Chapter Seventy-One: I Am the Imperial Brother of the Great Han!

Midway through May, the rain fell like a beaded curtain.

It drifted down all morning, leaving the air so crisp and cool it seemed laced with mint, and the world itself grew fresh and lucid. The rain ceased only when the sun had climbed near its zenith, the clouds quickly dispersing to reveal a gentle, languid warmth. As Su Dongpo once wrote in “Fishermen”: “Sheltered by my blue rush hat, clothed in my green rain cape, I wander wherever I please.” Even into the Tang and Song dynasties, the rain cloak and bamboo hat remained the ancients’ chief defense against wind and rain. As for Zhang Yu, clumsy of hand, he could only curse his lack of ingenuity—if only he were a master of invention, he would have devised an umbrella on the spot.

Yet what he did not know was that even if he could make one, umbrellas in this era were not casually used. Throughout Chinese history, strict rules governed the use of umbrellas: their materials, colors, and dimensions, all as carefully regulated as an official’s cap or ceremonial robes, to mark rank and status. If you wished to keep a low profile and carry a black umbrella outdoors, you were out of luck—in the Han dynasty, only officials of the third rank and above, the “Three Excellencies and Nine Ministers,” were permitted the black umbrella known as the “black canopy.”

Turning the bamboo hat in his hands, Zhang Yu watched as a graceful figure slipped quietly across the still-wet ground.

“Yu!” Diao Xiuer crept up behind him, calling his name.

“Sister Xiuer.” Zhang Yu had heard her coming but pretended not to notice, turning with a smile to greet her.

No matter how many times they had met, at every first glance Zhang Yu felt a certain awkwardness and unease, as if anxious that he might not be neat or refined enough, fearful of any flaw.

As for Diao Xiuer, she was perhaps about his own age before he crossed into this world—just past twenty, with all traces of girlishness gone, yet still retaining a hint of playfulness and innocence, a beauty without end.

Zhang Yu sometimes thought that for beauty alone, she could have inspired Lu Bu to turn on Dong Zhuo.

Since being adopted as Wang Yun’s daughter, Diao Xiuer’s status in the Grand Minister’s household had soared, and even Wang Yun’s three sons treated her with respect and courtesy—a fact that amused Zhang Yu greatly.

“All three of you must be blind as bats, for such a beauty dwelt right here in the inner quarters and you never noticed—now look, you’re siblings.”

Zhang Yu was clad in his usual white brocade robe that fell to his heels, while Diao Xiuer had changed into a white cloud-patterned gauze blouse. Walking side by side through the courtyard, they drew awed and envious glances from the dozens of Wang family relatives and the hundreds of servants.

“Sister, just think—so beautiful you, so handsome I. Should we appear together on the battlefield, the enemy would surely surrender without a fight. I daresay with just the two of us, we could conquer the whole realm.”

Diao Xiuer shot him a look. “Yu, you have many fine qualities, but your tongue loves to jest too much.” Her eyes rolled, but the corners of her lips curled up, already carrying a charm that could enchant the world.

“Sister Xiuer, do you know why I refuse to use you as a pawn in any scheme?”

“Hm?... I don’t know.”

Looking at her, Zhang Yu recited slowly and clearly:

“In the north there is a beauty, peerless and alone.
A single glance topples a city, a second glance topples a nation.
But what use is the fall of cities and nations, when such a beauty is so rare?”

Diao Xiuer lowered her head, hiding her expression. Zhang Yu continued, “When the fate of a nation must rest on the shoulders of a woman, what hope can that nation have? At best, it gains a brief reprieve—a lingering death.”

“Do you think the scheme would succeed?” she asked softly.

“It would succeed, but to no purpose.”

“Why?”

“The chaos of the Han is not the work of Dong Zhuo alone. Since ancient times, empire long divided must unite, long united must divide. The Han has reached a point where only destruction can bring renewal. Even if Dong Zhuo dies, imperial authority will not keep the warlords’ ambitions in check.”

“But at the very least, if Dong Zhuo dies, life in Chang’an and the capital’s provinces will improve, won’t it?”

“Perhaps.” Zhang Yu walked on, but noticed Diao Xiuer had slowed her pace.

“Sister Xiuer? What’s wrong?” He turned back to see tears glistening on her cheeks.

