Chapter 381

One hour later.

The world was quiet, even the sound of the wind had died down.

The lingering energy from the discussion of heroes over boiled wine had not yet dissipated.

Cao Cao's remark, "The only heroes in the world are you and I," was like an iron nail driven into everyone's mind.

Some were still pondering the expression on Liu Bei's face when he heard that sentence, others were still recalling the gray-white pallor that wouldn't fade from Yuan Shao's face.

The celestial screen hung there, dark, like a dust-covered bronze mirror.

No one knew when it would light up again, but no one left.

Everyone was waiting.

In the crowd, an old man in an old cotton robe squatted on the ground, the pipe in his hand unlit, tapping it twice against his knee.

Beside him sat a child of about ten, head tilted, gazing at the celestial screen; he hadn't complained of a sore neck even after watching for nearly an hour.

The old man glanced at him and handed over the pipe: "What have you seen?"

The child didn't take the pipe: "I'm thinking, what else is there after the one playing the zither?"

"The one playing the zither?"

"The one, the person sitting on the city tower playing the zither."

The old man thought for a moment, took back the pipe, and said no more.

In the distance, someone on the Cao camp side walked toward the tents, stopped after two steps, and looked back at the celestial screen.

Sun Quan stood by the river, followed by a few personal guards, the wind blowing his robe hem up and down.

He did not walk back, nor did he step forward, just stood there, his gaze fixed on the line where the celestial screen met the river surface.

Then the celestial screen lit up.

This time it lit up gently.

Unlike the previous famous scenes—ink, rosy clouds, golden characters exploding.

This time it was a faint, warm yellow, seeping out from the center of the screen bit by bit, like a lamp being lit from within.

As the light spread, the entire celestial screen was as soft as an old piece of silk warmed by the sun.

Large golden characters floated out from the warm light:

【Counting down the top ten legendary scenes of the Three Kingdoms】

The characters stabilized, then the second line followed, the strokes thinner than the first line, but the color more intense:

【Three Visits to the Thatched Cottage—Monarch and subject as soulmates, unparalleled for a thousand years.】

Behind it was another line of small text, like a watermark seeping out from the ink:

【The most moving encounter in troubled times.】

At the entrance of Yuan Shao's camp, someone whispered "Three Visits to the Thatched Cottage"; the voice wasn't loud, but the few people nearby heard it.

A middle-aged man who looked like a strategist frowned:

"Thatched cottage? A grass house? Who lives in a grass house?"

The celestial screen did not pause, the scene had already unfolded.

When the first frame appeared, many people didn't react.

No warhorses, no banners, no arrayed soldiers.

In the scene was a mountain path, winding its way into the mountains, with old trees stripped of leaves on both sides, snow hanging on the branches.

The snow was light, falling in fine, scattered bits, melting as it hit the road, leaving a layer of dark, wet marks.

Three people walked on the road.

The one in the middle wore a coarse cloth robe, no armor, no sword, hands tucked into his sleeves, head bowed looking at the road.

The one on the left wore a green robe, a long beard hanging to his chest, his steps steady, but his brows slightly furrowed.

The one on the right wore a black robe, tiger-backed and bear-waisted, looking up toward the mountain every two steps, then burying his head to continue the journey.

Someone outside the scene recognized them: "Is that Imperial Uncle Liu?"

"Is that General Guan and General Yide next to him?"

"They are walking into the mountains? What's in those mountains?"

A line of annotation-like text floated on the celestial screen, gold background with dark patterns, unfolding unhurriedly:

【Drifting through troubled times for decades, Liu Bei has spent half his life in displacement, a lifetime of military service but repeated defeats.

Chasing the deer in the Central Plains, he has no place to stand; wandering the four directions, he has no foundation of land.

Nearing fifty, the world calls the Imperial Uncle a hero in his twilight years, with no chance to contend for the throne in the remainder of his life.】

The scene cut to Liu Bei's back.

