The Winds and Clouds of the Desert

The sand, like layers of silk, was lifted gently by the breeze, as if carrying with it a hint of shattered longing, softly settling on the face of a lone traveler in the vast desert. Zhanbie, his dusty headscarf wrapped tightly, trudged forward with a hunched posture. The sun scorched his dry, brittle hair, making him look disheveled and somewhat forlorn. It was foreseeable that after two days and nights of travel, even the strongest of men would find their lips parched and breath labored.

Zhanbie wiped the murky sweat from his forehead and looked ahead towards the distant, faintly visible oasis, a serene smile slowly appearing on his face... Finally, he thought, he had reached the Snow Plains. Beyond them, Yunpei was only half a day away. He was certain that within three days, he would fulfill his mission!

The Snow Plains lay to the north of Yunpei, south of Huhan, serving as a crucial pass between the two. Spanning 4,700 pings, it was a land where various ethnic groups coexisted. Only four hundred households lived there, all involved in commerce. Inns, taverns, shops, brothels, and auction houses were abundant, and the slave trade flourished. Travelogues described it as a place devoid of ethnicity or fixed politics, a place of local trade, self-sufficiency, and a simple city structure—a single alleyway running through, with goods on the left and people on the right. Trade required no taxes, entering the pass required no documents, and movement was entirely unrestricted. The settlement had been established for about two hundred years, with simple customs and an unwritten code of mutual restraint, which meant that theft and robbery were rare.

By the side of the Snow Plains' teahouse, an emaciated old man in ragged clothing stood at the doorstep. His face, covered in wrinkles of varying depths, resembled a map that divided his features, giving him an impression of senility. Yet his eyes, bright and piercing, reflected all the happenings of the world with clarity. Leaning against the door, he called out in a loud voice, "Ladies and gentlemen, what this old man has to share today is truly a heavenly secret! Would you like to hear it? Not hearing it would be your loss, and all it costs is a pot of tea—what a bargain!"

His shout indeed drew quite a few curious glances, but that was all—no one responded.

After a while, the teahouse attendant came out, looking somewhat busy but still maintaining a friendly expression. He smiled, "Old fellow, you're here again! You've been coming here every day to tell stories, but not many people have taken you up on it. Why not try another place?"

The old man stubbornly clung to the attendant's sleeve. "Young man, you don't understand. I've traveled my whole life, and everywhere I go, I drink only one kind of tea—bitter fragrant tea. The Snow Plains is small, and only here can I find it. Otherwise, why would I bother telling stories for hours every day just to earn a pot of tea from you?"

"Why do that, then? You could walk half a day to Yunpei, and you'd get all the tea you want! There, this kind of tea is so cheap that almost every household has it." The attendant offered kindly.

"Ha ha! I won't set foot in Yunpei. Mark my words—within two months, Yunpei will close its borders." The old man said with a laugh.

No sooner had these words left his mouth than hundreds of eyes in the teahouse snapped towards him. Naturally, these were merchants, and the trends of border policies in the surrounding major countries were a matter of great concern to them, for they influenced the fluctuations in commodity prices. Yet it was unclear what basis the old man had for his claim—he seemed to be merely speaking nonsense, hoping to draw people in.

"Oh? What makes you say that, old man?" Amidst the crowd's bewilderment and speculation, a magnetic voice suddenly inquired. No one had noticed when he had arrived, but there he stood in the doorway—an exceptionally striking figure, with a roguish hint between his brows. He held the reins of a sturdy white horse, exuding an aura of sacred, untouchable authority. The attendant also seemed momentarily stunned; after a while, he came to his senses and quickly trotted over. "Ah, young master, this way, please!" He took the reins and tethered the white horse at the entrance, preparing a table for the black-clad young master.

The young master in black glanced deeply at the old man by the door, then turned to the attendant and said, "Bring me a jug of 'Wine of Conquerors,' a few of your signature dishes, and also a pot of bitter fragrant tea."

The attendant nodded repeatedly. "Young master, the Wine of Conquerors is very strong. If you drink an entire jug, you'll surely need a room to rest! Shall I prepare one for you?" His inquiry carried genuine concern—after all, this potent wine was typically diluted before consumption, and few would order an entire jug at once.

