Chasing Dreams - Chapter 7
Chapter 7
The first year of Tianxiang should not have been a year for the rotation of garrisons among the three major passes. However, due to the incessant warfare, the troops at the passes were exhausted, and since three of the Six Winged Generals were leaving the capital to take up posts as garrison commanders on the frontiers, the Ministry of War submitted a special memorial for the garrison rotation following the new emperor's enthronement ceremony, which was naturally granted.
In the late summer of August, ninety thousand rotating troops converged outside the Vermilion Bird Gate, forming a stern and disciplined array. During the few days of troop assembly, the wine shops in Tianqi City remained bustling with business, yet beneath the prosperous hum of the city, an undercurrent of public panic could not be concealed. When the rebellion had broken out years ago, it had precisely coincided with the garrison rotation gap at the Huangquan, Chengcheng, and Moge passes; among them, the sixty thousand troops heading toward the Juling and Moge passes had even joined forces with the rebel army to encircle the imperial capital from the rear. The populace had only just settled down from their displacement, and their scars were still fresh. Even in peaceful times, the sight of such heavy military forces surrounding the city still filled everyone with lingering dread.
At dawn that day, during the predawn hours, the sky was still pitch black, save for a faint, pale streak of dawn on the horizon, ash-white and bleak. Beneath the city walls, figures and banners stretched out for miles in a dark, dense blanket, yet absolute silence prevailed. The occasional whinny of a horse was immediately quieted and subdued.
Word spread from the palace that the imperial carriage was already on its way to the Vermilion Bird Gate, accompanied by Noble Consort Shurong, Tilan.
Torches flickered like stars amidst the crowds, passing from hand to hand until they formed an unbroken sea of fire whose brilliant glow illuminated the surroundings. The uniforms and armor of the three camps were divided into ochre-yellow, indigo-blue, and dark-crimson hues, each forming its own distinct square formation.
After a moment, a commotion of lights broke out atop the Vermilion Bird Gate. On either side of the city gate, two five-foot-wide, twelve-foot-long black satin command banners embroidered with golden coiling dragons abruptly dropped down—the imperial carriage had arrived. With the beat of a drum as a signal, the ninety thousand soldiers simultaneously dropped to one knee, shouting "Long live the Emperor!" in unison, their magnificent roar raising billows of dust.
Beneath the banner of the deputy commander in the front ranks of the Huangquan Pass troops, Tang Qianzi raised his head to gaze up at the city ramparts. Beside the dark-robed emperor, a slender figure draped in a peacock-feather cloak appeared unable to withstand the chill of the morning dew. Nearby, a court official loudly chanted the imperial decree; the long, monotonous foreign phrasing was incomprehensible to her, so she could only stand peacefully before the battlement, lowering her head as if looking at him from afar. She was upon the city wall while he was below it, their features and expressions alike blurred.
Once the review was complete, a cannon sounded from the city as a signal, and the soldiers of the three camps split into winding, separate routes: the Wuwei Camp took the Hexi Road toward the Juling Pass, the Chengcheng Camp headed toward the Moge Pass, and the Huangquan Camp detoured northwest toward the Huangquan Pass, each proceeding to their respective garrison rotations.
Tang Qianzi mounted his horse, changed direction, and followed the commander's banner westward, leading a massive force of thirty thousand men behind him. The sky was grayish-pale, covered with layers of clouds resembling soft cotton, leaving one entirely unaware of when daylight had broken.
That entire day stubbornly refused to clear up. With no sun to be seen since morning, the air remained stiflingly hot, and palace attendants shuttled back and forth through the various halls of the inner palace carrying large glass bowls filled with stored ice sent from the Jiangyue region.
By the afternoon, the sky had grown as dim as night, and green-blue lightning pierced through the surging, chaotic clouds like halberds. A sudden squall blew up, causing the wind-chimes under the eaves of the Yu'an Palace to jingle wildly in a chaotic din while doors and windows slammed shut all around. Before long, heavy, driving raindrops lashed down like whips.
Tilan stood before the northern window. The world was pitch black, and wave after wave of dense, white rain curtains were driven by the wind, flying diagonally like a waterfall. The distant mountains were all submerged in hazy, heavy clouds, concealing the path of that man's departure.
From this day forth, the ends of the earth would be vastly distant, separated by the boundless sea, never to meet again—nor did she wish to see him ever again. She stepped back a few steps, seated herself once more on the low couch of Suæž‹ woven brocade, and stared blankly at the pouring rain beneath the eaves until she unconsciously drifted to sleep.
Tilan slept extremely deeply, entirely free of those ominous dreams. Only an endless, boundless darkness embraced her, yet her heart felt hollow and at ease, desiring nothing more than to sink into this abyss forever and never wake up.
In her deep slumber, she abruptly sensed something icy and rigid pressing silently against her, touching her face and emitting the raw, cold scent of steel.
She snapped her eyes wide open.
