But the three of them had no idea that, on that very day as night was about to fall, on the other side of the dark chasm they dared not cross, near the direction of the capital, by a small pond, there sat a scholar—a scholar in straw sandals and a tattered coat.

This scholar seemed utterly oblivious to the power and severity represented by that dark chasm. In his left hand he held a scroll, in his right a wooden ladle. When idle, he read; when tired, he rested; when thirsty, he scooped a ladle of water to drink. Covered in dust, his face was full of contentment.

Only after the three in the distance had left, only after the shallow black chasm on the wasteland was gradually filled in by wind and sand, did the scholar stand up, dust off his clothes, tie the wooden ladle to his waist, carefully tuck the scroll into his coat, and finally glance once more toward the capital before leaving.

In the capital city of Chang’an, there was a long alley. To the east was the residence of the Gentleman of Consultation, to the west the residence of the General of Proclamation. Though neither held the highest rank or power, their official authority was considerable, and the alley was usually tranquil. But today, that tranquility was long gone.

There was joy in the Gentleman of Consultation’s residence—a midwife was bustling in and out. Yet from the master to the maids, everyone’s joyful expressions seemed tinged with other emotions. Not a single person dared to laugh aloud. The servant women hurrying past the corners with basins in their arms, upon hearing the sounds from outside the wall, showed looks of fear.

The General of Proclamation, Samuel Brooks, famed for his bravery, had offended the empire’s foremost valiant general, Spencer, and thus was brave no more. He was accused of colluding with the enemy nation, and after months of personal interrogation by the prince, the verdict had finally come.

The result was clear, the punishment simple—just four words: execution of the entire household.

The main gate of the Gentleman of Consultation’s residence was tightly shut. The Butler pressed his face to the crack, nervously peering at the equally closed gate of the general’s residence, listening to the sounds of heavy objects hacking into flesh, to the rolling of heads like watermelons across the ground. His body trembled uncontrollably.

The two families had lived in the same alley for many years. From the Butler to the doormen, all were familiar with those in the general’s residence. Hearing those terrifying sounds, he seemed to see countless sharp broadswords slicing through the necks of familiar people, saw those familiar faces rolling across the bluestone slabs, piling up at the gate, gradually forming a small hill...

Blood flowed out from under the general’s gate, some of it dark and sticky, like glutinous rice paste mixed with cinnabar, with strands of flesh like purple yam fibers. The pale-faced Butler stared at it, unable to control his emotions any longer, clutching the door and bending over to vomit.

Suddenly, the sound of urgent hoofbeats came from outside, followed by shouts and the noise of rough pounding. Amid the curses, it seemed someone from the general’s residence had escaped. A retainer of the prince’s household, mounted on horseback, shouted sternly: “Not a single one can be missing!”

On a wall in the rear garden of the Gentleman of Consultation’s residence, there were several scratches and bloodstains.

“You must listen, young master, you can’t go out. Let Little Chloe go, let him go...”

Not far from there, in a woodshed, a Steward from the general’s residence, covered in blood, looked at the two boys before him, four or five years old. His dry lips moved slightly, his voice hoarse and unpleasant, his wrinkled, mud-stained face full of despair and struggle, struggling until tears squeezed from the corners of his clouded eyes.

It didn’t take the imperial guards who stormed into the Gentleman of Consultation’s residence long to find the woodshed. Seeing the two corpses, one old and one young, they checked and the captain, still shaken, loudly reported: “Not a single one missing, all dead.”

The simplest way to interpret the phrase “recluse of the world” is that such a person is usually outside the world; it is easier to be a recluse outside the world. There is some truth hidden in this apparent nonsense: what they fear is beyond the reach of ordinary people, what they rejoice in is beyond the understanding of ordinary people.

Thus, the mundane world never knows what happens outside it, and those outside the world never care about the scenes of parting and reunion, birth and joy unfolding within it, much less about whether the butcher’s scale is short by a few ounces, or if a drunkard’s cellar has been gnawed through by rats, or that a General of Proclamation has died, or that a civil official has had a daughter.

The joys and sorrows of the two worlds have never been connected.

If they could be, one would be a sage.

Outside the capital Chang’an, there was a high mountain, its peaks half hidden in the clouds. On the western cliffs of the back mountain, a figure was slowly ascending. The man’s back was exceptionally tall, wearing a black cloak over his simple clothes, carrying a food box in his hand.

Swaying in the wind, he walked to the entrance of a cave, sat down, opened the food box, took out chopsticks, picked up a slice of ginger and chewed it carefully, then ate two pieces of lamb, sighing in satisfaction and praise.

Under the setting sun, the capital Chang’an was gradually being enveloped by night, with distant rain clouds drifting in.

The tall man gazed at a spot in the capital and said with emotion, “I seem to see you as you were back then.”

Then he looked up at the sky, raised his chopsticks and pointed upward, saying, “As for you, what’s the use of flying so high?”

It was clear these two sentences were addressed to two different people.

After a brief silence, the tall man picked up the rice wine at his side and drained it in one gulp. Holding the empty bowl aloft, he looked around at the world and the capital, and toasted: “The wind rises, the rain falls, night is coming.”