The World Under the Shade of Locust Trees (Season 2 Complete)
The cremation fire at Longshou Plain burned for three days and three nights. Thick smoke billowed into the sky, like foul breath spewing from an unhealed wound on the earth, lingering under the leaden sky and shrouding the surrounding dozens of miles in a deathly gray shadow. The acrid smell seeped into the bone, permeated the cold water, and even the dreams of every survivor.
As the last wisp of smoke dissipated, leaving only pale ashes and twisted, unburnt bones from the massive, charred pile of firewood, Xiao Yuxuan stood atop the plateau, still reeking of acrid stench. The ground beneath his feet, repeatedly soaked in blood and scorched by fire, bore an eerie, deathly dark brown hue. In his hand lay the broken sword he had pulled from the pile of corpses, its blade riddled with nicks and dark red rust, the hemp rope binding the hilt soaked with blood and sweat, cold and heavy in his grasp. Sheng Guo's body had been separately prepared, wrapped in clean hemp cloth, and lay quietly on a simple oxcart. The blood-stained locust seed, tied by Xiao Yuxuan with a sturdy blade of grass, was solemnly hung around his neck, close to his heart, like a silent vow.
"Let's go." Xiao Yuxuan's voice was hoarse and calm, revealing neither joy nor sorrow. He didn't look at the vast scorched earth graveyard behind him, but instead turned his gaze to the southeast—to that scorched earth that had just been ravaged by war and was in dire need of reconstruction.
A silent and weary procession slowly departed from Dragon Head Plain. Among them were wounded soldiers, displaced refugees, silent artisans, and the oxcart carrying Sheng Guo's remains. The wheels creaked monotonously over the frozen, blood-stained earth. The bronze box in his arms remained cold; Gu Yan held it as if cradling a slumbering prehistoric beast, his gaze complex as he watched Xiao Yuxuan's tall yet desolate figure recede into the distance.
The sights along the way were horrifying. Villages that once shimmered with smoke from chimneys were now nothing but ruins, charred beams pointing askew to the sky. Fields lay barren, irrigation ditches were silted up, and the frozen earth bore the ravages of horseshoes and cart tracks. Displaced people, like ants lost from their nests, numbly rummaged through the ruins for anything usable, their eyes empty and filled with despair. The cold wind whipped up ashes and withered grass, swirling them and making a mournful sound.
Beside the ruins of a village mostly burned down, the group took a brief rest. Xiao Yuxuan silently walked to a relatively flat patch of scorched earth, squatted down, and took out a small coarse cloth bag from his robes. Inside the bag were dozens of shriveled yet resilient locust tree seeds—descendants of the Weishui locust tree. He drew his broken sword and laboriously dug a small pit in the cold, hard ground with the tip. The frozen soil was stubborn, and the broken sword scraped against the sand and gravel, producing a grating sound. He dug very deep, as if trying to bury something deep within this land of suffering.
A locust seed was gently placed at the bottom of the pit. He scooped up the still soft, ash-covered soil beside it and carefully covered it, pressing it down firmly. His movements were focused and devout, as if performing an ancient ritual.
"General... can we still survive here?" An old farmer, pale and thin, wrapped in a tattered coat, squatted beside Xiao Yuxuan, watching his movements with bewildered eyes. His home was destroyed, and his son had died under the hooves of Di Rong's horse.
Xiao Yuxuan raised his head, looking at the old farmer, then at the more numb faces that had gathered around him, all bearing the same question. He didn't answer immediately, but simply reached out a finger and gently brushed away the last bit of loose soil from the seed.
“Give it a try.” His voice was low, yet clear to everyone. “The locust tree is tough. Its roots can go very, very deep.” His gaze swept over the ruins, over the barren fields, and finally settled on the faint outline of the distant, undulating mountains. “People are the same.”
He didn't say anything more encouraging, but silently rose and walked to the next patch of scorched earth, repeating the actions of digging, sowing, and covering with soil. One by one, resilient seeds were buried in this land repeatedly tempered by blood and fire. Gu Yan put down the bronze box, Sun Qian dropped his whip, the wounded soldier leaned on a wooden stick, and the refugees silently followed, imitating Xiao Yuxuan, digging through the frozen soil beside the ruins, along the desolate field edges, and beside the paths trampled flat by warhorses, burying tiny seeds of hope.
The march thus became extremely slow. Like a group of silent sowers, they stubbornly left behind specks of green sparks in the embers of war. There were no cheers, no ceremonies, only the dull thud of iron tools digging the earth and the mournful sound of the wind blowing across the wasteland.
Several days later, they arrived at the banks of the Wei River. The old locust tree, once watered by Bai Yu's blood and tenaciously reborn from the scorched earth, still stood tall in the bleak wind. Its branches were gnarled and strong, and though it had no green leaves, it possessed an indomitable vitality. The soil beneath the tree had clearly been carefully turned over, and several tender locust saplings timidly peeked out from among the withered grass, their verdant buds standing out starkly against the gray sky and earth.
Beneath the tree stood a familiar figure—Jing Zhi. She was still wearing her faded, dark-colored cloth robe, travel-worn and weary from her long journey. Her gaze wasn't fixed on Xiao Yuxuan, but rather lingered, almost greedily, on the few newly sprouted locust saplings. Her eyes churned with complex emotions—a remembrance of Ji Zhai's legacy, a sense of relief that technology had ultimately returned to the land, and a hint of indescribable sorrow and confusion. At her feet lay an old wicker trunk, inside which were faintly visible rolled-up parchment and exquisite wooden tool models—parts of Ji Zhai's manuscripts and her own designs for objects purely for the people's livelihood.