That heavy sensation remained, and a bead of water slipped down, drilling into the collar of her garments. She shivered involuntarily. It was a hand; the leather lining beneath the steel armor was completely soaked through. Evidently fearing that she might be awakened, it simply rested upon her cheek for a long, lingering moment. The night was deep and heavy; the candles had been blown out by the wind at some unknown hour, and the rain outside was still torrential. Before her, a person knelt on one knee in front of her low couch, the entire set of Imperial Guard light armor dripping with water. Though her face and form were largely obscured, she recognized him.
She sat up, as if in a dream, and softly called out his name: "Zhenchu." "Come with me," he lowered his voice. In the darkness, only a pair of clear, tea-colored pupils flashed with an anxious radiance.
Tilan's face turned deathly pale, and she said, "I will not submit to your manipulation." "I sneed out of the camp in the dead of night and traveled seventy miles to see you; I have no intention of returning." He cupped her face in both hands, preventing her from turning her head away. He emanated the chill of the night rain, which seeped thread by thread beneath her skin, sending shudders through her entire body. Whether it was anger, sorrow, or joy, she could not distinguish.
"Come with me," he repeated urgently.
"What about your mother?" she asked blankly.
Tang Qianzi did not hesitate for a second. "I have arranged for people to escort you to Yunmo Town to set sail immediately. I will go to Qiuye to fetch my mother, then head up to Huobei Port and take a ship south to rendezvous with you. Once we are out on the sea, no one will ever be able to stop us." "And Ji Chang?" He shook his head. "He is a grown man." "And your military rank?" "I don't want it. I want none of it." He suddenly smiled. "I will take you away, and we will become pirates." She stared at him in a daze, and only after a long while did she seem to gradually understand, shaking her head and forcefully pushing his hands away.
"It's too late, Zhenchu," she said as her thick, curly hair spilled down, obscuring her face.
"Tilan..." He grew nearly panicked, seizing her shoulders once more and lowering his head to gaze intently into her eyes.
"For an imperial consort and a general to flee by night would be a terrifying disgrace to both nations. What if Emperor Xu and Uncle Yingjia refuse to let the matter rest and ignite another war? What if the pursuit documents and troops arrive in Qiuye first and place your mother under arrest?" Tilan suddenly raised her eyes. That gaze was heavy and scorching, like an overwhelming wildfire burning down to its very end, its final instantaneous blaze too intense to look upon directly.
"We can always find a way." His voice was hoarse, but his expression had already wavered.
"Zhenchu, you cannot afford this price. If these things come to pass, you will surely regret it." She smiled, the bright and compelling light in her eyes gradually growing cold. "But you are a sensible man; you will not blame me, but will only hate yourself—hate yourself for a lifetime." He looked at her. A bright flash of lightning ignited his pupils, lingering for a mere instant before extinguishing once more.
"It's too late," Tilan shook her head quietly. "Go back to the main camp... before daybreak." The young warrior abruptly pulled her into a tight embrace. The fierce, brutal strength almost crushed her joint by joint into fine powder, intending to knead her into a brand-new Tilan mixed with his own flesh and blood. The edges of his armor's steel scales were like countless blunt knives, wet and cold, carving the pain deep into her skin. She endured it in silence. This pain was the brand he had given her, reaching deep into her marrow, never to be erased for all eternity.
A thunderbolt cracked, rolling heavily across the rooftops. Tilan closed her eyes, as if watching ten thousand worlds collapse and crumble into ruins, stars burning to ash and washing down with the endless waterfalls of rain. In the darkness, sparks were whipped up, falling toward an unfathomable, bottomless abyss.
Thunder roared throughout that night. Yet whatever had burned would ultimately be extinguished.
When Tilan woke the next day, it was a bright and clear morning. Had it not been for the open windows and scattered fallen leaves all around, she would almost have doubted whether the violent storm of the previous night had ever truly existed.
In the spring of the second year of Tianxiang, Emperor Xu issued an imperial decree ordering a nationwide search for imperial relatives and nobility.
In late spring, the Governor of Baiyan Commandery submitted a memorial stating that they had tracked down the Imperial Princess of Yanling and her husband, the驸马都尉 (Imperial Son-in-law Commandant). Imperial Princess of Yanling, Chu Linlang, was Chang Wang's full sister, with the childhood name "Peony." When she had been swept away by rebel forces at the summer palace in her fiefdom, she was only thirteen years old.
Upon first seeing the Imperial Princess of Yanling, Tilan felt a chill in her heart, and the teacup in her hand spilled onto the ground. She recalled that inescapable nightmare from two years ago. The face of the person in the dream—pierced through the heart by a long arrow and falling from a high city wall—remained vivid in her mind; it turned out to be none other than this graceful and charming woman who now stood before her speaking and smiling with such gentle elegance.
Hesitating for several days, she finally sent a reliable person to deliver a message to Ji Chang, but no reply ever came. Tilan herself understood well enough that those disjointed visions, occurring at unknown times and places, were beyond prevention. Fate was capricious and shrouded in layers of suspicion; if they could not break free from it, why eagerly lift the curtain on the final act, only to pointlessly ruin the peaceful days they currently had? From August of the second year of Tianxiang to the following spring's new year, due to falls from horses, difficult childbirths, and treason, fully half of the Six Winged Generals had met violent deaths. Among the prominent generals who had followed Emperor Xu in suppressing the rebellion in his early years, only a sparse handful remained.
