Chapter 31
The chill wind from the Jingbei Military Tomb seemed to follow the sound of horse hooves all the way to the vermilion walls of the Shengjing Imperial Ancestral Temple. Snowflakes finally began to fall, a few scattered drops at first, splattering onto the cold, golden-bricked square in front of the Ancestral Temple before melting away in an instant. The sky was as gloomy as splashed ink, its leaden clouds weighing heavily on the double-eaved, glazed-tile roof and the majestic, coiled-dragon stone pillars before the temple, their heads raised to the sky. The air was suffocatingly solemn, the only sound being the low, whimpering sound of the wind through the massive brackets between the halls.
Gu Linzhi stood alone in the center of the square. He was still dressed in his solemn dark uniform, a thin layer of snow-white dust on his shoulders. The scar on his cheek was even more distinct in the dimming light, like a mark carved into ice. He arrived on foot, not on a horse. In his hands, he held a rosewood tray. The tray was covered with a piece of pure, snow-white brocade. Beneath the brocade, the cold edges and contours of metal could be vaguely seen.
His figure loomed particularly lonely in the vast, empty square. Ahead, the massive, nine-bay gate of the Imperial Ancestral Temple was tightly shut, like the mouth of a silent beast. On either side, the ritual officials of the Taichang Temple, the elders of the Zongzheng Temple, and several high-ranking officials granted special permission to observe the ceremony stood in awe, all dressed in formal court robes, their hands lowered, their breath held in concentration. Countless gazes, as if tangible, focused on him, on the plain brocade-covered tray in his hands.
The snow gradually thickened. The fine snowflakes hit his face, bringing a biting chill. The wind rustled his dark robe sleeves, making them rustle.
Gu Linzhi took a step. His steps were steady, and the golden bricks covered with fallen snow made a slight but clear rustling sound. Step by step, he walked towards the tightly closed main gate of the Taimiao, which symbolized the source of imperial power and patriarchal system.
As he walked, the massive, heavy, vermilion-lacquered palace door, studded with ninety-nine and eighty-one copper nails, slowly swung inward, as if drawn by an invisible force! A heavy, drawn-out "creak--creak--creak" emanated, like the sigh of an ancient beast awakening. Inside, the light was dim, illuminated only by the faint glow of an eternal lamp, illuminating the solemnly arranged ancestral tablets of successive emperors. Curtains of incense hung in the air, creating a solemn and dignified atmosphere, carrying a weighty pressure that transcended time and space.
Gu Linzhi paused at the threshold. He raised his head slightly, his gaze piercing the lingering incense and dim light of the hall, resting calmly on the massive gilded shrine in the center, enshrining the Great Yong Emperor Gao. His deep eyes held neither awe nor fear, only a tranquility as still as a well.
He lifted the rosewood tray steadily in both hands, raising it above his brow. His movements were precise, like the most devout believer offering a sacrifice. Then, he stepped forward, crossing the cold, smooth threshold that symbolized the boundary between the mundane and the sacred.
Inside the hall, the light grew even dimmer. The air seemed frozen, thick with the scent of aged sandalwood and wood. The massive beams and pillars cast deep shadows in the dim light. Only the bean-sized flame of the eternal lamp danced silently before the ancestral tablet.
An old Zongzheng, dressed in Xuanduan ritual robes, with white hair and beard, and a gaunt face, appeared silently beside Gu Linzhi like a ghost emerging from the shadows. He was the elder holding the seal of the Zongzheng Temple, highly respected and embodying the most ancient majesty of the imperial bloodline. The old Zongzheng's cloudy gaze swept across the tray in Gu Linzhi's hands, then fell on his calm face. His eyes were complex, with a hint of indescribable fatigue and understanding.
Without a word, the old patriarch leaned slightly aside and led Gu Linzhi to the deepest part of the hall, a red sandalwood altar beneath the shrine of the Great Ancestor. The altar was empty, as if it had been waiting there for a long time.
Gu Linzhi stood before the altar. He slowly leaned over and placed the red sandalwood tray in the center of the altar, steady and solemn. His movements were gentle, as if he were placing a fragile, rare treasure. Then, he reached out, his fingertips grasping the plain white brocade covering it, and gently peeled it away.
On the tray, there lay the black iron token, its edge chipped and covered in dragon scale patterns! In the dim light, the cold metal shone with a deep, restrained luster. The iron-painted, silver-hooked character "Gu" (Gu) etched across the back of the token, stood out against the shadow of the Taizu shrine, carrying a sense of loneliness and sorrow.
Under the token was an unsealed white letter.
Gu Linzhi stood up, his gaze resting on the broken black iron token for the last time. His fingertips unconsciously brushed against the sharp, fresh break on the edge of the token, where the bluestone had knocked it. The cold touch pierced his heart.
