Chapter 162: Cautious Solitude

Liu Xiaojun sat before the desk, the candlelight casting her shadow onto the bamboo mat behind her; as she turned the pages of the script, her shadow trembled slightly.

Her fingers unconsciously rubbed the edges of the paper, the rough texture seeming to speak of the vicissitudes of time.

When she read the passage of Yang Dalang trudging through wind and snow, she felt as if she were there, sensing the piercing cold wind mercilessly penetrating her clothes.

Her shoulders trembled slightly, the paper in her hand nearly slipping.

"This wind, how can it be so cold……"

She murmured to herself, her voice tinged with a tremor.

As the plot progressed, Yang Dalang died in the mountains, and Xi'er was forced to flee into the deep mountains.

Liu Xiaojun's eye sockets gradually reddened; a crystal tear slid down her cheek, dropping onto the paper and blooming the ink. She hastily wiped it with her sleeve, only to find her hand had unconsciously clenched the sleeve, knuckles whitening.

"Xi'er……" Liu Xiaojun softly called the name of the character in the play, as if she were right before her.

In her mind arose the image of Xi'er struggling to survive in the deep mountains: Xi'er curled up in an icy cave, her clothes already torn to rags, her pallid face covered in dirt and wounds. Her hair had turned completely white, as pure as snow, flickering with a faint light in the darkness.

Liu Xiaojun seemed to hear Xi'er's faint breathing, feeling her inner fear and despair.

"No, Xi'er cannot give up……"

Her heart filled with sympathy for Xi'er and anger at fate.

She rose and paced back and forth in the room, her mind constantly recalling every detail of the script.

She knew that this role of Xi'er, this script, was exactly what the era needed.

Liu Xiaojun then leaned forward onto the soft silk cushion, her fingertips brushing over the words on the paper.

When she read of Xi'er being abducted by Lu Batian, she suddenly clenched her sleeve, her nails almost piercing the thin gauze.

The candlelight on the bronze stand sputtered a spark, flashing her anger bright then dim: "This Lu Batian, how similar he is to the commandant who abducted a civilian woman I met at the market the day before!"

She suddenly rose and pushed open the window; night wind carrying the distinctive loess scent of Yan Capital blew in her face.

From the distant construction site came the sound of tamped earth, overlapping and echoing the script's description of Yang Dalang dying exhausted in the fields.

Liu Xiaojun touched the jade tablet at her waist— that was given to her by a peasant woman during an interview in Chenliu Commandery last year; only later did she learn the woman's husband had been forced to death by local tyrants.

"Xi'er's white hair……" she unconsciously tugged at her own black strands, suddenly recalling the "white‑haired old man" she had seen on the outskirts of Chang'an last month.

Those elders who ought to have enjoyed their twilight years, deprived of their land, were forced to gather herbs in the mountains; year‑long wind and sun had whitened their temples like frost.

At this moment the ink on the paper seemed to turn into their stooped figures, trudging painfully in the moonlight.

As she read deeper, Liu Xiaojun's eyes widened, her expression shifting from initial anticipation to shock and delight; she was utterly immersed in the story, as if she had witnessed the tragic fate of Yang Dalang's family, felt Xi'er's pain and struggle, and her stubborn resistance against unjust fate.

When she read of Lu Batian colluding with the village chief to falsify land deeds, Liu Xiaojun slammed the desk, shaking the bronze pen holder on it to the floor.

She suddenly realized, this play is a microcosm of Western Han society?

Tyrants, corrupt officials, harsh taxes—these cancers are devouring the foundations of the Great Han.

"These ought to be shown to more people."

Liu Xiaojun murmured to herself, her fingertip tracing the passage where Xi'er escapes the deep mountains.

She recalled the original purpose of founding the Women's Newspaper: to give voice to the voiceless.

At that moment the clapper of the city‑watch soldiers outside the window intertwined with the script's depiction of Yang Dalang's dying breath.

She suddenly understood, this play is not merely artistic creation but a torch thrust into darkness, perhaps able to illuminate the path of the oppressed.

Liu Xiaojun sat down again; the pine‑soot ink in the inkstone glowed coldly in the moonlight.

