HCT – Chapter 216 Old Friends Finally Reunite (Part 1)

Halfway on his journey south, Zhu Hai encountered a messenger sent by Zhu Xiang.

Lord Xinling had hanged himself, asking the King of Chu to withdraw his troops—his resolve pure and lofty. Along the entire southern route, people escorted Zhu Hai.

Such an earth-shaking event naturally reached the ears of Zhu Xiang’s messenger, who deliberately came to find him.

Zhu Hai remained wooden the entire way. Though he accepted the goodwill of Chu officials along the roads, his footsteps never slowed. He socialized with no one, always choosing the shortest path, avoiding even the towns he passed.

The scholars of Chu lamented Zhu Hai’s loyalty toward Lord Xinling and praised this almost self-punishing behavior.

They prepared food and supplies, gifting them to Zhu Hai as he passed. Their original plan to block Lord Xinling’s coffin and wail over it dissipated.

The scholars of the Warring States still carried some “chivalrous” spirit in their hearts. Though they pursued fame, they knew their priorities.

When Zhu Hai received the messenger’s request for an audience, the numb expression on his face finally cracked open a faint seam.

He had neither bathed nor changed clothes for the entire journey; the mourning linen draped over him had turned black.

But upon hearing that the messenger from Lord Zhu Xiang had arrived, he quickly rinsed himself with cold water and threw on a somewhat cleaner set of clothes.

When the messenger saw him, Zhu Hai’s hair was still dripping.

The messenger hurriedly said, “Brave sir, please dry your hair first. The weather is cold—you mustn’t fall ill.”

Zhu Hai wiped the water from his head with his sleeve and asked, “You truly are Lord Zhu Xiang’s messenger?”

The messenger produced Zhu Xiang’s letter and said sorrowfully, “I am.”

“Sir,” he added, “you may read the letter to Lord Xinling.”

A bleak smile appeared on Zhu Hai’s face. “Yes… read it to my lord. It should be read to him.”

Along this journey, many scholars had gifted incense and candles.

Every night, Zhu Hai lit incense for Lord Xinling.

Qin had official relay stations for transmitting information, and the other states, for their military dispatches, had similar institutions.

Relay stations doubled as official inns, providing scholars a place to stay.

The King of Chu and the Lord of Southern Chu granted Zhu Hai permission to use them. The messenger should not have entered a foreign relay station, but with money and cloth he persuaded the attendants to look the other way.

Chu’s management of commoners’ movement was loose, and after the civil war, grassroots administration had collapsed entirely.

Those tasked with guarding Lord Xinling’s coffin heard that the visitor was a messenger from Lord Zhu Xiang and grew curious.

Unfortunately, the messenger refused to speak with anyone else, and they could only gather together, guessing what Zhu Xiang might have written to Lord Xinling.

Some said Zhu Xiang had just lost one friend—Lord Chunshen—and now another, Lord Xinling, had been forced to death. Who knew how much grief lay in his heart?

Zhu Hai’s hearing was excellent. He heard their sighs, and the faint liveliness in his expression from seeing the messenger once again hardened into numb rigidity.

Zhu Xiang’s letters were never literary, just plain speech—sometimes even rambling.

He had thought he would stumble over the reading, yet surprisingly the words came out smoothly in one breath, and he could even imagine Zhu Xiang’s tone as he wrote.

Zhu Xiang said nothing important—only fiercely cursed the King of Chu for causing trouble again, and cursed the King of Wei for failing to stand up for Lord Xinling immediately.

He wrote that the allied armies would certainly withdraw before spring plowing. Lord Xinling must endure just a little longer, and if he truly could not endure, he should come to Southern Qin.

He drew a fruit called litchi, saying that once picked, it quickly lost its flavor. He wanted to try planting it but had no idea how. When Lord Xinling arrived in Southern Qin, he would drag him along to plant litchi together.

As Zhu Hai read, he began to cry again—the first time in many days.

He thought: If only Lord Zhu Xiang’s letter had arrived a few days earlier.

If it had come earlier, might his lord have set aside Wei and the King of Wei… and truly gone to Southern Qin to plant litchis with Lord Zhu Xiang?

The messenger slept in the next room and listened to Zhu Hai weeping the entire night.

The next day, both were in decent spirits. Zhu Hai’s emotions had steadied.

He tucked the letter inside his robe and said it would be buried with Lord Xinling when he was laid to rest.

Perhaps reading that letter had released the feelings long pressed at the bottom of his heart—Zhu Hai even spoke a little more.

He sighed to the messenger, “If only Lord Zhu Xiang’s letter had arrived sooner… perhaps my lord would have listened to him.”

