The three of them move through the back corridor and listen for a while beneath the windows. Even though the Mongolian soldiers are assembling outside Shangjing’s eastern gate, there’s no telling if they’ll change course and attack the northern gate instead. Because Biyong College is too close to the northern gate, the city guard is recommending that Dean Tang either move the students or suspend classes for several days.
“Isn’t the palace at the north end?” Duan Ling asks.
“The emperor isn’t here.”
Duan Ling only finds out after Cai Yan’s explanation that the Yelü clan spends very little time in Shangjing. Rather than calling it an imperial palace, it’s more like a vacation palace. After the Battle of River Huai, Liao set up five capitals, and Yelü Hongji mostly resides in Zhongjing, located in the Henan Prefecture, and the south-side bureaucrats’ agency is also based in Zhongjing.
“We can’t suspend classes.” Dean Tang says steadily, “Young men are full of vim and vigour. Their fathers are either out fighting or in meetings, and there’s no one home to keep an eye on them. If we let them go home now they may end up doing something dangerous.”
The city guard messenger says, “Then you have the final say on what to do, Lord Tang. Before I left, Captain Cai told me that if Biyong College doesn’t want to temporarily relocate to safety, it will be my duty to lead troops to guard this location.”
“What home will there be to return to if our homeland is defeated? If destruction comes to all, how can we expect to be exempt?” Dean Tang adds, “Please return and tell general Cai to focus on the fighting and not to worry about these things. Though we in Biyong College are mere scholars, we know this much at least.”
And so the messenger can only excuse himself. When Dean Tang returns to the back courtyard he realises the three students have already slipped away; he shakes his head, but there’s nothing to do but let it be.
At nightfall, a large swathe of the southeastern sky has been dyed red by the reflected flames; fighting outside the city has clearly already begun. Duan Ling dares not climb the wall again, and instead he simply stands in the courtyard, peering outside, looking worried. Throughout dinner everyone is whispering to each other, exchanging information they got from who knows where, starting rumours, passing on rumours, their faces filled with excitement. Dean Tang personally makes a headcount after dinner and reminds them sternly that they mustn’t sneak out at night, otherwise their right to remain at school will be hereby annulled.
There’s a sudden commotion outside after the students return to their rooms — it turns out that the students’ families have come to get them. The fighting is growing ever more critical outside the city, and Yelü Dashi has already taken the field himself, fought three battles against the Mongolians and came back wounded. Suddenly rumours are popping up all over the city, and the families want to take their young men home.
“Everyone.” Dean Tang is looking as amiable as ever as he tells the servants gathered outside, “Please go back and let your lady know that Biyong College only takes orders from the southern and northern administrations, and your lady’s word is no good here. The masters of your houses have probably studied here at some point, and if they have any questions, please ask them to come by.”
Just like that, Dean Tang manages to keep all the servants coming to get their young masters outside the gates. On one side are servants who can’t go on for another moment without taking the children home, and on the other are children staring back expectantly, wanting nothing more than to go home. These several steps separating Biyong College and the road outside have truly become as difficult to cross as the Silver River2 in the sky, a distance that makes one quite melancholy.
Once all the servants have left, not an hour goes by before there’s a racket outside again. This time the womenfolk from these officials’ home have changed tactics and came personally in their carriages, but instead of trying the front door they have gone round to the outside of the courtyard wall to show their faces behind the latticework, some anxious, some miserable, and all one can hear is “oh son” and “my dearest” one after another, some in tears and some in a rage, how very upsetting.
There’s a young man standing in front of every window as though they’re being visited in jail. Duan Ling knows that surely Li Jianhong wouldn’t be among the visitors, and he leaves the area, filled with disappointment. Recalling the flute playing from the night before, he makes his way to the back courtyard, but the flute doesn’t begin again.
With a bright moon above him, the noises outside the city gradually hush as though even the besieging Mongol army must go to sleep. Duan Ling sits down, leaning back against a tree, letting his mind wander.
