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[triples]

triples x reveriee

 

[triples]

• .
• .
• .
• .

• basics

  full name

  ning rong 「 甯荣 」
  
  

  alias

  ran「 苒 」
  
  

  titles

  third young master of the ning clan (previous), peony of the mengxiang pavillion
  
  

  gender

  male
  
  

  age

  twenty-three
  
  

  d.o.b.

  9th day of 11th month in the lunar year; december 12
  
  

  p.o.b.

  southern ai province, ming empire
  
  

  sexuality

  homosexual

  VISAGE

  height

  178cm
  
  

  weight

  60kg
  
  

  build

  graceful and slender, but not quite fragile
  
  

  hair

  long, straight and dark; in recent years, he often wears it down
  
  

  eyes

  a lighter brown than most, almost hazel when it catches the light
  
  

  scars

  a single long line down his left flank, thin and faint, accompanied by a few smaller ones scattered across his elbows and knees
  
  

  style

  he used to dress exactly like you would expect the proper son of a proper family to; now, he dresses pretty freely according to his mood and often in more of what you might consider a feminine style, retaining only his love of light blues and purples
  
  

  fc

  jiuke (@玖柯9k)
• eloquent

  charming

  artistic

  resourceful

  gentle

  poised

  sharp

  tactful

  flexible

  ...

  distant

  guarded

  wary

  secretive

  coy

  evasive

  guileful

  occasionally cold

  ...

  PERSONA

  peony; the most beautiful flower, and the most untouchable. it is a title not often given to the likes of courtesans, but that is what they call ran. amidst his flamboyant surroundings, he stands out for his quiet composure; an elegant figure, with lips ever tilted in the slightest smile, mystery is his defining feature. ran, in many ways, to many people, is an enigma.
  
  with a knack for saying the right things at the right time and a carefulness to never cross boundaries that he shouldn't, his disarming personability is a thing to behold. yet, his nature is a secretive one, guarded with a nearly paranoid aversion to letting others into his bubble. magnetic and distant at once, ran invites intimacy from others without returning any of his own, an unfair transaction that those beguiled by his sweet words fail to notice.
  
  a gentle soul at first glance, he can be compassionate, generous, kind — but he can just as quickly become detached and glacial. the best way to explain ran is that he is like water, changing shape and toughness with the conditions of his circumstance, and becoming ice when faced with a cold world. ran's principles are hard to decipher, so much so that one might wonder if he even has them, and only the idea of self-preservation seems to stand strong in their midst.
  

  
  

  MISC

  Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.
  
  Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

  
  
• BACKGROUND

  
  

  to those who hear his story, it might seem as though ning rong fell, suddenly and terribly, from high atop a noble peak. but the truth is that his pedestal was never so high in the first place, nor was his life ever quite peaceful. moments of happiness and tranquility were always shattered as fast as they came, like a dream that visits under the bewitching moon.
  
  born on a cold night, in a small courtyard hidden in a corner of an expansive estate, ning rong was the third son of a wealthy, influential merchant clan. the product of what the modern world might call an affair, he was not a particularly welcome addition to his family. with a capable heir and lovable younger already in place, they did not have any vacancies left for him to occupy nor were they inclined to create a new one. all the clan head had wanted from his concubine was the illusion of eternal beauty and youth, not an extra child. with the existence of the latter, the former had been broken, and so the man left them behind. somewhere in her heart, his mother grew to resent him for it, though she tried not to show.
  
  and so, he grew up, realizing fairly early on that all he had to rely on was himself. for a good part of his childhood, that did not bother him. after all, no matter how he got along with the rest of the clan, he was still his father's son. he had the best teachers, the best books, more luxuries than most could even dream of and, most importantly to him, a huge home that let him pretend the world was just his own. not only that, with the birth of his younger sister, wenyao, — who came like a blessing, even when his father visited so rarely — he had another, wonderful thing to occupy his time with. he lived just fine, whether or not he was loved.
  
  or so he tried to convince himself. but to be accepted by others is a human need, an instinctual desire. unbeknownst to even himself, ning rong started to look for it outside the gates. funny, how the seeds of something that would become such a strong tool later in life was sowed in a child's grasp for attention, but his skills with people first began thanks to his need for some kind of connection, which he found finally in the form of friends. an innocent search for companions escalated into an obsession akin to a collector's desire for more and better.
  