The young master in black shot the attendant a disapproving glance, frowning slightly without saying more. The attendant shuddered, suddenly realizing that this man possessed a unique charm—a profound and mysterious elegance. He nodded and hurried off. Working in the inn, he had seen all kinds of people, and he knew when he was dealing with someone extraordinary. Surely, this was one such person.

The young master looked at the old man by the door, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and beckoned to him with a finger. However, the old man only stood there for a long moment, seemingly unwilling to approach. He was about to turn and leave when the attendant returned, carrying a pot of tea and a jug of wine. The old man glanced at the tea on the table, hesitated for a while, and finally couldn't resist his craving, rushing over to sit at the young master's table as if going to his doom.

The young master smiled, pouring a cup of tea for the old man and a cup of wine for himself.

The two of them silently sipped their tea for a long while without speaking. The other patrons in the teahouse occasionally glanced at them, puzzled by this strange scene.

Ding-ling. After a while, the wind chime above the door jingled, signaling the arrival of a new guest—he must have been over five feet tall, otherwise, how could he have touched the chime? The attendant glanced at the door, noticing the man covered in dust, his expression weary yet tinged with excitement.

"Brother, this way, please!" The attendant led him to a table behind the black-clad young master, a spot tucked away in the corner. The newcomer was none other than Zhanbie. As soon as he sat down, he said, "A bowl of noodles and a pot of desert wine! Make it quick, I'm in a hurry."

"Please wait a moment." The attendant acknowledged and went off.

Zhanbie touched the letter in his pocket, letting out a small sigh of relief, but his heart remained vigilant. Until he reached Yunpei, he would not feel at ease. As he thought this, he glanced around. The inn was bustling, with merchants from all walks of life gathered here. Many wore exotic clothing, and those who drank too much inevitably caused a commotion. However, what drew Zhanbie's attention the most was the table next to him, where the dignified young man in black and the ragged old man sat.

The young master drank his wine, each movement a mix of strength and grace, his breathing steady, exuding a faint aura that Zhanbie couldn't quite determine—a hint of killing intent. The old man, meanwhile, focused on sipping his tea, ignoring the curious gazes around him.

"Old man, you've got your tea. Now tell us, what's this 'heavenly secret' of yours?"

"Yeah! You keep drinking, but don't drink so much that you end up spilling your little secret!"

"The young master already treated you to tea, so stop playing coy! Spill it!"

"Exactly! Tell us something to spice up our drinks!"

At this point, a few quick-tongued patrons began heckling the old man, and soon, more voices joined in. Zhanbie watched curiously, wondering about the old man's background.

"Alright, alright! This old man will tell you today, perhaps for the last time." After drinking his fill, the old man limped over to a platform against the southern wall of the teahouse. His body seemed frail, but his face was now flushed, full of vigor—a stark contrast to his earlier haggard appearance while begging for tea.

The crowd fell silent, watching this peculiar old man. He shook his right hand, slowly stroked his beard with his left, his bright eyes surveying those below, and his voice rose and fell as he spoke.

"What I want to talk about is—who will be the overlord of this chaotic world! You must know, the great desert is vast, with over three hundred tribes, totaling some ninety-nine million people. The largest tribe has no more than ten million, while the smallest only numbers in the hundreds. The five major ruling tribes form a pattern like the character 'Wang' (王), occupying the northern, central, and southern regions of the desert. Yunpei and Tiandu are at the two ends, while Guke, Masui, and Mizan stretch across the middle."

"Nonsense! Old man, everyone knows that!"

The crowd erupted in murmurs of discontent, sighs and complaints filling the air. The old man paid no mind, stroking his beard again before asking, "Alright then, let me ask you—of the five ruling tribes, which is the strongest?"

"That's obvious! Yunpei, of course!"

"Which tribe is the most conservative?"

"Hmm... that would be Mizan, right? After all, they're a theocracy."

"Hmm... then, which is the most absurd?" The old man leaned forward precariously, as if about to fall off the platform, startling the crowd.

"Careful there, old man, don't go falling to your death," muttered the attendant.

"What do you mean 'the most absurd'?" The crowd pondered for a moment, finally stumped by the question.

