“Bring me two bowls of Laba2 congee.”
Lang Junxia’s voice fades away, and all around warm lamplight filters in. Duan Ling is so sleepy that he can’t even open his eyes. He turns over groggily, but Lang Junxia pats him awake.
In the guestroom of a relay station, the waiter brings them two bowls of Laba congee. Lang Junxia hands it to Duan Ling, and once again, Duan Ling wolfs it down ravenously, his eyes darting this way and that, sneaking glances at Lang Junxia.
“Still hungry?” Lang Junxia asks.
Duan Ling watches him suspiciously. Lang Junxia goes to sit on the bed, but Duan Ling just shrinks back into the covers, all nervousness.
Lang Junxia has never taken care of children before; there’s a slightly puzzled expression on his face. He doesn’t have any candy on him to wheedle a child with either. He thinks about this for a moment, and unties the jade arc3 ornament on his belt. “This is for you.”
The jade arc is translucent and pure, looking like a cut-off piece of hard candy, but Duan Ling doesn’t dare take it. His gaze moves from the jade arc back to Lang Junxia’s face.
“If you want it, take it,” Lang Junxia answers.
His words are warm but his voice carries no emotion. Pinching the jade between his fingers, he hands it to Duan Ling.
With much trepidation, Duan Ling takes it. He turns it over and over in his hands to look at it. Then his gaze wanders back to Lang Junxia’s face again.
“Who are you?” Duan Ling suddenly thinks of someone, and asks, “Are you … are you my dad?”
Lang Junxia doesn’t reply. Duan Ling’s heard countless rumours about his dad. Some say his dad is a monster who lives in the mountains; some say his dad is a beggar; some say his dad will come back to get him eventually — that he’s meant to live surrounded by luxury.
But Lang Junxia answers, “No, sorry to disappoint you. I’m not.”
Duan Ling doesn’t think so either, but he’s not really all that disappointed. Lang Junxia seems to be thinking about something. When he comes back to himself, he tells Duan Ling to lie down and tucks him in. “Go to sleep.”
The howling blizzard turns into an echo by Duan Ling’s ears; Runan is already forty miles behind them, but Duan Ling is covered in cuts, and as soon as he falls asleep, he dreams of suddenly being beaten, then he proceeds to fall into a series of nightmares.
Sometimes he twitches all over, sometimes he cries out in fear, and never does he stop shuddering.
Lang Junxia made his bed on the floor at first, but over the latter half of the night, but when he notices that Duan Ling nightmares never seem to stop, goes to sleep next to him on the bed. Every time Duan Ling reaches out, he would let Duan Ling hold onto his big, warm hand. Only after several bouts of this does Duan Ling start calming down.
The next day, Lang Junxia calls for hot water and gives Duan Ling a bath, wiping his whole body clean. Duan Ling is all skin and bones, his arms and legs covered in scars. His old injuries haven’t healed yet and there are already new cuts over them. They sting terribly as he sits in the hot water, but he doesn’t think much of the pain. All of Duan Ling’s focus is on playing with the jade arc in his hands.
Duan Ling asks him, “Did my dad send you?’
“Shh.” Lang Junxia puts a finger in front of his lips. “Don’t ask. Don’t ask about anything. I’ll tell you a little bit at a time.”
“If anyone asks you, then you’ll tell them that your family name is Duan, and your dad’s name is Duan Sheng. You and I are from the Duan family in Shangzi. Your dad does business in Shangjing4 and Sichuan5 and entrusted you to your uncle’s family. As you’re older now, your dad’s sent me to come get you, to take you to Shangjing so you can start school. Got it?”
Lang Junxia puts medicinal ointment on Duan Ling’s injuries, helps him into a light, unlined garment, and wraps a sable coat that he swims in. He tells Duan Ling to sit down properly, and looks into his eyes.
Duan Ling is skeptical as Lang Junxia and he look at each other. Still, a short moment later, he nods.
“Now repeat it to me.”
“My dad’s name is Duan Sheng.”
They gallop towards the riverbank. Lang Junxia jumps off the horse, leads it to the frozen crossing, and walks next to him as it carries Duan Ling across the river.
“I’m from the Duan family in Shangzi…” Duan Ling repeats.
“I’m going to Shangjing so I can start school…” drowsy and nodding off, Duan Ling sways back and forth on the horse.
A thousand miles away, beneath Yubiguan, Li Jianhong struggles forward in the snow, limping and staggering.
He’s a mess of wounds and bruises, stumbling forward as he goes, many of his bones broken. The only thing keeping him company is the sword on his back and the red string hanging around his neck.
The red string is threaded through a pendant. The pendant is translucent and pure, a white flawless jade arc.
A gust of wind sweeps away the snow that’s fallen onto the jade and reveals a gentle glow in the dark.
Far, far away, at the other end of the world, from the other jade arc, it seems like a great force is calling him. It is the Xianbei mountains6 that even northern goshawk cannot fly across; it is the Dongquan river that fishes can never reach. That force is on the other side of the river. It is a yoke. It is also destiny.
That force seems to have its root in his soul; it flows in his veins, holding him up as he struggles onward.
Some voice seems to be gradually approaching him in the blizzard. Is it a pack of wolves running in the wasteland, or is it a whirlwind that can destroy the world?
“Benxiao7!” Li Jianhong howls.
A beautiful jet black horse with four white hoofs whips up powder as it gallops toward him.
“Benxiao—”
A warhorse’s neigh pierces the sky, rushing at Li Jianhong. Li Jinghong hangs from the reins, and mustering all his strength he throws himself onto the horse, to drape himself on its back.
“Go!” Li Jianhong shouts, and disappears into the blizzard alongside Benxiao.
They ford rivers and travel north. Gradually, the land along their journey becomes more inhabited. Lang Junxia teaches Duan Ling over and over not to tell any stranger about his previous circumstances, until Duan Ling can recite it by heart. Lang Junxia also tells him some interesting facts and anecdotes about Shangzi, and little by little Duan Ling forgets his anxieties and forgets his pain.
Duan Ling’s nightmares, like the injuries all over his body, gradually get better. By the time the cuts on his back scabs over, the other cuts have healed, and the scabs fall off, leaving behind nothing but faint traces, Lang Junxia finally finishes this seemingly endless journey, and Duan Ling sees the most prosperous city he’s ever seen.
Ocean’s colours reflect off towers, river sparkles off passing silks and carriages.8 Crossing over the western side of the Xianbei mountains, a streak of red shines through the endless wilderness as the sun sets; the Jin river wraps around the city like a twisting ribbon, glittering with the lustre of a glacier.
Shangjing is majestic and tall at dusk.
“We’re here,” Lang Junxia tells Duan Ling.
Duan Ling is all bundled up; this whole journey truly has been too cold. Duan Ling is wrapped in Lang Junxia’s arms, and the two of them look out to the distant Shangjing from the back of the horse. Duan Ling’s eyes close a bit. He feels very warm.
Night has just fallen as they reach the capital. Security is strict at the city gates; Lang Junxia hands over his papers and the guard notices Duan Ling.
“Where’d you come from?” The guard asks.
Duan Ling stares at the guard. The guard stares back.
“My dad’s name is Duan Sheng.” Duan Ling’s already memorised it inside out and backwards, and he answers, “I’m from the Duan family in Shangzi …”
The guard impatiently cuts off his autobiographical narrative. “What’s your relationship?”
