Qin's Moon: Yang Shi's Long Song

Yang Hui waited for three days.

On the first day, he went nowhere, sitting in his inn room with the window slightly ajar, watching a pancake shop across the street from opening to closing. On the second day, he went out and walked half a street, standing for a while at the foot of the city wall, watching several old soldiers hanging their clothes out to dry—their clothes were old, but very clean and neatly folded. On the third day, he went nowhere, staying in his room flipping through the bamboo scroll. On his third flip, he heard footsteps downstairs.

The footsteps stopped at the entrance of the inn.

Yang Hui rolled up the bamboo slips and put them in his pocket. As he stood up, the sunlight streaming through the clouds shone onto the table. He heard someone downstairs talking to the shopkeeper. The voices were low, but the tone was relaxed, as if they knew everyone and weren't in a hurry to finish their conversation.

"A young man, living in the third-floor apartment facing the street. Right?"

The innkeeper said something, and the man chuckled, "No need to call me up. Just pass on a message for me—say someone invited him for drinks, and he's already seated downstairs."

The footsteps moved away.

Yang Hui stood in the room for a while. Then he went downstairs.

There were six or seven tables set up in the lobby of the inn. It was dinnertime and there weren't many people, except for one person sitting in a corner. The person was wearing a faded white robe—not made of expensive material, but the kind of old robe that had been worn many times and was soft and comfortable after washing—and was carrying a pot of wine in his hand. It wasn't from the inn; he had brought it himself. It was an earthenware pot, and a red paper strip was pasted on the pot with a single character written on it: Han.

He sat there, legs crossed, head tilted, looking at a yellowed notice posted on the wall. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, he didn't turn his head, but merely glanced sideways, as if using his peripheral vision to pinpoint the location of whoever was approaching. Then he smiled.

When he turned around, Yang Hui saw his face clearly. He was fair-skinned, young, and his eyes held a light that couldn't be hidden—a light that said, "I've thought about many things." He watched Yang Hui walk over, put the pottery pot on the table, and patted the stool next to him.

"sit."

Yang Hui sat down opposite him. An old wooden table separated them, a crack running through its surface, filled with years of grease and grime. A jug of wine sat in the center of the crack, as if deliberately placed there to draw their gazes together.

"You brought a sword?" The young man in white glanced at Yang Hui's waist, where the Heaven-Asking Sword was hanging—Yang Hui hadn't left it at the inn tonight.

"I brought it."

"Hmm. I should have brought one too, but I'm not very good at it." He chuckled, peeling off the red paper from the wine jug to reveal the dark red liquid inside. "You know how to wield a sword, I only know how to pour wine. We're even."

He poured a glass for Yang Hui and then one for himself. He poured with remarkable steadiness—the wine flowed smoothly into the glass without a single drop spilling. Yang Hui noticed the steadiness of his hand. It wasn't the steadiness of someone who had practiced swordsmanship; it was something else entirely—like the precise control of someone who writes regularly.

"How long have you been waiting?" The young man in white picked up his cup, smelled it, but didn't drink it.

"Three days."

"Three days. That's alright, not too long." He put down his cup. "I've heard what you said."

"What did you say?"

“‘Someone has seen that mountain that is shrouded in mist all year round.’” The white-robed young man’s eyes lit up—not with excitement, but with the smugness of “I’ve guessed your answer.” “I’ve heard of that mountain, but I’ve never seen it. But I’ve heard that it only accepts two disciples a year, but they say you are an exception.”

Yang Hui did not deny it. He said, "I have read that book."

Which one?

"The first half of 'Five Vermin'".

The smile on the white-robed young man's face froze for a moment, like a pebble thrown into water, creating ripples but leaving the center calm. Then he picked up his cup and drank the first sip of wine.

"The first half was written four years ago." He put down his cup. "You saw it four years ago?"

"transcript."

"Who copied it?"

"A person who lives in the mountains."

The young man in white thought for a moment, then didn't ask who the person was. He refilled both cups of wine, placed the wine pot aside, and rested his hands on the table, his fingers clasped together. His posture changed from "coming to see a stranger" to "coming to see someone he wanted to see."

"What did you think of that book?"

Yang Hui said, "The path is right, but you haven't finished writing it."

The young man in white raised an eyebrow. "How do you know I haven't finished writing?"

"That book describes five things. It talks about 'why change', and it's 100,000 words long. But you didn't write about 'how to change'."

The young man in white looked at him for three breaths. Then he smiled, not the kind of "I'm here to say hello" smile he had before, but a genuine smile—his eyes crinkled slightly as if he had heard something he hadn't heard in a long time, something true.