Xiao Yuxuan walked to the tree, and the two stood a few steps apart, a silence filling the air. A thousand words seemed to be stuck in the cold wind of the Wei River.
Finally, Jing Zhi slowly raised her head, her gaze meeting Xiao Yuxuan's for the first time. Her eyes remained sharp, carrying the scrutiny and uncompromising nature unique to Mohists.
“I’ve been watching these seedlings for several days.” Her voice was a little hoarse. “The roots are firmly planted. More firmly than… the hearts of some people.”
Her gaze was pointed, sweeping over the silent ranks behind Xiao Yuxuan, then over the bronze box in Gu Yan's arms, before finally settling back on Xiao Yuxuan's face.
"The object in the box possesses immense power. Used for good, it benefits all living beings; used for evil, it brings rivers of blood. The court... a sword hanging over the head... the hearts of men..." Her words were filled with deep weariness and worry. "Can you uphold this 'goodness'? Can you guarantee that it won't become the source of the next 'sword hanging over the head'?"
Xiao Yuxuan remained silent for a moment, then gently pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the blood-stained locust seed and the cold hilt of the broken sword through his clothes. He didn't directly answer Jing Zhi's question, but calmly countered, "Can you hold on?"
Jing Zhi's body trembled slightly. She looked into Xiao Yuxuan's eyes, eyes that had become even deeper and more resolute after experiencing mountains of corpses and seas of blood, after being washed away of worldly vanities. There was no desire for power in them, no blind fanaticism, only a quiet desolation and persistence, tempered by blood and fire, like the roots of an ancient locust tree.
A faint, yet complex emotion flashed in her eyes—a mixture of relief and deeper worry. She bent down, picked up the wicker basket at her feet, her movement carrying a resolute air.
“I will be watching.” She left behind three words, her voice low yet clear. Then, she turned around, carrying her wicker trunk, her figure disappearing into the desolate morning mist along the Wei River, like a solitary guardian, vanishing onto the vast, equally desolate land on the opposite bank, awaiting reconstruction. She didn't promise cooperation, but she left behind the word “watch.” For the Mohists, “watching” is itself an attitude, a silent supervision and warning.
“She…still doesn’t believe it.” Sun Qian walked to Xiao Yuxuan’s side, looked in the direction where Jing Zhi had disappeared, and whispered.
"Believe it or not, the seed has been sown." Xiao Yuxuan's gaze swept over the gnarled branches of the old locust tree by the Wei River, over the newly sprouted seedlings at his feet, and looked towards the vast, ravaged landscape. "The road ahead is still long."
He walked to the locust tree and solemnly buried the last few locust pods beside the old tree's gnarled roots. Then, he took off the blood-stained locust pod, which had been guarded by its life and was laden with fruit, from his neck. With the tip of his broken sword, he dug a deep pit in the damp soil on the bank of the Wei River, gently placed it in, and covered it with fertile soil.
Having done all this, he stood up and looked eastward. The rising sun was struggling to tear through the thick clouds, casting its golden rays across the Wei River and illuminating the ancient locust tree on the bank and the tender green shoots at its base. The morning mist gradually dissipated in the golden light, revealing a vast land in the distance where scorched earth and tender green intertwined, where death and life coexisted.
Xiao Yuxuan took a deep breath of the air, fresh from the disaster and carrying the scent of damp river water and earthy fragrance. He glanced one last time at the old locust tree that bore witness to Bai Yu's burning passion, Ji Zhai's lingering regret, Sheng Guo's loyalty, and his own countless vows. His gaze swept over the new seedlings stretching their tender buds in the morning light, and finally settled on the silent bronze box in Gu Yan's arms.
The box was cold, and the ancient character "工" on it shimmered with a restrained and heavy light in the morning sun. It was no longer just a secret, a burden, but a weighty examination paper about the road ahead.
He said nothing, but simply reached out and steadily took the bronze box. The cold touch, the resilience of the blood-stained locust pods in his arms, and the weight of the broken sword strangely intertwined, settling into an unprecedented power. He turned, facing the land slowly awakening in the morning light, scarred yet brimming with infinite possibilities, and took a step.
Behind them, the surviving soldiers, displaced civilians, and silent artisans followed like streams flowing into a river. The wheels began to turn again, and footsteps echoed in the morning light along the Wei River, as they embarked on the long road of reconstruction, fraught with thorns yet also brimming with hope.
Further away, atop a solitary peak outlined in the morning light, Yun Youzi's faded Taoist robe fluttered in the biting mountain wind. He didn't watch the departing group; his deep gaze was fixed on the distant eastern horizon. There, clouds churned, displaying a myriad of ever-changing phenomena.
"Three years later, the great river may overflow." His whispered voice dissipated in the wind, like a prophecy, or the ruthless lament of fate. After speaking, he leaned on his smooth bamboo cane, turned around, and gracefully disappeared into the vast, desolate mountains behind him, returning to the world without a trace.
Xiao Yuxuan, clutching the ancient box and holding his broken sword, walked at the head of the procession. The sunlight cast a long shadow of him across the scorched earth, where life was just beginning to emerge. The road ahead was long, the shadow of the locust sword still lingered, undercurrents surged in the court, and the chasms of the human heart were insatiable. But the box in his arms, the locust tree on his chest, the broken sword in his hand, and the silent, yearning land behind him—these were his only answers and his only strength.
The path to enlightenment is arduous, but the will to persevere is unwavering. And the seeds of enlightenment have already been sown.
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