Reincarnation (1)

On the twenty-fifth day of the twelfth lunar month, the north wind howled as heavy snow filled the sky, blanketing the world in white.

In this so-called auspicious omen of a bountiful year, Le Wuya’s death was drawing near.

His eighty-two major crimes ranged from disloyalty and lack of filial piety, to collusion with foreign powers, murder of officials, forgery of documents and even stealing oranges behind the Royal Zhaoming Hall.

Inside the prison, the lights burned brightly, and the dishes on the small table steamed in the cold air.

Five guards stood in silence, heads bowed, pressing themselves against the wall with their eyes fixed firmly on the ground—exemplary in their humility.

A quarter of an hour later, the prison chief returned alone, carrying the chill of wind and snow.

He took off his bamboo hat and rubbed his hands.

Seeing him leave and return, the other guards breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

...It seemed the nobleman had sent the visitor away.

A guard diligently took the bamboo hat from the prison chief, glanced at the goose-feather snowflakes still clinging to it, and sighed with feeling: "My goodness, it really is snowing."

A young guard pulled out a stool for the prison chief and whispered: "After all this time, that's only the second person who has come to visit him."

The prison chief sat without answering, broke the wine seal, poured himself a full bowl, and picked up a chopstick of beef, tossing it into his mouth.

The wine and meat had been brought by that nobleman.

If they refused to eat or drink, they risked offending him. But if they did eat and drink, and something unclean had been mixed into the food — leading to poor supervision and a prisoner's escape — their heads would be in danger.

Therefore, such gifts were customarily enjoyed by the prison chief on duty.

Whether they were a blessing or a poison, he would bear it alone.

This was a rule established back when Le Wuya himself had been the leader of Yuan Prison.

The prison chief ate and drank in silence, while the other guards gathered at another small table to celebrate New Year's Eve with porridge and simple side dishes.

Someone asked: "Is the execution day tomorrow or the day after tomorrow?"

Another replied in a muffled voice: "No update yet. He'll be hanged the day after tomorrow."

A baby-faced guard glanced around and lowered his voice: "But I went to check on him this afternoon... he might not last until the day after tomorrow."

The other guards fell silent.

Only a guard who had arrived a few months before the young one spoke up: "Isn't that just as well? We have nothing to do with him. We haven't denied him food or drink, and we haven't tortured him. All I can say is he's been lucky."

The young guard asked dubiously: "'Lucky'?"

The older guard drained his glass of rice wine in one gulp, his voice growing louder without him noticing: "Think about it — he spent his whole life enjoying riches and fame, building a reputation, even becoming a princess's consort... he could summon the wind and at will. If it all had to fall on him in these last six months, well, it was still worth it! And seeing how ill he's been, he may even be able to die with his body intact."

The young guard shook his head and said, "I'd rather just live a long life."

The guard' laughter was cut short by a voice drifting from the far end of the corridor: "Hey, is there anyone still breathing over there?"

Everyone stopped passing cups and exchanged silent glances.

...Hadn't he clearly gone deaf a few days ago?

When no reply came, the voice called out a specific target: "The one who wants to live a long life. Come here."

The young guard's expression shifted. He looked to the prison chief for guidance.

The prison chief gave a calm nod, signaling he could go, then raised his bowl and drained the strong wine in one swallow.

His mouth was empty. Tongueless.

The young jailer walked into the darkness with some trepidation and stopped in front of a cell.

“The prisoner—a man who had once stood just beneath the emperor, now fallen to the depths of this place—sat quietly in the shadows, his face impossible to see.”

He was supposed to be lying down, but now he had risen. His long hair was unbound, draped loosely over his shoulders, showing its natural waves and curls.

The sicker he grew, the more his untamed nature came through.

They say a tiger is not truly finished until it is dead. The guard took one look at him and quickly lowered his head respectfully.

The guard kept his eyes down and said, "Master, please give me your orders."

The man laughed, then immediately broke into a violent coughing fit.

The cough of a man at death's door.

After finally catching his breath, Le Wuya asked with a smile: "Am I still your master?"

"This is a prison, after all." The young guard kept his eyes lowered. "No matter what, you are still our master."