She dipped her brush and wrote a comment, the tip sharp as a sword: "Lu Batian is not just one person; he is the embodiment of all tyrants under heaven. Xi'er's tears are not just one person's tears; they are the blood‑tears of all the common folk. This play ought to be performed in the streets and alleys, to awaken the myriad people!"

After writing, she only then noticed her wrist trembling slightly from the exertion.

"This…… this is practically a heaven‑sent script!"

Liu Xiaojun couldn't help but blurt it out.

She excitedly rose and paced back and forth in the room, her mind constantly replaying the story's events.

Immediately she had a clear thought: she must bring this script to the spoken‑drama stage, so more people could see Xi'er's story and feel her strength and courage.

She believed this script would surely arouse strong resonance in the audience and become a classic work of the Great Han Drama Troupe.

Liu Xiaojun drew a deep breath, calming her excited feelings.

When she finished reading the last character, she remained dazed for a long while, the manuscript in her hand trembling slightly.

She marveled at the author's delicate portrayal of characters—whether Yang Dalang's honest simplicity, Xi'er's pure tenacity, or Lu Batian's brutal greed—each figure was vivid, leaping off the page.

Finally.

She picked up her pen and wrote her comment on the paper: "This play is excellent; it should be staged quickly. Xi'er's fortitude, Yang Dalang's tragedy, Lu Batian's hatefulness—all leap onto the page. I hope the author will come soon so we can discuss the staging plan."

After writing, Liu Xiaojun carefully rolled the paper and placed it in an exquisite wooden box.

Yet, amidst the delight, Liu Xiaojun's heart was also filled with doubt.

Such an excellent script—whose hand could it be from? Why submit it anonymously, concealing identity? Not even asking for a fee.

She repeatedly examined the letter, trying to find a clue, but aside from the manuscript, the letter contained no information revealing the author's identity.

Liu Xiaojun understood that this script was vital to the drama troupe; she secretly resolved to find the author to discuss the adaptation and staging thoroughly.

When the editor‑in‑chief of Great Han Media, Sima Qian, received the script sent by Liu Xiaojun's aide, he was in the midst of compiling the latest issue's report.

As he read, when the three characters "Lu Batian" leapt into his view, his hand holding the wolf‑hair brush suddenly hovered in midair, ink spreading into a blot on the paper.

"This Lu, actually bears a three‑part resemblance to Zhi Du."

He muttered to himself, his fingertip tracing the passage "village chief taking bribes." Last year, while interviewing in Hedong Commandery, he had personally witnessed tyrants and officials colluding to falsify land registers; the case he recorded then matches the script's plot exactly.

Sima Qian suddenly realized, this play is not merely literary creation but a living fossil of contemporary society.

Upon reading the chapter of Yang Dalang dying exhausted in the fields, Sima Qian recalled his father's dying oral transmission of the fragmentary *Book of Heavenly Officials*.

His father once pointed to the star chart and told him: "When Mars guards the heart, it portends the loss of soldiers."

Yet now he felt the true calamity star is not in the heavens, but in this man‑eating land system that leaves no bones.

He dipped his brush and wrote a comment: "Yang Dalang's death is not from heaven; it is caused by humans!"

When the plot of Xi'er fleeing into the deep mountains unfolded, Sima Qian's pupils suddenly contracted. He

He recalled twenty years ago, when he followed Wudi in the Fengshan sacrifice at Mount Tai, encountering the "mountain folk" in the deep mountains—those people forced into desperation by powerful tyrants, lacking clothing to cover their bodies, appearing like ghosts.

The three words "White-Haired Girl" suddenly took shape in his mind, as if he saw a woman all in white running under the moonlight, with countless wronged spirits of the oppressed behind her.

"What a fine 'If Heaven has feelings, even Heaven would grow old'!" Upon reading Xi'er's lines cursing the heavens, Sima Qian slammed the table, causing the bamboo slips on it to rustle.

The value of this play is a spear hurled at a corrupt system, a morning bell that awakens the myriad people.

Finally, Sima Qian repeatedly rubbed the signature of the two words "cautious solitude" in the candlelight, and the tip of his brush spread blotches of ink across the blank bamboo slips.

He dipped his brush in ink and wrote in the commentary: "Those who practice cautious solitude—do they know history? Do they know the people?"

"Take me to meet the author of this book!"

He rose and walked out.