Chapter 1: Rebirth (I)

On the twenty-fifth day of the twelfth lunar month, the north wind howled, heavy snow fell, and the world was a single expanse of white.

Under the good omen of "a timely snow promises a good harvest," Le Wuya's execution day was approaching.

Eighty-two grave crimes, ranging from disloyalty and unfilial behavior, collusion with foreign powers, murder of officials, down to forging documents and stealing oranges from behind the Imperial Zhaoming Hall. He was obdurate and unrepentant, and could not be allowed to wait—could not wait for the autumn execution next year.

Inside the Circular Prison, the lanterns were bright, and steam rose from the dishes on the small table.

The five jailers present stood with heads bowed and breath held, leaning against the wall, eyes fixed on the ground, very respectful.

A quarter of an hour later, the Chief Jailer returned alone, covered with the breath of wind and snow.

He took off his bamboo hat and breathed warmth into his hands.

Seeing him return after leaving, several jailers sighed in relief.

...It seemed the noble guest had been seen off.

One jailer eagerly took the Chief Jailer's bamboo hat, glanced at the snowflakes as big as goose feathers on it, and remarked, "Oh man, look at that snow!"

Another younger jailer pulled out a stool for him and said in a low voice, "In just this short while, this is the second person to visit him."

The Chief Jailer sat down without answering, uncorked the wine jar, poured himself a full bowl of wine, then picked up a slice of beef with his chopsticks and chucked it into his mouth.

The wine and meat were brought by the noble guest.

If they didn't eat or drink, it would offend the noble guest. But if they did, and if the food were poisoned, leading to lax supervision and the prisoner's escape, they'd lose their heads.

So, this gift was usually enjoyed by the jailer on duty.

Whether it was a feast or poison, he alone would take the risk.

This was a rule set by Le Wuya when he was still the head of the Circular Prison.

The Chief Jailer ate and drank in silence, while the other jailers gathered around another small table, eating plain congee and side dishes for their pre-New Year's Eve meal.

Someone asked, "Is the big day tomorrow or the day after?"

Another replied, voice muffled: "The night watch hasn't sounded yet. Hanging, day after tomorrow."

A baby-faced jailer looked around and lowered his voice to a near whisper: "But I went to see him this afternoon... He might not live until the day after tomorrow."

The other jailers remained silent.

Only a jailer who had joined a few months earlier than the young one replied: "Isn't that just as well? It's none of our business. We haven't shorted him on food or drink, nor have we tortured him. You could say he's pretty lucky."

The young jailer questioned, "'Lucky'?"

The slightly older jailer slurped down a cup of rice wine and raised his voice a bit: "I'd rather be like him—enjoyed life, earned money, gained fame, and the princess... that too, right? Got everything he wanted all his life, and then in the last six months, bam, fell from the sky—that's still worth it! Look at how sick he is; in the end, he might even get to keep his whole body."

The young jailer disagreed: "I'd rather live to a hundred."

The laughter and chatter of the jailers were interrupted by a voice from the end of the deep corridor: "Hey, someone alive, get over here."

They stopped drinking and exchanged wordless glances:

...Hadn't he gone deaf days ago?

When no answer came, the voice called out directly: "You, the one who wants to live a hundred years. Come here."

The young jailer's face went pale, and he shot a helpless look at the chief.

The chief gave a steady nod, indicating he could go, and raised his bowl to down the strong liquor in one gulp.

His mouth was hollow—he had no tongue.

The young jailer walked somewhat nervously into the darkness and stopped in front of a cell.

The prisoner who had fallen from a position second only to the emperor himself, now sat quietly in the shadows, his face invisible in the shadows.

He should have been lying down, but now he struggled to sit up. His long hair, unbound, cascaded over his shoulders in natural waves.

The sicker he became, the more his mongrel blood showed itself.

They say a dying tiger still keeps its dignity; the jailer glanced at him and then quickly bowed his head respectfully.

The jailer kept his head bowed, perfectly still: "What are your orders, sir?"

The man laughed, but immediately started coughing violently.

It was the cough of someone terminally ill.

After finally getting his breath under control, Le Wuya replied with a laugh: "So I'm still 'sir'?"