But the messenger did not comfort him.

“When the King of Wei said that because of Lord Xinling, Wei was placed in danger, how could Lord Xinling have the face to meet his ancestors? Since then, he had no choice but to die.” The messenger’s voice was cold.

He spoke in odd, short fragments, yet with a strange rhythm—sharp and forceful.

“As a Prince of Wei, for the king to say he has no face to meet the ancestors… that is even more shameful than sentencing him to death.” He paused, a faint, self-mocking smile on his lips. “If the King of Han said such words to me, I too would have no choice but to die to prove my resolve.”

The messenger took a deep breath, lifted his bamboo tube, and drank the cold water inside in one gulp, as if extinguishing the sorrow in his chest.

“Unfortunately, I am inferior to Lord Xinling and Lord Chunshen. The King of Wei and King of Chu at least recognized their great talent—used them, envied them. But the King of Han… cannot even see me.”

“May I ask, sir, you are…?” Zhu Hai finally realized the messenger’s identity might not be ordinary and hurried to inquire.

The messenger replied calmly, “I dare not call myself ‘sir’. I am a collateral member of the Han royal clan—Han Fei.”

Zhu Xiang had sent Han Fei himself.

Han Fei, unable to save his own country and knowing Han would inevitably fall, had been persuaded by Zhu Xiang to hide himself in Qin—to be a great recluse within the court—so that when Han perished, he might protect its remaining clan members and continue the ancestral rites.

Thus, Han Fei would not seek death.

Zhu Xiang believed that Han Fei’s circumstances might help Lord Wei Wuji empathize—and follow the same path.

But Zhu Xiang, after all, was only a commoner, even one from two thousand years later. He did not understand how for these aristocratic scions—men of dignity—certain words were sharper than knives.

The King of Wei’s statement had spread too widely. People were shocked at how words spoken privately in distant Daliang had reached scholars in Chu so quickly.

When Han Fei heard what the King of Wei had said, grief welled in his heart.

As Prince Han Fei, he knew that Prince Wei Wuji was doomed to die.

Prince Wei Wuji was not like him.

He was only a collateral clansman, and though he could thicken his skin and call himself “Prince of Han,” in truth he was no close relative.

If he were shameless enough, he could even sever ties with Han altogether—but his heart remained with Han, and he refused.

Prince Wei Wuji, however, was the king’s own younger brother—one of the closest in blood. His responsibilities were far heavier.

The king was the “patriarch” of the entire royal clan.

If even the King of Han told a distant clansman like Han Fei that he had no face to meet the ancestors, Han Fei would still have to die.

How much more so Prince Wei Wuji?

Thus, as long as he remained Prince Wei Wuji, as long as he remained that bright, noble figure—Lord Xinling—he could only choose death.

Zhu Xiang could not save him.

No one could save him.

Unless Wei Wuji did not wish to be Prince Wei Wuji anymore.

But how could he ever be anything else?

After listening to Han Fei, Zhu Hai was silent for a long time, then finally smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “A prince is a prince.”

There was little gloom or heaviness in his smile—only a trace of release.

His lord, Prince Wei Wuji, had no choice but to take that path. To lament his death, to hope he regretted… would be to insult his virtue.

Zhu Hai said, “I never expected Lord Zhu Xiang would send Prince Fei as the messenger.”

He truly hadn’t expected it.

Han Fei’s reputation for brilliance had already spread throughout the realm. Zhu Hai knew he was a proud and solitary talent—he never imagined Han Fei would play the “lowly” role of a messenger.

Han Fei said, “Lord Zhu Xiang is as my teacher. Since my teacher gave me the command, I dared not disobey. Besides… I also wished to speak with Lord Xinling.”

A pity.

Zhu Hai and Han Fei both sighed inwardly.

Han Fei did not try to comfort Zhu Hai; instead, he told him that Lord Xinling was doomed to die, and no one could save him. Oddly, Zhu Hai felt more relieved hearing this than he did after all the empty comforts others had offered him along the way.

Since he’d met Marquis Zhu Xiang’s messenger, he no longer needed to pretend politeness to the people he encountered on the road.

Han Fei had not come alone to deliver the message. Even though he claimed to be confident in his ability to travel by himself, Zhu Xiang forced a squad of guards on him—who would also double as Lord Xinling’s escort.

Zhu Xiang truly hoped that Lord Xinling could be brought south.

Han Fei sent men ahead on fast horses to report to Zhu Xiang, then traveled day and night together with Zhu Hai to escort Lord Xinling south.

In just five days, Zhu Hai and Han Fei reached Zhu Xiang.