"You're right," he said. "I haven't written the second half yet. Because I'm waiting for someone who can tell me 'how to change.' Before you came, I thought I'd never find someone, and I was planning to write it myself."

"How much did you force yourself to write?"

"Three thousand words. After I finished writing it, I read it three times, then burned it all."

"Why burn it?"

The young man in white picked up his wine glass, swirled it around, and watched the liquid slowly trickle down the glass. "Because what I write sounds like nonsense. Who would I write about methods I don't even believe in myself?"

Yang Hui said, "I've read more than just 'Five Vermin.' I've read other things too. I know where those methods work and where they don't."

The young man in white put down his wine cup and looked directly at Yang Hui for the first time—not "sizing him up," but "looking at him." It was as if he were seeing him for the first time.

"What's your name?"

"Yang Hui".

"Yang Hui." He put those two words in his mouth and repeated them, as if tasting something, then nodded. "My name is Han Fei."

When he uttered the name, there was no embellishment, no preamble of "My name," no polite formalities like "I've long admired you." He simply placed those two words on the table, like a chess piece. Then he picked up the wine pot and refilled Yang Hui's cup, saying, "You came to see me not just to talk about my book, did you?"

"no."

"What is that?"

Yang Hui picked up the glass of wine and took a sip. The wine was warm, sweet at first, then spicy. After swallowing, he said, "I came to Xinzheng to rescue someone."

"Who?"

"A woman locked in a dungeon. Wearing red."

Han Fei's expression changed slightly. It wasn't a big change, but Yang Hui noticed it—his hand holding the cup paused for a moment, like Zi Nu turning the cup. Then Han Fei put the cup down.

"The woman in the dungeon," Han Fei's voice lowered, his earlier relaxation subsiding somewhat, "you mean Yan Lingji."

"You know her."

"I know. There are no more than five people in the entire Xinzheng who know her name. You're the sixth." Han Fei looked at him, his eyes becoming serious for the first time—a hint of what was beneath his smile was revealed. "She's not an ordinary prisoner. She's of the Baiyue royal family, with the body of karmic fire. Ji Wuye imprisoned her for ten years, sealing her with the Blood-Clad Marquis's icy chains. Even I couldn't get close to the bottom of the dungeon."

"You need a knife," Yang Hui said, "a knife to cut the chains. I am that knife."

Han Fei remained silent for a few moments. Then he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, looked at Yang Hui, and said in a tone that said, "I've decided to have a serious talk with you: You want me to help you save people? Fine. But you have to promise me one thing."

"you say."

"After you save the person, you have to tell me—what does that 'how to transform' method you mentioned look like?"

Yang Hui looked at him. Han Fei's eyes were bright, but not with the smugness of guessing the riddle earlier; it was a determined look, a feeling of "I've been searching for this for a long time." He looked at Han Fei for three breaths and said, "I can tell you. But you have to tell me first—are you helping her for the sake of Han Guo, or for her sake?"

Han Fei paused for a moment. Then he smiled, poured the last bit of wine from the flask into his cup, and drank it all in one gulp.

"For her sake," he said, "after I save her, she can stay in Korea if she wants, or leave if she doesn't. I won't trade her life for Korean law."

Yang Hui picked up his glass and raised it towards Han Fei. There was no clinking of glasses, no words exchanged, just a simple gesture. Han Fei also raised his empty glass and waved it at him.

A night breeze blew into the inn's lobby, ruffling the red paper on the table and causing it to flip slightly. The candlelight tilted a little before straightening up again.

The two men sat on either side of the old wooden table, one carrying a sword, the other an empty wine jug. They had only known each other for an hour, but they both felt that this meal had been worthwhile.

Han Fei stood up, dusted off his robe, and walked out carrying the empty wine jug. As he reached the door, he turned back and said to Yang Hui, "Tomorrow night, Zilan Pavilion. Take your sword with you; I'll bring the defense map."

He smiled and then disappeared into the night.

Yang Hui remained seated at the table. He stared at the empty glass Han Fei had left behind, a ring of wine stains lingering on the glass, slowly sliding down to form a small drop at the bottom.

He reached out and took the cup, placed it in front of him, and glanced at it again. Then he stood up and went upstairs to his room.

The bamboo slips of the Heavenly Secrets technique felt slightly warm in his arms—as if they had been moved by some force, or perhaps it was just his imagination. He ignored it, simply closed the window, and lay down.

Tomorrow night, the dungeon.