As Rong Huo spoke, tears welled up in his eyes, and his frail body trembled as he recalled the hellish scenes he had witnessed in recent days. It was a profound sadness that cut to the bone! It was no wonder that everyone sought fame and fortune, while the common folk—those living their humble lives—died without ever knowing why. They hadn’t wronged anyone, had they?
Qing Yun, however, showed no sign of being moved by Rong Huo’s words. He merely raised his wine cup to his lips, sniffed it, and after a long pause, spoke slowly, “You call yourself a half-sage, Mr. Rong, but do you know what the true way of Heaven is?”
Rong Huo replied, “The vast earth can never be unified. The land for life is limited. Those at the top take the fertile lands, and those at the bottom retreat to the desolate ones. It cannot be equally divided, and no matter how much war is fought, it will never be won. Thus, the way of Heaven is to avoid war.”
At these words, Qing Yun burst into laughter, so loud that it drew the attention of the tavern’s patrons.
“Ah, Mr. Rong! As you said, Yunpei has controlled the southern desert for three hundred years, occupying the most fertile oases, supporting 17 million of its own people, and providing for over 10 million in neighboring nations. And to secure these resources, it frequently demands tribute and marriage alliances from other slave nations, using military support as leverage. Do you call that the way of Heaven? Like a parasitic leech, draining the desert’s best resources to sustain itself—that’s the way of Heaven?”
“At least it allows over thirty million people to live in peace!” Rong Huo retorted.
Qing Yun smiled. “And what about the other sixty million? What about the people of the northern desert? Are they destined to live in poverty, to be slaughtered at will? Mr. Rong, what you’re describing isn’t the way of Heaven. Heaven’s way is cold and indifferent; it doesn’t care who lives or dies. In this life, the only thing one can do is fight for survival. The wheel of fortune turns for all, and now, it’s Tiandu’s turn to rise to dominance!”
With that, he raised his head and took another swig, as if drinking in his boundless ambition.
Rong Huo was speechless, remembering how his elder brother, Rong Ruo, had once told him that the way of Heaven was indeed heartless, indifferent to the turning of the mortal world and the vicissitudes of life. A sage often understood this, knowing that every historical change was made by human decisions—war could happen, or peace could prevail; the victor wasn’t always just, and the loser wasn’t always evil. That’s why Rong Ruo had torn up the single word of “heavenly secret” that Na Qida had written on the final page of the Great Desert Collection.
He believed it wasn’t a heavenly secret, because the way of Heaven was fair.
Tap tap!
Qing Yun knocked on the black wine jar on the table, the sound crisp and clear.
“It’s finished!” he said. “Mr. Rong, let’s go!”
Leaving a gold ingot on the table, Qing Yun stood up, and the sight of such wealth nearly made the waiter faint with delight. Together, Qing Yun and Rong Huo left the tavern.
Qing Yun patted the horse standing at the entrance, leapt onto its back, and looked down at Rong Huo with that same cold, mocking smile. “Mr. Rong, it seems you’ll have to walk for a while.”
Rong Huo looked up at Qing Yun’s proud figure. He sighed, straightened his weary back, and began to follow behind the white horse, step by halting step. He patted his sore back, probably feeling the strain from his earlier speech on the platform. After a while, he looked at Qing Yun’s back and said, “Young master, even if you capture me, it won’t do you any good. I’ll never tell you what you want to know—not even if I die.”
But Qing Yun didn’t turn around. He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, as if he had already forgotten Rong Huo’s existence, utterly alone in his thoughts.
In the slanting sunset, the two figures—so different from each other—walked on. In the distance, the setting sun blazed like blood, with clouds swirling in strange patterns, as if welcoming a new era. It was grand, yet full of sorrow...
“If one speaks of the bitterness of parting, it’s worse than never having met. If one speaks of the agony of this world, it’s worse than never being born. The cries of war reach the heavens, but the sky does not respond. The fields are drenched in blood, but the earth does not care. Who knows where they came from, those who owe a life-debt. The bitter scent of tea, fragrant yet bitter— Was it unjust, or was it just? We live countless lives, crossing endless worlds. Was it unjust, or was it just? The burdens of one generation are borne by the next, The debts of past lives must be repaid in this one. Was it unjust, or was it just?”
The desert landscape is always an unpredictable enigma, especially when the winds are calm and the sun is not too fierce. The layers of cloud and the red sand dunes intertwine at the horizon, while the oddly shaped desert plants cast eerie shadows on the yellow soil, like a horde of kneeling demons awaiting the arrival of a divine being. At this moment, the gentle seasonal wind was unusually tender, as if it had grown weary of wandering in solitude and sought to wrap itself in the softest layer of sand, dancing with it in the air, sparkling in the red sunlight, a sight that grew increasingly poignant the more one looked at it.
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