Of Weddings and Wakes | Chapter 31 | A Song for the Fallen | Novela.app

Anping slept in the City God Temple that night, tossing and turning in fitful exhaustion. Too much had happened recently. With a thousand tangled threads weighing on his mind, he found himself fearing sleep. He dreaded the return of the iron horses and clashing blades, the mountains of corpses and seas of blood that haunted his dreams. During the day, he had wanted to ask Mu Gesheng what had happened afterward, but the words had died in his throat. Whether the man remembered or not, some memories were like ancient wounds—healed on the surface, but festering deep within. Red lanterns hung throughout the temple, some electric, others burning wax. One hung just outside Anping’s guest room, swaying slightly in the breeze. Anping stared at it, watching the wick crackle into tiny sparks. *The candle wicks burn low through another night, amidst the desolate wind and rain.* Suddenly, someone took a pair of shears and trimmed the burnt wick, making the light flare brighter. Anping blinked. He realized the lantern had suddenly become exquisite and ornate. A hexagonal lacquered frame was inlaid with fine silk, and a faint fragrance drifted through the air. The room’s furnishings had changed as well. Red candles burned high, illuminating mandarin duck embroidered quilts and brocade curtains. On a small mahogany table sat a pair of wine cups made of cloisonné gold. Anping saw the "Double Happiness" character pasted on the window and realized with a jolt—this was the bridal chamber he had seen in his dreams! Not far away lay the remains of the vase he had knocked over during his last visit, shards of celadon scattered across the floor. Anping’s heart hammered. He turned his head and saw that, besides the bride, there was another person in the room. The man stood with his back to Anping, placing a shade over a flowering candle. He wore a set of deep red wedding robes, his posture as upright and elegant as a jade tree in the wind. The man leaned down and took the bride’s hand. Through the tassels of her veil, he whispered something in a low voice. "...Since I have seen my lord." The voice was soft, carrying an expectation that seemed as fragile as glass, yet a devotion that felt centuries old. "...He has not cast me aside." Anping held his breath. The two figures stood facing each other, the carved lampshade filtering the light into mottled patterns. The walls were covered in the golden shadows of ginkgo leaves. In that moment, the lamps grew silent and the people still, bathed in the fullness of the moonlight. Suddenly, the door was blown open by the wind with a violent clatter. Anping’s eyes snapped open. He had actually fallen asleep leaning against the headboard. Anping sat in a daze. The scene in the dream was similar to his first intrusion into the bridal chamber, yet fundamentally different. The red candles burning high had felt like a moment of profound, tender affection. But as he thought back carefully, something about it felt eerily wrong. The lantern outside the window had gone out at some point. The door stood wide open, letting in a bone-chilling wind. Anping shivered and rose to close it, but then he heard a loud *crash* nearby—something had fallen over. He wanted to close his eyes and ignore it, but whether driven by curiosity or a faint premonition, he summoned his courage and walked toward the sound. He found a room with its door ajar. Anping pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. The room was small, with white walls and grey bricks. It was sparsely furnished, even simple. Against one wall stood a single table holding an incense burner and fruit offerings, enshrining a memorial tablet. It seemed the wind had blown the door open and knocked the tablet over. Anping breathed a sigh of relief; it wasn't unusual for a City God Temple to have such shrines. He stepped forward to return the tablet to its place. Under the light of his phone, he glanced at the name carved upon it. In the next instant, a wave of icy horror washed over him. Anping froze, paralyzed by shock. A sudden crack of thunder exploded across the sky. A flash of white light was followed by a torrential downpour. Outside, the wind howled, and the shadows of the trees danced in a frenzied tangle. Thunder and rain were rare in winter, but Mu Gesheng had predicted it. At the stroke of midnight, the heavens had opened. The click of a lighter sounded through the rain, followed by the glow of a lamp. Anping snapped out of his stupor, hurriedly placed the tablet back, and ran out of the room. At the end of the long corridor, the main gates of the temple stood open. Amidst the vast roar of the rain, Wu Biyou sat on the threshold, smoking. A lamp hung above him. By its light, Anping saw what the boy held in his hand—the Guwang Pipe. The youth smoked slowly, his movements carrying a strange composure. He was uncharacteristically quiet. Through the haze of smoke and mist, Anping seemed to see that same refined, tall silhouette from the past. That person had also finished a bowl of tobacco just like this before marching toward life or death. *"The glory and the grace are swept away by the wind and rain."