FYM - 103

“Lord Fang—”

Amidst the chaos, a voice cried out. The next moment, the crowd heard the neighing of a horse in the distance. Wei Lan, standing beside her father, the Prince of Yinping, turned to look and finally saw the man clad in black armor and golden helmet, appearing as if descended from the heavens.

...It was the first time she had ever seen him with her own eyes.

The Fang family of Yingchuan was renowned, and the name of its current head, one of the Five Regents, was known by all. She had heard her father and brothers mention him frequently, and though she had glimpsed his back at court banquets, this was the first time she clearly saw his face. Illuminated by the roaring flames, he appeared solemn and stern, his deep eyes like an ancient well without ripples. The small, noble mole at the corner of his eye was the only ripple stirred by the wind.

The people, originally inflamed with passion, fell silent upon seeing him. Without prompting, they spontaneously made way for him to dismount and walk slowly. Wherever he went, cries of desperation turned into sobs, and men, women, children, and the elderly alike reached out to him desperately.

“Lord Fang—”

“Lord Fang—”

“Lord Fang—”

The calls echoed continuously. Reflecting on it, the scene was tragic for anyone. The Wei imperial family had long declined, further despised for producing a rebel king who dragged the entire world into war. Compared to the distant emperor in the palace, Lord Fang, who had repeatedly risked his life to protect the nation over the past decade, was more revered. The people knelt before him as if praying to the last deity at the end of their suffering, viewing his words and actions as their only hope amidst the endless calamity.

To Song Mingzhen, this scene was no different from what he had witnessed on the northwest battlefield years ago. The weight of the people’s reverence was immense. Eight years ago, his third brother had sacrificed himself and ten thousand soldiers of the Shénlù Army to bear that burden. Now, what would he have to sacrifice for this tumultuous era?

Similarly, Empress Dowager Song Shuyan turned to look at him the moment she heard the horse’s neigh.

Some things were amusing. For instance, his steed, Zhuoying, never liked her much, yet their few encounters were mostly related to it—the snowy mountain paths of Shangzhou, the deep forests of Lishan, the spring scenery of Yuhuang in Qiantang... it was always there. She could distinguish its unique neigh, clearer and more pleasant than any other so-called noble steeds. After entering the palace, fearing discovery of her secrets, she dared not sketch the likeness of her beloved on paper. Instead, she repeatedly drew his horse, finding solace in it.

Now, he approached her through the firelight, leading it. Others saw him surrounded by admiration, but she only saw his weariness from the long journey. Each bow from the people added to her sorrow, making her understand why he had come here despite the thousand-mile trek.

“Lord Fang—”

The cries continued. A gaunt woman, holding her child, wept bitterly to him.

“My husband died in the war, leaving me with only this child... My parents-in-law are old and sick, unable to endure the journey, and remain in our hometown, unable to migrate south... If the court truly abandons them, how can they survive...”

“Merciful Lord Fang—save their lives—”

She kowtowed repeatedly, her pitiful state unbearable to witness. Those who had previously caused trouble seized the opportunity to shout again: “We commoners pay taxes, contribute grain, and serve in the army year after year, working hard our whole lives. We don’t seek wealth or power, only the court’s protection to give us a way to live!”

“The court’s southern migration is cutting off our lifeline—merciful Lord Fang, save us once more—”

The cries filled the air, creating chaos along the riverbank. Countless people stretched out their hands to touch the hem of his garment, forcing the imperial guards to draw their swords to maintain order. Song Mingzhen and Lou Wei shouted warnings: “Step back—everyone step back—”

This scene caused the Prince of Yinping to smirk coldly, his heart swelling with triumph. Fang Xianting, powerful and capable, could look down on anyone, dealing death blows at will. But did he truly have no vulnerabilities?

—No, he did!

The mouths of the masses under heaven were his vulnerability!

The hands extended to him while kneeling were his vulnerability!

He couldn’t shake off the illustrious reputation of the Fang family of Yingchuan passed down through generations, nor the teachings and final wishes of his dying father, nor his own stubborn righteousness that others might mock. These would drag him to his death! They would corner him with no way out!

The fierce and bloodthirsty Turks couldn’t kill him, the treacherous and despicable Wei Zhengzhong couldn’t kill him, and the meticulously scheming Luoyang faction couldn’t kill him—but these unarmed commoners could! Their tears and pleas could nail him to a dilemma for eternity, never to recover!

Today’s situation was his defeat! If he hadn’t come and allowed the Song woman to execute the people, the condemnation of the world would soon devour her and the Song clan of Jinling completely. And once he arrived, either abandoning the southern migration and returning, or betraying public opinion and falling from his pedestal, he would be stabbed deeply, allowing the Luoyang faction to reap the benefits!

He couldn’t outwit him!

He would be utterly defeated!

—Did Song Shuyan not understand all this?

There was no perfect solution. Someone had to bear the cost of the nation’s southern migration. Public sentiment was such a complex thing—gentle waves when sunny, raging torrents in storms. By not summoning him, she didn’t want to see him consumed by it, knowing... he had already been consumed by it once many years ago.

