Encountering a Snake - Chapter 20

v2c20

The eleventh year of Jianyuan, winter.

Imperial study.

Outside, snowflakes were falling again, a heavy snowfall had lasted for three days and nights. After lunch, the emperor stood by the window, gazing out as snowflakes, carried by the wind, touched his face and melted instantly into droplets of water.

The emperor stood by the window for a long time, accompanied only by the silent warmth of the brazier.

The guard on duty entered the room, knelt at a distance, and reported, “Your Majesty, a message from the army—General Ji is critically ill.”

The emperor remained by the window, but his figure visibly trembled. For a long while, there was no response.

The guard knelt for a moment, then quietly withdrew.

Shen Hai entered from outside, standing behind the emperor. The cold air from the open window hit him, and soon he felt the stiffness of his face. Yet the emperor continued standing there, gazing at the snow-covered expanse, as if turned to stone.

Snowflakes fell silently, some attempting to invade the room, only to be evaporated by the warmth of the brazier midway, leaving droplets of water that fell onto the bright yellow dragon robe of the man by the window.

Shen Hai took a few steps back and knelt at the emperor’s feet. “Your Majesty, please take care of your health.”

Hearing the voice, the emperor finally turned around and closed the window himself. Ignoring Shen Hai’s plea, he merely said, “General Ji is dying.”

Shen Hai was momentarily stunned before quickly responding, “General Ji has been gone for a year now.”

The emperor let out a soft “hmm,” sat back in his chair, and said unhurriedly, “With the old general gone, I should’ve reclaimed the tiger tally.”

Then he added, “I wonder if Ji Jiu will make it back in time.” This sentence was spoken softly, almost as if to himself. After a brief pause, the emperor raised his voice slightly, asking Shen Hai, who was kneeling nearby, “Does Ji Jiu know I deliberately sent him away?”

Such a question left Shen Hai unsure of how to respond. Beyond the border lay the desert, and beyond the desert, green pastures, where the Xiongnu tribes gathered. Even children living at the border knew this. Yet the emperor had sent Ji Jiu far away to survey the terrain.

Such terrain, whether surveyed or not, made little difference. The desert sands were ever-shifting, and even if Ji Jiu managed to traverse it, he might not be able to retrace his path. Whether he could advance or retreat, or find the Xiongnu royal court once—or again—all depended on fate and the general’s acuity.

After a long silence, Shen Hai cautiously said, “General Ji is exceptionally intelligent.” He said only this and nothing more.

The emperor also fell silent, gazing at the memorials on the desk before finally saying, “He doesn’t care whether I sent him away on purpose.” What he cared about was that promise: upon his return to the capital, all military power under heaven would be handed to him.

The emperor played with the memorials on the desk, thinking that no one in the world understood Ji Jiu’s eagerness to eradicate the Xiongnu better than he did—because he felt the same way.

Therefore, before everything was ready, he had to banish this man, sending him far away to a place that was dangerous but free from covert attacks.

Before leading an army against the Xiongnu, he needed to rid himself of certain individuals, some of whom were closely connected to Ji Jiu. If Ji Jiu were present, they might argue—or worse, Ji Jiu might become implicated.

No matter the scenario, it was one the emperor wished to avoid. Thus, banishing Ji Jiu was the best choice. The imperial city was far more dangerous than the desert.

Returning to the present, the emperor asked Shen Hai, “Has the memorial draft been prepared?”

“It’s ready,” Shen Hai replied, producing the document. “Tomorrow at morning court, Minister Zhang will personally present it…”

The emperor waved his hand, cutting him off. “Handle the rest yourself.”

Shen Hai quickly bowed and retreated.

After Shen Hai left, the emperor summoned the earlier reporting guard and asked about General Ji’s condition. The guard, a trusted confidant tasked with monitoring the army, reported that General Ji had been ill for three months and seemed unlikely to last the winter, prompting the report.

The emperor asked, “How much longer can he hold on?”

“It’s said he’s no longer taking food or water; he probably won’t survive the winter.” The guard stood for a moment before adding, “The general is old; falling ill like this is natural.”

The emperor scoffed lightly but said nothing, dismissing the guard after a few words of instruction.

In truth, the young guard, lacking experience, could not understand that General Ji’s condition was not merely due to old age but rather the absence of his only son for a year, with no news, leading to worry and illness.

These battlefield generals, having witnessed countless killings and separations, appeared to have hearts of stone. Yet they also had their attachments and affections, hidden deeply and felt more profoundly than ordinary people. These attachments were their Achilles’ heel, tugged lightly and causing upheaval.

After the guard left, the emperor returned to the window, watching the swirling snow. He wondered if, by the next snowy season, Ji Jiu would have returned.

In March, General Ji passed away. His coffin was carried back to the city by soldiers and buried in the Ji family ancestral tomb. The emperor personally attended the funeral procession.

