Chapter Seventeen: Night in Dingxing, Fascinating People!

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Dusk had fallen, and then the world moved beyond dusk.

After dinner, Han Fu sat inside, reading by candlelight.

Baili Mingda had intended to keep him company, but having learned the night before that Han Fu retired early, he left on his own accord rather than wait to be politely dismissed just as he was becoming engrossed.

The reason for this routine was rooted in Han Fu’s previous life. Although he had been an officer in a special forces unit, he held a noncombatant position and was far from outstanding in terms of physical conditioning. Coupled with his habit of staying up late reading and staring at his phone, he had sapped his vitality and ultimately collapsed during a ten-kilometer weighted march.

Such an exercise was hardly worth mentioning for a special forces soldier, yet it had claimed his life.

Determined not to repeat the mistakes of his past life, Han Fu was now extraordinarily disciplined. The history books that Baili Mingda had provided were not detailed, offering only a simple timeline, and with only a few pages left, he would soon finish them all.

A quarter of an hour later, the book was finished and the candle had nearly burnt out.

Han Fu stood up and stepped into the courtyard.

He began his routine.

Three rounds of tai chi left him drenched in sweat.

Ten sets of fifteen push-ups each, until his arms were numb.

Ten sets of fifteen squats, his legs now trembling.

Satisfied, he returned to his room, wiped himself down briefly, and went to bed.

At that moment, by the clocks of his previous life, it was about nine in the evening.

Han Fu had gone to sleep, and in Dingxing, Xujing, and perhaps throughout this entire world, eight or nine out of ten souls were already lost in dreams.

But there were always a few who still wandered the bustling world outside, reluctant to leave its pleasures behind.

Such was Dingxing at night.

Qing Pavilion was ablaze with light and filled with boisterous voices.

The front half of Qing Pavilion was a four-story wooden building, vast in size, while the rear consisted of a series of courtyards, with rooms numbering in the hundreds.

Dingxing was the capital of the Xu Dynasty, where every inch of land was precious.

A venue of such scale bore witness to the formidable power behind Qing Pavilion.

Outside the pavilion, colored silks and bright lanterns amplified the atmosphere of revelry to its utmost.

Upon entering, one was faced with a high stage where actors and famed performers displayed their talents.

Above the stage was an open skylight, and the second, third, and fourth floors were rimmed with railings, where poets and gentlemen could lean and watch the spectacle below.

Inside Qing Pavilion, courtesans dressed in all their finery flirted and posed, exchanging glances with the guests.

The patrons, all men of wealth and rank, moved among them, bantering with whichever beauty caught their eye, occasionally taking liberties that were met with coquettish, feigned annoyance and sidelong glances both angry and inviting.

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Tonight was much the same as the previous night, and yet, unlike any other.

It was similar to yesterday in that the one atop the stage was not an actor or singer, but a poor scholar.

The audience was not only scholars but also those who fancied themselves cultured.

All this, of course, was because of Han Fu.

The night before, Han Fu had composed seven poems in succession, causing his name to resound throughout the city.

Word of mouth spread rapidly, and soon all of Dingxing knew his name, the news expanding with remarkable speed.

Upon the stage, the scholar explained Han Fu’s poetry word by word, unraveling their brilliance for all to appreciate.

Whenever he reached a particularly striking passage, the hall would erupt with exclamations of awe and applause, praise flowing in waves.

The most enchanted listeners were the courtesans of Qing Pavilion, each with eyes agleam, their imaginations running wild.

To spend a night with Young Master Han—they would gladly pay for the privilege.

Should he ever praise one with a poem, it would be as easy as plucking the peony queen’s title from a basket, and even dying at that moment would be worth it—or so the courtesans thought.

For the past two days, whether in the alleys of the city or in the elegant halls frequented by the elite, the talk of the town was Han Fu and his seven poems.

Yet the heavens are rarely kind; such a talent had become a live-in son-in-law.

Some could only sigh in regret.

Alas, since his marriage he was confined to the Zhou household and knew nothing of the stir he had caused in Dingxing.

Of course, not everyone was discussing such matters.

At that very moment, in a private room on the second floor, the conversation turned to something else.

“Did you hear that Cao Dezheng was attacked last night?”

“Yes, he was assaulted by a thief on his way home. He’s still bedridden.”

“Have they found out who did it?”

“Apparently not. The attacker threw a sack over his head and struck without a word, leaving no clues.”