Duan Ling turns to Lang Junxia.
“I’m friends with his dad,” Lang Junxia answers.
The guard scrutinises the papers over and over, but in the end he grudgingly lets the two of them inside.
The city is brightly lit; snow has piled up on both sides of the street. It is quite nearly the end of the year. A drunk by the road carries a lamp in one hand and a wine jug in the other. A songstress accompanies herself on the qin9 as she sings, and there are others, sitting or lounging, waiting outside seedy-looking taverns.
The uninhibited voices of courtesans greeting their customers spill into the night. An armed swordsman stops to look up at them. A terribly drunk rich merchant with a vibrantly-dressed woman under each arm sways back and forth and nearly overturns a noodle stand. A carriage clanks its way down the ice-covered street. With a shout of palanquin-bearers, luxurious tall palanquins leave the ground and move towards all corners of Shangjing like individual houses.
It’s forbidden to let one’s horse run on the main streets, so Lang Junxia makes Duan Ling sit on the horse and holds the reins as he walks. Duan Ling is all bundled up save for a single slit in his fur hat, through which he looks around at all of this curiously. Once they turn into a side street, Lang Junxia mounts the horse once more, and they kick up snowflakes as they gallop past imposing courtyard estates, into dark alleys.
They leave the music behind but the streets are bright all the same. Great big red lanterns hang on both sides of the quiet alleyway, the only sound being the ice cracking as their horse’s hoofs gallop past. Numerous secluded two-storey courtyard homes lean against each other at the end of the alley, lanterns hanging high above them, layer upon layer. Even this light bout of snow is blocked by their warm light.
They’re at a backdoor in a dark alley. Lang Junxia says to Duan Ling, “Come down.”
A beggar sits outside the backdoor. Lang Junxia doesn’t even bother looking at him. With the flick of a finger some change falls into the beggar’s bowl, clanging as they spin towards the bottom. Curious, Duan Ling turns his head to look at the beggar, but Lang Junxia turns him back and pats away the snow accumulated on his clothes and takes him inside. Lang Junxia knows the way and goes past the gallery in the garden, past the centre courtyard into a side wing, the bell-like clinks of hammered qin can be heard along the way.
Once they’re in a secluded parlour, Lang Junxia seems to relax. “Sit down. Are you hungry?”
Duan Ling shakes his head, and so Lang Junxia tells Duan Ling to sit on the low table before the stove, and he gets down on one knee to help Duan Ling take off his fur coat, shake the snow from his boots, and untie his ear-muffed hat. Then Lang Junxia sits down cross-legged and looks up at Duan Ling; there’s a hint of tenderness in his eyes, though it’s buried so deep that it seems to merely flicker by.
“Is this your home?” Duan Ling asks doubtfully.
“This place is called the Viburnum10. We’ll be staying here for now. In a few days I’ll take you to a new home.”
Duan Ling has never forgotten that Lang Junxia told him don’t ask anything, and so he asked very few questions on their journey, and kept a lot of his suspicions to himself like an uneasy, vigilant rabbit, but on the surface he appears rather calm — on the contrary, Lang Junxia would explain things to Duan Ling of his own accord.
“Are you cold?” Lang Junxia asks, then taking Duan Ling’s icy cold foot in his big hands, he rubs it. His brows furrow. “Your constitution is too weak.”
“I thought you weren’t going to come back again.” A girl’s silvery voice comes to them from behind Lang Junxia.
Duan Ling looks up towards the voice and realises that a pretty young woman wearing an embroidered coat has appeared outside the door, with two maids following close behind her.
“I went on a trip to get some things done.” Lang Junxia doesn’t even look around. He unties Duan Ling’s belt, turns to open their travelling bundle, takes out dry clothes, and changes Duan Ling’s outer garment. It’s not until he’s shaking out the gown that he finds the time to give the girl a glance. The girl walks into the room and stares down at Duan Ling.
Duan Ling gets a bit uncomfortable under her scrutiny, and starts to frown, but the girl speaks first. “Who is this?”
Duan Ling sits up straight and those words run through his head: I’m Duan Ling, my dad’s name is Duan Sheng…
Yet before he’s able to say them, Lang Junxia answers for him.
“This is Duan Ling.” Then Lang Junxia tells Duan Ling, “This is Miss Ding.”
Duan Ling turns to Miss Ding and cups one fist in the other hand according to the etiquette Lang Junxia taught him, and looks her up and down. That girl named Ding Zhi brightens with a smile. She puts both her hands to the left side of her waist and curtsies11, and says to him smilingly, “Greetings, Mister Duan.”
“Has that someone from the Northern Administration been by?” Lang Junxia asks absentmindedly.
“With dispatches from the border saying how the fighting’s been like under the Jiangjun mountains12, he hasn’t been by for a full three months.” Ding Zhi sits down at one side and tells a maid, “Bring us some snacks so Mister Duan can pad his stomach a bit.”
Then Ding Zhi picks up the teapot herself and pours a cup of tea, handing it to Lang Junxia. Lang Junxia takes it from her and takes a sip. “Ginger tea. It’ll help warm you up.” And he hands it to Duan Ling.
Throughout their journey, Lang Junxia was the one to taste everything that Duan Ling had to eat or drink first to see if it’s any good. Duan Ling’s gotten used to it, but when he’s drinking his tea he notices that Ding Zhi is looking at him with puzzlement, her beautifully clear eyes narrowing slightly as she gazes steadily at him.
After a short while, a maid brings them snacks. They’re all food that Duan Ling has never seen nor heard of before. Lang Junxia seems already well-versed in Duan Ling’s behaviour and reminds him, “Eat slowly. There will be dinner later.”
All along their journey, Lang Junxia has told him over and over that no matter what he was eating he mustn’t wolf down his food. It goes against what Duan Ling’s habits, but he can’t disobey Lang Junxia, and slowly he’s come to realise that no one is going to fight over food with him anymore. He immediately picks up a square of cake and takes time to chew it. Ding Zhi simply sits there, very still, as though nothing that happens in the parlour has anything to do with her.
It’s not until two boxes of food are set on the table, and Lang Junxia makes Duan Ling sit in front of the low table and tells him that he can start eating, that Ding Zhi takes the warmed wine jug from the maid and kneel down next to Lang Junxia to pour for him.
Lang Junxia raises a hand, blocking the cup with his fingers. “Drinking gets in the way of things.”
“It’s an imperial tribute from last month. Liangnan Daqu[^daqujiu].” Ding Zhi says, “You won’t try it? Madam made sure to have it ready here for when you came back.”
Lang Junxia doesn’t decline, and drinks one cup. Ding Zhi fills it up again; Lang Junxia drinks that too. Ding Zhi fills up the cup a third time, and once Lang Junxia finishes it he turns the cup over and sets it on the table.
Duan Ling stares breathlessly at Lang Junxia the whole time he drinks the wine.
Ding Zhi moves as if to pour for Duan Ling, and Lang Junxia reaches out and pinches her sleeve between two of his fingers, preventing her from doing so.
“You can’t let him drink wine,” says Lang Junxia.
And so Ding Zhi smiles at Duan Ling, I tried, her expression says.
