FYM - 78

—Drip. Drip.

After the thunderstorm, rain began to fall—a rare phenomenon in this northern desert. Beneath the gathering clouds, Wei Zheng’s gaze turned even darker, his expression gradually mirroring Zhong He’s anger and mockery.

“‘A grave error’…” he muttered, a strange smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yi Zhi… you’ve always been so biased.”

His voice suddenly rose.

“Have you never wondered?”

“The late Emperor had plans to move east before his sudden death in my mother’s palace. My elder brother ordered the Lous and Wei Bi to tighten control over the capital days in advance. If I hadn’t received word and fled Chang’an, I’d already be a corpse under the blade of the so-called benevolent ruler!”

“Is he truly that pure and compassionate? Pure enough to kill my mother the moment our father passed?”

“Fang Yi Zhi, open your eyes—see what kind of ruler you serve!”

Silence fell across the battlefield as his voice rang out, each accusation piercing the air. Fang Xianting’s brows furrowed, but his expression remained unwavering, his gaze still stern and cold.

“After the late Emperor’s passing, the entire nation mourned. If Your Highness doubts the cause, we can summon the Imperial Medical Office for a thorough investigation. The struggle for the throne concerns only one family—it has nothing to do with the millions of lives in this land. Does Your Highness believe that your sense of injustice justifies opening the gates to invaders, allying with the Turks to slaughter civilians, and committing treason?”

As he finished speaking, he turned back again. Tuo Na, the Khan of the Western Turks, had arrived with his forces. His beastly eyes locked onto Fang Xianting, as if eager to avenge the massacre carried out by the Fangs twenty years ago.

“This is not the way of a ruler…”

Fang Xianting’s expression grew colder still.

“…and it will never be tolerated by the world.”

The rain intensified, the wind howling. Wei Zheng’s face began to show signs of madness. At that moment, Zhong He swung his saber fiercely and cursed: “Nonsense—”

“Anyone who kills their father and usurps the throne deserves to die! Prince Qin’s uprising to punish tyranny aligns with the will of heaven!”

“Fang Xianting! Your clan aided tyranny for selfish gain and betrayed the late Emperor. How dare you pose as a loyal minister and spout such nonsense here!”

These words were laughable, given the foreign army standing behind them. It was clear who was betraying whom—the Turks would never lend their strength without ulterior motives. This generous loan of troops surely came with greater ambitions. If they succeeded in seizing the empire, how would the Zhongs divide the spoils? The three-hundred-year-old Zhou dynasty might collapse overnight, becoming a pawn on someone else’s chopping block. Ceding land and paying tribute would be inevitable, and the people would face slaughter and humiliation.

“Zhong He…”

Finally, Fang Xianting’s gaze shifted toward him, carrying the same disdain and arrogance as his long-dead father.

“Since the Rui Xian era, the late Emperor showered the Zhong family with favor, granting high ranks and wealth unmatched by anyone in court. You’ve contributed nothing to the state, yet now you invite enemies into the pass to save yourself. Even if you gain temporary advantage, how can you hope to secure this throne?”

With just a glance, his eyes returned to Wei Zheng. The darkening sky resembled the omen of an impending end, yet Fang Xianting sat atop his horse like a towering figure, unyielding and resolute.

“Your Highness…”

His tone softened slightly, perhaps not just out of their childhood friendship but also because he believed Wei Zheng was not a man without principles.

“It’s not too late to pull back from the brink. The late Emperor’s spirit would never wish to see the land torn apart and the dynasty in ruins… Return with me, atone for your sins, and I will ensure your life is spared.”

A promise from the Fang family of Yingchuan was worth a thousand gold pieces; no one doubted its sincerity. Wei Zheng’s sunken eyes stared unblinkingly at him, then shifted to the Turkic cavalry behind him—nearly ten times the number of the Divine Strategy Army. A flash of thunder and rain blurred his vision, and in that moment, even tears could not be seen.

“Protect me?” He laughed ferociously, beneath which lay a deep sorrow. “Fang Yi Zhi… how can you protect me?”

“Look behind you—do you think you’ll leave these barren mountains alive today?”

“The Fangs of Yingchuan are always so arrogant, thinking everyone depends on their charity to survive—”

“Absurd! Ridiculous! Utterly foolish!”

“Return with you?”

“Why should I return with you?”

“To grovel before Wei Qin? To spend my life trapped in a dungeon?”

“Today, I will win!—Fang Yi Zhi! You’ll see that you’ve chosen the wrong side—”

The mad shouts echoed through the rocks, carried away by the wind. In that moment, Fang Xianting finally fell silent. Beside him, Zhong He slowly revealed a sinister smile.

He knew his nephew had always been soft-hearted, taught by his imperial upbringing to be rigid and stubborn. Since allying with the Turks, he’d often lamented through sleepless nights, causing friction between them.

On the day Huaiyuan was massacred, Wei Zheng had gone mad, grabbing Zhong He’s collar and demanding justice for the tens of thousands of slaughtered civilians. Zhong He had slapped him hard and forced him to witness the Turks executing captured imperial soldiers—heads severed, limbs dismembered. The horrific sight was nauseating but effective in shattering illusions of the past.

