#last update

“Let’s go? Your emperor uncle is going to skin your lord and master!” Wu Du’s not sure if he should laugh or cry.

Duan Ling heaves a sigh and nods with a frown, ready to head back to the city with Wu Du. But seeing him like this, Wu Du just can’t bear to make him go back to the palace. It’s almost like if he could wipe that frown off Duan Ling’s face, it’s worth getting himself skinned.

“Come on then … Where’d you want to go?” Wu Du says, “Come on over here.”

Duan Ling’s frown disappears, turning into a smile. “Seriously?”

“Where to?” Wu Du asks. “The sun’s going to come up soon. What could be so important that you couldn’t forget it by the time you wake up again anyway?”

“To the ends of the earth,” Duan Ling says, slowly approaching Wu Du on horseback.

Wu Du shoots a glance at Duan Ling. “Let’s go then. I’ll let you go wherever you want, even to the ends of the earth.”

Duan Ling puts his foot into Wu Du’s stirrup, and with a swing of his leg over Benxiao’s back, he’s sitting in front of Wu Du. Now that they’re sharing a horse, Wu Du shakes the reins and shouts, “Gup!”

Benxiao runs on four hooves as though stepping on clouds, onto a Jiangzhou highway swirling with mist, kicking up a great trail of dust. The humidity of morning mist brushes them by, and the stars of the Silver River above gradually fade away until they all vanish in a flash of morning sunlight. A red sun surges above the horizon at the end of the Yangtze, bestowing this world new life.

“Whatever happened last night?” Wu Du whispers, putting his arms around Duan Ling so that he’s encircled, and protected.

“Last night’s stars and last night’s wind, west of the painted tower east of the hall …” Duan Ling recites smilingly.3

“We lack a butterfly’s wings and thus cannot fly as one, but my heart and yours will sing as one —” Wu Du follows by reciting the next line.

“We play pass the hook and drink warm spring wine, the shell game is fun and the candles are especially red …”

His memories gradually take him back to a time in the Illustrious Hall, and the voices of children reciting poetry join him in unison.

“Ah, I hear the nightwatchman’s clapper signalling roll-call — I spur my horse onwards but my heart only spins in place.”

Curled up in Wu Du’s arms, Duan Ling slowly nods off. Upon exiting the Jiangzhou highway, the ponds to the left and right of the road are blanketed with the remnants of lotus leaves. The morning breeze sends a ripple through the water, its crystalline lines reflecting the boundless blue sky.

Wu Du brings him all the way north, fording the Yangtze, turning into a gust of wind as they gallop past golden rice paddies, past the wide open prairies with the returning geese flying overhead, through puddles big and small left behind by the autumn rain, kicking up the fresh scent of the earth as they continue north. The mountains and clouds above them and the fields and forests they travel past are no longer black and white like an ink-brush painting but have gradually filled in with colour.

This sky, this earth, they seem to become a fast-moving painted scroll, multicoloured, fresh and elegant. Duan Ling slowly wakes from his sleep, and he looks up from Wu Du’s embrace to feel as though he’s travelled from early spring to midsummer, then through the cries of cicada and lush greenery, into gold-foiled late autumn.

Spring weeds grow lush in a land now vanquished; summer palace ruins lie buried beneath mounds of dirt.4

“Is this where you wanted to go?”

“No.”

— Thus they cross the Southern Chen border and pass through Runan.

The geese fly south but no letter came; the bamboo by the River Xiang is stained with tears.5

“How about here?”

“Not here either.”

— Thus they leave Luoyang without stopping to rest.

Finally, tracing the path he took north many years ago, Wu Du takes Duan Ling all the way to the outskirts of Shangjing. Whatever wounds that war had given this capital of Great Liao had healed long ago, and the biggest city in the north is also populated again.

The sun is beginning to set. Bells toll in the distant mountains, and the autumn wind rustling through the yellowing leaves already feels a bit chilly. A pale full moon hangs at the horizon, seemingly blending into the dark red sky. Wu Du stops halfway up a mountain, quietly watching Shangjing from above. Lights flicker in the city as every household hangs its lanterns.

It’s the fifteenth of the Eighth Month, the day of the Mid-Autumn festival. The Mongolians don’t celebrate this holiday; many years ago, the Han passed slips of paper in their mooncakes, and in the name of “resisting the barbarians” had risen up in rebellion, commencing a fierce battle beneath Mount Jiangjun.

Of course, the Mongolians don’t eat mooncakes, and they don’t celebrate this Han festival either, but the Khitans do. They say that at every Mid-Autumn Festival, Yelü Zongzhen’s seasonal palace in Zhongjing would be hung full of decorated lanterns so that he may reminisce fondly about old friends.

“Do you want to go take a look inside?” Wu Du crouches before the cliff’s edge in his white martial artist robes, looking into the distance like a white tiger in the night staring at the excitement and hubbub of the mortal world beneath the mountains.

