Inheritance secured and unchanged, it meant a new feudal prince had emerged in the Liyang Dynasty. Nothing, aside from the establishment of a crown prince or the enthronement of a new emperor, could rival this event in significance. And this prince was none other than the Prince of Beiliang. Not only Liangzhou, but Youling and Liangzhou as well, were adorned with lanterns and celebrations, nearly bordering on frenzy, their grandeur surpassing even the lantern festival of the Yuanxiao Festival. All sought to please the new prince, especially the powerful and wealthy families, who secretly competed to see whose lanterns were larger and more numerous. It seemed as though whoever dared hang fewer lanterns would be reported the next day and dragged out for execution. As the rivalry escalated, wealthy households kept adding more and more lanterns, their festive red lights multiplying to the point of overwhelming the senses with a sense of nausea and excess.
At Qingliang Mountain’s mansion, however, there was no such exuberant celebration. Lanterns were added only temporarily, and even these were far more modest than those of previous festivals. Yet the mansion’s stewards and servants wore bright smiles and walked with a spring in their step, their joy genuine from the heart. Who wouldn’t be delighted that their master had achieved great success? When one person attains enlightenment, even the chickens and dogs ascend to heaven.
If the new prince failed to maintain control over Beiliang and found himself overpowered by his guests, the mansion’s comfortable days would quickly come to an end.
After returning from the border inspection to Liangzhou City, the Xu father and son were often seen, with the young master now addressed as the Prince of Beiliang, strolling the mansion grounds with the great general. Those with sharp eyes and keen minds secretly counted on their fingers, calculating which of the two future princesses accompanied the father and son more often. Eventually, they stopped keeping track altogether, for the Qingzhou girl from the Lu family appeared only rarely, far outstripped by the literary luminary, Princess Wang Dongxiang. Occasionally, however, they would spot Lu’s daughter assisting the second princess in pushing her wheelchair. But when comparing the two, who could not see the difference? Deep in their hearts, the mansion’s staff did not favor the reclusive Lu girl, who reeked of money and had only managed to cross the mansion’s threshold thanks to her family’s wealth. Linquan had once been no more than a flagbearer on horseback—everything she had was owed to the great general’s generosity.
Qingliang Mountain dispatched clever maids to serve the two young women. Over time, the maids serving Princess Wang grew to look down on those attending Lu Chengyan, while the maids in “Lu’s Courtyard” began squabbling among themselves, eyeing with disdain the outsiders brought in from the Lu household. As always, where many women gather, the waters are never clear.
Half a month had passed since their return from the border. Today, aside from Huangman’er, who was off training troops, the Xu family’s two generations gathered at a pavilion overlooking Tingchao Lake. Added to their number were Princess Wang Chudong and Lu Chengyan, the two soon-to-be daughters-in-law, and Princess Xu Wei Xiong, seated in her wheelchair. Missing was Xu Longxiang, and thus the balance tipped toward the feminine. Yet clearly, Xu Xiao was in high spirits, his face radiant, no doubt pleased with both daughters-in-law. One was celebrated for her literary talent across the empire, the other for her natural ability to manage a household. More importantly, neither showed any signs of jealousy or rivalry—because one was utterly clueless, and the other too clever to indulge. With these two guarding the inner chambers, chaos would not arise, and disputes too tangled for even a fair judge to untangle would not occur.
Leaning lazily against a red lacquered pillar of the pavilion, Xu Xiao, having defied tradition by renouncing the title of Prince of Beiliang, listened to the playful banter between Xu Fengnian and Princess Wang. Their witty exchanges brought constant laughter to the old man’s face. Princess Wang would say half a line, “How deep is the sorrow that fills your heart?” and Xu Fengnian would reply, “Like owing money for that green-ant wine.” When she teased with “Suddenly turning back,” Xu Fengnian answered, “That fellow is climbing a tree.” When she quoted, “Though my belt grows wider, I will never regret,” the young prince, now the most powerful feudal lord in Liyang, laughed and replied, “Then go fetch water for a widow’s jar.” The quiet woman seated in the wheelchair, even more refined and literary than Princess Wang, allowed a faint, barely perceptible warmth to touch her lips. Meanwhile, Lu Chengyan, a refined lady born into a noble family, smiled demurely without showing her teeth.
