Chương 34: A New Star

Having asked a guide to take him through the Stone Throat, Yan Shu found himself literally on top of the world as he emerged out onto the southern face of Mt. Tai. Despite feeling somewhat winded from the trip, the young poet took out his brush, a piece of paper, and a wooden writing board, before taking a seat on the steps of the Central Path. What he saw laid out before him more than justified the burning in his thighs.

Stretching into the distance was a view that seemed like it must have encompassed the entire Middle Kingdom. It was a nearly endless, panoramic landscape, pristine, vast, and green – dramatically struck through by the pale blue waters of the river Wen. The awe-inspiring scale of it all left no doubt in the young poet's mind as to why Mt. Tai was considered the First among mountains.

Occasional processions of pilgrims passed by the young man on either side, filling the air with the sounds of footsteps, chanting, and the clanking of their travel staves. But Yan Shu was too enraptured with the scenery – and too eager to begin his work – to take much notice. A traditional eulogy was composed of two parts: the Ji (誌) and the Myeong (銘). The Ji was essentially a historical record, documenting dry facts about a person's life and ancestry. The Myeong, however, was a poetic elegy that accompanied it.

And it was the latter the young Collator was currently focused on creating. Yan Shu looked over his shoulder and up towards the Jade Emperor Peak, where the stairs of the Central Path continued their meandering journey before disappearing into the clouds. Perhaps some of the sensation could be attributed to the thin air, but it felt like everywhere he looked, the piercing, azure blue of the sky took his breath away. Far below, at the base of the mountain, lay the city of Tai'an.

Although the fine details of its architecture were completely lost to the morning mist, the brilliantly painted, scarlet timber still combined with the warm terracotta roof tiles to create an explosion of color. As far as inspirational views went, no poet could ask for better. Yan Shu's gaze fell upon the groups of men and women laboring towards the peak, and a spark of inspiration struck him.

The Chongyang festival – where mourners traditionally ascend a mountain in remembrance of the departed – was still months away. But the spiritual journey these pilgrims were undertaking perfectly mimicked that ritual. As another group of travelers passed him by, one of whom was nonchalantly butchering the melody to a melancholy but popular Ci tune, the final piece of inspiration he needed clicked into place. Transfixed, the young poet wet his brush and began to write.

The warring scent of flowers brings sweet melancholy, As we ascend and remember the honored dead. The distant city is now an autumnal mural, Leaves of yellow dotted across a forest of red. Pale waters flow beneath the endless azure sky; The boundless path stretches to where memories belong. From the peak, I strain to see the fertile land below, Still full of wild geese... but without Han Sa-ryang. When he'd finished, Yan Shu looked down at his work, proud of the wordplay he'd achieved.

That final sentiment could be read in two different ways, depending on how one chose to group the characters: 无限 (Mu-han) – 思量 (Sa-ryang) [Infinite] [Yearning] Or 无 (Mu) – 限思量 (Han Sa-ryang) [Without] [Han Sa-ryang] But the verse also contained another hidden weapon. He'd matched the rhythm of the prose to a popular, sad Ci tune: Su Zhong Qing. Yan Shu chuckled to himself. A new set of Ci lyrics from an Imperially recognized scholar was often a cultural event.

Song girls tripped over themselves to prove who was more attuned to the latest trends coming from the capital. After the funeral, he would release this poem separately… and within a month, every tavern and tea house in the province would be unwittingly propagating Han Sa-ryang's memorial. The young Collator grinned. Let's see those old fogeys in the Imperial Library top that. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

Two days later, the funeral procession crawled up the winding mountain paths like a lazy crimson serpent, swaying to the mournful beat of a solitary drum. Yan Shu walked behind the main cavalcade, his hands tucked neatly into the sleeves of his blue Imperial robes. The biting chill of the mountain winds stung his cheeks, but his eyes were fixed entirely on the spectacle unfolding ahead of him. Leading the march was a towering bamboo pole, snapping in the wind. Affixed to it was the Spirit Pennant.

The flag's crimson silk stood out against the granite like a stark, bleeding wound in the side of a giant made of stone. The golden characters emblazoned on it shone in the morning sun: Han Sa-ryang, Martial Hero of the Tai-shan. Behind the pennant came the pall-bearers. Twelve Tai-shan Outer Disciples, dressed in the oxblood uniforms of the main sect, bore the weight of the decorated cedar casket on their shoulders. Their synchronized footsteps pounded the lonely drum beat into the earth with every stride.

But it was not the pall-bearers who attracted the most attention. That honor went to Han Chae-ha, who followed directly behind them. The young girl was dressed in Sobok – traditional white mourning attire. The plain, baggy clothes swallowed her small form, providing a stark contrast to the vibrant uniforms of the burly men marching ahead of her. As was tradition, Chae-ha carried a rough wooden mourning staff. The uneven mountain path failed to break the calm, measured pace of her steps.