“The moon is beautiful tonight. Why are you sighing at the moon, your Majesty?” Li Jianhong’s voice says.
Duan Ling’s face brightens with a smile in surprise, but as he hastens to get up, Li Jianhong hops down from the parasol tree, dressed head to toe in a warrior’s robe. Duan Ling would have thrown himself at him for a hug, but now that he’s in college everything feels different; a lot of things he used to do before makes him feel embarrassed, so he just stands there, smiling.
Li Jianhong is also happy to stand there watching him. The fitted black clothes he’s changed into makes him look ever more handsome and dashing.
“What are you doing here?” Duan Ling is awfully happy, but he has no idea what he should say.
“You know full well why I’m here.” Li Jianhong deadpans.
Duan Ling stepped forward then to wrap his arms around Li Jianhong, refusing to let go.
“Alright alright. Watch out you don’t get caught by your schoolmates now.”
Duan Ling is feeling a bit shy, but Li Jianhong is already untying a sword from his waist. “This is for you.”
Duan Ling draws the sword out of its sheath. “Where did you get this?”
“‘Borrowed’ it from an old friend. Here, dad’s going to teach you a few moves.”
Duan Ling used to pester Lang Junxia day in and day out about teaching him how to use a sword. It was impossible to cajole Lang Junxia into training him though, and he only taught Duan Ling the simple moves of draw, slash and block. Now Li Jianhong has come to teach him with a sword — it’s more than Duan Ling can ever wish for.
“You know how to draw your sword, slash, and block,” Li Jianhong says quietly.
“Uh huh.”
“Now I’m going to teach you ‘flick’, ‘thrust’, ‘whirl’, and ‘twist’.”
Li Jianhong teaches him a few of the component moves. “Got that memorised?”
Daun Ling nods, and Li Jianhong adds, “Now put down the sword. We’re going to switch to palms.”
Li Jianhong turns the sword moves into palm moves and Duan Ling suddenly realises that once broken down into their components, they’re the same set of palm moves Li Jianhong taught him that day. Li Jianhong is taking teaching him extremely seriously, patiently making Duan Ling run over it over and over again, switching to the sword soon after, then back to palms again, thus making sure Duan Ling thoroughly masters each motion.
Duan Ling is getting through it clumsily, often forgetting the latter once he learns the former. Li Jianhong crooks a finger, beckoning Duan Ling to follow his steps. They turn, push a palm forward, and pull back their swords. Li Jianhong’s sword sweeps through the air far from his body, and the light reflected off its blade flows like water.
His postures and movements look exceedingly graceful, and Li Jianhong’s expression is one of complete concentration as he practices. He circles back, draws his sword, and pushes his palm forward; Duan Ling can’t help but be spellbound as he watches him.
Li Jianhong starts to laugh. He pats Duan Ling on the head. “Once more.”
Duan Ling imitates Li Jianhong, a chain of moves: sword — palm — sword — step.
“Very good. You’re really perceptive and took note of the key elements.”
When it comes down to it, swordfighting is the infinite combination of a series of component moves. Duan Ling wasn’t paying much attention before, but now that Li Jianhong is teaching him from the very basics, he can feel a whole world hidden within martial arts, and it is no less boundless than scholarship and the pursuit of knowledge.
It’s a full four hours before Li Jianhong brings it to an end. Duan Ling is also covered in sweat.
Aside from instructing him in swordsmanship, Li Jianhong has somehow not spoken of anything else at all. Only at the very end as he’s about to leave, Li Jianhong says, “It’s getting late, hurry up and get to sleep. Dad’s leaving.”
“Don’t,” Duan Ling says, disappointed, but Li Jianhong has already leapt onto the wall and disappeared behind the parasol tree.
Duan Ling quietly stares into the night.
