Chapter Sixteen: The Desolate Hills, Where the Lady Dwells

The gaunt scribe was writing furiously, copying the land register onto the roster of Muddy Village.

The youth stood with his hands behind his back upon the grand hall, gazing at the plaque above the entrance, inscribed with “The Hall’s Clear Mirror.”

The calligraphy was exquisite—one could not know which predecessor had penned it. The strokes were full-bodied, every lift and tail imbued with rhythm, bearing the aura of a master.

In his previous life, the youth had practiced calligraphy for several years to earn a living, copying famous works for sale, but his skill was lacking. Compared to the predecessor, he could only sigh in admiration.

Yet what a pity—the Clear Mirror above the hall reflected a den of monsters and demons. Who could say if those who saw the plaque felt any shame at heart?

Magistrate He noticed the youth staring dazedly at the plaque, his beady eyes rolling. He assumed the youth coveted it and said, “Master Zhong, have you taken a fancy to this plaque? If you like it, I can present it to you.”

Knowing that lovers of calligraphy often had eccentricities, Magistrate He uttered such absurd words.

The inscriptions in the yamen were always appointed and could not be casually removed. The youth was startled and shook his head repeatedly.

Magistrate He’s eyes rolled again, “Or perhaps Master Zhong wishes to inscribe something for the county office? I find the plaque’s calligraphy inferior to yours. Why not write a fine piece yourself, and I shall have it mounted in the hall?”

This was even more absurd. Not to mention Magistrate He’s blatant flattery—calligraphy for the yamen was generally issued by the Ministry of Personnel, or if a famed official wished to inscribe, they’d report first. Zhong Ming, a mere commoner without even a scholar’s title, had no right or qualification to write for the yamen.

Clearly, Magistrate He’s desire to curry favor had reached madness. The youth thought to himself: If you wish to lose your head, don’t drag me into it.

To prevent further shocking nonsense, the youth quickly said, “You misunderstand, Lord He. I was merely curious about the origin of this inscription.”

“The origin, eh?” Magistrate He said, eyes rolling upward in thought. “It was written by the Kirin Prodigy of Luoyang, Minister Tian himself.”

He recalled, “I believe it was two years ago, when Lord Tian Xingjian returned and brought it with him, saying Minister Tian gifted it to the county. Frankly, if the minister truly wished to help our border town, he’d have sent funds and food instead.”

The youth smiled without reply, secretly thinking: No wonder the strokes brimmed with charm—it was the work of the renowned Kirin Prodigy.

Just as Magistrate He was about to pursue further connections, the scribe timely stood, holding the register. “Master Zhong, the Muddy Village roster and fertile lands are sorted. Please review.”

The youth, eager to escape the chatterbox magistrate, had no mind to review. He took the register and said, “With Lord He’s instructions, the scribe would make no mistake. I shall hand it directly to the village chief.”

He tucked the register away, bowed hastily, and departed—unwilling to entangle himself further with this wily magistrate.

As he left, Magistrate He followed, whispering, “Master Zhong, if my distribution of land pleases you, perhaps you could speak well of me to Lord Yang?”

“Certainly, Lord He. You may rest assured.”

With this promise, Magistrate He’s face was instantly wreathed in smiles, stroking his sparse goatee and nodding repeatedly.

The youth left the county office without a backward glance, his face showing impatience.

This ghostly magistrate wanted him to speak well for him?

He preyed upon the villagers for silver. If the border ever needed a new official, Zhong Ming would be the first to petition the general to strip him of his cap.

With these thoughts, the youth strode out of the yamen.

Yang Yanlang was standing outside, gazing into the distance—the direction of the Tian manor.

Approaching, the youth said softly, “Uncle, the matter is settled.”

“Very well. Let us depart at once.”

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Yang Yanlang seemed preoccupied and did not ask about the land distribution, mounting his horse directly.

While the youth had been dividing the lands, Sun Longhu and his men had executed the Wu family’s master at the east gate and returned just in time.

The youth was helped onto his snow-white mount, and as the party was gathered, Yang Yanlang commanded, “To Muddy Village.”

Sun Longhu led the riders with a shout, “Fine-scaled Dragon-head Cavalry, forward!” The troop galloped through the market, heading straight for Muddy Village.

But instead of returning the youth to his village, the general led the party past Muddy Village to the desolate hill.

This hill, southwest of Muddy Village, was a burial ground—once just a hill, but since the war, those who died were buried here, and it became known as the desolate mound.

They had come for the general’s heartfelt purpose—to offer rites for his sister-in-law.

Among the virtues, filial piety came first—not only in honoring elders but also in honoring the departed.

There was an old saying: “Great mourning lasts three years, moderate mourning a hundred days, minor mourning three days.”