Le Wuya gave a noncommittal hum: "Then save your insults for after I'm dead. It won't be long now."

The young guard choked and snuck a quick glance at Le Wuya from the corner of his eye.

He still couldn't see his face clearly — only the gleam of his star-like eyes beneath his disheveled hair.

Le Wuya pressed both hands against the bed frame and struggled to straighten himself: "What are you sneaking looks at? You've seen it all before."

The guard fixed his eyes ahead, nose to heart, and said nothing — the picture of dutiful restraint.

Le Wuya: "You just said you want to live a long life?"

Not knowing what Le Wuya was getting at, the jailer didn't dare answer and stayed silent.

"Hey, do you want to leave your name in the history books?" Le Wuya's wheezing, coughing voice carried a sly smile. "That's one kind of longevity."

The jailer smiled apologetically: "Sir, I wouldn't dare hope for such an honor."

Le Wuya beckoned him over with familiar ease: "Come here, brother. I have a few words I want to say."

The guard did not step forward: "Sir, you yourself made the rule — we cannot pass any word on behalf of you."

"I made the rules, so of course I know them..." Le Wuya's words were cut off by a fit of suffocating coughs. When he finally caught his breath and raised his eyes again, his deep violet irises shimmered like flowing water, lending him a faintly inhuman air. "Since you won't tell anyone, what are you afraid of? I'll speak. You just listen."

The guard had no choice but to step forward and bend lower.

Even now, with Le Wuya so gravely ill, he still did not dare draw too close.

...Speaking of superstition — there was something uncanny about this man.

Stare at him long enough, and you always got the unsettling feeling you were being possessed.

After a night of heavy snow, the sky cleared.

The sun seemed to have been washed clean by the snow and hung brilliantly in the sky.

The guard followed a palace chamberlain, hurrying past the palace halls along the road. He kept his eyes down, but his heart was uneasy.

Because he dared not look around, the guard didn't notice a snowman kneeling in front of Zhaoming Hall until he was almost upon it.

Three inches of snow had accumulated beneath the man's knees. He had probably been kneeling there since before the snowfall the previous day.

Anyone permitted to kneel at this threshold was no ordinary person.

The guard drew close in small steps and bowed deeply.

The man was gracious in return. He glanced at the rank insignia on the guard's uniform, and despite the guard being so humble a figure, he gave a polite nod in acknowledgment.

The chamberlain who had been leading the way stepped respectfully aside and waited for the guard to rise and compose himself before guiding him into the hall.

Even as he stepped onto the palace floor and fell to his knees, the guard still felt as though he were moving through a dream.

He had not understood at first why Le Wuya, who knew the prison rules as well as anyone, had still wanted someone to carry a message.

But it was not until this morning, when he received the imperial summons, that the guard finally grasped the meaning of Le Wuya's words.

Le Wuya was the person His Majesty trusted most.

His Majesty must have been waiting to hear what he said before the end.

But what he said was truly...

No matter how absurd Le Wuya's final words were, the guard did not have the courage to conceal them.

He pressed his forehead to the ground and reported as clearly as he could:

"Reporting to Your Majesty: the condemned Le Wuya said... that he is a cut-sleave."

"He said that he concealed this over the years, and that he has wronged the Princess."

"He thanked the Emperor's grace in cultivating and employing him all these years but has no way to repay it. He can only hope that in his next life, he will find a way to do so."

The three ministers waiting below had already prepared responses for any contingency. Whether Le Wuya had submitted obediently and accepted His Majesty's final mercy, or whether he had made some treasonous, arrogant declaration — they had their answers ready.

What none of them had prepared for was Le Wuya's actual last words, which managed to make several officials nearly choke on the spot.

An awkward silence fell over the hall. The only movement came from the two attending historians, who exchanged a swift glance before simultaneously casting their eyes downward.

The emperor, whose expression was usually composed, sat still, a pair of phoenix eyes opening with a slow, scrutinizing gaze.

The guard was sweating cold and cursing inwardly.

He was young and inexperienced, but he had earned his place. He had read the Four Books and Five Classics and understood the ways of the world.

Le Wuya's final words were, on their surface, all elevated sentiments and proper phrases. The second half in particular could be called respectful and obedient to a fault — there was nothing objectionable about it at all.

