Elio’s Notes: The title, 那堪风雨助凄凉, comes from Cao Xueqin’s Autumn Window in Wind and Rain (《秋窗风雨夕》), a poem embedded in Chapter 45 of the Qing novel Dream of the Red Chamber. Its speaker laments that the wind and rain only deepen an already unbearable desolation. Since Cao Xueqin lived centuries after the Five Dynasties period, this is a deliberate authorial anachronism.
The passes had fallen. All Three Passes were now in their hands.
Only a few short days had passed. From Cangzhou onward, the northern army repeatedly drove back the Khitan forces. They had both an enlightened sovereign and capable generals, while the Khitan themselves had entered this battle with guilty consciences and quickly lost their footing.
Zhao Kuangyin climbed the walls of Yukou Pass and looked into the distance. The Zhou army’s morale was soaring, its war drums shaking the heavens. What could the surviving Khitan remnants possibly do now but struggle for breath?
Across the wide-open view, wind and clouds surged.
This patch of sky had been washed in blood, yet the sunlight only seemed to blaze more brilliantly. After battle, cries of suffering filled the land. Since ancient times, the realm beneath heaven had been built upon piles of white bones. Even among captured enemy soldiers there were men who retained their integrity, and His Majesty ordered that those who took their own lives be buried with honor.
Zhao Kuangyin had fought across the battlefield with such abandon. Now, victorious overnight, he stood atop the pass while beacon smoke still lingered. Torches flickered in every direction, and ash from the fires of war covered the land. Somehow, it all seemed familiar.
A dull ache spread through his chest. Years of training had made his bones and body stronger than most. Although Wang Rao’s sword thrust had been dangerous, the wound had already begun to heal. Yet at this moment, it suddenly seemed to tear faintly open again.
When had I stood somewhere high like this before, surrounded by endless firelight? That time, he had been waiting for a person. Today, he was waiting for the realm.
Phoenix Terrace upon Phoenix Mountain, one of Jiangnan’s most beautiful sights. Yet he remembered none of the birds threading through the forest, none of the insects calling among the flowers. Above him the sky had been clear, while at the farthest reaches of heaven, clouds had gathered into a storm.
Everyone said Jiangnan was beautiful.
Jiangnan could break the heart as well.
The person Zhao Kuangyin could not see was, at that very moment beneath that distant sky, standing speechless and defeated.
What remained upon Phoenix Terrace?
Whatever Ehuang’s intentions had been, Li Congjia had ultimately been unable to avoid returning there.
No torches burned during the day. Phoenix Terrace was veiled only in mist and drifting cloud, with the rustling of wind through leaves all around them. At the final step, where an uneven stone might be dangerous beneath Ehuang’s feet, Li Congjia reached out and helped her climb.
Ehuang looked around. Her expression suddenly became tranquil. Her voice was soft yet unusually clear, spoken only inches from Li Congjia. “I know you’ve always wanted to come here again. If you never returned, this knot in your heart could never be untied.”
Li Congjia sighed. “Ehuang, you never forgot what happened that day, did you? You remember everything, but you’ve been pretending it was only a dream.”
He moved a step ahead of her and slowly walked toward the stone terrace.
Ehuang smiled where he could not see. Her smile was beautiful, just as it had been when they first met. Perhaps the deeper the sorrow, the easier it became to grow calm. When she spoke, her words almost sounded as though she were comforting him. “Everything I stumbled upon in the side courtyard remains perfectly clear in my memory. But Congjia, I am also a wife. Whether this life brings honor or disgrace, I should follow you until death. So I treated it as nothing more than a dream. I only hope…” She saw his steps falter ahead and suddenly felt that there were some things she might never again have the courage to say. She hurried to finish. “I only hope that you can live this life without regret.”
Li Congjia stopped before a stone ledge. The clouds hung low at dusk, swallowing the light until the world was almost gray. It was neither good weather nor a good omen. His pale Tianshui Blue robes were so translucent and clear that he truly seemed like something from a nightmare, almost ready to disappear into the wind. A terrible premonition struck Ehuang, and she suddenly hurried after him.
When she reached his side, her heart turned to ash.
“As long as Heaven endures, you too are mine.”
Every character had been cut deeply into the stone, the marks still impossible to erase. One could imagine how much force had been used, and how much had accumulated inside the person who carved them.
Emotion surged through Li Congjia’s double pupils. He stared at those fierce, overbearing sword marks, and suddenly countless thoughts and attachments flooded his chest, intertwining and fighting as though each wanted to tear away its own piece of him.
