New Year’s Eve, the snow in Changluo was exceptionally heavy. The entire city, silenced by the bitter cold and chaos, was as quiet as winter cicadas. No one dared to celebrate the new year, no one dared to speak above a whisper. Doors and windows were shut tight, afraid of angering the rebels. Yet within the Su household, one place had been bustling for a full half month.
It was a Buddhist Hall privately built by the Su family. For half a month, someone had been chanting sutras, turning prayer wheels, and pleading over and over again.
Back then, Chancellor Su and his wife, hearts tied to their naturally sickly youngest son, had searched the entire Jin Kingdom for experts in the sixth year of Tianming and built this lavish, precious Buddhist Hall.
The entire Su family prayed for Young Master Mingya’s health, for his longevity, for his well-being.
From top to bottom, there was no one who did not believe in the Dao and Buddhist ways, except the one concerned, who detested it all.
Su Mingya had been sickly for fifteen years. Since the time he could remember, he had spent much of his time soaked in two kinds of smells: the numbing scent of medicine, and the nauseating stench of incense smoke.
He disliked physicians, deeply feeling that all the doctors in the vast Jin Kingdom were incompetent fools—not a single one could cure him, not even one could alleviate his asthma attacks.
He loathed Buddhism and Daoism. Every so-called enlightened master robed in kasaya or Daoist garb was, in his eyes, a swindler, either conning the public or pretending to commune with the supernatural.
Su Mingya had never voluntarily approached the Su family’s Buddhist Hall. He had countless memories of severe childhood illness. Countless times he had woken in unbearable pain, and upon opening his eyes, the first thing he saw was not his family, but the towering gilded Buddha statue.
The Buddha’s downcast eyes held not compassion, but a cold stare; not mercy, but mockery.
Time and again at death’s door, his loathing for the Buddha hardened.
Back then he thought, the Buddha would not bless him, the Buddha could not empathize with him. The pain that filled his life and body—no one could feel it, no medicine could cure it.
Now, Su Mingya, nearly eighteen, knelt willingly beneath the golden Buddha statue, his face as pale as gold foil, his whole body steeped in the two smells he detested most: medicine in his lungs, incense in his nostrils.
He had endured ten days in his fever-wracked, fragile body, soaking in those two smells, waiting for Master Nine Zen, said to understand the ways of heaven, humanity, ghosts, gods, and strange tales, to resolve his doubts.
Five years ago, this Master Nine Zen had examined his features alongside the imperial physician. The imperial physician had declared he would live to seventeen at most, and might well die of illness at fifteen.
Nine Zen, however, had given a completely opposite prophecy, saying his lifespan was not short, that he was even a person of fortune—a fortune that was once romantic, a destiny that was once peaceful.
Chancellor Su and his wife both believed Nine Zen and invited him to stay in the Su family’s Buddhist Hall, to light lamps and pray for their youngest son.
From then on, Su Mingya could not remove the Buddhist prayer beads and Mountain Ghost Coins from his left wrist, nor the red-string talisman chain around his neck. He could only ignore those ineffective charlatanries, coexisting with them in disgust yet passivity.
Su Mingya had been critically ill many times, yet he had never prayed to gods or Buddhas, never believed in Nine Zen, loathing equally all the swindlers and spectators who declared hope or despair to him.
But now, he voluntarily knocked on the door of the Buddhist Hall, knelt on the icy, hard ground, and with utmost sincerity begged Nine Zen for an audience.
He had no other way.
That night of the Winter Hunt, he had personally jumped into the pond that had swallowed Gu Xiaodeng. In the seven days since, wherever the Su family’s power could reach, they had searched thoroughly three times, but Gu Xiaodeng had simply vanished—drowned in an ordinary little pond, drowned by betrayal, sunk by lies, sealed away in obscurity.
Su Mingya wanted Gu Xiaodeng. Alive, he wanted to see the person; dead… he couldn’t force out the words “dead, I want to see the body.” Every time he thought of it, it only turned into a formless, ripping scream.
With all human effort exhausted and nothing gained, he could only come, at the end of his rope, to this Buddhist Hall he had once resisted and loathed.
Tonight was New Year’s Eve. Wind and snow howled outside. Nine Zen finally opened the wooden door, dressed in simple robes, and came beneath the golden statue, reaching out to help him up.