But the moment it was combined with the first half, everything changed entirely.

Everyone knew that Le Wuya was a man of extraordinary gifts. He had distinguished himself in battle at eighteen, steadily risen to serve as Junior Guardian to the Crown Prince, and over these years had earned the emperor's deepest favor — His Majesty's closest confidant and one of Dayu's most powerful ministers. Now he had been convicted of eighty-two crimes, yet His Majesty had ordered only death rather than death by a thousand cuts, and had even personally extended clemency to the Le family...

Could it be that there was something unspeakable between His Majesty and Le Wuya...

The jailer had only dared to think such disrespectful thoughts before entering. Now he didn't dare entertain them at all, and simply waited for His Majesty's questions.

He heard His Majesty ask: "Is there nothing else?"

The jailer replied carefully: "In reply to Your Majesty, the condemned said he was content, and had nothing else to add."

"What is your name?"

The jailer was startled by the honor: "This servant is called Zhang Yun."

The voice from above was calm and even: "You have conveyed his words well. Go and receive your reward."

Zhang Yun gave repeated bows of gratitude, stepped out of Zhaoming Hall, exhaled a long breath, and found himself drenched in cold sweat.

He didn't dare linger any longer and walked down from the hall.

When he passed the palace again, the snowman kneeling before the entrance raised his face and asked softly: "Le Wuya — is he dead?"

Only then did the jailer see his face clearly. He dropped to his knees in shock: "Your Sixth Highness — the condemned Le Wuya, last night... passed away from illness."

Upon hearing this, His Sixth Highness, Xiang Zhijie, rose slowly, his body dusted with white snow. He turned his shoulders — slightly gilded by the early morning sun — and it became clear that they were frozen with ice.

Zhang Yun did not dare look at him and kept his head bowed.

Xiang Zhijie let out a slow, long breath.

He must have noticed Zhang Yun sweating through his clothes, steam even rising from the top of his head, because his expression softened: "Don't be afraid. I just...I just wanted to know."

Zhang Yun didn't dare say a word.

The man before him looked deathly pale, his lips colorless. He was clearly exhausted and unwell. After just those few words, he was seized by a violent coughing fit.

He was gently trying to comfort him, yet to Zhang Yun's eyes, he looked as though he would dissolve into the snow.

Zhang Yun stared at the ground and said respectfully: "This servant..."

On the pristine white snow before him, two or three drops of bright red suddenly fell.

A chamberlain's panicked cry rang out: "Oh! Your Highness — Sixth Prince!"

Zhang Yun looked up in shock.

Blood continued to flow out from between the fingers Xiang Zhijie had pressed over his mouth. As he coughed, his body slowly buckled downward.

Just as Xiang Zhijie was about to fall, a man came quickly and caught his shoulder.

Zhang Yun was about to rise and help, but when he saw the face of the person who had come, he immediately dropped to his knees again, his voice trembling in panic: "...His Seventh Highness — Seventh Prince..."

The Seventh Prince, Xiang Zhishi, shared the same mother as the Sixth Prince, Xiang Zhijie. The two looked so alike that at first glance, they were indistinguishable.

Without a word, Xiang Zhishi quickly placed his hand on Xiang Zhijie's wrist and took his pulse.

After a moment, he spoke to the flustered chamberlain at his side: "My brother has been kneeling here too long. The cold has invaded his body, and the heat trapped inside has turned against him, bringing him to this state. Please, Eunuch Li — please hurry and call the imperial physician, and ask the Emperor whether my brother might be temporarily moved to Guanlin Pavilion to rest."

The chamberlain had only recently entered palace service and had been assigned the simple task of receiving guests. Confronted with this sudden crisis, he had been too stunned to react. Now that the Seventh Prince had given him clear direction, he responded with a series of swift affirmatives and hurried into the palace.

In his panic, he had no time to wonder how the Seventh Prince had addressed him as "Eunuch Li" so naturally — as though they were well acquainted — when they had never met in person before.

After giving his instructions, the Seventh Prince lowered his eyes and wiped the blood from the corner of the Sixth Prince's mouth.

