Chapter Thirty-Seven: Approaching the End of the Year

Lin Miaomiao truly had no idea why Li Yanhé was acting this way, but her intuition told her that whoever could move Li Yanhé’s frosty exterior must be someone of great, great importance to him. Only being hurt by someone so important could leave him with such an expression—on the verge of tears. Feeling a surge of sadness for him, Lin Miaomiao placed some food on Li Yanhé’s plate.

That evening, Lin Miaomiao accompanied Li Yanhé on a walk—a habit she had picked up in modern times, always taking a stroll after dinner to help with digestion.

Hand in hand, they walked through the county town, now deep into winter. Suddenly, a thought occurred to Lin Miaomiao. She looked up at Li Yanhé and asked blankly, “Brother Li, may I ask, what year is it now?”

Li Yanhé glanced at Lin Miaomiao and answered, “The eleventh winter of Yongchang.”

Lin Miaomiao repeated softly, “The eleventh winter of Yongchang…” She wasn’t sure why she wanted to repeat it, but the words lingered in her mind.

When Li Yanhé mentioned the eleventh year of Yongchang, Lin Miaomiao’s mind involuntarily conjured the winter of Yongchang’s fifteenth year, when the Prince of Shengxuan “passed away.”

The Emperor was furious. He ordered an exhaustive investigation and posthumously elevated the Prince of Shengxuan to the title of Prince of Shengxuan of the First Rank.

Lin Miaomiao recalled reading a fragment of this history in the library, though it was considered an unofficial account. The era and the people involved were obscure, and the only trace left in history was the title of the Prince of Shengxuan. No relics had ever been unearthed, perhaps because of the uncertain dates.

At the time, people speculated that later generations must have had a penchant for inventing stories, that this dynasty was a fabrication, never truly existing.

Lin Miaomiao had thought the same. She looked up at Li Yanhé and asked, “Brother Li, do you know who the Prince of Shengxuan is?”

Li Yanhé looked at her with a puzzled frown. “There is no Prince of Shengxuan. My title is—”

Before he could finish, Lin Miaomiao let out a huge sigh of relief, patting her chest. “Thank goodness, thank goodness. I’m so glad there’s no such person. Otherwise, wouldn’t that mean I just foresaw the future?”

Li Yanhé didn’t understand what was going on with Lin Miaomiao. As she patted her chest and basked in the joy of a narrow escape, she didn’t really listen to the rest of Li Yanhé’s sentence. Nor did she pay much attention to the year. It was only later, seeing Li Yanhé lying in bed, that she regretted not listening more closely.

Watching the bustling crowds, Lin Miaomiao turned to Li Yanhé with curiosity. “Brother Li, why are there so many people in the county town?”

“The end of the year is approaching,” Li Yanhé explained calmly. “People are preparing for the festivities. Poor families, without silver to spare, rely on temporary work in the county to make ends meet.”

“Everyone needs a bit of money for the New Year. At the very least, a new bolt of cloth for clothes and a little more food on the table, so the celebrations don’t feel so meager.”

Lin Miaomiao nodded. It was already late November, the end of the year drawing near. There were no side jobs in ancient times.

Moreover, as one got closer to Da’ankou, there was always the looming threat that one morning, they might wake to an invasion.

“In truth,” Li Yanhé’s voice was soft, “the people of Da’ankou don’t look forward to the New Year, nor even to the coming of winter.”

“Why? There are four seasons in a year—how could there not be winter?” Lin Miaomiao asked, puzzled.

Li Yanhé forced a pained smile. “I’ve been stationed at Da’ankou since I was fourteen, guarding against foreign invaders. Every winter, the temperature on the steppe drops, and the cattle and sheep freeze to death.”

“Can you imagine it? The reason the people here don’t resist is because the nomads are strong and skilled at riding and hunting.”

“So the people of the Central Plains become their prey. The mass death of livestock drives those savages mad with hunger.”

Lin Miaomiao struggled to imagine such scenes. She’d read about them in history books, but never had she realized how brutal it truly was.

Li Yanhé gazed at the passing crowds. “I took command of Da’ankou’s forces at fourteen, in the thirteenth year of Ning’an.”

He held Lin Miaomiao and took her up to the city wall. With his eyes lowered, he sighed and continued, “The winter of Ning’an’s thirteenth year was bitterly cold.”

