Volume One: Carefree Journeys Amidst Indistinguishable Paper Leaves Chapter Thirty-Five: Draped in Silver and White

The river flows eastward, its waters slipping away as one gazes into the distance at graceful, elegant mountains, their peaks shrouded in mist—a scene of such breathtaking beauty that words fail to capture its majesty. The great river, seeming to descend from the heavens, gathers streams from a thousand miles and becomes the mighty Yangtze. It carves a path across the land, surging and roaring through countless high mountains and perilous passes, only to be halted at Jilong Mountain. There, the river’s immense force is checked by the range, narrowing from breadth to tightness, with extraordinary scenery nestled in danger—land and water in perfect harmony, forming a landscape of natural grandeur.

Zhongshan coils like a dragon, the rocky outcrop stands like a crouching tiger. The capital city of Jianye nestles northward against Fuzhou Mountain, Jilong Mountain, and Xuanwu Lake, relying on Zhongshan to the east, facing Shitou to the west, with the river at its feet, controlling the waters, the Yangtze rushing along tirelessly day and night.

Throughout their journey, Duan Canghai and his companions ensured every detail—from food and lodging to the travel arrangements—was meticulously handled, serving with utmost propriety, making Yang Ning truly appreciate the comforts afforded to a scion of nobility.

Yang Ning spoke little along the way, and the others dared not ask much. After crossing the Yangtze, they rode hard and arrived at the capital, Jianye, before a day had passed.

Even a worldly man like Yang Ning found himself in awe before the city’s magnificent grandeur—a weight and solemnity unmatched by anything he had seen in his previous life. The mountains cluster together, resembling palace towers in the distance; the Huai River emerges from among them, winding into the city. Surrounded by beautiful hills and clear waters stands the grand and solid city—the foremost stronghold of Southern Chu, the capital, Jianye.

It is said Jianye has thirteen inner and eighteen outer city gates, amounting to dozens in total, the eighteen outer gates alone a testament to the vastness of this capital.

Upon entering, Yang Ning immediately felt the city’s imposing atmosphere. The streets crisscrossed in a wide, orderly grid, lined on either side with shops, their facades tightly packed. The thoroughfares bustled with people, horses, and carriages in a lively, prosperous scene. Immersed in the city’s splendor, one could sense only the empire’s flourishing prosperity, and it was difficult to recall the misery of those displaced and homeless beyond its walls.

Jianye seemed an imperial paradise—anyone within its bounds would forget the lurking dangers threatening the realm, swept up in the capital’s vibrant energy, lulled into believing the world was at peace and all was well.

The eighteen outer gates formed a boundary dividing the Kingdom of Chu into two realms: the world outside, and the world within. Here, people were clad in fine clothes, riding spirited horses, impeccably dressed and smiling as they met; shops brimmed with dazzling wares, displaying the empire’s vast wealth—a stark contrast to the scenes Yang Ning had witnessed in Huize City.

Jianye was enormous beyond compare, with the royal palace at its heart. If the capital was the crown of Chu, then the palace was the crowning jewel set atop that diadem.

The common folk could glimpse the palace’s splendor but not experience its luxurious opulence.

Entering this ancient city for the first time, Yang Ning looked around in wonder, following Duan Canghai and the others through street after street.

“Hey, what’s that river?” he suddenly asked, seeing a gentle stream not far ahead, its arched bridges gleaming like jade.

The others paused in surprise. Qi Feng laughed, “My lord, you’ve only been away a little over ten days—have you forgotten this river? That’s the Qinhuai River.”

“The Qinhuai River?”

“It runs through the city, splitting at Wuding Gate. One branch, the main stream, becomes the Outer Qinhuai, encircling the city past Zhonghua Gate, Shui Xi Gate, and Dinghuai Gate, finally joining the Yangtze at Sancha River,” Qi Feng explained cheerfully. “The other branch, the Inner Qinhuai, enters the city at Tongji Gate’s East Water Gate, splits again at Huaqing Bridge into north and south streams—the south passes through the Confucius Temple and Wende Bridge out Shui Xi Gate, the north runs through Old Canal, Inner Bridge, and exits at Zhanggong Bridge back into the main stream...” He pointed to a bridge ahead. “That’s Zhanggong Bridge.”

Duan Canghai shot him a look, thinking, our young lord isn’t the brightest—if things get complicated, he gets confused. You’ve gone on and on, how much do you think he’ll remember?

Yang Ning simply replied, “Oh,” and said no more.

They passed through several more lanes when Duan Canghai suddenly exclaimed, “Huh?” The others looked up and saw that both sides of a nearby street were draped with white cloths above the doorways.

“Has some official passed away?” Qi Feng urged his horse forward in puzzlement.

Yang Ning had also noticed the white banners and asked, “Did someone die?”

Duan Canghai, thinking the young lord was as blunt as ever, explained, “My lord, likely some esteemed official has passed. To express mourning, the nearby streets hang white cloths—this is not an honor granted to just anyone. The deceased must have been deeply respected.” He dismounted, ordering, “Everyone off your horses!”

