Under the stаrry night, the еvеning skу wаs ехceрtionally clear, а dеeр azurе illuminаtеd bу torсhlight tо nеаr trаnspаrency. Strаngе, he hаd never seеn such a skу beforе—аs if thе sеа hаd bеen ovеrturnеd abоvе thеir heаds, reаdу to pоur dоwn at аny moment. Lаn Zhou gazed uр аt thе stars, thе evening wind whipрing his сlоak bеhind him with а fiеrсе rustlе. "We аttаck Dаbaо Terrаcе in thrее hours. Раss thе оrder: preрare meals at thе third watch, mount uр at the fоurth watсh, аnd reаdy for battle."
The deputy commander acknowledged the command with a cupped-hand salute and withdrew. Lan Zhou shifted his gaze northward, where the encampment's tents stretched for miles. Under the moonlight, scattered campfires followed the contours of the valley, coiling like a dragon poised to strike. For generations, the descendants of the Yuwen Clan had carried the legacy of their ancestors, biding their time for over two centuries before rising in rebellion. From childhood, he had been steeped in this purpose. When he first began his education, he learned to recognize the map of Great Ye before he could even recite the Three Character Classic. He knew every Feudal Territory, how many prefectures and counties each contained, even the population of each county. This sense of mission had been instilled in him relentlessly, transforming from initial indifference into something inseparable from his very life. The men of the Yuwen Clan were born for war.
Along this campaign, they had fought battle after battle, cutting through enemy lines. There had been moments of desperate resistance. Though their casualties were few, they were not entirely avoidable. In the battle of Wozhou, his sixth uncle had his arm severed, yet as long as blood still flowed, he fought to the death. From Wuyi to Liangxiang, the front line was not long, but the Ye Army received continuous reinforcements, making the engagements somewhat challenging. A dynasty that had lasted two hundred and sixty years was like a centipede—even in death, it did not stiffen easily. His Ama was a man who strove for perfection. Even while besieging the capital, he did not abandon the suppression of rebellions in the northern Nuergan. If all three hundred thousand troops were recalled, breaching the nine gates would be a matter of moments.
He had once discussed with his Ama the idea of redeploying some forces. Even if the Kuyi people crossed the Sanwei Pass, once they captured the Capital, they could turn their forces anew and drive those Northern Barbarians back beyond the Tuomu River Guard.
But his Ama refused. "What is the purpose of claiming kingship? It is to pacify the realm and rescue the people from suffering. Those savages burn, kill, and plunder, committing every atrocity. They are as detestable as the Japanese pirates. We must never allow them to set foot in the Central Plains."
This was likely the ambition of a true commander—rejecting compromise, holding fast to his ideals.
Dachun delivered the battle report from the Daxing front. Lan Zhou read it by the firelight: five thousand casualties, eight hundred warhorses lost. The results were still considered favorable.
"Have Jishan's troops rest where they are. We'll decide after tomorrow's attack on Dabao Terrace. If all goes well, by the second day of the fifth month, our forces will converge, and we will strike directly at the nine gates."
Dachun acknowledged with a respectful "zhe," then glanced toward the large leather tent. "How is the Prince faring now?"
Lan Zhou grunted softly. "His chest has been aching for over half a month, on and off. Nothing seems amiss otherwise—likely just exhaustion. The physicians with the army have limited skill. Once things settle, we must find someone to properly tend to him. Fighting on the battlefield while ill is never safe..."
Before he could finish, he spotted a fast horse galloping toward them from afar, kicking up a trail of dust. The rider carried a small flag on his back, starkly visible in the night.
Lan Zhou rolled up the cloth report, murmuring, "Who is that?"
The rider finally reached them. The Qi People were exceptional horsemen, but the horse could not be reined in time and overshot. The rider flipped down from the saddle, sweeping his sleeve as he performed a Kowtow.
Lan Zhou examined him—he was dressed in the uniform of the Southern Garden Imperial Guard. For some reason, his heart tightened abruptly. "In such a frantic rush... has something gone wrong in the rear?"The messenger replied, "In answer to Your Lordship, this servant was dispatched by Commander Ha to bring news to the Prince. It took me three days on the road. Three days ago, at the stroke of noon, Princess Chang passed away in the inner courtyard of the Eldest Princess Residence."