Biyong College is on holiday all of a sudden. For the sake of keeping them safe from the war and so that they can assemble expediently when they must, none of the students have to have classes together. That way if a rock ever flies in here a whole bunch of them wouldn’t all end up dying at the same time. But the dean insists that they all remain at school — after all, it’s no safer to go home than to stay at the college.
The students are half anxiety-ridden because their nation’s in peril, but this anxiety’s half evened out with the delight of not having to go to class, leaving Cai Yan the only one with a persistent furrow between his brows day in and day out, causing Duan Ling to sigh alongside him also.
“I’m worried about that idiot.” Cai Yan finally can’t take it anymore and asks him, “What are you worried about?”
Duan Ling doesn’t dare say he worries about his dad, and truthfully with Li Jianhong’s abilities there’s very little to worry about anyway. He asks Cai Yan, “Who’s that idiot?”
“My older brother. He’s the son of a concubine, always so trusting with people.”
Duan Ling tries to console him. “Don’t think about it anymore.”
Cai Yan paces back and forth in the room. “I want to go out and have a look around.”
Duan Ling puts down the book in his hands. “Don’t. It’s too dangerous.”
There is suddenly a loud crash outside — the Mongol army has begun attacking the northern gate. Giant boulders are thrown toward the city wall, but the northern gate towers are quite high, so they don’t make it inside. Everyone is running out of their rooms hurriedly, fearfully looking on as loud noises emanate from the distant northern gate.
“Don’t be afraid. The rocks won’t make it in here.”
Another round of stray projectiles follows soon after, but what flies in here this time isn’t anything heavy but some sort of cloth-wrapped bundle, fluttering down into the northern gate. Ten-odd bundles fall into Biyong College, and when they land they get blood everywhere, their landing accompanied by the clanging of helmets.
Panicked screaming fills Biyong College in an instant. Those are heads dripping with blood! They’re still wearing helmets from the city guard patrol, a mess of blood and flesh all mangled below the neck. The young men won’t stop yelling; Cai Yan is on the edge of howling aloud.
“What are you all yammering about?” The dean snarls angrily. All the young men fall quiet.
“Pick up all the heads.” The dean pulls himself together and calmly orders, “Bring them to the main hall.”
Trembling with fright, the young men pick up the heads of the dead by the hair and deliver them to the main hall, tossing them into a basket. Duan Ling is more courageous than most — he carried them in both hands.
The dean gathers up all the students and has them line up all the way out from the main hall, making them kowtow to the heads in the basket three times before he bids the director of academic affairs bring them to the city guard headquarters. When he turns around, Duan Ling sees the look in the dean’s eyes; it feels as if a lot of things need not be given voice and they’re already carved inside his heart.
All the young men are preoccupied at dinner as though they feared something may fly in from outside the city, smashing them straight to death. The dean on the other hand acts the same way he always does, saying to everyone, “Go back to your rooms and get to bed early. It’ll be fine.”
After nightfall, a deathly silence falls over Biyong College; no one is talking, and nearly all the lamps have been put out. Dark clouds cover the moon. Duan Ling gets up in the pitch darkness, gropes about under his bed for a sword, and sneaks outside.
“Where are you going?” Cai Yan says in the dark.
“Can’t sleep. I’m going to get up and take a walk.”
“I’ll keep you company.” Cai Yan gets up. Duan Ling immediately tells him he doesn’t need to do that, so Cai Yan doesn’t insist, and lies back down.
Cai Yan tosses and turns, and after a while, finding that he still can’t fall asleep, he gets up and makes his way outside as well.
“Duan Ling?” Cai Yan grows anxious when he doesn’t see Duan Ling, and goes looking for him on bare feet.
He takes a turn in the winding gallery and suddenly hears Duan Ling’s voice. In the back courtyard, a single lamp is sitting on top of the wall, illuminating a big man nearly nine feet tall.3 His hands are propped on his knees as he crouches on the wall, talking with Duan Ling, their faces leaned up so close against each other that they’re nearly cheek to cheek.