The young girl's face was arranged in a careful mask, and her eyes stared straight ahead, fixed on the ornately carved cedar box that was carrying her father's remains. The sect members lining the path watched her pass with a mixture of deep unease and profound respect. She wasn't mourning like a tragically orphaned daughter, limping and wailing; she was mourning like a martial artist. The procession finally crested a lesser peak, arriving at a clearing overlooking several sprawling valleys below.

On one side of the cemetery, the freshly prepared grave stood out like a dark scar in the earth. Standing proudly beside it was an upright stone stele, draped in white silk. As the Outer Disciples carefully lowered the casket from their shoulders, Yan Shu stepped to the edge of the grave. Two stonemasons stepped up beside him, carrying a pair of flat, heavy, square tablets. The Imperial Collator looked down at the stones.

Carved into their surfaces was the masterpiece he had spent the last several days crafting, and which the sect's master masons had worked without sleep to carve. One stone contained the Ji, which detailed the man's life and ancestry. The other stone contained the Myeong, his poem that attempted to encapsulate the pain felt by those he had left behind. By burying them with his body, they would both become a part of his eternal legacy.

The masons lowered the two tablets deep into the earth, placing them reverently at the head of the cedar casket. Yan Shu let out a slow breath, the gravity of the moment finally sinking in. The irregular scraping of shovels against hardened dirt and rock echoed through the clearing as the disciples began to fill the grave. When the mound was finally packed and shaped, the drumbeat ceased. In that moment, the silence on the mountain was absolute. Mu-cheon, standing opposite Yan Shu, stepped forwards.

The towering Young Master reached out and took hold of the white silk draping the stele. With a single, firm tug, the fabric fell away. A collective murmur rippled through the gathered sect members as they read the characters of the Myeong for the first time, freshly carved into the upright memorial stone. The heartbreaking sentiment, backed up by an Imperial seal, drew small gasps of appreciation. Infinite yearning. Without Han Sa-ryang.

With the monument unveiled, an attendant stepped forwards to initiate the final rite. He carried a bronze brazier filled with hot coals, meant for burning spirit money – small paper slips symbolizing wealth that the deceased could take with them to the underworld. He placed the brazier on top of the grave. Setting her staff aside, Chae-ha reached a hand deep into the oversized sleeves of her mourning robes.

She pulled out a small bundle of formal-looking papers, marked with the abacus and coins of the Black Ink Consortium. Whispers of confusion spread throughout the crowd. Yan Shu's eyes widened; he recognized the wax seals. It was a stack of promissory notes. Chae-ha stepped up to the bronze brazier. One by one she held the hateful papers over the hot coals. One by one, she let them drop. Flames quickly curled around their edges, hungrily devouring the imposing red wax and destroying the oppressive ink.

With each slip that burned, a part of her father's debt was erased from history – and a piece of his soul was liberated. The smoke from the fire drifted up past the newly carved stele, where it mingled with the white mist rolling down from the peak. Yan Shu and Mu-cheon stood in silence, watching the flames consume the last remnants of the Consortium's hold over her family. As she burned the last of the promissory notes, Chae-ha's mask finally cracked.

For once, there were no tears beneath it; just a look of profound longing, and a soft, sad smile of parting.

"Goodbye," the young girl mouthed soundlessly. Chae-ha closed her eyes, let her shoulders drop, and released a single, shuddering breath. For a few heartbeats, the perfectly composed young Inspector was gone, and in her place stood a normal fifteen-year-old girl. The moment passed as quickly as it had come. She squared her shoulders, raised her head, and turned around. Chae-ha gave the crowd a curt nod, signaling that this part of the ritual was over – and that it was time to move on.

The solemn tension in the clearing finally broke. The gathered sect members began to slowly disperse, their hushed murmurs giving way to quiet conversation as they turned back towards the sect. The mourning was over, and it was now time for a small celebration. After all, every good funeral ends with a feast. Later that evening, Emperors and farmers alike pointed at the sky and whispered in awe and trepidation as a new star flared to life.

Bright enough to read by, it changed the night from a comforting, concealing darkness to an eerie, endless twilight. Astrologers and historians argued over its meaning, and panic began to spread when it failed to go away. Many feared it was a reflection of the anger of the Heavens, and a sign that the Middle Kingdom would soon fall. A brave few said it was an auspicious omen, promising change, new beginnings, and a better tomorrow.

But on a quiet mountain peak, one girl looked up at the blossoming light, and chose to believe it was a father – watching over his daughter from afar.