Lan Zhou's ears rang, and for a moment he couldn't quite grasp what he had heard. "You said... what?"
The messenger swallowed hard, pulling a letter from his chest and presenting it upward. "In answer to Your Lordship, Princess Chang passed away three days ago. This is Her Highness's final letter. Please take a look."
It was utterly devastating news. His eyes widened in shock, and he grabbed the messenger by the collar, shaking him violently. "Passed away? How could she pass away when she was perfectly fine? Are you mistaken? If you dare spread lies, I'll have your head!"
The messenger, shaken so hard his feet barely touched the ground, choked back tears. "Your Lordship, please accept my condolences. There is no mistake. Commander Ha personally went in to see. It is said Her Highness swallowed a gold seal..." Struggling, he held out the letter. "Please look. It was left by the Princess Royal."
He took the letter, his knees giving way as he collapsed to the ground. Through tear-blurred eyes, he saw the handwriting on the envelope and the letter inside—bold and sharp strokes, written in a style that was unmistakably hers. She had never liked the soft, delicate script favored by noblewomen; she excelled in cursive and "flying white" calligraphy, her characters as unrestrained and resolute as her personality.
Her final words were brief. She requested that her people be allowed to return to their homeland and not be troubled. Her decision to take her own life was her own choice, with no one else to blame. And one more thing: she did not wish to be buried alongside his Ama. In life or death, she wished never to see him again.
Clutching the paper, the seasoned warrior who had fought countless battles wept like a child.
Why? He had thought it all through. Once they achieved victory, he would honor her properly, never letting her suffer the slightest grievance. He knew she was a proud princess, and the shifting tides of fate would be hard for her to accept. But if he treated her with extra kindness, her gentle heart would gradually come to terms with it. Yet he had miscalculated. Her temperament was fiercer than he had imagined—she would rather die than live as a captive of a fallen nation. If he had known, he would have delayed the war for a few more years, at least sparing her from withering in the prime of her life. Swallowing gold to end her life—what a resolute act, leaving no chance for rescue. The thought of it gripped his heart like a vise. Such a beautiful soul, the object of all his longing and admiration, gone in an instant...
He knelt facing south, unable to rise. Dachun had no choice but to step forward and help him up. "Your Lordship, please accept my condolences. We must think of how to report this to the Prince."
If even he could hardly bear it, he dared not imagine how his Ama would react. It took him a long while to steady himself. Her letter said she did not wish to be buried with his Ama—it was too hurtful. It would be better not to let his Ama know.
"Go back and tell Ha Tu not to mention this letter to the Prince. All of you must keep it secret," he ordered. After tucking the letter into his chest, he took a deep breath and turned toward the main tent. But the closer he got, the more anxious he felt. He knew how deeply his Ama felt for her. If his own feelings were a grain of sand, his Ama's were a mountain, an ocean. Lovers shared an unspoken connection, which was why his Ama had long suffered from a dull pain in his chest, its cause unknown until now.
He paused before the heavy felt curtain, gathering his courage several times before reaching out to lift it. Inside the tent, it was quiet. The meeting had just ended, and the attendants were quietly clearing away the cups and dishes. His Ama rested on the tiger-skin throne, eyes closed, brow furrowed, his complexion pale and troubled.He called out softly to him, and his response was slow, taking a long while before he opened his eyes. "Is everything arranged properly?"
He answered yes, pausing before continuing, "Your son has received a message... to report to Ama."
Yet sorrow welled up within him, and he could no longer hold back. He choked back sobs, nearly losing control of himself.
Liangshi stared blankly at him. "What happened?"
He fell to his knees with a thud, mustering all his strength to utter the words: "Ama, E'nie... passed away three days ago."
Shock and change were unpredictable; one was already gone, and the other must not be allowed to suffer any mishap. He watched him closely, fearing he might lose control or harm himself, but nothing of the sort happened. He was so calm, showing no signs of distress aside from his face, pale as paper.
