Today, as usual, the doctor stopped by Ya She for breakfast after finishing his night shift. Ever since their return from Xi’an, his relationship with the owner had grown closer. If they had been good friends before, they were now nothing short of brothers who had faced life and death together.

After all, they had truly come within a hair’s breadth of dying in the mausoleum of Emperor Qin Shi Huang on Mount Li.

Even now, when the doctor recalled that night, the whole ordeal still felt far too surreal. He wasn’t entirely sure whether it had truly happened or if it had been a dream, let alone sharing it with anyone. Anyone would have simply assumed he was suffering from hysteria.

He sat in a daze at the counter, watching as the owner brewed the season’s first batch of spring tea with practiced ease. The room, filled with the charm of antiquity, was soon infused with the fragrance of tea.

The owner was no longer dressed in his usual Zhongshan suit. After returning from the mausoleum, half of a robe woven with black gold and black jade thread they had retrieved had been tailored by a master into a stylish, modern shirt. The fabric matched that of the original suit—pure black—with deep crimson cloud patterns embroidered along the cuffs and hem. And that ever-persistent crimson dragon, having slipped in unnoticed during the tailoring process, now clung to the shirt. Its head rested on the owner’s right shoulder, and its sinuous body coiled down the back.

Since the shirt had been made, the dragon had remained still, as if it had fallen into a dormant state. Though its inactivity brought some degree of relief, each time the doctor saw its fierce, snarling face, a chill would still crawl up his spine.

The doctor wasn’t particularly interested in the new shirt. What fascinated him was the owner himself—he wanted a strand of his hair, perhaps even a drop of his blood, to run some test… He was curious about his physiology… He wanted to dissect him with his own hands… His fingers itched at the thought. The doctor squirmed with suppressed desperation.

Ever since he had learned that the owner had lived for over 2,000 years, his thirst for knowledge had grown impossible to contain.

But he knew full well that the owner despised the idea of being tested. If anything were to be leaked, peace would never be an option. The owner noticed the doctor’s green-eyed gaze but remained impassive, pouring freshly brewed tea into the cup before him. Truthfully, he too, wished to uncover the real reason behind his immortality.

What he had told the doctor before was mere speculation. A precise examination using advanced equipment—if kept entirely confidential—was something he could accept.

It was just that he wasn’t in a rush. After all, having lived through such endless years, time was the one thing he had in abundance.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he silently wondered how long it would take the doctor to finally make his request.

Meanwhile, the doctor lounged comfortably in the huanghuali reclining chair of Ya She, sipping spring tea and skimming through the newspaper. His dog, Apache, had been left with his younger cousin (maternal side) when he accompanied the owner to Xi’an.

Who would have thought the dog would bond with her?

He had asked for it back several times, but she refused to return it. It seemed the dog was never coming back.

It was early in the morning, and Ya She rarely had many visitors to begin with, was now even quieter. So when a refined-looking man stepped through the door, carrying a cylindrical art case and dressed in a crisp white shirt with black-rimmed glasses, the doctor was genuinely startled.

The man gave a curt nod to the owner behind the counter, acknowledging him with an air of casual familiarity, then walked straight toward the inner room as though it were his own home.

The doctor nearly popped his eyes out of their sockets. Watching the man disappear behind the jade screen, he leaned in and whispered to the owner, “Who was that? Why is he walking in like he owns the place?”

The owner raised the delicate teacup to his nose, inhaling the fragrance before replying coolly, “He’s a teacher at the nearby Academy of Fine Arts. He often comes here to copy calligraphy and paintings. He usually stays the whole day. You just happened to catch him this time.”

“Copying calligraphy and paintings?” The doctor echoed in surprise.

Since when had the owner become so generous?

“You’re giving him special treatment? Don’t tell me he’s the reincarnation of some famous master?”

He couldn’t be blamed for the suspicion—after all, he had heard tales of reincarnated figures like Huo Qubing and Xiang Yu. Even he himself was supposedly the reincarnation of Fusu. Who knew, maybe that artist who had just walked in was someone just as legendary…

Just then, the heavy carved wooden door creaked open again. This time, it was the museum curator, leaning on a cane, who stepped inside. His gaze immediately landed on the newly placed, life-sized terracotta warrior by the entrance. Adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses, the curator’s face twisted in disbelief.

“Is that… is that Emperor Qin Shi Huang’s terracotta warrior? Which knockoff factory made this? How is that possible? Wah! And that’s an actual bronze sword…”

The doctor muffled his laugh with a cough. 

A knockoff?

Oh dear. If only the curator knew that this particular terracotta warrior had actually chased them out of the underground palace of the Emperor Qin Shi Huang’s Mausoleum with its own two feet, he would probably shatter his glasses right there and then.

But even with his trained eye, the curator would never believe that a figure with such vivid coloration could be genuine. Normally, the pigments on newly unearthed terracotta army faded almost instantly. No one knew what method the owner had used to preserve the colors on this one.

What’s more, if the curator ever found out that the warrior could move…

The doctor turned away, struggling to contain his laughter.

Although the curator found this terracotta warrior somewhat peculiar, he didn’t dwell on it. He glanced at the owner seated behind the counter and raised a brow with a teasing smile. “You’ve changed your shirt? I always thought the old one suited you better.”

“That one’s been worn long enough. It was time for a change,” the owner replied as he retrieved a fresh cup. He gently set it before the curator and filled it with hot tea.

The curator settled in at the counter, glancing around the shop. “I could’ve sworn I saw someone come in just now. Where did he go?”

The doctor pointed behind him. “He went into the inner room.”

“What?!” The curator looked as if he had been struck by lightning, his expression turning just as envious and resentful as the doctor’s had been earlier.

It was without a doubt that he knew what lay in the inner room was far superior to anything on display out here, but he had never had the chance to step inside!

The owner calmly repeated the explanation he had given the doctor moments ago.

Still unwilling to let it go, the curator pressed on, “So, what painting is he copying?”

The owner didn’t even try to hide it, saying, “He’s currently working on a reproduction of Treading on Snow by Zhan Ziqian. His progress is slow—at most, a single brushstroke a day.”

One stroke a day?

The doctor silently clicked his tongue.

What kind of snail pace was that?

He turned and saw the curator clutching his chest with a face contorted in shock. The doctor jumped up in alarm. “Uncle, what’s wrong? Is it your heart?”

He rushed over and helped the curator into a seat.

The curator pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. His voice trembled as he said, “I—I… Even if I didn’t have a heart problem, he would scare me into one! It’s the Zhan Ziqian! How could it possibly be Zhan Ziqian’s Treading on Snow?”

“Zhan Ziqian? Is he famous?” The doctor had never heard the name and didn’t think much of it.

“Of course he’s famous!” The curator thumped his cane against the floor, producing a heavy, muffled sound.

“Among all the surviving scroll paintings of landscapes, the Spring Excursion by the Sui dynasty master Zhan Ziqian is the earliest discovered and most impeccably preserved ancient artwork. It’s housed in the Palace Museum in Beijing, and it even bears an inscription in Emperor Huizong of Song’s own handwriting. 

“But according to unofficial histories, Zhan Ziqian’s true masterpiece was the Four Seasons, with Spring Excursion merely one in that set. The other three—Children Playing in Water, Falling Leaves, and Treading on Snow—are believed by many to be lost entirely. Not even a copy is known to exist. Some even doubt they were ever real at all… Boss, could you please let me take a look?” The curator turned toward the owner and pleaded.

[TL Note: As mentioned in the dialog, Children Playing in Water (童子戏水图), Falling Leaves (落叶图), and Treading on Snow (踏雪图) don’t have solid proof of their existence, hence no official English name was given to those pieces. Four Seasons was also said to be a speculation, as there was no official record with proof to support it. But the speculation was strong enough for everyone to believe in their existence.

The Spring Excursion was the only one with an official name and was also the only surviving work by Zhan Ziqian that was well-preserved to this day. The painting was the only existing item that kept the Four Seasons theory around.]

To his surprise, the owner nodded. “First room on the right. But those three paintings can’t be seen by anyone without the right fate. You will need to be prepared for that.”

The curator immediately hobbled toward the inner room, leaning heavily on his cane. The doctor, feeling curious, followed close behind.

The owner made no move to stop them. He simply lowered his gaze and continued polishing the teacup with a soft cloth. 