A story from the former Chen dynasty told of a filial son whose father lay ill for ten years. The son cared for him day and night. When his father died, he wept bitterly and vowed to observe mourning for three years.

During this time, he wore coarse cloth, abstained from wine and meat, and every morning recited memorial words for his father.

The Emperor of Chen, upon hearing of this, bestowed a plaque inscribed: “Joy in simple fare.”

This tale became a model for later generations, deepening the importance of ancestral rites.

All the more so for the Yang family, famed for loyalty and filial devotion. Yang Yanlang had prepared offerings as soon as he heard the news in the village.

After a long day’s journey, they reached the desolate mound by afternoon.

The sun hung low in the west, the mound barren, the wind stirring dust and sand, lending the place a chill and desolation.

It was a burial ground, with frightening stories. Some said grave robbers encountered strange things here and went mad the next day.

Now, that madman still wandered from village to village, muttering, “Desolate mound, goddess in white, drifting, carrying a stone box, searching for her son…”

Those who lived by robbing graves were so frightened they never returned.

Whether spirits truly haunted the place, no one could say, but all followed the rule of “better to believe than not,” and few came to the mound.

Zhong Ming and his party dismounted at the foot of the hill—the path too rough for horses, so they climbed on foot.

Yang Yanlang stood below, looking up. It was a large earthen slope, not quite a mountain, and from here, half-buried white bones could be seen in the yellow earth, exposed by rain.

No one visited the mound unless family remained. The war claimed many lives, some entire families buried together—pitiful souls wrapped in straw mats, laid wherever was convenient. Sometimes, to save effort, bodies were tossed onto piles and left.

In years of disaster, the dead were countless; to be buried at all was a blessing.

Zhong Ming dismounted and said, “Uncle, the path is rough—why don’t we two go alone? The cavalry is too conspicuous.”

Yang Yanlang nodded, “Very well. Tiger, bring the offerings. You all wait here; Zhong Ming and I will go ahead.”

Thus, the fine-scaled cavalry waited below. Yang Yanlang carried the food box, Zhong Ming a bundle of incense and yellow paper. Uncle and nephew climbed the mound together.

The path was rugged and difficult—this place was barren, with no real road, only slightly smoother ground.

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The youth was familiar with the way—every festival, he would climb to offer rites, and had come many times.

It had been half a year since his last visit; since the madman had fled from here, villagers said the place was haunted.

During the New Year, the youth intended to come, but Old Sun stopped him, saying the place was unclean and no one should ascend alone. They would wait for Qingming and hold a large village ceremony to dispel the evil air before returning.

After climbing halfway, the youth was slightly out of breath—his body was still too frail.

“This short distance and you’re already winded? Zhong Ming, your health is lacking. I’ll get you some deer blood to strengthen you, and you must practice some boxing soon. A man wandering the world relies on his own strength. If your body fails, how can you roam the land?”

“Uncle speaks truly.”

The youth could not argue; he rarely had enough to eat, so how could he be strong?

He wiped sweat from his brow, looked ahead, and said, “We’re nearly there, Uncle.”

He had buried his mother’s grave far on the hillside, at the back of the mound, to keep grave robbers from finding her.

The scenery changed at the rear—clusters of low woods, a little green, fewer graves, and new grass sprouting everywhere.

The uncle and nephew walked for nearly an hour. By then the sun was setting, the last rays casting a melancholy glow.

They came to a large stone. The youth, breathing hard, said, “Uncle, we’re here—this is my mother’s grave.”

Seeing the stone, Yang Yanlang frowned, displeased.

This was hardly a grave—just a half-man-high stone with strange symbols carved on it, new grass growing around, no different from the barren earth nearby. Nothing marked it as a grave.

“Utter nonsense!”

Yang Yanlang surveyed the site, his voice laced with anger.

To neglect building a mound or erecting a tombstone was grave disrespect. The general, raised on doctrines of loyalty and filial piety, was deeply dissatisfied, even suspecting Zhong Ming of neglect and laziness toward his aunt’s memory.

Hearing the general’s rebuke, the youth was stunned—unable to guess what had offended his uncle.

Before he could ask, Yang Yanlang kicked his shin. Zhong Ming stumbled, nearly hitting his head on the stone as he knelt.

“Uncle, I—”

Zhong Ming felt deeply wronged, anger rising.

This general, who seemed dignified at first, turned out to be capricious in private.

Yang Yanlang cut him off, pointing and shouting, “Kneel properly!”

Despite his confusion and anger, the youth dared not protest. This was a man who could spear an immortal—with such wrath, a hundred Zhong Mings could not withstand him.

The youth began to wonder: Could it be that the general coveted his mother’s grave?

Why else would he turn so suddenly upon finding it?