They already came all the way so of course they ought to go inside and have a look around, but knowing Duan Ling as he does, Wu Du thinks sometimes all Duan Ling wants to do is to see it from a distance.

And as expected, Duan Ling says, “Never mind, let’s just leave.”

“We’re not leaving,” Wu Du says, turning to Duan Ling with a smile.

Duan Ling suddenly finds the sight of Wu Du’s back extraordinarily reliable, so much so that he decides to throw himself on there, and sprawls over his back. Wu Du smiles, saying, “Let’s go home.”

A gush of warmth rises from Duan Ling’s heart unbidden. Carrying Duan Ling on his back, Wu Du looks around him before slowly approaching the city via a small footpath. Shangjing is no longer the strictly defended stronghold it used to be, and it’s no longer the most important city in the north either; when Wu Du gets to the city gates, he takes Duan Ling’s hand, and when Duan Ling tells the soldiers at the gates in Khitan that they’ve come to visit relatives, the soldiers don’t press him for more details before letting them through.

“It’s reunion night,” Duan Ling says, standing at the city gate, facing the city of Shangjing in the midst of a festival. On either side of the main street are maple trees with leaves as red as blood, and underneath the lanterns, the street is bustling. A bright moon sits on the horizon.

This is clearly the Shangjing he remembers, and it has never changed; he takes Wu Du’s big hand and crosses the main street with him, walking towards his home. When they pass by an apothecary, the two of them stop automatically.

“I’ve been here before,” Wu Du says.

“I’ve been before as well,” Duan Ling replies.

Wu Du picks up the apothecary’s door and shoves it aside. Duan Ling goes behind the counter and notices that the place has been in a state of disrepair for a long time already — the drawers that used to hold herbs and medicinal ingredients are lying all over the place, whatever used to be in them long gone. Duan Ling picks up a half stick of candle left on the counter and lights it. When he stands it back up on the counter, the room is immediately suffused in a warm glow, casting their shadows onto the window lattice.

“Let’s go out this way,” Duan Ling says, taking Wu Du out of the apothecary through the rear courtyard. Just before leaving, he takes a glance behind him. The entire apothecary looks to him like a giant magic lantern, reflecting all the mortal world’s joys and sorrows, its many partings and reunions.

After the calamity that befell this city, people haven’t moved back in to fill all of its houses yet. Duan Ling walks through the alley that leads to his house and pushes open the two redwood doors that have almost rotted off their hinges to find the courtyard covered in lichen. A water bowl sits on the table still, left behind by Cai Yan just before they departed. It’s filled by half with rainwater.

I’m not a very good cook. I don’t have Zheng Yan’s skills. Someday when you taste better food than this you won’t think much about this table full of food, but for now you’ll have to make do.

It feels like Lang Junxia is still busying himself in the kitchen. Duan Ling sticks his head in for a look and asks smilingly, “Lang Junxia, where’s my dad?”

Lang Junxia looks up, glances at Duan Ling, and replies, “Your dad should be here by the time the peach blossoms bloom.”

Duan Ling turns around and walks into the courtyard. Wu Du is lying on a lounger Li Jianhong once used. He says to Duan Ling, “Come over here and look at the moon.”

And so Duan Ling goes to Wu Du and leans back against him. They lie there without a word.

“Mud all over your hands, and you wipe them all over your dad’s face.” Li Jianhong says, smiling at Duan Ling as he passes through the gallery.

Duan Ling thus quickly gets back on his feet, but all he hears is a gust of wind moving through the gallery, setting the rusted wind chines clanging.

Wu Du asks, “Are you hungry yet?”

“I’m hungry,” Duan Ling says. “Let’s have a walk around. I remember a shaobing place around here that was pretty tasty.”

Wu Du puts away his sword and leaves the house with Duan Ling. When they get to the main street, Duan Ling walks along the city wall. As they cross the river in the middle of the city, Wu Du can’t help but keep staring at the water. Duan Ling knows he’s remembering how he’d had to jump into the frozen river years ago, and teases him about it.

Soon, Wu Du picks up Duan Ling and leaps onto the roof. Stepping along the roof tiles, he jumps from roof to roof for an entire street, then he lands and buys them two pieces of shaobing, two catty of beef, and four taels of wine. Holding all that with one hand, he leaps onto the roof again and heads down to another street.

As they arrive at the Illustrious Hall, Duan Ling is surprised to find that the place has been renovated, and school is in session again. Right now though, the children have already gone home for the holidays. The gatekeeper is someone new as well; an old man, tipsy from drink, who left rather early.

“I’ve been to this stable,” Wu Du says as they walk in through the back door.

Duan Ling is chewing on a shaobing, and upon hearing this he almost spits it out. “You also crashed through the roof of the main hall.”

Wu Du laughs so hard that he doubles over. He grabs Duan Ling and takes a running leap onto the roof. The two of them lie down on the roof, and facing the bright harvest moon at the horizon, they drink and gaze at the moon.

