Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

It was completely dark.

Xinzheng is a different city by day and night. By day, Xinzheng is gray, somber, like an old, patched robe; by night, however, Xinzheng lights up—not in the bright, over-the-top way, but in the kind of brightness that suggests "someone is watching from the shadows." Someone squats on a street corner, wiping a knife; occasionally, a cat darts across a rooftop; and from further away, faint laughter and curses drift. What was suppressed during the day begins to surface at night.

Yang Hui left the Heaven-Asking Sword at the inn.

He pondered this decision for a long time. A swordsman going out without his sword is essentially handing his life over to someone else. But tonight he wasn't going to fight; he was going to "talk." Walking into a building where he didn't know if someone was friend or foe, carrying a longsword as black as charcoal and as heavy as a monument without a sheath, the other party's first reaction wouldn't be to "listen to him." The sword would steal the show.

He changed into a clean gray cloth shirt, carefully put the bamboo slips and the faded hair ribbon close to his body, and left the copper coins under his pillow. When he went out, he did not take the main street, but climbed out of the back window of the inn, walked along the shadow of the eaves for a while, and then turned onto the road in the direction of Zilan Pavilion.

The Purple Orchid Pavilion looks completely different at night compared to during the day.

The door was wide open, and warm yellow candlelight shone from inside. The faint sound of stringed instruments drifted out, quiet and soft, like someone gently plucking strings with their fingernails. The stone steps in front of the door had been swept clean, and two maids dressed in red stood inside. When they saw a guest passing by, they would bow slightly, neither greeting nor stopping him—as if to say, "Come in if you want."

Yang Hui went inside.

The moment he stepped across the threshold, he felt a pair of eyes fall upon him. Not the door maids—their gazes were unfocused, the same for all guests. The gaze came from the direction of the second floor, very light, like a feather landing on the back of his neck, and then immediately looked away.

He didn't look up, nor did he slow his pace. He walked to the counter, behind which stood a woman in purple.

She was around thirty years old, her hair pulled back in a low bun, with a pair of small jade pendants on her earlobes. An account book lay open in front of her, and she held a pen in her hand, as if calculating something. When Yang Hui approached, she didn't look up, only saying, "We're closed for today."

Her voice was very calm. It was the same sound he'd heard sweeping leaves outside the door during the day—each word spoken steadily, without any inflection. But unlike during the day, she didn't detect any hint of "asking customers to leave" in the words "we're closing." She was simply stating a fact; whether the customers accepted it or left was of no concern to her.

Yang Hui didn't leave. He stopped in front of the counter and said, "I'm looking for someone."

The woman in purple finally raised her head. Her face appeared younger in the candlelight than in her voice; her eyebrows and eyes were delicate, neither bold nor bright, but her eyes were serene—serene like a pool of water on a winter morning. She glanced at Yang Hui, her gaze sweeping from his face to his shoulders, his wrists, his empty waist, and then looked away.

Who are you looking for?

"I heard there's a person here surnamed Han."

The woman in purple did not change her expression. She put down her pen, closed the account book, slowly adjusted her cuffs, then turned her head slightly and instructed a maid beside her, "Make this young master a pot of tea and bring it to the second-floor corridor."

The maid acknowledged and left. Only then did the woman in purple look at Yang Hui again, a very faint curve appearing at the corner of her mouth—not a smile, but an expression that said, "I know what you're doing."

"The person you're looking for isn't here today," she said, "but he comes often. If you're not in a hurry, you can wait."

"How long will it take?"

"Not necessarily. Sometimes he comes the next day, sometimes three or four days. He's not very punctual."

Yang Hui nodded. "Then I'll wait."

The woman in purple emerged from behind the counter and led him up to the second floor. The wooden stairs creaked slightly as he climbed them. The second floor was quieter than the first; the doors to several rooms were closed, and at the end of the corridor was a half-open window through which the night breeze blew, causing the candlelight to flicker.

She stopped in the corridor, pushed open a door, and entered a small, elegant room with a low table, cushions, and a pot of water boiling. Faint bamboo shadows were cast on the wall—the wall was made of paper, and the candlelight shone through, casting the shadows of several bamboo stalks from the courtyard outside onto the wall.

"Sit." The woman in purple sat down at the table first and began to arrange the tea set. Her movements were very efficient—warming the cups, adding tea leaves, pouring water, and pouring the tea, all in one smooth motion, as if she had done it thousands of times.

Yang Hui sat down opposite her, placing his hands on his knees.

The woman in purple pushed a cup of tea towards him. "You don't have a sword on you. You go out without a sword?"

"Not tonight."

Why?

"Fear of the sword prevents people from telling the truth."

