Lightning flashes and thunder roars; the rain is coming down so hard the sky feels like it’s caving in with a loud crash. At the end of twelve days of continuous besiegement, the city gates of Shangjing finally collapses, producing such an explosively loud boom as one has never heard since the dawn of time. The capital of Liao, that has towered over the land for nearly a century, falls completely today.
As though passing through entirely unoccupied territory without any resistance at all, the Mongol army enters the city, the earth roaring beneath them.
“The city’s been breached —!”
It is the first time Duan Ling has ever seen a hostile military force pour in like a flood, like a stampede of ferocious beasts; his father once told him that when you’re standing in the middle of an army, under the battering of the tides, beneath a force like a landslide, even if you possess matchless martial skills you’ll find it hard to hold on. When that time comes, there is only killing.
Only killing.
“The city’s been breached —”
With an abrupt end to those words, arrows shower down like drops of rain in a thunderstorm, nailing to the ground those commoners who did not manage to run fast enough.
“Reinforcements are here!” Someone else hollers; the words are followed by another scream. Duan Ling leaps onto the roof and fires off four arrows in a row, shooting the Mongolian soldiers off their horses as rain pours down on him. A savage battle has begun in the streets; what few men left of the city guard band together to fight to the last.
As soon as the city is breached, the Mongol army will rape and pillage, burn the houses and kill the commoners, thus beginning a massacre that lasts for three days — no one will escape. Everyone is picking up weapons. Whether these people know how to fight or not, they’ll throw their lives away if it means they have a chance to take down some of the Mongols with them.
Just as a woman dashes into the Viburnum, she’s trampled to death by a soldier on horseback. That soldier hollers something, attracting more of the ruthless men. They scatter into the courtyard. Ding Zhi cries out, “Retreat towards the back courtyard! Protect the madam!”
Duan Ling is inside putting stitches in Xunchun’s wound, his hands covered in blood. As he pulls up the last stitch, the door behind him is kicked open with a loud bang, and Duan Ling immediately picks up his sword, drops low without warning and crashes head first against the soldier’s diaphragm. Then turning lightning-quick, he slices the sword at an angle from bottom to top, disemboweling the soldier, and leaps out of the room without stopping. The light shining off his blade dazzles the eye as he kills three people in a row.
“Shoot them!” Duan Ling shouts, and rolls out of the way; behind him, the women with crossbows pull their triggers, setting off a volley of bolts that take down several of the soldiers. Alarmed, a surviving Mongolian soldier turns the corner in the back corridor and comes at Duan Ling, chopping at him with his sabre. Duan Ling meets him with his sword, subconsciously closing his eyes as he does so. All he hears is a metallic ting as the other man’s curved sabre snaps apart.
His sword used to be Genghis Khan’s personal sword, cast with refined steel by the craftsman of the Rouran Khanganate. It may fall short compared to Li Jianhong’s Zhenshanhe, which is made of meteoric iron from beyond the heavens, but how can any ordinary weapon prove a match to it?! Confident of the sharpness of his blade, Duan Ling attacks while the soldiers are still underestimating him — he only retreats to the main hall once the other side dare not tussle with him any longer.
“Charge —!”
Currently, the outside of the city is a mess of stray arrows and wildly galloping horses. In order to shield their troops that had made their way into the city, the Mongol army is using shields to block Li Jianhong’s iron cavalry. As soon as their first formation falls apart, their flank quickly fills in the void they leave behind.
Li Jianhong’s heart is once again overcome with a sharp pain; when he opens his mouth his voice feels like it’s gaining distance from him. With stray arrows flying every which way he exhausts the last of his strength to raise the Zhenshanhe high, points it in front of him, and with his knees he squeezes the horse’s flank as hard as he can.
Wanlibenxiao whinnies as it charges into the plains far ahead of the rest, leading the attack with more than forty-thousand troops behind him!