“When are you going to drive them off?” Duan Ling asks.
“I’m waiting for the start of autumn,” a man’s voice says.
“Why?”
“Autumn’s element is metal, which hosts the vital energy of armies. It’s a good time to kill.”
Duan Ling falls quiet.
“There’s another month and a half left. Get up and go over what I taught you yesterday.”
Duan Ling has little choice but to pick up his sword then; he misses Li Jianhong very much, but when his father comes he doesn’t spend much time talking to him, and only spurs him to practice his swordfighting.
“Is it okay if I don’t learn?” Right now all Duan Ling wants to do is to sit down with Li Jianhong, lean against him in his lap and talk to him. Even if they don’t say anything to each other, as long as Li Jianhong is with him, he fears nothing at all.
“No it’s not.” Li Jianhong says to him humourlessly, “You don’t want to learn, but there’s plenty who’d want to learn. That’s not bad, but even if everyone on earth begs me to teach them, you’re still the only one I want to teach. I won’t teach them.
Duan Ling starts to laugh. Li Jianhong adds, "I must make sure you’ve learned it before I can set my mind at ease and go out to fight in the war.”
“Then when we’re done today can you stay here for a bit longer?”
Li Jianhong shakes his head and says quietly, “Dad is very busy. What did you want to talk about?”
“I’m afraid.”
“What are you afraid of? You have a sword in your hand and your dad at your side. Even though dad isn’t always there to defend you, you won’t come into any danger inside Biyong College. Don’t be afraid.”
Duan Ling puts down the sword. Although Li Jianhong looks like he’s still a bit puzzled, he sits down solemnly anyway, pats his knee for Duan Ling to sit on his thigh, and wraps an arm around him. Duan Ling leans on Li Jianhong’s shoulder, and tells him what happened during the day. Li Jianhong gives him a smile.
“Sword in hand oh bow in hand, head parted from body oh your heart never yielded.”
”Dead you may be oh your soul remains, a staunch soul oh worthy hero among the dead.”
Li Jianhong chants in a slightly lowered tone after listening to Duan Ling. He has a very pleasant voice, resonant and far-reaching. Duan Ling has read this “Hymn to the Fallen”4 before, and suddenly he doesn’t feel so bad anymore.
Li Jianhong turns to Duan Ling, one eyebrow arching just a tad as if to ask, do you understand now?
From Duan Ling’s heart myriad and complicated emotions are flowing forth; on this quiet night, with a simple and easy to understand way that doesn’t involve preaching to him at all, Li Jianhong has illustrated to Duan Ling that his soul’s connection with life and death, with overwhelming grief, with the rise and fall of all things, with the birth and distinguishment of all living beings, with the endless cycle of nature’s renewal.
“Get up and learn swordfighting,” Li Jianhong says, rising.
Duan Ling picks up the sword, and goes through everything he learned the night before. Li Jianhong corrects his errors and makes him go over the whole thing several times, then he says offhandedly, “Thief, you can’t learn anything peeking like that. You may as well just go back to sleep.”
Duan Ling is just wondering what’s going on when Cai Yan steps quickly out from behind a pillar, staring blankly at Li Jianhong. Duan Ling is quite startled.
“Uncle,” Cai Yan says, “please teach me!”
Cai Yan hurries forward and drops to his knees in front of Li Jianhong. Surprised, Duan Ling is about to rush over to help him up, but Li Jianhong puts a hand out in front of him, telling him not to go.
I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎
The silver river is the Chinese name for the Milky Way. The story referred to here is the Cowherd and the Weaver Girl. ↩︎
The ancient measurement for feet is on average 23.5cm/foot. So 9 feet is 211.5cm or 6 ft 11 inches. ↩︎
You can find the history behind the Hymn to the Fallen on its wiki page, and there’s a translation of the whole thing there. ↩︎
The three of them move through the back corridor and listen for a while beneath the windows. Even though the Mongolian soldiers are assembling outside Shangjing’s eastern gate, there’s no telling if they’ll change course and attack the northern gate instead. Because Biyong College is too close to the northern gate, the city guard is recommending that Dean Tang either move the students or suspend classes for several days.
