The sixth year of Taiwu, deep winter.
The imperial capital of Luoyang had only just endured a coup. In a single night, the two most powerful clans under heaven were left in ruins, their households thinned to the brink of annihilation. The entire city was gripped with fear and unease.
Snow fell thick as feathers, whirling and drifting without end.
By noon, the clouds scattered, and a blinding sun pierced through, dazzlingly sharp. The broken light spilled upon the earth, where the snow lay in endless sheets, like shredded clouds scattered across the land. All was white, vast and desolate.
Yet the heavy snowfall could not mask the lingering stench of blood left by the coup. If anything, it only deepened the chill.
At least, so thought Gu Can—once the heir of a great house, now stripped of title and reduced to commoner.
The north wind cut like knives, its shrill howling like a madman’s cry—or the scrape of blades stripping flesh from bone. It lashed mercilessly at anyone who stood against it.
Gu Can stumbled forward, face blank, dragging his crippled right leg through the snow with painful effort.
On his feet were straw sandals; his toes were frostbitten, the sores frozen stiff before the pus could even flow. With no cloak to ward off the cold, he had only a rough straw rain-cape to shield himself from the wind and snow.
And yet, he no longer felt the piercing chill. His flesh and blood had long since gone numb.
The snow lay pure, untouched, flawless—but to him, it seemed stained with pools of blood.
Worse still, his nostrils seemed to fill with the faint, metallic sweetness of fresh blood, the phantom stench seeping into his marrow.
His cracked, bloodless lips trembled faintly.
In his hollow eyes, a shadow of grief stirred.
He parted his lips and softly called a name.
“Wanwan.”
The voice was heavy with sorrow, yet held a tenderness within it—a trace of lingering affection.
Wanwan—his wife Lin Wan, who had passed away a month ago.
Gu Can had once been the heir of Zhenbei Marquisate, the only legitimate son of Gu Yan, founding minister of the Yan dynasty.
Forty-one years earlier, Emperor Hui—Shangguan Cheng—had risen from his base in Ningzhou. After years of strife, he unified the realm and established the Yan dynasty.
The twenty-one provinces bent the knee, and decades of chaos were finally brought to an end.
In his seventeen years on the throne, Emperor Hui, aided by his prime minister Gu Yan, brought peace and prosperity to the realm. Under their governance, the empire flourished.
And when Gu Yan was named, another name inevitably followed—that of Lin Su, Marquis of Pingyuan, Grand Marshal of the armies, and Grand Commandant of the court.
Gu Can’s late wife, Lin Wan, was none other than Lin Su’s eldest legitimate granddaughter.
Together, Gu Yan and Lin Su—one with pen, one with sword—had earned glory in founding the dynasty, both held in the highest esteem by Emperor Hui.
Though close in age to Lin Su, the emperor was nearly twenty years older than Gu Yan.
Ordinarily, two tigers cannot share a mountain. But Gu Yan and Lin Su had never been rivals.
Their friendship dated back to the days before the dynasty was founded, a deep bond that endured despite their difference in years.
From youth, Gu Yan had been famed as a prodigy across the provinces. Before he even came of age, he had already entered the service of Shangguan Cheng, then still a mere warlord.
After ascending the throne, Emperor Hui showed him unprecedented favor: appointing him to the highest of the Three Excellencies, granting him the title of Chancellor, and even permitting him to establish his own administrative office—an honor beyond compare.
But in the eighth year of Yongjia, Emperor Hui suddenly died of illness.
His successor, Emperor Jing—Shangguan Yu—was but a frail youth. The Western Frontier seized the chance to revolt, raiding the borders of Liangzhou. Had they marched eastward, taken Yongzhou, and pressed on, the capital Luoyang itself would have stood in peril.
Within mere months, Chancellor Gu Yan suppressed the rebellion in the west. The military power of the empire gradually came under his control.
For a time, he stood unrivaled in court, and rumors spread like wildfire—that Gu Yan intended to usurp the throne from the weak young emperor.
For in truth, Emperor Jing—Shangguan Yu—was the son of Consort Gong, a woman Emperor Hui had never favored.
After founding the dynasty, Emperor Hui had named the son of his late wife, Lady Wang, as crown prince. But that crown prince had died young…
Emperor Hui, stricken with grief, resolved never again to name a crown prince.
No one could have foreseen that the throne would one day pass to Shangguan Yu.
Though Emperor Jing—Shangguan Yu—appeared frail and timid, in truth he was well versed in the arts of power. For years he endured in silence, quietly gathering allies.
By the age of eighteen, he was able to govern in his own right and stripped Chancellor Gu Yan of much of his authority.
To honor Gu Yan’s past service in quelling the western rebellion, Emperor Jing conferred upon him the title of Prince of Zhenbei, bestowed the Nine Bestowments, and granted him a fief in Liangzhou.
On the surface, it was supreme glory—a princely title, lavish honors, a reward beyond compare. Yet in reality, it was a subtle demotion, a gilded exile.
Liangzhou, bounded by the Western Frontier on one side and Yongzhou on the other, was remote and desolate, just as its name suggested.
