Unyielding Spring Mountains - Chapter 107: Crossing the Seas

Chapter 107: Crossing the Seas

(Part II)

Sometimes at night, he would play the qin for her. Amid the distant murmur of the river’s tide, she sat by the window, letting the wind brush her cheek, quietly listening to his music.

He was an unusual protector—a guard who understood both music and letters. She never probed, never voiced curiosity about his past.

The only time she asked was, “Jin Lan, it seems you have something on your mind.”

He froze. Bathed in lamplight, she glanced back at him. “When I listen to your music, I always sense your heart is shackled by the past. What weighs upon you that you cannot let go?”

Indeed, there were too many regrets he couldn’t dispel. Orphaned, kin and kin gone, he was left alone in the world, never again to taste familial warmth, forever homeless.

She fell silent for a long while, then said: “Jin Lan, the world is vast. How could there be nowhere for you to belong? Go and see it—meet those destined for you, see the rivers and mountains, do what you wish. Find fullness in your heart, and you will not be solitary all your life.”

Her face, softened by the flickering candlelight, seemed especially gentle. He gazed at her, heart pausing for a breath, and asked softly: “Truly, is it possible?”

She smiled faintly. “It is, only—I have little time left. I won’t get to see the world myself.”

He understood; some feelings begin and end within the bounds of propriety. Yet in the daily closeness with her, emotions grew uncontrollably, fervently.

An empty heart, finally filled with flesh and blood—yet just as he was about to grasp that sentiment, it slipped away once more.

He asked her what she thought of the Prince of Jin. Her answer: she feared him.

She said, the Prince of Jin was a lord who looked down upon the world itself, cold to the bone, iron-handed—never easy to befriend.

But how could that be?

He knew someone like her would not be abandoned by him. He always remembered her favor, her selfless trust in him, knowing he would never commit treason.

So he begged her: hold on a little longer. He would bring Zuo Ying, heal her eyes and body—then she could see all she had ever dreamt of.

She smiled, trusting him.

That night, she fell asleep by the window; he sat quietly at her side, gently drawing her into his arms to let her rest against him.

Outside, the palace lanterns wavered. Clouds of moths hurled themselves into the flames—on each pale wing, it was as if his own name had been written.

The boldest thing he ever did was on the eve of Jin-Chu peace talks. At the banquet, amid toasts and laughter, the youthful King of Chu and his beautiful queen presided. He watched her at the king’s side; suddenly, he rose and walked out, brushing past her—and in that instant, lightly brushed his hand against hers.

A fleeting moment: fingertips touched, each carrying a different warmth, entwined like silken threads.

She paused unmistakably, turning to look at him.

But he had already let go, his stride unfaltering, leaving her frozen in place, scented with a lingering fragrance.

Qi Yan stayed at the remote palace with her for three months. At the end of spring, he had to leave, promising he would return soon.

She said she believed in him. Yet not long after, news reached him of her sudden death in the palace.

Heaven remained merciless. Once again, it had snatched away the one he loved. Overwhelming grief and sorrow engulfed him, wetting the letter in his hands with tears.

Soon afterwards came the news of the King of Wei’s passing.

He composed himself, ripped apart the peace treaty with Chu, and this time personally led an army south, storming directly into Chu’s capital, iron cavalry smashing down the gates.

Wei Ling dragged the King of Chu before him—Qi Yan looked at him, knowing the greatest regret of his life had been sending her back to Chu.

All he could do was curse their late meeting—bewailing the caprices of fate.

He turned to her memorial tablet and, eyes closed, throat tight, whispered only, “Forgive me.”

Amid the glow and shadows of countless candles, he leaned against the desk, overcome by a deeper exhaustion than ever before.

He severed the King of Chu’s head, nailed it above the city gates; then annexed Qi, absorbed many smaller states—at last, unifying all lands except Wei.

He gained everything, yet at the day his great vengeance was achieved, he felt no satisfaction.

The world yielded before him, power was his, but so was solitude.

When the young King of Jin ascended, the whole court speculated about who would be made queen—but he could not forget her.

Those three months in Jiangling were enough to supply him with memories for a lifetime.

So he issued a decree: he would marry her memory as queen, stunning the world.

He held a grand wedding at Jin’s palace, cradling her memorial tablet as he entered the hall. As the doors closed, shutting out the light, it was as if his life, too, settled into dust and obscurity—fated for darkness and loneliness.

Until—

Wei Ling brought him the letter she had left before her death.

She wrote to Wei Ling: “Chu has lost Heaven’s mandate, the world now belongs to Jin. Go serve the Prince of Jin—he can unite all under the sky.”

As for herself, if there were another life, she wished only to be free as a girl again, to see the world.

He held her letter, recalling her words in his ear: “Jin Lan, the world is vast—how could there be nowhere for you?”

