In all his life, Wen Zhuo had seen grand ships and ornate pleasure boats, imperial carriages and fine steeds, but never had he seen an iron box capable of traveling through the air.
On his first flight, there were many things he could not understand.
For instance, the moment he and Shen Zheng entered the airport, they were stopped and ushered into a cramped enclosure. Only after waiting there for a while were they allowed to proceed.
Shen Zheng explained that it was an explosives check. If anyone was carrying dangerous items, the devices nearby would sound an alarm.
For instance, before going through security, Shen Zheng had specifically crouched down and personally removed the little longevity lock beside Wen Zhuo’s ankle, saying that the object would arouse suspicion from the security check.
How could a personal gift bestowed by the emperor possibly be suspicious?
In any case, Shen Zheng carried the lock through security first, then found a secluded corner and tied it back around Wen Zhuo’s ankle.
All these strange rules were tossed into the little cloth pouch Wen Zhuo called, “I do not understand the reasoning, but I can grow accustomed to it.”
From the outside, the airplane did not appear especially enormous. Yet the moment Wen Zhuo stepped inside the cabin, he realized that it could accommodate an astonishing number of people.
Shen Zheng chose the seats in the very front, right beside the entrance, explaining that there was more room there and that he had always preferred it.
He then gave Wen Zhuo the window seat while taking the aisle.
But after looking around, Wen Zhuo noticed that their seats were not as tightly arranged as those farther back. They could easily have sat shoulder to shoulder, yet the two seats were offset by a small distance, leaving a gap about the length of a forearm between them. It actually made conversation less convenient.
Wen Zhuo secretly felt that these seats were far less intimate than those in the rear.
Shen Zheng patiently taught him how to adjust the seat, open the tray table, and use the tablet in the pocket in front of them.
But everything went in one of Wen Zhuo’s ears and out the other. His thoughts had already drifted beyond the window. He leaned against the porthole, intently watching the other planes rise and descend in the distance.
“Hi, Liu Qiying” had once told him that this enormous object could soar through the sky entirely because it was supported by air currents.
But how vast did the air between heaven and earth have to be to blow such a heavy iron object off the ground and into the heavens?
He found out soon enough.
The plane began to taxi. The seat and windowpane trembled faintly as their speed increased. The scenery outside blurred into indistinct lines, its outlines impossible to make out.
Wen Zhuo instinctively gripped the armrest. A thin layer of sweat dampened his back, while the cool air above seemed like a rope, suddenly hoisting his internal organs into the air.
Shen Zheng’s warm palm suddenly covered the back of his hand.
Wen Zhuo almost immediately clasped it in return, his fingers tightening as he squeezed his eyes shut.
The next moment, the plane abruptly tilted upward and shot straight into the sky, giving him no time to adjust. His life was no longer within his own control; it all depended on those incomprehensible air currents, leaving him like a leaf drifting in the wind.
He did not know how long passed. The trembling gradually subsided, the climb came to an end, and the aircraft leveled out as steadily as though it were traveling across a plain.
Slowly, Wen Zhuo opened his eyes and turned toward the window. For a moment, he was completely stunned.
He was above the clouds.
The aircraft glided slowly through a sea of clouds like a small boat. The sky was a deep, intense blue, while the clouds were white as silk, piled up in soft, fluffy masses that looked as though he could reach out and touch them—or lie down upon them and fall asleep.
Far in the distance, the sun hung at the same level as them. Its light was gentle, a rosy hue veiling its surface, entirely lacking the scorching force it possessed on the ground.
Looking farther down, all things had shrunk into specks of dust.
The mountains wound like little snakes, the great rivers twisted like silver threads, and the countless towers and palaces of the mortal world had become scattered stars in the darkness. They were so tiny as to seem utterly insignificant.
Wen Zhuo was shaken to the core and remained speechless for a long while.
Before his astonishment had faded, however, he suddenly frowned and turned toward the person beside him. Alarmed, he said, “Your Majesty, I fear there is something wrong with my ears. Everything sounds muffled, and I cannot distinguish any of the noises!”
Shen Zheng turned his head, amusement glinting in his eyes, and crooked a finger at him. “Come here. Let me take a look.”
Wen Zhuo hurriedly leaned closer.
“Closer.”
Wen Zhuo bent toward him again and, with his free hand, tucked the loose strands of hair beside his ear behind his head, exposing the entire ear.
Shen Zheng’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly.
There was no pulse-taking, nor any examination. Shen Zheng merely lowered his head and gently caught Wen Zhuo’s earlobe between his lips, rubbing it slowly.
