“Creaaak—”
Lian Shenwei pushed open the doors of Zichen Hall.
From the dragon bed came faint breathing. Emperor Jingcheng, blown by the cool breeze from outside, coughed hoarsely a few times. He could no longer rise, lacking even the strength to move, yet he sighed.
“You’ve come…”
The calming incense from the burner curled upward in wisps, mixing with the medicinal smell filling the hall—bright yellow, heavy, luxurious, the entire room still and silent.
“Is it autumn already?”
The black hem of robes stopped. Lian Shenwei stood before the dragon bed. “Yes, it’s been autumn for some time now.”
“I know why you’ve come. The Snow-Bearing Sword is… behind the bookshelf, in the compartment. Push it open and you’ll see it,” Emperor Jingcheng’s voice came in broken fragments. “Hidden for so many years, something that doesn’t belong to oneself must be returned in the end.”
Lian Shenwei did as he said, pushing open the bookshelf, pulling out the compartment, and retrieving the Snow-Bearing Sword.
The sword’s body was entirely snow-white, even the hilt made of an extremely special semi-transparent material, crystal clear like snow, with the characters “Snow-Bearing” carved upon it.
The Snow-Bearing Sword had no scabbard—it was a sword where scabbard and blade merged as one. One only needed to press the mechanism on the left side of the hilt, and the blade would immediately seal, transforming into something resembling a ruler.
Ruler—meaning restraint and propriety.
The Snow-Bearing Sword was also called the Sword of Benevolence.
Lian Shenwei’s hand rested on the blade, his tone flat: “After Ying Tangfu died, aside from myself, the person I hated most was you.”
Ying Tangfu was the previous emperor.
This was the first time he had spoken his hatred so plainly.
For ten years he had never let it go for a moment. As a youth when he first heard the terrible news, during that period he became obsessive and crazed. He hated Falling Moon Flow. After discovering the truth, he began to hate the court, hate those officials with their high-sounding words, hate those who had received Fudu Manor’s kindness yet failed to help.
But the person he truly could not forgive was actually himself.
Why didn’t he go home? Why wasn’t he there when the manor suffered disaster? Why did the innocent Qiu Cheng die in his place?
Over these years, his enemies were eliminated by his own hand one by one. Watching their eyes—whether desperate or angry—at the moment of death, he observed coldly, only thinking of that night at Fudu Manor, wondering if his family members felt the same despair when they died.
Emperor Jingcheng was dazed for a moment: “I know, I’ve known for a long time.”
“My entire life…”
Past events flashed rapidly before his eyes. What he cherished and couldn’t let go of most were those years in Jinling—pear blossoms moistened by rain, fine snow falling.
Having been an honored and dignified emperor for ten years, he finally, on the verge of death, wept openly and honestly, the bright yellow pillow slightly dampened.
“My entire life, I’ve owed too many people…”
He owed Fudu Manor most of all—owed You Wei, the child he’d been distant from for ten years, and owed Lian Shenwei.
The world’s greatest helplessness is crossed wires and missed connections. If he had been born into an ordinary family, would he now be living a happy and peaceful life?
“I can’t hear Jingjue call me ‘Father’ anymore,” Emperor Jingcheng said. “He’s grown up now, and still resents me.”
He looked at Lian Shenwei with difficulty.
When he first met You Wei, her younger brother was only eleven or twelve, just a young boy. Like with You Wei, he had treated Lian Shenwei as half a son and doted on him.
Once such a brilliant and radiant person.
Weak light from outside pierced through the latticed windows, casting intermingled light and shadow. The young man’s posture remained the same, yet was exceptionally indifferent and pale. In weather that wasn’t even cold, he wore loose black robes and a thin cloak. Though he still held a sword, one could no longer see even a trace of his former self.
It was as if he had been swallowed whole by his identity as the Great Sheng Dynasty’s Regent Prince.
“Yubai, I’m sorry…”
A life that should have been carefree and unrestrained for a lifetime had been utterly destroyed by three generations of the Ying imperial family.
“I don’t dare hope for your forgiveness. After I’m gone… *cough cough*… in the Great Sheng court, there will be no one left to protect you. You must take care of yourself. If Jingjue… if Jingjue makes things difficult for you, just leave, get away from here…”
“You’ve already done more than enough. Your sister loved you so much—when I go down there and she learns how hard you’ve suffered, she’ll resent me even more.”