Yet even the least observant could see that Princess Wang’s seat naturally gravitated toward the father and son, Xu Xiao and Xu Fengnian, while Lu Chengyan found herself inevitably drawn toward the second princess, who presided over a courtyard of “female scribes.”
Xu Xiao chuckled, “Fengnian, walk Chengyan back. I’ll chat a bit more with your sister and Chudong.”
Xu Fengnian nodded and rose with Lu Chengyan, stepping out of the pavilion. Yet as they walked toward her courtyard, neither spoke. Lu Chengyan followed silently behind him, lips pressed together. When she turned at the courtyard gate, her face broke into a smile. Xu Fengnian hesitated, then smiled lightly, “Remember to go out more. Don’t stay cooped up inside. Beiliang may not have the gentle scenery of the south, but the north has its own unique beauty. It would be a shame not to see it on horseback. I should accompany you, but I’ve been tied up with affairs lately. Soon I must leave for the northwest to deal with a mess of twenty thousand exiled convicts. If you’re still in the mood when I return, I’ll take you to Wudang Mountain.”
Lu Chengyan’s face brightened with genuine delight, and she nearly blurted out “Feng,” but caught herself before saying “Nian,” and instead said softly, “Your Highness, there’s no need to be so courteous.”
Xu Fengnian made a mock gesture of tapping her forehead, sighing in mock exasperation, “Tell me honestly—who’s being more polite?”
Lu Chengyan’s lips quirked. Xu Fengnian turned to leave, then turned back once more, only to find her still standing at the gate, fingers twisting her sleeve. He waved and finally departed.
Xu Fengnian did not find Xu Xiao at Tingchao Lake, so he made his way to the quiet, cold tomb of the Princess. Entering this mausoleum, known to outsiders as having “grand gates and rows of halberds surpassing those of a feudal prince,” he ran his fingers along the solemn stone statues lining the path. At the far end, a hunched old man sat leaning against the stele. Few ancient trees grew within the tomb complex—rumors in Beiliang held that the swordswoman immortal’s mother had been so fierce in life that even in death, her sword qi lingered, preventing the growth of trees. As a boy, Xu Fengnian had once heard that immortals could summon armies from beans or even bring the dead back to life. For days he had scoured the Buddhist and Daoist classics in Tingchao Pavilion, only to be scolded harshly by his teacher Li Yishan, who had no belief in ghosts or spirits. Now, it seemed, even if he wished to be scolded, there was no one left to do it. No one would dare scold Xu Fengnian, the Prince of Beiliang.
Hearing footsteps, Xu Xiao chuckled, “You’re here,” and said nothing more. At this moment, in this place, stood father and son, with the princess lying beneath them.
Xu Fengnian showed no outward grief, only standing silently before the stele. In early spring, the trees bore new yellow-green leaves. Xu Fengnian walked beneath one, plucked a leaf, and played the “Song of Spring Spirits,” a tune his mother had taught him in childhood. If sung, the lyrics would tell of a village girl who left home, met a man she loved, and grew old with him. The hunched old man closed his eyes, listening to the familiar melody, tapping his knee in rhythm.
When the song ended, father and son silently walked out of the tomb. Xu Xiao suddenly said, “Fengnian, you can call Huangman’er home now.”
Xu Fengnian bit his lip, paused, then quickly caught up and nodded.
※※※
In the capital city of Taian, the echoes of the Lantern Festival still lingered, with crowds filling the streets. Within the palace, after the chief eunuch Han Shengxuan’s “sudden death,” the young and terrifyingly capable Song Tanglu succeeded him as the chief palace eunuch. The New Year’s calligraphy on palace gates in the first year of the Xiangfu era was all his doing, executed flawlessly. Once popular among the Twelve Directorates, Song Tanglu grew distant from the older eunuchs after resigning from the Directorate of Internal Affairs, focusing solely on the duties of the Chief Eunuch of the Directorate of Ceremonial. Even his former mentor, who had given him his name, received no Lunar New Year visit. Once one entered the palace and underwent castration, reverence for one’s master surpassed even that for one’s father—this was an unshakable rule. The reputation Song Tanglu had painstakingly built was like water from a clepsydra—dripping away, eventually running dry. Yet the clever Song Tanglu seemed unconcerned. Today, he carefully followed a father and son toward a tall building—the Astronomical Bureau.