"This is, after all, the Circular Prison," the young jailer said, eyes still lowered. "No matter what, you're still our boss."

Le Wuya didn't confirm or deny: "Then wait till your sir is dead before you talk smack. Won't be long."

The young jailer choked, then shot a quick sidelong glance at Le Wuya.

He still couldn't make out his face clearly, only eyes like stars under his messy hair.

Le Wuya propped himself up on the bed with both hands, laboriously adjusting his position: "Never seen a dying man's last burst?"

The jailer stayed silent and still, meek as a lamb.

Le Wuya: "You just said you wanted to live a hundred years?"

Not knowing what Le Wuya was up to, the jailer dared not answer and kept his mouth shut.

"Hey, do you want a place in history?" Le Wuya smiled mischievously between coughs. "Now that's truly living forever."

The jailer forced a smile: "Sir, you're too kind. I wouldn't dare."

Le Wuya beckoned him warmly: "Young man, come here. I've got a few things to say."

The jailer didn't step forward: "Sir, it's your rule—we're not allowed to pass messages to outsiders."

"The rules I set, I know them well..." Le Wuya's words were cut off by a violent fit of coughing. When he caught his breath and looked up again, his violet pupils rippled like water, making him look like some kind of demon, "Since you're determined not to pass messages for others, what are you afraid of? Just listen as I speak."

Unable to refuse, the jailer took a step forward and bowed even lower.

Even with Le Wuya this sick, he dared not approach.

...It was superstitious, but he found Le Wuya eerie.

If you looked into his eyes too long, you'd feel as if he could possess you.

After a night of heavy snowfall, the sky cleared.

The sun, as if washed by the snow, hung in the sky, blindingly white and bright.

The jailer followed the eunuch hurriedly along the palace path, keeping his head down and eyes cast down, his heart full of anxiety.

Not daring to look around, he only noticed a snow-covered figure kneeling before the Zhaoming Hall when he reached it.

Three inches of snow had piled up under his knees; he must have been kneeling there since before the snow began to fall.

Anyone allowed to kneel here was of high status.

The jailer approached with small steps and bowed deeply to the man.

The man was quite polite, raising his eyes to take in the jailer's rank from his uniform, and gave a slight nod in return to the lowly jailer.

The leading eunuch remained bent and waiting at the side until the jailer rose and smoothed his clothes before he was invited inside.

Even as he entered the throne hall and knelt, the jailer still felt like he was dreaming.

At first, he hadn't understood why Le Wuya, who knew the prison rules, had insisted on sending a message.

It was only when he received the emperor's summons this morning that he finally understood.

— Le Wuya was, after all, someone His Majesty trusted.

Whatever his dying words were, His Majesty would surely want to hear them.

But what he said was just too…

Yet even if Le Wuya’s deathbed message was ever so absurd, he didn't dare hide it.

Pressing his forehead to the floor, the jailer reported as clearly as he could:

“Your Majesty, the criminal Le Wuya said… that he was a homosexual.

“He said he had concealed this all these years and felt ashamed before the princess.

“He said that for Your Majesty's years of nurturing and trust, the criminal Le Wuya had no way to repay Your Majesty, only hoping to repay in the next life.”

The three ministers waiting below had each prepared their responses, whether Le Wuya would obediently accept his fate and the emperor's severe grace, or utter some rebellious, heretical rant.

But Le Wuya's first dying words effectively silenced them all.

An awkward silence filled the hall; only the two court historians exchanged a quick glance and then, as if by agreement, lowered their eyes.

The gentle, refined emperor's expression hardened. He opened his eyes, his gaze sharp and probing.

Cold sweat poured down the jailer's back; he inwardly cursed his bad luck.

Though young and inexperienced, having been assigned to the imperial prison, he had studied the Four Books and Five Classics and understood human affairs.

Le Wuya's dying words were all proper and respectful, especially the latter half, which could be described as respectful and obedient—there was simply nothing to fault in them.

But when combined with the first part, the whole meaning shifted.

Everyone knew Le Wuya was a born prodigy: at eighteen he had won military honors; at nineteen he became Protector; and over the years he had risen fast, enjoying the emperor's singular favor, becoming His Majesty's right-hand man and a pillar of Dayu. Now, despite eighty-two crimes to his name, His Majesty had only ordered his execution, not dismemberment, and had even personally granted the mercy of sparing his family…

Could there be something unspeakable between them…?