But as he looked down at his elder brother, his expression was unexpectedly cold and distant — no trace of warmth in it, only a measuring scrutiny and a faint indifference.

When he raised his head again, however, he had transformed back into a gentle, gracious gentleman, as if he were truly the most devoted of brothers, deeply concerned for his elder brother's health: "Did you tell the Sixth Prince about the teacher's passing?"

Zhang Yun didn't dare to confirm or deny it, so he simply kowtowed twice — which served as answer enough.

The Seventh Prince asked again: "Father sent you here. Did our teacher leave any words before he died?"

Zhang Yun didn't dare answer and remained silent.

"Father forbade you from saying?" The Seventh Prince asked in the same measured, gentle tone as the Sixth Prince. "...Or does Mr. Zhang consider me a prince of no consequence, unworthy of a reply?"

Zhang Yun felt a sudden chill.

How did he know the surname of someone as obscure as himself?

And yet, His Majesty had not forbidden him from sharing Le Wuya's last words with anyone in particular.

Thinking this through, Zhang Yun — a man who held his own life in especially high regard — hurriedly pressed his head to the ground and recited Le Wuya's absurd final words, word for word.

The Sixth Prince had not lost consciousness.

He turned his neck with difficulty and faced Zhang Yun.

The Seventh Prince blinked.

The surrounding wind was very loud. Perhaps he had misheard.

So he asked again: "...Le Wuya said he was — what?"

This was a notably unusual slip for Xiang Zhishi, who always carried himself with perfect composure.

He had even forgotten to maintain the pretense of calling Le Wuya "teacher."

"...a cut-sleeve." Zhang Yun braced himself and replied. "Le Wuya said he is a cut-sleeve."

Both brothers clenched their hands inside their sleeves at the same moment.

Xiang Zhijie closed his eyes.

Xiang Zhishi's breathing grew heavy.

The world around them fell silent for a moment, save for gusts of wind and snow that swept through gently, carrying away an unspeakable thought.

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

The talks concerned a truce — seemingly a weighty matter, yet in practice they were progressing with remarkable ease.

The reason was simple: both sides were exhausted and in desperate need of recovery.

Since both parties were firmly resolved to end the war, the peace talks had become little more than a procession of formalities.

Negotiations filled the days; feasting, music, dancing, and drinking filled the evenings.

Pei Mingqi, head of the peace delegation and son of General Dingyuan, had no interest in the Jing dancers performing before him.

He dipped a fingertip in his wine and absently traced a route back to Shangjing on the tabletop.

Le Wuya's execution date should be tomorrow.

He had concluded the border peace talks and raced back toward the capital day and night without sleep — but he could not make it in time.

...What was there to see in his death, anyway?!

Pei Mingqi was so agitated that he wiped the wine from the table and clenched his fist, brow furrowed — and at that inopportune moment, Le Wuya's clear, youthful voice rang in his ears: "Hey!!"

He turned, and what met his eyes was not the gaudy palace of a foreign land, but a young face bright with mischief, appearing above a green-tiled wall.

The boy raised a wine bottle high and swung one leg over the top of the wall: "Little Phoenix! Come drink with me!"

Pei Mingqi blinked and answered him silently across the gulf of time and space: ...you dead crow.

How did you end up like this?

If that thing hadn't happened...

His thoughts darkened, and he turned his gaze to Helian Che, the leader of the Jing delegation.

The Jing tribe was renowned for its beauties, but Helian Che was by no means one of them. He was half Yan by blood and naturally imposing in stature. Having earned his standing through feats of arms on horseback, he carried a warrior's majesty tempered by blood and war. Unsmiling, he sat with a rigid bearing that could not conceal the fierce soldier beneath.

The only thing that lent his appearance any softness was a slender braid threaded with red sandalwood beads, woven into his long, full, curling hair.

...It reminded him of Le Wuya.

Le Wuya's curls had always been impossible to manage, so he simply let them fall however they pleased, without order. Pei Mingqi had eventually lost patience, found a small comb, pressed Le Wuya down in front of a mirror, and worked through his hair strand by strand.

"Little Phoenix, hurry up." The voice of that old friend drifted into his ears again — lazy, unhurried, exactly like him. "Once you're done, let's go out!"