“It’s nothing... I was just moved, thinking of how you always defend me. Ever since I was a child, I was separated from my parents, alone and drifting, then entered the deep palace. All these years, I never imagined I could be so lucky—to have you as a brother, and the Grand Minister as a father...”

Zhang Yu put his arm about her shoulders, speaking gently: “Sister Xiuer, when things here are settled, come back with me to Hebei.”

“There you will meet my grandfather and mother—they will treat you as their own. There’s a girl already betrothed to me, and as she grows, she’ll be every bit as beautiful as you.”

At these words, Diao Xiuer couldn’t help but laugh through her tears.

Zhang Yu, recalling something, added with a smile, “And there is my sworn elder brother—a hero of heroes, and quite the match for you, sister! Come back to Hebei with me, won’t you?”

“I will.”

In the northwest quarter of the city, in the bustling markets of Chang’an.

“Strange, why hasn’t the young master arrived?” A vigorous youth stood on the street, glancing about. The rain had cleared, the sun was high, but the one who had asked him here was nowhere to be seen.

“Weren’t we supposed to help carry something? Who knows where he’s gone.”

“He must have been delayed. Han Long, why don’t you come sit with us?” Xiahou Lan and Han Meng had taken shelter in front of a shop and waved Han Long over.

He was about to join them when a cry for help sounded nearby.

“Sirs, please save me! Save me!”

All three frowned and looked over. They saw a woman, her skin so fair it seemed unnatural, being seized around the waist by a wild-haired, armored brute who laughed madly as he dragged her toward a horse.

The man, strong as an ox, hoisted the woman in one arm, gripped the reins with the other, and mounted in a single bound, the woman still in his grasp. Seven or eight soldiers, their hair unbound, followed close behind.

The woman’s cries grew shrill and desperate, but though many looked on, none dared intervene.

“Outrageous!” Han Meng shouted, preparing to step forward, but was stopped by the shopkeeper. “Brave sir, I know you mean well, but you must see the situation clearly. Those are the wolfish men of Dong Zhuo’s Western Liang army. Offend them, and you’ll not only fail to save the lady, but lose your own life for nothing.”

“So we just let them do as they please?” Han Long demanded.

“Ah, this is nothing... these scoundrels have done worse in broad daylight. If anything, their behavior is more restrained now.”

The armored brute, the woman in his grasp, galloped toward them, his followers close behind. Han Meng stood, looking at Han Long, who in turn glanced at Xiahou Lan.

“Don’t cause trouble for the young master,” Xiahou Lan warned with a shake of his head.

Han Long lowered his head. Han Meng, arms crossed in frustration, longed to intervene, but discipline and obedience—especially to Xiahou Lan, who was well-respected among the Eighteen Riders of Yan Yun—held them back. However resentful, they endured.

As the horseman drew near, Xiahou Lan suddenly spoke, “Rescue her, then go.”

“Understood!” Han Meng laughed, rising to draw the short axe from his back, while Han Long stood unmoving in the middle of the street.

“Courting death!” The brute, having spotted Han Long, flashed a murderous look and charged.

Draw—swing—one stroke.

Striking the horse’s leg with the flat of his sword was a technique Han Long knew well.

The brute flew from the saddle, tracing a perfect arc through the air—and released the woman as he fell.

Xiahou Lan sprang up, catching her as she descended, while the brute crashed to the ground with a painful cry.

Han Meng hurled his twin axes to deter the pursuing soldiers, then turned to escape with his companions, only to find the far end of the street now blocked by nearly a hundred Western Liang troops.

“Ziru, what’s happening?”

“It was a setup—we’ve been trapped,” Xiahou Lan replied.

From the ranks of the Western Liang soldiers stepped a silver-armored commander, who eyed the three and the rescued woman with disdain. “I received a secret message that rebels would be causing trouble here. Sure enough, you’ve been caught. Seize them!”

“Who dares!” thundered a voice.

A white horse soared above the soldiers’ heads and landed beside the trio. Its rider—a young man in white robes, bearing an aura like that of an immortal—sat tall in the saddle.

“Who are you!” the silver-armored officer demanded in shock.

“I am Zhang Yu, elder brother of the Han Emperor. Who would dare defy me?”