FYM - 173

“… Open the gates.”

He spoke faintly, with a clarity and resolve that had eluded him for over a decade. Yet those around him thought him mad, their fearful gazes following him like shadows—how ironic. When blinded by illusion, everyone fawned over him; now, sober and awake, they doubted him. Falling into a dream was so easy, and he couldn’t expect anyone to pull him out anymore.

It didn’t matter. He could walk forward alone, through blood. Every soldier who saw him instinctively stepped back. Perhaps at first, they didn’t know what he intended to do, but when they saw him reach for the heavy gate of Chang’an, everything became clear—he heard someone cry, someone else sigh in an indistinguishable mix of sorrow and relief. Whatever choice he made, he was bound to betray some people. But the karmic chain that began over a decade ago because of him should now be resolved by his own hands.

“Boom…”

A decade of intoxication had worn away his will. He hadn’t left the palace in so long that he no longer had the strength to lift the heavy gate. Gradually, however, more and more people came to help him. Their duty was to defend the gate alongside the city, yet now, like him, they only sought closure.

…It wasn’t difficult.

Countless hands lifted their shared fate. As the gates slowly opened, he once again saw the stars stretching across the endless plains—they were so large, so bright, almost as dazzling as the ones he had gazed at with his friend on the rooftop that night. The stars hung low over the flat wilderness, the moon surged along the great river. Perhaps soon, the world would see another prosperous era. Perhaps one day, Chang’an would return to the way he remembered it.

And the friend from his youth… was there.

Through the crisscrossing flames, through the cold gleam of blades, the endless Milky Way hid behind him in the boundless night. For a moment, it seemed he also saw him—a brief start, followed by a gaze tinged with sorrow.

—Sorrow?

Are you sorrowful for me?

Because I’ve grown old before my time, my appearance changed beyond recognition, and even though I’ve specially combed my hair and straightened my robes today, I still can’t hide the weariness and desolation?

Or is it simply unexpected that after our parting in the northwest, we’d meet again… and precisely beneath the walls of Chang’an, a place so familiar to us both?

He smiled. The open gates were his sole achievement in life. Yet the soldiers outside were wary, gripping their spears and halberds, wary of this cruel and ominous rebel king—but in truth, he merely wanted to see his old friend once more. If there was time… he also wanted to speak a few words with him.

He walked toward him, and the shadows beneath the gates gradually receded. He wanted to step into the pure moonlight, to freely reach for the stars as he once did. Bathed in the first rays of moonlight, he felt an unprecedented sense of liberation, as if he had finally received some great pardon and could now forgive himself.

Yi Zhi watched him from afar. For a moment, his gaze shifted away, and he felt a pang of regret, thinking their final meeting deserved more weight. But then he saw Yi Zhi’s expression change, his gaze falling from the city tower back onto him. Amidst the surrounding clamor, he couldn’t hear his voice, but vaguely sensed him calling—

“Your Highness—”

… “Your Highness.”

His eyes instantly moistened, and suddenly, he felt he had no unfinished wishes left. In Jiangbei, he was the “Emperor” propped up by others; in Jiangnan, he was the “Rebel King” deserving death; to the Tujue, he was the “Dog Slave” devoid of dignity; to his uncle, he was the “Worthless Fool” weak and absurd… but never himself—the second son of Emperor Ruizong, Prince Qin, Wei Zheng.

The cycle of karma was so mysterious. It turned out the last person in the world to call him by that title was still him. His joy was indescribable, so much so that the arrow piercing his heart from behind became insignificant. He only felt a fleeting pain, which, compared to the endless torment of those ten dark years, was far too light, far too light.

“Fool! It’s you—”

His uncle’s hoarse roar faintly echoed from the city tower. His realization and fury were equally matched.

“So it’s always been you—”

“It was you ten years ago in Shangxiaogu!”

“You let Fang Xianting escape!”

“You abandoned Chang’an—”

The tragic collapse was shocking to behold. Even the thousands of soldiers beneath the high walls fell silent. The end of this rebel king and general was so ironic. No one could have foreseen that mutual slaughter would be their final outcome.

Wei Zheng, however, paid no mind to the stares and murmurs. After being pierced through the chest by the arrow his uncle shot from the city tower, he no longer had the strength to move forward. This wasn’t unexpected—he had known that stepping out of the gates would lead to his death by the swords behind him. Yet the final surprise came from the person before him. It turned out his old friend’s call was an attempt to save his life amidst certain death.

He collapsed heavily to his knees, feeling the strength drain rapidly from his limbs. Still, he could faintly hear the sound of galloping hooves. Soon, someone grabbed his arm.

But he was still falling, no longer caring to climb out of whatever abyss or hell awaited him. Through increasingly blurred vision, he vaguely saw a pair of familiar eyes. The shadow of falling stars was gone. They were right—Yi Zhi’s small mole beneath his right eye truly resembled a tear.

“Leave quickly…”

He had no time to reminisce with him, only able to utter these final words.

“This place… isn’t worth it.”

…Many people witnessed that scene.

