In the rain
It's raining season again.
Today the results were announced. Jiang Heng sat alone in a corner, the wine jug in front of him untouched. The crowds on the stone bridge had long since dispersed, leaving only a soaked imperial edict fluttering forlornly in the wind. His name was still not on it.
"Hey, isn't this Jiang Heng? The brilliant scholar who fails the exams every time! So talented, yet always failing! Hahaha!" The speaker was Liu Guanhua, who topped the list this time, his brocade robe shimmering with gold thread in the rain.
"Congratulations, Brother Liu, on passing the imperial examination." Jiang Heng replied calmly and respectfully.
"Hey, don't make that face. Next time I need you to write a couplet for the manor!" Liu Guanhua said.
Jiang Heng smiled slightly and said, "Thank you, Brother Liu. Your name contains the character for 'official,' and you are destined to be an official. This is just what you deserve."
Liu Guanhua walked away triumphantly, followed by a group of richly dressed young men who kept chanting, "If we become rich and powerful, let's not forget each other." They were dressed in brocade robes with gold or rainbow threads, and they huddled together like vulgar flowers vying for attention.
This is the third year that Jiang Heng has failed the exam.
He never doubted his own talent; perhaps the officials grading the papers recognized his handwriting and deliberately overlooked it.
He was filled with resentment but had no way to quell it. He was just a poor scholar whose father had been murdered by villains. Now he made a living by writing poems for wealthy families. Apart from his talent, he had nothing else to rely on.
That night, the wind and snow were fierce, and it happened to be the Lantern Festival, with lanterns shining brightly. Jiang Heng had already prepared the meal and changed into his newly made jade fur coat, intending to tell his father the good news that his poems had been appreciated by his teachers.
The moment I see him, I must unfurl this scroll with a flourish! It must be impressive! I can't let my father look down on me! Jiang Heng thought. He's the son of the Prime Minister; he must be refined and elegant.
Jiang Heng was only twelve years old, still a carefree young master, and was fiddling with the plum blossoms in the vase.
There was a knock at the door, louder than usual, probably because his father was tired. Jiang Heng ran to open the door, but tripped and fell to the ground.
The scroll rolled out of his arms and spread out completely on the snow, the ink stains unable to withstand the snow and all of them were smudged.
Heng'er, don't cry, Heng'er, get up.
He thought his father would comfort him in this way.
The door was suddenly kicked open.
Several county magistrates in black robes carried oil lamps, their red light illuminating their ferocious faces, which appeared like ghosts to Jiang Heng.
They tossed down a bundle of straw mats, waved goodbye, and strode away. The wind made the door creak.
Jiang Heng quickly got up and ran to the straw mat. He didn't know what this meant, and he kept whispering "Father" as he lifted a corner of the straw mat with his little hands.
He's his father.
However, there was no smile on his face, only a cold expression. His skin was cracked from the cold, and blood had congealed on his face.
From then on, he hated snowy days and despised all family reunions.
He needed to find a place where he could escape the annoying rain and the noise of people.
The "Hehuan Tavern" on the street corner became his only option.
Almost simultaneously, the tavern curtain was flung open with a "whoosh," and a tall, disheveled figure, reeking of lingering alcohol and the stench of battlefield blood, burst in.
The man slammed a sheathed scimitar on the table, his deep, hoarse voice booming amidst the clatter of dishes: "Shopkeeper, the strongest liquor."
The hall fell silent instantly as everyone recognized him—Zhao Peiming, the cavalry general who had just suffered an inexcusable defeat and been reprimanded by the court.
Jiang Heng found the nearest seat and sat down, neither too close nor too far from the man. He squinted and examined him carefully for a while—the waist tag was entirely gold, with a luminous pearl on it, indicating it was a military officer's token, and the outermost silver edge revealed the man's identity as the renowned swift cavalry general, likely the young general from the Zhao family.
The tavern was full of people engaging in lively discussions, and the topic quickly shifted from a scholar's repeated failures in the imperial examinations to a general's ruthless military tactics.
"If you ask me, it's Zhao's son who's incompetent! If the old general were here, would he allow Sha Zibing to be so arrogant!"
"I've heard that the imperial court is going to punish them severely this time, and they might even be dismissed and investigated."
Zhao Peiming gulped down a mouthful of wine, and, as if talking to himself, addressed the assembled spectators, "Victory and defeat are common occurrences in war." He paused, looked out the window at the imperial edict posted there, and with endless mockery and exhaustion, scoffed, "But damn it, when has victory or defeat in this examination ever been based on true ability?!"
Jiang Heng's hand holding the wine glass trembled suddenly, and a few drops of wine splashed onto the old wooden table. He looked up and, for the first time, truly looked at the man who was just as mired in trouble as he was—that weathered face showed defeat, but also an indomitable stubbornness, and his eyes shone brightly like sparks.
Zhao Peiming seemed to sense his gaze and turned around.
The moment their eyes met, Jiang Heng felt as if his heart had been squeezed tightly. It wasn't pity or curiosity, but the tremor of finally seeing a kindred spirit after being abandoned in desolation and resentment.
Zhao Peiming looked at him, at this pale-faced scholar whose eyes sparkled like a clear spring, and shook the wine pot in his hand, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth: "Young master, are you also troubled? Would you be interested in drinking with me?"
After a long while, Jiang Heng slowly stood up, amidst the astonished gazes of the other drinkers, and sat down at Zhao Peiming's table.