“I heard about it, too. Cao Dezheng had no idea how many assailants there were—just that stick after stick rained down on him, too many to count.”

“Must have been badly hurt.”

“He won’t be leaving the house for at least three months.”

“It was the night watchman who found him. The scene was so brutal, so bloody, the poor fellow thought he’d stumbled on a corpse and wet himself in fright.”

“Any idea why he was attacked?”

“No idea.”

“In any case… we’d best be careful walking at night.”

“Exactly. Can’t be too cautious.”

Meanwhile, in another private room on the third floor, six men gathered: Liu Shilin, Tong Le, Zhao Zongsheng, Sun Kaixing, Li Shenhe, and Wu Ziyong.

Delicacies filled the table, jars of strong wine lined up.

The six men were in high spirits, faces wreathed in smiles as they raised their cups together.

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Liu Shilin laughed and said, “Gentlemen, bottoms up.”

“Cheers!”

“Ah—!”

The six were in a jovial mood, and whatever it was that pleased them, none said it aloud, nor was there any need; they simply drank heartily and ate their fill.

They reveled until dawn, not returning home that night.

And so, over the next two days, aside from Han Fu’s seven poems and the beating of Cao Dezheng, son of the Assistant Minister of the Rites, no other topics captured anyone’s interest.

Those two days passed in rare tranquility.

Han Fu remained quiet as well. He returned the history book and asked Baili Mingda to find him a new volume, a geographical record of the Xu Dynasty called “Record of the Zhaoyu Region.”

For two days, Han Fu devoted himself to studying this book, practicing tai chi, push-ups, and squats.

The Xu Dynasty was in turmoil, facing an uncertain future, so the book was of vital importance to Han Fu—a must-read.

Through his studies, Han Fu learned about the geography of the Xu Dynasty.

The entire realm was divided into eighteen circuits: Guannei, Hexi, Hebei, Henan, Hedong, Lingbei, Lingnan, Jiannan, Jiangnan, Shannan, Shandong, Shanbei, Huainan, Jinnan, Jinbei, Sanjiang, Linhaichuan, and Chifeng.

Beneath these were three hundred and sixty prefectures.

And those prefectures in turn were divided into 1,682 counties.

According to Baili Mingda, in the regions of Sanjiang, Lingbei, and Lingnan, as well as parts of Shannan and Shanbei, there were currently three rebel armies running amok, outside the control of the court.

The Duke of Su, Lai Cao, had been dispatched to suppress the bandits, but with little success so far.

Han Fu had wanted to learn more about these three groups, but as Baili Mingda’s knowledge was fragmentary, he set the matter aside for now.

During this time, the burly, bearded man who always carried a wine jug came by every day, but never did more than watch Han Fu exercise from the archway, never striking up conversation.

Han Fu considered approaching him, then changed his mind.

He had asked Baili Mingda about the man and thus learned his identity.

Ge Liang, guard of the Zhou household.

Twenty-eight years old, skilled in martial arts, harboring ambitions of a military career—but frustrated, for Zhou Xinyi would not let him leave, so he spent his days with a wine jug in hand.

Normally, such a servant would be punished for this behavior, but none in the Zhou mansion ever said a word, letting him be.

The reason, it turned out, was that Ge Liang’s father, Ge Ruhuo, had once been Zhou Xinyi’s bodyguard. In order to protect Zhou Xinyi, he had sheltered her with his own body, taking thirty-six knife wounds and dying of his injuries.

As he lay dying, Ge Ruhuo made only one request: that Ge Liang live well, marry, have children, and continue the family line.

Zhou Xinyi, a woman of her word, soon arranged a wife for Ge Liang and steadfastly refused his request to join the army, terrified he might die in battle and thus betray the sacrifice of Ge Ruhuo.

But what was with those thirty-six wounds—some mystical number from legend?

Baili Mingda had explained it exactly: “Ge Ruhuo had a quirk—he loved counting. Whatever he saw, he had to count. Serving in the Zhou household for over a decade, he knew exactly how many flowers, trees, even steps there were. For instance, in the long room of the east wing, there are two trees—one a jujube, the other also a jujube… Even while stabbed, wracked with pain, he couldn’t break the habit, counting each strike as it landed. My uncle said, Ge Ruhuo himself told him, as he lay dying, that it was thirty-six wounds.”

Was that not pure obsession?

Han Fu was astonished—such an amusing man, and he was gone?