Hoofbeats rumble as though the earth is splitting apart, rolling forward in a landslide. Like a tide the Khitans collide with the Mongol vanguard, the Chen cavalry following closely behind with their charge like one wave swallowing up the next, one swell after another as the Han army relentlessly shoves the Mongol army continuously back towards the city gate.
The war drums sound; Ögedei musters more of his troops, turning them around to face Li Jianhong’s charge.
Li Jianhong’s vision is a blur, and wherever the great sword in his grip sweeps, blood splashes out in an arc around him; he’s like death itself descended from the heavens, crashing into the enemy formation, barely managing to stay on the back of his horse as he laboriously opens a bloody path before him.
“Your Majesty —!”
“Your Majesty!”
Struck by an arrow, Li Jianhong falls off his horse, and in an instant he’s swallowed up in the sea of troops on the battlefield.
The formations have become utter pandemonium; the Mongolians has closed flanks once more, and no one can tell where the Han, Khitan, and Mongol army begins and ends anymore — everyone is holding weapons and cutting down everything they see indiscriminately, mud splashing up all around them. Li Jianhong props himself up with his sword, yanks the arrowheads from his back, and turns to search higher ground with his gaze.
On the wreckage of the city walls, an assassin takes aim at Li Jianhong with a heavy crossbow.
Another arrow has flown to him bringing with it a strong tailwind. Li Jianhong risks getting shot in the arm to put his sword through the Mongolian soldier charging at him, seizes the longbow, and points it up at the city wall. The arrow leaves his fingers and the assassin drops to the ground; within moments he’s already been trampled to a mince by galloping horses.
Li Jianhong wrests control of yet another horse, and with a shake of the reins he charges through the city gate. Wherever he passes, Zhenshanhe throws up sprays of blood and flesh into the air; as he crushes his way through the city gate like Death itself, both Khitan and Han armies once more manage to spot him and fearlessly follow his lead. The Mongol army has already taken over the gate towers, and has begun to release volleys of arrows down on the troops below; Li Jianhong is practically running at a mess of flying arrows as he rushes his way all the way through the gates. He’s hit in the arm, leg, and shoulder.
As soon as the warhorse makes it into the city, it whinnies piteously and topples over. Li Jianhong is thrown to one side, crashing against the ground.
The reinforcements have finally entered the city. The rain is coming down harder and harder until there is nothing but a curtain of water between the sky and the earth. Li Jianhong struggles to his feet, and staggers into the alleyways.
The entire city of Shangjing is on the verge of annihilation; it’s a scene of utter destruction and the streets and alleys are filled with the dead. Li Jianhong drags himself through the alley, trailing blood behind him, using this sword as a crutch. He can see the raging inferno that is the western district — that’s where his and Duan Ling’s home is, and the entire street is on fire. Even a rain such as this that seems to overflow the firmament cannot put it out.
From every direction, more and more Mongolian soldiers are charging into the Viburnum.
Xunchun has one hand over her abdomen and another on her long sword. She shouts, “Escort His Highness out of the city!”
“I can’t leave!” Duan Ling roars in a rage. He follows this with a loud shout, “Shoot them!”
Out of the window panes come countless bolts, throwing the Mongolian soldiers who have barged into the Viburnum into disarray. Duan Ling crashes through the door, and runs into a line of archers, chopping and slashing in a frenzy; Xunchun catches up to him to help, and they kill another several dozen soldiers. The Mongolian soldiers finally retreat. Duan Ling abandons the sword for a bow, draws, nocks, and shoots a soldier running from the Viburnum to death.
“Your Highness!” Ding Zhi cries out in alarm.
By now, Duan Ling is exhausted from killing; too many people’s blood have stained his sword today. As he leans back against a pillar to catch his breath, Ding Zhi hurries to him, and as soon as she touches his back he yelps in pain — he didn’t even notice that he’s been shot.