This was a place where, every few years, prophetic words were recorded on golden talismans and sealed in an ancient yellow clay box passed down through generations of the Zhao family. These words were then delivered to the emperor after a ritual bath and change of clothes. After reading them, the emperor himself would burn the talismans to ash.
After becoming Chief Eunuch, Song Tanglu had, an hour earlier, for the first time in his life, retrieved the clay box from the Astronomical Bureau. Then the emperor, expressionless, had hurried to the Bureau. Yet Song Tanglu, who had served the emperor for many years, knew that for the first time since he had met the Son of Heaven, he had never seen him so delighted.
This time, the emperor had summoned the Crown Prince. Outside the tower, a crowd of varying ranks and ages gathered. After the old director’s death, the new director of the Astronomical Bureau was not the venerable timekeeper, but a young child once called “Little Bookshelf” by the old director. The name had stuck, and no one remembered his real name anymore. Alongside the child director and the respected timekeeper Song Yu Jing, there was also a rising star in the capital—Wu Lingsu, the Qingcheng King, dressed in purple Daoist robes. Now, aside from Xu Xiao, this “prince of a different surname” had become the head of the northern Daoist sect, standing alongside Zhao Danping as a “Minister in Robes.” No one mocked his title anymore.
Especially after Liyang’s large-scale suppression of Buddhism, the northern Buddhist sects had suffered a catastrophic disaster. Wu Lingsu fulfilled the emperor’s command, personally delivering the mountain-sealing talisman to the main gate of the Two Chan Monasteries. The fate of thousands of temples across the north now rested in Wu Lingsu’s hands. Even the two highest Daoist leaders of Longhu Mountain, despite their immortality, had to retreat in the face of Wu Lingsu’s aggressive stance in handling the Buddhist temples along the border between north and south. The Tian MasterFu (Celestial Master’s Mansion), bearing the emperor’s surname, had been left humiliated before the eyes of the world.
The Astronomical Bureau enjoyed the privilege of not kneeling before the emperor. Wu Lingsu, appearing like a true immortal, also enjoyed this honor. Yet upon seeing the emperor and the Crown Prince, he still knelt respectfully. The Astronomical Bureau’s officials, who had previously only bowed, now followed suit when they saw the northern Daoist leader bowing. Only the young director remained standing. The emperor was not angered; instead, he was delighted. Crown Prince Zhao Zhuan even stepped forward to pinch the child’s cheek. The young director, nicknamed “Little Bookshelf,” looked annoyed, and the emperor laughed heartily. After his laughter faded, he entered the tower first, ascending to the Celestial Observation Platform on the top floor. Crown Prince Zhao Zhuan wandered among the bookshelves, needing a ladder to reach the uppermost books. Wu Lingsu and Song Yu Jing followed carefully. But the Crown Prince was famously easygoing and kind-hearted, so Wu and Song were not overly constrained.
When the Crown Prince joked that he preferred having more daughters, asking Wu Lingsu, who had once gained favor in the capital with his bedroom techniques, whether there was any way to ensure the first child was a girl rather than a boy, Wu was left speechless. Song Yu Jing, known for his rigid personality, smiled inwardly, thinking how rare it was for a crown prince to retain such childlike innocence. What a blessing for the dynasty to have such a future ruler!
Outside the tower, a path of eighty-one white jade slabs jutted six zhang from the building, called the “Star-Plucking Road.” On this “Horizontal Beam of Heaven and Earth,” the emperor and the young director walked side by side. The bright-eyed child showed no fear toward the middle-aged man who ruled all under heaven, and the emperor did not mind this in the least. There were too many people in the world willing to serve him like oxen or dogs. A few who were unafraid of him and posed no threat were not a bad thing—they were a blessing.
There were few in the world who truly feared him. Nearby was this “Little Bookshelf,” and far away, excluding the Northern Desert barbarians, there were barely a handful in the entire Liyang court who could be counted on one hand. Among them, only one inspired true fear in him! And that man was about to die. How could he not laugh heartily, even to the point of clutching his belly?