Even breathing became difficult.
He had thought he was bringing Ehuang here today to help untangle her heart, only to find himself caught inside a cocoon of his own making. How ridiculous. Li Congjia had believed he understood everything clearly, and Ehuang too was a woman who understood her own heart with painful clarity.
Otherwise, she could never have stood beside him from the beginning.
Li Congjia looked at the sword marks. Ehuang saw every one of them too.
A storm was coming. In an instant, April in Jinling went dark, all sunlight extinguished. The two stood upon Phoenix Terrace, and before either could react, rain came crashing down.
Who said Jiangnan was mild, that its rain always carried lingering tenderness? At this moment, the rain was made of knives. Like the long night of bitter waiting once left behind upon this terrace, it seemed capable of destroying heaven and earth and sweeping away an entire river of spring water.
Black clouds pressed upon the city as though they meant to crush it. In the distance, the Yangtze stretched endlessly, yet nothing could now be seen clearly.
Elio’s Notes: “Black clouds press upon the city as though to crush it” echoes the opening of Li He’s Tang poem The Governor of Yanmen (《雁门太守行》), a famous image of oppressive clouds and imminent catastrophe.
He stood rigid beneath the violence of the rain, yet when he spoke, his voice remained faint and calm. “Ehuang, let’s go back.” He tried to turn and look at her, only to discover that he lacked the courage.
Her pale dress was quickly soaked through. Suddenly she laughed, sharp and piercing, the sound made even more desperate by the wind and rain. “Li Congjia, did you see it clearly? Have you engraved it into your heart?” Rain filled her nose, and everything before her eyes dissolved into confusion. In a daze, she thought she smelled a thread of red sandalwood mingling with the strange fragrance of the sachet. One scent faded while the other grew stronger, until she could no longer distinguish them. By the time her senses returned, she was drenched through. The man before her had become unreadable, almost frighteningly unfamiliar.
Li Congjia said nothing. He turned around. Even battered by the storm, his bearing remained as elegant as ever. His soaked robes made that blue-green color appear darker and deeper. Ehuang rushed forward and seized the clothes she had dyed with her own hands. Her gaze had become blurred in the rain. He could not understand it, while she grew increasingly frantic.
It was as though those sword marks had finally cut something apart. A strange helplessness overwhelmed her. “You don’t deserve to wear this!” She screamed herself hoarse, trying to tear away those filthy things. The images returned again and again, the side courtyard, the sharp-browed man, the panic scattered across the ground.
What else was there? She could not tear away that blue-green. She could no longer tell whether the deafening roar in her ears was the rain or something else. Ehuang covered both ears with her hands and struggled beneath the downpour, gradually losing all strength. Li Congjia saw something wrong in her expression. At first, he thought it was simply his own guilt reflected back at him, but then he noticed her gaze losing focus. Her illness had returned.
The physicians had never been able to explain this illness of the heart, yet it seemed capable of seizing control of her at any moment.
“Ehuang?” He hurriedly caught her as her body went limp. Rain splashed around them, leaving both of them soaked and icy. “Ehuang? Can you hear me?” He slowly reached for her hands, trying to move them away from her head, but she stubbornly flung him off. “Let go of me!”
“Ehuang, the rain is too heavy. Can we go down first?” He cautiously approached, trying to lead her away, but she immediately collapsed into the rain, her whole body shaking beyond her control. “Ehuang?” Li Congjia reached out and grasped her hand. “Who am I?”
Ehuang abruptly froze and stared blankly at him. Yes. Who was he? Countless images overlapped again and again. “You…”
“Ehuang, look at my eyes. Who am I?” Li Congjia suddenly became completely calm, asking her one word at a time.
Rain poured from the sky. Phoenix Mountain normally commanded a sweeping view, but now heaven and earth had become a dark chaos, almost as though creation itself had not yet taken shape. The clouds churned without end, releasing a storm long held in reserve. Whether it belonged to the past or the road ahead, a single rainstorm seemed capable of overturning heaven and earth.
She looked in confusion at those eyes, one pupil within another. That exquisitely refined face was utterly drenched. Who is he? Even now, his innate bearing seemed capable of standing between heaven and earth. Some things were written into blood and bone and could not be worn away by passing years, just like the scent of red sandalwood.
It was still there. A very faint fragrance.