On the fourth day of the intercalary second month in the third year of Tianxiang, Fang Jianming, Duke of Qinghai, died suddenly of a heart ailment. He was bestowed the imperial surname and granted the posthumous name of Jing, with "conquering violence as fa" designated as Jing, and was thus posthumously honored as King Jingyi.
In June, Gu Dacheng, commander of the Moge Camp, was slain by wandering knights for indulging his subordinates in pillaging.
In July, Su Ming, commander of the Huangquan Camp, received the imperial decree ordering him to return to the capital region to take up the post of pacification envoy, succeeding Fang Jianming. He was the very last survivor among the Six Winged Generals, and the military affairs of Huangquan Pass were temporarily taken over by deputy commander Tang Qianzi.
On the thirtieth day of the tenth month in the third year of Tianxiang, the Imperial Princess of Yanling attempted to poison Emperor Xu and fled after failing. Pursued by the Imperial Guards to the outer city corner tower, she took two arrows to her body, pulled out the arrowheads that had pierced her chest, and hurled herself backward from the five-story-high corner tower, plunging to her death on the resplendent Yongle Avenue. Before her death, she claimed to be the daughter of a concubine of the Prince of Fenyang, and also a cousin of the Imperial Princess of Yanling and Chang Wang, speaking with a fierce and stern voice that all the commoners beneath the city wall could clearly hear. The Prince of Fenyang, Nie Jingwen, had joined Chu Fengyi in rebellion years ago, and upon failing, his entire clan had been exterminated. This woman had relied on her striking facial resemblance to impersonate the princess, sneaking into the palace to bide her time for revenge.
The common people were in an uproar. Rumors circulated claiming that the Imperial Princess of Yanling was indeed the genuine article, and in order to assist Chang Wang in usurping the throne, she had personally gone to assassinate Emperor Xu, only to fail. To ensure Chang Wang's protection, she had unhesitatingly disguised herself as a concubine's daughter of the Prince of Fenyang and leaped from the city wall to her death. Most people treated this rumor as a joke; Chang Wang's frivolous and short-sighted nature was well-known even among the common folk.
A few days later, the first little cold plum of early winter bloomed in the inner garden, and Chang Wang took the lead in clamoring for night lanterns, flower appreciation, and warmed wine. Tilan was also present that night, and she noticed he drank very eagerly. Through his hazy, drunken eyes, the deepest part of his gaze still concealed a trace of clear, chilling frost.
On the eleventh day of the fourth month of the following year, Pacification Envoy Su Ming went on a diplomatic mission to Shangzhou. By mid-June, a report finally returned: the diplomatic mission had encountered a sandstorm before leaving the borders, losing all trace in the desert between Juzi and Dumulan.
When the news of Su Ming's disappearance arrived, Emperor Xu stayed over at Yu'an Palace that very night. In that trance-like moment between wakefulness and sleep, he gripped Tilan's waist, murmured the name "Zixan," and fell soundly asleep.
Tilan gently propped herself up over him, pushed aside the silk-paper lampshade, and prepared to blow out the candle. In that instant, under the warm red candlelight, she vaguely caught sight of a moist gleam upon Emperor Xu's eyelashes.
From the twenty-seventh year of Lintai to the present, a mere twelve years, and the turbulent legend of Chu Zhongxu and the Six Winged Generals had come to an end, the song ending and the guests scattering. That era of riding horses like the wind was compiled by later generations into popular romances, sung for years in the marketplaces and wine shops. The very final act—where string music fell silent and the pageantry faded completely away—was clearly inscribed with a title on the romance scripts: Severing One's Own Six Wings.
Tilan always thought the days within the palace were long and drawn-out, yet as the four seasons turned, so many days flowed in and out like a river, leaving behind no trace.
She very rarely encountered Director Fang Zhu of the Fengting. Although an inner court official, he lived a secluded life, never going anywhere outside of Jincheng Palace where Emperor Xu resided. And understandably so; his original identity had already died in the historical records, his posthumous title conferred and his spirit tablet enshrined in the ancestral hall, while he had merely changed his garments and quietly lived out the remainder of his life in the shadows. Looking upon that familiar, calm face with the ambiguous knife scar beside the corner of his lips, she would always wonder what kind of state of mind this man had possessed to abandon his status as a nobleman and enter the palace to serve.
The commanders of the four major camps—Huangquan, Chengcheng, Moge, and the Capital Region—along with the Imperial Guards appointed by Emperor Xu at the beginning of his reign were all gone. In the summer of the fourth year of Tianxiang, those deputy commanders who had temporarily shouldered the duties were summoned to the capital to report on their duties, and were promoted to main commanders. The garrison rotation of the three camps, which ought to have taken place the following year, was also brought forward. Tang Qianzi, commander of Huangquan Pass, was twenty-seven years old, making him the youngest among these generals.
