Chapter 78:
Jiang Henian (Conclusion):
They Were Reunited, and It Just So Happened…
Bi Hua was a palace maid assigned to the East Palace. Her master was the strangest emperor she had ever served, residing not in the imperial palace, but in the former Crown Prince’s residence, his harem empty. She had entered the palace five years ago, after the new dynasty was established, and she knew his habits. Every night, after reviewing memorials in the Chongde Hall, he would return to the East Palace.
The palace staff gossiped, attributing his eccentricity to his usurpation of the throne, his guilt a constant companion. An emperor, they said, quickly forgot loyalty and affection. As General Feiyu, he had served the Crown Prince faithfully, but as Emperor, he had purged the prince’s maternal clan, his heart cold and unfeeling.
Their whispers reached his ears, but he never reacted, seemingly indifferent to their judgment. Bi Hua, however, believed he was the most valiant and benevolent ruler in the world.
Every night, she would refill the lamps in the East Palace, seeing his solitary figure sitting on the veranda, a longevity lock and a sword beside him.
She knew their significance. Crown Prince Jiang Henian, born in the first year of Jiang Wuwen’s reign, had worn a silver longevity lock engraved with his name, and Princess Zhaoping, the warrior princess, had wielded the formidable Hegemon Sword.
Bi Hua would walk past him quietly, refilling the lamps, then retreating, not daring to disturb him, her footsteps soft, her presence a silent shadow, watching him from the doorway.
He would sit there, his gaze fixed on a corner of the courtyard, the red brick wall, its color dulled by the darkness, the only sound the rustling of leaves in the night wind, his presence a steady, unchanging force, like a mountain.
She had heard from the older palace staff that a peach tree had once grown in the courtyard, its blossoms cherished by the former Crown Prince.
But now, it was gone, the courtyard bare, the Emperor’s dislike for extravagance evident in the East Palace’s stark simplicity, its emptiness a stark contrast to the usual opulence of an imperial residence.
He would sit there, his gaze distant, his demeanor different from the stern and imposing figure he presented to the court.
What was he looking at?
The darkening sky, perhaps, or the weathered bricks of the wall, day after day.
What could hold his attention for so long?
Only in these moments did he shed his imperial facade, his dark eyes like a deep, impenetrable mist.
They said he feared the former Crown Prince, haunted by nightmares, trapped in memories.
But Bi Hua didn’t believe it. If he feared him, why return to this place every night?
What was that flicker of emotion in his eyes, the moonlight casting shadows on his face?
An emperor’s heart was a mystery, she couldn’t understand it, nor did she dare to pry.
Tonight was no different. She waited, her eyelids growing heavy, until she fell asleep, leaning against the door frame.
She woke at dawn, the hour of the morning court.
She straightened her clothes, hurrying to the main hall to attend to the Emperor, her footsteps light, then she felt something wet beneath her feet, and she looked down, her breath catching in her throat. A puddle of dark red liquid, the faint scent of blood.
“Your Majesty!” She pushed open the door, her scream echoing through the silent hall, the sight before her a scene of horror.
The lamps were extinguished, the floor covered in blood, Jiang Wuwen’s body lying in a pool of crimson, the moonlight gone, only a faint light filtering through the windows, illuminating his pale, lifeless face.
His eyes were closed, his chest still, his body cold.
She ran for help, her cries echoing through the palace, but she was stopped at the gate by a man in official robes, Minister Chen Liang, the current Imperial Censor. She knelt, her tears flowing, her body trembling, then saw a group of men carrying an iron coffin into the East Palace. She finally understood. While the people celebrated, the kingdom at peace, Jiang Wuwen had abandoned the Jiang Dynasty.
…
General Zuo arrived, a wine jug in his hand, but he no longer drank. He dreamt too easily, the pain of waking, of leaving those comforting illusions, too sharp, too bitter, preferring the dull ache of reality, a reminder that he was still alive.
Yu Lin, consumed by the duties of his office, his old wounds aggravated by his relentless schedule, refused medical attention, his black robes concealing the bloodstains, his suffering hidden.
He was still tall and imposing, his authority unquestioned, but his face was thinner, his eyes shadowed.
“Why have you summoned me, Your Majesty?” General Zuo asked.
They sat in the inner chambers, emperor and subject, a seemingly intimate conversation.
“I have a task for you. The Jiang Dynasty will have a new emperor,” Yu Lin said.
General Zuo’s eyes widened in shock, and he knelt, his voice urgent. “Your Majesty, you can’t! Even for the former Crown Prince, you can’t risk your own life!”
“Haven’t I done enough?” Yu Lin asked, his gaze cold. Seeing the general’s silence, his voice rose, his anger echoing through the room. “Have I ever failed the Jiang Dynasty? Have I ever failed my people?!”
General Zuo lowered his head, shaking it silently.
Yu Lin approached him, his voice softening as he helped him to his feet.
“That boy, though weak, is just and righteous. With you leading the army, the Wang and Chen clans advising him, the kingdom will be at peace.”
“I’ve dedicated my life to the Jiang Dynasty, it’s time for it to repay me. I’ve spoken to Minister Chen, he agrees. General Zuo, what about you?”