The jailer had only dared to entertain such disloyal thoughts before arriving. Now he didn't dare think about it at all, waiting solely for His Majesty's interrogation.

He heard His Majesty ask: “Nothing else?”

The jailer replied cautiously: “Your Majesty, the criminal Le Wuya said nothing more.”

“What is your name?”

The jailer was flattered: “My name is Zhang Yun.”

The voice from on high was calm: “You delivered the message well. Go collect your reward.”

Zhang Yun thanked His Majesty with all due ceremony, stepped out of Zhaoming Hall and let out a breath; only then did cold sweat pour out in waves.

He didn't dare linger for a moment, and hurried down the steps.

As he passed the front of the hall again, the snow-covered figure still kneeling below looked up and asked softly: “Is Le Wuya dead?”

Only then did the jailer clearly see his face. Shocked, he dropped to his knees: “To answer Your Highness, the Sixth Prince, the criminal Le Wuya… indeed died of illness last night.”

Hearing this, Sixth Prince Xiang Zhijie slowly rose. Snow fell from him; as he turned, his shoulder caught the morning light and glistened—it had frozen solid.

Zhang Yun dared not meet his gaze, lowering himself further.

Xiang Zhijie exhaled slowly.

He noticed Zhang Yun’s sweat-soaked clothes, the steam rising from his head, and his expression softened: “Don’t be afraid. I only… want to ask… one question.”

Zhang Yun dared not speak.

The man before him looked terrible, his lips pale—clearly exhausted and weak. Just saying this simple sentence made him cough violently.

He comforted others so gently, yet to Zhang Yun, he seemed ready to dissolve into the wind and snow.

Zhang Yun kept his eyes on the ground and said respectfully: “My humble…”

Suddenly, two or three drops of blood fell onto the white snow before him.

A panicked shriek from the eunuch reached his ears: “Oh dear! Sixth Prince!”

Zhang Yun looked up in shock.

Xiang Zhijie’s hand, covering his mouth, was seeped in blood streaming from between his fingers. As he coughed, his body slowly slumped.

Just as Xiang Zhijie was about to fall, someone strode forward quickly and caught his shoulder.

Zhang Yun had planned to rise and support him, but when he saw who it was, he immediately knelt back down, his voice trembling with panic: “…S-Seventh Prince…”

Seventh Prince Xiang Zhiyu was the twin brother of Sixth Prince Xiang Zhijie, their appearances so alike that at first glance they were indistinguishable.

Xiang Zhiyu said nothing, swiftly taking Xiang Zhijie’s wrist to check his pulse.

After a moment, he said to the anxious eunuch beside him: “His Highness has knelt here too long; cold has seeped into his body, and his heart is burning with fire, leading to this. Please, Eunuch Li, quickly summon the imperial physician, and may I ask you to report to His Majesty, begging permission to move His Highness temporarily to Guanlin Pavilion for rest?”

This eunuch had only recently entered the inner court, handling only reception work. Caught off guard by the sudden turn of events, he only now received clear instructions from the Seventh Prince. He acknowledged repeatedly and hurried toward the hall.

In his rush, he never had time to wonder why the Seventh Prince—whom he had never met—would so naturally call him “Eunuch Li.”

After issuing these orders, the Seventh Prince lowered his eyes and wiped the blood from the corner of the Sixth Prince’s mouth.

Yet, as he looked down at the Sixth Prince, his expression was unexpectedly cold, devoid of warmth, carrying a hint of scrutiny and faint indifference.

But when he raised his head again, he resumed the appearance of a gentle and refined gentleman, as if he truly shared brotherly affection with the Sixth Prince, a good younger brother concerned for his elder brother’s health: “Did you inform Sixth Brother of the teacher’s death?”

Zhang Yun dared not claim yes, nor did he dare deny it. He kowtowed twice, which served as tacit admission.

The Seventh Prince asked again: “Father summoned you here—did the teacher leave any last words?”

Zhang Yun dared not respond, remaining silent.

