Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

Han Fei usually came to Zi Lan Xuan alone. He'd carry a wine jug, swaying slightly as he entered, then sit in the elegant room on the second floor. He'd wait for Zi Nu to bring up a plate of peanuts before starting to write. But today, he came in with someone behind him. A young man. Sixteen or seventeen years old, dressed in a simple blue robe of good quality, but understated, the cuffs rolled up twice, revealing his slender wrists. He carried a scroll of bamboo slips, keeping a two-step distance from Han Fei, walking without looking up, focusing on his toes. As Han Fei climbed the stairs, he tapped the railing and said to the young man behind him, "Lift your feet higher. The last step is tilted."

The boy lifted his foot, stepped over the raised step, and onto the second-floor floor. Han Fei pushed open the door to the private room, turned his head to the inside, and said, "I brought someone with me. Please meet him."

Yang Huisheng sat at the desk, reading a scroll of manuscripts Han Fei had left behind the day before. He looked up and saw the boy. The boy saw him too. Their eyes met briefly in the air. The boy looked away first, lowering his gaze to the ground three inches in front of his feet.

Han Fei walked to the desk and sat down, pushing the scroll of manuscript aside and pouring himself a glass of water. "Sit. His name is Zhang Liang. He's practically my student."

The boy sat down slightly behind and to the side of Han Fei, his back ramrod straight, bamboo slips resting on his lap, his hands folded on top of them, as if awaiting an instruction. Han Fei took a sip of water, turned to look at the boy, and said, "You don't need to be so formal. This is Zilan Pavilion, not the academy."

Zhang Liang nodded slightly, his posture relaxing a bit—but not "lax," more like a "taut string" becoming "an arrow that has been slightly relaxed but is still ready to be shot at any moment."

Yang Huisheng was observing him.

After Zhang Liang sat down, he didn't look at Yang Huisheng or Han Fei. His gaze was fixed on a certain point on the table, as if there were a chess piece he was examining. But Yang Huisheng noticed something: Zhang Liang's eyes were moving unintentionally. Extremely light, extremely fast, and with a very small amplitude—his peripheral vision swept over the hilt of the Wentian Sword that Yang Huisheng had placed on the table, over the gray cloth shirt on the clothes rack in the corner, over the half-withered orchid on the windowsill, and over the direction of the door—just coinciding with the moment when Zi Nu brought in the tea.

He was looking at everyone.

Yang Huisheng mentally memorized the action. Then he asked, "You copied things for him?"

Zhang Liang raised his eyes and glanced at Yang Huisheng. "Yes."

"Copy what?"

"The second half of 'Five Vermin'." Zhang Liang's voice was soft but firm. "He wrote one chapter, and I copied it. After we finished copying, we compared them."

"When you were copying, did you ever consider which made more sense, his writing or your copy?"

Zhang Liang paused. His gaze lingered on Yang Huisheng's face for a moment—a full beat longer than his previous "glance." Then he said, "Those who copy don't judge the principles. They only care about copying correctly."

Han Fei picked up his water glass, concealing a slight smile from his lips. Yang Huisheng looked at Zhang Liang and said, "After reading it, did you have any thoughts about it?"

Zhang Liang was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Yes."

"What are you thinking about?"

"'Rule of law' is the way to go, but who will check and balance the law itself?" Zhang Liang said this in a soft voice, but the question was not light at all. After hearing this, Yang Huisheng put down his cup, leaned back in his chair, and looked at Zhang Liang.

Han Fei also put down his water glass. He looked at Zhang Liang without saying a word, but the expression on his face that said "I am listening" changed—from "listening to a student" to "listening to a person speaking."

Zhang Liang noticed the change in their attitudes. His body tensed slightly, then he added, "I only thought about it while copying. Don't take it seriously."

Yang Huisheng said, "That's a good idea."

Han Fei said, "When I taught him, I never taught him the words 'balance and control.' He came up with that phrase himself."

Zhang Liang lowered his head, looking at the bamboo slips on his lap. There was a very faint blush on the tips of his ears—not from shyness, but from the anticipation of having been "placed a pawn in someone else's game."

Yang Huisheng glanced at the faint red mark but didn't press further. He changed the subject: "Does your father know you're here?"