He didn't pause, turning around. His dark figure blended into the thick shadows of the hall, silently passing through the solemn elders and ceremonial officials, heading towards the huge, open hall door that let in the snowy light and cold air from outside.
The old patriarch silently watched Gu Linzhi's departing figure disappear into the light at the doorway, then slowly turned his head and looked at the broken black iron token and the plain paper on the altar. He stretched out his bony fingers, picked up the plain paper, and unfolded it.
There were only a few words on the letter, the handwriting was so strong that it could be seen through the paper:
"Power has returned to the ancestral temple, and the blood debt has been paid. I, a solitary minister, Gu Linzhi, beg to retire and return to the mountains and rivers. The young emperor is kind and benevolent, and I hope you will assist him well."
There was no signature. Only the battered black iron token, like a silent period, sat atop the letter.
The old patriarch's hand, gripping the letter, trembled slightly. A deep sigh flickered across his cloudy old eyes. He carefully refolded the letter and placed it back beneath the black iron token. Then, facing the shrine of the great ancestor, the incomplete token symbolizing immense power and endless blood debt, he bowed deeply.
---
Qianyuan Palace, West Warm Pavilion.
The fire still burned warm, but it couldn't dispel the chill that pierced his bones. Emperor Zhao Yan, only ten years old, sat uncomfortably on the spacious throne, clad in a bright yellow dragon robe that was too loose for him. His small body struggled to stand straight, yet it still looked frail and fragile. His fair face was tense, his clear eyes filled with a nervousness and confusion that belied his age, and even a subtle hint of fear. The throne was so high that his toes couldn't even reach the ground; it hovered in the air, swaying subconsciously.
The armrests of the dragon throne were made of cool rosewood, intricately carved with cloud and dragon patterns. On the inside of the right armrest, near where his tiny hands rested, were several minute yet profound nail scratches. Those were the marks left by the late Emperor Zhao Heng, in his final frenzied tirade against the dragon robe, unconsciously scratching with his fingernails. Zhao Yan's tiny fingers unconsciously rubbed those scratches, as if touching a cold and terrifying past.
Below the steps, three elderly cabinet ministers, their hair and beards white, dressed in red and purple dragon robes, held ivory tablets, their heads bowed in solemnity. They were the empire's last pillars, yet their faces were heavy with fatigue and caution. The atmosphere in the hall was so solemn that you could hear a pin drop.
"...Gu... Prime Minister Gu..." Zhao Yan's voice was childish and nervous, as thin as a mosquito's, almost inaudible in the empty hall. "Is he... is he really... gone?"
The cabinet's chief minister, Zhang Gelao, had white hair and beard. He raised his head slightly at the words and spoke in a voice that was old and respectful. "Your Majesty, Prime Minister Gu... has already returned the Black Iron Order to the Ancestral Temple at noon today. He also... has submitted a petition requesting his ashes." He paused, choosing his words. "Prime Minister Gu has worked tirelessly for the country and made outstanding contributions. Now that Jiangnan has been stabilized and the court is gradually stabilizing, Prime Minister Gu... must be exhausted both physically and mentally and wishes to retire to the countryside to enjoy his remaining years."
"Live out...to a ripe old age?" Zhao Yan murmured repeatedly, his clear eyes filled with growing confusion. He couldn't connect the figure, said to be as majestic as a god and as cold as an Asura, with the words "live out." His small fingers dug harder into the scratches on the armrest, as if trying to draw a shred of courage from the cold wood. "Then...then what should I...what should I do?"
Elder Zhang exchanged a complicated glance with the other two elders, then bowed deeply. "Your Majesty is the true Dragon Son of Heaven, inheriting the throne as destined by Heaven! I, along with all the civil and military officials in the court, will wield all my loyalty and wisdom to assist Your Majesty and protect the country! Your Majesty only needs to rule with ease, befriend virtuous ministers, distance yourself from villains, and diligently cultivate your virtues. Then the people will be united and peace will reign!"
This high-sounding recital, flawless as it was, was like a thin veil separating the young child on the throne from the cold and complex reality of this vast empire.
Zhao Yan nodded, half understanding, his small hands still clutching the handrail. He surveyed the empty, solemn hall, his gaze sweeping past the elderly ministers bowing their heads respectfully at the steps, past the eunuchs and palace maids standing solemnly in the corners, and finally, vacantly, into the dim shadows deep within the hall. It was so vast, so quiet, so unnervingly still. He suddenly remembered that dark figure. Though always cold and silent, frightening, at least… when he was there, the hall didn't seem so empty, so… cold.
A huge feeling of helplessness and loneliness instantly gripped the young emperor. He ducked his head, his small shoulders heaving slightly as he fought to keep the tears welling in his eyes from falling. He didn't dare cry. His father had said that an emperor couldn't cry.