Life within Yu'an Palace proceeded without a ripple, with coming and going revolving around those familiar faces, and matters of concern extending no further than seasonal new garments and the shading of one's eyebrows. Tang Qianzi sometimes came to the capital twice a year, and at other times did not visit for several years. Tilan had been quite young when she entered the palace, gradually growing into a stunningly bright and dazzling woman, and though her proficiency in the Eastern Land language was fluent, she remained perpetually silent in her daily life. She kept a Santu falcon from the Western Land; it was quite old and could no longer carry messages. A female official once happened to catch her stroking the falcon's faded feathers, the usual cold and untamed expression entirely vanished, replaced by a dazed and gentle melancholy.
On the day of Emperor Xu's very first glance at Noble Consort Shurong, Tilan, his shock had been profound. Less than half a month after her conferral as consort, he had brought her along when reviewing troops outside the city during an imperial inspection—a privilege that rightfully belonged to an empress. Everyone said that from then on, Noble Consort Shurong's exclusive favor was guaranteed, and her elevation to empress was only a matter of time. Yet no one could have anticipated that during the Vermilion Bird Gate reviews of the ninth and fourteenth years of Tianxiang, Emperor Xu would never again personally attend, and Noble Consort Shurong would forever remain simply Noble Consort Shurong.
Beginning in the thirteenth year of Tianxiang, the imperial treasury and storehouses of the Zheng Dynasty experienced shortages, exhausting silver coins to purchase gold in exchange. Market gold prices skyrocketed month after month, drawing profit-seeking Western Land gold merchants in droves, bringing massive quantities of gold to flow into the Eastern Land. Seventy to eighty percent of the world's gold originated from Zhongzhou, whereas the Thunder and Cloud provinces possessed no mineral veins. By the summer of the fourteenth year of Tianxiang, even gold ingots had nowhere left to pile up within the Zheng imperial treasury, while the gold coins circulating in the markets of the various Western Land nations were nearly entirely depleted.
The director of the Treasury Bureau submitted a memorial requesting the expansion of the storehouses. Emperor Xu glanced over it briefly and added a vermillion imperial brushstroke: all taxes exempted for the next ten years, and ordered that half of the imperial treasury's wealth be withdrawn to fund the construction of dikes and charity granaries across various regions. The director of the Treasury Bureau fainted right there in the imperial court. Emperor Xu laughed, saying, "So petty. With money coming in but never going out, mere misers." Whenever historical texts mentioned Emperor Xu's madness and unreasonableness in his later years, this episode was invariably included.
Seizing the opportunity, the various Western Land nations bought back gold in massive quantities. Who could have foreseen that merely within the latter half of July, the gold flowing out of the Zheng imperial treasury alone accounted for one-third of all gold circulating in the Eastern Land. The price of gold quickly plummeted below the parity rate of earlier years—fifty liang of silver for one liang of gold—and continued to crash headlong. The gold that the Western Land nations had just bought back into their treasuries abruptly plummeted in value, instantly wiping out a good half of their financial capital. Public sentiment grew turbulent, and the gold merchants stranded in the Eastern and Han realms were unable to repay their debts, leading to numerous suicides.
Following the winter hunt in the thirteenth year of Tianxiang, Emperor Xu newly conferred a title upon a Consort Chun of the Fang clan, styled "Lady Hozhu." Female officials whispered among themselves that she was the adopted daughter of Director Fang Zhu of the Fengting, of a military background, having been raised as a boy and frequently attending the emperor in male attire. Tilan had met Consort Chun on several occasions; she possessed an arresting martial vigor amidst her delicate beauty—a rare and exceptional stateswoman.
Before the beginning of spring in the following year, envoys from the various Western Land nations converged on Han and Zhou to collect the remains of the bankrupt and suicidal Western Land gold merchants, comfort their surviving families, and subsequently be escorted by Huangquan Pass troops to the imperial capital.
On the fourteenth day of the first lunar month of that year, the Spring-Welcoming Night Banquet featured an array of exotic delicacies alongside a gathering of musicians and dancers. Envoys from the seven nations of Nilawala, Nandi, Zhunian, Xifu, Yangita, Tuhulu, and Jiaman were all in attendance, packing the main hall of the Junlei Palace. The leader of the diplomatic mission was Crown Prince Solan of Zhunian. Tilan was granted exceptional seating. Separated as brother and sister for fifteen years, Solan was now a twenty-four-year-old young man.
On the fourteenth day of the first lunar month in the fifteenth year, the local regions presented a merman. Emperor Xu displayed it to the foreign envoys, and all the foreigners expressed boundless admiration. Thus, the Alliance of the Beginning of Spring was concluded, pledging everlasting friendship between generations and prohibiting the outbreak of the flames of war.
—The Records of Wei: Imperial Annals: Emperor Xu Solan paced back and forth anxiously, as if trapped in a prison.
Inside this small chamber of the Yu'an Palace, all the furnishings were designed in the Zhunian style, comfortable and leisurely. Tilan dismissed the palace attendants on duty and brought in a plate of golden thread sugar-coated walnuts herself.