Duan Ling really wants to try wine, but his compliance towards Lang Junxia overrides his thirst for wine.
While Duan Ling eats his dinner, his mind is constantly trying to figure out what sort of establishment this is, and what sort of relationship Lang Junxia have with this girl; his expression momentarily flickers, unable to stop himself from stealing glances between Lang Junxia and the girl — he just wants to hear them chat more.
Even now Lang Junxia hasn’t told Duan Ling why he’s brought him here. Does Miss Ding know? Why doesn’t she ask about his background?
Miss Ding looks at Duan Ling from time to time, like she’s calculating something in her head. Before long, Duan Ling puts down his chopsticks, and she finally starts to speak. Duan Ling feels like his heart’s been pulled up by a string all the way up to his throat.
“Is the food to your liking, sir?” Ding Zhi asks.
Duan Ling replies, “I’ve never had it before. It’s delicious.”
Ding Zhi starts to laugh. The maid takes away the food boxes. Ding Zhi says, “Please excuse me.”
“Go on then,” Lang Junxia says.
“How many days are you staying in Shangjing this time?” Ding Zhi asks.
“Once I settle down here I won’t leave again,” Lang Junxia answers thus.
Ding Zhi’s eyes seem to brighten, and she smiles, turning to the maid. “Take Lord Lang and Mister Duan to the guest court.”
The maid leads the way with a lantern. Lang Junxia wraps Duan Ling in his own wolf fur coat, picks him up, and through the covered gallery they come to a guest courtyard planted full of blue-green bamboo. Duan Ling can hear the sound of a cup smashing on the floor coming from not so far away, followed by a man’s drunken yelling.
“Don’t look around,” Lang Junxia tells Duan Ling, and carries him into the room. He tosses a simple instruction to the maid who follows them in, “You don’t need to wait on us.”
The maid bows out. The room is filled with a mild incense; Duan Ling doesn’t see a brazier, but it’s very warm. There’s a chimney outside that goes right into the ground, billowing smoke that signals the presence of an underground ‘dragon’ coal heater.13
Lang Junxia makes Duan Ling rinse out his mouth. Duan Ling is so tired he’s barely awake. He lies on the bed in a single unlined garment. Lang Junxia sits by the daybed. “I’ll take you out shopping tomorrow.”
“Really?” Duan Ling feels awake again.
“I’m going to sleep. I’ll be right next door.”
Duan Ling’s hand is still holding Lang Junxia’s sleeve, and he looks a bit disappointed. Lang Junxia is confused, but after watching Duan Ling for a bit he gets it — Duan Ling wants Lang Junxia to sleep with him.
Since they left Shangzi Lang Junxia has never been away from Duan Ling. They eat together during the day, and sleep together during the night. Now that Lang Junxia is going to go, Duan Ling can’t help but be afraid.
“Then …” Lang Junxia hesitates a little before saying, “Never mind. I’ll stay with you.”
Lang Junxia removes his shirt, revealing his bare, solid chest, and he gathers Duan Ling to him. Duan Ling put his head down on Lang Junxia’s sturdy and powerful arm, just the way he did before, only then do his eyelids get heavier, and he slowly falls asleep.
There’s a scent of male skin on Lang Junxia that smells good to him, as though Duan Ling has gotten used to his robe and his body, it feels like if he holds Lang Junxia as he falls asleep, he won’t have another nightmare. He has experienced too many things today, to the point where his brain is overloaded with too much information. Too many dreams, only one night, and no matter how dizzy the pace it feels like he can’t dream enough.
It stops snowing in the latter half of the night, and the world becomes extraordinarily quiet; dream after dream comes at him like mountains carried on a wave, and without knowing why, Duan Ling wakes. When he turns, all he manages to grab is a handful of warm bedding.
The Lang Junxia beside him has disappeared. His temperature remains on the blankets. Duan Ling starts to get nervous, and not knowing what to do, he climbs down the bed quietly, opens the door, and goes outside.
Light is spilling out from the next room over. Duan Ling walks through the hallway in bare feet, and goes on tiptoe to look through the window lattice.
It’s spacious and bright inside, with half the bed curtain hanging low. Lang Junxia is undressing with his back to the window.
His collar is buttoned all the way up to his adam’s apple, and he’s undoing them at a steady pace. He hangs his gown’s belt off to one side, and the garment falls away at once to reveal the expanse of his back, the fit, beautiful line of his waist and firm buttocks. His naked body is on full display, with contours like that of a muscular, slim, solid war horse. As he turns to the side, his erect male organ can clearly be seen.
Duan Ling holds his breath, and his heart beats wildly in his chest; he can’t help taking a step backwards, knocking over a flower trellis.
“Who’s there?” Lang Junxia turns to look.
Duan Ling hurriedly turns and flees.
Lang Junxia hastily wraps a robe around himself and comes out on bare feet. Duan Ling’s door closes with a bang.
By the time Lang Junxia comes in, Duan Ling’s already lying on the bed pretending to be fast asleep. Lang Junxia doesn’t know whether to be embarrassed, or simply to laugh; he goes to the water basin, wrings out a wet towel, drops his robe onto the floor, and wipes his naked body clean. Duan Ling opens his eyes, peeking at Lang Junxia’s every move. Lang Junxia turns away, and as though trying to placate some sort of agitated feeling, he wraps that rearing, aggressive thing in a cold wet cloth, and wipes it, making it docile.
The silhouette of a figure appears outside the latticed window.
“I’m going to bed. I won’t be over.” Lang Junxia says softly.
Footsteps sound, and grow distant. Duan Ling turns over to face the wall. Moments after, Lang Junxia puts on a pair of long underpants and gets under the covers, his chest against Duan Ling’s back. Duan Ling turns over, and Lang Junxia lifts his arm to let Duan Ling use it as a pillow. Duan Ling once more feels secure and he falls asleep snuggling into Lang Junxia’s chest.
Lang Junxia’s muscles, the temperature of his body and the smell of his skin, in dreams take Duan Ling back to a southern winter surrounded by the embrace of a fiery, scorching sun.
But on the same night, it is drizzling in Sichuan, tiny droplets coming down covering all that one can see.
Candlelight makes shadows of the window lattice dance through a long, covered gallery. Two silhouettes walk slowly beneath the gallery with two bodyguards trailing behind.
“Surrounded by cavalry twenty-thousand strong, and somehow they still managed to let him get away.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already laid out a net. The road leading to Liangzhou and the northeast are sealed. He’s never going to be able to fly over the Xianbei mountains unless he grows some wings.”
“I told you that it was no good handing that job to them. That guy has been fighting wars outside the great wall for years. He knows the lay of the land. Once he’s in the forests we’ll never be able to find hide nor hair of him!”
“The one on that seat has already lost his mind — he doesn’t interfere in politics anymore, and the fourth prince is a sickly thing. Since you and I have already started this, there is no turning back. Even if he comes back right now, we can punish him for dereliction of duty. General Zhao, don’t tell me you’re scared?”
“Why you!”
The one being called ‘general’ is dressed head to toe in military gear — who else, but Southern Chen’s cornerstone, Grand Marshal of the celestial empire’s imperial forces, Zhao Kui.
The man walking abreast with him on the other hand, is dressed in the purple14 robes that signifies the highest ranking of officials, first rank, a dignified position without equal.
