Chapter Seventeen: The General and the Disgraced Scholar

Yang Yanlang, his face flushed with anger, had no inkling of the young man's thoughts. Pointing at him, he rebuked, "Your mother-in-law has passed away. As her son, you not only failed to inscribe her tombstone, but you didn't even raise a proper grave—what is the meaning of this?"

The general's words snapped the youth out of his reverie, and he silently sighed in relief. The cleverness he now possessed was the fruit of years of experience, markedly different from innate intelligence and not without its flaws. As the saying goes, cleverness can be one's undoing; the youth, seasoned by the cunning of later generations, had grown wary and suspicious by nature.

Seeing the youth remain silent, the general assumed he had no retort, and his anger deepened. "Unfilial! Such grave unfiliality!"

The youth composed himself, understanding now the reason for the general's outrage, and much of his own anger dissipated. He hastily explained, "Uncle, you do not know. There is hardship behind my actions."

Hearing Zhong Ming respond, the general stood with his hands behind his back, fixing his gaze on the youth as if to say, 'If your explanation is unsatisfactory, I will not forgive you.'

"Uncle, you are unaware—four years ago, war broke out on the border, and many corpse-eaters emerged, stealing bodies to stave off hunger. Many villagers’ bodies were taken, devoured to mere bones, leaving not even a whole corpse behind."

The youth touched the stone before him, feigning a tearful voice. "I chose my mother's burial place here and dared not erect a grave or inscribe a tombstone, marking it only with scattered stones and talismans, precisely because of this. Only by masking the truth and enduring the injustice of my mother's burial could I ensure her remains were safe!"

He seemed to weep bitterly, but in truth, it was a small trick; facing a grave, to cry so easily was beyond him. Yet, hearing Zhong Ming’s poignant words, Yang Yanlang’s expression softened, and sympathy stirred in his heart.

"Quickly rise, dear nephew. Your uncle has wronged you."

Yang Yanlang hurried to help Zhong Ming up, while the youth pretended to wipe tears with his sleeve, covertly observing the general’s expression.

The youth had long mastered the art of reading faces. Knowing the general valued affection, he acted accordingly. The future was long; a little cunning now would foster their bond and serve both well. The youth, well-read in miscellaneous tomes of later times, understood the subtleties of human interaction.

After helping him up, the general sighed repeatedly. "Ah! This chaotic world is to blame—it has brought suffering not only to you, nephew, but also to your mother-in-law."

Perhaps recalling bitter memories, the general’s eyes grew ever more melancholic, lingering over the stone for a long while.

Seeing the general lost in thought, Zhong Ming did not disturb him. When the sun began to set and dusk crept in, the youth finally said, "Uncle, it’s getting late. Shall we pay our respects before night falls? The mountain path will be treacherous in the dark."

The general awoke from his reverie. "Yes, you may begin preparations."

So Zhong Ming took dishes from the food box—meat and vegetables, along with fruits—a luxury for such times, when common folk could scarcely fill their bellies. These offerings were extravagant.

He then lit incense and candles with flint, scattering a handful of yellow paper money into the evening breeze.

The paper fluttered through the air, carried by the wind. The youth performed the rites meticulously; to deceive even the spirits would be unconscionable.

After three solemn bows, the youth spoke in a low voice, "Mother, Ming has come to see you."

He had felt little emotion before, but uttering the word 'Mother' tugged at his heart, perhaps due to the body's lingering memories, and tears welled up uncontrollably.

In his memories, Zhong Ming’s mother was gentle, her smile like a flower, her words soft. Skilled in embroidery, versed in poetry and music, she was praised as the most virtuous and beautiful woman in Mud Village. All hailed Zhong Feng’s fortune in marrying such a wife.

When Zhong Ming was young, before war ravaged the village, life had been peaceful.

His mother, with time to spare, would teach Zhong Ming to read, instructing other children as well. Thus she earned the title 'Lady Zhong' among the villagers.

Such a kind and gentle soul, yet she succumbed to war and illness, gone in her prime. A lovely song ended in twilight.

Remembering this, the youth’s tears burned hotter, unsettling his heart.

"Mother, rest assured. Your son has fared well these days—always enough to eat, silver saved, never worried about hunger. Today I have been reunited with Uncle Yang; with his care, my life will surely improve..."

Moved by emotion, he continued, "Mother, do not worry for me. May you find peace where you are. If you have the leisure, please help me search for Father, and bless me to meet him soon."

The hillside was silent, save for the youth’s murmured words.

White smoke from the incense curled into the air, yellow paper scattered, and the kneeling youth looked especially forlorn.

The evening wind caressed his cheeks—strangely warm, not cold. For a moment, he fancied it was his mother’s hand stroking his face.