Lian Shenwei was quiet for a moment: “The one you’ve been protecting was never me, but Lian Yubai who died long ago.”
He walked to the dragon bed, the tip of the Snow-Bearing Sword pressed against Emperor Jingcheng’s neck. “Saying so much before death—what do you want to hear me say? Forgiveness?”
The cold touch didn’t make Emperor Jingcheng flinch; instead, he felt somewhat attached to the temperature of this sword.
For someone who lived every day in self-blame and regret, if someone were willing to say the word “forgiveness” to him, it would be tantamount to salvation.
But in this world, the only people qualified to say they forgave him were Ying Jingjue and Lian Shenwei.
How could he dare fantasize about something as extravagant as forgiveness?
Let him remain in guilt and remorse forever.
Could ten years of regret make You Wei soften toward him even slightly, make her willing to see him in the underworld?
“I’ve dismissed all the secret guards… no one will see…” Emperor Jingcheng’s eyes gradually grew unfocused. “Yubai, these last few months, I’ve tried so hard to live.”
“Your sister… loved watching snow, but she died in summer.”
“So I tried very hard to live until winter… to see the snow… to see the jade sandalwood plum blossoms bloom for her one more time. When I go, I’ll bring her a handful of mortal snow—will she still be willing to see me then, will she still forgive me…”
Lian Shenwei looked at him for a long while.
“You could have lived a few more days, but the medicinal soup you drank later had Mengpo powder added to it. That medicine is one of the ingredients in Mengpo soup—it can reduce your suffering, but at the same time, it diminishes the effectiveness of other medicines.”
When Ying Jingjue went to Feng Ke for medicine, Feng Ke asked if he wanted it prescribed for the emperor, and he went with the flow and added Mengpo powder.
He said slowly: “If you had lived those extra few days, you might have heard Jingjue call you Father, but I deliberately didn’t want you to have your wish.”
Actually, Lian Shenwei had no way of knowing Emperor Jingcheng would suddenly want to hear Ying Jingjue call him Father—saying this now was nothing more than revenge.
These words pierced the heart. Emperor Jingcheng froze for a moment, smiled bitterly, and struggled to breathe for a while.
“Has it… grown dark? I think I see your sister…”
“Yubai, could you perform the Snow-Bearing Sword technique once? Your sister used to show it to me under the plum blossom tree.”
“Please, just once…”
Emperor Jingcheng pleaded, his posture extremely humble.
Lian Shenwei’s expression was terrifyingly indifferent, completely unmoved.
Emperor Jingcheng’s voice grew lower and lower, his breathing rapid. Still in his final moments, muddled and confused, his tone slurred, he repeatedly called out Lian You Wei’s name.
White hair grew at his temples—losing his wife, separated from his son, suffering like this his entire life.
Before death, finding no resolution.
The dim skylight was blocked by layers of bed curtains, and pain bred and fermented in the darkness.
He wasn’t the only one forever trapped in that day—the second of June, ten years ago.
Could hatred and grievances truly find release only on the day of death?
Lian Shenwei slowly lowered his sword, closed his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing, the line of his jaw tensely drawn.
His gaze swept over, and after a moment, he walked to the desk where the Zichen Hall’s official business was handled.
On the desk was a stack of snow-white rice paper.
His finger pressed on the Snow-Bearing Sword’s hilt, the blade instantly unsheathed. Then he took out a handkerchief and tied his right wrist to the hilt, ensuring the Snow-Bearing Sword wouldn’t slip from his grip.
Then he suddenly struck out with the sword, the tip lifting the rice paper from the desk and tossing it into the air.
The sharp, cold sword qi shredded the thin paper into tiny fragments—in that trance-like moment, it was as if winter had arrived and snow had fallen.
[“The Snow-Bearing Sword technique that Sister created—light, agile, benevolent, compassionate, forgiving.”
The young woman in her silk skirt turned around with her hands behind her back, smiling brightly at her younger brother. “Little Yubai, dear brother, you’re too strong—you can’t use such a light sword.”
“When you grow up, you can go to the Sword Tomb to seek your own sword.”
Lian Yubai hugged her leg, his tone slightly smug: “Sister, genius isn’t limited by sword technique style. If you teach me, I can learn it. Really, if I learn it I won’t embarrass you, and Father will definitely agree too.”
