My existence was unwanted—by both of my parents. My mother saw me as a burden; my father, a blemish upon his honor. Madam Wu Niang treated me as though I were filth beneath her feet, and her son, Yang Zhen, was given free rein to torment me—body and soul alike. Even the servants followed suit, their contempt sharpening with every passing day, as if cruelty toward me had become a household custom.
In such a place, I learned early the art of disguise—to forge smiles that did not reach my eyes, to speak words that did not touch my heart, to breathe as if I owed the air an apology. My thoughts, once tender and bright, hardened too soon beneath the weight of endurance.
The privileges of the Yang name were denied me. No lessons in letters or swordsmanship, no guidance worthy of a noble's son. Yet I refused to yield. A stubborn ember within me refused to die. Knowledge, I believed, was the one blade no hand could steal, the one flame that could carve my name upon fate's cold stone. If I could learn—if I could think—then perhaps I could shape a destiny of my own, one unbound by blood or birth.
But I did not hate them.
Hatred, I learned, was a luxury for those who still hoped to be loved. I had long abandoned that hope. What I sought was neither affection nor belonging—only purpose. For greatness was never inherited; it was seized, often from the ashes of what one had lost.
The only sanctuary I knew was my grandfather's library—an old, forgotten place steeped in dust and silence. None dared to enter: not my father, not Madam Wu Niang, not even Yang Zhen. Only an aged servant, loyal to my grandfather's memory, came from time to time to tend to it. He was kind, in the quiet way of those who have seen too much sorrow. He noticed my tangled hair, the bruises on my skin, the emptiness in my eyes—and took pity. While he cleaned, he let me stay there, hidden among the scent of old paper and fading ink.
Within those walls, I learned that silence could be gentler than any word, and knowledge—more merciful than love.
The library was a world of its own—filled with books, parchments, bamboo slips (jiǎn dú 简牍), scrolls, and maps. Each shelf was a universe, each corner breathing the scent of dust and ink. Everything was arranged with meticulous care—by type, by subject, by age—as if order itself had been a kind of devotion.
I was seven years old then—small, frail, and utterly illiterate. I could not read a single word, nor trace even the simplest character. Yet I found peace among those silent witnesses of thought. The calligraphy upon the scrolls seemed alive to me—elegant, flowing, and full of grace. Each stroke carried a rhythm I could feel but not yet understand, as if the ink itself whispered secrets to my untrained heart.
It was there, in that quiet sanctuary of forgotten knowledge, that a spark took root within me—a yearning to understand, to read, to know. What began as fascination soon deepened into resolve. I wished to grasp the meaning behind those beautiful lines, to give voice to the silence that surrounded me.
"Second young Master (Èr shàoyé 二少爺)," the old servant said, bowing low. His voice trembled with age, yet carried a quiet warmth. "This old servant (Lǎo nú 老奴) is uneducated and slow of learning. I can only recognize a few simple characters. But if it concerns the ancient scripts or these books, I fear this servant will be of little help."
He turned toward the shelves, his gaze lingering on the scrolls and bamboo slips as if afraid to breathe too close.
"These books belong to the Grandmaster (Tài Lǎoye 太老爺). They were his treasured collection from his youth. He once traveled across Gifu, gathering ancient texts and studying them with great devotion. Each volume here is priceless—enough to feed a family for an entire year. Without the Grandmaster's order, this servant would not dare to open even one."
"If these books are that valuable," I asked softly, tracing a finger along the edge of a bamboo slip, "why do you allow me to come in? Aren't you afraid I might ruin them?"
The old servant chuckled, the sound low and gentle, like the rustle of old paper.
"Second young Master, you are different," he said. "You carry the Grandmaster's blood in your veins. These books will not fear your touch."
He paused, his gaze distant, as though searching his memory for a name long forgotten. Then, with a faint smile, he added,
"I have served this family since my youth. And in all those years, you are the second person whose eyes have shone so brightly while looking at them."
"I pity these books," he said softly, his wrinkled hand brushing the edge of a scroll as though it were something alive. "Aside from the Grandmaster, no one in this household has ever cared to study them. So this old servant thinks—it is better for someone eager to learn to touch them, than for such knowledge to remain locked away, forgotten in this room."
"Lao Li (老李), tell me more about Grandfather," I asked quietly. "I have never met him, and the people in this residence speak so little of him."
At the mention of 'Grandfather,' the old servant's eyes brightened as if I had spoken a sacred name. He moved toward me swiftly, his steps surprisingly light for his age. For a brief moment, I caught the shimmer of tears in his eyes, and his mouth curved into a wistful smile.
He leaned closer to the table where I sat, lowering his voice. His gaze darted left and right, searching for spies or listening ears. But there was no one else—only the two of us, and the whispering silence of the vast library.
"Grandmaster is the first son of the Great Grandmaster (Tài Lǎo Tài Yé 太老太爺)," Lao Li began, his voice carrying both pride and a trace of nostalgia. "But unlike the eldest son one would expect in a noble family, he was free-willed and high-spirited. He never cared much for formality or restraint. He spoke his mind openly—bluntly, even—no matter who stood before him."
The old servant chuckled softly, the sound tinged with fondness.
"Yet he was no fool, nor a man driven by impulse. Behind his words lay sharpness and reason. He saw through people as though their hearts were glass, and his words could strike precisely where truth hurt most."
A shadow crossed his face, and his smile faded.
"To the Great Grandmaster, however, he was a troublemaker—one who brought unrest to the house."