Tears gathered into beads and fell from her eyes. Ehuang reached out as though she wanted to touch his face. “Congjia…”
Seeing that she seemed somewhat clearer, he said, “Ehuang, let’s go back first.” Shouts suddenly came from far behind them. When Piaopeng saw the rain come down so violently, he had hurried up the mountain carrying rain gear, no longer caring whether he had permission to approach.
Li Congjia turned toward the path and saw the paper umbrella quickly drawing closer. His heart eased slightly. Ehuang was freezing from head to toe, and he was even more afraid the cold would harm her health. His fingers lifted to remove his outer robe and wrap it around her, only for him to realize that the garment was already completely soaked.
Li Congjia lowered his hand, overcome with sorrow.
Not because of the rain. Not because the two of them had been reduced to such a miserable state. Only because when he lifted his head, the peony before him had lost both spirit and color.
The peony alone possesses the true beauty of a kingdom, and something so precious deserves to be cherished with a sincere heart.
Elio’s Notes: The phrase “the peony alone possesses the true beauty of a kingdom” echoes Liu Yuxi’s Tang poem Admiring Peonies (《赏牡丹》): “Only the peony is truly of peerless beauty; when it blooms, the whole capital is stirred.”
But after one blow and then another, even the proudest flower still possessed fragile bones. How could it withstand the malice of the east wind?
Li Congjia drew a deep breath. The damp chill in the air penetrated his lungs. At the farthest limit of sight, faint light still remained beyond the clouds. At the end of the sky, could the spring flowers of former days still be seen?
Tianshui Blue. Tianshui Blue stained and ruined. He remembered.
Jiangnan that year had been so gentle that it seemed ready to dissolve spring blossoms into a person’s very blood and bones. Flowing water, a slanting bridge, somewhere the sound of reed pipes and flutes. A beauty stood alone. One pipa melody seemed capable of shattering jade and burning silk. Beneath the corridor stood someone alone in blue-green, smiling like a whole city filled with drifting willow catkins in April.
At the banquet sat a woman whose beauty could not be concealed even behind a light veil. Her slender pale hands delicately plucked the strings, enough to leave him lingering beneath the corridor before impulsively following her away.
Until she lowered the veil and smiled.
No words could have described the shock that had moved his heart in that moment.
And now, suddenly, a single rainstorm had stripped everything back to its original shape. Even brocade embroidered with paired mandarin ducks could freeze solid in an instant.
Li Congjia held Ehuang tightly against him, his Tianshui Blue robes stained and ruined.
The person in his arms trembled without stopping. She wanted desperately to reach out and feel his warmth properly, but her hand could only become tangled in the hair beside his neck. She was so cold she could barely move. Yet it was still an embrace carrying the scent of red sandalwood. With the last of her strength, she pressed her hand against his chest as though she wanted to dig his heart out, almost with hatred.
“Congjia…” She only called his name, the name she had spoken throughout years of marriage, until it had become a lock around her heart.
His perpetually serene profile now carried an unfamiliar expression. Ehuang gave a faint laugh. The figure before her grew increasingly blurred. So even a man like him could be shaken this badly. What a pity…
Ehuang slowly lost consciousness.
One hand cradling her hair, Li Congjia lifted his face toward the storm passing overhead. The sword marks remained glaringly visible beneath the rain, as though they meant to split him in two. Suddenly, Li Congjia threw back his head and laughed.
Piaopeng stood beneath the umbrella and did not dare approach.
No one ever again saw Li Congjia as he had been that day, despairing and filled with longing. Suddenly, he remembered Zhao Kuangyin’s stubborn insistence that he remain alive. Li Congjia looked once more at the bracelet hanging quietly from his wrist.
“Zhao Kuangyin.” Supporting Ehuang, he rose and accepted the umbrella. Yet his eyes remained fixed upon the sword marks. “You are truly cruel. So making me live hurts far more than killing me ever could.”
After they returned, Ehuang developed a high fever.
Outside the window, the rain still had not stopped. She shivered violently with cold, curled beneath the quilt, barely conscious. They managed to feed her some of the medicinal decoction, but much of it trickled from the corners of her mouth again.
They had set out simply to enjoy themselves, only to return in this condition. Liuzhu turned away, unable to say anything, but tears of anxiety kept falling. Li Congjia helped Ehuang sit slightly upright, held the bowl himself, and patiently fed her the medicine little by little.
As the warm liquid went down, Ehuang gradually became more comfortable and drifted into an exhausted sleep, her brows still tightly furrowed even in dreams. What little hope there had been of repairing things now seemed to have made everything even harder to face.