Now, the firelight flickered on the riverbank, the surging crowd almost breaking through the guards. Young Emperor Wei Xi, frightened, tugged at her hand, calling her “Mother.” But her eyes saw only the distant yet near silhouette of that man—he stood before her, his towering figure enveloping her, as if allowing her to live in his shadow forever.

“Fang Xianting—”

She suddenly panicked, not out of fear of the riot but of the impending loss. Alas, even as the empress dowager, her voice couldn’t reach him amidst the chaos—and she knew that even if he heard, he wouldn’t change his mind.

“The Fang family has thrived for over three hundred years, basking in the grace of heaven and the sustenance of the people. Now, with war persisting for a decade, the court adrift and the people displaced, it should rightly bear the nation’s criticism without complaint…”

His voice cut through the clamor, instantly silencing the vast riverbank. Tens of thousands of subjects looked up in silence, their despairing eyes reflecting the towering figure of the man. Unprecedented reverence sometimes meant unparalleled danger, and many present understood yet remained silent.

“The land is vast, yet not an inch can be ceded; the people number in the millions, yet not a single one can be abandoned. The late emperor often lamented the southern migration, mourning day and night. Today, Her Majesty and His Majesty find it hard to forsake the Central Plains, feeling deep sorrow at the people’s suffering. Ultimately, crossing the Luo River and bidding farewell to the eastern capital—it is all my fault for being incompetent.”

His deep voice was steady and clear, seemingly calm as usual. Yet hidden beneath his dark eyes was subtle pain and fatigue. When the most selfless person claims incompetence, even those with hearts of stone feel anguish.

“The Fang family is merely a subject of Zhou, unworthy of your bows. However, honored by the ruler and trusted by the people, I must repay this debt to the world…”

At this point, he seemed to smile faintly. The highest-ranking minister, second only to the emperor, was too illustrious, causing many to forget his handsome appearance. As a youth, the Marquis of Jin was as majestic as a jade tower in the snow, and even now, he remained as pure as a solitary moon, as clear as river waves.

“Ziqiu, Yuanxi…”

His voice lowered.

“…Remove my armor.”

—Remove his armor?

Lord Fang, ever the warrior, wore the black armor and golden helmet bestowed by the late emperor, the greatest honor for a general, removed only in defeat or surrender. Now…

“Third Brother…”

Song Mingzhen and Lou Wei exchanged glances, both visibly anxious. Though unsure why he issued this command, they instinctively wanted to dissuade him. However, Fang Xianting’s expression was solemn, his gaze calm, exuding thunderous authority. They bowed their heads and stepped forward to remove his armor.

The scene was utterly silent. Tens of thousands watched as the head of the Fang family, who had protected them for a decade, shed his heavy armor. The bleak February wind lifted his thin robe, resembling a god in a painting—pure and serene. He then slowly removed it himself, standing bare-chested before the world.

“Ah…”

The crowd gasped, not just at the unexpected act but at the countless, shocking scars covering his body—proof of his mortal flesh, strong and resolute, yet carved by countless battles. The wounds, deep and shallow, spoke of how many times he had fought at the edge of life and death.

The young emperor, always shielded, gasped softly, never imagining the seemingly invincible Lord Fang bore such terrifying scars. Meanwhile, the empress dowager’s hand, holding him, was icy cold, trembling slightly. Some children cried out in fear, some women wept behind their hands, and even the men who had shouted angrily moments ago fell silent. Some things need not be said—no one could accuse the head of the Fang family.

“Knife.”

He calmly uttered another word. By then, Song Shuyan, watching him from behind, knew what was about to happen. The excruciating pain nearly brought her to tears, yet she had to suppress them fiercely under everyone’s watchful eyes.

“Fang Xianting…” She feigned anger in the dim firelight. “…Stop.”

But he didn’t turn around. The title “Empress Dowager” was but a hollow name; only when he respected her did she hold supreme power. Now, defying her, she could do nothing as he emotionlessly took a dagger from the guard and pointed its sharp tip at his chest. With slight force, the blade pierced his flesh, blood flowing anew.

“Lord Fang—”

“Lord Fang—”

The crowd cried out in horror, everyone wanting to stop this cruel act. Only he remained calm and composed, using the knife as a pen to write a bloody character on his chest.

It was—

“Return.”

The intricate strokes seemed endless. Midway, some realized the Fang family head’s true intention. Scholars and literati wept and kowtowed, pleading for him to stop. By then, he was pale with pain, drenched in cold sweat, yet he completed every stroke of the character “Return.”

“Today, I make a promise on behalf of the Fang family to the world…”

The torches still burned in the dark night, the cold winds blowing across the Yangtze. He tossed the knife aside, his voice unsteady from the pain, yet his stance remained firm, like the last pillar stabilizing this absurd world.

“As long as the Fang family of Yingchuan exists for a day… we will not abandon the plan to return north.”

“Thus… can you all rest assured?”