Had the Battle of Chongzhou ended sooner, matters would not have come to this. But the war god of Great Yin—the Marquis of Wu’an—had fallen there, and the blow to the army’s morale was immeasurable.

The newly appointed Military Governor, Wei Xuan, was a man of vanity and ambition. In his haste to seize full control of Huizhou’s hundred thousand troops, he demoted and exiled the veteran generals once under the Marquis of Wu’an.

The men he brought with him were strangers to the northwest theater, and in a short time suffered defeat after defeat. Morale was crushed again and again, the frontlines stretched thin, and the remaining supplies of the Huizhou army were exhausted.

Huizhou was in crisis. By reason, the other three prefectures of the western region should have been able to replenish it—but even with only two prefectures remaining, it should not have been impossible to raise any grain at all.

Zheng Wenchang, ever as hot-tempered as a firecracker, clasped his hands and said, “Your subordinate has investigated. Not long ago, a merchant surnamed Zhao purchased a large amount of grain at high prices across both Jizhou and Taizhou. The common folk kept only the seed grain for spring sowing and some coarse grain for their own families; the rest they sold for silver to celebrate the New Year.”

He Jingyuan said, “Investigate that merchant Zhao.”

Zheng Wenchang answered, “Yes, my lord.”

He Jingyuan said, “It’s New Year’s Eve today. We’ll end the meeting here. Go home early.”

The officials below—who had all worn faces of misery and bitterness—brightened at his words. Yet though joy flickered across their faces, they restrained it, bowing properly before taking their leave one by one.

Only Zheng Wenchang remained, his brow tightly furrowed.

When the room was empty, he still stood where he was.

He Jingyuan rose from behind his desk and, seeing the young man still rooted to the spot, asked, “Why have you not gone home?”

Zheng Wenchang said worriedly, “My lord, Wei Xuan has clearly ordered our Jizhou prefecture to gather one hundred thousand shi of grain within three days. If we fail to meet that, what shall we do?”

He Jingyuan said, “Did I not tell you to investigate that merchant Zhao?”

Zheng Wenchang fell silent. That merchant had been buying grain for some time already; even if they found him, if the grain had already been sold elsewhere, it would be like drawing water from a distant well to quench a nearby thirst.

He Jingyuan suddenly stopped in his steps and looked at the young man before him, his gaze gentle yet firm. “Do you wish me to do as Wei Xuan did—to send our men to rob grain from the people?”

Zheng Wenchang hurriedly said he did not dare, though his face still showed hesitation. “Then… how will you answer to the Wei family?”

He Jingyuan said, “There will always be a way. But that way is not by pressing a blade to the people’s throats. Wenchang, it doesn’t matter what names the court scholars and ministers call us. What matters is that we ourselves remember—our office exists for the people of Great Yin.”

Zheng Wenchang bowed his head in shame. “Your subordinate is enlightened.”

He Jingyuan said nothing more.

Outside, the snow was falling thick as goose feathers. He stepped out of the study, but his mind lingered on the thing he had sent to the capital after hearing of Chongzhou’s defeat—by now, Wei Yan must have seen it.

The imperial dispatch from the capital had arrived before Wei Xuan made his move. That meant Wei Xuan was not to be feared.

His current frenzy to raise grain was likely born of fear of Wei Yan’s punishment—he was desperate to show some achievement.

There was no one left in the northwest. Of those Wei Yan could still use, only He Jingyuan remained. If he risked everything to use that method to barter for the two sisters’ lives, perhaps it might succeed.

It was all he could do.

From the distant streets came the sound of firecrackers bursting. A faint, complex emotion crossed He Jingyuan’s eyes—something between wistfulness and melancholy.

“During the New Year, one must burn offerings for those who’ve passed,” he said quietly. “There is an old friend—no one remains who remembers to send him paper money. I’ve no face to see him myself. Wenchang, come with me outside the city. Burn some paper for my old friend in my stead.”

Zheng Wenchang assented.

A carriage departed from Jizhou’s main city and halted on a hillside.

The mountain wind howled. He Jingyuan personally lit the incense and, facing north, bowed three times before placing the sticks into the earth. Then he stepped aside, letting Zheng Wenchang burn the paper offerings.

The wind caught the flames, scattering tongues of fire. Sheets of spirit money, half-burned, were swept into the air. The white ash and drifting snow mingled together, a bleak and lonely sight beneath the overcast sky.

