HCT – Chapter 186 Too Late Already

The dreamer did not realize he was dreaming.

Zhu Xiang’s awareness was clouded by the dream. After a brief moment of astonishment, he was simply happy to reunite with Lord Pingyang, Zhao Bao.

In truth, back when he was in Zhao, Zhu Xiang had not shared any particularly deep bond with Zhao Bao.

Zhao Bao’s affection for him had only gradually grown, reaching two full “hearts” after Zhu Xiang entered Qin. If Zhu Xiang himself had shown any affection rating toward Zhao Bao, it might have been no more than half a heart.

At first, Zhao Bao had little direct contact with Zhu Xiang. Later, though he recommended him, Zhu Xiang had little interest in officialdom and felt no particular gratitude toward Zhao Bao.

This was the common flaw of a transmigrator’s arrogance—one would not feel grateful just for a single recommendation. Not to mention that Lin Xiangru had already recommended Zhu Xiang multiple times.

Afterward, although Zhao Bao and Zhao Sheng had continued to protect Zhu Xiang, Lord Pingyuan Zhao Sheng’s presence was always too strong. Zhao Bao was like a shadow behind him.

He protected Zhu Xiang alongside Zhao Sheng, and also saw him off alongside Zhao Sheng, but most people valued Lord Pingyuan far more. Zhao Bao was simply the younger brother following along.

And indeed, when it came to talent and character, Zhao Bao could not compare with Zhao Sheng.

Zhao Bao was more cautious than Zhao Sheng or King Zhao, but not out of wisdom—merely out of timidity.

Before Zhao Sheng, Zhao Bao seemed less like an elder brother and more like a junior. Zhao Sheng often admonished him, and Zhao Bao relied heavily on him.

Still, even if they had not been very close, meeting an old acquaintance again was always a joyful thing.

The dishes on the stone table, which Zhu Xiang had already finished, had somehow been replaced without him noticing—once again, a table full of delicious pumpkin-based dishes.

Zhu Xiang drank happily with Zhao Bao, talking of matters unrelated to the Seven States.

He introduced pumpkins, cotton, and rice that could be harvested multiple times a year.

He especially talked about the seeds given to him by Xue Ji. At this point, he did not even realize that he was casually revealing the workings of the “affection points” system.

“Xue gave me five hearts of affection right off the bat—the special effects nearly blinded me.”

“Looking at the gifts, they were all things Zheng’er loved to eat. One heart was garlic, two hearts green onions, three hearts chili peppers that Zheng’er wasn’t allowed to have because he was losing his baby teeth.”

“Four hearts and five hearts were rice. At that time, Zheng’er was in Xianyang, complaining that he was sick of wheat and millet and wanted rice—new rice, at that. I really had to rough him up a bit to stop his fussing. But the five-heart gift was a kind of salt-alkali-resistant rice, almost like seawater rice, perfect for developing the coastal plains.”

“But honestly, it left me speechless. Was Xue giving me seeds? Or was she just drafting a recipe plan for Zheng’er?”

Zhu Xiang vented thoughts he could not say to anyone else, confiding in Zhao Bao.

Zhao Bao stroked his beard and smiled: “A mother always dotes more on her youngest child. That’s natural.”

Zhu Xiang shook his head with a sigh: “Youngest child, you say. Zheng’er has already grown almost as tall as me.”

Zhao Bao was astonished: “So big already? Last time I saw him, he was curled up in Xue Ji’s arms, just a tiny little thing.”

He measured with both hands, sighing: “So many years have passed.”

Zhu Xiang suddenly realized: “Yes, it has been so many years.”

So many years had passed, yet Lord Pingyang looked the same as before. Though already over forty, his hair and beard were still black thanks to good care.

In later generations, forty would be considered merely middle-aged, not old. And Lord Pingyang had never sought fame or profit, quietly safeguarding his wealth and keeping himself out of politics. With such self-awareness, it was only natural he looked younger than others.

If not for encountering Zhu Xiang, Lord Pingyang might never have stood on the court floor, arguing fiercely with King Zhao.

Even when he opposed King Zhao’s acceptance of Shangdang or the campaign at Changping, he had never quarreled heatedly with him.

In the dream, shadows wavered. Zhu Xiang seemed at last to realize something.

His cup was empty, and the stone table before him was empty too.

There had never been wine, nor food—nothing at all.

“Zhu Xiang, King Zhao passed away this morning.” Zhao Bao’s eyes were as bright as ever, though his face carried a faint melancholy as he shared the freshly fallen news.

Zhu Xiang lowered his gaze slightly: “Is that so?”

Zhao Bao said, “He regretted much afterward. He tried very hard. He truly did wake up to it all.”

Zhu Xiang said nothing.

Zhao Bao sighed softly: “But no matter how much he regretted, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how enlightened he became, it no longer had anything to do with you, with Lian Po, or with Li Mu.”

Zhu Xiang answered calmly: “Yes.”

Zhao Bao said, “Still, for the sake of me and my elder brother, when Crown Prince Zheng one day destroys Zhao, he will not vent his anger on Zhao’s royal clan because of Zhao Dan, right?”

Zhu Xiang replied: “Of course.”

Zhu Xiang rubbed his face hard, forcing his expression to look as though he hadn’t realized Zhao Bao had come to bid him farewell.

“Even without you and Lord Pingyuan, I would have stopped him from venting his anger on the innocent,” Zhu Xiang said. “With you and Lord Pingyuan, he will treat your descendants with kindness. Zheng’er is a child who knows gratitude and repays it well.”

Zhao Bao gave a bitter smile. “He should be a good child—after all, he was raised by Lin Xiangru, raised by you.”