He did not walk fast, making sure each step was firm before taking the next.

The snow water on the mountain path soaked through his shoe soles, his trouser legs wet halfway up, but he didn't look down, nor did he stop.

Zhang Fei muttered something behind him; Liu Bei tilted his head to look at him, didn't speak, and turned back to continue walking.

The scene cut again, to a thatched cottage.

The cottage was not large, three rooms, the courtyard wall made of woven fences, the door made of joined wooden planks, an old lock hanging on the door.

Liu Bei stood at the entrance, reached out and touched the lock; the lock was cold.

He did not push the door, withdrew his hand, and stood at the entrance for a while.

Snow fell on his shoulders, piling into a thin layer.

He brushed the snow off his shoulders and turned to leave.

Zhang Fei behind him clenched his fists, looking at his eldest brother's back, his lips moving several times, finally only exhaling a puff of white air from his nose.

The second scene.

Another winter, the same mountain path, the snow heavier than the last time.

Frost had formed on Zhang Fei's eyebrows, and Guan Yu's green robe was soaked dark by the snow water.

Liu Bei walked in the very front, still at the same speed, neither fast nor slow, making sure each step was firm before moving.

The same lock still hung on the cottage door, a layer of fine snow accumulated on it; no one had touched it.

Liu Bei looked at the lock, then looked at the accumulated snow in the courtyard—

The snow was smooth, with no footprints.

He stood at the entrance for a while, shorter than last time, then raised his hand to adjust his collar and turned to walk back.

After two steps, he looked back at the cottage, then turned back to continue walking.

Zhang Fei spoke this time.

The celestial screen played the sound, muffled and grumpy:

"Eldest Brother, is this person even here? We've run here twice from so far away—"

Liu Bei did not turn back, his voice neither high nor low: "He is."

"How do you know?"

"There are no footprints in the snow. When he returns, there will be footprints."

Zhang Fei opened his mouth, but did not continue.

The third scene.

Heavy snow sealed the mountains.

The snow in the scene was heavier than the previous two times, a white that covered everything, as if it wanted to bury the entire mountain.

Three figures walked in the vast whiteness, walking slower than the previous two times.

When the wind blew head-on, Liu Bei turned slightly, using his shoulder and back to block it, then turned back to continue walking.

The cottage arrived.

There was no lock on the door.

The snow on the stone steps at the entrance had been swept, the broom marks still remaining, wet, not frozen.

Liu Bei's footsteps stopped.

He stood at the entrance, raised his hand to knock on the door, his hand held in mid-air, pausing for a moment.

There was someone inside.

Through the crack in the door, a bit of warm yellow light could be seen—a lamp, or charcoal fire.

He withdrew his hand, took a step back, retreated to below the stone steps, and stood there.

Zhang Fei took a step forward, wanting to go up and call for the door.

Liu Bei did not look at him, just raised his hand to block him, the movement very light, but Zhang Fei's steps stopped.

Guan Yu stood behind, looking at Liu Bei's back, his hand stroking his beard lowered to his side.

No one ever came out of the room.

The light in the crack of the door did not move.

Snow fell on Liu Bei's shoulders, piling into a thick layer; his hair tips turned white, and fine frost formed on his eyebrows.

He stood there, not urging, not calling, not adjusting his clothes—

Just stood there, like an old tree growing there.

The scene gave a very long close-up.

Liu Bei's face, somewhat haggard, stubble grown half an inch, the skin on his cheekbones turned red from the wind.

But his eyes were very steady, looking at that door, not drifting or flickering.

The door opened.

A young man stood at the entrance, draped in an old robe, hair gathered casually, looking like he had just woken up.

The moment he opened the door, he saw someone standing in the snow—

A middle-aged man in a coarse cloth robe, head and shoulders covered in snow, standing below the stone steps, not urging or calling.

The young man's gaze paused, then he turned to the side, clearing the entrance.