  that was how he met zeng yangui. the first time they came across each other was through the introduction of the youngest zeng brother. yanshu was younger and kind of adorable in his susceptibility to being influenced, but yangui was like a clean jade, intelligent, righteous, almost dignified despite his age... and equally as naive. for those qualities, it was easier to let down his walls with this new friend. put it in crude terms, the older boy was his favorite piece amidst his collection of friends. less crudely, ning rong liked being around yangui, disproportionately, perhaps even differently.
  
  while his life outside of the ning household was blossoming, however, the air inside had become tense. his mother had become ill, and nobody could figure out why. wenyao was getting older, prettier, and though she wasn't even close to being an adult, she was their family's only daughter. an unsettling discussion had started about how they could possibly use her. and ning rong, for all that he got along with everyone else, simply couldn't see eye to eye with his oldest brother — the brother who would inevitably take the position at the head of the clan in a few short years.
  
  with his mother's worsening condition and the shifts in dynamics, it was no longer an option to leave things at status quo. the situation, he understood, was dangerous. so ning rong finally started to focus his attention toward the clan head, the father whom he hardly addressed as such. by this point, his obsession with relationships had cooled to an understanding of people and his father was no different. subtle flattery, clever demonstrations of loyalty and a desire to learn, slowly let him open the door to their family's business. the real, deeper form, that is.
  
  corrupt politicians, siphoning funds and rations meant to go to the people to fill their own pockets, all the while encouraging destruction and depravity to further their own interests. the ning clan helped these men turn their greed into gold. it was a poisonous deal, lethal, even, but so, so profitable. and at the age of eighteen, ning rong took a share of that risk. a trial, his father called it, and while he was not yet given much of the profit, the danger he put himself in was real. at the time, ning rong thought of this as a necessary evil, that he just needed to hold on so it would pay off in the end. fate was not as understanding.
  
  in the same year that he laid hands on the illegal trades, things took a turn for the worse. an official they had been helping was facing troubles with the law, his corruption revealed after earning the wrath of the emperor. if it was just one man, perhaps it wouldn't have left them in such a perilous state, but he had an unfortunately loose mouth. one after the other, names were revealed, until it turned into a purge of an entire section of officials. the ning clan, of course, was hardly spared. punishment came like a storm, and their family was swept into despair.
  
  ning rong found himself sitting on dirty mat, disheveled and dazed, behind iron bars that marked a prison cell. they took his father away for questioning days ago. he had not seen the man since. he had the nagging feeling he would never see the man again. when he finally snapped to his senses, it was not his family on his mind, but a single book sitting in a black box, stored away in a drawer inside his room. a book that was going to doom him. people came and people went, but he could barely bring himself to talk to them. it was difficult to think when you knew your death sentence would be coming at the end of the day.
  
  even when his closest friend came, he could not focus on the figure in front of him. what was he going to do? how could he stop them from finding it? how could he save himself while he was trapped here? was there nothing? was this- oh, you fool. the cruel rationality in him finally whispered, you know what you can do. right. he knew. but there was only one person he trusted, and resultantly, ironically, only one person he could pull into this treachery: his current visitor, yangui. slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet a painfully concerned one.
  
  i was framed, he told his friend, i saw them put a ledger in my room, but it was too late to get rid of it. his voice was quiet when he spoke and the tears that welled in his eyes were real, but for all the wrong reasons. yangui, what do i do? he dropped his head, hands covering his face. his shoulders shook, barely perceivable under the thin cloth he was left wearing. yangui, he whispered, save me.
  
  when, later that night, they opened the door to his cell and told him he could return home, he knew his plan had worked. but he also knew, from the odd feeling of being followed he had on his way out, that he was not safe.
  
  upon his arrival, he was told, in the midst of the chaos, that his mother had passed. perhaps the knowledge of what was going on had been too much to bear, but her breath simply stopped one night, like she had given up. some part of him felt relieved, that he would not need to bring her with him, that his only responsibility left in this place was his sister. so he pulled wenyao away and told her to pack her most important things. the house had fallen, they needed to avoid the debris.
  
  when the sun was out of sight, the two of them ran, through the woods and to a port where they provided escape routes for the right price. under the faint moonlight, the shadows of the trees seemed to move and the leaves rustled in rhythm with the wind. it was the forest, he told himself, though his grip on wenyao's hand tightened and his steps quickened. calm down. it's just the forest, just your mind creating illusions. but as the sounds grew louder, nearer, there was no more denying his reality. as a blade tore the air to enter his sights, glinting menacingly in the dark, his heart clenched.
  