"Your Majesty..." Elder Zhang seemed to have sensed something was wrong with the young emperor, and his voice became even slower. "Prime Minister Gu left behind instructions before he left..."
Zhao Yan suddenly raised his head, a faint light flashing in his eyes: "Minister Gu...what did you say?"
From his sleeve, Grand Secretary Zhang pulled a scroll of bright yellow silk-covered manuscript—it was Gu Linzhi's proposal for reforming the salt and iron transport system in Jiangnan, establishing a Protectorate, and implementing the "camphor wood token." He respectfully presented it with both hands: "Minister Gu said that Jiangnan is the lifeblood of the nation, and the salt, iron, and canal transports are crucial to the entire system. This is the fruit of his hard work in governing Jiangnan. I hope Your Majesty... and I will make good use of it to ensure the safety of the people and strengthen the foundation of the nation." He made no mention of the concise yet weighty memorial, nor of the battered black iron decree in the Imperial Ancestral Temple.
The eunuch took the manuscript and presented it to the dragon table. Zhao Yan reached out his small hand and clumsily flipped open the thick memorial. The dense handwriting, iron-like strokes and silver-like hooks, penetrated the paper, and each word exuded a cold, unquestionable power. He couldn't understand the complexities of the grain transport routes, salt quotas, and camphorwood tokens, but he recognized the handwriting. It was exactly the same as the "Gu" character on the token nailed to the Panlong Pillar of Chengtian Gate.
As he looked at the handwriting, he seemed to see the dark figure again, standing on the bloody execution platform, his eyes calmly sweeping over the prostrating officials, his voice like the friction of cold iron, issuing decrees that could change the lifeline of the southeastern part of the empire.
Small fingers unconsciously stroked the cold marks on the memorial. The icy touch seemed to penetrate through the fingertips and reach the depths of the heart, bringing a strange, indescribable sense of peace. It was as if the awe-inspiring and terrifying figure had not truly left, but had simply transformed into the cold ink characters on the memorial, still silently supporting this crumbling sky.
"I... understand." Zhao Yan's voice remained childish, yet it carried a subtle solemnity. He closed the memorial, straining his small body to sit up a little straighter on the spacious dragon throne. His clear gaze directed at the elder ministers below him. "Lord Zhang, regarding the Jiangnan issue... let's do as Prime Minister Gu ordered. You... must do it well."
"Your humble servant... obeys your command!" Lord Zhang and the other two elders bowed deeply at the same time, their voices carrying a barely perceptible sense of relief and a deeper solemnity.
The snow finally turned into goose feathers, fluttering and covering the sky and earth, dyeing the houses, streets, red walls and green tiles of Shengjing a pure silver white.
South of the city, at the Tonghui River wharf. The once bustling and bustling wharf, now blanketed in snow, seemed eerily deserted and desolate. The muddy water, lamenting the drifting ice, drifted away. Several small boats, weighed down by the thick snow like white grave mounds, lay moored on the shore.
An unassuming black-sailed boat sat quietly in a remote corner. Its hull was old, its sail covered in thick snow. Only a single, sluggish lantern on the bow stubbornly glowed dimly in the snow.
Gu Linzhi appeared at the end of the dock's boardwalk. He was still wearing his dark uniform, his shoulders covered in snow. He didn't hold an umbrella, and the wind and snow lashed his face, condensing on his brows and eyelashes, and whitening his temples. The scar on his cheek, reflected in the snow, seemed even more profound.
He held a small, blue cloth bundle in his hand. From one corner of the bundle, half of a rough account book cover, stained black with blood and sweat, was revealed. It was Ge Ping's account book, lost in the Black Rock Canal Boat Incident and recovered by Shadow Scale.
He walked steadily across the thick snow on the plank road toward the lonely black-sailed boat. The crunching sound of his boots on the snow was particularly clear in the vast snowy field.
At the bow, an old boatman, wearing a worn bamboo hat and a bulky cotton-padded jacket, was hunched over, clearing the snow and thin ice from the side of the boat with a long bamboo pole. Seeing Gu Linzhi approaching, the old boatman raised his cloudy eyes and, without saying a word, silently put a snow-soaked gangplank on the shore.
Gu Linzhi nodded slightly and stepped onto the gangplank. The black-sailed boat swayed slightly, and the wind lantern on the bow swayed with it.
He bent down, lifted the heavy black awning curtain, and lowered his head to enter the cabin.
The cabin was cramped but immaculately tidy. A low table and an oil lamp fixed to the wall cast a warm, dim glow. On the table, a simple, camphorwood chest, about a foot and a half square, lay prominently. Its surface was covered in years of wear and tear, with several deep knife marks. On one corner, a clear number was imprinted in the light of the lamplight: "Seven!"
