Chapter 55: Pouring the Cup (5)

The night in Chang’an was so peaceful that one could clearly hear the chirping of insects in autumn, as well as distinguish the various sounds of footsteps.
In the residence of Lady Guo in Xuanyang Fang, Yang Huahua sat in front of the mirror, lost in thought. Suddenly, memories from over a decade ago surfaced—sweet yet bitter, an indescribable mix of emotions. Li Kuo, that young man, had left a profound impact on her; his tone of voice and expression were exactly like those of him back then. “If our Great Tang wishes to preserve its legacy for generations, it must bloom at the right time, just as flowers do among the grasses!”
Those passionate words had captured her heart. What a fool she was!
Biting her lip, Yang Huahua shed tears. Promises made repeatedly turned into lies, and commitments given often could not be fulfilled. She had loved him for seventeen years, missed him for seventeen years, and hated him for seventeen years—only to realize it was all but an illusion.
“Madam, please stop being sad.”
Her personal maid, Ying Qiu, promptly handed her a handkerchief and comforted her. “Sir has been gone for so many years. You should let go. Even if not for others, think of the young master.”
“Who said I’m crying? I’m not crying!”
Yang Huahua snatched the handkerchief, wiped away her tears, and stubbornly turned away.
“Sigh.”
Ying Qiu sighed softly. “Madam, we must look forward. Haven’t you and the young master gotten through so many difficult times? Now that things are better, you should be happy.”
“Ying Qiu, how many years have you been with me?”
Yang Huahua spoke in a low, solemn tone.
Not understanding why her master suddenly asked this, Ying Qiu thought for a moment before honestly answering, “Including this year, it’s been eighteen years. One year before you got married, the old lady sent me to serve you.”
“Yes, you’ve been with me for seventeen years. I really am getting old.”
Yang Huahua murmured to herself, seemingly lost in thought.
“Madam, you’re not old at all!”
Unable to bear to see her master in such distress, Ying Qiu placed a mirror in front of her and said, “Look at your skin—even the youngest girls can’t compare. Look at your black hair; even the emperor praises it. And this too…”
Yang Huahua waved her hand to stop Ying Qiu’s kind words and smiled bitterly. “Everyone ages. How can I escape that? I’m not afraid of getting old, but once a woman loses her beauty, she loses her value and is discarded by men like trash. If I lose this face, who else can use it to represent the Yang family?”

Seeing such genuine kindness from her master, Yingqiu said aggrievedly, “I truly feel sorry for you. It’s surely the Empress’s great efforts that have brought the Yang family this far. But without your mediation, how could anything be done so smoothly? Second Master not only fails to show gratitude to you but also keeps forcing you to go, over and over again…”
“You still don’t understand.”
Yang Huahua’s tone grew colder by the moment. “We women ultimately have to rely on our families in this world. Don’t think you’re so glorious—men can send you plummeting to the bottom with just a word.”
“I don’t believe all men are heartless. That young man from the Li family seems like someone responsible!”
Yingqiu pouted and continued to defend herself. “He’s eloquent from a young age, skilled in both literature and martial arts, humble and kind, and so handsome too!”
“Him?”
Yang Huahua froze, as if talking to herself, “Will he really be willing to serve the Yang family?”
“Of course. With you recommending him so highly and offering him such a prestigious position, how could he not see the advantages? Everyone knows the Yang family’s power is at its peak—under a big tree, it’s cool to rest under it. Even children understand that.”
Would he really serve the Yang family? From the first moment she saw Li Kuo, Yang Huahua knew he wasn’t someone who would accept being subordinate. But what if it was just for her? The red candles in the room flickered, and Yang Huahua’s gaze grew increasingly blurred.
It was late at night; the usually bustling streets were empty. The night watchman yawned, rubbing his eyes as he struck the bronze gong to announce the time. As autumn arrived, the weather turned cooler. His coarse work clothes were no longer enough to keep him warm, and he shivered constantly, already cursing all the female ancestors in charge of finance. As he turned into an alley, he suddenly sensed a dark shadow passing by. He rubbed his eyes and looked around but saw nothing unusual. “Damn, it’s like seeing a ghost,” he muttered to himself before continuing on.
“Dry weather increases the risk of fires. Be careful with fire. Dry weather…”
At the same time, a masked figure dressed in tight nightwear was racing across the rooftops nearby. The houses in Chang’an were packed closely together, one after another, which provided him with great convenience. His cloth boots seemed made of special material, making no sound as he rushed forward. He seemed extremely familiar with the route and terrain, needing no pause to orient himself as he headed straight north.
Night was the best disguise, and silence the best cover. The night traveler wasn’t worried about his whereabouts being discovered—at this hour, no normal person would go up on a roof to look at the stars.