“Father forbids you to speak?” The Seventh Prince questioned in the same gentle tone as the Sixth Prince: “…Or is it that Lord Zhang thinks I am merely an unfavored prince, unworthy of a single reply from Lord Zhang?”

Zhang Yun was instantly seized with terror.

How did he know the surname of a nobody like me?!

Still, His Majesty had not specifically forbidden him from telling others Le Wuya’s last words.

With this thought, Zhang Yun, who prized his life, hastily pressed his forehead to the ground and relayed Le Wuya’s absurd last words verbatim.

The Sixth Prince had not lost consciousness.

He laboriously turned his neck, facing Zhang Yun.

And the Seventh Prince blinked.

The wind around them was too loud—perhaps he had misheard.

So he asked again: “…Le Wuya said he was what?”

This sentence was highly unusual for Xiang Zhi Shi, who always presented himself as a gentleman.

Because he even forgot to maintain the pretense of addressing Le Wuya as “teacher.”

“…A cut-sleeve,” Zhang Yun gritted his teeth and replied, “Le Wuya said he was a cut-sleeve.”

The brothers’ hands simultaneously tightened within their sleeves.

Xiang Zhi Jie closed his eyes.

Xiang Zhi Shi’s breathing deepened.

Silence fell around them, broken only by the gusts of wind and snow, which quietly carried away a host of unspoken thoughts.

…

Five hundred li away, the border peace talks between Dayu and the Jing tribe were underway.

Though these talks concerned a ceasefire and seemed like a major issue, they proceeded with unusual smoothness.

The reason was simple: both sides had run out of money and urgently needed to recover.

Since both had a strong will to cease hostilities, the negotiations became a mere formality.

After the day’s talks came evening feasts, with songs, dances, and frequent toasts.

Pei Mingqi, son of General Dingyuan and head of the peace delegation, showed no interest in the beautiful Jing tribe dancers.

He dipped his fingertip in wine and unconsciously traced a route back to the capital on the table.

—Le Wuya’s execution is set for tomorrow.

Even if he ended these border talks and traveled day and night without rest back to the capital, he would still not make it in time for his execution.

…What was there to see of his death?!

Pei Mingqi, annoyed, wiped the wine off the table and clenched his fist, his brows furrowed. Yet, unexpectedly, Le Wuya’s clear, youthful voice rang in his ears: “Hey!!”

He turned his head, but instead of the splendid palace of a foreign kingdom, he saw a youthful face perched on a green-tiled roof against a white wall.

The other raised a wine jug high, casually swinging one leg over the wall: “Little Phoenix! Come drink with me!”

Pei Mingqi blinked, silently answering across the vast distance of time: …Dead crow.

How did you end up like this?

If that one thing hadn’t happened…

At this thought, his gaze darkened as he looked toward the Jing tribe chief, Helian Che, seated at the head.

The Jing tribe was known for its beauties, but Helian Che was certainly not among them.

He had half-blood from the Yan tribe, naturally tall and sturdy. Having earned his high position on horseback, he exuded a martial dignity forged by war and bloodshed, unsmiling, sitting upright, his entire being radiating a stern soldierly aura.

The only hint of beauty about him was a long, thin braid woven with purple sandalwood beads in his thick, curly hair.

…That detail was quite similar to Le Wuya’s.

His curly mane had always been hard to manage; he would just let it hang loose, unruly. It was Pei Mingqi who couldn’t stand it, found a small comb, pushed him in front of a mirror, and carefully worked on his hair.

“Little Phoenix, hurry up,” the voice from the past came again, lazy, sounding exactly like him. “After you’re done, let’s go out and have fun!”

His reverie was broken by firm footsteps.

Snapping back, Pei Mingqi thought himself ridiculous: why did he keep thinking about Le Wuya so much?

They were no longer on the same path.

But his death was indeed nothing worth seeing.

Pei Mingqi tightened his grip on his wine cup.

…So, he risked universal condemnation to save him.

Tonight, Le Wuya would “die suddenly.”

He had already greased the right palms; then Pei Mingqi would bring him back, lock him in the backyard, and force him to get well.

Others had always said he was ill, but Pei Mingqi didn’t quite believe it, having gotten used to seeing him so full of life.

How good he was at climbing heights and scaling walls! How skilled at archery and riding!