“Fine, fine, you’re a genius. Since you’re a genius, you don’t need anyone to teach you, right?”
Lian Yubai: “Sister, don’t force me—if you keep forcing me, I’ll act spoiled.”
“You can learn if you want,” Lian You Wei poked him, “but return the chicken you stole from Er Pang’s family in the manor. It’s so small, not even grown yet. If you’re going to steal one, at least wait until it’s grown… No, if you want to eat chicken, raise your own.”
Lian Yubai: “No, no, if I raise it myself I won’t bear to eat it. I’d be sad if I ate it.”
Lian You Wei: “So when Er Pang raises one and you steal it, he won’t be sad?”
The young boy paused, then felt guilty.
She patted her brother’s head. “Don’t do to others what you wouldn’t want done to yourself.”
“…Alright, I understand,” Lian Yubai clung to her again, his gaze burning. “So when will Sister teach me?”
“Mm, this winter when it snows.”
“Why?”
“Because when it snows—your sister is in a good mood.”]
Through the heavy curtains, Emperor Jingcheng saw the figure wielding the sword, hazy and blurred. The scattered tiny white rice paper suddenly transformed into swirling snowflakes.
In that one glance, he seemed to return to Jinling, watching his beloved dance with her sword beneath the plum blossoms, his young son leaning at his knee—that kind of leisurely, carefree life.
“You Wei, look… winter has come again…”
Scalding tears rolled from the corners of his eyes. Emperor Jingcheng tremblingly reached out his hand, but grasped only empty air.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry…
The light in his eyes slowly extinguished. His hand fell heavily beside the bed, his breath ceasing. Yet his brow was more relaxed than ever before, the corners of his mouth bearing a trace of satisfaction.
Lian Shenwei thrust out his final sword strike, his breathing slightly disordered.
Then he sheathed his sword and stood still.
Though he hadn’t used internal energy, his right hand still ached in waves from the precise force used while dancing with the sword.
The floor was a mess of scattered white paper fragments. In the hall, only his breathing remained—it was utterly silent.
With the last of his enemies now dead, Lian Shenwei felt a moment of emptiness.
His path of revenge had ended.
And then what? Could he return to the past?
He could never go back.
After a long while, Lian Shenwei finally said softly:
“When you go down there, if you encounter Sister and the others, remember to say that Lian Yubai lived well. After grieving for a time, he avenged them against Falling Moon Flow, and now still pursues the pinnacle of martial arts in the jianghu.”
“He is upright, kind, righteous, and adheres to the Lian family’s precepts. He hasn’t buried the gentlemanly traditions of generations at Fudu Manor. In the jianghu he eliminates evil and promotes good, free and unrestrained, living as they hoped he would…”
If there truly was an underworld, someone like him would go to hell after death—he probably wouldn’t see Mother and the others anyway.
Lian Shenwei: “If you relay this message for me…”
“Then I’ll forgive you.”
The room fell silent.
Bang!
The cold autumn wind blew open the window, coolness pouring in, the rice paper on the floor lifted by the wind.
The forgiveness he hadn’t spoken aloud for ten years was now so easily uttered, for the sake of ethereal talk of ghosts and spirits. How similar he and Emperor Jingcheng were—he could say one word of forgiveness to Emperor Jingcheng, but what about himself?
Who else could say to him:
I forgive you.
Lian Shenwei, holding his sword, pushed open the palace doors and walked out.
Snow-white rice paper at his feet drifted out with him. From somewhere came a strong gust of wind, and those paper fragments flew freely toward the gray, dim sky, together with the withered yellow leaves.
The autumn wind blew, his robes fluttering. The young man merely gazed calmly, not reaching out to chase after them.
Once, with flute and sword, he had exhausted wild fame in the jianghu, drunkenly reclining in towers laughing at the mortal world, wearing a straw rain cape in misty rain, returning to rest in a small boat.
What a pity—wanting to buy osmanthus and bring wine together, it would never be like traveling as a youth again.
Lian Shenwei withdrew his gaze and walked down the steps one by one.
Author’s Note:
“Wanting to buy osmanthus and bring wine together, it would never be like traveling as a youth again”—from “Tang Duoling: Reed Leaves Cover the Sandbar” by Liu Guo (Song Dynasty)
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wannaberecluse On SRTT Chapter 50.1