Outside the long gallery, their shadows are cast onto the screen wall, and both sink into silence. There are two bodyguards following them, their arms crossed, neither saying a word.
The bodyguard on the left has a white tiger inscribed tattoo on his neck. A conical bamboo hat covers half his face, revealing a curve at his mouth that isn’t quite a smile.
The bodyguard on the right is a big man, fully nine feet15 tall, and from head to toe the only thing that can be seen of him are his eyes — he’s wearing gloves, a mantle, a face mask, and occasionally he’ll glance up with his sharp and malicious gaze, his mind seemingly elsewhere.
Zhao Kui says coldly, “We must send someone to intercept him right now. We’re in the light. He’s in the dark. If this drags on I fear the situation may change.”
The dignified man replies, “If he’s outside Yubiguan, then that’s not a place either of us can deploy troops. For now the only thing we can do is wait for him to show himself.”
Zhao Kui heaves a sigh. “If he seeks refuge from the Liao and comes back with borrowed troops, then things will get a lot more complicated than they are now.”
“The Liao Emperor wouldn’t lend him troops.” The dignified man says, “Arrangements have already been made with the Southern Administration. He will die on the way to Shangjing.”
“You think he’s so simple.” Zhao Kui turns to the courtyard, facing the damp, eastern rain. The hair at his temples are already going grey. His eyes are fixed on the other man, and he enunciates every word. “Li Jianhong once had a mutt working for him. He’s mixed Xiangbei and Han. Though we don’t know his name or where he comes from, I speculate that he’s the man you’ve been failing to find. That Xianbei mutt comes and goes without a trace — so much so that no one even knows what his name is. He’s the last hidden go piece Li Jianhong holds.”
“If that’s really the case,” the dignified man replies, “then I expect Wu Du and Chang Liujun would probably like to meet with him. After all, not many people can be considered fitting adversaries. Have you heard about this man?”
The bodyguard wearing a mask replies, “I know of him but not his name. Some call him the Nameless One. He has an exceedingly unsavoury record — not at all easy to manage. He probably won’t do whatever Li Jianhong asks of him.”
Zhao Kui asks, “What sort of unsavoury record?”
“He turned against his master’s house, killed his master, a crime considered patricide; he betrayed those who studied under the same master, thus went against the natural order. He’s merciless and never leaves anyone alive.” The masked bodyguard says, “Blood wind black edge, one cut brings death. That phrase refers to him.”
“To an assassin that sounds rather normal,” the dignified man says.
“One cut brings death,” says the masked bodyguard in a low voice. “That implies he won’t let anyone explain themselves. An assassin’s job is to kill, but assassins don’t kill those they need not kill.”
“Even if he killed the wrong person, this guy wouldn’t even blink,” the masked bodyguard finishes.
“If I remember correctly,” the dignified man says, “Li Jianhong probably still holds Zhenshanhe. If he possesses Zhenshanhe, that implies this man also has to listen to his orders.”
The masked guard says, “Even if Li Jianhong has the sword, he still has to be able to use the sword, that he’s able to give an order.”
“Never mind.” Zhao Kui finally cuts off this vein of conversation.
It is quiet again in the back courtyard. A long time passes. “Wu Du,” Zhao Kui starts to speak.
The guard in the conical hat behind him makes a sound of acknowledgement.
“Head out tonight,” Zhao Kui says, “move through the night and make haste, don’t stop until you find Li Jianhong. Once you find him you don’t have to do anything, I will send someone else to go with you. When it’s done make sure to bring his sword and his head back to me.”
The corner of the bodyguard’s mouth turns up in a curve. He cups his hands in acceptance, turns, and leaves.
The carriage leaves the alley behind the Estate of the General. Distant lamplight reflects off the moist flagstones.
“Have you ever seen the Qingfengjian?” The dignified man’s voice asks.16
“Everyone who’s ever seen the Qingfengjian is dead.” The masked guard looks pensive, and with a flick of the horse’s whip he drives the carriage forward to escort the dignified man on his way.
“In your opinion.” The dignified man leans back on the carriage’s cushion and asks without much thought, “How is Wu Du compared to that Nameless One?”
The masked bodyguard replies, “Wu Du has cares, the Nameless One has no cares. Wu Du’s cares lie in his competitiveness — he can’t afford to lose and he can’t let things go. And the Nameless One has no cares.”
“Has no cares?” The dignified man says.
“Only those without cares, those without matters they care about can be considered competent assassins.” The masked bodyguard says without emotion, “One who takes another’s life must first lay down their own life. Once you have emotional attachments, the assassin would subconsciously cherish their own life, not daring to use up their life, therefore they’ll fail. Supposedly this Nameless One has no relatives. He’s not killing to get to a higher rank, and he’s not killing for reward either. Perhaps killing is nothing more than a hobby to him. That’s why he’s a cut above Wu Du.”
The dignified man asks another, “And between you and Wu Du?”
The masked bodyguard says calmly, “Well I would like to fight him once.”
“Too bad you won’t get the chance to do that anymore,” the dignified man says gracefully.
The masked bodyguard does not answer.
“Then … how are you compared to Li Jianhong?” That man once again blurts out a question.
“Whoa!”
The masked bodyguard reins in the horse, opens the carriage’s curtain, and helps the man step off the carriage. A lantern with the character “Mu” written squarely on it is hanging outside the estate.
The present Prime Minister of Southern Chen: Mu Kuangda.
“Myself, Wu Du, the Nameless One and Zheng Yan acting together,” the masked bodyguard replies, “may stand a chance against his highness the third prince.”
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 read this anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎
Laba congee. ↩︎
It looks like this. ↩︎
上京 literally means “upper capital” and was one of the 5 capitals of the Liao dynasty when part of China was ruled by the Khitans. (It’s situated in the modern Inner Mongolia Autonomous region, in the city of Chifeng. Click for map. (All this will be kept track of on my ref page linked at the top.) ↩︎
Sichuan. ↩︎
Xianbei mountains is a historic name, and it’s probably referring to the Greater Khingan Range. It’s just a metaphor for now, but you’ll need it later, so here’s the wiki page with a map. ↩︎
Benxiao’s full name is 萬里奔霄, or “Ten thousand miles, run towards the heavens”. ↩︎
Poetry from Li Bai. ↩︎
Generally refers to what we now call the guqin, but also used for the zither type of qin that stands up. ↩︎
The full name is 瓊花院 or the “Courtyard of Viburnum”, but a specific species of viburnum that is now extinct. It was only ever successfully cultivated in Yangzhou, and when Southern Song fell to the Mongolian Yuan dynasty, the flowers went extinct along with it. (This is entirely relevant information.) ↩︎
Left hand on the left hip, right hand over left hand, look down, bend slightly at the knees for one beat. ↩︎
This would be around modern Beijing. ↩︎
These were historically known to be used during the Qing dynasty in the palace, and they’re like floor heaters. ↩︎
Highest rank, dark-red-purple. Think dark magenta. ↩︎
The ancient measurement for feet is on average 23.5cm/foot. That would make him 211.5cm or 6 ft 11 inches tall. ↩︎
Qingfengjian, literally ‘nature-edged sword’. Alternatively, nature-coloured sword. See my old note about the Chinese word for black/green/blue/nature’s colour here. ↩︎
“Bring me two bowls of Laba2 congee.”