Even now, Pei Mingqi could not forget the scene of Le Wuya’s Tianlang Camp galloping across the snowy winter wilderness in his youth.

Le Wuya was like an alpha wolf, howling and charging with a group of brave soldiers in golden helmets on white horses, crisscrossing like a torrent pouring into a sea of snow.

Even after they drifted apart, Pei Mingqi still occasionally dreamed of Le Wuya tugging at his helmet tassel or climbing over his family’s wall.

He laughed then, wild and beautiful.

Interrupting his thoughts, Pei Mingqi raised his wine cup and turned to look at the Jing scout who hurried into the hall.

The man had clearly traveled a long distance, yet showed no fatigue, only excitement, kneeling with a resounding thud as his knee struck the stone slab, stirring up a cloud of dust: "Your Majesty, there is important news from the capital!"

Helian Che's voice was deep and somber: "What is it?"

The soldier's eyes gleamed as he reported clearly: "Your Majesty, Le Wuya died of illness in prison last night!"

Pei Mingqi abruptly rose, his wine cup tipping over and falling onto the table.

...Hadn't he and Le Wuya agreed on today?

Seeing Pei Mingqi's extreme reaction, the deputy envoy's face went pale.

This was a diplomatic occasion!

Even if the Junior General had once been close with Le Wuya, that was in the past—how could he be so undignified before these foreign envoys?!

As the Deputy General grew anxious, a low, trembling voice came from the throne: "...Say that again."

Deputy envoy: ...What?

The excited soldier was also stunned.

As far as he knew, His Majesty had an irreconcilable grudge and blood feud with Le Wuya.

He thought he was bringing good news.

Just as the soldier lifted his head in surprise, a desk came flying toward him!

Helian Che, usually as cold and imposing as an iceberg, strode out from behind the bead curtain, the shadows in his eyes spreading like a tide.

His hands trembled uncontrollably as he pushed the desk away: "Say that again."

...

Le Wuya himself didn't care about what would happen after his death.

He knew he'd be torn apart by critics—that was a given.

Before dying, he thought it over and still felt he had gotten the short end.

He was a master schemer and had never made such a losing deal.

So he had a brainstorm and decided to taint the Old Emperor with the reputation of a homosexual.

That man valued a clean name most; this act of his would taint him for all eternity.

Le Wuya's only regret was that he wouldn't hear the night watchman's call on Little New Year's Eve before he died.

He had meant to hold out one more day.

His best student, Zhi Jie, had said if he could last just one more day, he could persuade the Old Emperor not to kill him before the festival.

That little rascal also said if he survived this Little New Year's Eve, there would be a way out.

Little Phoenix was even more of a headache.

That boy, usually so loyal and upright, had come up with the crazy idea of faking his death in the prison, not considering whose territory it was—how easy did he think faking death would be?

He had disappointed everyone again, but this time it truly wasn't his fault.

He had fought so hard to live.

But fate wouldn't have it.

Le Wuya knew he was riddled with injuries and ailments, and he overthought everything—dying early was only to be expected.

But he was used to thinking, and even before death, he couldn't break the old habit.

Thus, when he opened his eyes again, out of habit, he quickly regained his mental clarity within moments:

...Where is this?

This certainly wasn't the prison.

He was in a rather simple and orderly inner hall, doors tightly shut, red candles blazing, as festive as a bridal chamber, so bright and strange that the walls were covered in grotesque shadows from the candlelight.

Pain throbbed in his neck.

Le Wuya endured the suffocating sensation and swayed as he stood up.

From his gradually unfolding tall frame, Le Wuya judged that even if he were reincarnated, he hadn't undergone a proper reincarnation.

Finally on his feet, he felt dizzy and unsteady, stumbling forward.

A hand suddenly shot out from the side to support his arm.

Le Wuya blinked.

If he wasn't mistaken, that arm was translucent.

He looked up and caught a glimpse of a bronze mirror in the room.

The mirror showed only himself.

Le Wuya thought, no way.

He had been quite wicked in life, even managing to dirty the Old Emperor's name when he died.

But forcibly seizing an innocent person's body—that was truly wicked.

Luckily, the person before him seemed even more confused: "This...?"