The old man chuckled dryly. "Ha ha, foolish boy, I suppose it's been months since you've left the Snow Plains, hasn't it? How much could you possibly know of the outside world?" The old man rebuked a young man who had voiced the loudest complaint, then turned his gaze to Zhanbie, who was seated in the corner. "You there, man—don't just focus on your noodles. You've just arrived in town, haven't you? Come on, tell this naive boy what it's like out there."

Zhanbie was taken aback, suddenly finding himself the center of attention. He reluctantly wiped his mouth before standing up. "Well... things are quite unstable right now. The bandit army from the north has already reached the central desert, and just a few days ago, they surrounded Masui. If there are any officials from Masui here, it's best not to return, as the situation there is chaotic."

As soon as he finished, the room fell silent. The old man, however, jumped on the platform. "Man, your information is outdated."

Zhanbie was stunned at his words, the noodles falling from his mouth. He stared at the old man, who continued laughing. "The most ridiculous thing in this world is this—never in my life have I seen such a thing. Some people in this inn know it too. Now... Masui has already fallen!"

Silence. A silence in which no one spoke—even those who were drunk were stunned by this thunderous news. Naturally, the most shocked was Zhanbie; he could hardly believe that after just two days and nights away from the city, Masui had already fallen.

The neighboring country that should have lasted at least six or seven days had already fallen. He didn't know why, but the image of the Yellow Heaven Marauders' eerie banner and the red and blue dancing girls flashed through his mind—it was terrifying. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

"The Yellow Heaven Marauders—many of you must have heard the name, haven't you? Believe it or not, the great nation of Masui, which stood for two centuries, has now been overthrown. The bandit king has taken power, renaming the country to Fentian!" The old man looked at the silent crowd below, speaking slowly. "Its leader, Ruowen, rose from the northern desert, rampaging three thousand miles, a tyrant among bandits. The spoils they plundered each month were enough to sustain a small tribe for ten years. Gradually, they moved southward, growing stronger along the way. As they advanced in a straight line, the first ruling nation they encountered was Masui. With only four thousand men, they swept through Masui's borders, bringing Heiyan to ruin within ten days—the neighboring nations had no time to send aid."

The old man paused here, coughing a few times. Seeing no one else speak, he let out a slow sigh. "Alas... going to Fentian now is like coming to the Snow Plains—no need for travel permits, no questions about your origins or intentions. All you need is enough courage, willing to risk your life. In just one day since Fentian's founding, many have already made their way in, hoping to strike it rich. There, you can take anything you fancy—if you can't fight for it, you can steal it, and even killing is not against the law." As he spoke, the old man took the tea handed to him by the attendant, sipping shakily before continuing. "Don't ask how this old man knows such things. What does the world's affairs have to do with me? I'm merely an observer, and I speak because I enjoy it. Heaven and earth are indifferent, treating all things as straw dogs; the sage is indifferent, treating the people as straw dogs. These are the words of the ancients. Today, I'll consider myself half a sage. If you have questions, don't ask the heavens or the ghosts of the earth—sit here, offer a pot of hot bitter tea, and I, Historian Sou, will answer without reservation!" The old man finished speaking and leisurely resumed drinking his tea, as though the tale of a nation's downfall was nothing more than a passing breeze.

"Are you Historian Sou?"

"Historian Sou Ronghuo?" Several well-informed patrons exclaimed in astonishment.

The owner of the Guangtiao teahouse was also a man of wide connections. Seeing that the renowned Ronghuo had been begging for tea at his doorstep for seven consecutive days, his heart skipped a beat. He quickly brought out a pot of fine tea himself. "I've long heard of your esteemed name, only knowing that you traveled the lands. I never imagined that such an extraordinary person would grace my humble shop! This is the finest bitter fragrant tea—please, savor it!"

Ronghuo and Rongruo were brothers from the same school. Both had once served the thirty-third king of Yunpei, Naqida. From the time Naqida began his travels across the desert until he returned to the Yunpei palace, over twenty years had passed. During this period, the three of them traveled far and wide, compiling the remarkable work "Collected Scrolls of the Great Desert," which chronicled the world's great events and discussed the fires of war in chaotic times. They also wrote a fifty-thousand-word summary of the empires that existed on this land a thousand years ago. Since the land had turned into arid desert over the millennium, they called it the Celestial Dynasty of the Desert.

