Extras (5): Ke Mu

For a long time after the new dynasty had settled, Ke Hongxue never realised anything was amiss.

He had defied the will of the world and returned with Sheng Fuze’s severed head. In response, Ke Wenrui and Ke Xuebo devised whatever means they could to preserve his life, and the peace of the Ke household.

Ke Hongxue washed the head clean, stripped away the rotting flesh, and polished the skull until it shone—gleaming as if it could catch the moonlight, restored once more to the countenance of an immortal beneath the lunar glow.

Grand Tutor Ke had said only, “His Highness should now be laid to rest.”

So Ke Hongxue obeyed. He erected a tomb for Sheng Fuze. An empty grave, clad in robes alone. The Third Prince had left behind more garments in the Ke residence than could be counted; a few carefully chosen pieces were enough to dress the dead.

On the day the coffin was lowered, Ke Wenrui looked long at his grandson, and let out a heavy sigh.

Ke Hongxue appeared perfectly ordinary in every way. Except that he insisted on keeping the skull by his side at all times, never parting with it, taking it wherever he went.

At home, “Sheng Fuze” slept beside him at the head of his bed. At the academy, the “Third Prince” waited quietly in the corner of his dormitory, there to greet him when lessons were done.

In the first year after Sheng Fuze’s passing, Ke Hongxue learned how to drink.

He downed cup after cup of heady liquor, yet never showed the slightest trace of intoxication.

Silently, he refuted Sheng Fuze’s old teasing that he could not handle his wine. In truth, he thought, he could outdrink most men.

In the second year, at the Lantern Festival, the academy hosted a grand celebration. Lanterns were strung between the trees; riddles fluttered beneath each one like blossoms in the wind. Cheers rose in waves from the central square. In the midst of it all, some bold and oblivious student remarked, “Bro, your talent in verse is surely a match for His Highness the Third Prince in his day.”

Though the court shunned all mention of the previous dynasty, the common folk paid no heed to which emperor sat the throne. Among the young scholars, fire burned hot; and if any remembered fragments of that past, they did not fear to speak them. Even forbidden names could be revived in the hush of student gossip.

But in that moment, Ke Hongxue’s footsteps faltered.

Through the shifting shadows and the soft, kaleidoscopic glow of lanterns, he gazed upon the bustling crowd. Youths in high spirits, laughter and praise woven in harmony.

All the verses ever penned in praise of springtime youth could be lavished on such a scene: a school in festival, a night ablaze with joy. And at the heart of it, he saw a young man in a crimson coat, dazzling as a winter-blooming flower beneath the stars.

A classmate had said: not inferior in the least to the Third Prince.

The youth merely smiled, and shook his head with a hint of wistful regret. “But that gentleman has passed, and only his name remains. We’ll never truly know the measure of him now.”

He wasn’t upset at being compared to Sheng Fuze.

What rankled was the sense that Sheng Fuze had triumphed by accident, by timing and title. The world sang his praises, but who could say whether those tales had not grown bloated with embellishment? Had he lived, would he have faded like any other, just another star swallowed by the sky?

Ke Hongxue felt a chill bloom in his chest. Unbidden, his limbs began to tremble.

He realised, quite suddenly, that all this time… more than a year now… he had walked through life as though nothing were wrong, but in truth he had become something petrified and hollow. A rotting branch locked in ice. Too numb even to feel the cold.

And when the ice began to melt, when some faint warmth broke through, it would only awaken him for an instant before he cracked apart, inch by inch, and slipped into the current of the glacial river, his own death delayed by fragments.

At some point, the head of the academy had come to stand beside him. He surveyed the students with their bright eyes and foolish pride, then shook his head gently and said, in that calm, distant voice: “The mayfly knows not winter. And the sparrow dares to judge the swan.”

Ke Hongxue felt the warmth begin to return to his body. He turned and looked at the master.

He thought: the headmaster had met Sheng Fuze. He had spoken with the Third Prince. He, at least, would know what kind of man that celebrated prince had been.

But what of the others?

Those who had never seen Sheng Fuze in life, who had only glimpsed the ruin of his severed head, rotting on the tower?

