Volume One: The Hidden Dragon in the Abyss — Chapter 134: Legend

The Wei army stood in strict formation, their long ranks parting to clear a path through the commoners.

The Emperor of Wei rode out slowly from the city gates. The carriage of his counterpart was nearby, right before his eyes. He cast only a single glance at it, then, with an air of indifference, spurred his horse as if to depart.

Yang Hao watched this with indignation. It was a clear attempt to slight Wang Chuan; the Emperor’s actions were truly excessive. They were kin, after all—why act this way? Surely a grown man need not hold such petty grudges.

"Imperial Uncle."

Only upon hearing this voice did the Emperor turn back. A young woman emerged from the carriage, her belly visibly rounded with child. The Emperor frowned, an inexplicable shadow crossing his face.

Xu Wei pressed her hand toward those behind her, signaling them to pay their respects to the Emperor, and she prepared to do the same herself.

"You need not," the Emperor interjected hastily, seeing her intent. "Let the others rise."

"Thank you, Imperial Uncle," Xu Wei said with gratitude.

"Do not call me that," the Emperor replied, his gaze shifting to the carriage as he asked with a sneer, "Where is Wang Chuan? How has he fallen so low as to let a woman show her face in public? And you—you are with child. How can you endure such travel?"

Even the onlookers felt he had gone too far; it was unbecoming. Was this truly the Prince Wang Chuan whom the world worshipped?

"I thought some saint had descended upon the world; I even dreamt of the sun rising last night," the Emperor added with a cold laugh, glancing up at the sky.

"Uncle, I apologize."

Finally, another figure emerged from the carriage. To the gathered crowd, his appearance felt like a brick dropped into a still lake. Countless hidden factions watching the scene were stirred into motion. Those who had waited so long in agony wondered if this was truly the moment they had been waiting for.

Wang Chuan stepped out. He was the same man they remembered, yet something about him had changed. The young man before them was deathly pale, his frame gaunt, his features sunken as if carved from bone.

"Uncle, I have come to make amends. I have disappointed you in the past." Wang Chuan managed to speak these words before he was suddenly overcome by a violent fit of coughing, his hand covering his mouth.

Xu Wei gently rubbed his back, her heart aching for him.

The Emperor’s brow furrowed deeper. Glancing at the crowd, he dismounted and stepped forward. "What is wrong with you?"

"I am ill, but it is nothing serious," Wang Chuan replied. "I shall recover in a few days."

Ill?

"You were always the most skilled at feigning sickness—I still remember that. A nation relies on its sovereign," the Emperor said with a chuckle. He stared intently at Wang Chuan, but the other man remained unmoved by the mention of the past. That was Wang Chuan; he disliked dwelling on yesterday. Now, hearing it mentioned felt as if it had nothing to do with him at all.

"Uncle jokes," Wang Chuan said earnestly. "We may have had misunderstandings before, but I have come today to offer my apologies. Let us hold no more grudges. During these days of quiet recuperation, I have often thought of your kindness toward me. When my father was not by my side, you were the one who accompanied me. I have always kept that in my heart."

"Xiao Chuan, let us not speak of the past," the Emperor said, patting his shoulder. "How do things stand between you and Xiao Liu? What happened?"

"My cousin?" Wang Chuan sighed, as if burdened by unspeakable trouble. "There may be some misunderstanding between us. It is fine. For your sake, I hope he can lay aside his guard against me. We all hold you in the highest regard."

"When I was a child, Grandmother once told me a story—it was when I first arrived in the State of Wei. She said that in the Imperial Academy, a group of children went to school together. One of their friends fell ill, so several of them snuck out of Luo City to visit him." Wang Chuan coughed a few more times before continuing. "They were only four or five years old, six of them, setting out on a long journey. They encountered many difficulties. Along the way, one by one, they gave up for various reasons. Yet, in the end, some reached their destination. Though they were eventually found by adults and brought to see their companion with their help, they were able to send him off—to see him through his final journey."