Less than a minute later, the doctor emerged from behind the jade screen, muttering in frustration. “You liar! That room’s wall just has blank paper hanging on it! And to think that a painter can stare at a blank sheet all day!”

“As I’ve mentioned, only those with the right fate can see them. Didn’t the curator come out with you?” the owner chuckled softly.

“No. He saw nothing but blank paper too. But there was a sheet on the painter’s desk, already filled with brushwork. The curator’s been studying that instead,” the doctor paused. “Want me to call him out?”

“No need. If the painter didn’t object, let him be.” It seemed the owner wasn’t entirely heartless after all.

“Oh.” The doctor sat back down, but he had lost all interest in reading his newspaper. “Boss, the curator said that even though the paintings looked like blank paper to him, the paper itself is undeniably ancient. Are they really the remaining three from the legendary Four Seasons? And who’s that painter who walked in? How can he see them?”

The owner stopped polishing the teacup and smiled faintly. “Want to hear a story?”

“Yes.” The doctor immediately leaned in.

He was absolutely bored!

“Hmm… Let me think. This goes back to a very distant time…”

During the Northern Song dynasty (960–1127).

“If we’re to speak of this young Prince Duan, well, there’s scarcely a soul in the capital who hasn’t heard of him! Let’s set aside his famed talents in painting and calligraphy for now. Today, we begin with the romantic tales of his youthful indiscretion…”

On the second floor of a teahouse in Bianliang, the Eastern Capital, the storyteller was holding forth, words spilling like water as he spun the latest gossip. To the common folk, these little tales of romance and scandal were the dessert to savor with their tea.

In the corner by the railing on the second floor of the teahouse sat two finely dressed youths. One of them, in a robe of sapphire-blue, grinned from ear to ear and lowered his voice to say to the young man beside him, who wore a deep-rose outer robe. “Your Highness, they’re talking about you! But how is it I’ve never heard this part of the story?”

The other youth took a compressed tea cake from the small tin the servant offered. With a tea pestle, he patiently ground it into a fine dust, ensuring its consistency before placing it on a tray. He then calmly waited for the water in the kettle on the table to begin its rolling boil.

It was poor form to be distracted during this stage, so the youth in blue let the matter drop for the moment. Soon, the water in the kettle reached a lively boil. A servant brought over a set of sky-blue celadon lotus-shaped cups. The youth in blue couldn’t resist picking one up, turning it over in his hands to admire it.

Its glaze was soft and lustrous, pure as jade to the eye. To the touch, it was as smooth as silk; the glaze pooled thick like clotted cream, and the faint crackle pattern shimmered with shifting light under the sun. One glance was enough to tell him it was a rare treasure. Flipping it over, he spotted the inscription on the base and couldn’t help but mutter in envious complaint, “The Emperor really does favor you. You dare bring something granted by the imperial hand out here into the street to use? Aren’t you afraid of breaking it?”

The youth in a purple robe cast him a sidelong glance and said casually, “Things are meant to be used. If it breaks, I’ll just ask my imperial elder brother for another.”

With that, he lifted the kettle from the stove. His movements were unhurried and elegant—warming the pot, rinsing the cups, drying the pot, setting the tea, toasting the leaves, pouring the water… When the rolling boil cascaded into the cup, he took up the tea whisk and began to whip the surface with measured strokes.

The moment the hot water met the powdered tea, fragrant steam rose in gentle swirls, filling the air with a soothing aroma that refreshed the senses.

Before long, the tea in the cup became a harmonious blend of liquid and froth, forming a creamy white foam that billowed like piled clouds and drifting snow.

“Elder Cousin(parental side), your tea-whisking skills grow more exquisite by the day!” The youth in blue exclaimed, staring in awe at the cup placed before him.

In the sky-blue cup, the foam was pristine. The water’s edge remained steady and didn’t disperse, clearly demonstrating skill in tea-making.

“Speaking of which,” the youth in blue went on, “a few fellows from the Eastern Island came here a while ago, trying to learn our way of tea. They’ve imitated it so closely that it almost looks the part. I hear they plan to take it all back to their country!”

[TL Note: The term “Eastern Island” (东瀛;dōngyíng) was used in the Song dynasty to refer to the present-day Japan. Speculation said that China first met Japan around 400 BCE (or even earlier) before Japan was named as “Japan.” It is believed that the name change within Japan itself took place sometime between 665 and 703. The Song dynasty occurred from 960 to 1279, a time when Japan was already interacting with China.

Also, the Traditional Whisking Tea is a practice first made in the Song dynasty. Modern natives would refer to it as the Song Dynasty’s Diancha (点茶;whisking tea) tradition.]

“Imitation without understanding is mere mimicry,” the youth in purple replied calmly. “They grasp neither the essence of our dynasty’s tea culture nor its spirit. What they’ve made is nothing more than green coins floating on water,” the youth in purple replied calmly.

He then reached for another cup, repeating the same precise steps as before, and set before himself a second serving of tribute tea.

The youth in purple was none other than Prince Duan—Zhao Ji—whose name had recently become the talk of Bianliang. The one in blue was Zhao Lingrang, a fifth-generation descendant of Emperor Taizu Zhao Kuangyin, and a member of the imperial clan.

Though of the same generation and similar age, their shared passions had led Zhao Lingrang to address his cousin with irreverent familiarity, calling him “Elder Cousin” to the exasperation of their family elders, who chided him for “forgetting his place.”

Yet Zhao Lingrang, raised amidst the sprawling imperial clan, knew well the boundaries of propriety. Still, whenever he lounged with Zhao Ji, his occasional use of “Your Highness” was more a playful tease than a formality.

Zhao Ji took no offense. Ennobled as a prince at the age of three, he had never found the title anything special. In fact, he relished concealing his identity and wandering the streets among common folk, and he enjoyed Zhao Lingrang’s unpretentious manner.

Once Zhao Ji had finished preparing a cup of tribute tea for himself, he gestured for Zhao Lingrang to drink. Zhao Lingrang lifted the cup, feeling the gentle warmth seep into his palms. Within the sky-blue glaze of the cup, the tea cream had melded perfectly with the liquid, giving it a rich, thick body. He admired it for a moment before tilting his head back and draining it in one go.

Even after the tea was gone, the fine foam clung stubbornly to the sides—a phenomenon known as “biting the cup,” a sign of tea whisked to the highest perfection.

Zhao Ji also drained his own cup, gazing with satisfaction at the ring of foam left along the rim.

Prince Duan, Zhao Ji—whatever he set his mind to, he would see it done to perfection.

Zhao Lingrang picked up the nearby kettle and poured water into the teacup in Zhao Ji’s hand, the stream tracing a graceful arc through the air before splashing into the cup. The hot water washed away the foam clinging to the sides, and Zhao Ji drank the remaining tea in one draught. Feeling in fine spirits, he took the towel handed over by a waiting servant, wiped his hands, and asked with a faint smile, “Danian (大年;dà nián), what’s the entertainment for today?”

Zhao Lingrang silently grumbled about the childhood name his father gave him—his younger brother was called Yongnian (永年;yǒng nián), which sounded far better than “Danian!”

[TL Note: 大年=Great Year (Associate with Abundance, Festivity, Grandeur). 永年=Eternal Years (Associate with Longevity, Formality, and often used in poems)]

But he dared not truly ask Zhao Ji to stop using it. After all, a milk name was proof of closeness. He stained his own cup of remaining tea, smacked his lips a few times to savor the lingering fragrance, then smiled. “There’s a new antique shop that has opened on East Street. Let’s go have a look and see if there are any treasures!”

The suggestion was exactly to Zhao Ji’s liking. Without even touching the tea snacks on the table, he rose to his feet at once and strode out the door.

Zhao Lingrang picked up two delicate tea sweets, popped them into his mouth, and instructed the attendant to pack away the set of imperial tribute tea utensils. Only then did he hurry after Zhao Ji.

In the teahouse, the storyteller was still swaying his head and weaving embellished tales of the young Prince Duan’s romantic exploits. The listeners around him were absorbed, completely unaware that the prince himself had been sitting among them just moments before.

The Eastern Capital, Bianliang, was a city of unrivaled prosperity. Merchants from all over came and went, and it was said that nowhere else in the world could match its splendor and beauty.