“Wei Zheng—open your eyes and see clearly—”

“In times of great strife, the victor becomes king, and the loser suffers such a fate!”

“If they don’t die, it will be you—”

“Do you want to die? Do you?”

Each question seemed directed both at Wei Zheng and himself. But Zhong He had long decided to abandon empty virtues and climb ruthlessly to the pinnacle of power. At that moment, the vast lands would be under his control, and the Zhong family would no longer live in fear.

Wei Zheng had finally come to his senses that day, drowning his sorrows before agreeing to join the campaign alongside the Turks. Now, Fang Xianting’s sharp rebuttals were deeply satisfying, reminding Zhong He of Fang He.

—Hmph, what about the Fangs of Yingchuan?

What of the first noble family said to endure as long as the nation? What of their supposed incorruptible loyalty? Aren’t they now defeated by me, Zhong He? Didn’t Fang He look down on those who rose through connections? Didn’t he vow to die protecting Wei Qin’s position as Crown Prince? Today, I’ll kill his son, and in the future, I’ll personally slay the ruler he serves! Let’s see who laughs last!

Zhong He angrily wiped the rain from his face, meeting the Fangs’ gaze with contempt for the first time. Standing tall, he pointed his saber at Fang Xianting and said: “Fang Xianting, your father and I fought in court for over a decade, and I considered him something of an acquaintance. As a junior, I shouldn’t be too harsh on you. For now, I’ll offer you a way out.”

His tone was mocking and condescending.

“Wei Qin’s claim to the throne is shaky, and he struggles to win hearts. If you surrender today and denounce him in the name of the Fang family, I’ll ask Khan Tuo Na to spare your life and ensure your entire army remains unharmed. How does that sound?”

This was half-truth, half-lie.

Though Zhong He despised the Fangs and wished to spill their blood, their reputation was undeniable. If even the Fangs of Yingchuan questioned Wei Qin’s patricide, public opinion would quietly shift.

But…

The bitter wind and rain eventually subsided, leaving the northern desert parched and barren once more. As the thunder faded and clouds dispersed, Fang Xianting stood at the boundary of light and shadow, appearing godlike.

As he slowly drew his sword, memories flooded back: his father’s faint smile before his death, his mother gently applying medicine to his wounds as a child, his sister crying in his arms the night before her marriage to the Eastern Palace, and the joy of drinking with friends on horseback through bustling streets and atop high towers.

…Finally, he thought of her.

They hadn’t known each other long. Their first encounter was fleeting on the Shangzhou road. He was always taciturn, and she reserved. They shouldn’t have crossed paths again.

Yet they had witnessed the snow-covered nights of Mount Li together and heard the roaring tides of the Yangtze. He remembered his desolation after fleeing Chang’an—his father’s suicide and his mother’s illness felt like the world conspiring against him. But she had approached him then, shouting his name across a river of flames, and silently returned the medicine box he had given her aboard a quiet boat. Despite the fragile vessel, she stubbornly chose to ferry him across.

He would never forget the way she looked at him that day, just as he couldn’t discard the winter-counting chart she had given him. During their year in Yingchuan, he kept it under his desk, filling in the blank spaces with blooming flowers, as if harmonizing with her from afar. Yet her beauty far exceeded his expectations. On the island of Shihuan Lake, she leaned against a flower tree watching him, her gentle demeanor making him resolve to spend his life with her.

He had never been weak-willed, yet he had opened the letter Song Mingzhen brought from afar days earlier. Before reading it, his heart was icy cold, worn down by over a year of ceaseless warfare. But upon seeing her handwriting, everything seemed to brighten, as if the spring blossoms of Qiantang appeared before him, telling him someone was waiting for him.

Her letter was brief, unique only in its accompanying painting. Bold strokes of ink depicted a spirited horse, with two lines of calligraphy beside it:

“The clear waters of the Canglang can wash your tassels clean,

The rich ink of wine can carry my thoughts.”

He understood her meaning, sometimes feeling it was fated. Beyond the plains and distant mountains, the Canglang washing tassels was an unspoken understanding. But now, amidst filth, where could he find water to cleanse himself? Still, he pressed forward, even if it meant never returning to the paradise where she awaited him.

In an instant, countless thoughts surged and receded. Amidst the flashing swords, his eyes reflected only the savage faces of the Turkic cavalry and the cold indifference in Zhong He and Wei Zheng’s eyes. None of the Divine Strategy Army spoke of retreat. They raised their arms, unsheathed their blades, mounted their horses, and charged into the hail of arrows and flames, not out of disregard for their bodies but because they couldn’t forsake the land and countless lives behind them.

…Shuyan.

I have always revered my father and emulated his actions, enduring countless hardships without yielding. I have never betrayed anyone or felt shame for any deed—except for you. The three letters and six rites may come to naught, and I won’t be able to take you to see the newly planted plum blossoms in Chang’an. Yet despite my betrayal, you gifted me the most beautiful mid-spring scene.

I saw the most flourishing plum tree there.

And on its branches… the lingering orioles.