“Pull it.” Duan Ling shuts his eyes tight. There’s a sharp pain like his heart is being twisted when Ding Zhi pulls out the arrow, and his vision goes black; he nearly faints dead away. A girl immediately steps forward to help him to the courtyard to get some rest.
The rain is easing up a little, and the servants move to close the gate. As soon as the bar comes down there’s a loud bang. Someone is clearly trying to knock it down.
Xunchun says coldly, “Your Highness, let’s go!”
“The reinforcements are already here!” Duan Ling yells, “We’ll hold out!”
“The reinforcements won’t be coming! We’ll go through the secret passage in the back courtyard!”
“No! I know my dad is already here!”
Li Jianhong removes his helm. His hair hangs loose around his face as he runs towards the Viburnum. There lies the last of his hope.
All along the way are corpses lying on the ground, and there are Mongolian soldiers everywhere, pillaging, burning, killing, raping. One of them discovers him and comes at him with a pike. Li Jianhong cuts him down with one quick slash. More soldiers get into formation, setting their pikes into a neat line to launch an attack against him.
“All of you … die …” Li Jianhong bellows in rage, “Make way —!”
He runs at the enemy formation with all his might then, leaving a bloody path behind him as he moves towards the Viburnum, ignoring all of the Mongolian arrows flying at him. By the end of the fight he doesn’t even have the strength left to pull Zhenshanhe back out of the body; as the last of his enemy lies dead, he finally can endure no more, and falls to the ground.
It has rained for a full day and night, and the rain is finally beginning to subside, until it quite suddenly stops.
The poison has already spread all the way to Li Jianhong’s neck; his entire right side is numb and he can’t move at all, but his left hand is still gripping the Zhenshanhe tight. Rainwater flows down the sides of the street, scouring at the side of his face.
Far ahead of him, an angry shout cuts through the tranquil night.
“He’ll be here soon! I’m not leaving!”
That’s Duan Ling’s voice.
“My son … my son …” Li Jianhong’s lips quivers imperceptibly.
That voice seems to bring him back to life, pouring a formidable power into his body on the brink of death; the force of it rips open the roiling dark clouds which hide the night sky, revealing a vast openness above, brimming with brilliant stars on a clear night.
The Silver River spans the sky. In battered and beaten Shangjing, an infinite number of water puddles simultaneously reflect this brilliant dome of stars above.
With the sword as a crutch, Li Jianhong walks toward that door on unsteady feet.
There is a light click of gears.
Near forty steps away, a single bolt glimmers with cold light as it leaves its crossbow. Li Jianhong turns abruptly, Zhenshanhe flying out of his hand, spinning as it goes, and slides past the bolt towards the assassin who has been awaiting him on the eaves.
A stunned expression appears on the assassin’s face, Zhenshanhe buried in his chest. He falls over.
And the bolt, with all the strength of a heavy crossbow behind it, penetrates Li Jianhong’s armour, and nails into his heart.
Li Jianhong’s towering body falls backwards, drawing a line made of a string of blood in front of him in the air. He crashes onto the ground, water splattering up around him.
“Leave while we still have time, Your Highness. If we don’t go, it’ll be too late.” Xunchun presses him, “the days ahead are yet long.”
Suddenly, the entire world seems quiet. Inside the Viburnum, Duan Ling is leaning back against the courtyard wall; he can hear faintly discernible crying coming from afar, like a dirge being sung for fallen heroes.
Duan Ling has no idea why, but in that moment his heart feels perfectly still, and perfectly quiet. Slowly, he slips down the wall to sit in the corner of the courtyard. On the other side of the wall behind him is the rain-soaked avenue.
Out there, Li Jianhong’s blood spreads slowly from his body to flow along the streams, permeating the pavement.
His eyes are wide open. His adam’s apple trembles slightly as he says, “My son …”
Li Jianhong wants to call for him, but he can no longer make any sound. All that leaves him are feeble gasps for breath. Soon, his pupils, with a sky filled with stars reflected in them, begin to gradually dilate.
Duan Ling raises his head, watching the Silver River. His eyes are full of tears.