After Naqida's death, the brothers Rongruo and Ronghuo left Yunpei to travel the world. Less than two years later, Rongruo passed away, leaving only Ronghuo, the one who still held the history of the world in his heart. It was estimated that he was now over seventy, widely known as "Historian Sou."

Ronghuo stood on the platform, appearing quite at ease, though his eyes occasionally flicked towards the young man in black sitting in the middle of the room. The young man still wore a mocking smile, his gaze cold as he sipped his Wine of Conquerors. The potent liquor, two cups of which could fell a strong man, had already been consumed tenfold by the young master in black, yet there wasn't a hint of drunkenness on his face. He remained steady and composed, as unshakable as Mount Tai.

Ronghuo's eyelids drooped slightly, and after a moment, he gathered his energy and continued speaking.

"Let us continue, then. You now know that the most absurd is Fentian. And as for Ruowen—can he be considered an ordinary bandit? Without the ruthless malice of a demon, how could he command his fierce, wolf-like generals? What do you say?"

The crowd looked at Ronghuo, many nodding in agreement. Ronghuo smiled in satisfaction, stroking his beard out of habit. "Now, let me ask you—who among you can name someone capable of opposing him?"

Upon hearing this, the crowd frowned. "King Nazhan of Yunpei?" That was the only answer they could think of.

Pfft. Ronghuo burst into exaggerated laughter, nearly spitting out the bitter tea he had drunk earlier. "That is why merchants have no real insight—they only see the short-term balance of power. If you ask this old man, the one who can challenge the most rampant is the one who is truly supreme!"

As soon as these words were spoken, the crowd erupted in noise—was Nazhan not the most supreme?

Zhanbie, sitting in the corner and listening to the old man, found himself shocked again and again. As a young and reckless soul, how could he comprehend the chaos of the world and the intricate plots and connections behind it? Like the other patrons, he listened attentively to Historian Sou, afraid to miss even a single word.

Ronghuo sniffed, his eyes fixed on the young man in black seated in the center of the hall, as if he were speaking directly to him.

"Gentlemen, the chaos of the heavens is nothing but a storm; the chaos of man is drunkenness for power and greed—be it profit or dominance, some gain, others lose. Today, Ronghuo cannot say much, but I will leave you with this: the spirit of recklessness rises from the northern desert, and the forces of Tiandu are anything but just!"

With that, Ronghuo stepped down from the platform, ignoring the murmurs of complaint from the crowd. He said no more, limping back to sit beside the young man in black.

However, Zhanbie was the one most unwilling to accept these words. Agitated, he rushed forward and grabbed the old man by the shoulders. "You speak nonsense! Tiandu sent troops to aid Guke, to quell the Yellow Plague's chaos—how could they be an unjust army?"

Though Ronghuo's shoulders were gripped tightly, his expression remained calm. He simply looked at the young man in black.

After a long moment, no one spoke. Zhanbie felt a chill in his heart, his thoughts suddenly growing confused. Realizing he was wasting his time here, he abruptly released Ronghuo and quickly tossed a few silver ingots onto the table. "Attendant, the bill!" With that, he rushed out of the teahouse.

He needed to reach Yunpei quickly. The chaos in the central desert was far beyond what King Gucha had imagined. If he could see Nazhan sooner, perhaps there would be a better chance to quell the rebellion. His mother was still in Guke, and now that Masui had fallen, Guke was in extreme danger. With these thoughts, he ran even faster, wishing he could appear in Yunpei's Guanghan Palace at that very moment.

"Foolish boy!"

Ronghuo gazed at the now-empty doorway, murmuring to himself with a hint of self-mockery, "Foolish boy. If Tiandu hadn't stood by idly, how could the Yellow Heaven Marauders have possibly fought their way to Masui?" He then turned back to look at the young man in black, chuckling twice before adding, "Wouldn't you agree, Northern King of Jing—Huo Qingyun?"

Tiandu.

