The Xie Manor, Main Hall.
Twelve thick tallow candles, each as thick as a child's arm, illuminated the hall as brightly as day, yet they could not pierce the oppressive atmosphere that seeped from the very marrow of the bones.
Beside a round red sandalwood table large enough to seat twenty people, only two individuals sat.
Xie An sat in the seat of honor, his back as straight as a pine. Every time the ivory chopsticks in his hand descended to pick up a single, crystal-clear grain of rice and convey it to his mouth, the entire process seemed as precise as if measured with a ruler.
Precise, and soundless.
This was the rule of the Xie family: no speaking during meals, no talking during sleep.
Xie Yunzhou sat in the lower seat. The brilliant scholar who usually spoke with such eloquence and fervor at the Imperial College now only dared to stare at the celadon bowl in front of him.
He tried three times to pick up a piece of rouge-tinted goose breast with his chopsticks but failed. Finally, he could only awkwardly withdraw his hand and shovel a couple of mouthfuls of plain rice into his mouth.
It was too oppressive.
Ever since Butterfly Lovers was released, the entire city of Jiangning had gone mad for it. Only the main hall of the Xie Manor remained unusually quiet.
Clack.
A very light, crisp sound.
Xie An set down his chopsticks.
This sound was like a period marking the end of this suffocating dinner.
Xie Yunzhou tensed all over and immediately put down his bowl and chopsticks as well, even though he was only half full.
Two maids dressed in plain clothes drifted forward like phantoms. Wordlessly, they cleared away the cold leftovers and served clear tea for rinsing the mouth, along with hot towels.
Xie An took the teacup, gently skimming the foam from the surface without so much as lifting his eyelids.
How have your studies at the Imperial College been lately?
His voice was old and raspy.
Xie Yunzhou hurriedly stood up, standing respectfully with his hands at his sides.
To answer Grandfather, your grandson has recently been studying the Spring and Autumn Annals, and I have gained some new insights into the four words 'restrain oneself and restore the rites'.
Restrain oneself and restore the rites?
Xie An gave a soft snort, his tone somewhat amused. Nowadays, with demons dancing wildly in Jiangning city and the rites and music corrupted, it is quite rare that you can still settle your mind to read the books of the sages.
There were thorns in these words.
A chill ran down Xie Yunzhou's spine as he listened, but his hand hidden inside his sleeve tightly gripped the cold, brocade-bound book.
That was the copy of Butterfly Lovers he had confiscated from his younger sister that afternoon, which he had then read in his study for the entire afternoon, even shedding tears over it.
He hesitated for a moment, and finally, as if having made a certain resolution, he took a deep breath.
Grandfather, your grandson believes that to govern the world, one must first understand the people.
Xie An took a sip of tea, his movements pausing as he raised his eyes to look at the eldest grandson he valued the most.
Oh? What do you mean?
Currently, the commoners of Jiangning, and even the noble households, are all obsessed with a popular marketplace tale. Your grandson believes there must be a reason for this. Rather than blindly treating it as a scourge, it would be better to... investigate its essence.
As Xie Yunzhou spoke, his hands trembled slightly as he withdrew the sapphire-blue book from his wide sleeves.
In this solemn and majestic main hall of the Xie Manor, filled with rare ancient texts, this book with a flashy butterfly embroidered on its cover seemed entirely out of place.
This is what your grandson acquired today. Although it is something... circulated from the Hundred Flowers Pavilion, its... literary style has quite unique merits.
By the time Xie Yunzhou finished his sentence, cold sweat was already trickling down his temples.
He was gambling.
Gambling that his own grandfather was not truly an old pedant.
Gambling that the Chief Minister, who could summon clouds and rain with a flip of his hand in the imperial court, could see through to what lay behind this book.
Xie An did not immediately reach out to take it.
His gaze fell upon the two butterflies embroidered with gold thread on the cover, his eyes dark and unreadable.
After a long time, so long that Xie Yunzhou felt his arms growing sore.
Only then did Xie An slowly extend his hand, spotted with age yet still slender and powerful.
Bring it here.
Feeling as if he had been granted a grand pardon, Xie Yunzhou quickly presented it with both hands.
Xie An took the book, his thumb rubbing against the brocade cover.
The texture was excellent, unlike the shoddy works usually found in common workshops.
Five taels of silver for a copy?
Xie An suddenly spoke, his tone betraying neither joy nor anger.
Xie Yunzhou was startled, not expecting his high-ranking grandfather to actually know the price.