He forgot to cry and crawled forward on his knees. "Ama..."
The man on the throne stared vacantly ahead, as if speaking to himself. "Why?"
He wiped away his tears and stood up, not daring to tell him she had swallowed gold to end her life, only saying she had died from illness due to excessive sorrow.
Ama stood up, standing like a clay or wooden statue for a moment, then turned to take the whip from the wall, murmuring, "It was my fault. I shouldn't have left her alone... I must go see her, I must go see her..." Yet after taking two steps, he suddenly collapsed, blood gushing from his mouth and nose as if he were about to drain his entire body of blood. His bewildered eyes stared at the tent ceiling, regret and grief intertwined. Indeed, when sorrow reaches a certain depth, it becomes soundless.
Everyone rushed to help, and the generals outside the tent hurried in to check on him. At such a critical moment, the commander could not afford the slightest mistake.
The main tent had been stationed in this mountain hollow for five days, and the constant comings and goings had compacted the earth beneath. Yet when they moved him onto the sleeping platform, they discovered he had clutched two handfuls of soil in his hands, his fingertips dripping with blood, some of his nails even torn off.
Lan Zhou, fearing something might happen to him, urgently called out, "Ama, take care of yourself, look at your son, look at the army... Please cry, don’t hold it in and harm yourself."
He also wanted to cry, but no tears came. He opened his dry eyes, feeling as if his soul had drifted far away. Only now did he realize that his pursuit of power had been utterly wrong.
It was only now that he understood: her death was the best revenge against him. She had used such a cruel method, cutting his heart to pieces, slice by slice. He still remembered seeing her gentle profile before he left; she was breathing evenly then, alive. Yet in just a year, they were suddenly separated by life and death. He had a premonition that he would follow her to the Yellow Springs, murmuring dazedly, "She is gone, and I won’t live much longer either..."
Emotion is intangible, yet it is also the most tormenting. Imperial ambitions, eternal fame—in the end, they are all empty. He saw no glory, only despair. His sky had already collapsed, never to be propped up again. What use were the State and Altars? Without her, he was on the verge of losing even the instinct to breathe.
His chest was soaked in blood, and as he regained a slight sense of awareness, he struggled to stand up, stumbling out of the tent. They tried to stop him, but he waved them off weakly. "I am not a good commander..." He removed the Tiger Tally and commander’s seal, handing them to Lan Zhou. In his dazed state, he ran out of the main tent. Standing in the wilderness, he looked around, unable to distinguish directions, yet desperate to return. Like a trapped beast, he wandered aimlessly, letting out anguished cries.Who could help him, who could take him back? He knelt on the ground, forcing himself to stay calm, but he was powerless, trembling uncontrollably, feeling as if he might die right there.
It was still Cui Guixiang who carried him on his back. The honest eunuch gritted his teeth and said, "Master, you must hold on. Your Highness is waiting for you to return and send her off."
Cui Guixiang had been personally appointed by the old lady to serve him. The previous year, during the attack on Huailai, heavy snow blocked the mountains, cutting off his connection with the Guanrong army. It was he who knelt on the icy ground, crawling back and forth to deliver messages. As a Han eunuch, he had fulfilled his duty. Now that the Princess Royal, who had shown him kindness, had passed away, he was willing to become an ox or a horse, carrying him back to handle the funeral.
The night wind blew over, finally clearing his mind. He looked back at the generals behind him, knowing how much turmoil his sudden departure would cause. It wasn’t that he couldn’t leave, but he had to give an explanation.
He patted Cui Guixiang on the shoulder, stumbling to the ground, unsteady on his feet, still needing his support to stand.
"My beloved wife has passed away, and I am overwhelmed with grief. Yet the war rages on, and there is no time to delay. Tomorrow, proceed as planned to capture Dabao Terrace. All of you soldiers are brothers who have followed me through life and death. My household has suffered a great tragedy, and I am utterly exhausted, with no heart left for battle. For now, let General Yuwen Lan Zhou, the Left General, take command in my stead. I must return to the Southern Garden... to see my departed wife one last time. Once the funeral is over, I will rejoin the army. Lan Zhou is young, and I rely on all of you brothers to support him." His voice trembled as he spoke, clasping his hands in salute to the crowd. "Liangshi here thanks you all in advance."
