At the first light, Yase took the reins, and the carriage rolled beyond the capital walls to enter the Qingyuan Road.
This route was nothing but sand and stones, once used by the commoners of Yan State. Last year's heavy floods left the path in ruins and isolated the suffering people from receiving medical aid. Eventually, under Lord Yue Jingyuan's persuasion, the Emperor of Yan drew funds from the wartime treasury and constructed the Qingyuan Road.
That hasty construction facilitated the timely transport of food and medicines across the towns and villages surrounding the capital during the flood crisis.
But after the construction of the new Qingshi Road, which connected three towns and four villages around the capital, the Qingyuan Road was officially abandoned by the people.
Yase looked out over the empty expanse of the Qingyuan Road, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened around the reins he held.
"The bitter irony," he murmured under his breath.
The very man who once fought to build the road to save lives was now its only traveler, his coffin the sole burden the stones had to bear.
With a flick of the reins, Yase settled into the rhythm of the road, the iron-rimmed wheels striking stone and churning up the dust of Qingyuan.
Inside the carriage, the coffin lay undisturbed by the journey. Within its narrow confines, Lord Jingyuan lay with his eyes closed, his hands crossed over his chest. Were it not for the dark scabs of rot at his temples and knuckles, one might have thought him merely caught in a deep, dreamless sleep rather than held in the grip of death.
Yase pulled out a travel-worn leather bag from the seat beside him. Within it lay a few shiny silvers and two objects of importance: a royal token and a tightly rolled parchment.
He reached inside, pushing past the dull glint of silver and the metallic clink of the imperial token, his attention solely on the stiff scroll tucked into the corner. As he unfurled the page, the thick scent of old incense and expensive cedar filled his nose.
For a gravekeeper who had never sat in a scholar's hall, he could only pick up bits of script from broken headstones and discarded ledgers. He couldn't read the flowery prose of the royal court, but the high envoy's voice still echoed in his ears.
Never break the seal of the coffin. Don't offer a drop of water. Don't let the feet touch the earth. The breath of death must never mingle with the living.
A frown deepened on his forehead.
Yase shoved the scroll back into the depths of the leather bag and carried on with the journey.
By the time the sun climbed to its peak, two shichen had passed. The Qingyuan Road was a long, lonely stretch of dirt and gravel. Most travelers chose the Qingshi Road, even if it cost them an extra three hours. Only the poor or those with secrets to hide chose this road.
By his estimation, he had crossed the halfway mark and found himself deep in the heart of the Qingyuan Road. His stomach let out a hungry growl. To his good fortune, up ahead through the shimmering heat, a flicker of life caught his eye.
It was a simple—four bamboo poles holding up a tattered grey cloth for shade.
To reach Jinhe Town, he needed the strength that only a hot meal could provide. As he neared the withered stall, the smell of fresh tea and noodles stirred his nose, prompting his stomach to growl louder.
He sighed and drove the carriage near the stall. Parking it by the side, Yase's eyes caught an old couple moving within, their wrinkled hands in rhythmic motion, slow but careful as they prepared a bowl of noodles.
Noticing his presence, the old woman looked up and saw the young man in coarse cloth approaching their stall. Her eyes lit up, the crow's feet at the corners deepening in a warm smile.
"A bowl of plain noodles."
Hearing the young man, the old lady nodded and busied herself at the small stove in the stall.
"Rare to see a traveler on the Qingyuan Road. You must be hauling fine stones to Jinhe, eh?" the old man asked, his hands busy stirring the pot of noodles, aiding his wife.
"Mm," Yase responded vaguely and sat on the low stool under the shade.
The young man's silence made the old man smile faintly as he carefully scooped the bowl of hot noodles. When his wife stepped forward to carry it to the customer, he stopped her.
Taking the plate, he neatly placed the bowl and a cup of warm water by the side. He asked his wife to give the young man's horse some water and chose to attend to the customer himself.
The wife was bewildered by her husband's strange behavior but didn't question it. Their stall was usually set along the Qingshi Road, where the number of travelers far exceeded that of this abandoned path. Though their service was lacking compared to the younger vendors, if luck favored them, they could earn at least twenty copper coins a day.
As usual, when she prepared the ingredients for the day that morning, her husband had insisted they set up the stall on this abandoned Qingyuan Road. The old man turned a deaf ear to her protests, so she decided not to start another quarrel and obediently went to give the horse some water.
Watching his wife's departing figure, the old man carried the tray and served the young man. Yase thanked him and lowered his head over the bowl, slurping the noodles, blowing cool air over the rising steam.
Yase kept his head down, eating silently, but he could feel the old man's burning gaze beside him. For a brief moment, he looked up to see what the old man was doing, but to his surprise, the old man was not looking at him, but rather at the carriage parked to the side.
His hand cautiously tightened around the chopsticks he held. Just as he was about to stand and leave, the old man's voice reached his ears, filled with profound sorrow.
"Grief is a heavy cargo, isn't it?"