In the fall, a secret letter arrived at the palace, reporting that someone had seemingly seen Ji Jiu in a Xiongnu nomadic camp.

The year turned again, and winter arrived. The bloodshed in the court had settled, and Shen Hai personally went to the border town to find one of the five hundred soldiers Ji Jiu had left behind in the city, inquiring about Ji Jiu’s whereabouts.

After he left, that group of soldiers, disguised as a caravan, entered the desert.

On the 16th of the second month, at hour of Shen(3-5pm), Ji Jiu’s camel caravan slowly appeared on the horizon.

February was Ji Jiu’s favorite season, a time of budding beauty, a hidden current that was about to unfold.

His face had darkened somewhat, with sharper features than before, a ruggedness and steadfastness born from the winds and sands. His arm was injured, the white cloth wrapped around it now a muddy yellow. He led a camel, walking slowly but steadily, with around thirty men following closely behind, moving with purpose.

Shen Hai went to meet him, hurriedly saying, “General.”

Ji Jiu smiled faintly, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t expect the first familiar face I’d see to be yours.”

“General, your journey…” Shen Hai paused, skipping pleasantries. “Please, return to the capital with me.”

Ji Jiu agreed and walked two steps before turning back to ask, “Is everything well at home?”

Shen Hai hesitated before answering, “The old general… passed away last spring.”

Ji Jiu’s expression changed, a flash of pain in his eyes, quickly replaced by calm. He mounted the horse Shen Hai had brought, cupped his hands, and said, “There has been a change at home. I’ll go on ahead. You can bring the troops together and join me in the capital.” With that, he called for Shen Jue to follow, and the two of them rode off, leaving without a trace of hesitation.

On their journey, Ji Jiu’s earlier arrangements were in place. Two years after the fact, those waiting for him came to greet him, telling him everything that had happened. Ji Jiu heard that his old friends’ homes had been raided, and colleagues had been executed. His response was indifferent, not commenting on it, as though it had nothing to do with him.

Only when he heard that the old prime minister had been impeached, stripped of his title, and his house ransacked did he flinch, pausing in front of a table of food, staring blankly for a long time.

He said nothing, seemingly unable to speak.

Upon returning to the imperial city, Ji Jiu did not go home but went straight to the palace, where he met the emperor in the study.

The two stood face to face, each feeling that the other had become both familiar and strange, as though two years had made them forget each other’s appearance. They stood for a long while before beginning to speak.

There were no pleasantries exchanged.

Ji Jiu didn’t mention his exile, and the emperor didn’t bring up the old general’s death, nor did they discuss the upheavals of the past two years. Everything they had experienced, the turmoil and danger, was left unspoken.

They sat down on the floor, a large map spread between them. In the blank space of the northwest region, Ji Jiu took out the map he had drawn over the past two years, filling the emptiness with detailed rivers, mountains, and deserts.

Apart from this map, it seemed as though nothing had happened in the past two years. It was as if Ji Jiu had never left the capital, only returning from the military.

Both understood without saying a word, ignoring everything that had transpired during those two years.

The conversation lasted until deep into the night. They lit lamps, and by the time dawn arrived, the sunlight flooded in, extinguishing the candlelight. Ji Jiu had dozed off on the floor.

The emperor put away the map, took a cloak, and draped it over Ji Jiu’s body, then sat aside, reviewing memorials.

Occasionally, he glanced at the figure lying on the floor. Two years seemed to have forged a sword—its edge hidden, its body dark and dull like iron. Only the one who held it knew its power—unstopppable.

He would wield this sword, sweep through the Xiongnu, pacify the realm, and shake the country to its core. This was the emperor’s goal, and it was Ji Jiu’s goal as well. Thus, Ji Jiu was willing to be the sword of another, willing to be a hawk or hound.

For their ultimate objective, everything else was insignificant, so they did not speak of it.

They were the same kind of person, both headed toward one goal, clearing all obstacles in their way. What happened along the journey did not matter to them.

The emperor did not sleep all night and eventually grew weary. Holding a memorial, he read two lines before dozing off.

Ji Jiu only slept briefly and quickly woke up. Seeing the cloak on him, with its dragon and tiger embroidery, he knew it was a garment only the emperor could wear.

He grabbed the cloak, rose, and squeezed his eyes. He noticed the emperor had fallen asleep at the desk. Quietly, he draped the cloak over the emperor’s shoulders, then silently left.

They had too much in common, yet too many differences, but that did not prevent them from fighting side by side against external enemies. No matter what fate or choices awaited them, at this moment, their goal was the same.

Life and death, honor and disgrace, bound together—no external force could separate them.

Supporting each other, helping each other, until the final day came, this would not change.

How can we say there is no clothing, when we share the same robes?