Li Congjia sat quietly beside her and dismissed everyone else. Ehuang murmured his name indistinctly in her sleep. He reached out and held her hand, only to realize that his own hands did not possess the power to warm anyone.
He had always believed so deeply in the human heart, yet he himself was the first to betray his own.
The wooden bracelet upon his wrist had never truly been removed. Looking at it now stirred emotions he could no longer name. Li Congjia touched it with his fingers. It had originally been made for the broader frame of a northern man and was obviously slightly loose upon Li Congjia’s wrist. Leaning against the bedpost, he tried sliding it free. It took only a little force.
It was not difficult at all.
If I truly wanted to let go completely, it would not actually be difficult.
His other hand exerted a little pressure, and the bracelet slipped down until it caught at the web of his thumb and palm. He remained frozen there, his double pupils spreading like pale ink through water, drop by drop with sorrow.
Liuzhu closed the door behind her and came out, tears still clinging to her face. Seeing Piaopeng waiting outside, she immediately pulled him aside. “You went with them. How did things turn into this on the way back?”
Piaopeng looked helpless but gestured for her to lower her voice. Liuzhu simply could not restrain herself. “I only mean that His Highness must consider the Princess Consort’s health. These past few days have already been so unsettled. He clearly knew that and still…” The more she spoke, the more distressed she became. “I’m not afraid of what anyone says. I have served the Princess Consort since childhood and followed her here when she married. Now that she has become like this…”
Piaopeng covered her mouth. “That is going too far. Has His Highness ever treated you badly?”
Liuzhu fell silent. Of course she knew Li Congjia had never shown unfairness or favoritism toward the servants. But she had come with Ehuang when she married into this household. Seeing Ehuang return drenched and burning with fever had made her lose all sense of restraint.
Piaopeng sighed and released her. He looked toward the inner chambers. “Liuzhu, I understand. But… you only see the Princess Consort’s sorrow. His Highness can be hurt too. He simply never says it.”
Liuzhu lowered her eyes and no longer wished to speak.
She understood that too. From the day she had accompanied Ehuang here as a bride, that man had always smiled faintly, always seemed little more than a pale and quiet shadow. Beneath all his fame, he was really only a light wash of mist and rain. Liuzhu also understood the struggles of the imperial family. To be born into such a house meant invisible pressure day and night. Yet he had always managed to speak as though clouds were thin and winds were light, lifting his wrist gently and making it seem that spring remained unchanged.
He was the legendary Li Chongguang everyone spoke of, a man gentle as jade, born with one eye bearing double pupils, the physiognomy of an emperor. Countless people dreamed merely of seeing him once.
When Ehuang was unhappy, Piaopeng and Liuzhu knew they should tell Li Congjia. But if Li Congjia himself were the one whose heart was breaking, who could comfort him?
Everyone carried knots of their own. Piaopeng had no desire to pry too deeply. He neither dared nor had the right to ask clearly about his master’s affairs. He only remembered the torrential rain upon Phoenix Terrace that day.
So even a person who always smiled with such serenity had hidden far too many stories inside his heart.
When Li Congjia could no longer breathe, what was he supposed to do?
“Let’s go. Don’t disturb the Princess Consort.” Piaopeng pulled Liuzhu away. There was ultimately nothing they could do. It was useless for outsiders to see everything clearly, especially when some knots could only be undone by the person who had tied them.
Li Congjia remained beside the couch, staring at the bracelet caught upon his hand. He had not heard anything outside. He only stared at it blankly. And still could not truly bring himself to take it off.
It was not that he lacked the resolve. It was simply that he had made a promise.
Zhao Kuangyin had told him that as long as he wore this bracelet, he had to promise to live.
At that time, Zhao Kuangyin’s gaze had been incomparably firm. Such a proud, unrestrained man had simply wanted Li Congjia to live properly, to stop treating his own life so lightly and stop being so foolish.
Zhao Kuangyin had wanted to tell that blue-green figure that in chaotic times, the human heart was the least trustworthy thing of all. Why sacrifice one’s life and bury a lifetime of reputation with it? Yet at the final moment, he had discovered that Li Congjia still possessed a heart of pure sincerity. And so he believed him.
That was why Zhao Kuangyin did not want him to die. “For every day that I live, you must live another day as well. As long as I do not remove this bracelet, no one else may touch it.” Li Congjia had simply nodded without speaking. Yet his heart had been warm.