On this point, even the proud Zhao Ji fully agreed. The capital’s layout no longer followed the closed ward system of the Tang dynasty. Just as long as merchants paid their taxes, they could set up shop anywhere. Thus, the new neighborhoods stood in dense, orderly rows, houses rising side by side.

Along the streets, the shop eaves lined up in unbroken ranks, draped with fine awnings and laden with treasures and goods from all over. Carriages and pedestrians occupied the thoroughfares, presenting an image of tranquility and vibrant prosperity.

Before the Song dynasty, marketplaces were bound by strict curfew laws, with city gates and ward gates bolted shut after nightfall. But in the Song, that restriction was abolished. The previous emperor, Emperor Shenzong of Song, actively promoted night markets, fueling unprecedented urban bustle.

Though setting up shop became easier, East Avenue—lined with entrenched century-old establishments—rarely had vacancies for newcomers. So when Zhao Lingrang mentioned that an antique shop was opening there, Zhao Ji immediately knew that it must have some powerful backing.

Without influence, how could anyone possibly open a shop on East Avenue?

“Elder cousin, we’re here.”

At the sound of Zhao Lingrang’s voice, Zhao Ji lifted his head and noticed an antique-style shopfront, its signboard inscribed in two archaic seal-script characters. He nodded approvingly.

“Ya She—now that’s a tasteful name. Much more elegant than those ‘Xuande Pavilion’ or ‘Three Treasures Gallery’ types.”

[TL Note: Xuande Pavilion (宣德阁;xuān dé gé): References the Xuande era in the Ming dynasty (1425-1435)—anachronistic here, but used for satire.

Three Treasures Gallery (三宝轩;sān bǎo xuān): The “Three Treasures”, commonly known as “Three Jewels”, is a Buddhist term that refers to 佛法僧 (fó fǎ sēng). 佛=The Buddha, 法=The Dharma (teachings), 僧: The Sangha (monastic community)]

Zhao Lingrang, knowing full well this shop would be to Zhao Ji’s liking, grinned smugly. “I knew you would appreciate it. But I’ve only heard about Ya She from others. I’ve never stepped foot inside myself. If it turns out to be all show and no substance, don’t you dare blame me!”

Before Zhao Ji could respond, the shop’s main door gave a soft creak and opened just a crack. From that narrow gap squeezed out a boy about two years old.

Zhao Ji, finding the child pale-skinned and cherubic, was about to wonder whose little young master he might be, when all his attention was suddenly claimed by the object the boy was carrying—a bronze sword.

To say the boy was “carrying” the sword wasn’t quite accurate. The length of it was nearly equal to his own height. It was far too heavy for a child his age to carry such a heavy bronze weapon, so both of his small hands gripped the hilt while the tip of the sheathed blade dragged along the ground.

Even without the sword drawn, Zhao Ji’s trained eye recognized it at once as a masterpiece from at least the Spring and Autumn or Warring States period.

Zhao Lingrang, who had also grown up surrounded by antiques, nearly jumped in alarm at the sight of the child dragging the bronze sword outside. He quickly bent down to lift the tip off the ground for him. In that moment, as it passed into his hands, Zhao Lingrang caught sight of the bird-seal inscription engraved on the scabbard.

A chill ran down his spine.

“Elder cousin,” he gasped. “This is the genuine Sword of Goujian!”

Zhao Ji arched an eyebrow. In the Song dynasty, the prevailing culture favored literature over arms, so even the famed Sword of Goujian held little personal allure for him. But for a shop to treat such a national treasure as a plaything for a two-year-old—how many other priceless wonders must it hold?

His eyes lit up, and he stepped inside without hesitation.

Compared to the dazzling sunlight outside, the antique shop was shrouded in deliberate shadow. Beyond the heavy carved wooden doors, two Han-style Changxin Palace lanterns glowed softly. The air was rich with pleasant incense, which, when traced to its source, proved to be a gilded gold “Dragon Soaring Over Peaks” boshan censer resting upon a red sandalwood counter. Wisps of fragrant smoke curled lazily from the dragon’s mouth.

The shop’s arrangement was elegant and inviting, lacking the haggling, mercantile air of common establishments. It felt more like the reception hall of a wealthy household, where every artifact seemed priceless even by imperial standards. Even Zhao Ji, who had been raised in imperial luxury, couldn’t help but admire it. Almost unconsciously, he felt a desire to befriend and learn from the owner of this extraordinary place.

Though the shop was spacious, Zhao Ji’s quick glance told him no one else was present.

Unhurried, he lifted his gaze to study a pair of calligraphic couplets hanging in the hall. If his eyes didn’t deceive him, these were none other than the authentic brushwork of Emperor Taizong of Tang, Li Shimin himself.

“Who are you? The shop isn’t open yet!” a crisp child’s voice rang out.

Zhao Ji turned and saw the same little boy who had been dragging the Sword of Goujian squeezed in again through the door crack with his jet-black eyes straining to glare at him.

Still holding the sword tip to help him, Zhao Lingrang rubbed his nose and chuckled. “If it’s not open yet, it’s still going to open, isn’t it? Hey, kid, your shop here—got any rare paintings or calligraphy?”

At first, the boy clearly resented these two strangers waltzing in. But Zhao Lingrang’s question had clearly mistaken him for the shop’s owner. Instantly, he puffed out his tiny chest and declared with great pride, “Of course we do! Follow me!”

With that, he strode off with an air of authority. Still dragging the Sword of Goujian, he thump-thump-thumped toward the inner room.

Zhao Ji frowned, clearly unimpressed by Zhao Lingrang’s childish trickery. But Zhao Lingrang knew his elder cousin’s weakness all too well. With a sly grin, he pressed on, “Elder cousin, even this little boy knows that painting is the most valuable piece here; it’s bound to be right. Besides, since the shop hasn’t officially opened yet, we can take a look at the good stuff and reserve it first so no one else snatches it later.”

Without waiting for Zhao Ji’s reply, he took off after the little boy.

Zhao Ji knew his cousin had a point. Many antique shops had a treasured piece that was rarely shown to outsiders. And here, in this Mute Pavilion, they let a child play with a Spring and Autumn period Sword of Goujian, and hung Emperor Taizong of Tang’s own calligraphy as mere couplets on the wall. One could only imagine what kind of painting would be worthy of being called the shop’s crown jewel.

After a moment’s hesitation, Zhao Ji walked toward the inner room.

He had just rounded a massive mica-glass screen when he heard Zhao Lingrang’s angry voice, “You little brat! How dare you trick me?”

“I didn’t trick you! The boss said this is the best thing here, and I’ve never been in before either!” came the boy’s aggrieved reply. Unable to explain further, the boy stomped his foot and ran out.  The tip of the Sword of Goujian scraped along the floor with a shrrrk-shrrrk sound.

As he passed Zhao Ji, the boy tilted his head up and pulled a long face at him.

“What happened?” Zhao Ji asked in puzzlement as Zhao Lingrang came out after him.

“That room had nothing but four blank sheets hanging on the wall! And that rascal even took the chance to snatch my scented pouch. It was embroidered especially for me by Yingying!” Zhao Lingrang complained furiously, spitting out two sentences in his indignation before hurrying off to chase after the little boy.

Zhao Ji was greatly taken aback. He didn’t believe that what hung inside were merely four blank sheets, yet Zhao Lingrang had no reason to lie to him. Now that he was already here, an inexplicable impulse urged him toward the room whose door hadn’t yet been opened.

Inside, there were no windows, nor were there any furnishings, only a single Changxin palace lantern burning upon a round table at the center. When Zhao Ji turned his gaze toward the walls, a rush of elation surged through him.

Hanging on the four walls were, without a doubt, four stunningly detailed landscape paintings!

All four depicted the same scenery, the only difference being the season portrayed—spring, summer, autumn, and winter, one for each wall. Even for a man as well-traveled and discerning as Zhao Ji, his hands trembled when he saw the artist’s inscription in the corner.

These were none other than the legendary Four Seasons by Zhan Ziqian!

The four paintings were grand yet serene in composition, their colors rich with ancient elegance. Standing at the center of the room, Zhao Ji slowly turned in place, shifting his perspective. When all of a sudden, it was as though the four seasons themselves cycled through his vision.