In that instant, the youth could no longer hold back his tears; they fell hot and fast.

Yang Yanlang remained silent, while the youth lay prone, sobbing uncontrollably.

After a heavy sigh, the general lifted his robe, kneeling on one knee. "Sister-in-law, I, Yang Yanlang, am your husband's sworn brother. I have returned home in his stead. Though he cannot return, I promise to care for nephew Zhong Ming as my own son. Please rest assured!"

With that bow, the general bore a mountain's weight—first to his sister-in-law, then to his vow.

Once finished, he gently helped the still-weeping Zhong Ming up. "Nephew, men should not shed tears lightly. Seeing you like this at the grave, how can your mother rest easy?"

Mumbling in agreement, the youth rose, scrubbing his eyes with his sleeve.

He was puzzled—he hadn’t meant to cry so bitterly, yet the tears would not stop.

The flesh, a gift from parents, still remembered old habits; mention of his mother brought tears.

Wiping his eyes, the youth looked up.

The sky had darkened, dusk fading to a faint glow, and night had fallen.

The breeze grew chillier, and Zhong Ming shivered, the distant woods transformed into eerie, twisted shapes.

Packing the food box, he felt uneasy and said, "Uncle, now that we’ve finished the rites, shall we leave? It’s getting late."

"Yes," the general replied absentmindedly, still pondering when he might find a proper grave for his sister-in-law. Burial in such wild hills was far from ideal.

Uncle and nephew walked silently back, but after only a few steps, the youth suddenly heard someone singing.

"On the desolate hill stands a lady, dressed in white, drifting along, holding a stone box, searching for her son…"

The song drew nearer, chilling the youth’s back and raising his hackles. Night had just fallen; who would wander the hills singing such mad verses?

Yang Yanlang snapped to attention, shouting toward the song, "Who dares play tricks here?"

In the distance, by the path they had come, a hunched shadow shouted at them, "White Lady! The White Lady is here!"

Yang Yanlang was unafraid of ghosts, merely irritated, and demanded, "I am the border’s Fruit Commandant. Who are you?"

The figure did not answer, only singing louder, "General, fallen man, seeking nephew, searching for ancestral hall, down on his luck, cold behind! Cold behind!"

Yang Yanlang failed to recognize the stranger, but Zhong Ming did—a familiar madman who wandered the villages.

How had the madman come here, reciting such peculiar verses? The lyrics clearly mocked the general, yet the madman had never met Yang Yanlang. Where did he learn them?

"Brazen scoundrel, far too insolent!"

Before Zhong Ming could puzzle it out, Yang Yanlang shouted angrily and gave chase. Sensing something amiss, the youth called, "Uncle, wait!"

"You stay here. I’ll catch that scoundrel myself! To insult me so—he must have nerves of steel!"

Unable to tolerate such abuse, Yang Yanlang left a warning and ran ahead.

The madman’s speed was uncanny; the general, a hero, could not easily catch him. All the while, the madman yelled, "General, cold behind! General, cold behind!"

As the madman’s cries faded, the youth could no longer hear them, and both figures vanished into the night.

Clicking his tongue, the youth slapped his own hands, muttering, "Uncle Yang is far too impatient—he can’t stand anyone speaking ill of him, and won’t let me explain!"

From today’s events, Zhong Ming could guess why the general had lost his title as one of the Three Divine Generals—Yang Yanlang was too straightforward, his emotions always plain on his face.

In war, he was a perfect leader, but once peace prevailed, such lack of tact would bar him from high office.

Truth be told, the general was only twenty-six, three years younger than Zhong Ming’s real age. Though mature, he lacked worldly experience.

A decade on the battlefield was still no match for a man versed in the streetwise cunning of later generations.

In terms of strategy, Zhong Ming was leagues ahead of Yang Yanlang.

Turning these thoughts over, the youth glanced around—the chill deepened, and he wrapped his hands in his sleeves, standing in place.

Left alone, Zhong Ming dared not wander, fearing that if Yang Yanlang returned and found him missing, he would panic.

All around, the night owls called, each cry making the youth tremble, his mind conjuring scenes from countless horror films.

As he waited, anxiety mounting, a wicked wind suddenly rose behind him, bending the new grass flat.

Heart pounding, Zhong Ming gripped the redwood folding knife in his breast, spinning to face the source.

At his mother’s grave, the extinguished candles suddenly flared with an eerie blue flame.

In the darkness, a soft white glow appeared—a woman in white, feet hovering above the ground, holding a stone box, drifted out from behind the stone.

With a metallic rasp, the youth drew his folding knife, its blade etched with strange symbols glinting coldly in the firelight.

Had one looked closely, they would see his legs trembling, and he shouted to bolster his courage, "Who are you?"