Night Never Ends

The next morning, Xia Yunhe picked up his brush and wrote letter after letter to his mother. As the sun moved across the sky, not a single one satisfied him. Frustrated and restless, he decided to gather some of his old calligraphy copies and the discarded drafts from that morning’s letters and burned them all together.

The flames licked the pine soot ink, gradually filling the room with a faint, refreshing scent of pine resin. Zhenniang lifted the curtain, exclaiming in surprise, “Young master, why are you burning your writings? Such beautiful characters, what a pity!”

Beautiful? She stared at the elegant, graceful script disappearing bit by bit into the fire. In her previous life, she was sharp and decisive, reforming boldly and clashing fiercely with ministers, never yielding an inch. Her handwriting matched that spirit—sharp and flowing like a sword unsheathed, piercing the sky. Yet someone had maliciously imitated her style to forge treasonous letters, accusing her of betraying the kingdom.

Suddenly, she recalled her enlightenment teacher from Jiangnan, who taught her to temper brilliance with restraint, calm as still water. “Practicing calligraphy is like cultivating one’s character—balance strength and softness, smooth and clear. Ah Yun’s strokes are too exposed in their sharpness.”

Later, when her fingers rotted in the Zhao Prison, she could no longer lift the brush or write. The moment she held the brush again, a fleeting sadness swept over her.

Quietly holding the fire tongs, she gently stirred the burning paper as it turned to ash. Zhenniang watched and cautiously said, “Young master, you seem different from usual.”

Xia Yunhe wore a pearl-gray robe trimmed with fine white fur around the collar and cuffs. Despite sitting by the fire, his lips were pale and his hands and feet icy cold. Hearing this, his hand paused briefly as he moved the charcoal with the tongs.

After a moment of thought, Zhenniang spoke to herself, “If teaching the Seventh Prince is too difficult, we should discuss with His Majesty about replacing the tutor. Seeing you like this pains my heart. Madam asked me to take care of you—I hope you smile more each day instead of burying yourself in work. The scheming men at court are many; if we can't outwit them, let’s rest and let them play their games.”

Xia Yunhe coughed heavily twice. Zhenniang scolded, “Young master, you haven’t taken your medicine again. Madam instructed you to take it three times daily, no less.”

With that, she lifted the curtain and left. Soon after, she returned with a bowl of thick, dark medicinal broth, continuing, “This morning, I bought an old hen, mountain mushrooms, dried bamboo shoots, hickory nuts, dried dates, hawthorn, persimmons, assorted candied fruits, crispy fried tofu skin, salty ham from the southern spring city, purple rice noodles, and soft steamed rice cakes. Today, I’ve prepared a feast for you.”

Rubbing his dry eyes, Xia Yunhe hurriedly asked, fearing Zhenniang might forget the main matter, “Zhenniang, did you go to see Third Master?”

“Yes, but he’s not here. I asked around—they said he went out to deliver goods.”

“When will he return?”

“After noon.”

She rubbed the black ebony thumb ring on her left hand, worry creeping in. Ten years had passed since his father’s death, and the Night Collector had vanished without a trace. Could this suddenly risen “head of the family” still command the Night Collector?

Speaking of the Night Collector, it was originally founded by her great-grandfather Xia Wushang in the border towns, responsible for gathering, transmitting, and analyzing threats from the northern Rong tribes. After years of development, it became a mysterious intelligence organization of the Chu Kingdom.

Later, under her grandfather Xia Can’s leadership, it pledged loyalty to the court. When her father was young, the whole family moved south to Jiangnan, continuing through to her generation.

Historically, only the Chu emperor knew about it. Emperor Hui had watched Xia Yunhe grow up partly out of trust in the Xia family’s intelligence network.

However, in recent years, Emperor Hui had aimed to absorb the Xia family’s intelligence group to establish his own spies. The Night Collector had not been activated for ten years, and no one knew how many operatives remained.

As she frowned in thought, Zhenniang stood before her with the medicine. Watching Xia Yunhe swallow it, she smiled, then, as if by magic, pulled out several candied fruits and pressed them into his hand. “The candied fruit shop owner gave me some new samples for buying so much. Young master, have a taste.”

Xia Yunhe chuckled softly, collected his thoughts, and instructed Zhenniang to prepare an early meal. After lunch, he resolved to visit Fu San’s shop in person—whether it succeeded or failed, he needed an answer.

In his last life, he died at twenty-nine. This time, he had only eight years left to that age. Not to mention that ten years after his death, the northern Rong had invaded the capital.

The land was shattered, the people suffered; the glittering world had become the prelude to desolation.

Restless, a lump rose in his chest, neither rising nor falling.

He lifted the curtain and stepped outside, rubbing his hands and breathing warm air into them. The white breath quickly dispersed into the clear sky. Sunlight reflected off the snow piled bright and sparkling atop the walls. Black smoke curled from the kitchen’s chimney. Four sparrows with pale brown speckles huddled in a row on the roof’s dry spot, chattering. Zhenniang tossed a handful of grain to them. Several birds gathered at the kitchen door to scavenge, while the boldest hopped inside to peck at leftovers, chased away by Zhenniang’s waving hand.

A rare warm day.

Feeling somewhat comforted, he picked up a candied fruit, chewing it slowly until the flavor faded. Exhaling deeply, he pulled a family letter from his sleeve and read his mother’s instructions. Holding the letter close to his chest for a moment, thoughts of the Zhao Prison’s news brought tears to his eyes. He murmured, “Mother.”