Su Mingya could not rise. Weary yet hopeful, he pleaded, “Master, this disciple wishes to inquire about a person’s whereabouts. Please grant me an answer.”
Nine Zen was an extraordinary person who looked no older than thirty but carried an immensely desolate air. He asked Su Mingya to rise and told him to provide the person’s birth date, origins, and appearance.
Su Mingya was silent for a moment. “I… I don’t know his birth date, nor his origins. But I know his appearance well. Over the four years from his thirteenth to his seventeenth year, I know every inch of change in him clearly. Is that enough?”
Nine Zen sighed.
Su Mingya, frightened at the smallest sound, nearly collapsed at that sigh beneath the Buddha statue.
“Forget it, Young Master, please rise first. I understand what you wish to ask.”
Su Mingya’s gray eyes brightened a little. At this moment, he would believe in all gods and Buddhas. If a demon came and could give him answers, he would believe in that too.
“The lamp the Young Master asks about is not in this time and space, not in this mortal world. There is no need to search anymore. Young Master, give up.”
Su Mingya had risen halfway when his ears buzzed, and he nearly fell back onto the cold brick floor. Nine Zen firmly steadied him, showing no mercy to this last-minute convert, but as in years past, impassive and desolate, he gifted him another prophecy.
“Young Master, the candle of your life burns long and bright, but from now on, the lamp of your heart may be long extinguished.”
As Su Mingya staggered out of the Buddhist Hall, the New Year’s Eve of the seventeenth year of Tianming came to an end. From the direction of the Imperial Palace came nine deep tolls of the bell, mercilessly announcing a change of dynasty, and the era of Su Mingya’s extinguished lamp began.
He could not accept Nine Zen’s answer, much less acknowledge the reality before him.
Taking advantage of the busyness within the Su household, Su Mingya forced himself out of the Su Residence and headed for the Star-Picking Tower.
On the way, wind and snow filled his ears, and Gu Xiaodeng’s voice echoed in his mind at intervals.
「This winter seems especially cold.」
Yes, very cold.
「Young Master Su’s hands can’t get warm again.」
Yes, very cold.
Arriving at the Star-Picking Tower, frost covered heaven and earth. With every step Su Mingya took, a memory of Gu Xiaodeng’s presence here resounded clearly.
Gu Xiaodeng’s joy, his smiles, his liveliness, his radiance—all echoed amid the heaviness and darkness beneath his feet now.
The bone-chilling cold, like frost and snow, peaked the instant he stepped into the Bright Candle Room.
Not long ago, this place had hidden Gu Xiaodeng, who belonged only to him—a golden finch in a cage, a bright lamp in his palm.
Now the finch had sunk, the bright lamp had gone out. It should no longer be called the Bright Candle Room, but the Underworld Mansion.
Su Mingya unconsciously stroked every corner where Gu Xiaodeng had stayed. At last, he hugged the sleeping robe Gu Xiaodeng had left in the Bright Candle Room, pressing against the cold, soft fabric as if possessed.
The night before Gu Xiaodeng followed him to Baiyong Mountain, he had worn this very robe. Back then, Su Mingya had held him as they slept. Gu Xiaodeng’s long hair had spread across the pillow, every strand curving with tenderness and affection.
Perhaps because he knew it was the night of parting, he had held Gu Xiaodeng tightly in his arms and kissed him until he couldn’t breathe. Gu Xiaodeng, trembling slightly, had buried his head against his chest and clung to him foolishly: “Young Master Su is an expert at kissing me. Even lying down, my legs still go weak.”
Su Mingya’s lips curved up, then flattened.
The New Year’s snow clung to the eaves of the Star-Picking Tower, gradually melting into water, dripping drop by drop onto the windowsill of the Bright Candle Room. The sound of dripping woke Su Mingya from his daze. As if nothing were wrong, he walked to the windowsill. Tonight was like that night of the Winter Hunt—starless. He looked down—beneath him was no longer a drop of tens of zhang, but a narrow pond.
「Young Master Su, save me.」
Gu Xiaodeng’s pitiful, plaintive sobbing echoed in his mind. Su Mingya instinctively gripped the windowsill, leaning his upper body out, wanting to jump into that pond again.
He wanted to say to Gu Xiaodeng, “Happy New Year.”