Tiandu was established over three hundred years ago and was the only ruling nation with a history comparable to Yunpei. Located in the impoverished northern region, its overall power was relatively weak, and it had the fastest turnover of kings among the five great nations—seventy-plus kings and regents in total. In the year 320, Huo Qingyun, the seventy-fourth king, ascended to the throne and gradually implemented a policy of isolation. Apart from sending representatives to the council of ruling nations each year, there was little diplomatic engagement. The nation refused all marriage requests from slave tribes, and in the past decade, Tiandu had become the most mysterious country in the desert.

Qingyun turned to look at the shriveled old man beside him, downing yet another cup of wine.

"The people of Mangliu are truly remarkable, finding me within just two days and even having someone like you come in person! I must be quite honored." Ronghuo looked at Qingyun, downing his bitter tea in one gulp.

"What do you want to say?" Qingyun finally responded, his lips still curled in a faint, mocking smile.

"Young master, the relationship between Tiandu and Mangliu—there are always clever people in the world who can see it!" Ronghuo said.

"And so?" To everyone's surprise, Qingyun smiled instead of getting angry, his gaze exuding a cold mockery. "You, sir, are also a clever man. So, what does it matter that you've seen it?"

Ronghuo's earlier provocative spirit instantly withered at this question. Indeed, what difference did knowing make? It made no difference at all.

To an old man like him, the enemy was Qingyun, and the victor was also Qingyun.

"Do you disdain me so much because you see me as the villain?" Qingyun looked at the silent Ronghuo, sipping his wine lightly. "You believe that my arrival in the central desert will inevitably disrupt the three-hundred-year stability of Yunpei, plunging the people into turmoil, don't you?"

Hearing this, Ronghuo couldn't help but shudder. Qingyun's words had struck at the very core of his fears. He sighed deeply, as if the bitter fragrance of the tea was awakening his soul, recalling all he had seen of the desert's changes, all he had recorded of the world's history.

"Young master, people say Nazhan is unparalleled in strength, and Ruowen's cruelty is enough to make others tremble, yet they do not know that this strength and this cruelty all revolve in the palm of your hand. Ronghuo knows seven or eight parts of the desert nations but remains ignorant of the ten-year secrets of Tiandu's northern territories... You created the Mangliu spy network with your own hands, manipulating nations as if they were playthings. Ronghuo knows you will surely dominate the four corners of the world. But Ronghuo also knows that the southern desert has plunged into unprecedented darkness because of you. Do you know how many people the Yellow Heaven Marauders killed? Do you know how many refugees were buried alive in Guke? Were these innocent people meant to be your sacrifices?"

As Ronghuo spoke, tears welled in the corners of his eyes, and his frail body trembled slightly as he thought of the hellish scenes he had witnessed in recent days. It was a deep, heart-wrenching sorrow. No wonder everyone aspired to fame and power—yet the common folk often died without knowing why! Living their humble lives, they had wronged no one!

Qingyun, however, remained unmoved by Ronghuo's words. He merely held his cup of wine, bringing it to his lips and inhaling its fragrance. After a long while, he spoke slowly, "You call yourself half a sage, Master Rong. But do you know what the true way of heaven is?"

Ronghuo responded, "The boundless earth was never meant to be unified by any one power. The habitable land is limited—those in power take the fertile lands, while those beneath them are left with desolation. There is no fair division, and war yields no true victory. Thus, the way of heaven lies in not fighting."

Upon hearing this, Qingyun burst into laughter, his voice echoing through the inn, drawing curious glances from the other patrons.

"Master Rong, as you say, Yunpei has held the southern desert for three hundred years, possessing the most fertile oasis resources, nurturing a population of seventeen million, and supplying over ten million people in neighboring nations. At the same time, to secure its own reserves, Yunpei frequently used military support as leverage, demanding tributes from slave tribes and traveling tribes, including marriage alliances. In your eyes, is this the way of heaven? Like a blood-sucking leech, drawing the best resources of the desert to sustain itself—is that the way of heaven?"

"At the very least, it allows nearly thirty million people to live in peace," Ronghuo replied.

Qingyun smiled. "And what of the other sixty million? What of the people of the northern desert? Are they destined to live in poverty, destined to be trampled upon? Master Rong, what you speak of is not the way of heaven. The way of heaven is merciless; it cares not who lives or dies. In this life, all one can do is fight to the death. The winds of fate turn, and now, it is Tiandu's turn to reign supreme!"