Scholars and ladies strolled through spring, children splashed in a summer stream, elders mused mournfully among fallen leaves, a traveler braved through winter snows… Zhao Ji was utterly entranced, so absorbed that he never stopped to question why Zhao Lingrang had called these four blank sheets, until a voice abruptly cut through the illusion.

“You can see these four paintings?”

Startled as if awoken from a dream, Zhao Ji whirled to find the room no longer empty. A young man stood by the doorway, having appeared without a sound. He wore ancient attire from the Qin and Han dynasty—a deep, close-fitting shenyi with wide sleeves, its straight hem cascading elegantly to his feet. The black fabric only accentuated his jade-like complexion, as though he had stepped straight from an ancient portrait.

Realizing he had been staring rudely, Zhao Ji masked his lapse with a light cough. “You are…?”

“I’m the owner of this shop.” The man gave a faint smile, offering an answer that took Zhao Ji by surprise.

Zhao Ji hadn’t expected the owner of this antique shop to be so young. Judging from his bearing, he might be a scion of some once-prominent family now fallen on hard times. Aware that he had been in the wrong, Zhao Ji clasped his hands in a courteous salute and said sincerely, “I have been presumptuous, intruding without permission. Please forgive me.”

“No harm done. It must have been Le’er who brought you in. He’s always been mischievous,” the owner replied with a soft chuckle, clearly used to the child’s mischief.

“Your son is lively and endearing. In time, he will surely accomplish great things.” Zhao Ji smiled as well, thinking of Zhao Lingrang, who had yet to return. No doubt the little rascal was giving him no end of trouble.

“He’s not my son. He’s… the child of a relative.” The owner lifted his brows slightly, giving a calm explanation. As though unwilling to linger on the subject, he turned toward a scroll painting hanging on the wall and asked, “Can you see these four paintings?”

“Of course I can.” Zhao Ji nodded in confusion. The lighting in the room was dim, yet it was enough for him to see the scenery depicted in each scroll with perfect clarity, down to the fine detail of each branch. “These are Zhan Ziqian’s Four Seasons. Boss, how much would it take for you to part with them?”

The owner said nothing at first, only fixing him with a gaze that was deep and unreadable. Zhao Ji met it steadily, assuming the man was weighing what price to name. After a long pause, the owner spoke in a low voice, “You won’t be able to afford them.”

Zhao Ji frowned. As a prince of the Great Song, there were indeed a few things in this world beyond his means. He suspected the man was simply inflating the price as a bargaining trick, yet he still couldn’t hold back his tongue.

With a cold huff, he said, “If you can name it, I can pay it!”

It was rare for him to act on impulse, but the moment he laid eyes on these four paintings, an irresistible desire welled up within him. He adored them beyond measure—this was a treasure the heart yearned for, worth far more than gold. He resolved to obtain them at any cost.

The owner looked at him, his expression turning somewhat serious. In an even voice, he said, “If you wish to possess these four paintings, you must first preserve your fundamental heart.”

“My fundamental heart?” Zhao Ji had never imagined the man would utter such an unrelated term, and for a moment, he was taken aback.

“If given ten thousand zhong of grain contrary to propriety and righteousness, of what use are they to me? Are they for the beauty of palaces, the service of wives and concubines, or the gratitude of the poor who know me…” The owner’s voice was calm and resonant, filling the room with a serene authority.

“Should this not be stopped? This is called losing one’s fundamental heart.” Zhao Ji completed the passage, recognizing it from Mencius’s Gaozi I.

[TL Note: Gaozi (告子;gào zǐ) has 2 volumes, Gaozi I (告子上;gào zǐ shàng) and Gaozi II (告子下;gào zǐ xià). The books were roughly about the dispute over whether human nature is originally good or evil. There is more to these books, but I don’t want to dive too deep…

Gaozi, or Gao Buhai, was a Chinese philosopher during the Warring States period. Gaozi’s teachings are no longer extant, but he was a contemporary of Mencius, and most of our knowledge about him comes from the Mencius book titled “Gaozi”.

Mencius (孟子;mèng zǐ) was a Chinese Confucian philosopher, often described as the Second Sage to reflect his traditional esteem relative to Confucius himself. He was part of Confucius’s fourth generation of disciples, inheriting his ideology and developing it further.]

The concept of “fundamental heart” referred to the heart of integrity and moral conscience. In the text, Mencius gave the example that some, when faced with matters of life and death, would rather die than yield, even sacrificing themselves for righteousness. Yet in times of peace, they would cast aside their sense of shame and resort to unscrupulous means to chase after fame and profit, abandoning the principles and virtue they once upheld.

“Yes. If you wish to possess these four paintings, you must remain true to your fundamental heart,” the owner said with an air of detachment, as though he had little faith that Zhao Ji could accomplish such a thing.

Zhao Ji gave an incredulous laugh, his anger edged with mockery. “Oh? Is that all?”

“Yes, that is all,” the owner replied, still wearing that faint smile. “Since you have decided to take these four paintings, then place your hand upon their paper. These works will grant you boundless power and wealth. But if you fail to keep your fundamental heart, they will reclaim themselves without mercy and demand a price far greater than what they gave.”

Without much thought, Zhao Ji reached out and brushed his fingers across the paper of the four paintings. Whatever favorable impression he had of this antique shop had evaporated entirely in the course of this brief exchange. If not for the fact that the works were unquestionably authentic, he would have turned on his heel and left.

He chuckled inwardly. He was already a prince—what could possibly offer him more power and wealth than the seat he now held?

Just as Zhao Ji’s fingers lifted from the paper of the final Treading on Snow, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the corridor. Zhao Lingrang burst in, his expression a mix of alarm and disbelief, blurting out in a fluster, “E-Elder Cousin! Something terrible has happened! The palace… word from the palace says… says…”

A dark premonition rose in Zhao Ji’s chest. His voice turned sharp as a whip. “Says what?”

Zhao Lingrang bit his teeth hard, then dropped to his knees with a thud. “Says… His Majesty is gravely ill!”

The words struck Zhao Ji’s ears like a clap of thunder. For a moment, his mind went blank. Then, instinctively, a thought surfaced. His imperial elder brother had no heir. The throne… and what could grant even greater power and wealth than the rank of prince…

Would these four paintings truly grant him boundless power and wealth?

Almost without thinking, Zhao Ji glanced toward the owner. When their eyes met, he caught the knowing curve of the man’s lips, and for a heartbeat, Zhao Ji felt dazed.

The owner stood alone in the room, gazing at the Four Seasons paintings hanging on the walls. He said nothing for a long while. He couldn’t fathom why these works had chosen Zhao Ji as their fated person.

A child’s voice broke the silence and shattered the owner’s thoughts. “They’re gone?”

“Le’er, give me the Sword of Goujian,” the owner said, his expression darkening as he held out a hand toward the little boy at the door.

Le’er hesitated, glancing up at the owner’s face, then reluctantly handed over the sword, grumbling, “Le’er couldn’t pull it out, so no one else can either!”

The owner took the sword in hand, gently resting his palm atop the boy’s soft hair, and smiled faintly. “You’re not this sword’s master. Naturally, you can’t draw it.”

Le’er pouted, but as children do, he forgot his sulk almost as soon as it began. Only then did he notice something different in the room. 

“Huh? Paintings!” he cried in surprise.

Just moments ago, he could have sworn he saw nothing but four blank sheets. How had they turned into four ink paintings in the blink of an eye?

Le’er shot the owner a disdainful look, thinking to himself that the uncle from earlier had wrongly accused him. I wasn’t the one lying—it was the boss who lied!

“The Four Seasons has recognized its master—naturally, it reveals its form,” the owner sighed. “I only wonder how long it will last this time.”

Le’er tilted his head, half understanding, but wisely held his tongue.

“Though one may have gifts of keen perception and a resolve for benevolence and righteousness, once wealth and honor come, they turn their backs on kin and abandon the old, losing their fundamental heart…” The owner’s quiet voice drifted through the stillness of the room, like an ungraspable aphorism.

Zhao Lingrang adjusted his robe and stepped into a side hall of the Yanfu Palace.

It had been two years since Zhao Ji had ascended the throne. Dressed in plain bright-yellow informal robes, he stood in the center of the chamber, hands clasped behind his back, studying with deep concentration the Children Playing in Water hanging before him.

