Chapter Seventeen: An Interesting Night in Dingxing!

Dusk, and then the afterglow.
After dinner, Han Fu sat in his room, reading by candlelight.
Baili Mingda had intended to keep him company, but he already knew from yesterday that Han Fu went to bed quite early. He didn’t want to get caught up in conversation only to be sent away soon after, so he left on his own accord, understanding the situation.
As for why Han Fu kept such hours, it all stemmed from experiences in his previous life.
In that former existence, although Han Fu had been an officer in a special forces unit, he served in an administrative capacity and was never especially strong physically.
Coupled with late-night reading and prolonged time on his phone, he sapped his vitality, and in the end, died suddenly during a ten-kilometer weighted march.
Ordinarily, a ten-kilometer weighted march was nothing remarkable for a special forces soldier, but somehow, he...
Having learned from past mistakes, and eager not to repeat them, Han Fu was now exceedingly disciplined.
The historical records Baili Mingda brought him were not detailed, merely an outline of a timeline; there were only a few pages left unread.
A quarter hour later, Han Fu closed the book.
He stepped into the courtyard and assumed his starting posture.
Three rounds of Tai Chi left him drenched in sweat.
Ten sets of push-ups—one hundred and fifty in all—made his arms numb and heavy.
Ten sets of squats—another one hundred and fifty—left his legs weak and wobbly.
Satisfied, he returned to his room, wiped himself down briefly, and went to bed.
At this hour, compared to his former life, it was around nine o’clock at night.
With Han Fu asleep, in Dingxing, Xujing, and perhaps throughout this world, at least eight or nine out of ten people were already in bed.
But there were always a few who still wandered the vibrant world outside, reluctant to leave its pleasures behind.
Such was Dingxing by night.
The Clear Pavilion blazed with lights, filled with the hum of voices.
The front half of the Pavilion was a grand, four-story wooden tower, sprawling across a vast area.
Behind it were numerous courtyards, with rooms numbering in the hundreds.
Dingxing, being the capital of the Xu Dynasty, was a place where every inch of land was precious; such a vast establishment spoke to the formidable influence behind the Clear Pavilion.
Outside, colored silks and bright lanterns heightened the lively atmosphere to its fullest.
Upon entering the doors, straight ahead rose a tall stage, where actors and celebrated performers entertained.
Above the stage was an open skylight, and balconies with railings ringed the second, third, and fourth floors, where literati and refined guests could lean and watch the festivities below.
Inside the Clear Pavilion,
Graceful courtesans flaunted their charms, exchanging glances with the guests.
These guests, all of considerable wealth or status, mingled freely, bantering with the courtesans, at times sneaking a playful touch, earning coquettish, feigned angry looks in reply.

Today was much like yesterday, and yet unlike days past.
It resembled yesterday in that, upon the stage, it was not actors or famous performers who held the floor, but a poor scholar.
Among the audience, aside from genuine men of letters, there were many who simply wished to appear cultured.
The cause of all this was Han Fu.
Just yesterday, Han Fu had composed seven poems in succession, quickly becoming famous throughout the city.
Word spread rapidly, until everyone in Dingxing knew of him, and the news raced outward to the neighboring regions.
On stage, the scholar meticulously analyzed Han Fu’s poems, line by line, unveiling their wonders to the crowd.
When the explanation reached its peak, exclamations of awe, cheers, and praise rang out in waves.
Among those most enraptured were, without doubt, the courtesans of the Pavilion, each with eyes shining, their imaginations running wild.
To spend a night with Master Han—many would have paid for the privilege. And if they could win a poem of praise from him, not only would becoming Queen of the Courtesans be a cinch, but even dying would have been worth it—or so they mused.
For these two days, whether in alleyways or among the wealthy and powerful at places like the Clear Pavilion, the topics on everyone’s lips had been Han Fu and his seven poems.
Unfortunately, now married and unable to leave the Zhou residence, Han Fu remained unaware of the sensation he had caused in Dingxing.
Of course, not everyone was engaged in such talk.
At this moment, for instance, in a private room on the second floor, another subject was being discussed.
“I heard that Cao Dezheng was beaten up last night?”
“Yes, he was attacked by a thief on his way home and is still bedridden.”
“Have they found out who did it?”