With that, he tilted his head back and took another drink, as if swallowing the boundless ambition in his heart.

Ronghuo, however, was left speechless. In his memory, his elder brother Rongruo had once told him that the way of heaven was unfeeling, indifferent to the cycles of the mortal world. Those deemed sages often understood this truth, knowing that every historical change was driven by human will. War could be waged, or peace could be pursued—the victor was not necessarily righteous, and the defeated not necessarily evil. That was why Rongruo had torn away the word "heaven's secret" written by Naqida on the last page of the "Collected Scrolls of the Great Desert."

He believed it was no secret of heaven, for heaven's secrets were impartial.

Thud, thud.

Qingyun tapped the black wine jar on the table, the sound crisp and clear. "I'm finished," he said. "Master Rong, let's go."

He left a gold ingot on the table, and as the attendant nearly fainted from joy, Ronghuo and Qingyun left the inn.

Qingyun patted Feita, the steed waiting by the door, and with a swift motion, he leapt onto its back. From above, he looked down at Ronghuo, his lips curling into that same cold, mocking smile. "Master Rong, I’m afraid you'll have to walk for a while."

Ronghuo looked up at Qingyun's solitary figure, and indeed, he began to stagger step by step behind the white horse, Feita. As he walked, he hunched over, perhaps weary from his earlier speech on the platform. After a while, he looked again at Qingyun's back and said, "Young master, capturing me won't help you. What you want to know—even if I die, I won't tell."

Yet Qingyun did not look back. He merely gazed at the end of the winding road across the Snow Plains, as if he had already forgotten Ronghuo's existence, so utterly alone.

Under the setting sun, the two figures moved forward, vastly different from one another. On the horizon, crimson clouds rolled like waves, as if welcoming a new era—so magnificent, yet so sorrowful...

If parting in this world brings hatred, it would have been better not to meet at all. If suffering in this world brings pain, it would have been better not to be born. War flames touch the heavens, yet heaven does not respond; weapons stain the earth, yet earth does not heed. Where did I come from before this life, to owe another so deeply that I must repay with my life? Bitter tea's fragrance, fragrant tea's bitterness— Is it unjust or not unjust? I hope souls may return across lifetimes, Chasing across the ends of the earth once more. If it is unjust, how is it unjust? The burdens of the past carried by those after, Debts of past lives paid in this life. Is it unjust or not unjust!

The landscape of the great desert is always an elusive enigma, especially when the wind is not fierce and the sun not scorching. Layers of rosy clouds and red sands entwine on the horizon, while strangely shaped desert plants cast eerie shadows on the yellow earth, like a mass of kneeling demons awaiting the arrival of a holy spirit. At this moment, the gentle seasonal breeze was unusually tender, as if truly tired of its lonely wandering, insistently lifting the softest layer of sand from the ground to swirl in a graceful dance with itself, shimmering under the red sunlight—a spectacle that seemed to grow more lonesome the longer one watched.

Poets in the desert often call this sight "the tears of the demon god." Of course, it was merely a way to console oneself—whether god or demon, they shed no tears, absolutely not.

Seven thousand miles north of the Snow Plains lay a crimson sea of sand, layer upon layer of moonlit waves stretching endlessly. No oasis in sight, only a distant hint of a fortress built of yellow earth, like a resting serpent—though tranquil, still exuding a wild aura.

At the entrance of the fortress were black-clad figures bowing low to the ground. Upon closer look, they truly seemed like an army of "demons" kneeling—around five thousand in total, each burly, exuding a chilling aura, wearing fearsome demon masks and dressed in black night garb. They knelt, pressing their upper bodies to the sandy ground to demonstrate their loyalty, then came a roar like the sea, "Welcome, Your Majesty, back to the city!"

Three times they called, and the mighty sound snapped Ronghuo's exhausted nerves. His disheveled hair and aching body stood by Feita, only to see Qingyun lift his arm high. Feita reared up with a fierce cry. "Onward!" With a thunderous gallop, the shadow of horse and rider flew into the fortress, leaving Ronghuo dazed before the eerie black demons.

Northern King of Jing—Huo Qingyun!

To pacify is to bring stability, yet without order, there is no peace. He who pacifies the heavens is the king, the one who sets the course of the skies.

