New Year’s Eve is a time of reckoning for debtors, and this year’s celebration was particularly grueling for Xu Fengnian. Xu Weixiong had decreed that all the spring couplets adorning Qingliang Mountain must be penned by his own hand, with no duplicates allowed—365 pairs in total, not even counting the individual characters for “Spring” and “Fortune.” Desperate, Xu Fengnian sought help from Song Dongming, Bai Yu, and even Wang Chudong, compiling over 300 couplets into a booklet for easy copying. Though Xu Xiao had passed away less than three years prior, traditionally requiring white-background couplets, Xu Weixiong insisted on red this year. Despite Xu Fengnian’s reluctance, even his aunt Zhao Yutai sided with his second sister. Xu Fengnian could face off against two legendary warriors like Cao Changqing and Deng Tai’a, but against these two women? He had no choice but to submit.
Thus, at dawn, Xu Fengnian began his calligraphy marathon on the second floor of Wutong Courtyard. Lu Chengyan ground ink beside him, while Wang Chudong trimmed the paper. Of his three disciples, Lü Yunzhang lasted barely an incense stick’s time before fleeing to spar with Yu Xinlang. Wang Sheng, who had returned alone from the Northern Wilderness, remained composed, assisting Wang Chudong. Only Yu Dilong, the mischievous brat, was conspicuously absent. Everyone knew why—the tale of the young prince “leaning against the wall” had spread like wildfire among the military ranks, earning him the nickname “Xu the Second.” Unaware of the storm he’d stirred, Yu Dilong returned from the border only to be summoned by his smirking master to a secluded hillside. When they returned, the prince looked refreshed, while the boy sported a bruised face and a sullen mood, sulking in the lakeside pavilion until Lu Chengyan coaxed him to eat. Between bites, the boy whimpered about his unjust beating and being forced into a vow of silence. Lu Chengyan, her own grievances melting away, promised to shield him from future outbursts. Grinning through his pain, Yu Dilong agreed, marveling at his master’s good fortune in having such a kind wife.
After nearly three hours of writing, Xu Fengnian moved on to hanging the couplets. Thankfully, Xu Weixiong spared him further torment, assigning only the most significant spots—like the ancestral home, the palace gates, Wutong Courtyard, and Tingchao Pavilion—to his personal attention. The rest were delegated to servants. He enlisted his disciples to help with ladders and stools, ensuring each “Fortune” character was pasted upside-down while they cheered, “Fortune has arrived!” Wang Sheng was earnest, Lü Yunzhang perfunctory, and Yu Dilong the loudest. Following tradition, the main gate’s couplets were last. As Xu Fengnian stood with a bowl of rice paste, he glanced at the horizon, expecting Huang Man’er and Yang Guangdou to return soon.
His disciples earned extra couplets for their efforts. Yu Dilong would send his to the family of a fallen scout; Lü Yunzhang would curry favor with a general; Wang Sheng would likely keep hers as a memento. When Xu Fengnian asked, “How’s my calligraphy?” Lü Yunzhang launched into exaggerated praise until his master cut him off: “Speak plainly.” The boy sheepishly requested another piece. Xu Fengnian mused, “Seeking blessings is good, but scattering them too thin lacks sincerity. In politics, one ally giving their all outweighs two half-hearted ones.” The boy nodded thoughtfully.
Turning to Yu Dilong, the boy flinched: “Master, what now? I haven’t spoken to anyone but Shiniang!” Xu Fengnian snorted, handing him the bowl with a cryptic, “Lucky you.” Baffled but silent, Yu Dilong took it. Gazing into the distance, Xu Fengnian reflected on the lineage of legends—from Lü Zu to himself, and perhaps someday Yu Dilong. The world’s balance demanded checks: Xie Guanying had emerged to challenge him, and if he failed, Hong Xixiang could have stepped in. By Yu Dilong’s era, such celestial interventions might cease, leaving mortals to clash on their own terms. Xu Fengnian hoped his disciple would never become an unbridled force like Wang Xianzhi or himself at their worst—a disaster without restraint.
He Xiniang’s return brought strange prophecies from the late Huang Longshi: a future where commoners could “ride swords,” travel vast distances in a day, and read more in a year than sages in a lifetime. Yet Huang lamented that future scholars would merely flip pages without wisdom, forgetting heroes and scoffing at sacrifice. He chose to die in this era, preserving its values. Similarly, Lü Zu refused ascension, Li Chungang spurned immortality, and Wang Xianzhi yielded to Xu Fengnian. In court, Zhang Julu burned his bridges, Qi Yanglong emerged from seclusion, and Tan Tanweng clung to duty—all kindred spirits of Huang Longshi, choosing death to affirm life.