And ever since Gu Yan’s brutal suppression of the frontier uprising, the tribes of the west both feared and hated him. In fact, a children’s rhyme had long circulated in Xijiang, cursing Gu Yan as ruthless and merciless, an iron-faced fiend.
Thus Emperor Jing’s maneuver not only removed Gu Yan from the capital, stripping him of real power, but also turned him into a living deterrent against the tribes of the west.
Truly, it was a masterstroke.
At the thought, Gu Can gave a cold laugh. His long, bony fingers curled into a fist, clutching something tightly hidden in his palm.
He trudged on through the snow for some time. At last, when the storm began to subside, he found himself before a ruined thatched hut.
From the chimney rose a thin column of smoke; the bitter air carried the faint fragrance of food.
Gu Can pushed open the wooden door. The roof’s withered straw was whipped about by the north wind, desolate and bleak.
At that moment, a short, slightly stout young man stepped out.
He had no left arm; the empty sleeve flapped loosely in the wind. In his remaining hand he held an earthen pot still warm from cooking.
Upon seeing Gu Can, the young man bent slightly at the waist and spoke with respect.
“Master, you’ve returned. I’ve just finished preparing the meal and heated water as well. You can wash your hands before we eat.”
At the sound of Yuan Ji’s voice, a trace of expression flickered across Gu Can’s face. The man who only moments before had seemed soulless, hollow, finally stirred back to life.
He gave a soft laugh and said lightly, “Yuan Ji, I am no longer a master, merely a commoner now. There’s no need for such formality.”
The one-armed man, Yuan Ji, gazed at his master’s pallid face and hollowed cheeks. His heart clenched with pity; an ache rose in his chest, and his eyes grew wet despite himself.
For once, Gu Can had been the dream of every young lady in Luoyang.
The capital was vast, full of refined and handsome scions of noble houses. Yet among them all, Gu Can was the most admired, the most striking.
Unlike many of his peers, who favored extravagant silks and bright, gaudy colors, Gu Can was remembered for his simple elegance—always clad in white, crowned with jade, his figure tall and straight. Though lean, he possessed the vigor and strength of a true man.
His fine brows and clear eyes bore no trace of worldly smoke and dust. Cool and aloof, he seemed like an exiled immortal descended to earth.
From the age of seventeen, when Emperor Jing had summoned him to the Imperial Academy as an honored guest, Gu Can had ranked first in the palace examinations year after year.
Combined with his noble status as heir to the Zhenbei Marquisate, it was little wonder that countless noble ladies of Luoyang secretly longed for him.
As his reputation grew, every place he went sparked frenzied commotion.
Rumors abounded: that one common woman, desperate to glimpse him, lost her child in the crowd; that a young maiden, craning from a bridge for the briefest glance of his figure, tumbled into the river; that even a noble girl, unable to win his affection, took poison in despair—saved only by timely treatment.
To the women of the capital, Gu Can had once been no less than a living deity.
Now, however, he had become a pitiful shadow of his former self—neither man nor ghost, a figure of ruin and despair.
The once-admired face had been deliberately marred by villains, a jagged scar cutting cruelly across it.
Things had changed beyond recognition. Yuan Ji’s heart grew heavy with bitterness, when he suddenly heard Gu Can say:
“I’m not hungry. You eat first.”
Yuan Ji’s small eyes widened slightly.
His master had just returned from his late wife’s grave; no doubt his heart was still unsettled.
Yuan Ji dared not press further. Looking at Gu Can’s gaunt, hollowed face, he answered in a trembling voice, “Yes, sir.”
After Gu Can entered the thatched hut, Yuan Ji lowered his gaze to his empty sleeve, and his thoughts turned to the late Lady Lin Wan.
If not for her devoted care, he thought, not only would he have lost his left arm—he likely would have lost his wretched life as well.
Gu Can’s marriage had been the union of two great houses.
Before the Yan dynasty was even founded, Marquis Pingyuan, Lin Su, and Chancellor Gu Yan had sworn that their families would be joined in marriage.
Emperor Hui, amused when he heard of this vow during a banquet, had gladly approved, even witnessing the betrothal himself in private.
At that time, neither Gu Can nor Lin Wan had even been born.
When Gu Can turned twenty-one, he wed his fated bride—Lin Wan.
Though of exalted birth, Lin Wan was in truth an orphan.
Her father, Lin Yu, was the legitimate eldest son of Lin Su, Marquis of Pingyuan.
By the age of fifteen, Lin Yu was already on the battlefield, cutting down enemies by the hundred, unmatched in valor. While still so young, he was appointed General of the Cavalry by Emperor Hui, his name resounding throughout Luoyang.
And Lin Yu, with his fair and refined looks, resembled a scholar as much as a warrior. People hailed him as the “Jade-faced God of War.”
But Heaven envies talent. In the third year of Taizhang, rebellion broke out in Ning and Jiao, the southern provinces.
During the campaign, Lin Yu was struck by an arrow. With proper care, his life could have been spared.
Yet he insisted on leading the army despite his wounds. Though he won a decisive victory, the strain tore open his injuries, and he died from loss of blood.