* Wu Zixu stood at the end of the long street. In the distance, black clouds pressed down upon the city, and the sound of artillery fire was deafening. "You're about to die, and you're still fucking reciting poetry," Song Wentong said, sitting on the eaves and drinking wine. "Stinking of scholarly rot." "That doesn't sound like something you'd say, Old Second." Wu Zixu held his pipe, standing leisurely in the rain. He was once again the jade-like noble scion, devoid of the hysteria he showed when fighting Song Wentong or the helplessness he felt when arguing with Mu Gesheng. It was as if the boyishness of the past few days had been a brief respite; now, facing ten thousand men and horses, he had returned to the elegant and dignified Master Wuchang. Nearby was the intersection where the Yin-Yang Staircase was sealed. As the cannons thundered outside the city, the ground began to groan and shift. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning tore through the night sky with an earth-shattering boom. The earth cracked open, and from the depths came the neighing of ten thousand spectral horses. The rain fell in sheets. Wu Zixu struck a match, lit his pipe, and stared at the black void at the end of the street. "It has begun." Song Wentong leaped from the eaves, drawing his blade. He stood at the very front, his voice low and heavy. "Do your job." Wu Zixu patted his shoulder, then turned and walked toward the other end of the street. Behind him, the thundering of hooves drew closer. With a roar, Song Wentong unleashed a massive arc of blade-light that rose from the ground like a second moon. Wine jars shattered, and the clash of steel became a chaotic din. The air was instantly thick with the scent of blood. Wu Zixu did not look back. He walked steadily toward the far end of the street and exhaled the first puff of smoke into the rainy night. Meanwhile, the city walls were already a sea of corpses. Mu Gesheng’s voice was hoarse from screaming. "Hold the line! Carry the wounded down! Move the bodies! Front line, suppressive fire! Do not let them take the battlements!" His throat was half-ruined. He tilted his head back to swallow a few mouthfuls of rainwater, then raised his hand to blow the head off an enemy soldier climbing the wall. Blood sprayed across his face; he didn't have time to wipe it before biting the pin off a grenade and hurling it down. The enemy attack had been sudden. The siege had lasted a day and a night. Three thousand men had been reduced to less than a thousand. They were outmatched in power and short on ammunition; everyone was at their breaking point. But he had to hold. The Yin-Yang Staircase had only just opened tonight. He had to endure until dawn to give Old Second and the others a fighting chance. If it were only a matter of winning or losing, the Yin Soldier riot would actually be a great help—he could let the enemy into the city and let everyone perish together in a grand, scorched-earth finale. But he knew all too well that neither his defenders nor the tens of thousands of enemy troops were a match for the Yin Soldiers. Once the enemy entered the city, the result would be total annihilation. The Yin Soldiers would absorb even greater resentment, and there would be no one left to stop them. They would pour out of the city, and what awaited the land would be a true apocalypse. Perhaps this was the outcome the Seven Great Houses were waiting for—using the power of the Yin Soldiers to cleanse the chaotic world, fighting fire with fire to upend heaven and earth, only for the Seven Houses to step in at the end to reorganize the mortal realm. It was indeed a calculated move, the optimal solution for the Houses and perhaps even for those in power. But he couldn't do it. Mu Gesheng wiped the rain from his face and laughed self-deprecatingly. He really wasn't suited to be Master Tiansuan. He was just a common soldier-rogue. He couldn't sit by and watch a city fall, leaving the heartland with no more passes to defend. He couldn't watch the Yin Soldiers rise and turn the world into a wasteland of white bones and grieving ghosts. He cared about the gain and loss of every inch of his country; he fretted over the lives of every elder and child among his compatriots. He didn't have the gall to look down on everything, nor the detachment to view the mortal world with cold indifference. On the walls, it was a storm of bullets; below, the defenders were practically using their bodies to block the gates. "Report—!" A soldier arrived on horseback, screaming at Mu Gesheng between gasps. "The Chief of Staff sent me! The southern gate is about to fall!" Mu Gesheng roared back, "Send the last batch of gunpowder over there! Tell him to hold that gate even if he has to use his own teeth!" The ancient city originally had four gates. Last year, Commander Mu had the foresight to seal one. Of the remaining three, Mu Gesheng had forced Song Wentong to work overtime to block another a few days ago. That left two: the East Gate and the South