"Know."

"Your father is—"

"Zhang Ping," Zhang Liang said, "the former Prime Minister of South Korea."

He spoke these words in a very calm tone, without the arrogance of a scion of a prominent family, nor the evasiveness of avoiding the topic of his family background, as if he were stating something that did not require embellishment.

Yang Huisheng looked at him. "Grandfather, open your mouth?"

"yes."

"The Zhang family has produced three prime ministers in Korea. You come here to confiscate things, doesn't your family stop you?"

"My grandfather also knew Mr. Han Fei," Zhang Liang said, "and said that one could learn something from him."

Yang Huisheng mentally rechecked the information. Zhang Liang was no ordinary youth; he was a direct descendant of the most prestigious family in Han. For such a person to appear in Zilan Pavilion and sit beside Han Fei copying books was a signal in itself—representing that at least one branch of the old Han nobility was aligning themselves with Han Fei. He glanced at Han Fei.

Han Fei nodded slightly. The gesture meant: Yes, that's one of the reasons I brought him here. Not just to let you know him, but also to let you know—someone had already taken sides much earlier.

Yang Huisheng withdrew his gaze and looked at Zhang Liang again. This young man was quiet, taciturn, and didn't talk much, but the connection behind him was not just pen and ink, but the network and trust accumulated by three generations of prime ministers. The heir of a prestigious family sitting here copying books carried more weight than ten strategists shouting outside.

"You can come often in the future," Yang Huisheng said. "If you're not in a hurry after you've finished copying, stay and listen to us talk."

"What are you listening to?"

"Listen to us."

Zhang Liang raised his eyes and glanced at Yang Huisheng—not just glanced at him, but looked him directly in the eye. He stared for a couple of moments, then said, "Alright."

Han Fei stood up, stretched, and pulled out a few new sheets of paper from under the rolled-up manuscript. "Alright. He brought it. You've looked at it, asked all your questions. Go back to his seat—someone's bringing your food downstairs; eat before you leave."

Zhang Liang stood up, bowed slightly to Yang Huisheng, and then turned and left the private room. His steps were light; as he descended the stairs, he nodded slightly to Zi Nu, who also nodded gently. He didn't say "goodbye" or "farewell" at all.

Only Han Fei and Yang Huisheng remained in the elegant room. Han Fei sat back down at the desk, laid out new paper, and dipped his brush in ink. He didn't look up, but said, "What do you think of him?"

Yang Huisheng said, "It will be a very heavy weight."

Han Fei's pen paused on the paper. "You've only seen him for the time it takes to drink half a cup of tea."

"That's enough."

Han Fei didn't ask any more questions. He began to write, the pen making a soft, rustling sound on the paper. Yang Huisheng watched him write for a while, then said, "He just said 'who will check and balance the law itself'—did you teach him that?"

"No."

Have you thought about this yourself?

Han Fei's pen stopped. He stared at the half-written character on the paper for three breaths. Then he put down his pen, looked up at Yang Huisheng, and said, "I've thought about it. But I haven't decided how to answer yet."

"So, what's your answer?"

Han Fei stared at the unfinished characters for a long time in silence. Then he said, "Tell me when you've figured out how to destroy Qin."

Yang Huisheng didn't say "okay." He picked up his cup of tea, which had gone cold, and took a sip. Dusk was approaching outside the window, and a soft clinking of dishes came from the downstairs dining area—Zhang Liang was eating his meal. Upstairs, the two men were each thinking about the same question, but neither spoke first.

Downstairs, by the window, Zhang Liang sat with a bowl of hot soup in front of him. He didn't drink it immediately. He gently stirred the noodles with a spoon, then looked down at his reflection, watching it break apart and then gather again in the soup.

He heard the words from upstairs. He heard them all. He put down his spoon, picked up his bowl, and took a sip. The hot soup flowed down his throat, and he felt he had thought of a few words, but he didn't say them. He simply finished the bowl of soup silently, spoonful by spoonful, then took the empty bowl to the stove, washed his hands, straightened his cuffs, and walked out of Zilan Pavilion. In the night, his figure was thin and steady, walking much faster than when he came. It was as if something in his heart was urging him on.