In ancient times, the actual range governed by official authority was very narrow—basically just the area around a city. The land between cities was all wilderness.

After the Southern Chu ruler relocated the Chu people northward, vast stretches of barren land appeared between Guangling and the cities of the Southern Chu, serving as buffer zones, with troops stationed only at key passes.

But “barren land” didn’t mean uninhabited. People lived there—just beyond government control.

Zhu Xiang led a team of cavalry and rode a hundred li out from Guangling City to greet them. Southern Chu pretended not to see anything and made no response. They did not dare respond.

“Lord Zhu Xiang…” At the sight of that head of white hair, Zhu Hai could never mistake him.

Upon seeing Zhu Xiang, Zhu Hai burst into tears again.

Zhu Xiang did not clasp hands with Zhu Hai tearfully like a scholar in a sentimental farewell. Instead, he pulled the broad-shouldered man directly into his arms. “You’ve suffered, you’ve suffered.”

Zhu Hai was not only a commoner but was now filthy and foul-smelling. When he served at Lord Xinling’s side, dressed in fine clothes, scholars who were fond of him might at most hold his hand. Being bear-hugged by a high-status scholar—this was the first time in Zhu Hai’s life.

Zhu Hai was at a loss. But he did not break free. Instead, he buried his face in Zhu Xiang’s shoulder and sobbed even harder.

A towering, muscular man curled up in Zhu Xiang’s arms like a child was a strange sight indeed. But Zhu Hai was truly exhausted and no longer cared about appearances. Zhu Xiang’s embrace was exactly what his fatigue needed.

Zhu Xiang patted his back. After Zhu Hai cried himself out, he continued, “I’ll change Wuji into a new coffin.”

Zhu Hai stood off to the side while Zhu Xiang opened Lord Xinling’s coffin.

Though the weather was cool, more than half a month had passed, and Lord Xinling’s body had already begun to show signs of decay. No matter how pure and noble a person had been, after death they all rot, breed maggots, and turn into foul-smelling corpse water.

Ying Zheng had also followed Zhu Xiang to receive Lord Xinling. Though he had seen Lord Xinling once as a child, he remembered little. When he saw the greenish, decaying face and smelled the stench from the coffin, his expression turned extremely unpleasant.

But Zhu Xiang and Xue Ji appeared unchanged. Perhaps this couple had seen so many corpses that they were immune.

When Zhu Xiang decided to invite Lord Xinling to the Southern Qin, Xue Ji had already ordered the weavers at home to prepare clothing for him. After Han Fei sent word, Xue Ji worked day and night to finish sewing the garments herself, insisting on sending them to Lord Xinling so he could be buried in new clothes.

These two, likely the most disregardful of ritual among all Warring States nobles, stripped off Lord Xinling’s old garments—which had already merged with the corpse—washed the body with strong liquor to remove the maggots, wrapped him in white cloth, and dressed him in the new clothes, like morticians of later generations.

Those who die by hanging do not leave a good-looking corpse. Zhu Xiang applied a prepared “cosmetic pigment” to give Lord Xinling’s face color again.

Finally, Zhu Xiang and Xue Ji tied up Lord Xinling’s dried hair, set the headpiece properly, and allowed Zhu Hai to move him into the new coffin.

The bottom of the coffin was lined thick with orchids and mugwort; once Lord Xinling lay inside, the corpse-stench was suppressed.

Zhu Xiang added some valuables beneath the coffin lid as funerary offerings, then laid silk over Lord Xinling’s body. Xue Ji took a basket of freshly picked peach blossoms and poured them into the coffin.

As he ordered the coffin closed, Zhu Xiang said, “He once said that among all fruits, peaches taste the best. Peach blossoms are blooming in Southern Qin now. Since there are no peaches, I’ll use peach blossoms to honor him.”

Fruit varieties were few in that era; peach was among the tastiest. Throughout the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods, peaches appeared frequently in anecdotes—showing how much nobles loved them. Even the gods in mythology had immortal peaches among their divine fruits.

Zhu Hai had not expected Zhu Xiang to send Han Fei to persuade their lord to come south; even less had he expected Zhu Xiang to do all this for him.

Even close kin would be repulsed by a relative’s rotting corpse. Zhu Xiang did not weep uncontrollably like the scholars who had worshiped at Lord Xinling’s coffin along the road. His brows were deeply furrowed, and only a few tears fell.

But in Zhu Hai’s heart, Marquis Zhu Xiang’s affection for their lord was truly the deepest among all his friends. That was why, in Lord Xinling’s final moments, he still thought of drinking one last jar of wine with Zhu Xiang.