Solan suddenly spun back around and said, "Royal Sister, you should not have married him. Had I known you were going to marry such a mad emperor, I would never have let you come!" Tilan smiled faintly and said, "And what if you hadn't let me? When I came to the Eastern Land, you were only nine years old." With that, she handed the sugar walnuts into Solan's hands, saying, "Here, your favorite." Solan laughed despite his anger, gently pushing the plate aside as he said, "Royal Sister, I am no longer a child." She raised her eyelashes to look at Solan. "Ah, that's right, you've grown this tall." Her expression was soaring and gentle, resembling nothing so much as the little blind princess of years past. Solan was suddenly overcome with a pang of emotion, reached out to take the plate and set it aside, and grabbed her slender hands, saying with clumsy, childlike earnestness, "Royal Sister, back then you were the one who carried me as we fled for our lives; now it's my turn to rescue you and take you out." Tilan was startled.
Solan poured out a breathless stream of words: "If this mad emperor lives a few more years, all the Western Land nations will be hollowed out. Our coming to the Eastern Land this time is because we've already made plans: to meet with Chu Jichang. Earlier, we sent people to hold a secret meeting with him, and he has already agreed that after ascending the throne, the Zheng Dynasty treasury will buy back the gold. Chu Jichang has also harbored ambitions for a long time; troop deployment arrangements are already in place. The deputy commander of the Capital Region Camp is his man, so when the time comes, they will dismiss the main commander and use the Capital Region Camp to suppress the Imperial Guards, which will secure seventy percent of Tianqi right off the bat. Originally, he had also negotiated with the Left Bodun King of the northern barbarians, asking them to stage a feigned attack on Huangquan Pass come spring to tie down all the military forces of Hanzhou, but that Left Bodun King was assassinated last month, so that plan fell through. Once the uprising begins, he will give the order for the Huangquan Camp to split its forces and march south under the banner of coming to the rescue of the sovereign. Once they reach the capital region, they can suppress the Chengcheng and Moge camps." Tilan listened quietly up to this point, shaking her head to interrupt him. "The troops of Huangquan Pass will not come. If there is ever a real danger of northern barbarian cavalry invading the pass to harass the common people, Zhenchu will never leave Huangquan Pass by even half a step." Solan chuckled dismissively. "Tang Qianzi is not a man of tender heart; let alone the fact that he won't disobey Chu Jichang's orders—as long as Royal Sister you are still in Tianqi, he will certainly come." Tilan's raven-wing-dark hair was bathed in the candlelight, looking as quiet as black-sandalwood-carved waves draped across her back. After a long silence, she finally spoke: "If he were the kind of man who could let go so easily, I wouldn't have had to endure these fifteen years of torment." Solan sighed. "Royal Sister, you don't need to worry about these things. When the time truly comes, I will certainly have Chu Jichang send men to escort you to safety, without fail." "When?" "On the first day of the second month, when Chu Jichang sends the Dragon-Tail Deity back to the vast sea—as Royal Sister heard at the banquet just now. There is rebellion in the capital, and to avoid the brunt of it, heading out to sea is the best course." Tilan smiled faintly. Jichang was always so meticulous; having achieved the reality of usurping the throne, he was unwilling to bear the name for it. He loved everything open, grand, and majestic, unwilling to tolerate the slightest blemish, or at least making it appear so on the surface. She recalled fifteen years ago when the fleet sailed into Quanming Port, how he had overlooked the writhing heads below the gunwales, his eyes clear, sharp, and cold. If not for Emperor Xu, Chu Jichang might well have made a fine emperor. Years ago, in her father's bedchamber, that punch he had failed to hurl was now reaccumulating its strength, ready to smash the shackles constraining his burning ambitions into fine powder.
He must still remember that nightmare from when she was eight years old—that he would one day die out at sea. Yet Tilan also knew that given Jichang's temperament, he would never let go of this single window of opportunity; rather than losing everything, he would rather make a desperate gamble. To seize what he had craved since childhood, even if he knew beforehand what a desolate and ruined end awaited him, he would still walk this path to the bitter end.
Solan continued, "The envoys from Zhunian, Nilawala, and Tuhulu are all going with him—first, to avoid suspicion; second, to guard against him turning back on his word and showing no mercy." A sudden weight pressed down upon Tilan's heart, and she said, "You cannot go." "I must go. I am the crown prince, yet not the eldest legitimate son; countless people are lurking on the sidelines, waiting. The moment Uncle Yingjia passes away, they will leap out to seize this throne... if even the people closest to me think of me as a cowardly weakling, who would ever be willing to follow me?" Solan furrowed his thick, handsome brows as he spoke.
A wave of bone-chilling cold swept over Tilan, her vision darkening, yet she still forced her voice down and rebuked him: "Can you not even listen to my words? Chu Jichang is fated to die at sea; who knows which voyage will see his ship capsize and men perish—could it be that you want to risk your life alongside him? Had I known this, I shouldn't have saved you back then!" Her slender hands gripped Solan desperately, her fingernails sinking straight into his flesh.
Solan pushed her away gently yet firmly, saying, "Royal Sister, my courage has never been inferior to Chu Jichang's. Wait for us to return safely here in Tianqi, and you needn't worry about anything else." He strode out of the small chamber, went downstairs, and left by himself.