“He will come.” A sob is caught in his throat. “Dad said he wanted me to wait for him, he told me not to go anywhere …”
He turns to those still alive inside the Viburnum; their eyes, like his, are tinged with sorrow.
“Let’s go.” Duan Ling finally swallows his tears, his eyes red through.
Separated by a wall, out on the avenue, Li Jianhong finally closes his eyes. The starlight in his pupils slowly fades away.
He lies quietly in the Silver River reflected in a water puddle, as though he’s lying in that radiant, splendid river of stars; there’s a slight curl at the corner of his lips, the same gentle smile he always used to wear whenever he saw his son, the love of his life.
On the seventh day of the seventh month, the Weaver Maid works at the loom, blanketing his powerful body in a magnificent river of stars.2
On the seventh day of the seventh month, delicate clouds form a delicate tale, shooting stars speak of their regrets, the Cowherd and the Weaving Maid cross the Silver River in silence. In golden autumn breeze and jade-like dew, their chance encounter is more remarkable than countless meetings in the mortal world.3
On the seventh day of the seventh month, Emperor Wu of Chen, Li Jianhong, is dead.456
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. ↩︎
A constellation. The Cowherd and the Weaver girl. ↩︎
This is the first half of the poem “The Immortals of Magpie Bridge” by Qin Guan. I’ve translated it in full here. ↩︎
In the jjwxc version of this book, Book 1 (Passage of the Silver River) ends here. The novel version lengths book 1 and shortens book 2 by a chapter each. ↩︎
Emperor Wu of Chen, literally “The Martial Emperor of Chen”. It will remain Li Jianhong’s posthumous title for the rest of the series. Posthumous titles are bestowed based on the accomplishments of an emperor while they lived. ↩︎
The constellation series are named for each of the gods at the cardinal directions. Joyful Reunion’s is “The White Tiger of the West”. While “Li Jianhong” is dead, a constellation doesn’t die. ↩︎
Lightning flashes and thunder roars; the rain is coming down so hard the sky feels like it’s caving in with a loud crash. At the end of twelve days of continuous besiegement, the city gates of Shangjing finally collapses, producing such an explosively loud boom as one has never heard since the dawn of time. The capital of Liao, that has towered over the land for nearly a century, falls completely today.
As though passing through entirely unoccupied territory without any resistance at all, the Mongol army enters the city, the earth roaring beneath them.
“The city’s been breached —!”
It is the first time Duan Ling has ever seen a hostile military force pour in like a flood, like a stampede of ferocious beasts; his father once told him that when you’re standing in the middle of an army, under the battering of the tides, beneath a force like a landslide, even if you possess matchless martial skills you’ll find it hard to hold on. When that time comes, there is only killing.
Only killing.
“The city’s been breached —”
With an abrupt end to those words, arrows shower down like drops of rain in a thunderstorm, nailing to the ground those commoners who did not manage to run fast enough.
“Reinforcements are here!” Someone else hollers; the words are followed by another scream. Duan Ling leaps onto the roof and fires off four arrows in a row, shooting the Mongolian soldiers off their horses as rain pours down on him. A savage battle has begun in the streets; what few men left of the city guard band together to fight to the last.
As soon as the city is breached, the Mongol army will rape and pillage, burn the houses and kill the commoners, thus beginning a massacre that lasts for three days — no one will escape. Everyone is picking up weapons. Whether these people know how to fight or not, they’ll throw their lives away if it means they have a chance to take down some of the Mongols with them.
Just as a woman dashes into the Viburnum, she’s trampled to death by a soldier on horseback. That soldier hollers something, attracting more of the ruthless men. They scatter into the courtyard. Ding Zhi cries out, “Retreat towards the back courtyard! Protect the madam!”