The emperor extended a finger toward the northwest, then curled it into a fist, bent over laughing silently. His gaze fixed on the roof of a grand hall where, long ago, three men had drunk and debated heroes, shaping the Liyang Dynasty’s grand ambitions. They were all dead now! Dead well! The oldest had to die before he could ascend the throne. The monk had died at Tiemenguan, meeting his fate, though it was a slight pity. The last one, now nearing his coffin, had chosen to watch silently during the struggle for the throne, a choice that had filled him with hatred. In his eyes, the old man had died too late.
The emperor turned and patted the young director’s head, smiling as he asked, “Little Bookshelf, do you think it more prudent to grant him a noble posthumous title, or fitting to give him a disgraceful one?”
One choice was safe, the other appropriate.
To serve beside a tiger was always dangerous.
An old fox in the court, skilled in reading the emperor’s mind, would immediately grasp the true meaning behind his words.
But the young director answered bluntly, “Before he died, the director told me that with our new calendar released, we’ve disrupted the Two Chan Monastery’s monk’s malicious calendar. Whether the Prince of Beiliang receives a noble or disgraceful title no longer matters much. I think since the ancients said a gentleman should help others achieve beauty, giving him a noble title is fine. But Emperor Uncle, what does ‘disrupt’ mean?”
The emperor Zhao, whose expression was dark and changed rapidly, finally revealed a warm smile, murmured something to himself, and then raised his voice in laughter, “Jie Hu, it was your Grand Supervisor’s archenemy, Huang Longshi, who first coined it, probably inspired by the game of Go. By the way, Little Bookcase, I’ve heard you’re quite skilled at Go. When shall we challenge each other on the board?”
Little Bookcase pondered for a moment, then smiled brightly, “The Grand Supervisor taught me the basics of strategy, offense and defense, life and death, and comebacks. I’ve mastered the first four, though I’m still a bit unclear on comebacks. However, the Grand Supervisor said there’s no rush, and whenever I do understand, I can invite that old man Huang to a game in Tai’an City. Also, the Grand Supervisor said only two people have the chance to strip Huang Sanjia of his first place, and I’m one of them.”
Looking at the child’s innocent self-praise, Emperor Zhao was delighted, removed a priceless jade pendant from his waist, and said, “Then I won’t embarrass myself. This jade is for you; you can give it to someone else if you wish. Ha ha, my Lianyang truly abounds with talents. That madman Huang Longshi deserves to die without a grave.”
Little Bookcase giggled, “I saw a palace maid once, and I liked her at first sight. If I can see her again next time, I’ll give her the jade.”
The wise and diligent ruler of Lianyang, renowned for his frugality and dedication, smiled and nodded, “Let me tell you, young prince. You should wait until you grow up to give her the jade, and then she’ll be your wife. Don’t worry, I’ll help you find that maid and keep her for you.”
Little Bookcase nodded vigorously like a chick pecking at rice.
The spring breeze blew gently as Emperor Zhao turned toward the pavilion, a cold sneer forming on his lips. In Lianyang, posthumous titles were awarded according to strict regulations. The honorable titles were divided into literary and martial, starting with the words Wen (civil) and Zheng (upright), followed by twenty-four other characters such as Zhen (loyalty), Zhong (faithfulness), Duan (integrity), Kang (peace), and Yi (righteousness). Martial titles were fewer and of lower rank, yet still divided into eighteen grades. Hence the sayings, “Scholars should aim for the twenty-four,” and “A true man should aim for the eighteen.” In recent years, many high-ranking court officials had died, mostly literary officials. Although these elderly men might not have been honored with titles like Zheng, Zhen, Zhong, or Duan, they were still often awarded the titles of Kang and Yi. This included the two scholars of the Song family and the leader of the Qing faction who had served through three reigns, Lu Feichi, the Supreme Commander. Unfortunately, these men had tarnished their legacies, and although they were among the twenty-four, their posthumous titles were very low. In contrast, the Lu family of Jiangnan, whose reputation had once been far inferior to the Songs and Lus, had a chance to receive two of the most honorable titles.
Xu Xiao?