Zhao Bao rose, straightening his sleeves, and bowed to Zhu Xiang. “I should go.”

Zhu Xiang stood, calmly arranging his sleeves, and returned the bow. “Please take care.”

Zhao Bao straightened and smiled. “Very well.”

Before turning away, Zhao Bao said, “I truly regret it—why didn’t I recommend you earlier together with Lin Xiangru? Why wasn’t I more resolute in recommending you? You should have been Lord Zhu Xiang of Zhao.”

Zhu Xiang did not reply.

Zhao Bao sighed. “Actually, I understand. Even if I had recommended you earlier, you might still never have become Lord Zhu Xiang of Zhao. The King of Zhao lacked the boldness and ability of the King of Qin—he could never have protected you.”

Zhu Xiang gave a bitter smile.

Zhao Bao turned, his voice endlessly desolate. “But I still regret it. I should have tried. I should have at least tried…”

He did not take a step forward, yet his figure grew fainter, as if walking farther and farther away, leaving only a fading back view for Zhu Xiang.

Zhu Xiang saw Zhao Bao tilt his head upward; he did not know whether Zhao Bao was weeping.

Then Zhao Bao began chanting lines from the Book of Songs:

“At the grave’s gate, brambles grow wild,
With an axe they should be cleared.
Yet when a man is no good, the people all know.
They warn and advise, but he does not change—
Until it is too late, too late to repent.

At the grave’s gate, the plum tree stands,
Upon it perches the owl.
Yet when a man is no good, they sing to admonish him.
He hears but does not heed,
And in confusion, overturns himself.”

The weeds at your grave should have been cut down with an axe to make it upright again. The people kept admonishing you, but you refused to repent. When at last you decide to change—it is already too late.

Too late!

Zhao Bao spread his arms, his wide sleeves billowing in the wind, as though he were carried off by it.

But beneath him the light flickered like fire, and his billowing sleeves seemed to be consumed by rising flames.

Regret!

So much regret!

When one finally decides to repent— It is already too late. Already too late!

Zhao Bao’s black hair turned white, like withered grass, then in an instant burned to ash.

…

“Lord Pingyuan has gone—he’s gone!”

A sharp cry pierced the air, stirring more weeping.

Zhao Bao lay upon his couch. Though he was not curled up, his frame looked as if it had shrunk into itself.

He had only just turned fifty this year, yet his body was gaunt, his hair dry and white like weeds, his eye sockets sunken, cheekbones jutting high—older in appearance than court ministers in their sixties or seventies.

Even his once-towering stature had withered under illness. Though he did not curl up, he looked as if he had.

Children, friends, and retainers surrounded his sickbed, weeping bitterly.

The King of Zhao sent no one—because that very morning, the King of Zhao had died.

After long years of wavering between lucidity and confusion, after long years tormented by illness, Zhao Bao, upon learning of the king’s death, seemed at last to release the final breath that should have left him long ago.

At that moment, he was clear-headed, and with his family’s support, he bowed toward the royal palace.

“Brother, I have fulfilled my promise. After your passing, I continued to assist the King of Zhao, not allowing him to err again.”

“I have fulfilled my promise. Zhao’s future must now be entrusted to later generations.”

“I am coming to find you, Brother.”

Having spoken, Zhao Bao did not breathe his last in clarity. Instead, he slipped back into confusion.

Once again, as in his past delirium, he cried out that he must find Lord Lin. Lord Lin had a disciple named Zhu Xiang, a great talent—he must be recommended to the King of Zhao.

“Prepare my carriage!”

“Hurry, prepare the carriage!”

Zhao Bao died amidst these cries, his eyes wide open, unwilling to close.

…

“My lord, my lord, how did you fall asleep here in the courtyard?” Xue Ji gently pushed awake Zhu Xiang, who had dozed off leaning on a stone table. “Careful, you’ll catch a chill.”

Zhu Xiang woke, his sleeves soaked with wetness.

Startled, Xue Ji asked, “My lord, what’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”

Zhu Xiang lifted his sleeve to wipe away the tears on his face. “Not a nightmare. It was a farewell from an old friend. Lord Pingyuan has passed away.”

Xue Ji was even more astonished. “How could my lord know this?”

But even as she spoke, she recalled how Lord Lin had once bid farewell in a dream.

Xue Ji sighed. “So he came to bid you farewell in a dream? I never thought he would appear in my lord’s dream.”

In her heart, she still found it hard to believe.

It was natural for Lord Lin to appear in Zhu Xiang’s dream. But though she felt some gratitude toward Lord Pingyuan Zhao Bao, who once protected her family, she also knew that his ties with Zhu Xiang were not especially deep.

Neither King Zhaoxiang of Qin, nor King Renwen of Qin, nor Chancellor Fan Ju had come to Zhu Xiang in dreams.

In terms of bonds, those elders were far closer than Lord Pingyuan.

Seeing her husband’s tears flow endlessly, Xue Ji hurried to fetch water herself to wash his face.

She had come to understand many things. Such a supernatural matter must not be known by others—so she had to do it herself.

Zhu Xiang’s face remained calm as he shed tears for a while, then finally stopped.

He extended his hand, upon which rested a quiet sweet potato.

Zhu Xiang and Lord Pingyuan might not have shared deep feelings, but Lord Zhu Xiang had become Lord Pingyuan’s lifelong regret.

“Zhao’s potatoes have been uprooted. Famine looms—what can be done? Is there another crop like the potato that can save us? I remember Lord Zhu Xiang once said…”

“I once said sweet potatoes could save against famine,” Zhu Xiang replied. “But back then, Zhao was already in famine—replanting sweet potatoes came too late.”