Zhao Lingrang flicked open his folding fan. Despite the room’s open windows, the summer heat clung heavily to the air. He couldn’t understand how his cousin tolerated it so calmly.

He knew that the paintings hanging on the four walls had been personally delivered by the owner of Ya She after Zhao Ji ascended the throne. Not a single coin had been asked in return, which had truly taken him by surprise. At the time, he had assumed that the man’s earlier act of hanging up four blank sheets had been some kind of scheming trick.

Who would have thought the other party would seek nothing at all?

But that was a trivial matter, soon pushed to the back of his mind. His gaze turned toward Zhao Ji with admiration. This elder cousin of his had ascended the throne at the age of 19, repeatedly issuing edicts that encouraged remonstration, drove out treacherous officials, redressed unjust cases, and accepted loyal counsel. All these actions had earned him universal praise from both the court and common folk.

Yet beneath that admiration, Zhao Lingrang felt a faint unease. The factional strife between the Reformists and the Conservatives had raged fiercely since Emperor Zhezong of Song’s reign (1085–1100). He suspected few truly understood whether the Reformists’ policies or the Conservatives’ traditionalist approach was superior.

Lately, however, there were hints of change in the imperial decrees being issued. Though Zhao Lingrang, as a member of the imperial clan, rarely involved himself in state affairs, he had heard that these shifts under Zhao Ji were all tied to the recent rise of Cai Jing in court.

[TL Note: Reformists (新党;xīn dǎng) and Conservatives (旧党;jiù dǎng) are known as New Party and Old Party. However, ‘Reformists’ and ‘Conservatives’ are standard translations in Song historiography.

Cai Jing (蔡京;cài jīng) was a skilled bureaucrat and a staunch Reformist. He had previously served under Zhezong but fell out of favor temporarily. In 1102, Emperor Huizong of Song (aka Zhao Ji) appointed Cai Jing as Grand Councilor (宰相), marking the beginning of his dominance and corruption over the next 20+ years.]

Cai Jing had first won Zhao Ji’s favor for his fine calligraphy. Zhao Lingrang had met him several times, but had never taken a liking to the man—yet he couldn’t find a proper way to voice his concern to Zhao Ji. 

The two of them were no longer merely cousins. He could no longer address him casually as he once had. Whether in private or in public, he now had to bow low and bend both knees in humble deference.

When Zhao Ji returned from his moment of contemplation, Zhao Lingrang hastened to follow court etiquette, kneeling in salute. “Greetings to the Guanjia.” 

(*Author’s Important Note: In the Song dynasty, the emperor was addressed as Guanjia [官家]. The term originates from the classical idea that “the Three Sovereigns ruled for the realm, while the Five Emperors ruled as the realm” [三皇官天下，五帝家天下]. It reflects the Confucian ideal that an emperor must govern with absolute impartiality as a Guanjia—English: Public Ruler.)

“Rise,” Zhao Ji said. The boyishness of his youth had long faded from his face, replaced now with an aloof arrogance born of the highest station. “Danian, I’ve called you here today because I want you to consider something. Don’t you think this Yanfu Palace is a little too small?”

Zhao Lingrang pondered the implication behind those words and was shocked to realize that his cousin intended to expand the palace. Yanfu Palace had always served as one of the Song emperors’ traveling residences—celebrated for its unique elegance—yet no emperor had ever complained it was too small… 

Zhao Lingrang felt the air in the room grow increasingly stifling, as if it were pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.

He knew he had to say something. His throat itched, and with a forced laugh, he heard himself reply, “…Your subject and younger brother also finds it so.”

[TL Note: The term ‘Your subject and younger brother’ (臣弟;chén dì) was used in the Song dynasty (and other imperial Chinese contexts) as a unique form of self-address by male imperial relatives when speaking to the emperor. Its usage reflects a delicate balance between familial ties and political hierarchy. 臣=your subject, 弟=younger brother]

Zhao Ji’s face lit up with imperial delight. He nodded and said with a smile, “Indeed, it is far too hot in here. Let’s go outside and discuss the details!”

With that, he turned and left the side hall first.

Zhao Lingrang drew a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Luxury is easier to embrace than to abandon—habits once forged are hard to break. If this time it was merely the expansion of Yanfu Palace, then what of the next…?

He dared not imagine it. Zhao Ji had once, almost as if telling a joke, recounted the origin of the Four Seasons paintings, saying that the only price for possessing them was to preserve one’s fundamental heart.

Zhao Lingrang gave a bitter smile. Now, it wasn’t only his elder cousin; he himself could no longer hold fast to his own heart and had willingly spoken words against his conscience.

He let out a soundless sigh and turned to leave the side hall. At that very instant, the brushwork of the Children Playing in Water painting upon the wall began, ever so slowly, to fade…

Dressed in plain robes, Zhao Ji strolled down East Avenue, flanked by a few discreet guards.

Time had passed like flowing water—it had been ten full years since his ascension to the throne.

He considered himself an excellent emperor. Though the tangle of state affairs was often difficult to manage, Chancellor Cai (aka Cai Jing) handled them all with ease, freeing him to devote his time and energy to what he loved most—calligraphy and painting. 

He presided over the Hanlin Academy (翰林院), established the Imperial Painting Academy of the Xuanhe era, and even served as its director. Recently, he had been compiling imperial catalogues such as the Xuanhe Calligraphy Catalogue, the Xuanhe Painting Catalogue, and the Xuanhe Illustrated Antiquities.

Yet a matter had recently occurred that left him utterly puzzled, and he urgently needed someone to explain it. According to the informants he had sent, the antique shop named Ya She hadn’t opened its doors in recent days. Word was that a funeral had been held there not long ago.

The owner had died? Zhao Ji frowned. In all these years, he had never once returned to Ya She—why should it be now, of all times?

Sensing the emperor’s unspoken wish, his guards forced the matter. Though the shop remained shuttered, they hacked away the iron lock on the door and pushed it open.

Stepping inside, Zhao Ji found the interior arranged almost exactly as it had been 10 years ago. The very same antiques still lay in place. 

Could business have been so desolate that not a single piece had been sold in an entire decade?

It felt almost as though he had stepped back into the past, especially when he saw the shop’s owner emerge slowly from the inner room.

The man’s brows and eyes remained as youthful as they were a decade ago, exhibiting no discernible alteration. He continued to wear that dark, sophisticated Han-style robe, his complexion as pale as white paper.

At once, Zhao Ji understood who it was that had died. He sighed softly and said, “My condolences.”

Within Ya She, there were only the same two people he had encountered all those years ago. Since the owner stood before him now, it could only mean that the one who had been buried was Le’er. 

10 years ago, the boy had been but two years old—even with a decade gone by, he would have been no more than 12 years old. Over the years, Zhao Ji had watched several of his own sons perish in youth, and in that instant, he felt a twitch of shared grief, a kinship of sorrow with the owner.

“There’s nothing to it. His time had come, and he went as he should.” The owner’s face was ashen, yet he feigned indifference, as though it mattered little that the child he had cherished for so many years had departed so lightly. His voice turned cool as he asked, “What pressing matter brings the Guanjia to stoop to this place today?”

Zhao Ji could hear the impatience in his tone, but he didn’t take offense to it. After all, when one’s dearest had just passed away, who would be in any mood for courtesy? 

With a lift of his hand, Zhao Ji signaled to the guard beside him. The latter stepped forward and presented a narrow brocade box. At another flick of Zhao Ji’s sleeve, the guards filed out in practiced order, leaving Zhao Ji and the owner alone.

Zhao Ji carefully unfastened the box, withdrew a scroll from it, and spread the scroll across the long table.

The paper was blank.

The owner’s gaze settled on the empty scroll. His expression didn’t change, but his brow lifted slightly in recognition.

“Which of the Four Seasons is this meant to be?” he asked quietly.

Zhao Ji nervously licked his lips. “It is the Children Playing in Water. The Spring Excursion is still hanging there intact. But the Children Playing in Water had long since turned into nothing but a blank scroll. I thought perhaps some palace servant had damaged it by accident and replaced it with a sheet of white paper. Yet yesterday, I suddenly noticed that even the Falling Leaves was beginning to fade in color. That was when I realized something was amiss…”

The owner gave a faint smile and spoke with unhurried calm, “Everything in this world follows its own balance. Since you have chosen to grasp limitless power and wealth, yet have failed to preserve your fundamental heart, then naturally the Four Seasons must take its recompense.”