As soon as the person spoke, Le Wuya could tell he was an honest man.

As a seasoned treacherous official, Le Wuya loved honest men most.

He decided to strike first, immediately putting on an innocent expression: "Where is this? Who are you?"

Le Wuya had always been a master actor, his face showing genuine confusion as he looked around.

Outside, night had fully fallen, while he was dressed in a formal official robe—embroidered with the xichi bird, silver belt, medicine jade pendant, and three-color sash—the typical attire of a seventh-rank civil official in this dynasty.

Dressed so formally, he would be considered presentable for the capital's five-year court assessment.

What was he doing dressed like this in the dead of night?

Le Wuya had a hunch and looked up at the rafters.

A white silk cord hung there, one end tightly tied to the beam, the other loose, swaying faintly in the air.

On the small table beside him lay an open memorial, the characters written in a delicate, flowery regular script—the kind of writing that Le Wuya had admired most in his previous life.

... And yet, every stroke was written in cinnabar red, unlike any proper memorial.

Le Wuya frowned slightly.

Just as the original owner of the body was about to speak, Le Wuya interrupted him: "You sought death to declare a grievance, hoping to reach the Emperor's ears?"

The original owner parted his lips as if to speak.

Having risen to the rank of a seventh-rank County Magistrate, he could hardly fail to realize that this unexpected, body-possessing spirit was no commoner and was remarkably insightful.

Torn between confusion and anxiety, he answered meekly: "Yes."

Le Wuya frowned.

It wasn't because this young man was trying to die in remonstrance.

In life, everyone runs into unsolvable problems and suffers wrongs.

This man, a seventh-rank official—even if a minor one—if he hanged himself for no reason while in office, the authorities would surely send someone to investigate.

Then, perhaps the injustice he suffered could be resolved.

From ancient times to the present, there have always been people who use their own lives to cry out for justice. That's not surprising.

But Le Wuya just felt something was off.

He was a brooding man; whenever he sensed something wrong, he had to figure it out immediately.

Le Wuya tugged at his collar, the lingering suffocation making him uncomfortable.

He asked, "What is your name?"

The original owner tentatively replied: "I... this humble official... am Wenren Yue, styled Ming Ke."

Surname Wenren?

A deeper suspicion stirred in Le Wuya: "A man of the Jing tribe?"

The original owner nodded: "Yes, my father was originally of the Jing tribe..."

Asking this, Le Wuya suddenly realized what was wrong.

—The Jing tribe, the format of the memorial, the style of the clothing.

Such obvious issues were right in front of him, but he hadn't immediately recognized them. He must have been truly addled by hanging!

Filled with a growing sense of dread, he asked: "Mr. Wenren, what year and month is it now?!"

Wenren Yue: "Sir, it is now the twenty-fifth year of Great Dayu's Tianding era..."

Le Wuya: "..."

Damn it. Only four years had passed?

How come that old emperor wasn't dead yet?

Author's Notes:

*History of Dayu: Biographies of Treacherous Officials · Le Wuya* — Le Wuya, styled You Que, of unknown origin. Jinshi in the eleventh year of Tianding. In his youth, unrestrained and debonair, truly handsome and refined, he rode a white horse with a golden whip through the streets. People would often toss tokens on the ground, hoping he would linger so they could send their love from afar... The Emperor favored him, and he grew arrogant day by day... He was convicted of eighty-two crimes and died of illness in prison. When the Emperor heard, he summoned the prison guards to inquire. Guard Zhang Yun said that he felt deep gratitude and kindness toward Le Wuya, and would repay him in the next life. The Emperor sighed with emotion and ordered the relevant authorities to arrange his burial.

*History of Dayu: Biographies of Able Officials · Le Wuya* — ... His talents emerged from his era. The Emperor summoned him to teach the princes archery and horsemanship... He was talented but unrestrained. Within three months of his first appointment, he reviewed over 1,200 backlogged cases... He created the circular prison... He turned himself into a one-man faction, his single hand could overshadow the court.

*History of Dayu: Biographies of Famous Officials · Wenren Yue* — Wenren Yue, styled Ming Ke, was appointed County Magistrate of Nanting County as an Imperial Academy Student in the twenty-fifth year of Tianding.