Gate. Before the battle, Mu Gesheng had issued a death order—heads could roll, but neither gate could be lost. Before he could finish, a stray bullet flew toward his head. He couldn't dodge in time, but someone suddenly lunged at him, pinning him to the ground. When Mu Gesheng pushed the person off, his hands came away covered in blood. Amidst the flying sand and stone, everyone was covered in grime. He froze for a second, suddenly recognizing the person before him. "Xiao Fengzi?! Who the hell let you enlist? You're only fourteen!" "Young Master... Mu." Xiao Fengzi was covered in blood, gasping for air. "No... I should call you 'Sir' now." "Don't you care about your parents?!" Mu Gesheng roared, losing control. "You rushed up here to die—who's going to take care of your sister?" "My family has always been in your debt. You were the one who drove away the corrupt officials who tried to take our house... When my father was gravely ill, the Chai family took us in... You and Master Chai didn't leave, so my father said we must keep gratitude in our hearts..." "I've followed you since I was a kid. When thugs came to take over our neighborhood, you led us to kick them out. Now that even bigger thugs are coming to steal our city, of course I have to follow you... follow you to drive them away..." Xiao Fengzi spat out a mouthful of blood and gripped Mu Gesheng’s hand, smiling fitfully. "The clothes you ordered from our shop... I delivered them to Yeshui Zhuhua. It's a pity everyone ate their fill that night, but you didn't come to your own welcome banquet... It's... it's okay. When you win, we'll drink the victory wine together... Put on the long robe I tailored for you. You'll look very grand..." Mu Gesheng wiped the blood from his face. "Stop talking. I'll have someone take you to get treated." He handed Xiao Fengzi over to the messenger who had arrived on horseback. The medical camp was not far inside the city. "You better hang on, kid," he said fiercely, clutching Xiao Fengzi’s wound. "When I get back, I'm buying you victory wine. We'll eat at Yeshui Zhuhua until they go bankrupt." Smoke rose everywhere; no one had a moment to breathe. Mu Gesheng turned and left, the stairs already covered in the dead. He stepped over the remains of his comrades to re-ascend the city walls of blood and bone. The messenger galloped with Xiao Fengzi to the medical camp. Chai Shuxin, covered in blood, met them. "Give him to me." He lifted Xiao Fengzi off the horse, and the messenger sped away. He carried the boy into a tent filled with the stench of blood and the sound of agonizing screams. "Brother!" The girl assisting Chai Shuxin saw the person in his arms, and her eyes instantly turned red. She helped settle Xiao Fengzi on a patch of empty ground. "Master Chai, can my brother be saved?" In the past two days, the girl had seen more death than most see in several lifetimes. She didn't ask if the wound was serious; she asked if he could be saved. If he could, they would try; if not, a quick end was better than a lingering death. She had been dragging away one corpse after another; she still had the strength to carry her brother out properly. Chai Shuxin glanced at her, grabbed his medicine bag, and said softly, "He'll be fine." The girl burst into tears but, fearing she would interfere with his needles, ran to the side to tend to other patients, sobbing quietly. The wind, rain, and gunfire shrieked. Huge raindrops hammered against the tent, and stray shells exploded nearby. The entire camp was shaking, but Chai Shuxin’s hand remained steady as he placed the needles. He calmly cleaned the wound, removed the shrapnel, stopped the bleeding, and stitched him up. Finally, he said to the girl, "I remember there are some herbs left. Follow the old prescription, add dried tangerine peel and rhubarb, and brew a bowl for him." The girl nodded quickly and ran out of the tent. Mu Gesheng—no, Chai Shuxin—looked at Xiao Fengzi. "Your sister is gone. If it hurts, you can cry out." Xiao Fengzi groaned. "It's raining outside... tell her to put on more clothes..." "I will." Chai Shuxin checked his pulse, then asked after a moment, "How is the battle on the walls?" "I don't really know... but so many people die before they can even reach the camp. Everyone is fighting to the death..." "...And Mu Gesheng?" "Officer Mu is okay. He's wounded, but he's holding on..." "I see," Chai Shuxin whispered. "You did well." "...Are you cold, sir?" "I'm fine." Chai Shuxin took off his own outer coat and draped it over Xiao Fengzi. "Rest now. I'm here." During their brief conversation, his hands had been shaking—shaking even faster than the boy's pulse. Wine jars lined both sides of the long street. The Yin Soldiers surged from the Staircase but could not step past the jars. The street was packed with spectral troops. Song Wentong’s eyes were bloodshot as he harvested heads like he was cutting grass. Any Yin Soldier struck by the *Red-Licking Blade* instantly dissolved into green smoke and bone ash, which was immediately washed away by the torrential rain. The surging Yin Soldiers were growing in number. Although