Xu Wei noticed that as the Emperor listened to this story, his expression flickered several times.

When Wang Chuan finished, he composed himself, as if nothing had happened. He added, "That was when I first arrived in Wei, and Grandmother told me to get along with them. She loved me dearly, especially among so many children. I only understood later that she feared I would be homesick. She feared I had no kin here and that no one would be good to me. She wanted me to play with them and live each day well. As for us, Uncle, you were always so majestic and stern. But in the end, you are my kin."

*That was your own story, wasn't it?* the Emperor almost asked. That kind-hearted old woman had used her own son's story to teach her grandson. Yet, for her, it carried the same hopes. The Emperor felt a pang of sorrow, remembering the mother who had adored him since childhood. His Imperial Sister had shouldered so much from a young age, and only after she had pushed him onto the throne did she leave, never to return. Perhaps, in his late mother's heart, she had hoped this grandson of hers would grow just like that. She had felt so much guilt for what she owed her own daughter. But the other princes of Wei still had their parents.

That kind old woman had been filled with regret until her final breath, fearing that once she was gone, no one would be able to look after Wang Chuan. When his sister had brought Wang Chuan here, the old woman had taken the child in, yet she had always felt she had failed him, fearing for his future.

"Wang Chuan, write a poem," the Emperor sighed. "You were unremarkable once, but then, as if touched by the gods, you were suddenly enlightened. I have always loved your poetry. I read every one of your verses, and I have even recited them at my mother’s tomb."

"But it has been a long time since I have seen a new poem from you."

The Emperor remembered the boy who had once wailed in the palace, calling out for his grandmother, and he felt a sudden sense of melancholy. He had grown up now, he had a wife, and a child was about to be born. But was he still the same person?

"Forgive me, Imperial Uncle, but I no longer write poetry," Wang Chuan said, bowing slightly.

"What? Is it that you cannot, or that you will not?" The Emperor sneered, his face darkening. "Even before me, you remain like this."

"I can no longer compose," Wang Chuan said with remorse.

Xu Wei gripped his arm, her lips moving as if to speak, but she remained silent.

"Someone, bring brush and ink!" the Emperor commanded. "Whether you wish to or not, you shall write today! Was it not by writing poetry before me that you became famous throughout the world? This last poem should end before me, should it not? Or do you look down upon me now?"

"Wang Chuan, oh Wang Chuan, where has the man who once mocked and ridiculed me gone? Or is it that I am no longer worthy? Indeed, the world intends to crown you as the Emperor of Mankind; they have been waiting for you all this time."

At the Emperor's order, an attendant prepared the desk, brush, and ink. Wang Chuan stood there, silent and hesitant. The Emperor watched him, unmoving. After a long time, the Emperor finally flicked his sleeves and turned to leave.

"Imperial Uncle!" Wang Chuan sighed, finally calling him back.

The Emperor stopped and turned to look at him.

Wang Chuan coughed, his expression seemingly more painful as he stepped forward, grabbing the Emperor’s arm with deep emotion. "I blame my youth and ignorance for often angering you. I wish to use this moment to offer my apologies. The poem is but a small matter."

"The world is falling into chaos; many are displaced and suffer great misfortune. With my own strength, I fear I am but a single pillar unable to hold up the collapsing sky. Whatever happens, Uncle, please take care of your health. After we part today, I do not know when we shall meet again. Take care!"

Wang Chuan spoke with heartfelt earnestness, then moved to the desk. He looked out at this once-prosperous city, thinking of the war and looting it had endured, and, filled with sorrow, he began to write.

After so long, he finally composed a poem. His long-dormant talent and genius were unveiled once more. Xu Wei watched from the side, deeply moved by the sight of that figure. The Emperor walked over, looked at the poem, and froze.

He could not help but read it again, slowly.

"Wang Chuan, oh Wang Chuan, you truly never cease to amaze. Every time a new poem of yours appears, it is always like this." The Emperor sighed with emotion, carefully tucking the poem away.