Xu Fengnian sighed, ruffling Wang Sheng’s hair. “With your Joyous Sword, live joyously. Don’t be like… some people.” Blushing, the now-grown girl fidgeted until Lü Yunzhang’s teasing—”Wang Sheng likes you, even a blind man can see!”—sent her into a flustered rage. The arrival of Xu Longxiang, back from Liuzhou, saved her. As Xu Fengnian descended the steps, he tossed Yu Dilong a task: “Spar with your junior. How I beat you yesterday, beat him today—just don’t miss dinner.” While Lü Yunzhang scrambled for weapons, Yu Dilong gave the bowl to crimson-cheeked Wang Sheng and gave chase. She whispered, “I’ll go too,” handing the bowl back. Xu Fengnian sighed, “At least take the stools and ladders.”
When Huang Man’er arrived, he seemed hesitant until Xu Fengnian playfully hurled him into the snow, sparking a nostalgic chase. Chen Xiliang gaped, but longtime resident Yang Guangdou barely blinked. Soon, Huang Man’er hoisted his brother for a piggyback sprint up the mountain.
Dumplings, a tradition started by Xu Xiao, were now prepared by Zhao Yutai, Xu Weixiong, Lu Chengyan, and Wang Chudong. The New Year’s feast, also following Xu Xiao’s rules, seated women alongside men, filling a massive table with disciples, advisors, and guests like Chen Xiliang and Yang Guangdou.
Post-feast, Xu Fengnian stood alone at the grand hall’s entrance, where two chairs symbolized his father’s legacy. As a youth, he’d usurped Xu Xiao’s seat during meetings, leaving his father cheerfully sidelined. Now, gazing at the dozens of aged chairs, he lost himself in thought until steward Song Yu brought a brazier. Xu Fengnian tended the embers, joined by Huang Man’er with more charcoal. “I always dozed off during these vigils,” Xu Fengnian murmured. “Xu Xiao would ramble about the past, and I’d leave before midnight, taking you with me. Now I realize how lonely he must’ve been.” Huang Man’er nodded. “What do you think he pondered here?” His brother shook his head. Xu Fengnian hesitated. “Cao Changqing said I could fetch someone from Western Chu after New Year’s. But how do I propose that? Second Sister might refuse, your sisters-in-law will resent it, and the generals will call it recklessness. Even if I force it as prince, we’d fracture before the next war.” Huang Man’er, uncharacteristically pensive, stayed silent. Unlike his childhood self, he no longer blindly stood by his brother’s side—not after defying even Xu Xiao for him.
Xu Fengnian set aside the poker, huddling by the fire.
※※※
Unbeknownst to him, horsemen converged on the city gates that night. From Youzhou came Yan Wenluan, Chen Yunhui, Hu Kui, and Yu Luandao; from Lingzhou, Li Gongde, Li Hanlin, and Han Laoshan; from Liuzhou, Li Mofan and Kou Jianghuai. The largest group, led by Chu Lushan and Yuan Zuozong, represented Liangzhou’s military. The entire northern frontier’s civil and military elite gathered outside Qingliang Mountain’s gates—an unspoken ultimatum.
Xu Yanbing’s grim expression at the hall’s entrance told Xu Fengnian enough. Rising wearily, he recognized the silent coup: even Xu Weixiong and Chu Lushan opposed him. As the crowd filed in—Chu Lushan, Li Gongde, Yan Wenluan, Yuan Zuozong, Chen Yunhui, Gu Dazu, Li Mofan, Yu Luandao, Kou Jianghuai, Cao Xiaojiao, Song Dongming, Bai Yu, Huang Shang, Xu Beizhi, Chen Xiliang—chairs were hastily added. Xu Fengnian waited until all were seated before taking his father’s chair. Pressing his palms downward, he signaled for others to sit. Xu Longxiang chose a side seat. The collective presence dwarfed even the might of Cao Changqing or Deng Tai’a. Xu Fengnian felt no anger, only exhaustion. Chu Lushan, head bowed, couldn’t meet his gaze. He and Xu Weixiong had orchestrated this—who else would dare?
Straightening, Xu Fengnian folded his hands into his sleeves. Just like Xu Xiao.
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