Duan Ling is inside putting stitches in Xunchun’s wound, his hands covered in blood. As he pulls up the last stitch, the door behind him is kicked open with a loud bang, and Duan Ling immediately picks up his sword, drops low without warning and crashes head first against the soldier’s diaphragm. Then turning lightning-quick, he slices the sword at an angle from bottom to top, disemboweling the soldier, and leaps out of the room without stopping. The light shining off his blade dazzles the eye as he kills three people in a row.
“Shoot them!” Duan Ling shouts, and rolls out of the way; behind him, the women with crossbows pull their triggers, setting off a volley of bolts that take down several of the soldiers. Alarmed, a surviving Mongolian soldier turns the corner in the back corridor and comes at Duan Ling, chopping at him with his sabre. Duan Ling meets him with his sword, subconsciously closing his eyes as he does so. All he hears is a metallic ting as the other man’s curved sabre snaps apart.
His sword used to be Genghis Khan’s personal sword, cast with refined steel by the craftsman of the Rouran Khanganate. It may fall short compared to Li Jianhong’s Zhenshanhe, which is made of meteoric iron from beyond the heavens, but how can any ordinary weapon prove a match to it?! Confident of the sharpness of his blade, Duan Ling attacks while the soldiers are still underestimating him — he only retreats to the main hall once the other side dare not tussle with him any longer.
“Charge —!”
Currently, the outside of the city is a mess of stray arrows and wildly galloping horses. In order to shield their troops that had made their way into the city, the Mongol army is using shields to block Li Jianhong’s iron cavalry. As soon as their first formation falls apart, their flank quickly fills in the void they leave behind.
Li Jianhong’s heart is once again overcome with a sharp pain; when he opens his mouth his voice feels like it’s gaining distance from him. With stray arrows flying every which way he exhausts the last of his strength to raise the Zhenshanhe high, points it in front of him, and with his knees he squeezes the horse’s flank as hard as he can.
Wanlibenxiao whinnies as it charges into the plains far ahead of the rest, leading the attack with more than forty-thousand troops behind him!
Hoofbeats rumble as though the earth is splitting apart, rolling forward in a landslide. Like a tide the Khitans collide with the Mongol vanguard, the Chen cavalry following closely behind with their charge like one wave swallowing up the next, one swell after another as the Han army relentlessly shoves the Mongol army continuously back towards the city gate.
The war drums sound; Ögedei musters more of his troops, turning them around to face Li Jianhong’s charge.
Li Jianhong’s vision is a blur, and wherever the great sword in his grip sweeps, blood splashes out in an arc around him; he’s like death itself descended from the heavens, crashing into the enemy formation, barely managing to stay on the back of his horse as he laboriously opens a bloody path before him.
“Your Majesty —!”
“Your Majesty!”
Struck by an arrow, Li Jianhong falls off his horse, and in an instant he’s swallowed up in the sea of troops on the battlefield.
The formations have become utter pandemonium; the Mongolians has closed flanks once more, and no one can tell where the Han, Khitan, and Mongol army begins and ends anymore — everyone is holding weapons and cutting down everything they see indiscriminately, mud splashing up all around them. Li Jianhong props himself up with his sword, yanks the arrowheads from his back, and turns to search higher ground with his gaze.
On the wreckage of the city walls, an assassin takes aim at Li Jianhong with a heavy crossbow.
Another arrow has flown to him bringing with it a strong tailwind. Li Jianhong risks getting shot in the arm to put his sword through the Mongolian soldier charging at him, seizes the longbow, and points it up at the city wall. The arrow leaves his fingers and the assassin drops to the ground; within moments he’s already been trampled to a mince by galloping horses.
Li Jianhong wrests control of yet another horse, and with a shake of the reins he charges through the city gate. Wherever he passes, Zhenshanhe throws up sprays of blood and flesh into the air; as he crushes his way through the city gate like Death itself, both Khitan and Han armies once more manage to spot him and fearlessly follow his lead. The Mongol army has already taken over the gate towers, and has begun to release volleys of arrows down on the troops below; Li Jianhong is practically running at a mess of flying arrows as he rushes his way all the way through the gates. He’s hit in the arm, leg, and shoulder.