“I was the general here then. That was my first experience with such devastation. The cold was so severe, even Da’ankou felt it in its bones.”

“The nomads’ livestock froze to death. Driven mad by hunger, they led their troops to attack Da’ankou.”

“This is the final line of defense. That year, as general, I watched those savages slaughter my people, utterly powerless.”

“This is the way of the world. Soldiers charge forward, wave after wave, while I could only sit in my tent, trying to strategize.”

“Beyond Da’ankou lies another border pass. If Da’ankou falls, the next pass shuts its gates, and the emperor himself leads the army.”

“Do you know what fate awaits the officers and soldiers here if Da’ankou is breached?”

Eyes lowered, Li Yanhé asked quietly. Lin Miaomiao shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“The soldiers and generals here fight to the death, with no reinforcements, until the enemy reaches the second pass. Then, the emperor defends the gates himself.”

“In the Dayong Dynasty, there is no tradition of surrender. When the general of Da’ankou falls, the next prince takes his place, and so on, until the last prince is dead—only then does the emperor lead the battle himself.”

Li Yanhé’s tone was even as he looked at Lin Miaomiao. “And I am that prince. I am the first prince to stand here. After my death, another prince will succeed me, and so it goes, one after another.”

Lin Miaomiao saw tears glistening in Li Yanhé’s eyes. She hugged him, hoping to offer him some warmth.

“At fourteen, I came here. For six years, I haven’t returned to the capital, spending every day in the same place, defending this post.”

“Can you imagine? I haven’t seen my mother in six years, nor my father. And yet, not one person truly wishes for my safe return.”

Listening to Li Yanhé’s calm recounting, Lin Miaomiao felt a tightness in her chest, and tears streamed silently down her cheeks.

“Why wouldn’t they want you to come back?” she asked, her voice thick with emotion.

Li Yanhé glanced at her. “I am nearly of age. If I return, it means nothing is amiss here.”

“Little one, do you understand? I hold military power in my hands. Between ruler and subject, father and son, suspicion always lingers.”

He didn’t elaborate, but with her years of watching palace intrigue dramas, Lin Miaomiao immediately understood.

After a moment, she looked toward the way they’d come. “It’s getting late. Let’s go home.”

Li Yanhé, lost in thought, looked up at the sky. “Alright, let’s go home.”

As Lin Miaomiao watched Li Yanhé emerge from the shadows, all his previous weakness and sorrow seemed to vanish. He was once again his cold, aloof self, carrying Lin Miaomiao in his arms as snow began to fall.

Noticing a vendor selling umbrellas, Lin Miaomiao called out, “Sir, I’ll buy an umbrella.”

Li Yanhé’s eyes narrowed and he frowned. “I don’t need an umbrella. It’s just snow.”

“You’ll catch a chill. Besides, I don’t like seeing snow on you—it makes you look so desolate.” Lin Miaomiao puffed out her cheeks, her tone soft yet earnest. Li Yanhé’s heart skipped a beat. Somehow, in this winter, warmth blossomed within him.

He picked her up. Lin Miaomiao raised the umbrella high to shield him, suddenly recalling a modern joke.

“Second Li, do you think this counts as growing old together?” she teased, grinning.

Li Yanhé was momentarily stunned, then affectionately tapped her nose. “I suppose it does.”

Lin Miaomiao grinned broadly. “Brother Li, you’re blushing.”

A faint smile curved Li Yanhé’s lips. “Mischievous,” he murmured.

Lin Miaomiao laughed heartily in his arms. The road home was dark, but her laughter rang out like silver bells, mingling with the slight upward curve of a man’s lips.

“To have met you is a blessing,” Li Yanhé thought, in the winter of Yongchang’s eleventh year.

In the days that followed, Lin Miaomiao found herself unable to go out. As the year-end approached, many without money resorted to desperate measures. Some kidnapped the children of wealthy families, and even human traffickers became more active—not out of pure malice, but simply to fill their bellies and provide for their families as the New Year drew near.

Li Yanhé grew busier. Lin Miaomiao suddenly realized that being an official in ancient times was no easy task.

She and Li Zheng had opened a clothing shop together, and her designs were very popular among the nobles in the capital.

Lin Miaomiao felt that in this ancient world, she could do whatever she set her mind to—start a business whenever she wished, and with each venture, success followed.