His thoughts were broken by the sound of urgent footsteps.

Coming back to himself, Pei Mingqi felt a sharp wave of self-mockery: how had he managed to think of Le Wuya so often?

They no longer walked the same road.

Still — he would not want to witness his death.

Pei Mingqi tightened his grip on his wine cup.

...So he had done it. He had defied all propriety, all consequence — and he was going to save him.

Tonight, Le Wuya would "die suddenly."

He had already greased the necessary palms. When the moment came, Pei Mingqi would bring him back, lock him safely in the rear courtyard, and see him through his recovery.

Everyone kept saying Le Wuya was gravely ill, but Pei Mingqi couldn't quite bring himself to believe it. He had known him as someone overflowing with life and energy.

How nimble had he been, climbing walls? How sure had he been in the saddle, with a bow?

Pei Mingqi couldn't forget the sight of the Tianlang Camp that Le Wuya had built from nothing in his youth — mounted soldiers galloping freely across the snow-covered plains of winter.

Le Wuya had been like a wolf: roaring, leading a column of soldiers in golden helmets astride white horses, cutting across the snowfields as if plunging into a sea of white.

Even after they had gone their separate ways, Pei Mingqi still occasionally dreamed of him — grabbing his helmet, scaling the wall of his house.

His smile back then had been wild and brilliant.

Pulling himself out of the memory, Pei Mingqi raised his wine cup and turned to look at the Jing tribesmen dressed as scouts hurrying up to the main hall.

The visitor had clearly traveled a great distance, yet showed no signs of exhaustion — only barely contained excitement. He pulled himself upright, dropped to one knee on the stone floor with a resounding crack, and raised a cloud of dust: "Your Majesty, there is urgent news from the capital!"

Helian Che's voice was low and impassive: "Speak."

The soldier's eyes were bright. He replied crisply: "In reply to Your Majesty — Le Wuya died of illness in prison last night!"

Pei Mingqi shot to his feet. The wine cup in his hand tipped over and clattered onto the table.

...Wasn't today the day he and Le Wuya had agreed upon?

Seeing Pei Mingqi's reaction, the deputy head of the delegation went pale.

This was a diplomatic occasion!

Even if the Major General had once been close to Le Wuya, that was the past. How could he behave so recklessly in front of a foreign dignitary?!

While the deputy was still internally frantic, a deep, trembling voice came from further up the table: "...Say that again."

Deputy head of delegation: ...Excuse me?

The excited soldier was equally confused.

As far as he knew, Your Majesty and Le Wuya shared a bitter, bone-deep enmity.

He had assumed he was delivering good news.

The soldier had barely raised his head in surprise when a table came flying toward him.

Helian Che — usually as imposing and unmoved as a great dragon — swept past the bead curtain in quick strides, shadows flooding his eyes like a rising tide.

The hand that had sent the table flying trembled beyond his control: "Say it again."

Le Wuya himself had never much cared what would happen after his death.

Even a fool could guess he would be cursed at.

He had turned it over in his mind again and again in his final days and still felt it was a rotten deal.

He had spent his whole life calculating — and he had never before done such a thoroughly losing piece of business.

So he hit upon an idea: he would use the reputation of a "cut-sleeve" to brand the old emperor.

That man treasured his legacy above all else. This little gift of his would last for eternity — an eternal irritant.

Le Wuya's only regret was that he had been on the verge of dying before he could hear Xiao Da's voice calling the night watch.

He had originally wanted to hold on one more day.

His most promising student, Zhijie, had said that if he could endure just one more day, he might be able to persuade the emperor to stay the execution until after the new year.

That little brat had also said that if he survived past New Year's Eve, there was still a chance.

Little Phoenix was an even bigger headache.

A child who seemed so devoted on the surface had actually come up with a scheme to fake a death inside the prison. Did he even stop to think about whose territory this had once been? Faking a death here was never going to be so simple.

He had failed everyone again — but this time, truly, it was not his fault.

He had tried very hard to hold on.

Heaven simply would not cooperate.

Le Wuya had long known that his accumulated injuries and relentless overexertion had marked him for death long ago.

But he had spent a lifetime unable to quiet his mind, and even in his final days, he never managed to break that habit — thinking over all manner of things until the very end.

