Chapter 113: A Dirge for Buried Flowers Beneath Huanggang

Kong Sheng dismounted. Feeling a sudden itch to play, he drew from his pack his golden-thread bamboo flute. The flute-sword Sima Chengzhen had given him as a token of love had already been presented to Yang Xueruo; this bamboo flute was the only one he still carried.

He raised it to his lips, pausing briefly. Then, when a slight gap appeared in the young man’s zither music, he entered abruptly. Kong Sheng’s flute sounded mournful and profound, unhurried and measured, as though, amid snowflakes whirling across the sky, it were slowly recounting a sorrowful tale. Blending with the young man’s somewhat high-pitched zither, it wound and answered in perfect harmony, flowing seamlessly from beginning to end—a performance exquisite in every detail.

Li Xuan was somewhat taken aback. She turned to look at Kong Sheng, a complicated expression passing through her eyes.

Mu Changfeng had heard Kong Sheng play the flute before, but Wu Xian and Wu Jie were hearing him for the first time. The two were rough men who understood nothing of such elegant arts. They merely thought that Kong Sheng was a gifted writer, skilled in martial arts, and accomplished in music as well—in short, that he knew rather too many things. Heaven had favored him so generously that it seemed almost unfair.

But when they remembered that Kong Sheng had been left utterly alone, that his family had fallen into ruin during his youth and both his parents had died, they sighed and felt that perhaps Heaven was fair after all.

Whatever it grants you, it will take something else away. Conversely, whatever it takes from you, it will give something else in return, preserving an unseen balance.

That balance must not be broken.

Like the young man’s zither playing, Kong Sheng’s flute had likewise reached a realm of profound mastery far beyond the reach of ordinary people. But Li Xuan soon thought better of it. Since the little scoundrel Kong Sheng was a celebrated prodigy, there was nothing strange about his being versed in music as well. The zither stood first among the four refined arts; music, chess, calligraphy, and painting sprang from the same tradition, and hardly any cultivated scholar was ignorant of music.

The young man’s fingers drew slightly together, producing a long, lingering final note. At almost the same moment, Kong Sheng played the last note on his flute. The deep, archaic flute tones and the sonorous zither music fused into one, their echoes drifting through the wilderness, their lingering resonance refusing to fade.

The young man raised his head and looked toward Kong Sheng, faint astonishment appearing on his refined face. Slowly, he rose, stepped out of the shelter, and descended the slope. Kong Sheng slipped the bamboo flute back into his belt and walked forward as well.

The two regarded each other, their expressions calm.

After a long while, the young man finally bowed and said indifferently, “I am Nangong Wang, a mountain recluse, courtesy name Ziyuan. May I ask your honored name, sir?”

Kong Sheng returned the bow with a smile. “I am from Jiangning, and my surname is Kong. I have journeyed here from Jiangnan as a traveling student. Passing this place, I heard your heavenly zither music and, in a moment of rashness, answered it with my flute. If I have offended you in any way, I beg your forgiveness.”

Having learned his lesson from Li Xuan, Kong Sheng was unwilling to reveal his true name to another stranger, lest he invite further trouble.

Nangong Wang raised his brows slightly, admiration shining in his eyes. “Young Master Kong, your mastery of the flute is extraordinary, far surpassing that of this recluse. May I ask the name of the piece you played just now? Could you teach it to me?”

Nangong Wang gazed deeply at Kong Sheng. A powerful sorrow and yearning gradually spread through his eyes, and Kong Sheng felt a sympathetic ache in his heart. He thought, This man must bear a wound so deep that it has remained fresh through the years. Judging by his manner, it is likely the pain of having lost the woman he loved.

With that thought, Kong Sheng’s expression grew solemn. “The piece is called *Song of Burying Flowers*. If you like it, I shall certainly copy out the score and present it to you.”

“*Song of Burying Flowers*...” Nangong Wang murmured, his grief deepening. “So it truly is a bond ordained by Heaven. I composed *Rhapsody of Parting with Flowers*, and now I have encountered *Song of Burying Flowers*... Ruhua, my Ruhua, if your spirit still lingers beyond this world, can you hear it?”

“As flowers wither and scatter, filling the sky,
When their crimson fades and fragrance dies, who will grieve?
Silken threads drift softly, clinging to the spring pavilion;
Fallen catkins brush lightly against the embroidered curtain.
Three hundred and sixty days in every year—
The blades of wind and swords of frost press hard without cease.
How long can beauty remain bright and fresh?
Once adrift, it is difficult to find again.
Flowers in bloom are easy to see, but fallen flowers are hard to seek;
Before the steps, the one who buries them is consumed by sorrow...
Behold the spring waning, the flowers gradually falling—
That is when a beauty grows old and dies.
When spring ends, beauty withers;
When flowers fall and a woman dies, neither knows the other.”