In the year 320, the royal Huo clan of Tiandu saw their seventh son, Qingyun, ascend to the throne at the age of fourteen. In the capital city, Huairou, at the Icicle Palace, he was crowned amid the bowing of ten thousand. He personally drank an entire jug of Wine of Conquerors, and the world celebrated in wild revelry.

The sorcerer-priest Hunran proclaimed that he bore a great destiny, a lone star in his fate, and foretold that he would have no wife throughout his life.

The new king quelled the rebellion of the northern nobility, and henceforth, no member of the royal family ever died by poison again. On the day he assumed power, he established a policy of national seclusion, and Tiandu instantly vanished from the world stage.

The Queen Mother bestowed upon him the honorific title—King of Jing.

Three days had passed. The sand turned from red to blue, from hot to cold, cycling endlessly, tormenting the soul.

Ronghuo was imprisoned in a beast cage at the fortress gate, not a grain of rice to eat. Only at night, when the moon rose in the cool sky, would someone bring him a pot of bitter fragrant tea to soothe his starving belly. Ghostly hunger tormented the aging Ronghuo, and finally, on the third day, he, along with the beast cage, was carried to the great hall of the fortress.

The simple, austere inner hall, though lacking in opulence, was still imbued with an undeniable air of solemnity and authority. At the forefront was a grand chair symbolizing supreme power, and on it sat Qingyun, lazily, like an unruly lion, his eyes dark and brooding.

"Master Rong, how have you been these past few days?" he asked with a smile.

Ronghuo leaned against the bars of the cage, barely clinging to life. He raised a feeble hand, giving a slight wave before struggling to say, "Thanks to your care, I've never hated my endurance as much as I do now. Dying sooner and reincarnating might be better!"

Qingyun chuckled, his chilling voice freezing the very air of the hall. Ronghuo slowly regained his senses, lifting his head to meet Qingyun's gaze.

Clap, clap. Qingyun clapped twice, and two maidens in plain clothes brought out a table of delicacies, placing it in the center.

The enticing aroma of the dishes made Ronghuo's stomach churn, his mind a blur. One glance was enough to recognize the three dishes on the table—Phoenix Blood Chicken, White Dew Snow Fish, and Hundred Bloom Lily—all were the specialties of Ronghuo's late wife.

"You wouldn't be so cruel, young master, as to eat a feast like this in front of an old man starved to bones, would you? I'd rather bash my head against the railing and die than endure such torment!"

Qingyun snorted at this, picking up a dagger beside him and playing with it. "How disappointing, Master. Someone who wants to keep secrets yet can't even endure this little bit of torment—how dare you speak so grandly of life and death!" As he spoke, his eyes sharpened, and with a flick of his wrist, the dagger flew towards the beast cage. With a clang, it broke the lock, falling to the ground with a muffled thud.

"Come out. This feast is prepared to cleanse you of the dust of travel, Master Rong." Qingyun watched as Ronghuo crawled out of the cage. "But first, you must drink those three welcoming cups of wine."

Ronghuo stood by the table, disheveled and pitiful. He looked down at the three small cups of wine before him, their surfaces gleaming with an inscrutable light. He licked his parched lips, thinking that in his state of extreme hunger, it mattered little whether the wine was poisoned or not. With a swift motion, he downed the first cup.

Qingyun, sitting nearby, watched his rapid drinking with a mocking smile.

Ugh! One cup of wine—it didn't seem to be poisoned, yet Ronghuo suddenly froze. Moments later, his face flushed crimson, his entire body trembling uncontrollably until he collapsed. "Wine of Conquerors? Pure brew?" he asked incredulously.

"Indeed! The same I drink every day," Qingyun replied. "Two cups remain, Master!"

Ronghuo stared fearfully at the second cup, his gaze growing unfocused. He had never tasted pure Wine of Conquerors—its potency was unmatched, and it was always diluted before drinking.

Breathing heavily, Ronghuo propped himself up, staring at the dishes for a long moment before finally, with great effort, picking up the second cup and gulping it down. Thud! He fell again, hands clutching his nose, bright red blood spilling onto the ground. He coughed, looking at Qingyun's indifferent face.