A year later, his wife, Lady Xie, also died suddenly of illness.
Thus Lin Wan was left orphaned at the age of ten. In pity, Emperor Jing granted her the title of Wengzhu and the honorary name Aizhen, in recognition of her father’s service.
It was said that on the day Gu Can married Lin Wan, the streets of Luoyang were filled with the sound of women weeping.
And yet, Princess of the Ong —Lin Wan—had always been frail, seldom leaving her home. Few had ever seen her face.
Thus, the women of Luoyang regarded Lin Wan as a thorn in their eye, a splinter in their flesh. Rumors spread that she was plain of face, plagued with some wasting illness, and would not live long.
What a pity, they whispered, that the ethereal heir of Zhenbei Marquisate, Gu Can, should be shackled to such a wife.
Some even resorted to curses and sorcery, secretly praying for her early death.
In the end, their words seemed to come true. Before she reached twenty, the young marchioness passed away.
To Yuan Ji, however, Lin Wan had been the gentlest and kindest beauty he had ever known.
Though she was a noblewoman, and he but an old servant brought from Liangzhou to attend Gu Can, he had met her a few times. Frail she may have been, yet her grace and beauty were undeniable. Standing beside her husband, they had seemed the perfect pair.
How could anyone claim she was unworthy of him?
At the thought of those cruel slanders, Yuan Ji ground his teeth in silent fury. He turned toward the kitchen, determined to prepare some food for his master and place it inside—if only to remind him to eat a little.
When Yuan Ji entered Gu Can’s room, he found him sitting in silence, staring at something in his hand. Not daring to disturb him, Yuan Ji quietly set down an old earthen bowl of wild-vegetable soup on the low table, then withdrew on tiptoe.
Gu Can gave no sign that he noticed. From beginning to end, he never raised his head.
In his hand lay a broken jade comb. Its carving was simple, delicate—plum blossoms and willow branches etched in pale stone.
It had once belonged to Lin Wan.
And now, it was the only relic of her he possessed.
The high coiffures once fashionable in Luoyang had long fallen out of style, yet Lin Wan often wore this comb. She had told Gu Can once that it had been her late mother’s favorite adornment.
As he gazed at it, it seemed to him that her soft, gentle voice brushed against his ear once more.
He could almost feel her silken black hair slipping slowly across his cold palm.
But he knew it was only an illusion.
In all her life, he had combed her hair only once.
Their marriage had lasted less than a year before disaster struck their families.
So brief a time—too brief for him ever to tell her that he loved her.
He had survived, degraded from noble heir to commoner, only because she had fought with her very life to save him.
Gu Can’s throat bobbed faintly, but no tears fell.
His cold eyes flared red, his expression twisting, dark and menacing.
What meaning was there in dragging this crippled body onward, clinging to life in this world?
Gu Can hated himself bitterly.
Since the age of seventeen, when he had first entered Luoyang from Liangzhou, he had lived as Emperor Jing’s “honored guest.” But in truth, he was nothing more than a hostage—used as leverage against his father, Gu Yan.
His talent was not lacking; indeed, he surpassed even his father.
But whether it was his status, or his own innate pride, Gu Can had refused to involve himself in the court’s endless struggles.
So when the Gu and Lin families fell, he was powerless—no more than a broken man, useless to all.
After the founding of the Yan dynasty, there had been two major rebellions in Yongzhou and Liangzhou—both tied to Gu Yan.
In the first year of Taiyuan, it was Gu Yan who suppressed the revolt.
In the fifth year of Taiwu, it was Gu Yan who rose in rebellion.
One stone stirred up a thousand ripples.
The political currents of Luoyang had always been treacherous, and Emperor Jing—ever suspicious by nature—seized this chance. After Gu Yan’s defeat, he struck down two of Luoyang’s most powerful families in one blow: the Lin clan and the Xie clan, the family of Lin Wan’s mother.
With that, Emperor Jing consolidated his power. No longer was he checked by great clans or powerful ministers—he now reigned unrestrained.
Where there are victors, there must also be the defeated.
And Gu Can was one of the defeated—left alive, but little more than a husk of a man.
The heart of the defeated is never free of bitterness.
If only he could return to his seventeenth year, when he first entered Luoyang. With his talent, had he chosen to act, none of this would have come to pass.
But who can turn back time? Who can live their life over again?
Gu Can gave a hollow laugh, the sound bleak and desolate.
If he could be reborn, vengeance would not be his foremost desire.
What he wished for most was to protect his frail wife, to give her the best of everything, to spare her the suffering she had endured.
Once more, he saw it in his mind’s eye—Lin Wan’s lifeless body in his arms, her blood spilling into the snow, staining the whiteness a deep crimson.
His chest clenched violently.
His breath came hard, ragged, and painful. He closed his eyes, fingers tightening around the broken jade comb until it dug into his flesh.
…
A month later.
The historians of Luoyang recorded:
The former Heir of Zhenbei, Gu Can, passed away in the winter of the sixth year of Taiwu. His old servant gave him a humble burial.
**