“What recompense?” Zhao Ji pressed urgently.

“This is the Children Playing in Water.” The owner only smiled again. He didn’t give a direct answer, but instead lightly repeated the painting’s name.

Zhao Ji felt as though someone had seized his throat, leaving him utterly unable to speak. He was currently 29 years old, yet apart from the eldest son born before his ascension, not a single prince had survived to grow up. Without exception, all had died in infancy…

He had long sensed something amiss. One or two children dying young might be attributed to misfortune, but for every child to perish before the age of five was far too bizarre… He had always believed that someone must have cursed them in secret, yet never did he imagine that the calamity had sprung from a painting…

“Boss… how… how can this be resolved?” Though he was an emperor, Zhao Ji knew that he was still but a mortal man. He was powerless against matters of gods and spirits.

The owner gave no reply. He slowly raised his hand and began to roll the scroll back up, inch by inch. Only then did Zhao Ji notice that on the wide sleeve of the owner’s Han robe, on the right side, there was a neat cut, as though made by a sharp sword.

Zhao Ji knew that this garment must be one of the owner’s most cherished possessions. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have worn it for an entire decade, nor would he continue wearing it even after it was marred. Since he had come seeking the man’s aid, Zhao Ji sought to please him and said, “Boss, this robe is torn. Send it to the Imperial Embroidery Bureau to mend. I assure you, the embroideresses of the Imperial Embroidery Bureau possess skills that are second to none.”

The owner’s hand faltered slightly as he rolled up the scroll, clearly moved by Zhao Ji’s suggestion. The Imperial Embroidery Bureau was the emperor’s own atelier of embroidery. 

Perhaps, there was still hope. 

He wasn’t yet willing to die. Le’er had been the reincarnation of Fusu, yet even so, he had been powerless to prevent his death at the age of 12. Still, he wouldn’t resign himself to such an end. For countless centuries, he had endured, though the Sword of Goujian had once left its mark upon his robe, he still yearned to continue living. This was his only lingering obsession, and Zhao Ji had struck precisely upon that hidden weakness.

“Guanjia, this robe is no common cloth,” the owner said as his gaze wavered slightly. “Ordinary embroideresses can’t take it in hand. And I must be present in the room while it is being mended.”

Zhao Ji nodded repeatedly. Such a request was hardly worth mentioning. He, too, had noticed that the garment seemed to be a relic from the Qin or Han dynasties, which explained the owner’s fierce attachment to it.

After a moment of deep reflection, the owner shuttered the antique shop of Ya She and followed Zhao Ji back to his palace outside the city walls—Yanfu Palace.

In the spring of the third year of the Zhenghe era, Zhao Ji officially ordered the renovation and expansion of Yanfu Palace, which came to be known as the Five Districts of Yanfu. Its new eastern and western reaches stretched as far as the imperial palace itself, falling short only in its north–south span—in truth, it was little less than a second palace built for Zhao Ji alone. 

From the Jinglong Gate in the east to the Tianbo Gate in the west, the grounds boasted resplendent halls and pavilions, a vista of elegance and grandeur. Artificial mountains rose from skillfully piled rocks, ponds were carved to resemble miniature oceans, and natural springs were channeled into tranquil lakes. The grounds were adorned with rare and marvelous creatures alongside precious flowers and trees, transforming the entire place into what seemed an earthly paradise. Since its completion, Zhao Ji became so enamored with the palace that he spent the majority of his time there, seldom returning to the main imperial residence.

Despite the palace’s opulence, Zhao Ji had certainly meant to flaunt it. Yet as he led the owner along, not the slightest trace of wonder appeared upon the owner’s face. Instead, he seemed indifferent to the splendor before him.

Drawing a breath, Zhao Ji resolved that once the construction of Longevity Hill was complete, he would bring the owner there again. He refused to believe the man could remain unmoved.

The owner, however, looked upon the profusion of rare blossoms and the ranks of palaces and towers rising one after another, and sighed helplessly in his heart.

Such a foolish ruler. It would be weird if the Falling Leaves didn’t wither at its very beginning!

The owner took up residence in one of the side halls of the Yanfu Palace. At present, the palace complex was vast beyond measure, and his presence scarcely made a difference. Zhao Ji, after a few days of warmly receiving him, gradually ceased to come. But having seen no sign that the owner intended to advise him on how to preserve his lineage, he gradually stopped visiting.

As for Four Seasons, Zhao Ji kept only the intact Spring Excursion and Treading on Snow. The unfinished Children Playing in Water and the faintly sketched Falling Leaves were both sent to the owner’s place. He carefully stored away Children Playing in Water, while Falling Leaves hung upon the wall of the side hall where he lodged.

Zhao Lingrang often came by to talk with him. Perhaps it was because a leisure-bound prince had nothing better to do, or perhaps it was out of disillusionment with the state of court and country. Each time he came, he would drink, and once he had drunk his fill, his grievances would pour out one after another.

“Hey! Tell me, Boss, do you have any way to help my elder cousin sire a son?” Zhao Lingrang slurred, swaying his wine cup. Only when drunk did he call the reigning emperor “elder cousin.” When sober, he could only address him with the proper reverence as Guanjia.

The owner replied with a faint smile, “He was the one insisting on mending my clothes for me. I never agreed to help him in return.”

Zhao Lingrang stared for a moment, then nodded in admiration. “A true profiteer! Indeed, a true profiteer! Admirable! Very admirable!”

Profiteer?

The owner lowered his gaze to his right hand, where half of a crimson dragon claw had already been sewn. Each day, after the seamstresses had stitched, he insisted on putting on the robe himself. By now, Zhao Ji must surely have heard from others that the red threads used in the embroidery were dyed in his own blood.

The fabric of this robe was no common material. Every line and pattern of the weave followed a precise arrangement that couldn’t be mended at will, nor could ordinary silk thread be used to patch it.

And in pursuit of the most flawless restoration of this robe, Zhao Ji had even drawn the embroidery pattern of the dragon with his own hand.

Heh… The owner let out a faint chuckle. Zhao Ji must have guessed what purpose this robe served, hadn’t he?

A cold sneer escaped across the owner’s lips. In truth, was it not that Zhao Ji wished to claim the robe for himself?

Otherwise, how could a mere commoner dare to wear a robe embroidered with a dragon?

The dragon motif was the sole prerogative of the imperial household. What Zhao Ji coveted was that one day, he might drape this robe over his own body.

Zhao Lingrang failed to notice the change in the owner’s expression. He went on pouring wine and grumbled, “Profiteers may be unscrupulous, but at least they can be tolerated. The ones most hateful are treacherous officials! Cai Jing actually wants to rebuild the city walls that were personally designed by Emperor Taizu!”

The owner was momentarily stunned upon hearing it. The Eastern Capital, Bianliang, lay in the very heart of the realm, flat and wide open, a land vulnerable to military disaster. It had neither mountains as natural barriers nor passes as lines of defense. Its only advantage lay in its flourishing waterways and accessible transport routes, yet these very conveniences left it difficult to guard. With no natural defenses to rely on, the capital had to depend upon fortified walls—thick, solid, and unyielding—in place of mountains, and heavily armored troops in place of mountain passes.

The fortification plan drawn by Emperor Taizu himself was full of twists and turns, as intricate and puzzling as a riddle. At the time, no one could decipher the emperor’s intent, but they nevertheless followed his design faithfully. It was precisely this that had safeguarded the Song dynasty, ensuring centuries of peace and stability.

“Cai Jing, that scoundrel, actually thinks the outer city walls are chaotic and unsightly! He wants to order the walls rebuilt, turning the winding curves into a neat, square enclosure. Is that not sheer madness?” Zhao Lingrang, drunk and unruly, slammed the table and roared in anger. He tried to go on, but the alcohol had already dulled his mind, and before long, he sank into a heavy sleep.

The owner gazed at Falling Leaves, the painting on the wall, whose colors had faded to near invisibility. His expression was unreadable as he said quietly, “Indeed, madness. To encircle people within a square… is that not the very character for ‘prisoner’?”

[TL Note: Cai Jing wanted to rebuild the walls in the shape of 口, while the word ‘prisoner’ in Chinese is 囚(qiú). What’s more ironic is that inside the 口 character of 囚 is 人(human/people).]

