Chapter Thirty-Three: Autumn Winds and Autumn Rains Bring Endless Sorrow (2)

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The starry sky stretched vast, the night as chill and clear as water. A sweeping northern wind rustled through, sending several yellow leaves fluttering down, near and far, as the entire city gradually sank into darkness. The lanterns hanging high outside the inn swayed with a dim, hazy glow.

A faint drizzle seemed to fall, its threads striking Kong Sheng’s face. He reached up to wipe it away and, all at once, realized that he had been in this era for over a month. In this time, he had gradually blended in—and, more than that, had begun to turn the tide of his fate. Summer had ended, and autumn, rich with harvest and abundance, had arrived.

The autumn wind grew stronger, the season’s melancholy deepened, and the gentle rain soon swelled into a torrential downpour. Gazing at the weaving curtain of rain, Kong Sheng sighed softly and returned to his room at the inn.

Across the street, on the eaves of a tavern, a white figure in a straw raincoat paused for a moment before vanishing into the night.

Kong Sheng could never have foreseen that this rain would come so suddenly, nor that it would fall with such violent intensity. The autumn wind howled, yellow leaves whirled, and the rain poured down like a lament, but even so, the next morning, Yang Manor’s maid, Hong Mian, braved the storm in her heavy rain gear. The determined girl had come to collect Kong Sheng’s promised reply for Yang Xueruo.

But Kong Sheng was not in his room; no one knew where he had gone.

Hong Mian knocked nervously at the door. Hearing nothing, she gathered her courage and pushed it open. The room was empty, but on the desk lay a sheet of snow-white paper, bearing only a single line of vigorous, free-flowing calligraphy: “The autumn wind and rain grieve the soul.” The writing, bold and full of spirit, struck Hong Mian as beautiful, even if she lacked much literary training.

Beside the desk, another folded sheet lay weighed down, appearing to be a discarded draft. Curious, Hong Mian picked it up and saw that the writing was hasty and heavily corrected.

Without examining it closely, she assumed this was Kong Sheng’s reply for her young mistress. She quickly refolded both papers, tucked them into her clothes, and hurried away.

Yang Manor.

Yang Qi stood in the courtyard, braving the rain. Beside him, Yang Kuan held a paper umbrella high to shield his master from the wind and rain. He could not understand why, on such a foul day, Yang Qi insisted on standing outside, staring into the stormy sky. What was there to see?

As a servant, he could not fathom his master’s mood. Though resigned to relative obscurity in the south, Yang Qi was ever vigilant, keeping a close watch on the Central Plains and the court’s every move. The An Lushan rebellion raged on; the emperor and his son had parted ways mid-flight, and the crown prince Heng had proclaimed himself emperor at Lingwu, casting the old emperor into cold exile.

With Guo Ziyi and others rallying behind him, the new emperor Heng was gathering the battered remnants of the Tang forces for a desperate counterattack. Yet few in the land held hope for peace. Yang Qi was no exception—deep down, he secretly wished for the court’s failure to quash the rebellion, for chaos in the heartland to remain unresolved.

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Only then would he have the chance to fish in troubled waters.

According to Yang Qi’s assessment, he believed An Lushan would never truly prevail; yet the rebel forces were strong, and the crown prince’s paltry army could do little for now. The longer this chaos dragged on, the more the Tang court’s prestige would plummet, until it was utterly lost. At that point, the regional lords would inevitably seize power for themselves, carving out their own domains. The south, where Yang Qi resided, would rise with the tide, naturally and inevitably.

Yet lately, scattered reports of victory had begun to filter through. It was said that Guo Ziyi had advanced into Hedong and even split his forces to seize Fengyi. Such news filled Yang Qi with deep anxiety and an inexplicable resentment toward these loyal ministers striving for the restoration.

The emperor’s debauchery, his reckless wars and extravagance—all had sown the seeds of An Lushan’s rebellion. The Tang court had long been rotten to the core; it was high time for a new dynasty to let the world choose its true sovereign. And what were men like Guo Ziyi thinking, persisting with their rescue efforts? Pretending to be saviors of the realm?