“Isn’t the palace at the north end?” Duan Ling asks.
“The emperor isn’t here.”
Duan Ling only finds out after Cai Yan’s explanation that the Yelü clan spends very little time in Shangjing. Rather than calling it an imperial palace, it’s more like a vacation palace. After the Battle of River Huai, Liao set up five capitals, and Yelü Hongji mostly resides in Zhongjing, located in the Henan Prefecture, and the south-side bureaucrats’ agency is also based in Zhongjing.
“We can’t suspend classes.” Dean Tang says steadily, “Young men are full of vim and vigour. Their fathers are either out fighting or in meetings, and there’s no one home to keep an eye on them. If we let them go home now they may end up doing something dangerous.”
The city guard messenger says, “Then you have the final say on what to do, Lord Tang. Before I left, Captain Cai told me that if Biyong College doesn’t want to temporarily relocate to safety, it will be my duty to lead troops to guard this location.”
“What home will there be to return to if our homeland is defeated? If destruction comes to all, how can we expect to be exempt?” Dean Tang adds, “Please return and tell general Cai to focus on the fighting and not to worry about these things. Though we in Biyong College are mere scholars, we know this much at least.”
And so the messenger can only excuse himself. When Dean Tang returns to the back courtyard he realises the three students have already slipped away; he shakes his head, but there’s nothing to do but let it be.
At nightfall, a large swathe of the southeastern sky has been dyed red by the reflected flames; fighting outside the city has clearly already begun. Duan Ling dares not climb the wall again, and instead he simply stands in the courtyard, peering outside, looking worried. Throughout dinner everyone is whispering to each other, exchanging information they got from who knows where, starting rumours, passing on rumours, their faces filled with excitement. Dean Tang personally makes a headcount after dinner and reminds them sternly that they mustn’t sneak out at night, otherwise their right to remain at school will be hereby annulled.
There’s a sudden commotion outside after the students return to their rooms — it turns out that the students’ families have come to get them. The fighting is growing ever more critical outside the city, and Yelü Dashi has already taken the field himself, fought three battles against the Mongolians and came back wounded. Suddenly rumours are popping up all over the city, and the families want to take their young men home.
“Everyone.” Dean Tang is looking as amiable as ever as he tells the servants gathered outside, “Please go back and let your lady know that Biyong College only takes orders from the southern and northern administrations, and your lady’s word is no good here. The masters of your houses have probably studied here at some point, and if they have any questions, please ask them to come by.”
Just like that, Dean Tang manages to keep all the servants coming to get their young masters outside the gates. On one side are servants who can’t go on for another moment without taking the children home, and on the other are children staring back expectantly, wanting nothing more than to go home. These several steps separating Biyong College and the road outside have truly become as difficult to cross as the Silver River2 in the sky, a distance that makes one quite melancholy.
Once all the servants have left, not an hour goes by before there’s a racket outside again. This time the womenfolk from these officials’ home have changed tactics and came personally in their carriages, but instead of trying the front door they have gone round to the outside of the courtyard wall to show their faces behind the latticework, some anxious, some miserable, and all one can hear is “oh son” and “my dearest” one after another, some in tears and some in a rage, how very upsetting.
There’s a young man standing in front of every window as though they’re being visited in jail. Duan Ling knows that surely Li Jianhong wouldn’t be among the visitors, and he leaves the area, filled with disappointment. Recalling the flute playing from the night before, he makes his way to the back courtyard, but the flute doesn’t begin again.
With a bright moon above him, the noises outside the city gradually hush as though even the besieging Mongol army must go to sleep. Duan Ling sits down, leaning back against a tree, letting his mind wander.