The crimson dragon robe had taken two full years to complete. The threads, once stained with the owner’s own blood, together with the meticulous skill of dozens of seamstresses in the Imperial Embroidery Bureau, brought the dragon to life. It coiled and clawed upon the fabric as though it were a living creature, so lifelike and awe-inspiring that one might believe it destined, someday, to rule over the world. 

Perfection—no other word could describe it.

Yet Zhao Ji never obtained the robe as he had wished. Before he could bring himself to seize it, regardless of dignity, the owner had already vanished. Like a phantom, he slipped away from the heavily guarded imperial city without a trace.

He took with him only the blank scroll of Children Playing in Water, while the pale, lonely Falling Leaves still hung on the wall. Each time Zhao Ji looked upon it, his heart would jolt with dread, as though an unseen hand clutched at his chest. Unable to endure the sight, he ordered it to be put away.

The Four Seasons had already taken his children from him. He dared not imagine what it might claim from him next.

Two years passed in this lingering fear. At the age of 33, Zhao Ji still had no heirs aside from the Crown Prince. One day, Zhao Lingrang brought a Daoist priest from Maoshan Mountain. After assessing the feng shui of the palace grounds, the priest declared that the northeastern—the Gen position—of the imperial complex was geographically too low, which obstructed the imperial lineage. In response, Zhao Ji ordered the northeast corner of the palace to be elevated, constructing an elegantly designed artificial hill there.

Strangely enough, once the hill was completed, joyful tidings arrived in succession. One after another, imperial sons were born, each healthy, lively, and delightful. Convinced at last that the Four Seasons was no more than a deception, Zhao Ji’s devotion to Daoist arts grew all the deeper.

Meanwhile, the long and costly renovations to the city walls were gradually completed. Time sped on, and Zhao Ji sank ever further into his passion for grand constructions. The extravagant demands of the Huashi Gang left the people in misery, yet he cared nothing for affairs of state, abandoning himself entirely to pleasure.

When the Jin troops advanced south and besieged Bianjing, their commanding general, upon seeing the uniformly reinforced city walls, gleefully positioned artillery batteries at the corners. Because the walls had been rebuilt in a straight line, a single volley could easily tear them down. The capital of the Great Song was like a maiden stripped of her garments, left entirely vulnerable against the iron cavalry of the Jin.

Zhao Ji wavered in the bitter wind, his heart in turmoil. Within the imperial palace, beauty still met the eye at every turn, yet from afar came the faint rumble of cannon fire. The sight before him was one of intoxicating splendor, but in his soul, he felt as though he had fallen into a realm of demons.

In his hand, he clutched the rolled-up Treading on Snow. Only a few days earlier, when the Jin laid siege to the city, he had thought of the Four Seasons. Yet when he sought out the Falling Leaves, he found nothing but a sheet of blank white paper.

Two years earlier, he had abdicated the throne and passed the crown to the Crown Prince. Even so, though he had renounced the supreme seat of power, it couldn’t alter the course of defeat.

Was it his country that was to be taken away this time?

Chaos reigned within the palace. Maids and eunuchs, as if facing the end of the world, broke past the guards’ attempts to stop them and rushed toward the gates. At first, the guards drew their blades, slashing to intimidate, but Zhao Ji couldn’t bear the sight. He raised his hand, ordering them to let the people through. At once, order disintegrated into frenzy. The once-glorious palace seemed to have turned into a ravenous beast, driving all to flee for their lives.

Zhao Ji’s heart ached when he noticed a pot of Sichuan peonies overturned upon the ground, trampled and ignored. Unable to restrain himself, he stepped forward, lifted it with his own hands, and gently brushed the dust from its blossoms. He gazed at the flowers, blooming in their fullest glory, and for a moment, the roar of cannon fire and the shrieks of panic seemed to fade far into the distance, leaving him in an island of stillness.

The world cursed him as a foolish emperor, lost in indulgence and pleasure. But… but… His hand trembled as it caressed the fragile petals. For at his core, he was nothing more than a leisurely prince, fond of calligraphy and painting, tending flowers and plants.

Suddenly, it felt as though a sigh drifted from afar. Zhao Ji turned toward the sound and, amidst the panicked crowd, caught a glimpse of a familiar crimson dragon. But in the blink of an eye, it vanished.

Was it him? 

Had he come to reclaim Fallen Leaves?

“Your Majesty, please take refuge in the Yanfu Palace!” a guard stepped forward and whispered.

Zhao Ji cast one lingering glance at the palace city where he had been raised, his throat tightening until he couldn’t speak.

“The western wind all night long. Rattles at my broken door. In the desert hostel flickers low, my lamp’s lonely glow. I turn toward my native land, lost three thousand miles away. I see no wild geese fly, ‘Neath the southern sky.”

Never in his lifetime had Zhao Ji imagined that he would end as a prisoner.

He was once a sovereign of the highest order, an emperor who held the Mandate of Heaven! Yet now, after nine years of imprisonment, he was left to endure his remaining days in bitter exile in the remotest northern town of Wuguocheng (modern Yilan in Heilongjiang province).

Zhao Ji lifted his hand and gazed at the full moon above. Today was the 15th day of the first month—the Lantern Festival. 

During his reign, each year’s Lantern Festival had been marked by a night-long celebration, and all of Bianjing would be illuminated until dawn. From the palace gates, festive towers were built, lanterns filled the courtyards, and candlelight turned night into day, stretching endlessly in a magnificent display.

Oh, yes—there would also be cartloads of burning aloeswood, and at last, the fireworks soaring into the heavens…

In a daze, he seemed still to catch the lingering fragrance of aloeswood, and to glimpse once more the brilliant fireworks that had once carved radiant streaks across the night sky…

Zhao Ji pulled his thin autumn robe tighter around him. During the nine years of his northern captivity, deprivation of food and clothing had been commonplace. Many of his sons had perished of hunger before his eyes. Closing his eyes, he felt the bitter sting of tears breaking free. He tried not to think of them, yet the images rose unbidden—his children’s sallow faces, their frail bodies writhing in pain, their anguished moans that still echoed in his ears.

Slowly, he unfolded the Treading on Snow. Of the set known as the Four Seasons, this was the only one left in his hands. The Jin invaders had seized all his treasures, sparing only this piece. Perhaps because the pigments had already faded, and to those ignorant of Central Plains culture, it had seemed nothing more than a meaningless scribble.

Suddenly, something stirred within him. Zhao Ji felt a tremor of awareness and raised his head. Through the whirling snow, he beheld first of all a crimson dragon, lifelike and magnificent.

“You… you have come at last.” Zhao Ji’s heart was a tangle of emotions as his gaze fell upon the owner’s unchanged features.

However, he himself had grown old, his temples gray, his body withered like that of a broken man, a far cry from the days when he had ridden boldly within the palace grounds, reckless in the arrogance of youth. Yet the other remained exactly as he had been more than 30 years ago, when they had first met—young and untouched by time.

“Yes. I have come to reclaim Treading on Snow.” The owner’s faint smile carried the air of one who had waited far too long.

“Why me? Why must it be me!” Zhao Ji’s chest heaved with the anguish that had knotted there for nine long years of captivity. “Why was I the one chosen by the Four Seasons?”

The owner’s lips curved in a mocking smile. His voice was calm, yet it struck like iron, “Strange as it sounds, this dynasty of yours is one unlike any other. It possessed dazzling prosperity and a cultural brilliance later generations could scarcely match, yet it suffered from chronic poverty and weakness, perpetually pressured by neighboring peoples. Though rife with court disputes, its governance was remarkably transparent by historical standards, and even a literatus could critique state affairs without fear of persecution. Technologically, it grew ever more astonishing—movable-type printing, gunpowder, and the compass—these three inventions would undoubtedly reshape the future.”

He paused. In his usually indifferent eyes, a rare flicker of emotions of grief, regret, and anger.

“But the printing press that might have spread wisdom was squandered on Daoist scriptures. The gunpowder that might have slain enemies was turned into fireworks for amusement. And the compass, meant to carry men across seas, is held in hand by those who divine feng shui…”

Each word cut into Zhao Ji like the stroke of a blade. He collapsed to his knees in the snow, pierced with unbearable grief. He knew well that it was he who had squandered the legacy of his ancestors. He was the sinner who had brought a great dynasty to ruin.