I listened quietly as Lao Li went on with his story. I could tell from the light in his eyes that he held my grandfather in deep respect. Every word he spoke carried a quiet reverence, and as I listened, my mind began to paint the image of the man he described—the kind of life he might have led, the kind of world he once walked through.
"His love for ancient scriptures was beyond reason," Lao Li said, his voice soft with memory. "He would travel across Gifu in search of rare writings—scrolls, bamboo slips, anything that carried the wisdom of the past. To him, knowledge was worth more than gold or power. But the Great Grandmaster thought otherwise. He believed it was merely an excuse to escape the duties of the Yang clan."
Lao Li sighed, shaking his head slowly.
"They often quarreled over it. The Great Grandmaster even threatened to pass the family heirloom to his second son. Yet, even then, your grandfather did not waver."
"There were many hardships, toils, and snares along the Grandmaster's path before he rose to become the head of the Yang family and served Emperor Fu Zhong as Prime Minister," Lao Li said, his voice lowering with solemn respect. "The details of that long journey are not mine to tell—but to me, the Grandmaster was the only person within the Yang residence who treated us, the slaves, as human."
His cloudy eyes glimmered with admiration as he continued,
"His wisdom, knowledge, and keen insight guided the Emperor, shaping him into a ruler both wise and beloved. Yet the Grandmaster was not only a scholar—he was also a brilliant military tactician. With his strategies and counsel, Gifu thrived even in times of hardship and went on to conquer much of the Middle Lands."
His eyes softened, and his voice grew quieter—carrying a faint tremor of sorrow.
"Grandmaster often said," Lao Li murmured, "'Human life is but a dream—gathered when the eyes are closed, and scattered upon waking.'"
He paused, the words lingering in the air like fading incense.
"As his rank in the imperial court soared, his footing within the clan began to crumble. The higher he climbed, the lonelier the sky became. Envy followed him like a shadow; treachery crept from within his own walls. Even his wife and sons turned their backs, lured by power's whisper."
"When the family dispute erupted, the tide turned against him. The court he once ruled with wisdom grew cold; the clan he once led with honor cast him out. He left the capital and withdrew to Yangzhou Fortress. The heirloom and title were seized by the current master (老爺 lăoyé). Without his counsel, Emperor Fu Zhong's reign dimmed. This old servant once heard—before the emperor's final breath—he called Grandmaster's name again and again, longing for the friend who once shared his heart. But Grandmaster arrived too late. He could only kneel before the sealed imperial gate, offering his final bow to a spirit already gone. It was… a sorrow that lingers even now."
Old Li's eyes grew clouded, the light in them soft and faraway. His voice, once steady, trembled with grief long buried.
"Since that day, Grandmaster never returned to the capital. He remained in Yangzhou, guarding its fortress and his solitude. Even when Grand Madam (太夫人 Tài Fūrén) passed, he prayed for her from afar, beneath the same stars that once watched over their youth. His bond with the current master had long fractured, and no one in the residence dared to speak his name. Only we, the old servants, keep his kindness alive within our fading hearts."
I sat in silence, listening. The story unfolded like an old painting—its colors muted by time, its brushstrokes trembling with loss. Was it truly history, or a dream carried by the wind?
Later, I learned the truth. Emperor Fu Zhong and my grandfather were bound by friendship since childhood—souls entwined in trust, as if the heavens had paired them before birth. Their names are written side by side in history's record, and yet the world, in its cruelty, could not comprehend such devotion. Some whispered that it was forbidden love. But I believe it was something rarer—a meeting of two hearts who sought light amidst the chaos of men.
Together, they built the Gifu they once dreamed of—a land free from corruption, poverty, and war.
It was not a perfect world, yet they walked side by side, turning dreams into reality.
And they succeeded.
Under Emperor Fu Zhong's reign, Gifu stood at the height of its glory and prosperity.
Long after Old Li's voice had fallen silent, his words still echoed within me. A quiet vow bloomed in my chest—I would one day surpass my grandfather. Yet, a wistful thought trailed behind that resolve:
Would I too meet someone destined to walk beside me through the storms of life?
Someone to dream with, to build with—hand in hand through glory and despair, health and ruin, life and death.
"Is my grandfather still alive?" I finally asked.
Old Li's lips curved into a smile so tender it felt like a sigh.
"Yes," he said softly. "He lives still—safe within the gates of Yangzhou. The late emperor entrusted him with the fortress troops before his death. Before leaving, the Grandmaster gave me one last command: to keep this library clean. He said this room is the only thread that still binds him to the Yang Residence. He promised he would return one day to reclaim these scriptures… And so, I remain here—sweeping the dust of years, waiting for him to come home."
From that day on, I became close with Old Li. He taught me the few characters he knew, tracing each one slowly for me to follow. But when he realized how eager I was to learn, he began studying in secret—asking other servants to teach him so that he could, in turn, teach me more.
He sometimes slipped me sheets of unused paper and small amounts of ink, things he had quietly saved from the household. On good days, he would bring leftover food—a piece of bun, some rice, or fruit from the kitchen. To others, they were scraps. To me, they were treasures.
Old Li treated me with more kindness than anyone else in the Yang residence ever did. His care was quiet but constant, like the warmth of a lantern in the dark.
The library soon became my second home. Its silence no longer felt empty. I spent most of my days there, lost among the scent of old paper and the sound of ink scratching across the desk. No one noticed when I disappeared, and no one came to find me. That made it easier to slip away—to vanish into that forgotten corner of the house where, for the first time, I felt free.