His warm breath brushed into Wen Zhuo’s ear, tickling until his whole body grew taut. Yet he did not dare move, assuming this to be some kind of treatment.
From the earlobe to the curve of the ear, Shen Zheng lightly kissed and nibbled his way along until the pale skin had turned hot and bright red. Only then did he pull away, take the water bottle beside him, twist off the cap, and hold it to Wen Zhuo’s lips.
“Wanshan, have a drink.”
Though Wen Zhuo did not understand, he obediently wrapped his lips around the opening and swallowed a mouthful of water.
In an instant, the blocked sensation in his ears vanished completely.
He stared at the water bottle in his hand, lips parted in disbelief.
Could this object be some kind of miraculous medicine? Combined with the warm nibbling at his ear just now, it had cured him at once.
Shen Zheng seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. The moment he sensed the thought, he found Wen Zhuo unbearably adorable. He reached out, took Wen Zhuo by the chin, gently turned his face, and kissed him on the lips.
“This is just water. The discomfort in your ears was caused by the uneven air pressure at high altitude. Your inner ears needed a moment to adjust. Swallowing releases the pressure, and that makes it better.”
Another thing to toss into the little pouch labeled, “I do not understand the reasoning, but I can grow accustomed to it”!
But Wen Zhuo remembered the important point and looked up at him. “If swallowing was all that was needed, why did Your Majesty just now hold my ear between your lips?”
Shen Zheng answered with an honesty that could shake the heavens and move the earth. “There is nothing about Wanshan that is not wonderful. Your ear, in particular, is so dainty and exquisite, so pure and delicate that it stirs my heart beyond restraint.”
“In short, I wanted to eat it.”
“…”
Wen Zhuo stared at him for a moment. His ears and cheeks swiftly grew hot, and he hurriedly shrank back into his seat. He snatched up the thin blue blanket beside him, pulled it over his head to cover his ears, and left only a pair of clear eyes exposed.
After flying for roughly two and a half hours, the plane landed smoothly in the region of Mianzhou.
The moment the cabin door opened, a wave of hot, humid air rushed in. Wen Zhuo felt the pores all over his body relax, and a fine sheen of sweat instantly gathered on his skin.
Fortunately, it was nighttime. There was no blazing sun, and the evening breeze made the heat bearable.
He had spent so long pressed against the window, staring out at the sky. Now that they had landed, exhaustion surged over him, leaving his head somewhat hazy.
Shen Zheng took him to an inn to rest, explaining that Liangping County was still thirty kilometers away and that they would need to spend the night there before taking a car the next day.
Wen Zhuo had no time to admire the city’s colorful nighttime scenery. After a simple wash, he crawled into bed fully dressed.
Shen Zheng gently wrapped an arm around him from behind, pressed a kiss to the porcelain-smooth nape of his neck, and then turned out the light.
Early the next morning, the two of them took a taxi to Liangping County.
The scenes from their journey in the past—wild grass reaching to their shins and ruins lying in disarray—were nowhere to be seen. In their place was a broad, level road.
Trees flourished on either side. Tall buildings rose from the ground, and pedestrians streamed back and forth, every face showing the well-fed, secure look of a peaceful life.
The fields over which they had once exhausted themselves, counting every inch and calculating every yield, were no longer scattered everywhere. Yet the people’s lives were far better than before.
Shen Zheng explained that the world had undergone several agricultural revolutions. The grain varieties cultivated by modern people far surpassed the Champa rice of the past. There was no longer any need to open up vast new fields to feed hundreds of millions.
Wen Zhuo thought, No wonder Shen Zheng had said that, for the common people, there was no better place than the present world.
The car continued all the way to the foot of Zhe Mountain.
This low, verdant mountain, which had once separated Mianzhou Prefecture from Liangping County, had now become a scenic attraction crowded with visitors.
Wangxiang Temple still stood in the mountains. It had become an ancient temple with several hundred years of history, and pilgrims came in an endless stream every day.
Standing at the foot of the mountain, Wen Zhuo suddenly found himself at a loss.
The once-notorious Liangping County, the Wen clan patriarch who had committed every evil under the sun, the Mianzhou Prefecture reduced to a puppet administration, and the sin-soaked Wangtian Ravine had all vanished into the past. Only Zhe Mountain remained, along with the trees and grasses upon it, and the ancient temple standing beneath its green lamps.
Before the stillness of things that endured, the mortal body, the entanglements of love and hatred, birth and death, were truly insignificant—hardly worth mentioning.
