chang glared, “No arm, I just give up the country?!”
Zhou Feng: “…”
The ten-year grand plan was nearly achieved. He had reached Zhongling; forty-five hundred miles of the country were his. To retreat now would be like stabbing himself in the heart. Even if he left, would the emperor spare him?
The current emperor seemed mild and weak, his court the same—soft and easy to handle. Yet, when trouble arose, they turned into wolves and leopards, merciless in their killing. The Di were exterminated, the Marquis of Dingbei escaped to the capital to cry injustice, only to be hacked to death halfway, dragged back to the capital in a coffin full of bones and scraps so dismembered they could hardly be identified—eaten by dogs at some point.
So be it. At least most bones made it back. But oddly, the morgue caught fire and burned everything to ashes.
Dingbei’s dozen concubines, far away in Yancheng, mourned to the point of fainting.
The officials went through the motions of investigating; Dingbei’s sons, afraid to claim even their father’s ashes, only begged, tearful, to spare their hundreds of kin. Suddenly, all the ministers became useless again, dodging responsibility.
Zhou Feng packed away the mugwort, “The Marquis of Dingbei is dead.”
Yan Chang pressed his shoulder: “So be it. He was never clean; can’t blame anyone else.”
Zhou Feng paused. “Beheaded, corpse mangled by dogs, then burned to ashes. Of course, he wouldn’t have lived to reach the capital and cry his case. But to die that way is ignominious—a death for venting someone’s anger.”
Someone wanted the Dingbei marquis dead—and to die in the worst way.
Zhou Feng said: “Word is, the commander of the anti-rebel army is Ji Hong.”
Any further, and it cuts to the bone.
Yan Chang swelled with malice, said not another word, and only barked for Yu Xu to come in.
Zhou Feng knew Yan Chang hadn’t slept for nights—shoulder pain and military pressures left him strained to the limit. Only in cold wine and Yu Xu’s feigned affection could he steal a moment’s rest.
But a lie was always a lie. It could never be the truth.
Now, the main tent of the anti-rebel army was filled with the capital’s finest generals and strategists, the most elegant of Daxia’s men. The court squabbled and fought, cursing and accusing, but on the battlefield, they showed unity. Maybe that “mediocre” emperor had hidden skill, handling the court’s life and death with invisible hands.
Was it possible that the late emperor judged poorly?
Could anyone truly conquer this land?
Even Zhou Feng did not know.
Yu Jinnian and his team set up a dozen medical sheds, sheltering those wounded by the fighting, working deep into the night, hurrying about by lamplight. Ji Hong emerged from the base manor, lantern in hand, expecting darkness but finding the street ablaze with light—a string of braziers too bright to look at.
Under the orange flames, doctors in sky-blue robes hurried about, never still, boiling medicine and bandaging wounds even at midnight.
Once, imperial doctors on campaign had been the laziest, often inferior to local physicians. Now they were so dedicated it was as if the entire bureau had been replaced—so diligent it was startling. All thanks to the leading youth, who tirelessly worried for every patient. For such a young man to scold people, he was no less fierce than the old imperial physicians.
He had awakened the doctors’ ancient vow to save lives, reminding them that all the study of medical texts was not for empty rank, but to cure the best, treat the best, and become the best.
Because of this, the army won battle after battle. Soldiers knew—even if they lost limbs, as long as they could be carried back alive, Little Divine Doctor Yu would not let their sacrifice be in vain. They would not lie forgotten, their wounds festering, dying on the field without hope.
Little Divine Doctor Yu’s medicine was their destiny.
Ji Hong asked around until he found him on the east side, beside a patch of hibiscus flowers. At night, the hibiscus glowed in faint violet. He stared at a pile of ashes at his feet, lost in thought. Ji Hong walked over slowly, opened his cloak, and gently draped it over Yu Jinnian’s shoulders, the air heavy with the saline tang of blood and the faint scrap-paper scent of ashes.
“What are you doing out here? It’s pitch-black—and you’re all alone.”
Unknowingly, the night had turned cold. Yu Jinnian drew the cloak tighter about his shoulders and tucked his neck into its collar, mumbling: “It was the Cold Clothes Festival a few days ago—I’d completely forgotten.”
Ji Hong looked at the ashes by his feet. “It’s not too late to burn some now.”
Yu Jinnian stretched out a hand from under the cloak, and Ji Hong took it naturally. They took a shortcut home, crossing a stone bridge; Yu Jinnian couldn’t help but look back. At night, Lingchang looked just like Xin’an County—gray-eaved cottages, slick green stone slabs, twisting alleys winding like streams, dotted with warm orange lanterns.
Just much bigger than Xin’an. People vanished in the alleys with a blink.
“I… I saw someone,” Yu Jinnian couldn’t help saying.
Ji Hong glanced back as well. “Who?”
The surroundings were utterly still—no one.
Yu Jinnian grew uncertain. “A white-robed monk with a red pearl tied at his wrist. People say, when Yan Chang took the city, a monk like that came wandering, dispensing gruel and bread, slaughtering lambs, and saving countless people. Later, when Yan Chang abandoned the city, and Young Master Min opened the gates, the monk vanished… The people all said he was the Buddha come to earth.”
Ji Hong smiled: “Since he vanished, how did you see him?”
Buddha said all forms are empty—neither born nor destroyed, neither stained nor pure, neither increased nor diminished.
Also, all illusions deceive; most pursuits are futile.
The octagonal palace lantern flickered with crystal light as Yu Jinnian reached in to adjust it, the glass shade sparkling with color. A pale white figure shimmered, holding a red pearl and staff, gentle-browed, soft-eyed, drifting past. Yu Jinnian bent to pluck a hibiscus, tucking it behind Ji Hong’s ear, suddenly smiling in relief: “You’re right, I must be seeing things.”
Why insist on meeting those you are fated only to know?
Ji Hong: “Let’s go home. I’ve made hibiscus blossom soup.”