Tilan stood there numbly, a bone-chilling cold washing over her. It wasn't that she hadn't considered it—even using the threat of self-annihilation, as long as she could keep Solan behind, any method would be worthwhile. But in that exact moment, she had seen the expression in Solan's eyes: within his body burned a fierce, flourishing flame that illuminated his entire person, yet deep within his heart lay unmelting glacial ice. Young men like this all possessed the captivating, intimidating pupils of beasts—sometimes dim, sometimes reined in, now sharp and cold, now wild and frantic, but never bearing submissiveness or retreat. What burned was ambition, and what was as cold as iron-hard frost was an indomitable will.
She looked precisely like Jichang.
Tilan slowly sank to the floor, her tears finally flowing down in silence. She knew she had lost this younger brother.
To escort the Dragon-Tail Deity back to the vast sea, Chang Wang and the delegations from the three nations departed eastward from Tianqi on the first day of the second month, accompanied by Consort Chun of the Fang clan leading sixty female attendants and an elite guard of eight thousand imperial troops.
At dawn seven days later, Tilan in her sleep vaguely felt the scorching, blistering summer wind of the desert blowing across her face in waves, or perhaps the sun beating down with burning intensity. She woke with a start, realizing it was not sunlight, but fire. She got up, ran barefoot to the window, and saw that the perimeter of Yu'an Palace had already been secured by hundreds of Imperial Guards. In the direction of the Kaiping Gate came the blood-chilling roars of iron-and-stone machinery and the cracking of collapsing brick pillars, as tens of thousands of Capital Region Camp soldiers surged forward with over a dozen iron-beaked siege chariots, shouting and making a clamor.
The door of the small chamber was suddenly pushed open. She started violently, clutching her chest with one hand as she turned to look. The intruder was a tall, sturdily built soldier with a bearded face, wearing a myriad-knight waist belt and fully equipped in light armor. Curiously, his uniform and armor were indigo-blue, matching the garrison colors of Huangquan Pass. She vaguely felt she had seen him somewhere before; on second thought, she remembered he was the Huangquan Pass captain who had led the troops escorting Solan south across the water from Hanzhou, having also been seated at the very end of the outer hall during the Spring-Welcoming Night Banquet. The soldier gave a slight bow at the threshold and said, "I am Deputy General Zhang Chengqian. Please rest assured, Your Ladyship; the rebels outside are utterly incapable of breaching this place." His speech was brief, the habit of a lifelong soldier, and upon finishing, he hurried away.
Tilan's heart turned cold. This man was not part of the core Capital Region Camp officers sent by Jichang to protect her, but belonged to the same faction as the Imperial Guards defending the inner city.
War drums sounded like ten thousand galloping horses, rolling across the earth. The outer halls of Qianxuan, Kunrong, Jiujing, Dinghe, Wucheng, Wude, Xiangyun, Junlei, and Zichen had all fallen; the Ningtai Gate was breached, and the rebel army poured into the inner palace. In the direction of the Rize Palace, crimson banners whipped in the wind, and the human tide swept toward Jincheng Palace like leaden storm-clouds rolling in thunder and lightning.
People's battle cries merged into a tide crashing straight up against the firmament, while the crisp, metallic clashing of swords and sabers rang out incessantly. Wave after wave of human voices retreated, only to surge forward even more fiercely, shattering against the red walls of the Yu'an Palace. Volleys of stray arrows pierced through the window lattices; some lacked arrowheads and were wrapped in oiled cotton, igniting indiscriminately the moment they hit the ground. At the most critical moment, the Capital Region Camp rebels had already broken into the eastern side-hall of the Yu'an Palace, meaning that Jichang's men were mere footsteps away from her. Yet the Imperial Guards kept sending reinforcements, quickly rushing up to fill the breached gap, escorting her back into the small chamber while blocking the rebels outside.
This was the first hand-to-hand combat within the inner city during the Tianxiang era, and also the last. Blood flowed like a spring from the stone platform, cascading downward while corpses clogged the imperial drainage ditches, presenting a scene no less gruesome than the time when Prince Yi's rebellion breached the city and slaughtered the imperial clan years before. Following two full days of slaughter, the rebel forces lost over ten thousand men within the inner city alone. Layers upon layers of blood accumulated upon the pale-blue glazed stone floor, refusing to dry. Military boots trod through the gaps among the corpses, the footing reduced to a red-black, slippery mud where every step was treacherous.
Trapped in her besieged fortress, Tilan grew restless at every thought of Solan, constantly inquiring about the situation outside from the Imperial Guards guarding Yu'an Palace. Those soldiers maintained a respectful attitude throughout, yet invariably evaded answering about the current state of affairs, claiming they were only following orders, and stubbornly refused to allow her to step a single foot outside the palace gates. Nearly a thousand corpses lay uncollected beneath the walls of Yu'an Palace, the foul-smelling night wind carrying the groans of dying soldiers, while pools of yellowish-green sewage stagnated atop the bloody mud—an unspeakably wretched stench.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, the bearded general named Zhang Chengqian arrived, merely asking her to relocate to another residence while refusing to answer any other questions. No matter how she pressed him, he remained tight-lipped. With a wave of his hand, several female officials crowded forward, half-leading, half-dragging her away.