So when he opened his eyes again, he snapped back to awareness within seconds, his mind already working:

...Where was this?

Wherever it was, it certainly wasn't the prison.

He found himself in a rather plain, formal inner chamber, doors closed, red candles blazing. The fever of their light — as warm and festive as a bridal chamber — was bright enough to be unsettling, throwing strange dancing shadows across every wall.

Pain lanced through his neck.

Le Wuya forced himself through the choking difficulty of breathing and staggered upright.

As his tall frame gradually unfolded, Le Wuya concluded that even if he had been reincarnated, he had not been reincarnated in any ordinary fashion.

He had barely managed to stand when another wave of dizziness hit him, and he pitched forward.

A hand shot out from the side and caught his arm.

Le Wuya blinked.

If he was seeing clearly, the arm was translucent.

He raised his head and caught a glimpse of a bronze mirror across the room.

He was clearly the only one reflected in it.

Le Wuya thought: this really shouldn't be happening.

He had been wicked enough in life, and even at death's door had gone out of his way to tarnish the emperor's name.

But to seize an innocent person's body without cause — that was a serious moral failing.

Fortunately, the person before him seemed more baffled than he was: "This... what...?"

From the moment he spoke, Le Wuya could tell at once that this was an honest man.

As a seasoned schemer, Le Wuya had always had a soft spot for honest people.

He acted immediately, putting on the most guileless and bewildered expression he could manage: "Where is this? Who are you?"

Le Wuya had always been a masterful performer. His expression of genuine confusion was convincing, and he took the opportunity to survey both the man and the room.

It was already dark outside, but the man was dressed in a full, formal official's uniform — embroidery, a silver leather belt, jade pendant, and three-colored ribbons, all marking him as a seventh-rank civil servant of this dynasty.

Dressed this formally, this late at night — it was the sort of attire fit for the imperial examinations held in the capital every five years.

What could his purpose be?

A suspicion stirred in Le Wuya's mind, and he looked up toward the ceiling beam.

A length of white silk hung there, one end tied tightly to the rafter, the other end loose, swaying faintly in the air.

On the small table beside it lay an open memorial. The neat, precise clerical script on it was the kind Le Wuya had always envied most in his previous life.

...But every stroke had been written in cinnabar. This was no ordinary memorial.

Le Wuya's brow furrowed slightly.

Before the man who had originally occupied this body could speak, Le Wuya cut in: "You were trying to end your life. Do you have a grievance to air? Do you think Heaven will listen?"

The original owner opened his mouth.

He was a seventh-rank county magistrate, which meant he was no fool. It didn't take long for him to determine that the wandering soul that had so unexpectedly taken residence in his body was no common spirit — this was someone with considerable knowledge and discernment.

Confused and unsteady, he answered obediently: "Yes."

Le Wuya frowned.

Not because this man wanted to die.

As long as people live, they encounter hardship and injustice.

This man was a seventh-rank official. Minor as the post was, an official found hanged for no apparent reason would be impossible for his superiors to ignore — someone would inevitably be sent to investigate.

When that happened, the injustice he had suffered might finally come to light.

Throughout history, there had always been those who sacrificed themselves to protest their wrongs. This was not so unusual.

What bothered Le Wuya was that something felt off.

He was a meticulous man by nature. Whenever something felt wrong, he had to figure out what it was.

Le Wuya tugged at his collar. The lingering tightness around his throat was deeply uncomfortable.

He asked: "What is your name?"

The original owner replied tentatively: "I... this official... my surname is Wenren, and my courtesy name is Mingke."

Wenren for a surname?

The unease in Le Wuya's mind deepened: "Are you of the Jing tribe?"

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

And then, at that very moment, something clicked.

Jing tribe. The style of the memorial. The cut of the robes.

These clues had been sitting right in front of him, and he had failed to piece them together immediately. He really had been stunned out of his wits.

With a creeping sense of dread, he asked: "Mr. Wenren — what year and month is it?"

Wenren Yue: "In reply — it is currently the twenty-fifth year of Emperor Yu's reign..."

Le Wuya: "..."

Damn it all. Only four years?

Why was the emperor still alive?