Mountain Ghost Coins had been placed in the wine jars to form an array, a single street could not hold back an army forever. The street entrance was too narrow for the Yin Soldiers to scatter, so they began to step on their comrades' heads, stacking layer upon layer of bronze armor until they formed a massive wall. Someone blew a horn, and the Yin Soldiers let out a raspy howl. Song Wentong watched the ghostly wailing with cold eyes. He bit down on a lock of wet hair, his muscles tensing until his bones let out a sharp *crack*. Finally, he twisted his neck, appearing to grow an inch taller. He threw off his outer shirt; sweat and heat radiated from his pores, and the rain couldn't even touch him, evaporating in mid-air. This was the Penglai secret technique, *Snow Burn*. He had spent three whole years in the Sword Pavilion to master it, adjusting his bones and limbs through his meridians to push human potential to its absolute limit. On the day he mastered it, amidst a mountain of heavy snow, he had planted a seed; when he finished his breathing exercises, a lotus had bloomed in the snow. He breathed slowly, his entire body tuned to its peak. But the secret technique alone wasn't enough. An ultimate internal art required an ultimate external force—the *Red-Licking Blade* techniques passed down through the Mohist line. This strike originated from Pangu’s creation of the world; at the moment the blade was drawn, even Yin and Yang could be severed. A familiar voice sounded in his ear: *"When you have a blade in your hand, nothing can stop a Mohist."* "I figured you wouldn't want to miss a scene this lively, Mom." Song Wentong smiled at the woman in his memory, took a long, deep breath, and then charged forward with a thunderous roar. The wine jars along the street exploded one by one, the spirits mixing with the rain to carry Song Wentong into the air like a tidal wave. He pushed his strength to the absolute limit, drew his blade, and struck with devastating force. It was a beautiful, violent strike that drew a perfect circle in the air. The blade-light slammed into the bronze wall like a setting sun sinking into a river, kicking up a colossal wave. The mountain of Yin Soldiers instantly disintegrated, howling as they were turned to dust. His strength spent, Song Wentong crashed to the ground. He crawled up, using his blade as a crutch, and roared, "Wu Nie!" "Insolent brat! Call me Great Master Taisui!" A red light burst from the Yin-Yang Staircase, cutting through the spectral ranks and throwing the Yin Soldiers into chaos from behind. Wu Nie fought as he moved, quickly breaking through the encirclement and tossing a flower ball toward the distance. "Kid, catch!" The ball flew into the air. Song Wentong kicked it mid-flight, sending it straight to the end of the street. The flower ball exploded upon landing, transforming into a massive vermilion drum. The rain hammered against the drumhead, sounding like the thundering hooves of ten thousand horses. Wu Zixu stood before the drum. He looked up and slowly exhaled his last puff of smoke. He tossed aside his pipe and leaped onto the drum. Anping watched as Wu Biyou threw away his pipe and stepped into the torrential rain. The low thrum of a drumbeat drifted over. He chased after him and found a massive drum standing at the end of the street. Wu Biyou leaped onto the drum. The youth stood in the rain, his body arched, his hands turning in the opening gesture of a dance. Mu Gesheng stood not far away, cradling a pipa. He looked at the youth from a distance and slowly began to sing— In an instant, the sound of the rain ceased, and the world fell silent. Wu Nie held back the Yin Soldiers. Song Wentong broke through the crowd and sprinted into the Guanshan Pavilion beside the street. The music hall’s doors and windows were wide open tonight, and the top-floor terrace was filled with instrument stands—pipas, zithers, and harps. Song Wentong grabbed a pipa and began to pluck the strings frantically amidst the storm. *Like silver vases breaking, the water splashes forth; like iron cavalry charging, the swords and spears clash.* Mu Gesheng looked at Wu Biyou. Song Wentong looked at Wu Zixu. The pipa notes were hurried and sharp, sounding like tearing silk. A song rose from the earth— *"Who says we have no clothes? Red bridal dress and white mourning shroud!* *Who says we have no words? A thousand poems burned to ash!* *Who says we have no song? A long wail in place of weeping!* *Who says we have no war? Waging battle to the bitter end!"