“Apparently not. The assailant snatched him with a sack, struck without a word, and vanished. There’s no trail to follow.”
“I’ve heard that too. Cao Dezheng didn’t even know how many people attacked him—just that the blows rained down faster than he could count.”
“Ouch… he must be badly hurt?”
“He won’t be leaving his house for three months.”
“It was the night watchman who found him—the brutality was extreme, the scene bloody. The watchman thought he’d stumbled upon a corpse and wet himself in fright.”
“Any idea why he was attacked?”
“No one knows.”
“In that case… we’d better be cautious when out at night as well.”
“That’s for the best—one can never be too careful.”
Meanwhile, in another private room on the third floor,
Six men—Liu Shilin, Tong Le, Zhao Zongsheng, Sun Kaixing, Li Shenhe, and Wu Ziyong—had gathered.
Delicacies filled the table, with fragrant, potent wine set out in jars.
The six were in high spirits, faces wreathed in smiles, raising their cups together.
Liu Shilin grinned, “Gentlemen, let’s drink!”
“Cheers!”
“Abba—!”
The six were thoroughly delighted; the reason for their joy was left unspoken, and needed no explanation—they simply reveled in eating and drinking their fill.
They feasted and drank until dawn, not returning home that night.
And for the next two days, aside from talk of Han Fu’s seven poems and the beating of Cao Dezheng, son of the Minister of Rites, there was no other topic of conversation.
The days passed in remarkable calm.
Han Fu was quiet as well. After returning the history book, he asked Baili Mingda to find him a volume about the mountains and rivers of the Xu Dynasty, entitled Records of the Realm.
For two days, Han Fu devoted himself to studying this book, practicing Tai Chi, doing push-ups and squats.
For someone like Han Fu, harboring thoughts of rebellion, this book was of vital importance—a must-read.
Through his reading, Han Fu became acquainted with the geography of the Xu Dynasty.
The entire realm was divided into eighteen circuits: Guannei, Hexi, Hebei, Henan, Hedong, Lingbei, Lingnan, Jiannan, Jiangnan, Shannan, Shandong, Shanbei, Huainan, Jinnan, Jinbei, Sanjiang, Linhai, and Chifeng.
Beneath these were 360 prefectures.
These, in turn, were divided into 1,682 counties.
According to Baili Mingda, the Sanjiang, Lingbei, and parts of Lingnan Circuits, as well as portions of Shannan and Shanbei, were currently under the control of three rebel armies, having broken away from imperial authority.
Han Fu had wanted to learn more about these rebel armies, but Baili Mingda’s knowledge was patchy, so Han Fu let the matter rest for now.
During this period, the burly man with a wine jar showed up every day, but only stood under the archway watching Han Fu exercise, never approaching for conversation.
Han Fu considered greeting him, but always changed his mind.
He had asked Baili Mingda about the man’s identity.
His name was Ge Liang, a guard at the Zhou residence.
At twenty-eight, he possessed impressive martial skills and longed for a military career, but Zhou Xinyi refused to let him go, leaving him frustrated and forever carrying his wine jar.
Ordinarily, such a servant would be punished, but no one in the Zhou household ever reprimanded him.
The reason, as it turned out, was that Ge Liang’s father, Ge Ruhuo, had once been Zhou Xinyi’s personal guard. In order to protect Zhou Xinyi, he shielded him with his own body, enduring thirty-six sword wounds and dying as a result.
On his deathbed, Ge Ruhuo made one request: that Ge Liang live well, marry, and carry on the family line.
Zhou Xinyi was a man of his word. Not long after, he arranged a wife for Ge Liang and firmly refused his requests to enlist, afraid he would die on the battlefield and thus betray the sacrifice Ge Ruhuo had made.
But what was with those thirty-six wounds—did they really have to match the number of the stars?
Baili Mingda had explained, “Ge Ruhuo had a peculiar habit—he loved to count things. After years in the Zhou household, he knew exactly how many flowers, trees, and even steps there were. For instance, in the east wing of the main courtyard, there are two trees: one is a jujube tree, and the other… is also a jujube tree. Even as he was being stabbed, wracked with pain, he kept counting—he told the master before he died that he had taken exactly thirty-six wounds.”
Wasn’t that obsessive-compulsive disorder?
Han Fu was astonished. Such an interesting man—and he was already gone?