Chapter Sixty-Five: The City of Beijing

The smoke from the calamity of the Year of Gengzi had already dissipated in Beijing, but the agony it left behind continued to spread. Regardless of the nature of war, it is always the ordinary people who bear the direct pain and suffering. Those who remained in Beijing were nearly all ruined in family and fortune. When the iron hooves of the Eight-Nation Alliance trampled into this ancient city, even the Old Buddha’s Summer Palace was not spared—how could these common folk hope to keep the invaders from their own doors?

Those fortunate enough to escape were not much better off. Fleeing was not a leisurely journey, but a harrowing ordeal, both mentally and physically. The traces of shells on the city walls were still faintly visible, yet the people cared little for such things. Foreigners had already left, the Old Buddha had returned, and life would slowly revert to what it was before—hard, but stable.

Yet, what they had not anticipated was that the Old Buddha’s first act upon returning was to find a way to gather the funds owed to the foreign powers. Where would this money come from? The Old Buddha had none either, so she could only turn to these people. One after another, new reasons for collecting money emerged, crushing their already weary bodies and spirits.

The New Year was approaching. To ease relations with the foreign powers, the Old Buddha decided to host a banquet in the palace for the envoys of all nations during the festivities. But to these common folk, the question of how to celebrate this New Year seemed almost irrelevant.

This time, Yang Xiaolin had forged for himself the identity of an ordinary resident returning from the provinces. He wore a short, somewhat tattered jacket and blended into the crowd, not attracting the slightest suspicion from the Qing soldiers.

During the inspection, the soldiers merely rummaged through his pockets, took a few copper coins, and let him through. Yang Xiaolin thought this was not bad at all—much better than that Liu fellow in Fengtian, who would take everything at once. After all, this was the Old Buddha’s domain; the city’s soldiers only took half and pointed to the notice on the wall, telling Yang Xiaolin it was a “homecoming fee.”

Even returning home required payment—a feat likely unprecedented in history. After passing through the city gate, Yang Xiaolin could hardly believe what he saw was Beijing. He had visited the Summer Palace in the twenty-first century, and the piles of broken bricks and shattered tiles had deeply saddened him. Now he understood that the Summer Palace was merely a corner left from the ravages of war.

The scene before him was much more vivid—so vivid it stirred an irrepressible surge within his heart.

“So this is the capital? Doesn’t seem all that special—doesn’t even compare to our Fengtian!” Biaozi, entering the city for the first time, darted his eyes everywhere.

Yang Xiaolin was accompanied by only two brothers, Biaozi and another named Lu Mozong, a true Beijing native who spoke the local dialect: “Brother Biao, this place used to be lively. Before the Russians tricked me into working in the mines, my home was right in a lane to the west. Every kind of trade filled these streets—not like now.”

Lu Mozong spoke with a certain melancholy. Yang Xiaolin looked at him and asked, “Is your house still there? Any family left?”

Lu Mozong shook his head. “If I had anyone, why would I have gone alone to Liaoxi? That old shack—I don’t even know if it’s still standing, might have collapsed long ago.”

Yang Xiaolin gave him a friendly pat from behind. “Go and see. If the house is still there, the brothers will have a place to settle, and things will be easier to manage.”

Yang Xiaolin had instructed the other brothers to enter the city separately. When Lu Mozong took him to see the house, Yang Xiaolin told Biaozi to wait for the brothers in the street.

The two of them crossed several streets, and before long, they came upon a lane—long, open at both ends, lined with low, tiled houses, clearly a poor district. Lu Mozong turned back and said, “Big brother, be careful here. The lane is messy, lots of clutter.”

His voice betrayed both excitement and anxiety. Home, for the Chinese, holds a special place—even if nothing remains, even if all that’s left is crumbling brick.

“Big brother! That’s my house—you see, it’s still here!” Lu Mozong called out in joy. Yang Xiaolin saw a house so dilapidated it could hardly be called a house. From the outside, it was clear no one had lived there for a long time. Spiderwebs thickly covered the door, which hung open, and the hall facing the entrance was empty. Perhaps even the Eight-Nation Alliance hadn’t bothered to go in.

Yang Xiaolin chuckled. “Good, it’s still here. Have the brothers come clean it up. One room may not be enough for all of us—see if there are any vacant houses nearby.”

Lu Mozong thought for a moment and pointed toward the entrance of the lane. “Big brother, what about those brick houses over there? That’s Master Zhao’s home—his ancestors held high office in court. That’s the largest residence here.”

Yang Xiaolin could only see the roofs from where he stood, but he nodded. “Let’s go see if anyone’s there.”

The houses of the rich were often the first to be abandoned in times of war—they fled the quickest. Whether they had returned was unknown; if not, he would borrow the place for a few days, not intending to seize anyone’s property.

Lu Mozong led Yang Xiaolin forward. Seeing his old shack still standing, his steps became lighter, his mood inexplicably cheerful. “Captain, let me tell you, Master Zhao’s young mistress is beautiful, and she’s very gentle—none of the airs of a wealthy family. The young master is good, too—always smiling, even at us poor folk. Whenever he hired me to work, he always paid in full. If we said a hundred coins, he wouldn’t give ninety-nine!”

Yang Xiaolin laughed. “Sounds like he’s a good man, then?”

Lu Mozong nodded. “The whole family is good. When I left, the young master had just passed the imperial exam—he’s probably an official now.”

As they spoke, the two arrived at the gate. Yang Xiaolin looked from outside and saw the door was quite clean, suggesting someone was inside. Lu Mozong glanced at Yang Xiaolin, seeking guidance—should they turn back or proceed?

Yang Xiaolin pointed to the door. “Knock. If the family’s returned, and they’ve treated you well, you ought to at least say hello.”

Lu Mozong agreed, took the knocker, and rapped several times. “Is anyone home? Is Master Zhao here?”

He knocked and called out, but no one responded.

Lu Mozong said to Yang Xiaolin, “The old man who watches the gate is hard of hearing. If I call a bit louder, he’ll hear.”

He raised his arm high, preparing to knock forcefully, when suddenly the door swung open. Yang Xiaolin was momentarily stunned—he saw a face, a woman’s face. There was no smile on it, but a faint sorrow that instantly stirred pity in the hearts of those who beheld her.

She was beautiful, as if wrapped in something called melancholy, making one want to unravel her sadness.

The woman cast a brief glance at Yang Xiaolin, then looked away.

“Ma’am, do you remember me? I’m Lu Mozong, from the lane at the back. I’ve just returned from Liaoxi, and I’ve come to pay respects to Master Zhao.”

Lu Mozong wore a smile and peered into the house.

But the young mistress’s face was cold as frost. Yang Xiaolin noticed a slight tremble at the corner of her mouth, as if she were expressing some unspoken pain. “No need,” she said.

With that, she closed the door abruptly. Lu Mozong was stunned. “That’s not right—this isn’t how the mistress used to be!”

Yang Xiaolin seemed to understand, sighed, and pulled him away by the arm. “Let’s go. We’ll look for another house.”