As soon as the warhorse makes it into the city, it whinnies piteously and topples over. Li Jianhong is thrown to one side, crashing against the ground.
The reinforcements have finally entered the city. The rain is coming down harder and harder until there is nothing but a curtain of water between the sky and the earth. Li Jianhong struggles to his feet, and staggers into the alleyways.
The entire city of Shangjing is on the verge of annihilation; it’s a scene of utter destruction and the streets and alleys are filled with the dead. Li Jianhong drags himself through the alley, trailing blood behind him, using this sword as a crutch. He can see the raging inferno that is the western district — that’s where his and Duan Ling’s home is, and the entire street is on fire. Even a rain such as this that seems to overflow the firmament cannot put it out.
From every direction, more and more Mongolian soldiers are charging into the Viburnum.
Xunchun has one hand over her abdomen and another on her long sword. She shouts, “Escort His Highness out of the city!”
“I can’t leave!” Duan Ling roars in a rage. He follows this with a loud shout, “Shoot them!”
Out of the window panes come countless bolts, throwing the Mongolian soldiers who have barged into the Viburnum into disarray. Duan Ling crashes through the door, and runs into a line of archers, chopping and slashing in a frenzy; Xunchun catches up to him to help, and they kill another several dozen soldiers. The Mongolian soldiers finally retreat. Duan Ling abandons the sword for a bow, draws, nocks, and shoots a soldier running from the Viburnum to death.
“Your Highness!” Ding Zhi cries out in alarm.
By now, Duan Ling is exhausted from killing; too many people’s blood have stained his sword today. As he leans back against a pillar to catch his breath, Ding Zhi hurries to him, and as soon as she touches his back he yelps in pain — he didn’t even notice that he’s been shot.
“Pull it.” Duan Ling shuts his eyes tight. There’s a sharp pain like his heart is being twisted when Ding Zhi pulls out the arrow, and his vision goes black; he nearly faints dead away. A girl immediately steps forward to help him to the courtyard to get some rest.
The rain is easing up a little, and the servants move to close the gate. As soon as the bar comes down there’s a loud bang. Someone is clearly trying to knock it down.
Xunchun says coldly, “Your Highness, let’s go!”
“The reinforcements are already here!” Duan Ling yells, “We’ll hold out!”
“The reinforcements won’t be coming! We’ll go through the secret passage in the back courtyard!”
“No! I know my dad is already here!”
Li Jianhong removes his helm. His hair hangs loose around his face as he runs towards the Viburnum. There lies the last of his hope.
All along the way are corpses lying on the ground, and there are Mongolian soldiers everywhere, pillaging, burning, killing, raping. One of them discovers him and comes at him with a pike. Li Jianhong cuts him down with one quick slash. More soldiers get into formation, setting their pikes into a neat line to launch an attack against him.
“All of you … die …” Li Jianhong bellows in rage, “Make way —!”
He runs at the enemy formation with all his might then, leaving a bloody path behind him as he moves towards the Viburnum, ignoring all of the Mongolian arrows flying at him. By the end of the fight he doesn’t even have the strength left to pull Zhenshanhe back out of the body; as the last of his enemy lies dead, he finally can endure no more, and falls to the ground.
It has rained for a full day and night, and the rain is finally beginning to subside, until it quite suddenly stops.
The poison has already spread all the way to Li Jianhong’s neck; his entire right side is numb and he can’t move at all, but his left hand is still gripping the Zhenshanhe tight. Rainwater flows down the sides of the street, scouring at the side of his face.
Far ahead of him, an angry shout cuts through the tranquil night.
“He’ll be here soon! I’m not leaving!”
That’s Duan Ling’s voice.
“My son … my son …” Li Jianhong’s lips quivers imperceptibly.