Those who had been slowly ensnared by the new emperor’s rhetoric, convinced that all which came before was wicked and diseased?

No one had truly known Sheng Fuze. No one remembered His Highness.

Ke Hongxue did not attend the drinking party that followed. In a daze, he returned to his lodgings and stood gazing at the skull. Then, in the wan light of early spring, he blinked slowly, flexing his fingers. It was as though he had awakened—not from sleep, but from one nightmare only to plunge into another, deeper dream.

He turned, stood before his wardrobe, and stared for a long while.

Then he reached in and drew out a robe the colour of spring flame. Bright, bold red.

He stood before the mirror and practised smiling.

He was still Ke Hongxue. The only Ke Hongxue left in this world who truly knew Sheng Fuze. The one most like him. The one most helplessly, hopelessly bound.

And so, the Ke family in the capital lost a silent, snowbound boy who never smiled, while Linyuan Academy gained a dashing young gentleman, carefree and dazzling.

Time and again, Ke Hongxue placed first in the examinations. At first, he would smile at the classmate from that Lantern Festival night and ask, “Bro, how did you rank this time? Did anything in the master’s lecture confuse you? Would you like to borrow my notes?”

Charming, but cutting.

Graceful and generous. Yet petty to the last detail.

Later, after he had teased each one of them in turn, Ke Hongxue grew bored, and began befriending them instead.

When one is blessed with family, beauty, brilliance, fortune, and flawless conduct, people’s hearts are easily won.

No matter how bitterly they might have resented him before, a few cups of wine and a few rounds of verse were enough to draw them in. Soon, they were scrambling to outdo one another for his favour, tripping over themselves to get close.

Another year passed. On New Year’s Eve, fireworks lit up the skies above the capital. Yu capital gleamed in decadent splendour.

Ke Hongxue stood in his courtyard, watching the smoke spiral skyward… when, all at once, he remembered what he had forgotten.

Sheng Fuze had promised to choose a courtesy name for him.

Now he had turned twenty, and was of age to receive one. But Sheng Fuze…?

The Third Prince of the old dynasty would remain forever eighteen, like those fireworks bursting briefly overhead. Brilliant, but fleeting.

In the end, his capping ceremony was held at the Ke residence. The master of the academy was invited to grant him a name: Hanying.

Snow-petal. It echoed his given name, not to complete it, but merely to embellish it. An ornament, nothing more.

The Grand Tutor asked, “Now that you have your courtesy name, shall we have a seal carved?”

Ke Hongxue blinked once, a smile rising habitually to his lips. “I’ll leave it to Grandfather to decide.”

Ke Wenrui asked, “And what of the seal with no name?”

Ke Hongxue hesitated for a moment, then smiled softly. “It’s been too long. I’m not sure where I left it. You may find another piece of jade, and have it engraved anew.”

And so another year passed, like water slipping through the hands.

Ke Hongxue now answered also to Ke Hanying. First-rank scholar of the academy, the Ke family’s radiant heir in the capital of Yu, a regular at Fengyue House, a poet whose verses graced Liujin Parlour.

Across all the capital, and throughout Linyuan Academy, name after name of former heroes had long since been buried beneath the dust.

And now, not one could rival him in glory.

But he never sat the imperial examinations. He merely remained at the academy. Day in, day out; year upon year.

He completed the masters’ assignments with unwavering excellence, had penned countless treatises on statecraft. Yet whenever someone brought up entering officialdom, Ke Hongxue would only smile and shake his head. “How dull,” he would say.

Some praised his unshackled temperament. Others admired his easy bearing. Some envied his brilliance, and more than a few sneered at his arrogance.

But none ever managed to surpass him.

Two years passed. At the age of twenty-two, a new student joined the academy.

By seniority, the man should have been a junior. But he was the son of a respected master, and slightly older than most. So all called him senior.

At a wine table one evening, a friend of Hongxue’s remarked, half in jest, “Hanying, the young master from the Mu household—he’s every bit as cold as you were when you first arrived.”

Hongxue took a slow sip of his peach blossom wine, his lashes lowered, listening idly to the music played by the courtesan in the corner. “Is that so?” he said lightly. “I don’t even remember what I was like back then.”

