In recent days, Hu Keh’s border city of Meka had been as noisy as Yunpei’s Guang Han Palace. After King Jing Tian detained the local ruler, Gu Cha, he began transporting Hu Keh’s resources back to Tian Du, slowly hollowing out the city, which had once been a great power with a history spanning 170 years.
Every day, Tian Du’s Southern Defense Army marched through the streets of Meka, armed and armored, their expressions stern. Their steady footsteps echoed through the coldest winds of winter. The army’s first command upon entering the city: do not harm unarmed civilians. Violators would be executed. Yet, to outsiders, this command felt hollow. After all, when you take away a poor person’s possessions, how can you expect them not to resist? The blood-stained shoes of the desperate always belonged to those fighting for survival.
For every Hu Keh civilian that wept in sorrow, there was a Tian Du civilian thanking the heavens.
At this moment, Qing Yun sat in the grand hall of the Makka Palace, still wearing his black brocade robe, his deep grey eyes filled with a light, drifting indifference. The banquet before him was in full swing, yet none of the generals, including Liao Zhen, nor the historian Mr. Rong, seemed interested in the songs and dances unfolding in front of them. Liao Zhen took a heavy swig from his cup, his dry voice tinged with impatience, "Your Majesty, why do we leave so much behind for the Guhe people?"
This question, however, did not disrupt Qing Yun's relaxed mood. He smiled and turned to Rong, “Mr. Rong, what do you say?”
Rong, staring down at his food and drink, nodded with a sorrowful expression, “If we take everything, the Guhe people will rise in revolt. By leaving them just enough, it keeps them tethered to the hope of survival.”
Qing Yun grunted as he downed another drink, “No one knows the world like you, sir.”
Rong let out a bitter laugh. “Your Majesty need not worry. Should I live to tell the tale, I’ll be sure to record the moment when Your Majesty traded a white horse for seven thousand lives, ensuring that even a thousand years from now, no one forgets.” His tone carried a biting sarcasm, referencing Qing Yun’s legendary exchange of the white horse for prisoners, which many considered a humiliation.
“Bold!” Liao Zhen bellowed, enraged, and in one swift move, he unsheathed his blade, cutting off the topknot of Rong’s hair, sending strands of silver falling into the dishes. Rong froze in shock, not even daring to turn around before another general, Suozhana, stepped forward, using his spear to strip the embroidered robes from Rong’s shoulders. For men like Liao Zhen and Suozhana, handling an old scholar like Rong was child’s play, leaving him disheveled and humiliated, sitting helplessly at the foot of the hall.
A low chuckle broke through the tension. Qing Yun, who had been watching with a bemused smile from his seat, finally spoke, “Stand down!” He took a small sip of his fierce liquor, the cold liquid gleaming at the edges of his lips. “Mr. Rong, you truly enjoy provoking me, but if you fear death, why do you taunt me so often?” His right hand, still holding the cup, bore a fresh scar from a swift blade, a remnant of a past battle.
Shivering in the cold night air, Rong pulled himself up, now disheveled and without his robes, his body trembling from both cold and fright. He sneezed violently, looking even more pathetic as he muttered, “If Your Majesty could not tolerate provocation, I’d have been dead long ago.” Knowing when to offer a few appeasing words, the old historian lowered his head, avoiding Qing Yun’s gaze.
“Rest easy, sir. In some ways, keeping someone like you around helps to keep my mind sharp.” Qing Yun chuckled again, unbothered. “Besides, I’m curious to see how you’ll record me in your precious annals when all is said and done.” He rose from his seat, and with that, every general present instantly stood up, their discipline on full display. Qing Yun cast a glance back, “At ease. Do as you please.” With a wave of his hand, he turned and left.
“Your Majesty!” A concubine sitting near him called out in a soft voice, “Tonight…”
But Qing Yun’s expression turned ice-cold as he interrupted, “Not tonight.”
His chilling tone sent a wave of silence through the hall. The generals exchanged uneasy glances, for it had been a long time since the emperor had sought the company of any woman.
It wasn’t that Qing Yun didn’t desire women—at least, not completely. But he had no intention of wanting one now, not when thoughts of her still clouded his mind. If he were to take another woman, it would only heighten his anger, deepen his resentment, and make her betrayal more unbearable. After all, she was not some unreachable treasure, was she? So why should he use another woman to forget her? Self-deception had never been part of his code.
Neither Na Zhan nor Huang Bei Shuang could stop him from trampling the Ning Guang’s forty-two prefectures and unifying the land under his iron rule.
One day, in that Guang Han Palace, he would repay her humiliation a hundredfold.
Whether awake or drunk, it no longer mattered. As long as the fiery wine still burned in his chest, there was no turning back.
“I have a white horse named Feita, who rides with the wind. You have a jade ring of ice, reflecting the wine cup beneath the moon. I still remember Chang’e’s graceful figure, entwined in my dreams every night, Now, these scars on my hands remain, my fist clenched in pain. Drunkenness brings no sorrow, yet the wine no longer brings joy. I gave up the spring in my heart, now left with cold frost alone. One day, this will all return. One day, this will all return.”
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