"When I first obtained these things, I thought I'd find happiness quickly."
"Lord Secretary-General, what compelled you to walk this path till now?"
"We humans cling to stubborn pride like ducks refusing to drown. Until drowned in liquor or felled by illness, we never truly see our own reflections."
Winter had always been the season of creeping maladies, each snowfall like heaven and earth's merciless purge.
Severing snow, severing snow—what would it look like to cleave heaven and earth with a single sword strike?
At dawn, the steward reported that Zhou Yuan, Governor of Lin'an (courtesy name Wen Zhen), had fallen ill again—high fever through the night, now subsided, requesting recuperation leave. The steward inquired whether Bai Changming, Minister of Personnel, might visit.
"Lin'an again. Always Lin'an." Bai massaged his temples, retrieving from his desk a chart mapping bureaucratic connections. His finger traced the black line linking Governor Zhou Yuan to Minister of Rites Geng Ji, then followed its inevitable extension pointing back to himself. He sighed imperceptibly, reflexively sipping white liquor from a teacup meant for Longjing leaves.
"My lord, you've not broken fast yet—" The steward frowned at the cup, torn between duty and decorum.
"Other matters?" Bai's gaze pierced through the liquor vessel, authority crystallized in that glance. Years of governance had polished this gesture into a shield—simultaneously warding off outsiders and isolating himself.
After the steward withdrew, Bai rose pale-faced to boil water. Mornings beginning with liquor had grown frequent, his calm facade hardening from deliberate control to second nature. Though the fiery burn down his throat remained wretched, this ritual had won him countless psychological battles.
Arriving at Zhou's residence, Bai found the Lin'an Governor still feverish.
Propped on pillows, Zhou thanked Bai's gifts between labored breaths. As Bai navigated diplomatic pleasantries, Zhou dismissed attendants, leaving them alone.
Sickness loosens tongues. Zhou's flushed hand clasped Bai's icy fingers like balm. "Minister Bai," he murmured, eyes glazed, "Twenty years a court official—weather-beaten, aged. Yet you... promoted these past years... your face remains untouched by time." His hands enveloped Bai's, fever-hot.
Zhou rambled, half-hearing responses. When Bai sought to depart, the old man suddenly wept.
"What's it all for, Minister? To escape being governed? Yet above us still sits the Emperor—we're all caged creatures! When promoted, I thought—ah, now I'll want nothing! But higher peaks breed greater storms. Better those early days of nothingness... when everything tasted new..."
Sniffling, Zhou laughed bitterly. "Sick old bones spouting nonsense. Men never know their true measure—healthy, we think ourselves indomitable; ill, we lose even that pretense." The untouched tea cooled as they parted.
Snow drifted over Liuzhou's winter—purity and cruelty embodied in white.
I've wandered this mortal coil so long,
Counting nameless graves, endless dreams—
Kings and ants alike return to dust.
Once, I chased spring through wine-lit gardens,
Never slighting youth's fleeting bounty.
Years rewrite us—loosened belts, frost-tipped temples.
Kindred scattered like clouds,
Who'd foresee this solitary remnant?
Three years in this alien world had hollowed him. Lost within and without, his heart grew spectral—loss compounding loss, till only dust remained.