The twilight sky was stained with blood, casting an iron-rust hue over the desolate plains. The wind carried the faint sound of a Qiang flute, weeping like a mournful cry.
A broken long-handled eyebrow-blade was stabbed into the charred earth, and beneath a suit of chainmail lay a mangled, lifeless corpse. A severed hand, bones and flesh barely holding together, still clutched a snapped arrow.
Zhu Jincheng suddenly let out a ragged breath and slowly opened his eyes.
…I’m still alive. He stared blankly at the darkening sky beyond the thick clouds.
The ground beneath him reeked of blood, soaking through the dirt. His fingers twitched, grasping at a clump of grass, gathering his strength. After a moment, he pushed himself up and let out a roar over the corpse-strewn battlefield.
The sound was young—like an immature lion, yet no less fierce. His face still carried the last traces of youthful softness, but the sharp battle intent in his eyes swallowed all signs of innocence.
He yanked a pitch-black cavalry spear from the bloodied ground and bellowed, “Black Cloud Cavalry, assemble—!”
Fifty scout riders had clashed with a thousand Tartar cavalry at the foot of Ulan Mountain. As their leader, he had no choice but to take command at just twelve years old, using the terrain for guerrilla warfare.
At the vanguard, he used his powerful bow to kill the enemy leader from an extreme distance, shocking their forces.
Then, he risked splitting off a dozen riders from his already meager numbers to circle behind the enemy and create the illusion of reinforcements, sowing doubt among their ranks.
They fought for an entire day and night before the Tartar cavalry, suffering heavy losses, realized this “small bone” was too tough to chew—so hard, in fact, that it might break their own teeth. With the order to retreat, they scattered and fled, empty-handed.
But his own troops had nearly perished. Including himself, only six men remained.
This battle, later known as the “Ulan Mountain Encounter,” became a textbook example of defeating the many with the few. Yet, in the official historical records, the commander’s name was simply marked as “unknown.”
Zhu Jincheng waited in silence, until he finally saw five figures staggering toward him from a pool of blood.
As they drew nearer, he saw their front-fastening lamellar armor smeared with blood and filth, the broken weapons in their hands, the scorch marks that could not hide their pale, rigid faces.
—They had the pallor of the dead.
In the wind, the sound of a Qiang flute rose and fell, like the weeping of restless souls in the night.
The fallen comrades reached out to him with hands like pale, withered branches, their expressions tragic as they questioned him:
“Your Highness, why did you abandon us?”
“Your Highness, the borderlands are bitterly cold year-round. You now dwell in the bustling capital—do you still remember the land where our bones lie buried?”
“Your Highness, the war banners may be lost, but the spirit of the army still lives. Why have you not returned?”
“Your Highness…”
“General…”
“Commander…”
Countless voices echoed in his mind, faint as the wind slipping through cracks—yet thunderously deafening.
He pressed both palms tightly over his ears. This was a man who had once stood unshaken before the ranks of ten thousand troops, yet now he could not withstand these accusatory voices, and began to retreat, step by step…
Behind him, the imperial capital glowed with incense and red lanterns—both a place of luxury and a prison of the heart.
He was falling, endlessly, into a golden cage, a palace of painted walls—a heavenly prison.
The Yu Wang suddenly sat upright, face ashen, cold sweat beading on his forehead. Clutching the thick brocade quilt, he took deep, steadying breaths, slowly regaining his senses and returning from the nightmare to the waking world.
How long had it been since he dreamt of the battlefield from over a decade ago? It had felt so real, like he was there again.
Outside the open windows of the bedchamber, a faint sound drifted in from afar—it might have been a flute, or a xun (ancient ocarina), trembling sharply in the night.
A strange, indescribable agitation churned in his chest. It made him feel nauseous, dizzy, as if some dark energy were twisting through his gut—an accumulation of years of repression, resentment, indignation, even hatred. And now that dark energy flared like oil meeting flame, erupting into a blazing inferno.
Yu Wang flung aside the quilt and leapt out of bed. Without even putting on a robe, he strode through the hall and kicked open the tightly shut doors.
With a thunderous crash, the doors splintered into pieces, wood chips flying.
The eunuchs and maids on night duty were jolted awake. Seeing their Wangye with hair unbound, barefoot, face livid, standing in the doorway like a vengeful spirit, they turned pale with fear.
They had served the Wangye for years, accustomed to his lazy elegance or carefree debauchery, but never had they seen him so terrifying—like a wrathful Asura from legend. One by one, they dropped to their knees, trembling, bowing and begging for forgiveness.
The gust of cold wind that hit his face seemed to dissipate some of the malice, and the burning rage gradually died down. Yu Wang stared into the star-speckled darkness with a dazed expression.
He suddenly asked, “Did any of you hear a sound?”
A sound… the door being kicked? The servants didn’t dare answer, all shaking their heads.
Yu Wang tilted his head to listen, but the eerie flute-like sound was gone. Perhaps it had only existed in his dream, lingering into reality.
He was silent for a long time, then said, “It’s nothing. I had a nightmare and, in my confusion, broke the door. Have a new one made tomorrow. I’ll sleep in the back hall tonight. Clean this place up.”
The patrolling guards rushed in. Leading them was Han Ben, who bowed and said, “Your Highness, is everything alright?”