In truth, he had no wish to remember. So while his peers made trips in groups to observe the new Senior Mu, Ke Hongxue remained in his courtyard, seated in silence before a desk, painting at leisure. Opposite him, the bare skull.

Those who went returned disappointed. When they spoke of the Mu boy, they could only shake their heads.

“Too cold,” they said. “Too proud. Impossible to befriend.”

At the time, Hongxue was still working on his painting. The skull remained fixed on the table, white and polished. His friends were long used to it, the way he kept a head indoors, dusting it every day, as if it were some sacred relic.

They teased that Ke Hongxue was a rake, leaving broken hearts in his wake. But to his mind, the look Ke Hanying gave the famed courtesans of Yu capital couldn’t hold a candle to the way he himself looked at those bones.

The brush slowed. A final stroke. He turned his gaze to the youth he had painted, and smiled. “Pride is the scholar’s common malady,” he said. “Nothing rare.”

Someone tutted. “The monthly exam’s coming. We’ll see whether Senior Mu work lives up to his arrogance.”

Hongxue said nothing. When the exam concluded, the list was posted.

He had been first on every list since he was nineteen. The novelty had long worn off; he no longer bothered to check.

But he happened to pass the board that day. When he heard the sharp intake of breath around him, he paused.

“Could the master have leaked the questions early?” someone muttered.

He turned, confused… and saw, for the first time in six years, a name printed above his own.

An odd flicker of interest stirred. “What’s Senior Mu full name?” he asked.

His friend gave him a strange look. “You really never knew? Jingxu. Mu Jingxu. ‘Clear and bright’ Jingxu, ‘the right season’ Jingxu.”

At the very top of the red list: Mu Jingxu.

For the first time, Ke Hongxue’s indifference wavered.

Clear and bright. Jingxu. A name that evoked blossoming spring and snowfall alike. A name that made all seasons feel worthy of remembrance.

The academy dorms were assigned by rank. Hongxue had always lived alone in a two-person courtyard. Firstly, because no one had ever matched his scores; secondly, because he preferred solitude.

That day, while others gaped at the list, Hongxue returned to his courtyard and saw, for the first time, the west wing lit from within.

He and Mu Jingxu were in different disciplines. Even after living together for over a month, they had not met.

One afternoon, as he sat at the window painting, a friend dragged him down the mountain to drink. By the time he returned, the moon had filled the garden with silver.

There was a new dancer in the capital, graceful and slow of limb. Hongxue had drunk more than usual and, under the cool night sky, felt a rare drunken haze settle over him.

He pushed open the courtyard gate… and saw someone standing beneath the moon.

Clad in white, long hair loose, an unreadable expression on his face.

Something faint and quick flickered… as though memory and illusion had entangled. For a moment, Hongxue hesitated to move forward.

Until the man turned, met his gaze across the courtyard.

The night air stilled. And in that one look, inexplicably, Hongxue saw something like… release.

He composed himself, stepped forward, and offered a smiling greeting. “Back from the library, Senior?”

Mu Jingxu gave a slight nod. His nose twitched faintly, catching the scent of wine, and he frowned. Almost as if about to lecture him.

Hongxue pretended not to notice. He had no wish to be admonished.

As he passed Mu Jingxu, he glanced back, following the other’s line of sight. From there, one could see straight through the open window into his room: an unfinished painting, and a skull opposite it, blank and pale.

Ah. That’s what startled him.

Hongxue hesitated, just about to explain, when Mu Jingxu finally spoke.

His voice was as cold and clear as spring water striking jade. “Since when did the academy offer classes for coroners? And why is Junior keeping a skull in your bedchamber?”

The chill was palpable. Any intention to apologise vanished instantly.

Ke Hongxue turned to face him. His gaze turned sharp. Its cold edge rarely shown to outsiders.

“I am his widow,” he said evenly. “Why should I not keep him by my side?”

Then, softly but pointedly: “Senior, perhaps you’re overstepping.”

The author has something to say:

San ge: …Excuse me? Whose widow? Do you even know whose head that is before you decided to marry him?? I didn’t even get to propose… (sulking intensifies.jpg)