When Zheng Wenchang finished and descended the low slope, he saw He Jingyuan standing with his back to him, his expression tinged with sorrow.

On the way back, Zheng could not help but ask, “My lord, you have always been generous and upright. Why do you say you have no face to meet your old friend?”

Seated in the carriage, He Jingyuan had his eyes closed, as if dozing. Hearing the question, he replied softly, “In times such as these, there are deeds one is forced to do against one’s will.”

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Lin’an Town.

The trampled snow on the ground was strewn with scraps of half-soaked spirit paper.

When the wind rose, some of it fluttered up again into the gray sky.

The path, muddied by melted snow, was hard to walk. Fan Changyu carried Changning in her arms, treading along the ridge of the fields. Behind her, Xie Zheng followed in silence, carrying a bamboo basket filled with incense, wax candles, and paper offerings.

In the town’s custom, one must visit the graves of departed kin on New Year’s Eve—to burn incense, light candles, and send paper money.

Fan Changyu’s parents were buried on a hill outside the town, a place of fine geomancy.

Because the graves were new, there was hardly any weed growth. When they arrived, Fan Changyu set Changning down.

It had been nearly two months since their parents’ passing. At the sight of the twin mounds, Changning’s grape-dark eyes welled instantly with tears. “Father, Mother…”

Fan Changyu stroked her younger sister’s head and soothed her gently. “Don’t cry. It’s the New Year—we must be happy, so Father and Mother can rest easy in heaven.”

Little Changning sniffled hard and tried to hold back her tears.

After lighting the incense and candles, Fan Changyu had Changning kowtow before the graves, while she herself took out the spirit paper from the basket and burned it in a small iron basin prepared for ashes.

When Changning finished bowing, she crouched down beside her sister to help burn the offerings. Seeing Xie Zheng standing quietly nearby, she tore off a generous handful of spirit paper and handed it to him. “Brother-in-law, burn some too!”

Xie Zheng hesitated briefly, then also took the paper and began to burn it. The smoke from the paper ash was acrid; it made Changning’s eyes sting until she could no longer keep them open, so she retreated to the side.

By the brazier, only Fan Changyu and Xie Zheng remained.

Xie Zheng noticed that she had divided the spirit money in the basket into four portions and asked, “Who are the other two for?”

Fan Changyu said, “For my maternal grandfather and grandmother. My parents used to burn offerings for them every year. Now that they’re gone too, I thought I might as well burn some for all of them together.”

Xie Zheng’s brow furrowed faintly, though his expression did not change. Her mother didn’t even know her own original surname—how could she possibly know her parents’ birth dates and eight characters?

He increasingly suspected that her mother’s spirit tablet had been deliberately inscribed without a surname.

As for why her father’s tablet bore his surname—either “Fan” had not been his true family name, or… her father had used another name in the past.

Though suspicion stirred in his heart, he had no intention of asking her about her grandfather’s surname.

He already guessed what the answer would be—she would know nothing.

Seeing him fall silent, Fan Changyu thought he must be reminded of his own late parents. Generous as ever, she said, “There’s still some spirit paper left at home. You can burn some for your father and mother later.”

Between his long, slender fingers, Xie Zheng held a piece of spirit money curling into flame. His brows and eyes, lit by firelight and veiled in smoke, revealed a trace of cool detachment. “Does burning these things truly have any use?”

Fan Changyu truly didn’t know how to answer that. After thinking a moment, she said, “Maybe it does. The elders say that when people go to the other side, they need money to bribe the underworld servants, or they’ll suffer. Even if it’s useless… it’s something to remember them by.”

When someone burns paper money during the festivals, it means there is still someone in this world who remembers the dead.

Xie Zheng said no more. He only tossed more spirit paper into the brazier now and then, his lashes half lowered, hiding whatever lay in his eyes.

He threw in too much at once. The unburned paper piled up and smoked heavily. Fan Changyu’s eyes stung until tears welled up; she turned her face aside, eyes squeezed shut, and said, “Don’t put so much in at once.”

She reached into the bamboo basket to grab more paper—but instead of the crisp sheets, her hand brushed against a large, cool palm.

Fan Changyu jerked away as if shocked by lightning. Her apricot eyes, misted with tears from the smoke, flew open—her expression a mix of embarrassment and fluster. “Sorry.”

The warmth of that touch still lingered faintly on the back of her hand.

Xie Zheng pressed his lips together, meaning to say it’s nothing—but when he looked up and saw her tear-bright eyes and reddened lashes, he froze for a brief moment.