They saw the rebel king, seemingly deranged, open the gates of Chang’an himself. They saw Zhong He, enraged, personally shoot his nephew from the city tower. They saw Lord Fang linger beside the rebel king after his death, as if understanding the meaning of that cryptic phrase, “not worth it,” which baffled everyone else.

He had said he would kill him…

But in the end… who had killed him?

“Third Brother…”

Fang Yunhui cautiously approached. At that moment, his third brother kneeling beside the rebel king seemed distant and unfamiliar. He should have hated him most. If not for him, the empire wouldn’t be in such ruins, and perhaps his uncle wouldn’t have been forced to his death either. Wei Zheng alone had committed countless atrocities, yet millions of innocent lives were uprooted and met tragic ends because of him. Shouldn’t he hate him?

Yet Third Brother bowed his head slightly, his face obscured by the flickering firelight. Thousands of soldiers had already stormed into the city to seize key positions, but he seemed indifferent to the outcome of the battle. For a moment, Fang Yunhui thought he was grieving over the rebel king’s death. But when he looked up, all he saw in his brother’s eyes was a calm, lifeless stillness.

“Let’s go.”

He heard him say calmly. As he stood, his usually steady figure wavered slightly. On closer inspection, the wound from the Tujue warrior’s twin blades was still bleeding profusely, and his complexion had already turned deathly pale.

“Third Brother, your wound—”

Fang Yunhui was alarmed, realizing how careless he had been. Earlier, he had focused solely on the battle and neglected his brother’s injuries. Now, he urgently turned to summon a medic. But Third Brother stopped him, his expression indifferent, as if the injured person wasn’t him. He even bent down personally to lift the rebel king’s body and place it on a horse, treating him as if he were still the Second Prince they had befriended over a decade ago.

“Zixing…”

Third Brother seemed utterly exhausted.

“… Let’s go.”

… And so they stepped once again through the gates of Chang’an in the west.

Ten years… Ten years since their parting in Taiqing, Chang’an had long become an unattainable legend in the eyes of the world. But to them, who were born and raised here, it was merely a hometown neither near nor far. Returning after a long absence always brought an indescribably complex mix of emotions.

The step through the gate was ordinary, the ground covered in frost, the air wrapped in moonlight—it almost seemed like a tranquil night. Only the flickering flames shattered the original peace. As Fang Yunhui entered the city with his brother, he saw soldiers carrying Zhong He’s body step by step down from the city tower. He had committed suicide, cutting his throat with a sword before they could capture him. Whether out of fear of being captured by Jinling or viewing this defeat as an unbearable disgrace, the man who had stirred the winds of change across the land had quietly died in a corner of this desolate city. Perhaps, to anyone, it was a great irony.

Third Brother didn’t stop. As he passed Zhong He’s corpse, he didn’t even pause to look at him. Piles of bodies blocked his path, and his gaze lingered on the countless unknown dead. He heard him tell a nearby lieutenant: “Treat the captives well. Don’t make things difficult for them.”

“As for those who have already fallen in battle… bury them.”

… “Bury them.”

He, too, would bury an old friend. But at that moment, looking around, he didn’t know where to take the prince. Perhaps he should bring him back to the palace, after all, the highest seat on the golden throne was what he had pursued his whole life. But upon reflection, maybe he didn’t care for that place much. A cage, nothing more, eroding all ambition and spirit.

—But if not the imperial palace, then where?

Chang’an no longer had anything resembling its past… They rode their horses through the city, everywhere desolate and unfamiliar. The once-famous Biexiao Tower of Chang’an was now reduced to rubble, and the Furong Garden by Qujiang River bore no trace of its former splendor. Everything they knew had vanished like a mirage. The so-called “old capital”… somehow didn’t feel like home anymore.

—And yet, strangely, the “Duke of Jin’s Residence” remained intact.

When the late Duke had died in protest, Emperor Ruizong demoted the Fang clan from dukes to marquises. When they left Chang’an and returned east to Yingchuan, the plaque above the residence was changed to “Marquis of Yingchuan.” Even later, when Fang Xianting returned prematurely from Jiangnan to resume his duties, the name wasn’t changed back. Yet now, inexplicably, it had reverted, leaving them astonished.

“What about this place…?”

Fang Yunhui pointed to the plaque, also noticing this unexpected change. Turning back, he saw Third Brother glance indifferently at Wei Zheng, lifeless atop the horse, without uttering a word.

So… it was him…

Fang Yunhui was speechless, unsure what to say at that moment. Even he knew that during these ten years, Zhong He had been in charge of Chang’an. Hating the Fang clan to the bone, how could he easily tolerate others preserving traces of their family’s legacy? Wei Zheng must have expended considerable effort to leave this empty mansion untouched. Yet it made their resentment toward him even more awkward and tangled.

“Third Brother…”

He called out to his brother in confusion. The latter stood silently outside the gate for a long while before finally moving. Step by step, he ascended the low stone steps. As his fingertips touched the door, memories of the past rushed back. The laughter of their youth echoed in his ears. For a moment, he saw his sister, dressed in a crimson skirt, laughing as she ran past him, and his long-unseen parents waving gently behind her.