Many, many years later, not only had the Xiangfu era become a fleeting memory, but even two new eras had come and gone.
The new emperor of Liyang had just ascended the throne.
It was still this waterside pavilion, still a drizzly spring evening.
The elderly man, who had just declined the new sovereign’s plea to stay and resigned as the Left Chancellor of the Chancellery, had spent time doting on his grandchildren before coming here alone. A once-powerful minister in the political arena, destined to be remembered as a great statesman in history, the aged scholar found himself silently weeping for reasons unknown. His expression wasn’t particularly sorrowful, yet the tears simply wouldn’t stop.
The man, hailed by the court and commoners alike as the second “Unswerving Elder,” made no move to wipe them away.
Like a child who had lost something dear—first wailing in grief, then days later, though the pain had dulled, still sniffling at the memory.
Three bowls of wine to drown his sorrows,
A breeze lifting his sleeves like wings.
Spring wind brushes his frost-touched temples,
An old man recalls his youth.
Many, many years ago, in the frontier lands of Lingzhou, south of the Great Wall, the last Northern Liang King—now long forgotten—was still the carefree, eccentric young heir. In those days, it was common to see four young men stumbling drunkenly out of a brothel in the dead of night, reeking of perfume and powder. Among them was Li Hanlin, who had yet to enlist and fight beyond the frontier, who had yet to become the White Horse Captain, let alone the Western Expedition General. Back then, his face was surely smeared with rouge and lipstick. But this sly fellow had the worst tolerance and the poorest drinking manners, always secretly diluting his wine with the help of the courtesans while pretending to drink heartily, even covertly spilling his liquor—so flawlessly that he always left sober enough to flirt shamelessly with the madams, never missing a chance to squeeze in some extra “interest.”
Meanwhile, Kong Wuchi, ever the generous patron, had the capacity but not the restraint—especially when the grateful courtesans, starved for business, insisted he drink more. So he always ended up far less sober than that scoundrel Li. But as they say, virtue has its rewards, and vice its retribution. When Kong Wuchi was drunk and Li Hanlin was sober, the latter had to carry the former. As the young heir often quipped, *”Am I supposed to lug around a two-hundred-pound Kong Wuchi? Who’s the heir here—you or me?”*
And then there was the young scholar, still nicknamed “Yan the Chicken-Eater,” who had long stopped fearing his father’s scolding. Before each visit to the brothel, he’d steel himself, vowing to finally grope a courtesan’s bosom or at least steal a kiss—anything to prove he wasn’t all talk and no action! Yet every time he left the den of pleasure, he’d be too drunk to remember his own name, consoling himself: *”Next time… next time, I’ll be a real man!”*
The slender youth Li Hanlin staggered under the weight of the brawny Kong Wuchi, while the young heir carried the lighter Yan Chiqi with relative ease.
At first, Li Hanlin had wondered: *Why not just have the retinue carry Kong and Yan back to the carriage?*
The heir had replied, *”Because we’re brothers.”*
And at that moment, all four youths agreed—nothing in the world made more sense.
Now, the old man choked out, *”Nian-ge, you lied.”*
That man had promised the Liyang dynasty—no, promised the world—that he would never set foot in Tai’an City again.
But just then, a warm hand gently rested on the old man’s head.
A teasing voice, unchanged by the years, rang out: *”Well, well, Yan the Chicken-Eater, crying like a baby! Did your dad forbid you from playing with me, or did your sister badmouth me again? No big deal—Nian-ge’ll take you drinking! Same rules: Li Hanlin pays, Kong Wuchi leads the horse! Let’s go!”*
The old man didn’t look up, afraid it was a dream.
The hand lifted slightly, then patted his head again.
The man laughed in mock exasperation: *”Yan Chiqi, did books rot your brain?! The three of us are waiting!”*
Yan Chiqi turned slowly, straining to keep his eyes open, lips trembling.
This man, the head of Liyang’s Twelve Halls of Scholars, the Grand Academician of the Martial Glory Hall, renowned for his “unshakable composure in times of crisis”—this very old man let tears carve paths through the deep wrinkles of his gaunt face. He wiped his cheeks haphazardly, laughing through his tears, whispering: *”Nian-ge, I missed you.”*
The man before him, whose temples bore only the faintest frost, flashed a smile as bright as his youth. Lifting his sleeve, he dabbed at Yan Chiqi’s tears, murmuring: *”I know, I know.”*
Not far away, two voices “whispered” loudly:
*”See, Kong Wuchi? Told you Yan the Chicken-Eater had a thing for Nian-ge—just never had the guts back then.”*
*”Huh? Now that you mention it… I believe it!”*
*”Kong Wuchi, don’t you think Yan’s a bit… old for this now?”*
*”Ah, Yan’s only flaw is being too timid. If it were me, I’d have confessed seventy years ago.”*
*”Shut it! Were you even born back then?”*
Yan Chiqi, whose hearing was fading but far from gone, roared without a shred of scholarly dignity: *”Li Hanlin! Kong Zhenrong! Get lost!”*
Li Hanlin pretended to gaze at the moon; Kong Zhenrong feigned sudden interest in the scenery—both masters of their craft.
Yet through it all, Yan Chiqi never let go of the hand before him.
Xu Fengnian looked at Yan Chiqi, then at the grinning Li Hanlin and Kong Zhenrong, and said softly: *”You’re all still here. Nothing’s changed. That’s… really good.”*
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