Lang Junxia’s voice fades away, and all around warm lamplight filters in. Duan Ling is so sleepy that he can’t even open his eyes. He turns over groggily, but Lang Junxia pats him awake.
In the guestroom of a relay station, the waiter brings them two bowls of Laba congee. Lang Junxia hands it to Duan Ling, and once again, Duan Ling wolfs it down ravenously, his eyes darting this way and that, sneaking glances at Lang Junxia.
“Still hungry?” Lang Junxia asks.
Duan Ling watches him suspiciously. Lang Junxia goes to sit on the bed, but Duan Ling just shrinks back into the covers, all nervousness.
Lang Junxia has never taken care of children before; there’s a slightly puzzled expression on his face. He doesn’t have any candy on him to wheedle a child with either. He thinks about this for a moment, and unties the jade arc3 ornament on his belt. “This is for you.”
The jade arc is translucent and pure, looking like a cut-off piece of hard candy, but Duan Ling doesn’t dare take it. His gaze moves from the jade arc back to Lang Junxia’s face.
“If you want it, take it,” Lang Junxia answers.
His words are warm but his voice carries no emotion. Pinching the jade between his fingers, he hands it to Duan Ling.
With much trepidation, Duan Ling takes it. He turns it over and over in his hands to look at it. Then his gaze wanders back to Lang Junxia’s face again.
“Who are you?” Duan Ling suddenly thinks of someone, and asks, “Are you … are you my dad?”
Lang Junxia doesn’t reply. Duan Ling’s heard countless rumours about his dad. Some say his dad is a monster who lives in the mountains; some say his dad is a beggar; some say his dad will come back to get him eventually — that he’s meant to live surrounded by luxury.
But Lang Junxia answers, “No, sorry to disappoint you. I’m not.”
Duan Ling doesn’t think so either, but he’s not really all that disappointed. Lang Junxia seems to be thinking about something. When he comes back to himself, he tells Duan Ling to lie down and tucks him in. “Go to sleep.”
The howling blizzard turns into an echo by Duan Ling’s ears; Runan is already forty miles behind them, but Duan Ling is covered in cuts, and as soon as he falls asleep, he dreams of suddenly being beaten, then he proceeds to fall into a series of nightmares.
Sometimes he twitches all over, sometimes he cries out in fear, and never does he stop shuddering.
Lang Junxia made his bed on the floor at first, but over the latter half of the night, but when he notices that Duan Ling nightmares never seem to stop, goes to sleep next to him on the bed. Every time Duan Ling reaches out, he would let Duan Ling hold onto his big, warm hand. Only after several bouts of this does Duan Ling start calming down.
The next day, Lang Junxia calls for hot water and gives Duan Ling a bath, wiping his whole body clean. Duan Ling is all skin and bones, his arms and legs covered in scars. His old injuries haven’t healed yet and there are already new cuts over them. They sting terribly as he sits in the hot water, but he doesn’t think much of the pain. All of Duan Ling’s focus is on playing with the jade arc in his hands.
Duan Ling asks him, “Did my dad send you?’
“Shh.” Lang Junxia puts a finger in front of his lips. “Don’t ask. Don’t ask about anything. I’ll tell you a little bit at a time.”
“If anyone asks you, then you’ll tell them that your family name is Duan, and your dad’s name is Duan Sheng. You and I are from the Duan family in Shangzi. Your dad does business in Shangjing4 and Sichuan5 and entrusted you to your uncle’s family. As you’re older now, your dad’s sent me to come get you, to take you to Shangjing so you can start school. Got it?”
Lang Junxia puts medicinal ointment on Duan Ling’s injuries, helps him into a light, unlined garment, and wraps a sable coat that he swims in. He tells Duan Ling to sit down properly, and looks into his eyes.
Duan Ling is skeptical as Lang Junxia and he look at each other. Still, a short moment later, he nods.
“Now repeat it to me.”
“My dad’s name is Duan Sheng.”
They gallop towards the riverbank. Lang Junxia jumps off the horse, leads it to the frozen crossing, and walks next to him as it carries Duan Ling across the river.
“I’m from the Duan family in Shangzi…” Duan Ling repeats.
“I’m going to Shangjing so I can start school…” drowsy and nodding off, Duan Ling sways back and forth on the horse.
A thousand miles away, beneath Yubiguan, Li Jianhong struggles forward in the snow, limping and staggering.
He’s a mess of wounds and bruises, stumbling forward as he goes, many of his bones broken. The only thing keeping him company is the sword on his back and the red string hanging around his neck.
The red string is threaded through a pendant. The pendant is translucent and pure, a white flawless jade arc.
A gust of wind sweeps away the snow that’s fallen onto the jade and reveals a gentle glow in the dark.
Far, far away, at the other end of the world, from the other jade arc, it seems like a great force is calling him. It is the Xianbei mountains6 that even northern goshawk cannot fly across; it is the Dongquan river that fishes can never reach. That force is on the other side of the river. It is a yoke. It is also destiny.
That force seems to have its root in his soul; it flows in his veins, holding him up as he struggles onward.
Some voice seems to be gradually approaching him in the blizzard. Is it a pack of wolves running in the wasteland, or is it a whirlwind that can destroy the world?
“Benxiao7!” Li Jianhong howls.
A beautiful jet black horse with four white hoofs whips up powder as it gallops toward him.
“Benxiao—”
A warhorse’s neigh pierces the sky, rushing at Li Jianhong. Li Jinghong hangs from the reins, and mustering all his strength he throws himself onto the horse, to drape himself on its back.
“Go!” Li Jianhong shouts, and disappears into the blizzard alongside Benxiao.
They ford rivers and travel north. Gradually, the land along their journey becomes more inhabited. Lang Junxia teaches Duan Ling over and over not to tell any stranger about his previous circumstances, until Duan Ling can recite it by heart. Lang Junxia also tells him some interesting facts and anecdotes about Shangzi, and little by little Duan Ling forgets his anxieties and forgets his pain.
Duan Ling’s nightmares, like the injuries all over his body, gradually get better. By the time the cuts on his back scabs over, the other cuts have healed, and the scabs fall off, leaving behind nothing but faint traces, Lang Junxia finally finishes this seemingly endless journey, and Duan Ling sees the most prosperous city he’s ever seen.
Ocean’s colours reflect off towers, river sparkles off passing silks and carriages.8 Crossing over the western side of the Xianbei mountains, a streak of red shines through the endless wilderness as the sun sets; the Jin river wraps around the city like a twisting ribbon, glittering with the lustre of a glacier.
Shangjing is majestic and tall at dusk.
“We’re here,” Lang Junxia tells Duan Ling.
Duan Ling is all bundled up; this whole journey truly has been too cold. Duan Ling is wrapped in Lang Junxia’s arms, and the two of them look out to the distant Shangjing from the back of the horse. Duan Ling’s eyes close a bit. He feels very warm.
Night has just fallen as they reach the capital. Security is strict at the city gates; Lang Junxia hands over his papers and the guard notices Duan Ling.
“Where’d you come from?” The guard asks.
Duan Ling stares at the guard. The guard stares back.
“My dad’s name is Duan Sheng.” Duan Ling’s already memorised it inside out and backwards, and he answers, “I’m from the Duan family in Shangzi …”
The guard impatiently cuts off his autobiographical narrative. “What’s your relationship?”