I won’t give you a derogatory title, but you’ve long been stripped of the title of Grand Pillar of the State, so don’t even think of receiving a civil title as a military official. As for the eighteen martial titles, I’ll “generously” give you the lowest one, “Wu Li” (Brutal Valor)!
After your death, even the most timid fence-sitters will mock you, sending you off on your final journey with scornful laughter.
※※※
That night, the Qingliang Mountain mansion, accustomed to the old Prince of Liang’s weary demeanor, remained unchanged. They still hoped that perhaps the next morning, they would wake up and see the old man walking with the young Prince of Liang somewhere in the mansion.
Inside the small courtyard where Xu Xiao lived, Xu Weixiong’s wheelchair was close to the door, her hands tightly clenched on her lap. Xu Long Xiang, who had rushed home, stood at the bedside with his head bowed, his eyes red.
From the doorway, one could only see the back of a figure sitting on the edge of the bed.
The old man lying on the bed struggled to suppress a cough, slowly saying, “Son, I know you don’t like this Xu Xiao who now only talks about lofty principles. Yes, your father was good at wielding swords and spears, not at preaching. I don’t like this version of myself either. For years, I’ve been a brute who fights back when insulted, a stubborn old man who stands left or right in the imperial court depending on my mood. But son, if I don’t say these things, if I don’t finish speaking, I can’t rest easy knowing you. Remember, now that you’ve become the Prince of Beiliang, you must be able to listen to words you don’t want to hear, and tolerate people you don’t like. A single grain of rice feeds a hundred different kinds of people, each with their own difficulties, and thus their own likes, dislikes, and tempers. Especially those who forget others’ kindness—you must often endure them. Who told you to be the Prince of Beiliang? It’s not about losing to someone, but about considering the bigger picture. I’ve been a general and the Prince of Beiliang for many years, and I’ve had many grievances, things I couldn’t say to anyone. That’s just how it is.
Do you remember when I led my old comrades out of Jinzhou and into the two Liaos, only to be betrayed by a real-power officer of Lianyang, causing many of my brothers to die? In a rage, I took forty surviving comrades and went to that man’s house—not to beg for food or shelter, but to kill his entire family. I had them bound like dumplings and dragged into the courtyard. Do you know what happened next? That man was Cai Qinghe. I’m sure no one even remembers him now. Cai Qinghe climbed the ranks in the bureaucracy by any means necessary. When it came to backstabbing, he was cold and ruthless. He had agreed to advance and retreat with my troops, but when it came down to it, he watched as my eight hundred men faced two thousand enemies without committing his thousand soldiers to the battlefield. Afterward, he even sent me a message saying he’d rather forgo military honors than see me rise. Such a ruthless man, on the brink of death, knelt before me and begged for his wife and child’s lives, saying he was ready to die, to be cut into pieces, if only I would spare them. In the end, of course, I didn’t agree. I killed his entire family of over thirty people right in front of him, because behind me stood forty comrades, and if I hadn’t done that, there would surely have been a second Wang Qinghe, a third Song Qinghe, ready to betray me again. I, Xu Xiao, may not fear death, but I fear my brothers dying for me! Conquering a kingdom? Conquering a kingdom means people die—many people. As long as I, Xu Xiao, am still alive, I owe every one of those brave souls who died before me.”
