Chapter 385: with translation of chapter title

Chen Wen

Inside Funing Hall, the lingering bitter smell of medicinal stones that had persisted for years seemed to reach a certain peak at dusk that day, then oddly began to fade gradually.

The hall was dim, with only one or two ever-burning lamps flickering weakly, casting light on the emaciated figure on the couch.

Fu Quan

His once sturdy body, capable of wielding the coiling dragon staff and galloping across battlefields, now consisted of only a thin layer of flesh wrapping a knobby skeleton.

Waxy yellow skin clung tightly to his bones, his eyes deeply sunk, gazing vacantly at the elaborate yet blurred caisson ceiling above.

Power, ambition, hatred, unwillingness—all the fervent emotions that had once scorched his soul were like burnt-out charcoal, leaving only cold embers.

At the point of death, what flashed through his mind was not the glory of ruling the world, nor the peril of the Chen Bridge Mutiny, nor even his bone-deep hatred for Chen Wen.

Instead, it was some extremely distant fragments, long forgotten in the corners of memory.

Zichen Hall

It was the apprehension and anticipation he felt when he first joined the army, gripping crude weapons;

Coastal Maritime Trade Bureau

Mirror Bian Liang

It turned out that, stripping away the layer of dragon robe and shackles forcibly imposed by power and fate, at life's end what remained was merely these most genuine, simplest impressions.

His lips twitched slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but he could only emit a hoarse breath.

The old eunuch standing by the couch leaned his ear close, yet could only hear a few indistinct syllables, like "go home" or like "mother".

The old eunuch lowered his head, his turbid old tears dripping onto the cold floor tiles.

He knew that this person, who once commanded the winds and clouds and even once donned the yellow robe, had finally reached the end.

In this winter dusk, in the cold sleeping quarters of Funing Hall in the False Song, Zhao Kuangyin, this shadow that had long struggled in the distorted history, breathed his last.

He ultimately could not regain his lost throne, could not take revenge on Chen Wen, and could not achieve his real or illusory hegemony.

Carrying endless regret and unresolved obsession, his era fell hastily and dimly.

Iron Crow Army

Until the next morning, after confirming everything was arranged, the palace then sounded the bell symbolizing national mourning.

The low, mournful bell toll echoed over the "mirror Bian Liang", startling countless cold crows roosting on withered branches.

The False Song court and populace, after a brief shock, were quickly shrouded in a complex emotion.

There was the grief of "rabbit dies, fox mourns", there was schadenfreude, there was bewilderment about the future, and also fear that the new emperor Zhao Guangyi would soon fully control everything.

Zhao Guangyi stood outside Funing Hall, listening to the bell that announced his brother's complete departure; his face showed little grief, only a relieved indifference, and a deeper, naked desire to possess power.

The obstacle was finally completely cleared.

Almost simultaneously with the tolling of the False Song's funeral bell.

The real Bian Liang, Zichen Hall.

Chen Wen was reviewing the construction proposal from the coastal Maritime Trade Bureau, as well as the Ministry of Works' idea of improving the rammed-earth technique of official roads using the vortex principle.

The head eunuch Fu Quan entered the hall silently, placing a short memorandum submitted by the Jingan Office at the highest secrecy level lightly on a corner of the imperial desk.

Chen Wen did not immediately go to look at it.

After handling the dispute at hand over the Maritime Trade Bureau's site selection, he then put down the vermilion brush, rubbed his slightly sore forehead, and picked up the short memorandum.

He unfolded it.

On it was only an extremely concise sentence:

"The former Emperor Dezhao of the False Song, Zhao Kuangyin, died at dusk yesterday."

Chen Wen's hand holding the memorandum paused in midair.

The candles in the hall seemed to sway slightly as well.

There was no noticeable change in his expression—no joy, no sorrow, only an extremely deep silence.

His gaze seemed to penetrate the layers of obstruction in the hall, pass through the light barrier that spanned heaven and earth, and land on that palace which was almost identical to the imperial city beneath his feet.

Zhao Kuangyin…

That name had once been tightly entwined with him.

The confrontation beneath Chen Prefecture's walls, the choice before Chen Bridge Station, the bloody battle outside Xiong Prefecture—scene after scene flashed uncontrolled in his mind.

He was a formidable opponent.

A warlord bound by fate, by the Iron Crow Army, and by his own ambition, ultimately heading toward destruction.

Their grudge began with a struggle for power, mixed with the collision of national fortunes, and it had long become impossible to say who was right or wrong.

Now, all of that has vanished with that person's passing.

"After all… it has come to this."

Chen Wen let out a soft sigh, his voice so low that only he could hear it.

This sigh was not for Zhao Kuangyin personally, but for these tumultuous worldly affairs, for this fickle fate, and also… for himself.

Heroes in their twilight, beauties in their fading years—these are the world's most unavoidable sorrow.

Zhao Kuangyin's passing was like a cold mirror, reflecting his own face—no longer young, likewise struggling against time and fate.

The backlash from the Battle of Xiong Prefecture still leaves a hidden ache in his body;

the ever-increasing burden of government affairs continually drains his energy;

He could even clearly feel that the once vast and boundless Fortune Momentum, when mobilized now, is also more sluggish and heavy than before.

He, too, is growing old.

Putting down the memorandum, Chen Wen rose and walked slowly to the window.

Outside the window was the nightscape of Bianliangcheng with lamps just lit, myriad lights outlining the empire's prosperity and vitality.

This contrasted sharply with the deathly silence and mournful bells coming from the False Song's side.

But in his heart, there was little joy of victory.

Defeating a dying, struggling opponent is nothing to boast about.

The true challenge always lies ahead.

Iron Crow Army's master and the strange "game rules" behind him, the increasingly shrewd and capable Empress Dowager Xiao to the north, plus countless issues within this vast empire that need to be sorted out, and… that distant yet must-be-considered inheritance.

Though the crown prince is growing, can he bear this ever-heavier burden?

How much longer can he support this empire?

The sea ship brought back new hope, and also brought new uncertainty.

Zhao Kuangyin's passing marked the complete end of an old era.

And the era belonging to him, Chen Wen, seems already able to see that vague endpoint.

"Issue the order,"

Chen Wen did not turn back, his voice calm and unruffled.

"The False Song is in mourning; follow precedent and send envoys—just offer condolences as they pass through. Order the border guards to heighten vigilance, to guard against the unexpected."

"This servant will obey." Fu Quan bowed, accepted the command, and quietly withdrew.

Chen Wen stood alone by the window, motionless for a long time.

The night deepened, the sky full of stars.

A meteor streaked across the sky, dragging a brilliant but fleeting tail, then vanished in an instant.

Just like the names that once shone in an age, they will ultimately sink into the river of history.

He closed his eyes, feeling the breath of the empire's night.

The emptiness in his heart born of his opponent's death was gradually replaced by a more urgent sense of duty.

Time, not much left.