Duan Ling turns to Lang Junxia.
“I’m friends with his dad,” Lang Junxia answers.
The guard scrutinises the papers over and over, but in the end he grudgingly lets the two of them inside.
The city is brightly lit; snow has piled up on both sides of the street. It is quite nearly the end of the year. A drunk by the road carries a lamp in one hand and a wine jug in the other. A songstress accompanies herself on the qin9 as she sings, and there are others, sitting or lounging, waiting outside seedy-looking taverns.
The uninhibited voices of courtesans greeting their customers spill into the night. An armed swordsman stops to look up at them. A terribly drunk rich merchant with a vibrantly-dressed woman under each arm sways back and forth and nearly overturns a noodle stand. A carriage clanks its way down the ice-covered street. With a shout of palanquin-bearers, luxurious tall palanquins leave the ground and move towards all corners of Shangjing like individual houses.
It’s forbidden to let one’s horse run on the main streets, so Lang Junxia makes Duan Ling sit on the horse and holds the reins as he walks. Duan Ling is all bundled up save for a single slit in his fur hat, through which he looks around at all of this curiously. Once they turn into a side street, Lang Junxia mounts the horse once more, and they kick up snowflakes as they gallop past imposing courtyard estates, into dark alleys.
They leave the music behind but the streets are bright all the same. Great big red lanterns hang on both sides of the quiet alleyway, the only sound being the ice cracking as their horse’s hoofs gallop past. Numerous secluded two-storey courtyard homes lean against each other at the end of the alley, lanterns hanging high above them, layer upon layer. Even this light bout of snow is blocked by their warm light.
They’re at a backdoor in a dark alley. Lang Junxia says to Duan Ling, “Come down.”
A beggar sits outside the backdoor. Lang Junxia doesn’t even bother looking at him. With the flick of a finger some change falls into the beggar’s bowl, clanging as they spin towards the bottom. Curious, Duan Ling turns his head to look at the beggar, but Lang Junxia turns him back and pats away the snow accumulated on his clothes and takes him inside. Lang Junxia knows the way and goes past the gallery in the garden, past the centre courtyard into a side wing, the bell-like clinks of hammered qin can be heard along the way.
Once they’re in a secluded parlour, Lang Junxia seems to relax. “Sit down. Are you hungry?”
Duan Ling shakes his head, and so Lang Junxia tells Duan Ling to sit on the low table before the stove, and he gets down on one knee to help Duan Ling take off his fur coat, shake the snow from his boots, and untie his ear-muffed hat. Then Lang Junxia sits down cross-legged and looks up at Duan Ling; there’s a hint of tenderness in his eyes, though it’s buried so deep that it seems to merely flicker by.
“Is this your home?” Duan Ling asks doubtfully.
“This place is called the Viburnum10. We’ll be staying here for now. In a few days I’ll take you to a new home.”
Duan Ling has never forgotten that Lang Junxia told him don’t ask anything, and so he asked very few questions on their journey, and kept a lot of his suspicions to himself like an uneasy, vigilant rabbit, but on the surface he appears rather calm — on the contrary, Lang Junxia would explain things to Duan Ling of his own accord.
“Are you cold?” Lang Junxia asks, then taking Duan Ling’s icy cold foot in his big hands, he rubs it. His brows furrow. “Your constitution is too weak.”
“I thought you weren’t going to come back again.” A girl’s silvery voice comes to them from behind Lang Junxia.
Duan Ling looks up towards the voice and realises that a pretty young woman wearing an embroidered coat has appeared outside the door, with two maids following close behind her.
“I went on a trip to get some things done.” Lang Junxia doesn’t even look around. He unties Duan Ling’s belt, turns to open their travelling bundle, takes out dry clothes, and changes Duan Ling’s outer garment. It’s not until he’s shaking out the gown that he finds the time to give the girl a glance. The girl walks into the room and stares down at Duan Ling.
Duan Ling gets a bit uncomfortable under her scrutiny, and starts to frown, but the girl speaks first. “Who is this?”
Duan Ling sits up straight and those words run through his head: I’m Duan Ling, my dad’s name is Duan Sheng…
Yet before he’s able to say them, Lang Junxia answers for him.
“This is Duan Ling.” Then Lang Junxia tells Duan Ling, “This is Miss Ding.”
Duan Ling turns to Miss Ding and cups one fist in the other hand according to the etiquette Lang Junxia taught him, and looks her up and down. That girl named Ding Zhi brightens with a smile. She puts both her hands to the left side of her waist and curtsies11, and says to him smilingly, “Greetings, Mister Duan.”
“Has that someone from the Northern Administration been by?” Lang Junxia asks absentmindedly.
“With dispatches from the border saying how the fighting’s been like under the Jiangjun mountains12, he hasn’t been by for a full three months.” Ding Zhi sits down at one side and tells a maid, “Bring us some snacks so Mister Duan can pad his stomach a bit.”
Then Ding Zhi picks up the teapot herself and pours a cup of tea, handing it to Lang Junxia. Lang Junxia takes it from her and takes a sip. “Ginger tea. It’ll help warm you up.” And he hands it to Duan Ling.
Throughout their journey, Lang Junxia was the one to taste everything that Duan Ling had to eat or drink first to see if it’s any good. Duan Ling’s gotten used to it, but when he’s drinking his tea he notices that Ding Zhi is looking at him with puzzlement, her beautifully clear eyes narrowing slightly as she gazes steadily at him.
After a short while, a maid brings them snacks. They’re all food that Duan Ling has never seen nor heard of before. Lang Junxia seems already well-versed in Duan Ling’s behaviour and reminds him, “Eat slowly. There will be dinner later.”
All along their journey, Lang Junxia has told him over and over that no matter what he was eating he mustn’t wolf down his food. It goes against what Duan Ling’s habits, but he can’t disobey Lang Junxia, and slowly he’s come to realise that no one is going to fight over food with him anymore. He immediately picks up a square of cake and takes time to chew it. Ding Zhi simply sits there, very still, as though nothing that happens in the parlour has anything to do with her.
It’s not until two boxes of food are set on the table, and Lang Junxia makes Duan Ling sit in front of the low table and tells him that he can start eating, that Ding Zhi takes the warmed wine jug from the maid and kneel down next to Lang Junxia to pour for him.
Lang Junxia raises a hand, blocking the cup with his fingers. “Drinking gets in the way of things.”
“It’s an imperial tribute from last month. Liangnan Daqu[^daqujiu].” Ding Zhi says, “You won’t try it? Madam made sure to have it ready here for when you came back.”
Lang Junxia doesn’t decline, and drinks one cup. Ding Zhi fills it up again; Lang Junxia drinks that too. Ding Zhi fills up the cup a third time, and once Lang Junxia finishes it he turns the cup over and sets it on the table.
Duan Ling stares breathlessly at Lang Junxia the whole time he drinks the wine.
Ding Zhi moves as if to pour for Duan Ling, and Lang Junxia reaches out and pinches her sleeve between two of his fingers, preventing her from doing so.
“You can’t let him drink wine,” says Lang Junxia.
And so Ding Zhi smiles at Duan Ling, I tried, her expression says.