Kong Sheng recited the verses slowly in a single breath. Before his eyes, an image gradually took shape: a classical beauty, slender-waisted and delicate as a willow, carrying a small hoe as she wandered sorrowfully through a rain of petals filling the heavens, only to vanish into the depths of a sea of flowers, with no road home.

Nangong Wang shuddered from head to foot. Tears poured down his face, and in the next moment he covered it and burst into heartrending sobs.

Kong Sheng sighed softly and watched him in silence, offering no consolation.

The man’s grief had reached his very bones. Such pain, born in the depths of the soul, such a love wounded beyond recovery—how could an outsider possibly ease it?

Down the slope, Li Xuan heard Kong Sheng’s recitation, complicated emotions flickering in her eyes. She was a martial woman, a heroic commander who regarded men as her equals. What she loved was warfare, slaughter, and the command of armies; what she sought was to risk everything to restore the realm and ancestral legacy of the Great Tang. Rarely did tender feelings trouble her heart.

Yet Kong Sheng’s spontaneous recitation, so desolate and moving, had touched a tender chord deep within her in that instant.

“This little scoundrel truly possesses astonishing learning. He can produce such splendid writing at a moment’s notice. What a pity that someone of such talent cannot serve me—and may even cast his lot with the rebels and betray his country. What a shame. What a lamentable waste.”

Kong Sheng stood upon the slope, gazing at Nangong Wang, unaware of the many delicate thoughts Li Xuan was entertaining below.

After a long while, Nangong Wang gradually regained his composure. He bowed deeply to Kong Sheng. “My wife, Ruhua, died a year ago in the prime of her life. I composed *Rhapsody of Parting with Flowers* and set it to music in remembrance of her. Never did I expect to encounter you and this *Song of Burying Flowers* by such a fortunate coincidence. It is truly Heaven’s design. Your marvelous composition understands my heart. I must repay you somehow. Please accept this礼—”

Kong Sheng stepped aside to avoid him. “Your devotion to your wife has never wavered, and the depth of your affection is enough to move Heaven and earth. What merit have I that I should accept such respect?”

But Nangong Wang insisted on completing the formal obeisance. Only afterward did he rise, nod to Kong Sheng, and stand upright. Soon the two were conversing animatedly, discussing the piece called *Song of Burying Flowers*. Nangong Wang was a genius well versed in music; in matters of melody, mastery of one thing opened the way to mastery of many. Kong Sheng explained several of the score’s crucial passages in detail, and Nangong Wang had grasped nearly all of them without even needing Kong Sheng to copy out the music.

Nangong Wang bowed once more. “Young Master, I am eternally grateful for the gift of this composition. This bow is offered on behalf of my departed wife.”

Kong Sheng laughed and moved aside to avoid the gesture. His heart was filled with a thousand emotions. He could not know how deeply this mysterious scholar mourned his wife Ruhua, but from his words and conduct, it was clear that the feeling was as vast as mountains and rivers, beyond the power of language to describe.

Nangong Wang cupped his hands in farewell and turned away from Kong Sheng. He walked slowly up the slope and returned to the shelter. Then, suddenly, he faced the ridge and waved his hand.

Several boys of fifteen or sixteen, dressed as attendants to a zither player or scholar, rushed out of the dense woods beside the shelter.

Two of the boys packed Nangong Wang’s ancient zither into its case and then stood solemnly behind him. Another ran out from the shelter, waving a triangular apricot-yellow flag.

At the sight, Li Xuan’s entire body jolted. The tenderness filling her heart instantly vanished like a soap bubble, and she cried out, “This is bad! Bandits!”

Yellow represented the highest dignity and honor. In all the world, who besides the emperor and the imperial family would dare use it recklessly? Most likely, only lawless bandits and brigands would presume to do so.

Kong Sheng was startled as well. He stood where he was, turning to survey the surroundings. At that moment, the ridge and the dense woods erupted with shouts, running footsteps, and cries of slaughter.

From two directions came more than a hundred burly men, divided into two groups, each with brownish-red cloths wrapped around their heads and clad in blue martial garments. They wielded gleaming steel blades, and before long they had surrounded Kong Sheng and the others so completely that not even air could pass through.

Wu Xian and Wu Jie drew in sharp breaths.

How had disaster once again fallen from a clear sky?