Hot flashes

The snow outside Deshengmen was trampled into a muddy mess.

Sunlight filtered through the gray clouds, illuminating the haphazardly laid corpses, the discarded swords, spears, and crossbows, and the pools of blood frozen dark red in the snow.

When Cui Yin was brought before Zhao Ting, his iron-gray cotton armor was covered in mud, and the armor plate on his left arm had fallen off at some point, revealing the dusty cotton inside, soaked in blood, hanging heavily.

The helmet was nowhere to be found, and his gray hair was disheveled, with half of his face smeared with blood, making it impossible to tell whether it was his own or someone else's.

Zhao Ting, mounted on his horse, looked down at him. This old general, who had followed Xiao Jue for half his life in the Northern Border, had no expression on his face at this moment, as if he were looking at a dead man.

"Lord Cui," Zhao Ting said, his voice not loud, but every word clear, "you've lost."

Cui Yin raised his head. His left eye socket was so swollen that he could barely open it, and only his right eye could still see. There was no fear in that cloudy old eye, only something indescribable, like weariness or relief.

He looked at Zhao Ting, his lips moved a few times, and he made a few muffled sounds in his throat, but in the end he didn't say anything.

The imperial guards holding him down struck his knees with the hilts of their swords, causing him to fall to his knees with a thud, his knees sinking into the snow and mud, splashing mud onto Zhao Ting's riding boots.

Zhao Ting didn't look at Cui Yin again. He turned his horse around and ordered his adjutant, "Take him back and await His Majesty's decision."

Lu Yuan was arrested at Tongzhou Wharf. He was smarter than Cui Yin. Seeing that things were not going well, he changed his clothes, took off his armor, put on a cotton robe like an ordinary person, messed up his hair, smeared mud on his face, and tried to run away by mingling with the dockworkers.

But his boots betrayed him. The porters wore straw sandals or cloth shoes, but he was wearing a pair of leather boots with new treads on the soles.

An Imperial Guard noticed the boots and followed him silently until he reached a secluded alley. Then, the Guard pounced on him from behind and pinned him to the ground.

Zheng Yun is the most composed of them.

He didn't run away or resist. He sat in his study with a pot of wine and two cups in front of him. The wine was the finest Zhuyeqing, warmed up, with a faint steam rising from the spout.

As Zhao Heng and his men barged in, Zheng Yun looked up at the young man, extended his hand, and gestured for him to enter. "General Zhao, would you like to sit down and have a drink?"

He picked up the glass of wine in front of him, drank it all in one gulp, and then turned the empty glass upside down on the table.

Zhao Heng's men stepped forward and lifted him from the chair. Zheng Yun didn't struggle, but stopped abruptly as he passed the doorway, glanced back at the empty glass lying face down on the table, and murmured, "What a pity for this fine wine."

The snow stopped when it was fully light.

The nine gates of the capital remained closed all night, and were not opened until Chenshi (7-9 AM).

The first gate to open was Chaoyang Gate. The sound of the door hinges turning carried far in the cool morning breeze, like a slow sigh.

The people waiting to enter the city lined up for half a mile outside the gate. They didn't know what had happened last night, but they felt that there were many more guards than usual today.

Some people tried to peek into the city, but were shouted at by the guards and retreated, not daring to move again.

The city gates were open, but people were entering the city much slower than usual.

Everyone entering the city had their travel permit checked, every piece of luggage was searched, and even the old farmers carrying vegetables on their shoulders were examined from head to toe.

Some people grew impatient and muttered a few words, which were overheard by the constables nearby. They were pulled aside and scolded, and when they returned, they were ashen-faced and dared not utter another word.

The city streets have been swept. The bloodstains from last night were covered by snow, which was then shoveled away along with the mud, leaving only the wet cobblestones, which gleamed dimly in the winter sun.

The smashed shops were boarded up overnight, and the charred beams and pillars of the burned-out houses were temporarily covered with tarpaulins. Unless you look closely, you can hardly tell that a battle had taken place here.

But the air still carried the smells of rust and gunpowder, mixed with the festive atmosphere of the New Year, appearing and disappearing like an old painting that had been soaked with water, the ink stains underneath impossible to cover up.