“The moon is beautiful tonight. Why are you sighing at the moon, your Majesty?” Li Jianhong’s voice says.
Duan Ling’s face brightens with a smile in surprise, but as he hastens to get up, Li Jianhong hops down from the parasol tree, dressed head to toe in a warrior’s robe. Duan Ling would have thrown himself at him for a hug, but now that he’s in college everything feels different; a lot of things he used to do before makes him feel embarrassed, so he just stands there, smiling.
Li Jianhong is also happy to stand there watching him. The fitted black clothes he’s changed into makes him look ever more handsome and dashing.
“What are you doing here?” Duan Ling is awfully happy, but he has no idea what he should say.
“You know full well why I’m here.” Li Jianhong deadpans.
Duan Ling stepped forward then to wrap his arms around Li Jianhong, refusing to let go.
“Alright alright. Watch out you don’t get caught by your schoolmates now.”
Duan Ling is feeling a bit shy, but Li Jianhong is already untying a sword from his waist. “This is for you.”
Duan Ling draws the sword out of its sheath. “Where did you get this?”
“‘Borrowed’ it from an old friend. Here, dad’s going to teach you a few moves.”
Duan Ling used to pester Lang Junxia day in and day out about teaching him how to use a sword. It was impossible to cajole Lang Junxia into training him though, and he only taught Duan Ling the simple moves of draw, slash and block. Now Li Jianhong has come to teach him with a sword — it’s more than Duan Ling can ever wish for.
“You know how to draw your sword, slash, and block,” Li Jianhong says quietly.
“Uh huh.”
“Now I’m going to teach you ‘flick’, ‘thrust’, ‘whirl’, and ‘twist’.”
Li Jianhong teaches him a few of the component moves. “Got that memorised?”
Daun Ling nods, and Li Jianhong adds, “Now put down the sword. We’re going to switch to palms.”
Li Jianhong turns the sword moves into palm moves and Duan Ling suddenly realises that once broken down into their components, they’re the same set of palm moves Li Jianhong taught him that day. Li Jianhong is taking teaching him extremely seriously, patiently making Duan Ling run over it over and over again, switching to the sword soon after, then back to palms again, thus making sure Duan Ling thoroughly masters each motion.
Duan Ling is getting through it clumsily, often forgetting the latter once he learns the former. Li Jianhong crooks a finger, beckoning Duan Ling to follow his steps. They turn, push a palm forward, and pull back their swords. Li Jianhong’s sword sweeps through the air far from his body, and the light reflected off its blade flows like water.
His postures and movements look exceedingly graceful, and Li Jianhong’s expression is one of complete concentration as he practices. He circles back, draws his sword, and pushes his palm forward; Duan Ling can’t help but be spellbound as he watches him.
Li Jianhong starts to laugh. He pats Duan Ling on the head. “Once more.”
Duan Ling imitates Li Jianhong, a chain of moves: sword — palm — sword — step.
“Very good. You’re really perceptive and took note of the key elements.”
When it comes down to it, swordfighting is the infinite combination of a series of component moves. Duan Ling wasn’t paying much attention before, but now that Li Jianhong is teaching him from the very basics, he can feel a whole world hidden within martial arts, and it is no less boundless than scholarship and the pursuit of knowledge.
It’s a full four hours before Li Jianhong brings it to an end. Duan Ling is also covered in sweat.
Aside from instructing him in swordsmanship, Li Jianhong has somehow not spoken of anything else at all. Only at the very end as he’s about to leave, Li Jianhong says, “It’s getting late, hurry up and get to sleep. Dad’s leaving.”
“Don’t,” Duan Ling says, disappointed, but Li Jianhong has already leapt onto the wall and disappeared behind the parasol tree.
Duan Ling quietly stares into the night.