Tilan struggled to turn her head back, fixing her gaze directly upon him as she said word by word, "General Zhang, tell me the truth." This Zhunian woman's dark, oily hair was completely disheveled, spilling across her face, yet it could not obscure the frantic and burning look in her eyes, which was enough to send a chill through anyone's heart. "Did that ship... capsize?" Zhang Chengqian had received the urgent report barely half an hour prior and, caught off guard by Tilan's blunt question, could not suppress the anguish on his face. He simply gave up and confirmed it, saying, "At present, the only survivor is Consort Chun." Contrary to his expectations, Tilan trembled all over, yet did not weep. She merely stared at him blankly, as if nodding, pale and frail like a paper-cut doll, her large, lifeless eyes resembling two dregs of light ink on white paper, dissolving into a hazy blur. She allowed herself to be docilely led out by the female officials.
On the eleventh day of the second month, she was temporarily relocated to live in the side hall of the Fenghwu Palace. When the rebellion broke out, Consort Chun of the Fang clan had been far away at sea; the Fenghwu Palace was left vacant, and its servants and inner court staff had mostly fled, leaving it plundered yet relatively clean. Zhang Chengqian assigned a hundred and fifty men to stand watch in day and night rotations, ostensibly for protection, though it was effectively house arrest.
The palace attendants who came to serve her reported that Emperor Xu had passed away on the seventh day. Struck by a blade straight through his heart in his final moments, he had still cut down dozens of rebel soldiers before dying of sheer exhaustion. Director Fang Zhu of the Fengting had attended upon him and had also perished. Tilan was not particularly surprised; everything had simply come too fast, leaving her still in a daze. She had worn shackles for half her life; no sooner was one layer cast off than another was fastened upon her, leaving her with no day of freedom. Now that the prison which had confined her for fifteen years had truly collapsed, looking around at the vast emptiness, she had nowhere left to go.
She remembered that in her childhood, whenever midsummer arrived, Uncle Yingjia would always send people to deliver ice bowls to her. They were large blocks of ice, shaved into thin, translucent vessels resembling glazed crystal, filled to the brim with crushed ice resembling snow powder, garnished with assorted exotic fruits and fragrant honey—an extreme rarity in the perpetually scorching Western Land. She loved those cool, slippery ice bowls, always holding onto them tightly and refusing to let go, yet the tighter she gripped them, the faster they melted. Within a mere moment, everything melted completely into trickling snow water that leaked away between her fingers, leaving behind a piercing, bone-chilling pain.
Her half-life had been nothing more than such an ice bowl. Parents, brothers, close friends, lovers—everyone she wished to retain had drifted far away from her for one reason or another. With every step she took forward, infinite forks stretched out before her feet, each heading in its own direction, until in the end, every single person walked on entirely alone.
Tilan lived in the Fenghwu Palace until July, when a sudden commotion broke out within the inner city. Following Consort Chun of the Fang clan's survival from the shipwreck, the accompanying imperial physicians diagnosed her as being nearly two months pregnant. She was forced to temporarily stay in Yuezhou to nurse her pregnancy, but as soon as her health showed slight signs of improvement, she insisted on returning to Tianqi, and by this time the imperial carriage was nearing the capital region.
For five whole months, from February onward, the garrison troops of Huangquan Pass had remained completely stationary, failing to dispatch a single man or horse into the capital. Tang Qianzi was not a man of benevolent heart, yet he would never leave the vital northern pass wide open, inviting thieves in with open arms. Ever since the outbreak of the mutiny, communications within the palace had been strictly cut off, and rumor had it throughout Tianqi City that Noble Consort Shurong Tilan had vanished amidst the chaotic forces. Even if he had dispatched men, they could not have found her whereabouts.
Tilan looked down upon the battle-scarred imperial capital as the late spring breeze lifted her seductive, flowing hair. She had known all along that he was such a man.
Outside, palace attendants announced that General Zhang Chengqian had arrived. Deputy General Fu Yi of the Capital Region Camp had rebelled and committed regicide, only to be slain by Emperor Xu's own hand; main commander He Yao had been imprisoned by Fu Yi and was already on the verge of death when rescued. Over the past few months, Zhang Chengqian had evidently established himself as the premier military authority holding power in the imperial capital. Having not visited to check on her for so long, Tilan knew his purpose was likely ominous, but since she was at the mercy of others, she might as well face it with equanimity. She had nothing left anyway, and therefore had no need to harbor any fear.
Zhang Chengqian did not stand on ceremony with her either, offering a slight, casual salute before saying, "Please immediately pack your simple belongings, Your Ladyship. I will escort you on the road." Tilan assumed he was here to take her life; but if that were the case, she certainly wouldn't need to pack any belongings, leaving her somewhat puzzled. "Where to?" "North," Zhang Chengqian smiled, straightforward and brisk.