That voice seems to bring him back to life, pouring a formidable power into his body on the brink of death; the force of it rips open the roiling dark clouds which hide the night sky, revealing a vast openness above, brimming with brilliant stars on a clear night.
The Silver River spans the sky. In battered and beaten Shangjing, an infinite number of water puddles simultaneously reflect this brilliant dome of stars above.
With the sword as a crutch, Li Jianhong walks toward that door on unsteady feet.
There is a light click of gears.
Near forty steps away, a single bolt glimmers with cold light as it leaves its crossbow. Li Jianhong turns abruptly, Zhenshanhe flying out of his hand, spinning as it goes, and slides past the bolt towards the assassin who has been awaiting him on the eaves.
A stunned expression appears on the assassin’s face, Zhenshanhe buried in his chest. He falls over.
And the bolt, with all the strength of a heavy crossbow behind it, penetrates Li Jianhong’s armour, and nails into his heart.
Li Jianhong’s towering body falls backwards, drawing a line made of a string of blood in front of him in the air. He crashes onto the ground, water splattering up around him.
“Leave while we still have time, Your Highness. If we don’t go, it’ll be too late.” Xunchun presses him, “the days ahead are yet long.”
Suddenly, the entire world seems quiet. Inside the Viburnum, Duan Ling is leaning back against the courtyard wall; he can hear faintly discernible crying coming from afar, like a dirge being sung for fallen heroes.
Duan Ling has no idea why, but in that moment his heart feels perfectly still, and perfectly quiet. Slowly, he slips down the wall to sit in the corner of the courtyard. On the other side of the wall behind him is the rain-soaked avenue.
Out there, Li Jianhong’s blood spreads slowly from his body to flow along the streams, permeating the pavement.
His eyes are wide open. His adam’s apple trembles slightly as he says, “My son …”
Li Jianhong wants to call for him, but he can no longer make any sound. All that leaves him are feeble gasps for breath. Soon, his pupils, with a sky filled with stars reflected in them, begin to gradually dilate.
Duan Ling raises his head, watching the Silver River. His eyes are full of tears.
“He will come.” A sob is caught in his throat. “Dad said he wanted me to wait for him, he told me not to go anywhere …”
He turns to those still alive inside the Viburnum; their eyes, like his, are tinged with sorrow.
“Let’s go.” Duan Ling finally swallows his tears, his eyes red through.
Separated by a wall, out on the avenue, Li Jianhong finally closes his eyes. The starlight in his pupils slowly fades away.
He lies quietly in the Silver River reflected in a water puddle, as though he’s lying in that radiant, splendid river of stars; there’s a slight curl at the corner of his lips, the same gentle smile he always used to wear whenever he saw his son, the love of his life.
On the seventh day of the seventh month, the Weaver Maid works at the loom, blanketing his powerful body in a magnificent river of stars.2
On the seventh day of the seventh month, delicate clouds form a delicate tale, shooting stars speak of their regrets, the Cowherd and the Weaving Maid cross the Silver River in silence. In golden autumn breeze and jade-like dew, their chance encounter is more remarkable than countless meetings in the mortal world.3
On the seventh day of the seventh month, Emperor Wu of Chen, Li Jianhong, is dead.456
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. ↩︎
A constellation. The Cowherd and the Weaver girl. ↩︎
This is the first half of the poem “The Immortals of Magpie Bridge” by Qin Guan. I’ve translated it in full here. ↩︎
In the jjwxc version of this book, Book 1 (Passage of the Silver River) ends here. The novel version lengths book 1 and shortens book 2 by a chapter each. ↩︎
Emperor Wu of Chen, literally “The Martial Emperor of Chen”. It will remain Li Jianhong’s posthumous title for the rest of the series. Posthumous titles are bestowed based on the accomplishments of an emperor while they lived. ↩︎
The constellation series are named for each of the gods at the cardinal directions. Joyful Reunion’s is “The White Tiger of the West”. While “Li Jianhong” is dead, a constellation doesn’t die. ↩︎