Outside, the commoners stretched their necks to see, but they could not.

"You once wrote of wind, flowers, snow, and moonlight—of lovers' sentiment. Now, you finally know to worry for the nation and its people," the Emperor remarked before turning to leave.

"You are too kind, Imperial Uncle," Wang Chuan said, bowing respectfully to see him off.

"Hm, never mind," the Emperor said just before leaving, then added, "Wang Chuan, I forgive you."

And with that, he took his people and departed.

"Bring me my zither," Wang Chuan said to Xu Wei.

"Oh... of course." Xu Wei quickly fetched it for him.

He plucked the strings gently, and a desolate, sorrowful melody drifted into the air.

*"Beyond the long pavilion, by the ancient road, the fragrant grass stretches to the horizon."*

*"The evening wind brushes the willows, the sound of the flute fading; the setting sun falls beyond the hills."*

*"At the edge of the heavens, at the corners of the earth, old friends are scattered and few."*

*"A cup of turbid wine to drain the remaining joy; tonight, the parting dream is cold."*

*"Beyond the long pavilion, by the ancient road, the fragrant grass stretches to the horizon."*

*"I ask you, when will you return? When you come, do not hesitate."*

*"At the edge of the heavens, at the corners of the earth, old friends are scattered and few."*

*"In life, joyful reunions are rare; only partings are many."*

...

The carriage stopped by the river to rest. Old Zhong walked over, smiling in his familiar way. Yang Hao, who was feeding the horses, could not help but smile as well. "Are you also here to ask about the poem the Prince recited?"

Many keen-eyed observers had been present, and the new poem Wang Chuan had written before the Emperor had quickly spread. Old Zhong had obtained a transcribed copy. For people of their station, most of it was profound and impressive, but they needed someone to explain the meaning. This was why the teahouses and storytellers were so lively, and how Wang Chuan’s works were spread, especially when the storytellers spoke of them. Among their group, it was usually Yang Hao who provided the explanations.

Yang Hao sat down, looking at the eager faces before him. He could feel the charisma Wang Chuan possessed, the quality that made people treat him with such devotion. Especially people like Old Zhong, who had watched him grow up—he was the most passionate of them all, the one who most wanted to understand and know everything about Wang Chuan.

"The imagery is hauntingly evocative. Who else but the Prince could complete such a masterpiece? Who else in this world could create such a work?" Yang Hao read it again, his admiration growing.

The others wore expressions of excitement. With this poem, who in the world could doubt Wang Chuan any longer?

"This poem was written at the gates of Huai City, as you all saw," Yang Hao said. "We must speak of Huai City first—one of the world’s most famous cities. Yet, it suffered an invasion by barbarian soldiers. Fortunately, the Emperor of Wei led his army in person to save the city, but it no longer retains its former prosperity."

"At the city gates, Prince Wang Chuan met with the Emperor. The Emperor ordered him to write a poem, and the Prince, moved by the scene, composed this work."

*"The famous capital of Huai, a beautiful place by the bamboo stream, where I unbridled my horse to rest a while."*

*"Passing through ten miles of spring breeze, all I see is the green of wild wheat."*

*"Ever since the barbarian horses peered across the river, the ruined pools and ancient trees still loathe the talk of war."*

*"As dusk falls, the cold horn blows through the empty city."*

*"The elegant appreciation of Du Mu—if he were to return now, he would surely be startled."*

*"Even with skilled verses like those of the pomegranate, or dreams of the pleasure quarters, it is hard to express such deep sorrow."*

*"The Twenty-Four Bridges remain, the waves rocking in the center, the cold moon silent."*

*"Thinking of the red peonies by the bridge, year after year, I wonder for whom they bloom."*

After finishing, Yang Hao wiped the corners of his eyes, feeling inexplicably moved. "The first few lines of this poem exhaust the description of the former, world-renowned prosperity of Huai Prefecture, as well as the poet’s own longing for the legendary city."