The seventh camphorwood box! And the last one!
Gu Linzhi sat down beside the low table. His dark figure was as still as a mountain in the narrow cabin. He placed the blue cloth bundle in his hand on the low table and untied it. Inside was nothing but Ge Ping's old account book.
He picked up the account book. The rough paper curled and fuzzed at the edges, the cover blurred by stains of blood, sweat, and perhaps even tears. He slowly flipped open the pages. The pages had long since yellowed and become brittle, the handwriting crooked and crooked, recording the number of bags of salt shipped, the amount of losses, the shipping fee, and the date of the month and year... trivial, humble, yet the most tangible record of a small figure struggling to survive within the vast chain of interests. Between the lines, he could still see Ge Ping's hunched figure fiddling with an abacus under the dim oil lamp, his eyes filled with fear and despair amid the blood and fire of Black Rock.
His fingertips brushed past the blurred handwriting, past the stains stained with blood and tears. Gu Linzhi's deep eyes, reflecting the flickering flame of the oil lamp, were calm and undisturbed. There was no compassion, no anger, only a quietness that came from having seen so much.
He put down the account book and turned his gaze to the battered camphorwood box number 7 on the small table.
The boat lurched gently. From outside, the old boatman untied the ropes and paddled a bamboo pole through the ice. The black-sailed boat slowly left the shore and sailed into the snow-swept, turbulent Tonghui River.
Gu Linzhi reached out, his knuckles touching the cold camphorwood lid. His fingertips brushed over the deep knife marks, over the clear number "Seven." Then, he lifted the lid.
There were no glittering jewels, no priceless secret letters, and even less deadly gunpowder. Inside the box, there were only thick, neatly stacked, yellowed, and brittle... lists.
On the cover of the top volume, written in thick ink were a few large, square characters that bore the marks of weathering:
**List of soldiers killed in action at the Yizi Post of the Left Guard Vanguard Battalion of the Jingbei Army**.
Gu Linzhi's fingers paused slightly. He picked up the list and flipped it open. Page after page, row after row, densely packed with names and their places of origin. Next to some names, a small cross was drawn in red ink, with annotations like "Wolf Mountain Rear Guard," "Frozen to Death in Ice Valley," "Sacrificed for Exhaustion Before the Flag"... Each name, each cold footnote, represented a vibrant life that once roared and raged in the northern snow, only to return to silence.
He read in silence. Page after page. Inside the cabin, there was only the crackling of the burning oil lamp, the crash of the hull breaking through the water, and the howling of the wind and snow outside.
An unknown amount of time passed. Gu Linzhi closed the roster and gently placed it back in the box. He leaned over and lifted the heavy camphorwood box with both hands. The box was heavy, as if it contained a hundred thousand silent graves.
He cradled his box and stepped out of the low black tent. A sharp gust of wind and snow instantly hit him, lifting his robe and the frost on his temples.
The black-sailed boats had reached the confluence of the Tonghui River and the Beijing-Hangzhou Grand Canal. The river was vast, turbulent waves were surging, and the wind and snow were everywhere. The sky and the earth were a vast chaos.
Gu Linzhi stood alone at the bow. The wind and snow danced wildly, buffeting his dark figure. He lowered his head, taking one last look at the battered camphorwood box in his arms. His fingertips lingered for a moment on the deeply engraved number "Seven" on the lid.
Then, he used his arms to exert strength and threw the heavy camphorwood box into the rolling muddy waves!
“Plop!”
A dull thud!
The box smashed into the icy river water, sending up a murky splash before being instantly swallowed by the surging waves. Only a fleeting whirlpool remained on the river's surface, which was then completely smoothed out by the rushing water, leaving no trace.
The wind and snow intensified. Gu Linzhi stood alone at the bow, his dark figure gradually blurring between the drifting snow and the vast expanse of water. He slowly turned, lifted the curtain of the black sail, and stooped to reenter the cabin.
Inside the cabin, the dim glow of the oil lamp was still warm. On the low table, Ge Ping's old account book lay quietly open. On the opened page, a line of crooked handwriting was particularly clear under the light:
"...On the seventh day of the third month of the Guimao year, a ship carrying two hundred bags of 'green salt' was dispatched from the Bingzi Warehouse in Hangzhou Prefecture, with Wang Laowu and Li Ergou as escorts...On that day, there was continuous spring rain, but the canal was calm, so the ship was stable..."
Gu Linzhi sat down beside the low table. Outside, the wind and snow howled, and the waves churned. Inside, the only sounds were the faint hum of the burning oil lamp and the rustling of fingertips across the rough pages of the account book.
He picked up his pen and dipped it in ink. He paused for a moment, the tip of the pen hovering over the line in the account book that read "Spring rain continues."
The snow fell silently on the black sail, gently covering the last trace of it.
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