The woman in purple picked up her teacup, brought it to her lips but didn't drink; she merely smelled it before setting it down. "Aren't you afraid I'll have someone put something in my tea?"

"You won't."

How do you know I can't?

Yang Hui picked up the cup of tea and took a sip. The water was hot, slightly bitter at first, then sweet. He put the teacup back on the table and said, "You've worked at Zilanxuan for more than three years. Someone who's been there for so long wouldn't lay a hand on a guest the moment they take their first sip of tea."

The woman in purple looked at him, and the stillness in her eyes flickered slightly—like a thin layer of ice cracking on a pond on a winter morning. Then she concealed the crack, picked up her teacup again, and this time actually took a sip.

"Are you from the north?" she asked.

"South."

"What place is to the south?"

"Mountain."

There are many kinds of mountains. Which one are you?

Yang Hui thought for a moment and said, "The kind that's very high. It's shrouded in mist all year round."

The woman in purple put down her cup. She didn't press for details about "what mountain," but her gaze towards Yang Hui held a deeper meaning—as if she already had a pretty good idea, but chose not to reveal it.

"You said you were looking for someone surnamed Han," she changed the subject, "What do you want with him?"

"I heard he's writing a book."

"He's written many books. Which one are you referring to?"

Yang Hui said, "The Five Vermin."

The woman in purple paused for a moment—a very brief pause, almost unnoticed by Yang Hui unless he was watching her intently. She set the teacup down steadily and said, "That book isn't finished yet. Not many people know its name."

"I know."

"How did you know that?"

"The right person told me that."

"Which one is the right one?"

Yang Hui didn't answer. He picked up his teacup and took another sip, then said, "If that man surnamed Han comes, tell him—someone has seen that mountain that's perpetually shrouded in mist. If he wants to see it, he can come."

The woman in purple was silent for a few seconds. Then she smiled—not with the "I know what you're doing" expression she wore at the counter, but a genuine smile. Fine lines appeared at the corners of her eyes, like light suddenly shining through a block of ice.

"You're an interesting person," she said. "You come looking for someone, but you don't leave your name or tell them where you're from. You only tell me what you want to tell him—'Someone has seen that mountain.' What makes you think I'll help you deliver your message?"

Yang Hui looked at her and said, "Because you also want to see him finish writing that book."

The woman in purple's smile faded, but it wasn't cold. She picked up the teapot, poured Yang Hui a second cup of tea, and then poured one for herself. She raised the cup towards Yang Hui.

"Okay," she said. "What's your name?"

"I'll let you know next time I come."

"The tea might not be free next time you come."

Yang Hui stood up and nodded slightly to her. "It's worth it even if it's not free."

He turned and walked out of the elegant room, downstairs. The footsteps behind him were light and steady, unlike the deliberate lightness he had shown when he came. As he reached the door, he heard the voice of a woman in purple from the second floor, neither too loud nor too soft, as if she were speaking to a maid:

"Close the windows in the corridor. The night air is getting chilly."

Yang Hui didn't turn around, but he understood the underlying meaning of those words—"You should leave; someone will come looking for you."

He walked out of Zilan Pavilion and into the night of Xinzheng. The wind was indeed cool, carrying a faint dampness on his face, as if it were about to rain. He quickened his pace back towards the inn, processing the information from the conversation he had just had.

A woman in purple. Purple Orchid Pavilion. A person surnamed Han. Quicksand.

He was about 70-80% sure about each word, but always fell short by 20-30%. He needed to see that person—the one who wrote *Five Vermin*. Tonight's "warm-up" was enough. The woman in purple would deliver a message. A man surnamed Han would come.

He returned to the inn, climbed through the window, and checked that the copper coins under his pillow were still there. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, took out the bamboo scroll of divination from his robes, unfolded it, and glanced at it—there was no new content, but he confirmed that the three characters in cinnabar script, "Do not pry into your own secrets," were still there. He rolled up the bamboo scroll and put it away.

Then he lay down.

The wind outside the window was stronger than before, making the paper windowpanes rustle. He closed his eyes and heard a faint clapper sound in the distance—it was the third watch. The third watch in Xinzheng City.

He thought to himself: Han Fei, I read your book back in Guiguzi.

In the fourth year, his master tossed him a scroll, saying, "Take a look; it was written by someone who isn't dead yet." He studied it for three days, then asked his master, "Is this person still alive?"

The master said, "Live. Write the second half in Korea."

He said, "Then I'll go find him."

The master said, "Even if you go, you can't save his country."

He said, "I will not save his country, but his people."

The master remained silent. Outside the window, the clouds and mist of Guigu Valley hung in the air, a perpetual gray that never dissipated. He lay on a plank bed in a small inn in Xinzheng, the wind blowing through the human world. When it touched his face, it was real.

He turned over and slowly fell asleep.