Biyong College is on holiday all of a sudden. For the sake of keeping them safe from the war and so that they can assemble expediently when they must, none of the students have to have classes together. That way if a rock ever flies in here a whole bunch of them wouldn’t all end up dying at the same time. But the dean insists that they all remain at school — after all, it’s no safer to go home than to stay at the college.
The students are half anxiety-ridden because their nation’s in peril, but this anxiety’s half evened out with the delight of not having to go to class, leaving Cai Yan the only one with a persistent furrow between his brows day in and day out, causing Duan Ling to sigh alongside him also.
“I’m worried about that idiot.” Cai Yan finally can’t take it anymore and asks him, “What are you worried about?”
Duan Ling doesn’t dare say he worries about his dad, and truthfully with Li Jianhong’s abilities there’s very little to worry about anyway. He asks Cai Yan, “Who’s that idiot?”
“My older brother. He’s the son of a concubine, always so trusting with people.”
Duan Ling tries to console him. “Don’t think about it anymore.”
Cai Yan paces back and forth in the room. “I want to go out and have a look around.”
Duan Ling puts down the book in his hands. “Don’t. It’s too dangerous.”
There is suddenly a loud crash outside — the Mongol army has begun attacking the northern gate. Giant boulders are thrown toward the city wall, but the northern gate towers are quite high, so they don’t make it inside. Everyone is running out of their rooms hurriedly, fearfully looking on as loud noises emanate from the distant northern gate.
“Don’t be afraid. The rocks won’t make it in here.”
Another round of stray projectiles follows soon after, but what flies in here this time isn’t anything heavy but some sort of cloth-wrapped bundle, fluttering down into the northern gate. Ten-odd bundles fall into Biyong College, and when they land they get blood everywhere, their landing accompanied by the clanging of helmets.
Panicked screaming fills Biyong College in an instant. Those are heads dripping with blood! They’re still wearing helmets from the city guard patrol, a mess of blood and flesh all mangled below the neck. The young men won’t stop yelling; Cai Yan is on the edge of howling aloud.
“What are you all yammering about?” The dean snarls angrily. All the young men fall quiet.
“Pick up all the heads.” The dean pulls himself together and calmly orders, “Bring them to the main hall.”
Trembling with fright, the young men pick up the heads of the dead by the hair and deliver them to the main hall, tossing them into a basket. Duan Ling is more courageous than most — he carried them in both hands.
The dean gathers up all the students and has them line up all the way out from the main hall, making them kowtow to the heads in the basket three times before he bids the director of academic affairs bring them to the city guard headquarters. When he turns around, Duan Ling sees the look in the dean’s eyes; it feels as if a lot of things need not be given voice and they’re already carved inside his heart.
All the young men are preoccupied at dinner as though they feared something may fly in from outside the city, smashing them straight to death. The dean on the other hand acts the same way he always does, saying to everyone, “Go back to your rooms and get to bed early. It’ll be fine.”
After nightfall, a deathly silence falls over Biyong College; no one is talking, and nearly all the lamps have been put out. Dark clouds cover the moon. Duan Ling gets up in the pitch darkness, gropes about under his bed for a sword, and sneaks outside.
“Where are you going?” Cai Yan says in the dark.
“Can’t sleep. I’m going to get up and take a walk.”
“I’ll keep you company.” Cai Yan gets up. Duan Ling immediately tells him he doesn’t need to do that, so Cai Yan doesn’t insist, and lies back down.
Cai Yan tosses and turns, and after a while, finding that he still can’t fall asleep, he gets up and makes his way outside as well.
“Duan Ling?” Cai Yan grows anxious when he doesn’t see Duan Ling, and goes looking for him on bare feet.
He takes a turn in the winding gallery and suddenly hears Duan Ling’s voice. In the back courtyard, a single lamp is sitting on top of the wall, illuminating a big man nearly nine feet tall.3 His hands are propped on his knees as he crouches on the wall, talking with Duan Ling, their faces leaned up so close against each other that they’re nearly cheek to cheek.
