"Old Master (Lǎoyé 老爺), what kind of friend would ask you to meet him at such a place and time?"
The coachman whispered through the fabric partition of the horse carriage. The person inside did not answer him, but he kept whining.
"Don't you know that Yangzhou has been abandoned since then and has become a ghost city? Many travelers hear the wailing of the dead when passing by. Some even see headless ghosts, wandering in search of their lost heads."
He was truly terrified. As the carriage drew nearer to the city, the hairs on his nape stood on end. A piercing cold seeped through his skin, and his body shivered with fear.
The middle-aged man sitting inside sighed and firmly declared, 'There are no such things as ghosts in this world. Spur your horse, so we can arrive sooner.'"
The coachman replied helplessly, "Old master, that's fine if you don't believe the ghosts. But, I do. What if they do exist and want to avange their death?"
"Keep on talking and I will let you join them."
The coachman spurred the horse, muttering Namo Amituofo repeatedly. At last, the old man found some peace and closed his eyes. He held tightly onto a wooden box as if it were a treasure. Nervous about meeting this "friend," his heart beat rapidly and his hands grew sweaty.
The horse neighed at the city gate. No matter how many times the coachman spurred it, it refused to go in. It shifted left and right, about to turn back, when the coachman yelled, "Old master, even the horse is terrified to enter the city. What if we get down here?"
"Fine… fine… just stop here."
The old man stepped down from the carriage, carrying the wooden box and lantern.
He ordered, "Wait for me here. Don't go anywhere."
"Hah? Old master, wait here?" The coachman glanced around nervously. It was so dark—no lights except the one in the old man's hand and the faint glow near him.
The wind blew, sending a shivering cold across the skin, piercing it and deepening the sense of horror.
"What if a ghost comes and demands my life? I still have an unmarried child at home."
Feeling annoyed, the old man scolded him, "There is no such thing as ghosts in this world. If it can kill you, then it is flesh and blood—just like you and me."
"B-but… b-but… Old master…" The coachman's voice trembled.
The old man walked away, ignoring his pleading. He had only taken a few steps when he heard the horse neigh loudly. Turning back, he realized the coachman had fled—gone with the carriage and the horse.
The old man sighed. "What a coward!" he muttered, then continued toward the city gate. The coachman's fear was understandable—it was the abandoned city of Yangzhou, where thirty thousand Yang soldiers had been sentenced to death fifteen years ago.
The sight had been horrible. The city, once the fortress of the Eastern Gifu army, had become a place of bloodshed. Red blood had flowed like a streaming river, lasting for months until it finally dried. Since then, the city had been abandoned—no one dared to go near it.
The place was believed to be haunted by the soldiers who had been wrongly executed. For the past fifteen years, the emperor had repeatedly tried to reuse the fortress to strengthen the eastern defenses, but the stench of death and the weight of lingering grief were too deep. The Gifu army would rather take their own lives than reside in Yangzhou.
The old man, Chen Wenjin, was not afraid. It wasn't that he completely disbelieved in ghosts, but he had been there. Yes—he had witnessed thirty thousand loyal Yang soldiers take their own lives. At that time, he had been a secretary (书记 Shūjì), responsible for recording the event into history.
No sight had ever terrified him more than that day. The Yang Clan, which had served as the head of the royal ministries for generations, was accused of treason. The emperor demanded the execution of the entire clan, along with the soldiers under their command.
The old man saw the faint light at the top of the fortress and smiled. He was certain that the person he was about to meet was waiting for him there. He walked slowly through the city gate and climbed the stone steps upward.
As he reached the top, he saw a young man in a black hood gazing at the stars. He lifted his lantern to see more clearly. The young man turned his gaze toward him. He wore a bronze mask, yet his onyx eyes pierced sharply into the old man.
Meeting those onyx eyes, the old man immediately set the lantern and the wooden box on the floor. Stretching out both hands, he paid his respects to the man, saying, "Honor to great king (大王, Dàwáng)."
