In the third year of the Xiangfu era, winter.
The Central Plains were in turmoil. The delicate balance between the northern and southern regions of Guangling River was shattered in an instant, all because of the actions of Shu King Chen Zhibao and the heir of Yanchi King, Zhao Zhu. With just two men and two horses, without any retinue, they rode to the military tent of General Wu Chongxuan and persuaded the Southern Expedition Grand Marshal—who held the title of Minister of War—to switch sides once more.
The rebel army marched north, and Lu Shengxiang, whose forces were stationed in the southern outskirts of the capital, found himself in dire straits overnight.
The high-ranking officials in the court of Tai’an City, upon hearing this shocking news, were thrown into chaos, like ants on a hot pan.
The Unswerving Elder, who had previously resigned due to illness, was forced to return to court meetings, bringing a semblance of stability to the panicked officials.
In the depths of winter, the cold was bone-chilling, and hearts were colder still.
A carriage slowly departed from the Huan residence, arriving at a dilapidated mansion just a street away. The plaque had long been removed, leaving it ownerless.
An old man stepped down from the carriage, carrying two jugs of wine. He ascended the steps and tore off the official seal pasted on the gate.
Several high-ranking spies from the Zhao Gou organization, hidden in the shadows, tactfully pretended not to see him.
Holding the two jugs of wine to his chest, the old man pushed open the heavy gate with great effort.
Familiar with the layout, he wound his way through the corridors and halls, heading straight for the study. Some books had been taken away, while others remained—yet whether moved or left behind, they were all destined to gather dust, merely changing locations.
Inside the study, there was still only one chair.
In the past, apart from the two emperors of Liyang, Zhao Li and Zhao Dun, only Huan Wen could have sat here so boldly, comfortably usurping the rightful owner’s place.
Huan Wen walked around the empty desk, placed the two jugs of wine on it, and wiped away the thick dust with his sleeve before slowly sitting down. In years past, the man with the purple beard and green eyes would have been standing by the window.
The Unswerving Elder gazed toward the window and murmured, “Green Eyes, look at this mess you left behind. You walked away, thinking you’d usher in a golden age, but instead, we got this foul, chaotic mess. Don’t you feel guilty? Lucky for you, you died early—otherwise, you’d be drowning in regret!”
The old man snorted. “If you were here, I’d slap you across the head—no joke, I’d really do it.”
He fell silent.
The fate of Guangling Circuit’s Military Commissioner Lu Baijie remained unknown, while Governor Wang Xionggui, for some reason, had been expelled from the region. His life and reputation spared, he was now being escorted back to the capital by Lu Shengxiang’s troops.
The court of Tai’an City still found time to bicker over how to receive Wang Xionggui. Given his triple status as the heir of the Zhanglu faction, former Minister of Revenue, and current governor, it was only fitting for Sima Puhua, the Minister of Rites, to greet him outside the city. However, with Guangling in ruins and half the empire in chaos, Wang Xionggui’s return was anything but glorious. His future in Tai’an City would be bleak, to say the least.
The Ministry of Rites, now second only to the Ministry of Personnel in influence, was wary of tarnishing its reputation. Sima Puhua feared being dragged down by Wang Xionggui and incurring the young emperor’s wrath, so he refused to handle this political hot potato. Jin Lanting, the ministry’s second-in-command, had publicly denounced Wang Xionggui at scholarly gatherings, ensuring he wouldn’t step forward either. Thus, the task fell once again to the unfortunate Vice Minister Jiang Yongle.
Meanwhile, the rising faction of scholars from Liaodong, who despised Wang Xionggui’s ties to the southern elite, seized the opportunity to kick him while he was down, spreading rumors of his incompetence throughout the capital. If not for Qi Yanglong’s decisive intervention, Wang Xionggui might have been greeted not by a vice minister, but by shackles from the Ministry of Justice.
Huan Wen, having witnessed countless rises and falls in the political arena, felt little emotion—only a deep weariness.
In peaceful times, the sharp tongues of scholars were harmless, like the critiques of the Butcher Xu Xiao during the Yonghui era. The crippled old man in the northwest couldn’t be bothered to care.
But these were not peaceful times.
Huan Wen suddenly thought of that young man—Green Eyes’ youngest son, Zhang Bianguan. The so-called “most privileged yet worthless noble brat in the capital,” mocked as a coward who couldn’t even bully the weak. Neither high nor low, he belonged nowhere, and thus, no one paid him any mind.
Yet of all Green Eyes’ children, Zhang Bianguan was the one Huan Wen had liked best. The boy had never feared him and dared to joke freely.
After leaving the Zhang residence, Zhang Bianguan had married a girl from a humble family, living a quiet life in the city’s alleys. His greatest joy was wandering the streets, watching flocks of pigeons soar across Tai’an’s skies, day after day, year after year.
And in the end, even this unassuming young man had died.
The old man opened one of the wine jugs and took a deep swig, suddenly overcome with sorrow.
Clutching the jug, he rose and walked to the window, pushing it open to gaze at the gray sky.
*Evening comes, and snow threatens—won’t you share a drink with me?*
One cup? Far too little. A whole jug would barely suffice.
Huan Wen took another fierce gulp, wiped his lips, and chuckled. “Hah! Such fine wine, and you can’t have any. Bet you’re jealous.”
The Unswerving Elder, who had weathered three dynasties without ever losing his high position, sighed softly. “Ah, I almost forgot—you never liked drinking.”
With a childlike pout, he grumbled, “Who in the world doesn’t like wine? Outrageous!”
Leaning against the window, he stared at the desk, sipping slowly until he was half-drunk, his vision blurring.
Tipsy but not wasted—the perfect state of being.
For a moment, he thought he saw a scholarly figure with a purple beard and green eyes sitting solemnly behind the desk, smiling at him.
Huan Wen remembered their youth, studying the classics side by side. Raising the wine jug, he murmured with a smile, *”Do not blame the scholar’s hat—books never betray a man.”*
The figure seemed to reply, *”At dawn, a farmer’s son; by dusk, in the emperor’s halls.”*
Huan Wen continued, *”The court’s nobles in crimson and purple—all were once scholars.”*
Together, they recited the final line: *”The Son of Heaven values heroes!”*
The Unswerving Elder burst into laughter but dared not look again, afraid the vision would vanish.
He drained the last drop of wine, placed the empty jug on the windowsill, and staggered out of the study.
*Only we have failed the sages’ teachings—never have the sages’ teachings failed us.*
On the desk, a jug of fine wine remained untouched.
*Since ancient times, the wise have been lonely.*
*Only the drinkers leave their names behind.*
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