Duan Ling really wants to try wine, but his compliance towards Lang Junxia overrides his thirst for wine.
While Duan Ling eats his dinner, his mind is constantly trying to figure out what sort of establishment this is, and what sort of relationship Lang Junxia have with this girl; his expression momentarily flickers, unable to stop himself from stealing glances between Lang Junxia and the girl — he just wants to hear them chat more.
Even now Lang Junxia hasn’t told Duan Ling why he’s brought him here. Does Miss Ding know? Why doesn’t she ask about his background?
Miss Ding looks at Duan Ling from time to time, like she’s calculating something in her head. Before long, Duan Ling puts down his chopsticks, and she finally starts to speak. Duan Ling feels like his heart’s been pulled up by a string all the way up to his throat.
“Is the food to your liking, sir?” Ding Zhi asks.
Duan Ling replies, “I’ve never had it before. It’s delicious.”
Ding Zhi starts to laugh. The maid takes away the food boxes. Ding Zhi says, “Please excuse me.”
“Go on then,” Lang Junxia says.
“How many days are you staying in Shangjing this time?” Ding Zhi asks.
“Once I settle down here I won’t leave again,” Lang Junxia answers thus.
Ding Zhi’s eyes seem to brighten, and she smiles, turning to the maid. “Take Lord Lang and Mister Duan to the guest court.”
The maid leads the way with a lantern. Lang Junxia wraps Duan Ling in his own wolf fur coat, picks him up, and through the covered gallery they come to a guest courtyard planted full of blue-green bamboo. Duan Ling can hear the sound of a cup smashing on the floor coming from not so far away, followed by a man’s drunken yelling.
“Don’t look around,” Lang Junxia tells Duan Ling, and carries him into the room. He tosses a simple instruction to the maid who follows them in, “You don’t need to wait on us.”
The maid bows out. The room is filled with a mild incense; Duan Ling doesn’t see a brazier, but it’s very warm. There’s a chimney outside that goes right into the ground, billowing smoke that signals the presence of an underground ‘dragon’ coal heater.13
Lang Junxia makes Duan Ling rinse out his mouth. Duan Ling is so tired he’s barely awake. He lies on the bed in a single unlined garment. Lang Junxia sits by the daybed. “I’ll take you out shopping tomorrow.”
“Really?” Duan Ling feels awake again.
“I’m going to sleep. I’ll be right next door.”
Duan Ling’s hand is still holding Lang Junxia’s sleeve, and he looks a bit disappointed. Lang Junxia is confused, but after watching Duan Ling for a bit he gets it — Duan Ling wants Lang Junxia to sleep with him.
Since they left Shangzi Lang Junxia has never been away from Duan Ling. They eat together during the day, and sleep together during the night. Now that Lang Junxia is going to go, Duan Ling can’t help but be afraid.
“Then …” Lang Junxia hesitates a little before saying, “Never mind. I’ll stay with you.”
Lang Junxia removes his shirt, revealing his bare, solid chest, and he gathers Duan Ling to him. Duan Ling put his head down on Lang Junxia’s sturdy and powerful arm, just the way he did before, only then do his eyelids get heavier, and he slowly falls asleep.
There’s a scent of male skin on Lang Junxia that smells good to him, as though Duan Ling has gotten used to his robe and his body, it feels like if he holds Lang Junxia as he falls asleep, he won’t have another nightmare. He has experienced too many things today, to the point where his brain is overloaded with too much information. Too many dreams, only one night, and no matter how dizzy the pace it feels like he can’t dream enough.
It stops snowing in the latter half of the night, and the world becomes extraordinarily quiet; dream after dream comes at him like mountains carried on a wave, and without knowing why, Duan Ling wakes. When he turns, all he manages to grab is a handful of warm bedding.
The Lang Junxia beside him has disappeared. His temperature remains on the blankets. Duan Ling starts to get nervous, and not knowing what to do, he climbs down the bed quietly, opens the door, and goes outside.
Light is spilling out from the next room over. Duan Ling walks through the hallway in bare feet, and goes on tiptoe to look through the window lattice.
It’s spacious and bright inside, with half the bed curtain hanging low. Lang Junxia is undressing with his back to the window.
His collar is buttoned all the way up to his adam’s apple, and he’s undoing them at a steady pace. He hangs his gown’s belt off to one side, and the garment falls away at once to reveal the expanse of his back, the fit, beautiful line of his waist and firm buttocks. His naked body is on full display, with contours like that of a muscular, slim, solid war horse. As he turns to the side, his erect male organ can clearly be seen.
Duan Ling holds his breath, and his heart beats wildly in his chest; he can’t help taking a step backwards, knocking over a flower trellis.
“Who’s there?” Lang Junxia turns to look.
Duan Ling hurriedly turns and flees.
Lang Junxia hastily wraps a robe around himself and comes out on bare feet. Duan Ling’s door closes with a bang.
By the time Lang Junxia comes in, Duan Ling’s already lying on the bed pretending to be fast asleep. Lang Junxia doesn’t know whether to be embarrassed, or simply to laugh; he goes to the water basin, wrings out a wet towel, drops his robe onto the floor, and wipes his naked body clean. Duan Ling opens his eyes, peeking at Lang Junxia’s every move. Lang Junxia turns away, and as though trying to placate some sort of agitated feeling, he wraps that rearing, aggressive thing in a cold wet cloth, and wipes it, making it docile.
The silhouette of a figure appears outside the latticed window.
“I’m going to bed. I won’t be over.” Lang Junxia says softly.
Footsteps sound, and grow distant. Duan Ling turns over to face the wall. Moments after, Lang Junxia puts on a pair of long underpants and gets under the covers, his chest against Duan Ling’s back. Duan Ling turns over, and Lang Junxia lifts his arm to let Duan Ling use it as a pillow. Duan Ling once more feels secure and he falls asleep snuggling into Lang Junxia’s chest.
Lang Junxia’s muscles, the temperature of his body and the smell of his skin, in dreams take Duan Ling back to a southern winter surrounded by the embrace of a fiery, scorching sun.
But on the same night, it is drizzling in Sichuan, tiny droplets coming down covering all that one can see.
Candlelight makes shadows of the window lattice dance through a long, covered gallery. Two silhouettes walk slowly beneath the gallery with two bodyguards trailing behind.
“Surrounded by cavalry twenty-thousand strong, and somehow they still managed to let him get away.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve already laid out a net. The road leading to Liangzhou and the northeast are sealed. He’s never going to be able to fly over the Xianbei mountains unless he grows some wings.”
“I told you that it was no good handing that job to them. That guy has been fighting wars outside the great wall for years. He knows the lay of the land. Once he’s in the forests we’ll never be able to find hide nor hair of him!”
“The one on that seat has already lost his mind — he doesn’t interfere in politics anymore, and the fourth prince is a sickly thing. Since you and I have already started this, there is no turning back. Even if he comes back right now, we can punish him for dereliction of duty. General Zhao, don’t tell me you’re scared?”
“Why you!”
The one being called ‘general’ is dressed head to toe in military gear — who else, but Southern Chen’s cornerstone, Grand Marshal of the celestial empire’s imperial forces, Zhao Kui.
The man walking abreast with him on the other hand, is dressed in the purple14 robes that signifies the highest ranking of officials, first rank, a dignified position without equal.