General Zuo rarely saw the Emperor up close. He had always seen him as an unyielding mountain, a symbol of strength and resilience, but now, seeing the weariness in his eyes, the life draining from him, he realized the King was tired.
Witnessing a hero’s fall was a painful experience. He bowed his head, his voice resigned. “Your Majesty’s wisdom is unquestionable. I have no objections.” He kowtowed. “I will assist Your Majesty. As long as I live, I will protect the Jiang Dynasty.”
Yu Lin didn’t say anything more, his laughter echoing through the room, a drunken laughter, though he hadn’t drunk a single drop. They parted ways, emperor and subject, their paths diverging.
According to Zhao Yinyang’s teachings, after death, the soul split into three parts, one descending to the underworld, one remaining in its homeland, one guarding the tomb. But Jiang Henian’s body was never found, and Jiang Li had vanished from the Cold Palace, a strange and unsettling mystery, suggesting that Jiang Henian’s soul was still trapped by some sorcery.
Yu Lin couldn’t bear the thought of him wandering alone, a restless spirit.
He had tried to summon his soul, sending for Zhao Yinyang’s disciples, but the ritual had failed.
Only one method remained, a blood sacrifice, a pact between the living and the dead.
He had longed for this, waiting for the young heir to mature, to take on the burden of leadership, so he could finally pursue his own desires.
Five years, he had been emperor for five years.
The throne wasn’t his desire, he couldn’t wait any longer.
One night, he cut his wrist, the pain a jolt of clarity, his blood flowing freely. Following Zhao Yinyang’s instructions, he drew the array in the East Palace, writing Jiang Henian’s name and birth date on a paper effigy, hanging summoning banners by the windows.
He rang the bell, its sound echoing through the silent palace.
Return, lost soul—
Candlelight illuminated the hall, his body kneeling on the floor, his lips moving, the words of the ritual ancient and powerful. “Jiang Henian, I, Yu Lin, offer you a life-death pact! Do you accept—!”
The chanting ceased, a sudden gust of wind blowing the paper effigy towards the ceiling.
Yu Lin watched, his heart pounding, his hope fading, his anger rising. “You should have waited for me! That throne was yours, not mine!”
His breath came in ragged gasps, his fingers trembling, his voice a mixture of despair and longing, his gaze unfocused, his words echoing through the empty hall.
“Jiang Henian, you have a cruel heart!”
“You forced me to take that throne! You didn’t even give me a chance to tell you!” He clenched his teeth, the failed portraits falling from the table, their faces, like his memories, blurred and distorted, the muscles in his shoulders tense, his body swaying, his head spinning.
He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, his voice a desperate plea. “Do you hear me? Please… Jiang Henian, I beg you…”
He bit his lip, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth.
The blood dripped onto the paper effigy, staining it red, Jiang Henian’s handwriting appearing on its surface.
A single character, crimson and stark, a weight on his heart.
—Granted.
He felt like he was falling, his heart, adrift for so long, finally finding its anchor, his laughter echoing through the hall, a madman’s laughter, the pact sealed, a red string appearing on his finger, a tangible link, undeniable.
The ritual continued, his eyes closed, his lifeblood flowing.
Jiang Wuwen was dead.
Chen Liang, under the cover of darkness, carried the coffin out of the palace, a public funeral, an empty coffin placed in the imperial tomb, while he, having resigned his position, took Yu Lin’s body to Manshou Mountain, the hidden sanctuary described in Zhao Yinyang’s scrolls.
Humans, upon death, became wandering spirits, their memories erased in the cycle of reincarnation.
But Yu Lin wouldn’t let go. Chen Liang, using Zhao Yinyang’s techniques, set up a powerful array, the iron coffin sinking into the depths of the lake, Yu Lin’s soul tethered to it, the red string unbroken.
Jiang Henian would appreciate the tranquility of this place. His soul, returning, might be reborn, but it would find its way back to him.
He had become a ghost, their bond eternal.
One year, ten years…
One hundred years, two hundred years…
He remembered only his name, Yu Lin.
Outstanding in the forest, someone had said it was a good name.
Five hundred years, a thousand years…
Time lost its meaning, his memories fading, his identity a mystery, even to himself.
Why was he sitting on the coffin? What was he waiting for?
He slumbered, his soul retreating into the coffin, a cold and lonely place.
Until one moonlit night.
A cry awakened him, the red string on his finger burning, his heart, long still, beating once more.
[History]
Jiang Henian, born in the first year of Jiang Wuwen’s reign, his death marking its end, at twenty-eight.
And Jiang Wuwen, the architect of the Jiang Dynasty’s golden age, his reign lasting only five years, his death at thirty-one, ushering in the reign of Jiang Cheng.
His legacy, a prosperous kingdom, lasting fifty years.
Fifty years later, the Jiang Dynasty fell.
A few lines in history books, their lives reduced to mere footnotes.
But Chen Henian saw him, a warrior in shining armor, his face stern, his eyes filled with determination, walking towards the mist-shrouded mountains, towards the darkness, his form fading, disappearing.
He remembered the past, a thousand years ago, his eyes filled with tears.
His own tears, his soul’s tears.
He knew they were all dead now, only he, Chen Henian of Dongpi Village, and a wandering ghost, remained.
They were reunited, and it just so happened, they were still in love.