* The figure on the drum danced like a startled swan—sharp, graceful, like a sword breaking an array, yet soft as silk. The unstoppable killing intent and breathtaking beauty merged into one, possessing the weight of a mountain and the lightness of a white crane taking flight. As the dancer leaped like a drawing sword, the air around them seemed to solidify. Between heaven and earth, all things obeyed. This was no ordinary dance. It was the supreme secret of the Yin-Yang House—the *General’s Nuo Dance*. The Yin-Yang House could command gods and ghosts. With the Guwang Pipe in hand, they could even order the King of Hell. But facing tens of thousands of Yin Soldiers that even the Ten Kings could not handle, the only counter was the ancient, long-lost dance of the Yin-Yang House. "The General’s Nuo Dance has been lost for centuries." That day at the West City Pass, Wu Zixu had looked at Wu Nie in disbelief. "The last time it appeared was when Prince Lanling played the music of the breaking array in the army. You actually still possess this secret?" "I've lived in Fengdu for nearly a thousand years; I have more than just age." Wu Nie tossed the flower ball. "Have you seen the Hundred Plays of the Ghost Market? The Twelve Cases Dance I perform is actually a segment of the General’s Nuo Dance." Nuo Dance, also known as the Dance of Sacrificing to the Gods. In ancient times, people wore Nuo masks to invite the gods to possess them, dancing according to divine will to manifest the gods' intent to the world. Later, when the Yin-Yang House emerged and practiced the arts of inviting gods and commanding ghosts, they integrated the Nuo Dance into their teachings. Among these, the most beautiful and lethal was the General’s Nuo Dance. A battlefield is a place where ten thousand ghosts gather, no different from the West City Pass. When the ancestors of the Yin-Yang House created the General’s Nuo Dance, they borrowed the power of the God of War to dissolve the resentment of the battlefield. Once the dance was performed, ten thousand ghosts would submit. But the God of War is a being of endless slaughter; once the dance begins and the god is invited, a terrible baleful aura inevitably settles on the dancer. Several generations of Master Wuchangs had died violent deaths because of this dance, leading to its gradual disappearance. "To learn this dance, you must have the will to die," Wu Nie had told Wu Zixu. "The aura of slaughter, the spirit of conquest, the heart of disdain, and the resolve to face death. Only then can you perform this peerless dance." "Of course, I won't watch my descendants walk to their deaths." Wu Nie had smiled. "During the Warring States period, a musician saw this dance and, in a moment of inspiration, composed a piece called *'No Clothes.'* When played alongside the dance, it can diminish the baleful aura." "But this song was lost even earlier than the dance. I haven't heard the full version, but I've reconstructed a piece based on fragments from a thousand years ago. Later, when I was drinking with a friend, I sang it, and he helped me fill in the lyrics." "The Mohist House still carries the heritage of this song. When the Yin Soldiers riot, the outcome will depend on the two of you." Song Wentong’s fingers flew over the strings, sounding like ten thousand horses charging, the five strings ringing like clashing steel. There was killing intent beneath his fingers. The music cut through the rain like a blade, but it couldn't last; the strings soon snapped. But the terrace of Guanshan Pavilion was already filled with instruments. As soon as he ruined one, he switched to another. He wasn't particularly skilled in music, and there were instruments he had never even touched, yet melodies gushed out the moment he struck them. What Aunt Zhao said was true—this song was a heritage, already dissolved into his blood and bone. This was a song of ending slaughter with slaughter—anyone with a battlefield in their heart could remember its melody! Anping stood in the rain, watching Mu Gesheng sing at the top of his lungs— *"How many times have I looked at my sword while drunk? Countless glories!* *"How many times have the iron horses charged? Bones buried in the green hills!"* The music clanged. Song Wentong threw away the last instrument, drew his blade, and sang while striking a pillar. *"Fame and fortune are but dust; success and failure, a single stroke of the pen.* *"The old legends of fishermen and woodcutters; a morning of prosperity, ten thousand bones turned to dust!* *"In prosperity, the people suffer; in ruin, the people suffer!* *"In the rising and falling, I ask: who rules the world?* *"Through a thousand autumns and ten thousand generations, what fault lies with the innocent child?"* *** **Glossary** Chinese | English | Notes/Explanation ---|---|--- 既见君子，不我遐弃 | Since I have seen my lord, he has not cast me aside | A reference to the *Classic of Poetry* (Shijing). 将军傩舞 | General’s Nuo Dance | An ancient, lethal ritual dance of the Yin-Yang House used to suppress battlefield spirits. 无衣 | No Clothes | A song title, referencing a classic poem from the *Shijing*, but with subverted lyrics. 雪燃 | Snow Burn | A secret physical enhancement technique from the Penglai Sword Pavilion. 舐红刀 | Red-Licking Blade | Song Wentong’s weapon. 无常子 | Master Wuchang | The title for the head of the Wu family (Yin-Yang House). 天算子 | Master Tiansuan | The title for the head of the Mu family (Divination House). 邺水朱华 | Yeshui Zhuhua | A high-end establishment/restaurant in the old city. 小峰子 | Xiao Fengzi | A young soldier and son of a tailor who served Mu Gesheng. 傩面 | Nuo Mask | Masks used in ritual dances to represent deities or spirits.