All obeyed, and Yang Ning, realizing this was likely a matter of etiquette, followed suit.

This street was residential, not commercial, so few people were about. As they walked, the atmosphere was subdued. After a while, some people pointed and whispered about them. Duan Canghai and his group frowned and continued on, turning into another lane, which soon emerged onto a broader avenue.

“My lord, this is Pipa Street—you won’t have forgotten this, surely?” Duan Canghai said. “We’re home.”

Stepping onto the avenue, Yang Ning realized how wide and long it was, paved with immaculate bluestone slabs. At intervals, grand mansions stood, each guarded by a pair of stone lions—dozens of these statues lining both sides, staring out languidly at the passing carriages and pedestrians.

As Yang Ning walked, he surveyed the endless stretch of mansions, each belonging to high-ranking officials and nobles: “Ministry Mansion,” “General’s Mansion,” “Marquis’s Mansion,” their names appearing one after another. And above every doorway hung a strip of white cloth.

Many mansions were guarded by soldiers, who eyed Duan Canghai’s group with hushed discussion as they passed.

Duan Canghai’s expression grew more solemn as he quickened his pace. Soon they came before a mansion whose entrance was draped entirely in white, the guards there dressed in mourning.

Duan Canghai suddenly halted, the others visibly alarmed. He swayed, then strode forward rapidly, the others following, faces grave.

Yang Ning watched their strange expressions, thinking, Surely it couldn’t be someone from your own household who’s died?

As they neared the gates, a guard rushed forward, sobbing uncontrollably. “Second Brother Duan...you’re back!” He couldn’t finish his sentence for crying.

“What’s going on?” Duan Canghai’s face was ashen. “It can’t be...the Lady Dowager...?”

Yang Ning was taken aback. Damn, it really is your own house—what luck! First day in the capital and I run into a funeral?

“No...” the guard stammered, “It’s...the General...!”

Everyone’s face changed at once. Duan Canghai’s expression turned terrifyingly grim as he seized the man’s collar. “What nonsense are you spouting? The General is at the front—how could he... Speak! Who is it really?”

Another guard came forward, weeping. “Second Brother Duan, it’s...the General. The General...has passed away!”

Duan Canghai and Qi Feng turned deathly pale. Duan Canghai took a step forward, his knees suddenly buckling as he collapsed. Someone hurried to support him as his eyes reddened and, with a roar, tears streamed down his face—the towering warrior reduced to weeping in an instant. Qi Feng and the others broke down as well, wailing and beating their chests as though they’d lost their own fathers.

Yang Ning was stunned. The General they spoke of—could it be the young lord’s own father? The son dies outside, and now the father as well?

“Hurry, inform...inform the Third Madam...the heir has returned!” Duan Canghai, sobbing, pulled Yang Ning forward. “My lord, the General...the General is gone...!”

Yang Ning had never met the General, nor felt any attachment. He stood numbly, thinking, Surely I’m not expected to cry on the spot?

He looked up at the plaque above the vermillion doors—a massive sign inscribed in bold, golden characters: “Marquis of Splendid Attire’s Residence,” the gilded words shimmering brilliantly.

Someone had already gone to report inside. Duan Canghai, holding Yang Ning by the arm, led him into the mansion, where everything was draped in white. From the main hall came the heart-wrenching sound of wailing. White banners fluttered like clouds; maids and servants, all in mourning clothes, stood about.

Yang Ning’s mind was in a daze as Duan Canghai led him forward. The people they passed looked at Yang Ning in surprise, some with joy, all kneeling as a clear, melodious voice sounded from ahead, “Is that Ning’er? Has Ning’er returned?”

Hearing this, Yang Ning thought, What a lovely voice, like spring bells. She even calls me Ning’er—does she know my name?

A group approached, all in mourning attire, led by a young matron of about twenty-six or twenty-seven. Graceful and alluring, with a noble bearing, her features were strikingly beautiful. Her skin was as flawless as white jade, seemingly without makeup, which only enhanced her pure and delicate beauty.

Clad in plain white, she looked like a portrait come to life, walking toward him.

Duan Canghai had already knelt. “Your servant greets the Third Madam!” The others followed suit, tears still streaming down their faces.

The beautiful Third Madam took Yang Ning by the wrist. At her touch, he felt her hand was smooth and warm, like fine porcelain.

“You’ve all worked hard,” she said, her eyes rimmed red. “With the General gone, it is a comfort to his spirit that you brought the young lord home in time... Please, rise, all of you—don’t kneel so!” Her voice caught, and Yang Ning saw tears glistening in her beautiful eyes—she looked even more ethereal, especially with a red beauty mark at the inner tip of her right eyebrow, adding to her charm.

“Third Madam, how could this happen?” Duan Canghai rose, fists clenched. “The war was over—how could the General...?”

“We’ll speak of this later,” she replied, then turned to Yang Ning. “Ning’er, quickly change your clothes and follow me to the ancestral hall.”