Y-yes. The market price has now been driven up to a hundred taels a copy, and... it is hard to find even one.
A hundred taels...
A mocking smirk curled the corners of Xie An's mouth. That young girl from the Xu family is quite adept at doing business. If she had been born into the Ministry of Revenue, the Great Qian's treasury wouldn't be running a deficit year after year.
Saying this, he flipped to the first page.
Xie Yunzhou stared nervously at his grandfather's face.
He was terrified that in the next second, the book would be fiercely thrown to the ground, and he would be punished by being sent to kneel in the ancestral hall.
However, the anticipated fury did not occur.
Xie An read very quickly.
Those words that had brought tears to Xie Yunzhou's eyes seemed to be nothing more than ordinary ink stains in Xie An's view.
The sound of turning pages was exceptionally clear in the silent hall.
Rustle... rustle...
Xie An's expression was very calm, even somewhat indifferent.
When he read about the Sworn Brotherhood at the Grass Bridge, he gave a soft scoff, as if mocking such childish tricks.
When he read about the Three Years as Classmates, his face was expressionless, as though he were merely reading a dull official document.
Xie Yunzhou's heart sank bit by bit.
It seemed his grandfather truly had a heart of iron and stone. How could such romantic sentiments possibly move this old man who had led the Xie family for twenty years?
Indeed, he had really lost his mind, actually expecting a fierce tiger to sniff a rose.
Just as Xie Yunzhou was already calculating in his mind how to beg for forgiveness later.
The hand with which Xie An was turning the pages suddenly stopped.
It was the latter half of the book.
Which was also the most heart-wrenching part of the entire story—the forced marriage.
In order to cling to the wealthy and powerful, Father Zhu forcibly betrothed Yingtai to Ma Wencai, the son of the prefect...
Xie An stared at that line of text.
His pupils contracted slightly.
The water clock in the hall ticked on, drip, drop.
One second, two seconds, three seconds.
Xie An maintained that page-turning posture for the duration of a burning incense stick, completely motionless.
Like a weathered stone sculpture.
Xie Yunzhou called out somewhat uneasily, Grandfather?
Xie An ignored him.
His gaze slowly moved down, landing on that sentence.
Unable to share a blanket in life, we shall share a tomb in death.
At this moment, Xie An's breathing became somewhat heavy.
Although he tried hard to suppress it, in this pin-drop silent hall, it was still clearly discernible.
He reached out his hand and gently, as if afraid of disturbing something, touched the object sandwiched between the pages.
It was a butterfly specimen, as thin as a cicada's wing.
It was a wing that gleamed with a faint blue luster under the lamplight.
This kind of butterfly was called the Blue Morpho. The Great Qian did not have them; it was a rare item that Xu Qinghuan had acquired from the South Seas via maritime trade.
But in Xie An's eyes, this was not just a wing.
It looked exactly like the sorrow between the brows of that woman forty years ago, a sorrow that could never be dispelled.
This book...
Xie An finally spoke.
Who wrote it?
Xie Yunzhou hurriedly replied, The signature says it was compiled by Xu Zijin, but according to reliable sources, the ghostwriter behind it is... Xu Qinghuan.
Xu, Qing, Huan.
Xie An enunciated the name word by word.
What a good scheme.
Truly a brilliant scheme.
Grandfather?
Looking at his grandfather's unpredictable expression, Xie Yunzhou's heart pounded like a drum.
He had never seen his grandfather reveal such a look before.
Looking as though he might cry, yet looking as though he might laugh, stormy waves surged within those usually unfathomable eyes.
Xie An abruptly closed his eyes.
He took a deep breath, and when he opened them again, all his emotions had been forcefully suppressed.
He had reverted to the cold and ruthless patriarch of the Xie family.
He closed the book.
His movements were light, even somewhat gentle, as he placed the book right in the center of the red sandalwood desk, right next to the urgent secret memorial sped eight hundred miles from the capital.
"Well written."
Xie An uttered the words lightly.
Xie Yunzhou froze, thinking he had misheard. "Grandfather, what... did you say?"
"I said, it is well written."
Xie An slowly stood up. He did not look at Xie Yunzhou, but turned his back, standing with his hands clasped behind him as he looked out at the pitch-black night beyond the door.
"The warmth and coldness of human relationships, the fickleness of the world in this book... are captured with profound depth."
"These five taels of silver were well spent."
Xie Yunzhou was completely bewildered.
Wasn't this evaluation a bit too high?
"Enough, the hour is late."