“General, your defeat,” Jiang Heng’s voice was slightly hoarse but calm, like a cold blade cutting through every inch of disguise, “was not due to the battlefield.”
Zhao Peiming's hand, which was pouring wine, suddenly stopped in mid-air.
This time, Jiang Heng chose to lower his head and bow his eyes, but his light words seemed to weigh a thousand pounds: "You lost to the one who held the chess pieces, you lost to—that rotten account that you could never figure out no matter how hard you tried."
Zhao Peiming was somewhat surprised and pushed a cup of wine towards Jiang Heng: "Young master, your calculations are so astounding, may I ask which talented person you are?"
"I dare not claim to be a talented person. I am Jiang Heng, a failed candidate in the imperial examination."
"Jiang Heng? Which Heng?" Zhao Peiming pressed—he already had a question in his mind when he heard Jiang Heng.
“‘A gentleman is like a jade pendant, his feathered robes gleaming.’” Jiang Heng replied.
"Sir, you've gone to the tavern again? Drinking is bad for your health." Several men rode up to greet you.
Zhao Peiming caught the whip, mounted his horse, and said, "I just saw a scholar who said he failed the exam, but he could talk about military strategy. He also had a face covered with makeup and fox eyes that looked like deep pools. He was quite intimidating."
"What a cunning scholar! We've finally met our match!" "Luckily, he didn't bewitch Lord Zhao!" "He's truly treacherous! Lord Zhao, you must be careful, he might come prepared!" The others exchanged glances and discussed among themselves.
The group rode away.
When Zhao Peiming returned to his residence, the scholar's aloof voice from the tavern during the day still echoed in his ears.
"You lost to the player who wielded the pieces, you lost to—that rotten account that you could never unravel no matter how long you tried."
These words were like a red-hot iron rod, repeatedly scorching the most painful spot in his heart. He irritably dismissed his servants and stood alone facing a simple border map, his gaze fixed on the "Shajie Fortress" that occupied the north like a crouching tiger.
Zhao Chen was already furious, and when he opened the door and saw his son looking so dejected, he kicked him.
"You damned bastard! Still sitting here and letting me have my wild thoughts! This time we've lost again, and we're all doomed!" Zhao Chen roared furiously.
Zhao Peiming felt a sharp pain in his leg—his father's military boots were still on, inlaid with iron blocks, and even the most muscular man couldn't withstand such a kick.
"Father, what I'm thinking about is the next battle plan."
"I don't care what you're thinking. There can't be any more mistakes next time. If you still can't win, you'll die in the desert, wrapped in a horse's hide!" Zhao Chen said sternly.
As Zhao Chen walked away, the maid smiled apologetically at Zhao Peiming: "Young master, please don't take it to heart. It's normal for the master to be upset and speak sharply."
“It’s alright. It’s normal for him to feel resentful because he couldn’t kill the enemy,” Zhao Peiming said.
“General,” a guard’s voice sounded from outside the door, tinged with hesitation, “someone outside the mansion is requesting an audience. They say it’s…the scholar from the tavern during the day.”
Zhao Peiming's pupils contracted slightly. He's here. "Please come in!" he said in a deep voice, casually rolling up the map, revealing the course of the mountains and rivers on it as if by accident.
When Jiang Heng was led into the study, he still carried the dampness of the night rain, along with a faint scent of peach blossoms. He was still wearing that faded blue robe, but his demeanor was as composed as if he were entering his own study.
"Young Master Jiang, what brings you here so late at night?" Zhao Peiming remained seated in the main seat, his gaze scrutinizing the other man like a hawk's. Only an oil lamp burned in the study, casting a dim, yellowish light that projected the two men's shadows onto the wall, creating large, flickering patterns.
Jiang Heng stood at a distance, meeting Zhao Peiming's gaze without flinching: "Come and make a deal with the general."
"Oh?" Zhao Peiming raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly, exuding an invisible pressure. "What capital do I, a defeated general, have to make a deal with Young Master Jiang?"
Jiang Heng smiled and shook his head, his words striking a chord with Zhao Peiming: "What the general lacks is not a subordinate who obeys orders, but a 'one of your own' who can help you sort out that 'mess' and prevent you and your brothers from dying in vain."
Jiang Heng spoke slowly, pacing forward: "And I happen to know how to settle that account," the lamplight cast a shadow of light and shadow on his handsome profile, making him look more like a ghost or spirit, "I also know that the general's next expedition's provisions have been reduced by 30%. If there are no unforeseen circumstances, Shajie Pass will be the burial ground for the general and the Sa Ta cavalry."
Zhao Peiming clenched his fist tightly, his knuckles turning white—this was a military secret he himself had never known, how could he possibly know it?! If this man cannot be brought under his command, he will surely bring disaster for a thousand years to come.
"Speak your terms," Zhao Peiming said, his voice heavy, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword in the darkness.
Jiang Heng took out a roll of thin paper from his sleeve. It wasn't a silver note, but a meticulously drawn map, clearly marking all the border outposts. He stepped forward and whispered something mysterious to Zhao Peiming. Zhao Peiming's heart pounded. This scholar actually shared the same wildest ideas deep within his heart!
"Why... did you choose me?" Zhao Peiming stared intently at Jiang Heng's ambiguous smile, trying to see through his calm exterior to his true intentions.
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