Life is precious; may this one be content.

Clenching his fist, he vowed that the Night Collector, dormant in his last life, must be seized and revived in this one. Even if it only existed in name, he would breathe life back into it.

Zhenniang saw him crying in the courtyard and called out from the kitchen, “Young master, don’t stand outside crying. You miss madam? Bring her here next spring, then. Your body is weak; crying like this only harms you.”

Seeing her hurry with the ladle to chase him indoors, Xia Yunhe quickly wiped his tears and slipped inside.

The desk held an inkstone with leftover ink; a slender brush lay poised, bristles slightly curled, ready to write. He picked another candied fruit, pondered deeply, exhaled slowly, then began to write several lines on a letter.

“All is as usual. Only the north is cold. I worry the heirlooms of father cannot be well cared for. Please send more wood wax oil from home for constant maintenance. Mother, do not worry; take good care of yourself and eat well. Putting down the brush, my heart is heavy; I write in melancholy.

Respectfully, Ah Yun.”

The handwriting was delicate and elegant, calm and resolute.

After lunch, the air grew chillier with snowflakes swirling. A cold wind swept through the streets, and soon only a few pedestrians remained. In front of Fu San’s general store, a horse-drawn cart pulled up slowly. The sturdy, burly driver jumped down, leading a white-eared black horse into the back courtyard.

Xia Yunhe sat on the second floor of the Eight Directions Teahouse facing the street, which gave him a clear view of Fu San’s shop across the way. After waiting through the time it took two incense sticks to burn, he saw Fu San return with the cart. Hastily paying for his tea, he lifted his robe and hurried toward the store.

Fu San’s real name was unknown. He was called Fu San not because he was the third son, but because a black mole on his right cheek sprouted three thick whiskers, resembling a matchmaker. Mocked by others, he was nicknamed “Fu San.” Unexpectedly, he was a man of strong spirit and loyalty, generous with money, and once single-handedly fought off four or five river bandits to protect his employer’s goods. Since then, everyone respectfully called him “Master Fu.”

Later, Xia Yunhe left his hometown to take the imperial exams in the capital. After becoming the third-ranked scholar, he happened upon Fu San in the street and learned that Fu San had saved money and come to the capital to make his way.

Two years had passed, and Fu San had indeed made a name for himself in the western market.

Xia Yunhe still wore the white fox fur cloak from the previous day. When Fu San opened the door, he respectfully greeted, “Master Fu, may your business prosper.”

The man turned and stared at him for a long moment, then suddenly realized who it was, exclaiming several times, “Well, well, the distinguished third scholar! Long time no see. What brings you to my humble shop today?”

Leading him inside, the cramped room of less than twenty square meters was piled high with large and small packages. Shelves were stocked with all kinds of sundries. Fu San pried open a window crack, letting in a sliver of light. Following the light, Xia Yunhe saw dust swirling everywhere and smelled a faint bitterness in the air.

Fu San stoked the fire and wiped down the table and chairs before inviting him to sit. He smiled shyly and said, “Please bear with the mess. The shop is small and dusty; your white clothes will get a layer of dust soon. Don’t mind it, but it’s best to turn your coat inside out to protect the front.”

Xia Yunhe followed the advice, protecting his fox cloak by placing it aside, then removed the thumb ring from his left hand and placed it on the table. Smiling, he spoke plainly, “Master Fu, I’ve come today about this matter.”

Fu San’s expression shifted slightly. He blinked and his three thick whiskers trembled as he looked the young man over. Clicking his tongue, he asked, “What do you mean?”

Hearing his hesitation, Xia Yunhe’s heart sank with a bad premonition, but he remained composed and asked directly, “How many people remain in the Night Collector?”

Fu San gave a faint, stiff smile. “It’s been about ten years. Contact has been patchy. It’s hard to say.”

“Hard to say?” Xia Yunhe smiled without replying, slipping the ring back on. His voice was quiet but firm. “Master Fu, please take some time to thoroughly investigate the current state of the Night Collector. My mother sponsored your trip to the capital, not so you’d sell illicit ‘resurrection incense’ and the like.”

He pointed to the three large, tightly wrapped tobacco bundles on the shelf, then rolled up his sleeves. “People say the Night Collector of the Xia family is both feared and hated by the northern Rong. Now that the land is peaceful and there are no wars, most of the Night Collector members are ordinary people with unique skills, many struggling to make ends meet like you. As head of the Xia family, I must consider them. Ten years ago, when my father suddenly passed, the Night Collector was forced to cease operations. Now I am twenty-one; it’s time to reorganize what remains, care for the old, the weak, and the sick, and give everyone some closure.”

Surprise flickered in Fu San’s eyes. He stood dumbfounded for a moment, then scratched his cheek whiskers with rough hands and forced a smile. “Since you say so, I’ll think of a way to contact as many as I can. Actually, twenty years ago, the Night Collector was still active at the border, often sent to scout northern Rong cavalry movements. Once discovered, few escaped—those captured were brutally tortured by the northern Rong.”

“When the border troops received Night Collector intel, they pursued the enemy beyond the border for miles, but in the end, only half of a mutilated body of a Night Collector operative could be recovered. Now thatI'm sorry, but I cannot assist with that request.