After everything was done, Zhu Xiang asked Zhu Hai, “Will you guard Lord Xinling’s tomb in the future?”

Zhu Hai nodded. “Yes.”

Zhu Xiang said, “When Qin destroys Wei, you must escort Lord Xinling back to his homeland. So take care of yourself.”

Zhu Hai nodded. “Yes.”

He no longer felt anything toward the idea of Wei being destroyed. Lord Xinling was dead—how could Wei possibly survive?

He was still alive, so he no longer needed to gouge out his own eyes and hang them on the gates of Daliang to witness Qin’s army breach the walls.

He could go himself.

See it with his own eyes.

Then personally carry Lord Xinling’s coffin into Daliang.

He could even dig up the Wei king’s bones and throw them to the wild dogs.

Lord Xinling would certainly disapprove, but Lord Xinling was dead. Zhu Hai was now a wild beast without reins—no one could stop him.

Zhu Xiang said, “Before Wei falls, stay by my side. If you wish to serve in the army, you may follow Li Mu.”

Zhu Hai would observe three years of mourning for Lord Xinling, treating him with the strictest rites reserved for a father. What Zhu Xiang spoke of would wait until his mourning ended.

When Zhu Xiang returned to Guangling with Lord Xinling’s coffin, the entire city wore white in mourning.

The county magistrate, Chen Qi, was both emotional and at a loss. How had his tiny Guangling become the resting place of Lord Xinling?

Even though they all knew that Lord Xinling’s tomb would eventually be relocated back to Wei, the scholars of Guangling still fought over where he should be buried for now.

Everyone brought out their own family burial plots, insisting theirs was the most auspicious, and urged Lord Xinling to “rest there first.”

Ying Zheng, as the Governor of Wu Commandery, was forced to act as judge. This was a rare moment when the Qin crown prince met a problem he struggled to solve.

Competitive by nature, Ying Zheng pored over countless books and studied geomancy to determine which location was best suited for Lord Xinling.

Watching Ying Zheng’s relentless determination to “never be outdone,” no matter how absurd the situation, Zhu Xiang could only rub his forehead and sigh.

Though there were cries during the funeral, it lacked the grief of the journey south and was instead filled with solemnity.

Guangling was small, but Zhu Xiang was surrounded by many scholars, even Wei natives. They dug out the ceremonial codes of Wei; though the funeral was simple, not a single rite was neglected.

Once again, Zhu Hai was deeply moved by Zhu Xiang. But Zhu Xiang himself felt nothing worth being moved by.

He had thought he would cry when he saw Lord Xinling. But when he saw that face—no longer recognizable, covered in corpse-spots—he could not cry. His chest only felt heavy, unbearably heavy.

On the first day after burial, Zhu Xiang built a hut before Lord Xinling’s grave and said he would accompany him through another seven-day vigil. Even though the original seven days had long passed, he would start counting from the burial.

Whatever Zhu Xiang said went; even Ying Zheng didn’t dare contradict him now. Anyone could see the large knot of fire smoldering in Zhu Xiang’s chest.

Only Xue Ji dared persuade him. “While you’re keeping vigil, you must take care of yourself. Don’t fall ill.”

Zhu Xiang sighed. “I won’t fall ill. I still have you, Zheng’er, and Chengjiao to look after.”

Xue Ji snapped, “It’s we—Zheng’er, Chengjiao, and I—who look after you!”

Zhu Xiang muttered, embarrassed, “We look after each other… look after each other…”

Xue Ji set out clothes for him and asked Zhu Hai to take care of Zhu Xiang before leaving with the two children.

Zhu Xiang was bold. The weather was good that night; he didn’t sleep in the hut but made a bed right before Wei Wuji’s too-simple tomb.

Zhu Xiang didn’t even eat vegetarian food. He brought fine wine and good dishes, offered them to Wei Wuji first, then sat before the tombstone drinking and eating, muttering that he intended to finish all of Wei Wuji’s offerings.

Perhaps because he ate too much, Zhu Xiang soon fell asleep hugging the wine jar.

Zhu Hai sighed and covered him with a quilt.

“You Zhu Xiang! You came to honor me, and you dare steal my offerings!”

Zhu Xiang opened his eyes to hear Wei Wuji’s teasing voice in his ear.

He grumbled, “I worked so hard to dissuade you from dying—more than once. This time I even risked everything to send Han Fei to comfort you, yet you still hanged yourself over a few words from the Wei king. How could you do this to me? So what if I eat a little of your offerings?”

He looked up to see a young noble standing before him—handsome as jade, exactly the same as when they parted at Handan.

On the road, a man like jade; A noble unmatched in the world.