“When are you going to drive them off?” Duan Ling asks.
“I’m waiting for the start of autumn,” a man’s voice says.
“Why?”
“Autumn’s element is metal, which hosts the vital energy of armies. It’s a good time to kill.”
Duan Ling falls quiet.
“There’s another month and a half left. Get up and go over what I taught you yesterday.”
Duan Ling has little choice but to pick up his sword then; he misses Li Jianhong very much, but when his father comes he doesn’t spend much time talking to him, and only spurs him to practice his swordfighting.
“Is it okay if I don’t learn?” Right now all Duan Ling wants to do is to sit down with Li Jianhong, lean against him in his lap and talk to him. Even if they don’t say anything to each other, as long as Li Jianhong is with him, he fears nothing at all.
“No it’s not.” Li Jianhong says to him humourlessly, “You don’t want to learn, but there’s plenty who’d want to learn. That’s not bad, but even if everyone on earth begs me to teach them, you’re still the only one I want to teach. I won’t teach them.
Duan Ling starts to laugh. Li Jianhong adds, "I must make sure you’ve learned it before I can set my mind at ease and go out to fight in the war.”
“Then when we’re done today can you stay here for a bit longer?”
Li Jianhong shakes his head and says quietly, “Dad is very busy. What did you want to talk about?”
“I’m afraid.”
“What are you afraid of? You have a sword in your hand and your dad at your side. Even though dad isn’t always there to defend you, you won’t come into any danger inside Biyong College. Don’t be afraid.”
Duan Ling puts down the sword. Although Li Jianhong looks like he’s still a bit puzzled, he sits down solemnly anyway, pats his knee for Duan Ling to sit on his thigh, and wraps an arm around him. Duan Ling leans on Li Jianhong’s shoulder, and tells him what happened during the day. Li Jianhong gives him a smile.
“Sword in hand oh bow in hand, head parted from body oh your heart never yielded.”
”Dead you may be oh your soul remains, a staunch soul oh worthy hero among the dead.”
Li Jianhong chants in a slightly lowered tone after listening to Duan Ling. He has a very pleasant voice, resonant and far-reaching. Duan Ling has read this “Hymn to the Fallen”4 before, and suddenly he doesn’t feel so bad anymore.
Li Jianhong turns to Duan Ling, one eyebrow arching just a tad as if to ask, do you understand now?
From Duan Ling’s heart myriad and complicated emotions are flowing forth; on this quiet night, with a simple and easy to understand way that doesn’t involve preaching to him at all, Li Jianhong has illustrated to Duan Ling that his soul’s connection with life and death, with overwhelming grief, with the rise and fall of all things, with the birth and distinguishment of all living beings, with the endless cycle of nature’s renewal.
“Get up and learn swordfighting,” Li Jianhong says, rising.
Duan Ling picks up the sword, and goes through everything he learned the night before. Li Jianhong corrects his errors and makes him go over the whole thing several times, then he says offhandedly, “Thief, you can’t learn anything peeking like that. You may as well just go back to sleep.”
Duan Ling is just wondering what’s going on when Cai Yan steps quickly out from behind a pillar, staring blankly at Li Jianhong. Duan Ling is quite startled.
“Uncle,” Cai Yan says, “please teach me!”
Cai Yan hurries forward and drops to his knees in front of Li Jianhong. Surprised, Duan Ling is about to rush over to help him up, but Li Jianhong puts a hand out in front of him, telling him not to go.
I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎
The silver river is the Chinese name for the Milky Way. The story referred to here is the Cowherd and the Weaver Girl. ↩︎
The ancient measurement for feet is on average 23.5cm/foot. So 9 feet is 211.5cm or 6 ft 11 inches. ↩︎
You can find the history behind the Hymn to the Fallen on its wiki page, and there’s a translation of the whole thing there. ↩︎