“See the world, meet your destined people, see all its rivers and mountains, do what you wish. Fill your heart and you will not be alone.”

He read her old, well-loved travelogue, with all the places she’d once hoped to visit marked in the margin.

Years had faded her handwriting, but the feeling still reached his heart.

One morning, he left a decree of abdication—and departed the Jin palace without a sound.

The old king had handed him the mountains and rivers of Jin; Qi Yan returned to him a unified land. His promise was fulfilled.

Swept by fate all his days, he could finally be himself—to return to the start.

He went to Chu, visited the lands where she’d grown up, saw with his own eyes the billowing clouds and endless sea of mist that she’d so often described.

Across all the years, within her travel diary, it was as if they met in spirit.

All his life thereafter, he wandered all the rivers and mountains under Heaven—proving her words true.

When you let your heart dwell in rivers and mountains, the world becomes your home.

The vastness of earth and sky seemed to make transcendence possible, and he no longer felt alone.

That travelogue, cherished for decades, accompanied him wherever he went. Whether with staff and straw sandals, listening to rain drum on leaves in the forest; or riding through desert wastelands, watching eagles wheel across the sky…

Across oceans and over mountains, a thousand summits and waves.

On his journeys, he saw the faces of countless poor souls, along the way doing what good deeds he could, praying to Heaven that in another life, the woman he loved would finally find peace and fulfillment.

At the end of his days, he returned to the Jiangling palace, to write the final chapter of her travel diary.

In his youthful memories, the Jiangling palace was always covered in bright spring sunlight. But now, returning in old age, he found it was in truth a place of rain, often shrouded in mist.

He realized the difference was all because of her. In his mind, she had always climbed hills on clear days, loved to watch the flower valleys in the spring sunlight, said her favorite time was lingering spring at the palace. His memory had played a trick, convincing him the palace was always warm and bright.

He laughed quietly. Because of her, this life of his was no longer aimless, no longer a living death.

Many decades later, on a similarly misty spring day, he smiled and closed his eyes for the last time.

Beside him lay an open bamboo scroll, its elegant script fluttering in the wind,

Smoke curling from the incense burner drifted on the breeze, fading into the distance.

When the servants entered the bedchamber that afternoon, they found him. The conqueror of nations had slipped away in a quiet spring afternoon, in total peace.

What is life but a long, fleeting dream? Amid the unending sound of rain, Qi Yan slowly awoke.

Brilliant sunshine poured into the cave opening. Opening his eyes, he saw the girl as she had been in youth, standing just outside the cave.

She turned in the flood of light, her eyes shining with life. “You’re awake?”

Qi Yan gazed at her, emotions flooding him. She knelt down, touching his cheek. “What’s wrong?”

He finally came to his senses, realizing this was no dream, and murmured, “I had a dream.”

“What dream?” Her smile was gentle.

“In my dream,” he struggled, “my life did not go so smoothly; I lost you—we were parted by chaos and death.”

Her smile froze. “And then?”

His eyes reddened. “I married only your memorial tablet, thought I would spend my whole life in a daze. But then I remembered what you told me: to see the world, to lose myself in its rivers and mountains—so I wandered everywhere, aiding the needy, praying the heavens would grant us reunion in another life.”

Her eyes brightened with tears. She drew a smile: “It was just a dream—don’t worry, none of that was real.”

She would not let him realize this was truly his previous life. Past karma should stay in the past. And hearing that he ultimately let everything go made her feel at peace.

She fell into his arms, and he held her tightly in return.

“Qi Yan, in this life, no one will ever part us again.”

He answered by tightening his embrace.

She pulled him to his feet, laughing, “Let’s go—we’ve already spent a whole night on this mountain.”

Suddenly Qi Yan smiled. “After we leave the Jiangling palace, let’s go south for a while before returning—visit all those places you once told me you wanted to see, together.”

Wei Zhen was taken aback. “And the court?”

Qi Yan’s lips curved lightly. “Leave it to Zuo Ying and Ji Wo. They’re ministers—they must shoulder some burdens for us, don’t you think?”

She smiled. “Alright.”

The rain had stopped; glorious sunlight fell in rays through the parted leaves, illuminating the young couple exchanging whispers.

Three days later, they set out again. The sound of two horses’ hooves skimmed the mirror-like river, startling wild birds from the mountain stream.

The wind howled past as eagles wheeled overhead.

Water flowed far and wide; she and he raced after it, laughing, the sound of hooves fading ever farther, until their two small figures dissolved into the endless, verdant mountain ranges.

The mountains are boundless, the waters have no end.

Footnotes and References:

• • “Abdication decree”/”transferring the throne”: It was not uncommon for emperors in legend or latter days to pass the throne and leave for a hermit’s or traveler’s life.

• • “The mountains are boundless, the waters have no end” (山不盡，水無涯): A poetic formula closing many classical Chinese romances, evoking the interminable journey of love and life.