Zhang Chengqian walked ahead, and she followed him hurriedly out of the side hall, winding around to the outer courtyard of the palace gate where two to three hundred soldiers were waiting. Having been shut away in seclusion for months, Tilan was momentarily dazzled as the daylight poured over her face, forcing her to hurriedly adjust her pine-green velvet cloak. The soldiers clustered around her, escorting her south along the wide paved stone pathway toward the Jifeng Pavilion. Just as they were about to turn toward the Cuihua Gate, a carriage and imperial procession approached from the south. Drawing closer, the leading canopy could be identified as belonging to an imperial consort's rank. The soldiers instantly came to a halt, and at a single command, fell back to the sides of the walkway, dropping to one knee—leaving Tilan alone standing upright in the middle of the path.
That resplendent and magnificent eighteen-bearer gilded-corner large imperial carriage slowly passed before her, suddenly coming to a halt. A corner of the crimson-purple brocade curtain was lifted. The young woman inside the carriage was extremely young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old; though heavily made up and composed, her weary expression still revealed traces of the soaring, indomitable spirit she had once possessed. She gazed at Tilan, offered a faint smile, then dropped the brocade curtain, and the carriage moved forward once more.
That was Consort Chun of the Fang clan, adopted daughter of Director Fang Zhu of the Fengting, styled Lady Hozhu. By that time, she was already six months pregnant, and the child in her womb was born that October, named Chu Weiyun. Chu Weiyun ascended the throne that very November, taking the temple name Emperor Yun and changing the era name to Jingheng. Consort Chun of the Fang clan was elevated to Empress Dowager, serving as regent for twenty-two years. Zhang Chengqian won deep trust and favor; by the time Emperor Yun came of age and assumed personal rule, Zhang Chengqian had already risen to the position of Minister of War.
The winter at Huangquan Pass arrived particularly early that year, bringing snow as early as October.
Evening was already falling, and the distant mountains of the world were plunged into chaos, save for the heavy snowflakes falling endlessly, pelting sharply against people's faces. A cavalry troop of two or three hundred men pushed forward laborously through the wind and snow toward the north, appearing as nothing more than a crawling black thread across the blindingly vast snowfields.
Two hours earlier, scattered campfires could faintly be made out in the distance, though they remained stubbornly out of reach. Only when night had entirely fallen did they finally spot the sentries stationed before the camp. The leader of the cavalry checked his horse, lifted his snow-hood to reveal a rugged, bearded face, and demanded, "Where is the commander? We have a visitor." The sentry recognized him as Deputy General Zhang Chengqian from the pass, and hurriedly stood at attention to salute, while casting stealthy glances at the person mounted on the other horse. Even wrapped beneath a heavy snow-hood, one could tell the visitor was short in stature and bore no resemblance whatsoever to a military person.
Inside the quarters, the lamplight was soft and warm. Scrolls were scattered across a table, and had it not been for the armor and sabers hanging from a rack in the corner, it hardly looked like the dwelling of a frontier garrison commander. For how many years had this man remained so thin, slumped over the desk with his draped fur cloak slipping from his shoulders to expose the stark, sharp lines of his back and shoulders?
The figure wrapped in the snow-hood quietly closed the door behind them, hesitating before stepping forward in absolute silence. The man before the desk was fast asleep, his expression serene. The yellowish lamplight smoothed away the sharp marks of weather and frost on his face, revealing the gentle and refined appearance of his youth. Beside his hand rested a blue-and-white porcelain wine bowl. The wine within was as clear as water, rippling with a strange silver glow, while its sweet, potent aroma drifted gently toward one's nostrils. The snow-hooded figure reached out, took the wine bowl, and examined it closely. Sunk at the bottom was something shriveled, which, having been steeped, had unfurled halfway—bright and pale cyan, as though tailored from fine gauze.
That was xieluo, a strange flower whose petals, when dried and brewed into wine, could grant a single dream per blossom. What could not be obtained still could not be obtained, and what could not be kept could not be retained. This flower granted people a brief span of three hours, allowing them to relive within dreams those flashes of happiness and those faces too difficult to see ever again in this lifetime. Yet so many people were willing to pay an exorbitant price for it. This addictive, poison-like flower, paired with strong wine, day and night filled the bottomless voids within countless people's chests.
The man slept profoundly, his breathing even and regular.
Tilan stripped off her snow-hood and drained the remaining wine in the bowl in a single draught. That clear, cool liquor slid down, burning her throat like a blade as a rush of heat surged from her chest into all four of her limbs. Her icy hands gradually grew warm, and the exhaustion of her long journey flooded over her all at once in an instant.
She quietly seated herself on the floor, resting her head against his knees, closed her eyes, and sank into a profound sleep.
She dreamed of that bright, clear late spring weather from years ago, the sunlight baking everyone's bones until they felt blissfully warm. She was fourteen years old, floating on the Papar River aboard a giant wooden tub piled high with pure white water lilies. In the dream, someone held her hand—warm and firm, as though unwilling to let go for all eternity.
Even though outside the window at this very moment, the boundless wilderness was blanketed in evening snow, and the frontier passes stood as cold as iron.