Who could bear his bow? The generals knelt one after another to accept his orders. Without another word, he turned, mounted his horse, and galloped away, whipping the horse into a frenzy.
The jolting of the horse felt as if it would shatter his skull. He had traveled back and forth between north and south several times, day and night, and now, looking back, it had all been to see her. His girl, graceful and compassionate as a Buddha... She should have lived a carefree life, but because she fell into his hands, she ended up like this.
If he had known it would come to this, he should never have been so selfish, so determined to marry her. He would rather she had married an ordinary man, lived a simple and peaceful life, far better than dying so young. Countless misfortunes were his doing, and all he could do now was grip the reins tightly to keep from falling off the horse, forcing himself to return and see her one last time.
He had never been able to believe this was real. He felt as if he were trapped in a nightmare, and perhaps he would wake up and everything would be fine. But as days and nights passed, and he changed horses several times, he could not wake up. Only then did he realize he had truly reached a dead end, with nowhere to escape.
The wind blew so hard he could barely keep his eyes open. Fortunately, it didn’t rain, allowing him to ride straight back to Nanjing. Yet the miracle he had hoped for did not happen. He had once deluded himself into thinking that perhaps she was playing a joke on him, that she was still alive, just trying to scare him into retreating. But when he saw the white funeral banners fluttering before the Silver Peace Hall and the massive character for "mourning" on the altar, all his hopes turned to bubbles. Reality struck him like a heavy hammer to his forehead. He could not walk; he crawled into the Silver Peace Hall.
"Wanwan..." His voice was hoarse, almost unable to make a sound. The blood that had gathered in his chest surged upward again. She was dead, and his heart was shattered. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he could no longer hold back, leaning against the altar and vomiting.
The Imperial Concubine was horrified. "My child, how did you end up like this..."He pushed her away. "E'nie, I begged you to look after her before I left, and you promised me!"
The Imperial Concubine stammered, unable to speak.
He ignored her and approached the coffin. The luxurious golden nanmu wood was carved with layers of lotus flowers and countless immortals. Before he could return, they had already encoffined her. He caressed the heavy lid, then turned to see Tong Huan in mourning clothes and asked hoarsely, "Is Wanwan really inside?"
Tong Huan's face was ashen, showing him no kindness. He was the one who had caused her death—how dare he return for the funeral!
She said, "Today is the seventh day since Her Highness passed. If Your Highness is not superstitious, see for yourself."
He tried to push the coffin lid open but could not muster any strength; it would not budge.
Cui Guixiang kowtowed three times to the coffin before stepping forward to help him. Only then did he see her inside. Though seven days had passed, her face remained as it was in life.
Those brows and eyes, those lips and nose, that radiant profile, and that raven-black hair... She was dressed in full ceremonial robes, dignified and noble. On their wedding day, when he lifted her veil, she had looked exactly like this.
He smiled unconsciously. "Wanwan, it's time to wake up. It's unlucky to sleep in here!" He reached out, afraid she would scold him, and paused briefly before saying gently, "Let me touch you. You must be tricking me, I know..."
As he extended his fingertips, his wound reopened, and a drop of blood fell onto her face. Panicked, he quickly rolled up his sleeve to wipe it away, then reached out with his other hand to touch her—cold, without warmth. His sluggish mind finally understood: she was truly dead.
He looked up, and the world spun. Heaven, how could this be! The pain left him breathless, his legs unable to support him any longer. He collapsed, kneeling beside her coffin.
No one dared to help him up—any attempt to separate him from the Princess Royal would surely provoke violence. His cries echoed through the mourning hall, heart-wrenching enough to soften even the hardest of hearts. Everyone bowed their heads and wept with him. Outside, the sky darkened, a low rumble of thunder rolled by, and rain poured down in torrents.
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