After about the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, he stopped, glanced around at the surrounding buildings, and leaped into a brightly lit courtyard.
It was the backyard of the Yala Tavern in the Western Market, quiet in the dead of night. The night traveler walked slowly toward the main hall; upon reaching the door, he knocked three times before falling silent.
“Who is it? We’re closed.”
The waiter retorted impatiently—being left in the front hall to watch over the shop had already filled him with anger. Now, even unable to sleep peacefully on a wooden bench, how could he not be furious?
“Knock, knock, knock.”
Three more gentle knocks, followed by silence once again.
“Who the hell is making such a racket?”
The waiter fastened the belt of his robe and rushed to the back door. Grumbling, he went to unlatch it and stared in shock at the night traveler before him.
The traveler knocked three more times on the door as if in mockery, then pulled off the mask covering his face.
“Go call your boss.”
The traveler had dark skin, a high nose bridge, and deep-set eyes. His long face was narrow, with his hair tied in a bun that curved upward on his forehead—clearly not from the Central Plains. (Note 1) Most terrifyingly, from beneath his eyelid down to his jaw, he had a long, light red scar that, under the light of the oil lamp, seemed to move as if alive.
“Ah, ah!”
The waiter recoiled as if seeing a ghost, scrambling back toward the back hall.
The traveler placed the sword he carried at his side on the table and took out a milk bottle from his waist, drinking from it directly. The sword’s scabbard was slightly rusty, as if coated in copper green. There was a shallow crack on the hilt, which had been tied up with oilcloth rope, but it was still usable. Yet its owner seemed unconcerned about this, always carrying it with him and placing it in the most prominent spot.
“A noble guest from Shambhala—how could you pass up the fine wine of your homeland?”
The owner of the Yala Tavern nodded gently as he came out of the backyard, offering a pot of high-quality barley wine. (Note 2) The traveler shook his head lightly. “The wind in Chang’an is too warm and soft. I fear the eagles soaring in the skies have gradually lost their sharpness, turning into mediocre sparrows.”
With that, he fell silent again, continuing to drink the strong liquor from the milk bottle.
“O sacred Buddha, the blood you bestowed flows within me, and the power you gave erupts within my body. Wherever the sun rises, there is Shambhala. I never forget the true meaning of the scriptures, constantly guiding the ignorant mortals around me. Yet now the holy envoy doubts the loyalty of your followers. I wish to prove my loyalty with my own blood!”

The shopkeeper turned around, joined his hands, and prayed devoutly toward the west.
“Enough!”
The night traveler, disgusted by the shopkeeper’s pretense, interrupted him rudely, “The Zanpu sent me here only to tell you that troops are already stationed in the west. Don’t forget your duty. Otherwise, even if the Zanpu spares you, your soul won’t be able to reach Shangri-La after death!”
Note 1: These are physical characteristics of the Tibetan people. I specifically researched the paper “A Study of the Physical Features of Sichuan Tibetans” to summarize these traits.
Note 2: Shangri-La: “Shangri-La” is a transliteration from Tibetan, also rendered as “Shangri-La,” meaning “the land of ultimate happiness.” It is a mythical world mentioned in Buddhism and the birthplace of the Kalachakra tradition.