"One more cup, Master!" Qingyun said with a smile.

Blood continued to pour from Ronghuo's nose, and his skin began to take on a deathly blue hue. He was drenched in sweat, writhing in pain on the ground. After a long while, fragmented words escaped his lips, "I... yield."

Qingyun laughed aloud. "Master Rong, you truly are just a pedantic scholar—one cup of wine, and you yield. What right have you to play games with me?" With a wave of his hand, he summoned a few maidens to administer an antidote to Ronghuo. The old man awoke groggily, his face etched with pain.

Settling down, Ronghuo ate the dishes in front of him with tears streaming down his face, each mouthful of rich flavor sliding into his empty stomach, mingling with his salty sobs. Thirty years had passed since his wife's death, and he hadn't properly eaten these three dishes since. He couldn't bear to—one bite brought back her gentle sigh, two bites her smiling face, but three bites left nothing, only emptiness. That kind of pain, he no longer wished to endure. Yet today, it seemed as though time had finally dulled that heart-wrenching sorrow, leaving only fragmented memories to linger around him. Now, it didn't matter how many bites he took; he could eat freely, without restraint.

Human emotions are like a secret that suddenly shifts one day. Though you still cannot deny its importance, neither can you insist upon it with conviction. Thus, if love can transform into memory, secrets, too, can become mere transactions.

Qingyun strolled leisurely to Ronghuo's side, patting him on the shoulder before picking up the remaining cup of wine and downing it in one gulp. Ronghuo stared blankly at him.

"Do you know why it's called Wine of Conquerors?" Qingyun asked.

"Because its potency refuses to mingle with any poison. Its spice can not only kill those who overindulge but also evaporate any toxins added to it," Ronghuo replied, looking at the empty cup. "From the year 114 to 320, more than thirty kings of Tiandu's Icicle Palace died from wine poisoning. Only after you ascended, young master, did that pattern of assassination cease—all because you habitually drank Wine of Conquerors, rendering poison ineffective." In Ronghuo's eyes, much of Tiandu's history had been rewritten since King Jing began his reign.

"Historian Sou, you certainly live up to your reputation," Qingyun said, sitting down and also staring at the empty cup. He spoke as if making casual conversation. "In the northern desert, wine is a symbol of friendship, as it helps countless people fend off the harsh cold. Thus, in Tiandu, for any reason, to die from drinking wine is a disgrace—especially for a king!" As he spoke, he lifted the cup to his lips, a drop of leftover Wine of Conquerors slipping down his throat. He looked as carefree as ever.

"At fourteen, I swore to myself: better to die from food poisoning than to be killed by poisoned wine. And I made it happen. The chaos of wine faded, and the shame ended."

Ronghuo asked, "But surely there were those who then turned to poisoning your food?"

"Indeed, but none succeeded. Even I didn't know—those who frequently drink Wine of Conquerors become immune to all poisons!" Qingyun rose, looking down at Ronghuo, who was still eating voraciously, and turned to leave. As his figure was about to disappear around the corner, he added, "But now, the searing intensity of that wine has long since turned into a blaze in my heart. With each sip, the fire burns fiercer. Master Rong, if you don't wish to be burned to ashes, you'd better behave. The secret of Nazhan is not some grand duty—your silence only proves your foolishness. I won't be so kind every time; take heed."

With those words, Qingyun's imposing figure vanished into the darkness. Ronghuo turned back in terror, but there was nothing—only the faint glow of the setting sun filtering through.

The red lotus flame has already scorched my heart and soul, How then can I evade it? Who knows the will of heaven in an age of chaos? My fate is mine to command, and the fate of all lives is mine to control. Heaven may be merciless, but I can be merciless too! Heaven may be unchanging, but my heart is unwavering! With a sword in hand, why should I be lost? Let out a long howl, and await a reckoning in the mortal world.

Ronghuo sat at the table, now full, his thoughts slowly clearing. He shook his head and sighed. "Young master, do you manipulate Mangliu and toy with the nations of the desert only to vent the bitterness of that fiery wine in your chest?"

That night, shadows fell at an angle, the yellowed window barely ajar. Ronghuo sat in the room Qingyun had arranged for him, gazing at the empty moon, sighing endlessly.