“When did your father start fearing death? After I married your mother. In the world I lived in, where death was easier than survival, fearing death didn’t necessarily mean you’d survive, but not fearing it meant certain death. I’ve seen too many such deaths, many at my own hands. But the older I’ve grown, the less willing I’ve become to kill. I tell myself that, no matter how I feel, I must accumulate virtue and blessings for you four children. Isn’t that right? Even a coarse man like me knows that parents who can give their children ten parts of goodness will never keep even one part for themselves. When I was young, I was far more foolish than you ever were. I only knew how to drift through life, always dreaming of leaving home, wishing to be thousands of miles away, never thinking about family. After my parents passed away, I felt even less like I had a home. When I left the Two Liaos, I told myself I’d rather die gloriously outside than ever return to that small place. Later, I met your mother. After tricking her into marrying me, I realized that wherever she was, that was my home. Later still, when you children came along, and your mother passed away, I realized that wherever you were, that was home. Our family is a bit different from others. In our family, it’s the opposite: your mother was the strict one, the one who played the villain, while I protected you children. Your mother rarely got angry, but once I remember clearly, I told you when I was young that if anyone ever bullied you when your parents weren’t around, you should fight back, throw stones if you couldn’t fight, or even take up a knife if you could. Your mother was furious. At first, I thought I was in the right. My son was such a kind-hearted child; how dare anyone bully him? If my son made someone else’s son lie in bed, then Xu Xiao, his father, would make their father lie there too. That was the way of the Xu family! But after your mother got angry, she calmly told me that it wasn’t that she was willing to let others bully Xiao Nian, but that Xiao Nian was destined not to be an ordinary child. If he grew up too fierce and rebellious, never learning to be kind to others or understanding that enduring hardship brings blessings, in the end, it would be our child who suffered the greatest loss. She also said that I, Xu Xiao, would not live forever, and when the day came that no one protected Xiao Nian, what then? Your mother passed away early, and I, the most undisciplined man, couldn’t teach you much, but I always remembered one thing she said: spoiling a child is like killing him. Xiao Nian, those times I got angry with you weren’t because I blamed you—it was because I blamed myself for failing to fulfill my duty as a father. Back then, you never wanted to call me ‘father,’ and I truly wasn’t angry. Every time you chased me with a broom, every time the blows landed harder and harder, I knew I was getting old, and you were growing up. That was a wonderful thing.”
The old man’s words came in fits and starts, constantly interrupted by heavy breathing and difficult coughing.
The young figure behind the bed said nothing, merely gripping the old man’s hand tightly.
The old man, who had never shed a tear in front of any of his children, the old martial artist cursed by the court and commoners alike as a butcher, finally wept openly that day. Even if he had wanted to wipe away his tears, his energy and spirit were already exhausted, and he no longer had the strength to lift his hand.
And the young man, whose expression even his sister and younger brother could not see, dared not even loosen one hand to wipe away the old man’s tears, fearing that if he let go, the old man would truly leave.
“They call an emperor ‘the lonely one,’ because of the difference between ruler and subject. Besides, when one becomes emperor for too long, one truly stops seeing oneself as a human being, believing instead in that nonsense about being a heavenly son. Our Xu family, having fought for the title of Prince of Beiliang, is not much different from an emperor. Xiao Nian, aside from that, the taste of loneliness is bitter. I’ve tasted it, and I don’t want you to walk this path. That’s why I let the Yan Jie Xi family go, allowing them to become imperial relatives in the capital. I’ve never regretted it. I, Xu Xiao, once scolded the old chief minister so fiercely that he nearly died of anger—how could I possibly care about a stubborn scholar? I just didn’t want you and Yan Chiji’s sons to become enemies. Even if you were destined not to remain brothers, leaving behind a good memory between you would still be better. The happiest moments of these years were when I returned home from the border and saw that you were all well, and occasionally dreaming of your mother. Since the day your mother agreed to marry me, I’ve been in her debt all my life. The only thing I ever resented her for was leaving too early. Between a husband and wife, whoever survives the other suffers more. This suffering isn’t about the burdens of managing the household—it’s what we men should bear. It’s more about the times when something good happened, but there was no one by my side to share a few words with, or how much I missed her, but couldn’t see her. The world is vast, and I’ve traveled many places, seen many people, but in my eyes, there has always been only one woman—your mother.”
At the door, Xu Weixiong clenched her fists over her mouth, still sobbing uncontrollably.
“The loquat tree in the courtyard was planted by your mother when she came here. In the future, when there are loquats and you happen to miss your father and mother, remember to pick some and place them on their grave.”
“Xiao Nian, I leave your second sister and Huang Man to your care, along with our Xu family and the thirty thousand iron cavalry. From now on, it’s all on your shoulders alone. You’ll be very tired, but don’t blame your father for passing this burden to you.”
The young figure nodded slightly.
Huang Man raised his arm to cover his face, softly weeping.
When the old man spoke his final words of the night, Xu Weixiong threw herself from her wheelchair and wailed loudly.
The young figure raised his head.
He simply opened his mouth wide, silent tears streaming down his face, afraid of disturbing the old man who had closed his eyes.
The old man’s final words were, “Father will take a nap.”
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