Xie An's voice revealed a deep weariness, a fatigue that seeped from his very bones, making even his back seem to hunch a bit more.
"Leave the book and you may withdraw."
Xie Yunzhou dared not ask further. Though his heart was full of doubts, he could only bow respectfully.
"Yes, your grandson takes his leave."
He retreated quietly. As he stepped over the threshold, he subconsciously glanced back.
The old man who commanded the winds and clouds in the imperial court now stood alone in the center of the empty hall, his back as desolate as a fallen leaf in the autumn wind.
Click.
The door was gently closed.
The moment this last bit of sound vanished.
Xie An's body swayed.
He supported himself tightly against the red sandalwood desk with both hands, his ten fingers digging hard into the surface.
"Heh... hehehe..."
A low, suppressed laugh rolled out from deep within his throat.
It was self-mockery, but even more so, a mournful cry.
"Butterfly Lovers."
"This is meant to carve my heart out alive and roast it over a fire!"
With trembling hands, he grabbed the book Butterfly Lovers once more.
This time, he did not open it.
Instead, he pressed the book tightly, desperately against his chest.
Right over where his heart beat.
It hurt there.
It hurt as if it were splitting apart.
Forty years.
He thought he had long forgotten.
He thought he had long forged a heart of iron and stone, long transformed into a political monster who would sacrifice anything for gain.
But tonight, this thin book, these few lines of seemingly absurd text, acted as the sharpest dagger, effortlessly slicing through his thick layers of disguise.
Leaving him dripping with blood.
"Madam Shen... Ah Rou..."
Xie An's lips quivered as he finally called out that taboo name.
The name that had long become forbidden in the Xie family, erased even from the genealogy.
Clutching the book, he stumbled toward the side door.
Bang!
The side door was shoved open with great force, and fierce winds carrying torrential rain instantly poured in, soaking his priceless first-rank official's robes.
The old butler waiting under the porch was startled and hurriedly rushed over with an umbrella.
"Master! Master, where are you going? It's pouring rain outside! Quick, quick, hold the umbrella for the Master!"
"Get lost!"
Xie An waved his sleeve, pushing the old butler until he staggered.
"All of you, get lost! No one is allowed to follow me!"
He roared, his voice hoarse, like a wounded beast.
The group of servants turned ashen with fright, kneeling on the ground, none daring to move an inch.
Just like that, without any cover, Xie An plunged headlong into the torrential rain.
The rain drenched him completely, flowing down his cheeks into his neck, chilling him to the bone.
But he was completely oblivious to it.
He stumbled through the corridors, stepped over muddy flower paths, and did not even care when he lost a shoe.
He ran all the way to the deepest part of the courtyard.
There stood a crabapple tree.
A crabapple tree so old its bark was splitting, yet it still stubbornly bore a few withered blossoms in this rainy night.
It was planted forty years ago by the gentle woman with a cinnabar mole between her brows.
She had said, "Husband, when these crabapple flowers bloom all over the courtyard, our child should be able to call you father."
But later, the crabapple flowers bloomed and faded, faded and bloomed.
That child never got to call out father.
And that woman never returned.
Thud.
Xie An's legs gave out, and he fell heavily into the mud.
This fall shattered his dignity as the Grand Secretary, shattered his pride as the patriarch of the Xie family.
He did not get up.
He sat wretchedly in the muddy water, leaning against the rough trunk, his arms still desperately protecting that book, Butterfly Lovers, which cost only five taels of silver, refusing to let the rain wet a single part of it.
"Ah Rou..."
Xie An threw his head back, letting the torrential rain batter his face.
He opened his mouth wide, wanting to wail out loud.
But it was as if something blocked his throat, preventing him from making a sound.
Only two lines of murky old tears, mixing with the rain, flowed down unbridled.
Floating and sinking in the sea of officialdom for forty-five years, he had killed people, he had taken lives, he had fed his conscience to the dogs just to climb higher.
Everyone said Xie An was the treacherous villain of the age, ruthless and unfeeling.
But who knew.
This old man with one foot in the grave was curled up like a helpless child in the dead of this pouring night.
With a trembling hand, he opened the book.
By the light of the lightning that occasionally flashed across the sky.
He looked once more at the sentence he had caressed countless times.
"Whether it be grievance or fate, speak not of the butterfly's dream."
"The butterfly's dream... the butterfly's dream..."
(Today's update is complete, begging for comments and prompts for updates from you babies! Goodnight~ Happy New Year's Eve!)