At times, Yang Qi would curse An Lushan and his barbarian cohorts for their incompetence and stupidity. With their strong armies and victorious momentum, why had they hesitated after taking Chang’an and Luoyang? Why not press on to the northwest and southwest, instead of rushing to claim the throne? Why give the court a chance to recover? Such childishness! Such folly!

In truth, Yang Qi misjudged An Lushan. With the disruption of war, news was scarce and unreliable. The reality was that An Lushan was not unwilling to seize the empire, but physically unable. Since raising his banner, his vision had rapidly deteriorated, leaving him nearly blind. Plagued by festering sores, he grew irritable and restless, tormented day and night. Perhaps sensing his own end, he had hastily declared himself emperor, indulging in every excess and drunken revelry.

Yang Qi sighed suddenly, his voice tinged with frustration, anger, and a trace of disappointment. His spirits, already low, were further dampened by the endless autumn rain.

He was about to return to the hall when he spotted Hong Mian, head bowed, sneaking through the inner courtyard in her rain gear. He frowned and called out sternly, “Hong Mian, where have you come from?”

Hong Mian looked up and, recognizing Yang Qi, grew nervous. She had been sent secretly by her mistress to communicate with Kong Sheng, without Yang Qi or his wife’s knowledge. Now, caught by Yang Qi himself, her cheeks flushed red as she stammered, “Sir, I was running an errand for my mistress!”

Yang Qi’s eyes narrowed. He beckoned, “Come here. Let’s speak inside.”

With no choice, Hong Mian lowered her head and followed Yang Qi into the flower hall.

“What errand were you running for your mistress?” Yang Qi asked casually.

Hong Mian kept her gaze down, not daring to answer.

Yang Kuan barked from the side, “Hong Mian, how dare you! The master is asking a question—answer at once!”

In Yang Manor, Yang Qi’s authority was absolute; he held the fate—and even the lives—of all the household’s servants in his hands. Seeing his master’s darkening expression, Hong Mian grew too frightened to hide the truth. She confessed to delivering messages for Yang Xueruo at the Shunsheng Inn.

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Yang Qi knew well his daughter’s fondness for Kong Sheng. What he had not expected was that her feelings ran so deep—deep enough to correspond with Kong Sheng in secret, behind her parents’ backs.

Yang Qi’s face remained stern as he gestured, “Hand over Kong Sheng’s reply to your mistress. I would like to see it.”

Hong Mian hesitated briefly, then produced the two “drafts” from her clothing and presented them, standing anxiously aside.

Yang Qi unfolded the first sheet. It bore only a single line, written with force and skill, but it was no letter.

A curious look flickered in Yang Qi’s eyes as he murmured, “The autumn wind and rain grieve the soul. There is meaning here, but it seems an unfinished poem—a sentiment yet incomplete.”

He set the paper aside and opened the other, more crumpled sheet. As he read, his expression changed abruptly. He shot to his feet, his face darkening with fury.

“To the Capital at Jinling, from Kong Sheng, scholar of the South!” The scrawled heading leaped out at him, and a tempest surged in Yang Qi’s heart.

At the sight of his master’s rage, both Hong Mian and Yang Kuan grew uneasy. Yang Kuan tugged at Hong Mian’s sleeve and whispered, “What on earth did he write, to make the master so angry? Was it something outrageous or disrespectful?”

Hong Mian’s face turned ashen. “Steward, I… I didn’t read it properly—I can barely read at all!”

Though she kept her head bowed, she could clearly hear Yang Qi’s heavy, rapid breathing.

Inwardly, Hong Mian cursed Kong Sheng over and over. He must have written something terribly disrespectful or shameful about the young mistress to provoke such wrath. Now it was over—Kong Sheng, that wretched fool, had doomed not only himself, but also her and her mistress!

Terror gripped her, her legs trembling so hard she could barely stand. Her thin frame wavered, near to collapse.