No wonder Su Shi wrote, “The great river flows eastward, its waves washing away all those illustrious figures through the ages.”
Several elderly men were resting beside the parking lot, each leaning on a wooden cane, chewing garlic sausage with leisurely expressions.
Shen Zheng, ever the friendly sort, approached them and asked, “Uncle, what’s there to see on Zhe Mountain? Are any of the old historic sites still around?”
The old man swallowed the sausage in his mouth and waved his hand. “You have to pay to go up the mountain. We don’t go up. We’re heading farther ahead.”
Shen Zheng followed the direction he pointed and, sure enough, saw a wooden walkway winding into the thick green forest.
He asked casually, “Where does this little path lead?”
“To the Lord Wen Shrine.”
Shen Zheng’s tongue suddenly went dry. “The Lord... Wen Shrine?”
“It’s for the great incorruptible official born here in Mianzhou, Lord Wen Zhuo, the chief minister of Great Qian. When locusts ravaged the south, he and the emperor who came after him traveled thousands of li to Mianzhou to provide relief, saving all the people here. You’ve never heard of him?”
Shen Zheng was rendered speechless. Beside him, Wen Zhuo stood rooted to the spot as well.
“Young people from Beijing don’t know these things,” the old man said, lifting his chin proudly. “All of us in Mianzhou respect him deeply. The Lord Wen Shrine was built spontaneously by the people of the entire prefecture, one coin at a time, one brick at a time.”
“Lord Wen was a living bodhisattva to the people of Mianzhou. Later, dynasties changed, wars broke out, and rebellions rose, but no matter which army came to Mianzhou, none of them dared touch the Lord Wen Shrine. When they reached it, they would dismount and bow, showing that they too loved the people as their own children. During the wars, many locals hid inside the shrine to escape danger, and they all survived.”
Shen Zheng tightened his grip on Wen Zhuo’s hand. His palm still carried the lingering chill of the car’s air-conditioning, yet it was slick with layers of sweat.
“Now that you’ve put it that way, Uncle, I understand,” Shen Zheng said.
“Oh?”
“To be honest, my graduation thesis was on Wen Zhuo. I...” His tone was natural, a hint of amusement passing through his eyes. “I know him very well. I just never expected Mianzhou to have a Lord Wen Shrine hidden here.”
The old man waved his hand. “The shrine was never heavily publicized. It’s something we Mianzhou people keep for ourselves. If tourists came flocking here, it would only throw everything into chaos. If you hadn’t run into me today, you would’ve gone straight up the mountain. How would you ever have known where this path led?”
“Exactly. We have you to thank,” Shen Zheng said with deep conviction. “We’ll go pay our respects to this Lord Wen, whose name has been recorded in the annals of history.”
Wen Zhuo stood beside him, the tips of his ears faintly flushed. He could not tell whether what filled his heart was shock or joy.
The two of them followed the wooden walkway deeper into the forest. Moisture hung in the air, and the vegetation gave off a clean, sweet fragrance. The planks beneath their feet had darkened from the damp, and several wooden signs stood along the way. In white paint, they read, “Slippery Road—Proceed Slowly.” The rain had faded the lettering somewhat, but it remained clear and eye-catching.
At the end of the walkway lay a path of small stones winding toward an ancient shrine of gray brick and dark roof tiles.
Two venerable cypresses stood before the shrine, their trunks powerful and weathered, while a few slender willow branches drooped nearby. A plaque hung above the entrance, bearing the three characters “Lord Wen Shrine” in strong, elegant calligraphy.
There were neither too many nor too few visitors inside—small groups here and there, enough to keep the place from feeling desolate without making it noisy.
The courtyard was paved with white bricks. Covered corridors lined with stone tablets ran along both sides: one side recorded Wen Zhuo’s life and accomplishments in office, while the other was filled with the names of those who had helped build the shrine all those years ago.
At the center of the main hall stood a statue of Lord Wen. He wore a vermilion official robe with a jade belt around his waist, his face gentle and refined, his entire bearing steeped in the air of a scholar.
Wen Zhuo raised his head to gaze at the statue, which stood a little taller than he did. Before he realized it, his eyes had grown moist.
Could a mortal body truly leave no trace behind?
Perhaps it could.
But the devotion in the hearts of generations could endure a thousand rivers and ten thousand mountains.
Shen Zheng tightened his grip on Wen Zhuo’s hand and said, his voice low, steady, and utterly sincere, “Wanshan, I’m so proud of you.”
