Six years ago, Fu Shen’s first military expedition was seen off by the Emperor Yuantai himself, leading all officials to the Golden Terrace; half a year later, upon his victorious return, he was enfeoffed as “Jing Ning” on this terrace.
Later, after Fu Shen’s legs were disabled and he no longer led troops, he chose this starting point of his life’s honor and disgrace for a marriage decree.
Dust of war, tears of blood, a life’s ups and downs, embodying “Reporting the golden terrace’s intent to the lord, lifting the jade dragon to die for the lord”.
This was his silent demonstration, and also his deep resentment.
The late sunset illuminated the wilderness, finally hearing distant hoofbeats, dust surging, a mighty procession emerging from the road’s end.
The leader was tall and straight, galloping with a bright red robe flying, set against the twilight, seemingly bathed in fire.
Not like coming to marry, but more like coming to snatch a bride.
— That was Fu Shen. — This was the real Fu Shen.
The moment he appeared was like being struck by a heavy hammer in the heart; Yan Xiaohan could even feel the lump in his throat, his eyes growing warm.
For months, he had not comforted Fu Shen, dared not touch his wounds, often consoling himself: Fu Shen could just no longer go to the battlefield… He had only lost a pair of legs, which was better than dying in Qingsha Pass.
But at this moment, his irrational reaction finally admitted that open-mindedness was fake; he was actually unwilling, actually… regretful.
Fu Shen was still so young, yet his future could only accompany a wheelchair, becoming an ordinary person with inconvenient legs. The young man who once rode into the city, attracting countless young girls’ flowers, the young general who led troops and departed in dust, would never exist again.
However, today, that youth who had once brushed past him on horseback had returned.
In a few breaths, the horse team arrived, Fu Shen slowing down, whistling and throwing a section of red silk. Yan Xiaohan instinctively caught one end, feeling a great force pulling him, his body leaning forward, squeezing his horse’s belly, causing it to trot towards Fu Shen.
It looked as if Fu Shen had “fished” him over with a piece of red silk.
Fu Shen was very satisfied with Yan Xiaohan’s obedient cooperation, smiling and leaning closer: “Long wait… oh, are you crying?”
Seeing the redness in Yan Xiaohan’s eyes, he was startled, involuntarily lowering his voice, softening his tone: “Brother Yan… what’s wrong? Waited too long? Afraid I wouldn’t come?”
Yan Xiaohan stared at him expressionlessly, making Fu Shen uncomfortable, before turning away and laughing: “Just the wind.”
Fu Shen: “Only because we’re getting married today, I’ll let you save face. Next time, I’ll really make you cry, believe me?”
Fu Shen’s arrival was perfectly timed, the red sun setting, twilight arriving, the most auspicious moment for the wedding ceremony.
Fu Shen dismounted, and Yan Xiaohan carried him, stepping through the sunset’s remnant light, ascending the solemn and magnificent Golden Terrace.
Time seemed infinitely stretched, walking up seventy-two white marble steps, as serious as walking through an entire lifetime.
The Qilin Hall was vast and grand, showing an ancient dimness due to age. Rarely visited, it was extremely quiet, with life-sized portraits on the walls solemnly watching them, like divine beings silently observing two mortals who had mistakenly entered a sacred temple.
Without Fu Shen’s instruction, Yan Xiaohan had already found the portraits of Fu Jian, Fu Ting Zhong, and Fu Ting Xin, hanging side by side.
A following attendant handed two soft cushions; Yan Xiaohan casually glanced at the person, surprisingly recognizing him as one of the Northern Yan’s great generals, Yu Qiao Ting.
Fu Shen softly said: “Put me down.”
They knelt side by side on the cushions. Yu Qiao Ting took out a water bag and two small silver bowls, placing them on the ground before silently retreating.
Fu Shen said: “These are my grandfather, father, and uncle. My mother is buried in the hometown; we’ll visit another day.” He turned, facing north and south, “Come, let’s bow to heaven and earth.”
They bowed together in unison.
Turning to the portrait, Fu Shen raised his wine cup and toasted the empty space, saying: “Unworthy son Fu Shen, blessed by the Emperor’s marriage, today joining with the Flying Dragon Guard’s Qin Cha Envoy Yan Xiaohan in matrimony. Grandfather, father, second uncle, if you know of this in the netherworld, you can now rest in peace.”
“Bow to the elders.”
Yan Xiaohan silently followed him in bowing, and they turned to face each other and knelt. Fu Shen reached out to pour two cups of wine, handing one to Yan Xiaohan, saying: “Brother Yan, thank you for waiting for me today.”
Yan Xiaohan: “No need to thank me. It was expected.”
Fu Shen said: “After my ancestors passed away, the former Emperor decreed to paint meritorious officials’ portraits in the Qilin Hall, and his portrait was personally held by my father on the golden platform.
“Back then, Prince Shu wanted to send my second uncle’s portrait into the hall, but unfortunately…” He shook his head, “According to protocol, only close relatives can hold a portrait into the hall.”
“Fu Shen joined the military at eighteen, commanding the North Yan cavalry for over five years. I dare not boast of great achievements, but I believe I have not let down heaven, earth, and human hearts.”
Unfortunately, fate is unpredictable, and I’m afraid I can no longer lead troops. My military career ends here.”
He raised his wine bowl, touching Yan Xiaohan’s with a “ding”.
“That year before I went to war, you made a wish hoping I would hate you for a lifetime. Now that wish no longer works – I don’t hate you anymore, Brother Yan.”
“Now it’s my turn to make a wish.”
Yan Xiaohan lowered his eyes, looking at him gently, as if he would immediately fetch stars and moon at Fu Shen’s slightest word.
Fu Shen gazed at him, slowly and solemnly saying: “I hope that after my death, my portrait can also remain in the Qilin Hall, and at that time, you will personally hold it to the golden platform.”
Only close relatives can hold a portrait into the hall.
After a long silence, Yan Xiaohan did not respond, only saying: “On such a joyous day, why speak of such inauspicious words?”
“Death is inevitable and need not be avoided,” Fu Shen seemed unconcerned by his answer, his gaze serious and sharp: “If you agree, you will naturally be my only close relative.”
Fu Shen and Yan Xiaohan – one wild, one calm; one seemingly carefree, one always thoughtful; one worthy of merit in the Qilin Hall, one destined for the record of sycophants… two people worlds apart, finally converging at the same turning point.
How could Yan Xiaohan refuse such a wish almost equivalent to “growing old together”?
He took the wine cup from Fu Shen’s hand and set it aside, clasping hands with Fu Shen.
“Husband and wife bow.”
They each leaned forward, bowing solemnly. Being so close, they almost touched each other’s heads, yet their hands never separated.
The three bows of the ceremony were complete.
He opened his mouth, his voice already choked and hoarse. The merits of the Fu family across three generations were recorded in historical books, engraved on stone tablets, widely praised by thousands. He had once been proud and self-satisfied; when the emperor discarded him like a worn-out millstone, he had also harbored resentment, believing he had made great contributions that the world should be grateful to him.
But when he truly understood what “the will of the people” meant, he put away all his arrogance, feeling only bewilderment and shame, as small as a speck of dust in the vast universe.