That address—“Your Highness”—made Yu Wang’s hand tremble slightly. He ordered, “Come with me,” and strode toward the rear hall.
Seeing him dressed only in thin sleepwear on a snowy night, Han Ben quickly grabbed a thick cloak and felt boots from a maid and hurried after him.
At the end of the corridor, Yu Wang stopped, turned to Han Ben, and suddenly asked, “Do you still remember that ambush at the foot of Ulan Mountain, sixteen years ago?”
Han Ben froze, then replied, “Your Highness means your first battle at age twelve? When you led fifty Black Cloud Riders to rout a thousand Tatar cavalry? Of course I remember.”
“How many survived?”
“Besides Your Highness, five others.”
Yu Wang let out a breath, then asked, “Are they still alive?”
Han Ben hesitated, then shook his head. “Too much time has passed, I do not know. After Your Highness took command of Jingbei Army, the Black Cloud Riders were absorbed into it. Ten years ago, when the army was reorganized, their units were broken up and reassigned to various frontier garrisons. If we tried to find those veterans now… their fates are likely long lost to the wind.”
Wrapped in a dark cloak, Yu Wang stood still like a statue. After a long silence, he said in a low voice, “I dreamed of them.”
Just six words, and Han Ben’s eyes welled with tears.
He quickly turned his head to wipe them away and said, “I sometimes dream of the past too. I always wake up full of emotion, but… it’s already in the past.”
“…No.”
“What?”
“It hasn’t passed.” Yu Wang stood motionless, not even a fingertip twitching. “Their spirits came to question me.”
Han Ben’s heart skipped a beat. He tried to console him, “Your Highness, you just had a nightmare. When the mind is troubled, it’s easy to dream. You mustn’t dwell on it.”
Yu Wang muttered like sleep-talking, “It didn’t feel like a dream. It was too real… I can still smell the blood in my nose, still feel the touch of corpses on my hands.”
Han Ben could sense something off in his master’s state tonight. Uneasy, he said, “Allow me to call the physician, to check your pulse and ensure your well-being.”
Yu Wang stopped him and asked, “Just now, did you hear a flute? It sounded like a Qiang flute… but not quite.”
Han Ben thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I only heard a few stray firecrackers in the middle of the night. Perhaps the music you heard drifted over from the Entertainment Lane—those musicians and dancers have been rehearsing nonstop for the upcoming Lantern Festival.”
Yu Wang frowned. It hadn’t felt like ordinary music, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. At last, he shook his head. “Forget it. The New Year is near. You all don’t need to patrol tonight. Go and spend it with your families.”
Han Ben smiled faintly. “Those of us who volunteered for year-end duty… don’t really have families left. Wangye’s estate is our home.”
Yu Wang placed a hand on his shoulder and sighed softly. “You’ve been wronged.”
Han Ben half-knelt as he helped the barefoot Wangye into his felt boots on the cold stone floor and replied, “How is this wronged? Back when I served as a personal guard under the general, we trained all day and barely had time to eat properly. Now, working in Wangye’s residence as a guard, I’ve gained ten pounds. I can’t even tighten my old belt. This is enjoying life.”
Yu Wang tightened his grip, his fingers digging into Han Ben’s shoulder muscle. In a deep voice, he asked, “Do you want to go back to the hardship?”
“I do—” Han Ben stopped mid-sentence, then smiled. “On second thought, maybe not. Life in the capital isn’t so bad.”
Yu Wang lowered his gaze, as if he could see through his own heart by looking at Han Ben. Then he patted his shoulder and turned away.
Han Ben watched Yu Wang’s back disappear up the rear hall’s steps before returning to the other guards to continue his patrol. Glancing around, he asked, “Where’s that new kid?”
“Yin Fu?” one of the guards replied. “He was here earlier. Then he had a stomach issue, and you let him go to the privy, remember? Oh, here he comes.”
Han Ben saw Yin Fu walking back from the privy, rubbing his stomach and looking a bit pale. When he saw Han Ben, he smiled reflexively, revealing a crescent-shaped dimple on one cheek, full of innocent sweetness.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Han Ben suddenly softened and said, “If you’re not feeling well, go back and rest. No need to patrol.”
“Thank you for the concern, Commander, but if the others can do it, so can I. I don’t need special treatment,” Yin Fu insisted on staying.
Han Ben’s eyes flashed with admiration. “Fine. If it gets too much, let me know.”
Yin Fu smiled and nodded. Standing closer under the bright lights, Han Ben suddenly noticed his amber-colored eyes—like honey—and how they matched that dimple, giving him an irresistibly soft and gentle look.
…Han Ben had a sudden, inexplicable urge to pinch that dimpled face.
He quickly snapped out of it and silently cursed himself, then called out to the others, “Let’s move, continue the patrol.”
Yu Wang had changed rooms. After being attended to by maids and soaking his feet in warm water, he returned to bed. Lying down, he stared at the dark canopy overhead, where silver threads embroidered clouds and the moon rising beyond the mountains. Through the distance of more than ten years, he murmured to the battlefield ghosts:
“I remember.”
“I won’t abandon you.”
“The frontier is bitter and cold, but it brings peace to my heart.”
“Wait a little longer. The time will come.”
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