“Milord,” Duan Ling says.

“Yeah,” Wu Du replies, drinking his wine. “The moon is particularly round in the north. I’ll take you to Shangzi next year.”

“Sure. There are still lots of tall mountains and great rivers still, and I want to see them all.”

“There’s plenty of time. Did you leave a message for your uncle?”

This concerns Wu Du’s skin after all. Duan Ling smiles as he says, “I left one when I left the palace that day.”

They look up at the sky, and as the moon rises to its zenith, there is a sudden squeak from the back gates as someone pushes them open. The sound is followed by a familiar voice.

“I never thought I’d run into you here,” Batu says.

“Jiangzhou … couldn’t go there,” Helian Bo says as he waves his sabre around fancily. “So I thought I’d … keep His Majesty … company. Have a walk … around.”

“Let’s call a temporary truce on my account,” says Yelü Zongzhen’s voice. “Borjigin, it’s not like you can come all this way here all the time, and you don’t have many guards with you either. Starting a fight inside the city won’t do you any good.”

Batu turns his nose up at the idea. “If you people hadn’t ambushed me I wasn’t planning to show my face anyway.”

“This trip is a trip down memory lane, so let’s just say we’re having a reunion dinner. See? We were meant to see each other again,” says Yelü Zongzhen. “Get someone to bring us a couple of catty of wine, and we’ll drink it here. We will raise our cups to Duan Ling in the far south — the moon is full and our table is full, and no matter the distance, we’re looking at the same moon.”

Duan Ling stares at them without a word.

Wu Du takes one look at Duan Ling, and as he’s just about to jump down there, Duan Ling grabs him and puts a finger in front of his lips, letting him know that he shouldn’t act without thinking. Then, while Yelü Zongzhen’s guards go around to secure the Illustrious Hall, Wu Du picks Duan Ling up sideways and walks to the end of the flying eaves like a great big cat. The two of them conceal themselves in the shadows of the next building over, quietly watching those in the courtyard as they gaze at the moon and drink their wine.

Helian Bo, Yelu Zongzhen and Borjigin Batu drink to each other beneath the moon, while Duan Ling and Wu Du sit still against each other on the roof. Time passes, and the silver disc moves across the sky, shining its bright light into the world. Three rounds of drinks later, Batu suddenly starts singing a bold, heroic tune.

His voice is forceful and unruly, startling the crows that have been sitting still on this moonlit night so that they fly off towards the horizon. Helian Bo and Yelü Zongzhen beat their cups with chopsticks, making a rhythmic clanging.

It’s a Mongolian pastoral song, and Duan Ling can understand the lyrics; with a full moon above the prairies, the wind blows through a sea of grass, sending waves in every direction, and yearning, like south-flying geese, has returned again.

Batu lets out a long sigh at the end of the song, but then they hear a flute start to play. It comes from above them, faint and barely there, lingering from the rafters to the horizon. All three are startled by the sound and look up together. All they can see is a young man’s pitch-black silhouette against a bright, clear moon, sharp like a paper cutout, while another man stands on the flying eaves protectively at his side.

The guards make to step up, but Yelü Zongzhen raises a hand to stop them. Slowly, Batu stands incredulously and walks to the centre of the courtyard to look up at that silhouette.

Duan Ling’s flute playing is melodic and bright, and through the years he has spent with Wu Du, he has finally learned how to play this song. It may be a bit shaky, but the music is more or less piercing with a wintry air.

Compared to Wu Du’s way of turning his tempered, steel-like strength, into the softness of a feather touch, Duan Ling plays with a lot of power, and the song inevitably takes on a strong resonating tone. The music sounds like a farewell, and it also sounds like regret; and finally, beneath the moon, it fades away until it can no longer be heard.

“Duan Ling?” Batu says, his voice trembling.

Wu Du becomes a black shadow, and with Duan Ling in his arms, he leaps from one uneven rooftop to another, leaving Shangjing behind. They get on Wanlibenxiao and gallop away from the city.

Just before he leaves, Duan Ling looks up at the bright, clear harvest moon above.

“Let’s go home!” Duan Ling says.

“Let’s go home. Gup!” Wu Du urges Wanlibenxiao on and takes Duan Ling away from there as though riding on the wind, looking down at ten thousand miles of the realm.

This translation is by foxghost, on tumblr and kofi. I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, it was reposted without permission. Do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free. ↩︎

The title is from a poem by Xin Qiji, and like many of Xin Qiji’s poems, may sound like it’s about yearning for someone while being a poem that yearns for a lost homeland, as it was written during the Southern Song dynasty. The whole line that the title came from would read: I wish to ride on the wind and get a bird’s eye view of the realm. ↩︎

A poem by the Tang dynasty poet Li Shangyin. The second line that Wu Du recites is so famous that it’s essentially an idiom. ↩︎

This poem opened chapter 1. ↩︎