Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

The city gate of Xinzheng was shorter than he had imagined.

When Yang Hui looked at the city from afar, he thought it should be more magnificent—after all, it was the capital of Korea. But as he got closer, he noticed that the city walls had been repaired. Several crenellations were made of newly laid bricks, their color a darker shade than the surrounding gray walls, like patches on an old robe. The flags on the city walls were new, the red character "韩" (Han) fluttering in the morning breeze, but he noticed that the paint on the flagpoles had peeled off, revealing the grayish-white wood grain underneath.

The soldiers guarding the city glanced at him but didn't question him. A young man in a blue cloth shirt with a black sword at his waist was not unusual in chaotic times. The soldier waved him past.

The light in the city gate dimmed for a moment. As he stepped across the threshold, it felt like passing through a thin membrane—the air outside the city was cool and clear, while the air inside was warm and murky, carrying the smells of smoke and the scent of people, along with an indescribable stuffiness. It was as if everyone in the city was holding their breath, waiting for something.

He walked down the main street. The sky was just beginning to lighten, and shops were opening one after another. Steam rose from noodle stalls, and vendors carrying loads of noodles called out their wares along the street. It looked no different from any other city.

But he figured it out.

He saw more beggars on the street corner than elsewhere, huddled under the eaves, with chipped bowls in front of them; he saw the blacksmith's apprentice forging hoes—not weapons, but farm tools; he saw a notice posted on the wall, a newly issued decree of corvée labor from the state of Han, conscripting laborers to repair the northern city wall, those who went would be given three bushels of grain, those who did not would be fined five hundred coins. Next to the notice was another piece of paper, torn in half by the wind and rain, revealing the words "Qin Envoy..."

Yang Hui didn't stop to take a closer look. He continued walking.

He was observing the "qi" (energy/spirit) of the city.

Guiguzi taught him: When assessing a city, don't look at how high the walls are or how many soldiers there are; look at the eyes of the people. The eyes of the people hold the city's destiny.

He passed an old woman selling vegetables; her eyes were gray, she didn't look at him, or anyone else, only at her vegetable stall, as if waiting for some bad news to fall. He passed two young scholars talking, their eyes shining—when they spoke of "reform" and "new policies," but their voices were very low, so low that only the two of them could hear. He passed a merchant dressed in silk, with a protruding belly; his eyes were bright—a light that said, "I have money, I can earn it for a few more years, and then I'll run away."

Three types of people. Three types of eyes. Yang Hui silently memorized these thoughts and continued forward.

After walking through three streets, the layout of Xinzheng became roughly clear in his mind: the southeast was the marketplace, the northwest was the government offices and mansions, and the north was the royal palace. The marketplace was bustling but floating, as if it had no roots; the road over the government offices was wider than here, but there were few pedestrians, and occasionally a carriage would pass by, its curtains drawn tightly.

He stopped at the entrance of an alley. The alley was not deep, and at the end was a large courtyard with high walls. Two stone beasts squatted in front of the gate, and the vermilion gate was tightly closed. There was no plaque on the gate, but the steps leading to the gate were seven steps higher than the street level. Two swordsmen stood on either side of the gate, their hands clasped in front of them, as immovable as mountains.

This is the General's Mansion. Ji Wuye's residence.

Yang Hui stood at the alley entrance for three breaths. He didn't stare—he only glanced at it out of the corner of his eye as he passed by. But in those three breaths, he had already noticed a few things: the warriors at the gate were soldiers, not江湖人 (jianghu people, people of the martial arts world); the way they wore their waist knives was Qin style, not Han style; the stone surface of the steps was unevenly worn, with a deeper depression in the middle, indicating that people frequently came and went—but those people's habit was to "walk in the middle, not on the sides"; there were no lanterns above the gate, but there were two iron hooks on the lintel, as if something had been hung there before and then removed.

He drew a line in his mind: Ji Wuye had dealings with the Qin army, and might have already begun to "take sides in advance".

This information isn't useful now, but it will be useful later. He continued walking.

After he passed the area of ​​the General's Mansion, the oppressive feeling in the air dissipated somewhat. But the feeling that "someone is watching you" didn't completely disappear—he knew this wasn't an illusion. Ji Wuye wasn't the only one watching this city. Those hiding in the shadows had arrived earlier and longer than him.

He needed to find a place to stay first. More importantly, he needed to find someone—someone he could talk to.

As Yang Hui walked down the street, he overheard a phrase being mentioned by two young vendors in their casual conversation: "Zilanxuan." They weren't saying anything nice—"They made a scene all night again," "People from the General's Mansion went," "I wonder if the proprietress can hold on"—but he caught the word "proprietress."

He decided to go to Zilan Pavilion first. Not for drinking, but for "listening." A place that could cause such a ruckus in the General's Mansion overnight—there must be something there he wanted to know.

Zilan Pavilion is located in the southeast corner of Xinzheng, near the city wall. The three-story building features carved windows and an old plaque above the door, the calligraphy of which is quite good, though the paint has faded. During the day, it is very quiet; the main door is ajar, and fallen leaves from the previous night have accumulated on the stone steps in front of it. Yang Hui passed by without stopping, only slowing his pace slightly.

He saw a sliver of light coming through the crack in the door and heard the sound of sweeping inside, a soft, gentle rustling. Then he heard a woman's voice, speaking slowly and deliberately, "Sweep the leaves around the doorway clean, so people don't slip and fall."

The voice was very calm, as if giving an insignificant, everyday instruction. But Yang Hui noticed the rhythm of the voice—each word was spoken very steadily, without any inflection. Even when saying "sweep the leaves," the speaker was controlling their emotions.

He didn't go in. Now is not the time.

He continued walking, turning into an alley behind Zilan Pavilion, and found a small inn to stay in. The inn was small, with one room, one window, and one plank bed. He took out the bamboo scroll of the Heavenly Secrets Technique from his bundle, spread it out on the table, and looked at it for a while. Not practice, but "warm up." After leaving Ghost Valley, he would warm up it every day, like a swordsman polishing his sword.

Outside the window came the sounds of street vendors hawking their wares, children laughing, and women shouting and cursing. Ordinary, vivid, and noisy human sounds. As he listened, he slowly rolled up the bamboo slips and tucked them into his robes.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes.

He was waiting for nightfall. After dark, he would go to Zilan Pavilion again. Passing by during the day was "by chance," but going in at night was a "visit." He wanted to see the "property owner."

Before that, he did something: he took out a small cloth bag from his pocket, which contained only three things—a bamboo scroll, a copper coin, and a red hair ribbon.

That hairband was from ten years ago. It was the one the girl in red in the dilapidated temple wore in her hair. It broke off and fell to the ground, where he picked it up. Ten years have passed, and the red has faded to a light pink, but he has kept it.

He rolled up the hairband again and put it back in his pocket. Then he lay down and closed his eyes.

The sounds of people outside the window were still ringing out. He listened, and his breathing gradually calmed down, as if he were asleep. But he didn't sleep.

He was waiting for it to get dark.