And in truth, he understood why of the four scrolls, only the Spring Excursion had never faded. Before the age of 20, he had lived up to his fundamental heart. But once enthroned, he had lasted scarcely a year and a half as a worthy sovereign before being consumed, corrupted utterly by absolute power and unbounded wealth.

If he were given the chance to start over, what would he do?

Would he strive to become a wise sovereign?

If his elder brother hadn’t died, if he had remained a carefree prince with no burdens upon his shoulders, would the Great Song now stand in its zenith, flourishing like the midday sun?

Zhao Ji felt the snowflakes fall upon his face. They melted into tiny droplets, slowly sliding down his cheek before dropping onto the snow, turning into a crystal bead of ice.

How beautiful it was… Snow drifting across the heavens, fine and dense, adorning the world in silver white. It was like a pure and graceful maiden, seated in poise and dignity. If he had a brush in hand, he would paint this very scene rather than think upon the endless affairs of state and the entanglements of court…

How laughable, how utterly laughable. At the very brink of death, what he still thought of were such frail and powerless things. And yet, the greatest irony was that this was precisely what he had spent his whole life pursuing the so-called ideal.

He had never wished to be an emperor wielding boundless power. 

One suffered because they pursued what they were never meant to seek.

The owner spoke no further after seeing Zhao Ji’s dazed expression.

Fundamental heart—how many can truly preserve it amid the boundless temptations of power and wealth? 

Not only Zhao Ji, but even Zhao Lingrang, under the slow grinding of time, had betrayed his own fundamental heart.

The owner sighed. 

Was he himself any different? 

Could he truly say that he had never strayed from his own fundamental heart?

“In your next life, just be a simple painter…” The owner gently pulled Treading on Snow from Zhao Ji’s hands. Zhao Ji felt a deep reluctance. He summoned all his strength to tighten his grip, but still couldn’t hold onto the scroll. He watched helplessly as it slipped away like flowing water, the pale paper as white as the snow beneath him.

Slowly, Zhao Ji closed his eyes. He knew that this time, what the Four Seasons was taking away was his very life…

The story ended amidst the falling snow. Long after the owner’s voice had faded, the doctor still found it hard to believe. 

That painter, a reincarnation of Emperor Huizong of Song?

He had always known the guests of Ya She were no ordinary people. But to think that stubborn young man, unwilling to bow even in death, had once been a sovereign emperor of the realm!

“The fall of the Northern Song wasn’t entirely his fault. His elder brother reigned well only because Emperor Zhezong ascended the throne before the age of 10 and received an education designed for a crown prince. Zhao Ji, on the other hand, was born destined to be a leisurely prince. The Song dynasty kept strict watch over the imperial clan. For princes, the furthest journey permitted was to the royal tombs outside the capital, to offer sacrifice. They were forbidden to leave the city, forbidden to take part in state affairs…”

As the owner spoke, he recalled with some quiet regret. Zhao Lingrang, too, had been a rare talent. Yet bound by ancestral prohibitions upon the imperial kin, he could never give full flight to his ambitions, forced instead to seek solace in landscape and calligraphy, in wine and revelry.

The doctor, filled with sighs, didn’t know what to say. At that moment, he saw the painter emerge from the inner room, followed closely by the curator leaning upon his cane.

“You came out rather early today,” the owner remarked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

“Mm, I’ve finished the painting. Naturally, I came out early.” The painter curled his lip. He had always been arrogant, yet toward the owner, he showed a rare trace of courtesy.

The doctor, however, was never one to read faces. The moment he heard that the painting was complete, he eagerly leaned forward and asked, “Could you let me see it?”

At the doctor’s forwardness, the painter’s mouth twitched. Though full of reluctance, he nevertheless yielded for the owner’s sake. He drew the scroll carefully from its tube and spread it open upon the counter.

The Treading on Snow was, in truth, the same scene as the Spring Excursion, differing only in season. Measuring 80cm in length, the painting captured within its span magnificent mountains and rivers, as well as travelers returning through the snow. The composition revealed a vast expanse where water and sky seemed to merge, blue-green mountains veiled in white, a lake glittering in ripples. A lone rider urged his horse across the snowy plain, snowflakes swirling in the air, the whole world sparkling in crystalline brilliance—breathtaking in its beauty.

The mountains and water were heavily adorned in shades of blue and white. The mountain bases were accented with mud gold, while the tree branches on the slopes were rendered directly with ochre for the trunks. The accumulated snow on leaves was dotted horizontally using water-settled pigment. Most trees were outlined, yet the pine trees were omitted from fine needle details, but with dots of deep green. The figures were first sketched in powder white, then accentuated with heavier hues to delineate the folds of their robes.

The doctor had always thought traditional Chinese landscape paintings could never compare to Western oil paintings in their realism. Yet as he studied this scroll more carefully, he realized it truly lived up to the praise of “a thousand miles captured in a foot of space.” In such a limited space, it unfolded the vast scenery of rivers and mountains stretching for thousands of miles.

[TL Note: This phrase, “a thousand miles captured in a foot of space.” (咫尺有千里趣;zhǐ chǐ yǒu qiān lǐ qù), is a classic Chinese aesthetic principle in landscape painting, particularly associated with the Tang and Song dynasties. It encapsulates the idea of creating vast, immersive spatial illusion within a limited physical format.]

He nodded repeatedly, unable to fully articulate what he was feeling. Almost instinctively, he blurted out, “Is this painting for sale? How much?” 

In his mind, all painters painted for the sake of selling their work. Otherwise, what was the point of painting at all?

The curator, standing nearby, nearly blew out his beard in outrage. He had wanted to make an offer too, but knowing that the painter had completed it with just one stroke a day, he felt that even entertaining the thought of buying it was an act of desecration. And judging by the painter’s proud and aloof demeanor, he was clearly someone who held himself in the highest regard. The doctor’s careless words would only offend him.

But unexpectedly, the painter immediately replied, “Sold,” and gestured a number with his hand.

The doctor was taken aback. “That is far too expensive. Could you lower it a little?” To a man like him, living on a salary, the figure was nothing short of astronomical.

The curator anxiously gestured, indicating he was willing to pay that very sum. Yet before he could utter a word, the painter had already replied coolly, “No.” And as he spoke, he began slowly tearing the painting apart.

The curator’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. He couldn’t save it in time, and in regret, he pounded his chest in despair. 

Good heavens! Even if he didn’t already suffer from heart disease, these men would surely give him one! 

That painting was worth every bit of the price he had been prepared to offer. No one in the world knew what the other three scrolls of Four Seasons looked like—this reproduction was unquestionably priceless!

The doctor watched in shock as the painter destroyed the work he had spent years creating. He sighed helplessly, “I was just casually bargaining! Why did you have to tear it up?”

“It is nothing. I believed this painting was worth that price. But the fact that you bargained tells me that, in your heart, it wasn’t good enough. If it’s not good enough, why keep it at all? I will simply strive harder on the next one.” With a proud tilt of his chin, he cast the ruined scroll into the fire, then picked up his painting tube and strode away with unshaken composure.

The doctor was left speechless, and when the curator finally recovered his strength, he lashed out at him in a tirade. Only then did the doctor realize that the most difficult people to deal with in this world were artists. One careless word could easily offend them, for their thoughts seemed to run on an entirely different frequency!

It took great effort to finally see the curator off. Afterward, the doctor collapsed into a chair, utterly drained, unwilling to move an inch.

The owner chuckled, “Don’t take it to heart. In this lifetime, he has never concealed his fundamental heart. He acts as he pleases, and lives far more freely.”

“I’m not taking it to heart!” the doctor huffed. That painter must have been a perfectionist who had long intended to destroy the painting, using this merely as an excuse. “Regardless of what his temperament may be, he’s strange beyond reason. No wonder I couldn’t stand him even back then!” 

He understood well enough that in the tale, the boy who had died at 12, Le’er, was none other than the reincarnation of Fusu.

“That was only one of your reincarnations. You have no memories of it,” the owner said with a smile.

“Hmph, who says I don’t? Maybe I do!” the doctor retorted.

“Oh? Then does that mean you remember dating a man?” The owner casually dropped a bombshell.

“What?” The doctor felt as though lightning had struck him. He nearly tumbled out of his chair.

“Heh… but that’s an entirely different story…”