Outside the long gallery, their shadows are cast onto the screen wall, and both sink into silence. There are two bodyguards following them, their arms crossed, neither saying a word.
The bodyguard on the left has a white tiger inscribed tattoo on his neck. A conical bamboo hat covers half his face, revealing a curve at his mouth that isn’t quite a smile.
The bodyguard on the right is a big man, fully nine feet15 tall, and from head to toe the only thing that can be seen of him are his eyes — he’s wearing gloves, a mantle, a face mask, and occasionally he’ll glance up with his sharp and malicious gaze, his mind seemingly elsewhere.
Zhao Kui says coldly, “We must send someone to intercept him right now. We’re in the light. He’s in the dark. If this drags on I fear the situation may change.”
The dignified man replies, “If he’s outside Yubiguan, then that’s not a place either of us can deploy troops. For now the only thing we can do is wait for him to show himself.”
Zhao Kui heaves a sigh. “If he seeks refuge from the Liao and comes back with borrowed troops, then things will get a lot more complicated than they are now.”
“The Liao Emperor wouldn’t lend him troops.” The dignified man says, “Arrangements have already been made with the Southern Administration. He will die on the way to Shangjing.”
“You think he’s so simple.” Zhao Kui turns to the courtyard, facing the damp, eastern rain. The hair at his temples are already going grey. His eyes are fixed on the other man, and he enunciates every word. “Li Jianhong once had a mutt working for him. He’s mixed Xiangbei and Han. Though we don’t know his name or where he comes from, I speculate that he’s the man you’ve been failing to find. That Xianbei mutt comes and goes without a trace — so much so that no one even knows what his name is. He’s the last hidden go piece Li Jianhong holds.”
“If that’s really the case,” the dignified man replies, “then I expect Wu Du and Chang Liujun would probably like to meet with him. After all, not many people can be considered fitting adversaries. Have you heard about this man?”
The bodyguard wearing a mask replies, “I know of him but not his name. Some call him the Nameless One. He has an exceedingly unsavoury record — not at all easy to manage. He probably won’t do whatever Li Jianhong asks of him.”
Zhao Kui asks, “What sort of unsavoury record?”
“He turned against his master’s house, killed his master, a crime considered patricide; he betrayed those who studied under the same master, thus went against the natural order. He’s merciless and never leaves anyone alive.” The masked bodyguard says, “Blood wind black edge, one cut brings death. That phrase refers to him.”
“To an assassin that sounds rather normal,” the dignified man says.
“One cut brings death,” says the masked bodyguard in a low voice. “That implies he won’t let anyone explain themselves. An assassin’s job is to kill, but assassins don’t kill those they need not kill.”
“Even if he killed the wrong person, this guy wouldn’t even blink,” the masked bodyguard finishes.
“If I remember correctly,” the dignified man says, “Li Jianhong probably still holds Zhenshanhe. If he possesses Zhenshanhe, that implies this man also has to listen to his orders.”
The masked guard says, “Even if Li Jianhong has the sword, he still has to be able to use the sword, that he’s able to give an order.”
“Never mind.” Zhao Kui finally cuts off this vein of conversation.
It is quiet again in the back courtyard. A long time passes. “Wu Du,” Zhao Kui starts to speak.
The guard in the conical hat behind him makes a sound of acknowledgement.
“Head out tonight,” Zhao Kui says, “move through the night and make haste, don’t stop until you find Li Jianhong. Once you find him you don’t have to do anything, I will send someone else to go with you. When it’s done make sure to bring his sword and his head back to me.”
The corner of the bodyguard’s mouth turns up in a curve. He cups his hands in acceptance, turns, and leaves.
The carriage leaves the alley behind the Estate of the General. Distant lamplight reflects off the moist flagstones.
“Have you ever seen the Qingfengjian?” The dignified man’s voice asks.16
“Everyone who’s ever seen the Qingfengjian is dead.” The masked guard looks pensive, and with a flick of the horse’s whip he drives the carriage forward to escort the dignified man on his way.
“In your opinion.” The dignified man leans back on the carriage’s cushion and asks without much thought, “How is Wu Du compared to that Nameless One?”
The masked bodyguard replies, “Wu Du has cares, the Nameless One has no cares. Wu Du’s cares lie in his competitiveness — he can’t afford to lose and he can’t let things go. And the Nameless One has no cares.”
“Has no cares?” The dignified man says.
“Only those without cares, those without matters they care about can be considered competent assassins.” The masked bodyguard says without emotion, “One who takes another’s life must first lay down their own life. Once you have emotional attachments, the assassin would subconsciously cherish their own life, not daring to use up their life, therefore they’ll fail. Supposedly this Nameless One has no relatives. He’s not killing to get to a higher rank, and he’s not killing for reward either. Perhaps killing is nothing more than a hobby to him. That’s why he’s a cut above Wu Du.”
The dignified man asks another, “And between you and Wu Du?”
The masked bodyguard says calmly, “Well I would like to fight him once.”
“Too bad you won’t get the chance to do that anymore,” the dignified man says gracefully.
The masked bodyguard does not answer.
“Then … how are you compared to Li Jianhong?” That man once again blurts out a question.
“Whoa!”
The masked bodyguard reins in the horse, opens the carriage’s curtain, and helps the man step off the carriage. A lantern with the character “Mu” written squarely on it is hanging outside the estate.
The present Prime Minister of Southern Chen: Mu Kuangda.
“Myself, Wu Du, the Nameless One and Zheng Yan acting together,” the masked bodyguard replies, “may stand a chance against his highness the third prince.”
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 read this anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎
Laba congee. ↩︎
It looks like this. ↩︎
上京 literally means “upper capital” and was one of the 5 capitals of the Liao dynasty when part of China was ruled by the Khitans. (It’s situated in the modern Inner Mongolia Autonomous region, in the city of Chifeng. Click for map. (All this will be kept track of on my ref page linked at the top.) ↩︎
Sichuan. ↩︎
Xianbei mountains is a historic name, and it’s probably referring to the Greater Khingan Range. It’s just a metaphor for now, but you’ll need it later, so here’s the wiki page with a map. ↩︎
Benxiao’s full name is 萬里奔霄, or “Ten thousand miles, run towards the heavens”. ↩︎
Poetry from Li Bai. ↩︎
Generally refers to what we now call the guqin, but also used for the zither type of qin that stands up. ↩︎
The full name is 瓊花院 or the “Courtyard of Viburnum”, but a specific species of viburnum that is now extinct. It was only ever successfully cultivated in Yangzhou, and when Southern Song fell to the Mongolian Yuan dynasty, the flowers went extinct along with it. (This is entirely relevant information.) ↩︎
Left hand on the left hip, right hand over left hand, look down, bend slightly at the knees for one beat. ↩︎
This would be around modern Beijing. ↩︎
These were historically known to be used during the Qing dynasty in the palace, and they’re like floor heaters. ↩︎
Highest rank, dark-red-purple. Think dark magenta. ↩︎
The ancient measurement for feet is on average 23.5cm/foot. That would make him 211.5cm or 6 ft 11 inches tall. ↩︎
Qingfengjian, literally ‘nature-edged sword’. Alternatively, nature-coloured sword. See my old note about the Chinese word for black/green/blue/nature’s colour here. ↩︎