The man removed his mask, revealing a young, handsome face that could make anyone fall under his charm. With a sigh, he replied, "Chen Wen Jin, drop the honorific. We have known each other for a lifetime. You may call me as you used to."
Chen Wen Jin smiled and said, "How can this lowly servant address the new Lord of Qing so casually?"
The man grinned. "Are you teasing me? Look at you—after only a short while, you've already grown wrinkles all over your face."
"The 'short while' My Lord speaks of has been fifteen years apart."
The man laughed sarcastically, but his laughter soon faded into the thin air. "It has been fifteen years, yet the walls of this city remember it as if it were yesterday—the blood of thirty thousand soldiers flowing from it like a river at dawn."
His expression suddenly grew bitter. He clenched his fist tightly, as if refusing to let go. "For what? Merely for someone's lust and obsession."
Chen Wen Jin looked at him with a sorrowful expression. "My Lord… no, Ashile Sun, I know it is hard to let go of the past. But the one you long for has long since passed away. For these fifteen years, I have heard much about you, relentlessly searching for his shadow. You must realize—death cannot be undone, not even by you."
Ashile Sun struck the stone wall so hard that it crumbled into pieces and fell to the ground. "Wen Jin, you know well how they fabricated the truth—branding the Yang Clan and thirty thousand fallen soldiers as traitors. They were nothing like what your so-called Great Gifu History claims…"
"Yang Jun offered himself, along with the Black Qilin Seal, as a sacrifice in exchange for the lives of all soldiers under the Yang Clan's command. Yet out of loyalty—unwilling to let their lord be sacrificed—thirty thousand soldiers, who had once vowed to live and die with him, took their own lives willingly."
His voice quavered as he clutched his chest. "I—I too… was willing to give my life and soul for him. I believed I held him in my arms, that we would depart together into the afterlife. Yet Lin Jing tore me away—he dragged me back from death, but in doing so, stripped the life from me. He left me stranded in a realm between the living and the dead, a hollow shadow of what I once was." He longed to spit Lin Jing's name in curse, but the words withered upon his tongue.
Chen Wen Jin's heart ached. In the past, he had seldom spoken with Ashile Sun. The man always hid his face behind a bronze mask, leaving little impression—silent, distant, keeping all at arm's length… all, except Yang Jun. But that day, when Chen Wen Jin witnessed the depth of his love and loyalty, his view of him was forever changed.
"I remember that day vividly. It was one of the coldest days of winter, when every gate was sealed and guarded by heavily armored troops—more than a thousand at each. No one could hope to enter or escape. Yet one young man on horseback cut through them, broke through the gate, and endured a storm of arrows. And still, he carried the dying body of Yang Jun upon his back."
Ashile Sun gazed at the stars with sorrow. In a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "And still, I have lost him… he is forever beyond my reach. Bound by fate, I cannot even claim my own death."
After a while, he turned his head toward Chen Wen Jin. His onyx eyes were dark and fathomless, as if they could draw anyone in. Even an old man like Chen Wen Jin could easily fall under their spell.
"I am not here to talk about the past with you…"
Ashile Sun grew uneasy as he drew a token from his robe and presented it to Chen Wen Jin. Chen Wen Jin's eyes widened in surprise and disbelief. The token was carved from the rarest jade in the world—black jade—depicting a Qilin roaring at the sky as it confronted a dragon, with hundreds of ghouls trampled beneath its feet. Along the edge coiled a serpent devouring its own tail. Though no more than ten centimeters in diameter, the sculpture's detail and craftsmanship were exquisite.
Chen Wen Jin accepted it carefully, studying it with hesitation. "I-It's made of black jade, not obsidian… It truly is the Black Qilin Seal. Even though this is only the second time I've seen it, the beauty of its craftsmanship is unparalleled…" He turned to Ashile Sun, his voice trembling. "H-How did you come by this?"