Back then, Zhao Kuangyin had sincerely wished for him to live. Not for imperial power. Not for wealth or glory. At that moment, he had simply and earnestly wanted Li Congjia to remain alive.
To know that someone hoped for your life like that was warm.
He still remembered perfectly how calm his heart had felt then. In the end, he had embraced Zhao Kuangyin in return.
The final boundary of human feeling was persistence.
Li Congjia released his fingers and lightly shook his wrist. The bracelet slid back into place. The subtle and beautiful scene within his memory had been far too brilliant. He truly could not let it go.
Anything Li Congjia had promised would count. The emotions surging uncontrollably through his chest refused to be suppressed. He still needed to wear this bracelet and keep going.
Before much time had passed in silence, someone arrived from the palace. The northern court’s campaign against the Khitan had broken through all Three Passes. Perhaps it would not be long before the army returned to court, and afterward the first matter requiring attention would be an agreement governing salt transport and trade between Jiangnan and the territories north of the river.
His father clearly intended to give him experience by placing him in charge of the negotiations. The Crown Prince’s position appeared vacant, but everyone in court knew that only the formal proclamation remained. A newly appointed Crown Prince had to accomplish something.
Li Congjia would have to enter the palace tomorrow.
The sunlight slanted toward evening. Human life was limited, yet there were too many things one did not wish to do and still had to do. Piaopeng watched him receive the decree and could only sigh. His Highness was burdened by troubles both inside and outside the household. The Princess Consort was still ill. Yet Li Congjia still had to face everything with perfect composure.
His suffering might not save tens of thousands of people. But at the very least, it allowed many people to feel at ease.
There was nothing enviable about such an ability.
The rain weakened considerably and gradually gave way to clearer skies. Li Congjia personally went to check Ehuang’s medicine. Before long, he had returned entirely to his usual self, with none of the earlier grief or helplessness remaining. His face once again carried a smile like the spring wind.
When something had already become inevitable, there was nothing to do but take matters one step at a time.
At that same moment, figures moved inside the central tent of the Zhou army. The campaign for the Three Passes had ended in a great victory, yet His Majesty’s old illness had suddenly returned.
Zhao Kuangyin could not hide his concern. “Your Majesty, the arrow wound you suffered years ago injured the tendons and bones. If you continue exhausting yourself like this, I fear it will damage your health.”
“It is only a minor injury. Why worry so much?” The Emperor was valiant by nature and had absolutely no intention of revealing weakness now. But Zhao Kuangyin could see the truth. When His Majesty dismounted earlier, the pain had already become difficult to bear. Yet before tens of thousands of soldiers, he had behaved as though nothing were wrong, unwilling to diminish his martial bearing.
Seeing the string of fortified strongholds marked upon the Emperor’s map, Zhao Kuangyin frowned. He repeatedly urged His Majesty to postpone the attack on Yingzhou. If Chai Rong’s condition worsened during the campaign and something happened to him, the army’s morale would inevitably collapse, with consequences impossible to predict.
But the Emperor struck the table and refused to let Zhao Kuangyin say another word. He would not even summon an imperial physician into the tent.
The weather was growing hotter and drier, the worst possible conditions for a wound. Zhao Kuangyin was about to speak again when the Emperor handed him a message that had traveled a thousand li. The ruler of Jiangnan had newly invested his sixth son, Li Congjia, as the Prince of Wu and placed him temporarily in the Eastern Palace. “General Zhao once visited Jiangnan. Do you know this man?”
Zhao Kuangyin paused. “I have indeed met him.” He did not understand why the Emperor was asking.
“What is his character like?”
Zhao Kuangyin immediately understood. His Majesty most likely wanted to know whether Li Congjia posed any threat to them. Once he entered the Eastern Palace, he would soon become Crown Prince. As long as the southern kingdom had not been absorbed into their realm, the identity of its heir remained extremely important. Li Hongji had been an excellent example. Had he not died through that strange chain of circumstances at Zhao Kuangyin’s own hand, they might eventually have needed to find another way to eliminate him.
Ambition was not a good thing.
“Li Congjia has the temperament of a scholar. He inherited his sovereign father’s extraordinary gift for poetry. His talent and learning are refined, and he is accomplished in both calligraphy and painting.” Zhao Kuangyin kept his answer as simple as possible, unwilling to make any deliberate attempt at concealment too obvious.
The Emperor smiled. Just as expected. Among the Li clan, Li Hongji had probably been the only exception to that temperament.
“We advance on Yingzhou again tomorrow.” The Emperor’s decision was made.