Ashile Sun did not answer, merely stretching out his hand in silent request for the token. With a heavy heart, Chen Wen Jin returned it, saying, "Ashile Sun, as an old acquaintance, I must warn you. This token is not something you can possess. You must understand—the reason the Yang Clan was wiped out was because of this very seal. It was both their blessing and their curse. Even after the Yang Clan's fall, the Black Qilin Seal still holds sway over Gifu. With it, one could rally an army and overthrow the Fu imperial dynasty."
The first time he had seen the seal was when Yang Jun himself handed it to the emperor, begging for the lives of thirty thousand soldiers. How could Ashile Sun possibly have it now?
Ashile Sun chuckled. "If I told you I simply found it on my desk, would you believe me?"
Chen Wen Jin bowed in respect. "Then, as a citizen of Gifu, I must ask the Lord of Qing—what will be your next political move?"
"This lowly servant may have retired from the Imperial Record Bureau (起居注官, Qǐjūzhù Guān), yet I remain a citizen of Gifu. After the tragedy that befell the Yang Clan, relations between Qing Territory and Gifu have long been strained. Yet, out of the brotherhood once vowed with Yang Jun, the former Lord of Qing, Lin Jing, chose not to pursue enmity. Now that he has passed and you bear the mantle of Qing's lordship, I must ask—will you walk the path of revenge, or that of peace?"
"Wen Jin, I am not Yang Jun, nor am I Lin Jing. They were willing to sacrifice themselves—or those they loved—for the sake of others. I am not. For the one I love, I would defy even the heavens. I am not noble, and I will not pretend to be."
Chen Wen Jin smiled, a quiet warmth softening his features. "In truth, you are not so different from Yang Jun. Before his passing, I believe Lin Jing entrusted you with the truth of that day—that is why you asked me to come here."
He lifted a wooden box from the floor and placed it carefully into Ashile Sun's hands, as though it carried both weight and comfort.
"This box was given to me by Yang Jun while he was imprisoned. He asked that I deliver it to you. I wished to do so then, but when I saw your grief and your wounds, I knew it was not the right time. So I waited—fifteen years. Today, at last, I can honor his request, and give you what he wished you to have."
He accepted the box with care. The moment it settled into his hands, tears slipped down his cheeks. His fingers trembled as he lifted the lid. Inside rested a single book. On its cover were the words The Tale of Lotus—a work written by Yang Jun, meant for him alone.
"The events that led to the incident were painstakingly planned, each step woven with purpose and care. It's a depth beyond what anyone could fathom. Yang Jun carried that weight alone, all for the one he loved. I hope you can find the answer within the pages of the book, where the truth hides in the silence between the words."
When he had finished speaking, Chen Wen Jin withdrew a small bottle of wine from his robe. With deliberate care, he unsealed it and poured a libation onto the earth, intoning, "May the departed of the Yang Clan, together with their thirty thousand loyal soldiers, find eternal peace." His voice was low, reverent, as though offering prayer before an altar. At last, he turned and, with a solemn smile, placed the bottle into Ashile Sun's hands.
"Wen Jin, which side are you on?"
"You know very well, I was nothing more than a lowly official, bound to follow orders. No one ever paid me any attention. Yet old Lord Yang entrusted his grandson to me—to teach him history, to guide him in the ways of the imperial council. That trust was the greatest honor of my life. If I allow the Yang Clan's name to be stained, if I let his grandson, Yang Jun, be wrongly condemned, and the thirty thousand soldiers under him die in vain… then how could I ever face Lord Yang in the afterlife?"
Hearing those words, Ashile Sun accepted the wine bottle. He uncorked it, took a slow drink, then poured a measure onto the earth. His voice was low but steady. "Let this wine be my vow to my thirty thousand brothers-in-arms; I will not rest until the name of the Yang Clan is cleansed, and your dignity restored."
A heavy silence followed. Then Ashile Sun turned to Chen Wen Jin, his expression solemn. "There is one thing I must tell you… Yang Jun may have not died."