  to face death twice in a day was more than any one person can truly take. thrown to the ground, wenyao's small, struggling figure barely visible behind the imposing man, ning rong was at his wit's end. why were they doing this? why bother, when the two of them were nothing more than children? because of the ledger. the godforsaken ledger.
  
  he swallowed, hard, trying to steady his shaking breaths. he tried to look up at his assailant, but his eyes could see nothing but the sharp edge hovering too close to his face. he hears wenyao start to cry. he didn't know why, he couldn't see, but he finds himself pleading anyway. wait, he begged, i know what you want. i know who has it. the sword shifts even closer. the man says something, but his words blur.
  
  there was no other way. he had to say it. there was no one else who could have done it but yangui, he was - no. no, there was. one other person. one other friend loyal, foolish enough to visit. yanshu had come, too. he had forgotten in his daze. right, there was another option. yangui, or yanshu. his precious friend? a blameless child? or his and his sister's throats? the man was getting impatient. the blade seemed to shine, as if reminding him of the ticking time. choose, it said. yangui? yanshu? or the end?
  
  zeng yanshu, a trembling voice finally cut through the intense silence, the words heavy. zeng? the swordsman's hoarse voice demanded, duke zeng? an odd calmness overcame ning rong at the sound of that voice. he'd made his choice. his gaze met the sharp eyes staring down at him, and he said the cruelest word he'd ever said in his life, yes.
  
  what happened after was a blur. all he remembers is running like a mad man, away from his past. he remembers shoving gold into a fisherman's hands and pleading for him to leave, leave right now. and he remembers looking out at the calm, unbothered waters, at the beautiful crescent moon reflected on its surface, and resenting its composure.
  
  the boat trip took the whole night, and his attempt to figure out the new city they'd landed in took even longer. it was clear from his dress that he wasn't a normal boy looking for work and shelter. nobody wanted to help him. one way or the other, this ended with him staring up at the signboard for a courtesan house. something told him, then, that this was his last resort. here was another choice: pride? or survival? and after what he'd done the night before, this seemed like an exceedingly easy decision.
  
  five years has passed since then, four spent at that very courtesan house, before he gathered enough fame to be sold to a bigger one. he had not wanted to leave for mengxiang, his new home, because it was in the city that carried all his ghosts. wenyao had grown up, nobody would recognize her easily, and his family members, as far as he knew, had practically been wiped out. as for him... well, he can only hope.
  

  drunk 《 醉 》— isabelle huang

  
  
• RELATIONSHIPS

  • .
  • .

  • Mother

    li su [李苏], deceased at 37, death by illness

    
    

    
    
    

    Father

    ning yilong [甯亿隆], deceased at 49, death by execution

    
    

    
    
    

    Brothers

    ning wei [甯巍], deceased at 24, death by execution | ning hao [甯昊], status unknown, presumed deceased at 20

    
    

    
    
  • Sister

    ning wenyao [甯稳耀], 18, waitress at mengxiang pavillion

    
    

    uwu

    zeng yangui [曾衍貴], 24, duke of zongsheng

    
    

    
    

红
颜
祸
水

coded by reveriee.

 

[reveriee]

• .
• .
• .
• .

• zeng yangui

  full name

  Zeng Yangui「曾衍貴」
  
  

  courtesy name

  Huaizheng「懷正」
  
  

  titles

  Young Master Zeng「曾公子」/ Duke of Zongsheng「宗聖公」(hereditary title for the firstborn direct descendent of Zengzi)
  
  

  nicknames

  A-gui「阿貴」
  Baogui「寶貴」(means precious)
  
  

  gender

  cisgender male
  
  

  age

  19 / 24
  
  

  d.o.b.

  29th day of the 2nd month
  
  

  p.o.b.

  Jiaxiang County, Yanzhou Prefecture, Shandong, Ming Empire (modern-day Jining, Shandong, China)「兗州府嘉祥縣」
  
  

  residence

  travels between Jiaxiang (to oversee his family's temple) and Beijing (for his work in the imperial court)
  
  

  ethnicity

  Han Chinese
  
  

  sexuality

  heteroflexible demisexual
  
  

  occupation

  student / scholar-official serving in the imperial court; duke (honorary hereditary title; does not possess a duchy lol)

  VISAGE

  height

  180 cm (5'11")
  
  

  weight

  70 kg (155 lbs)
  
  

  build

  Yangui is more lean than muscular, more lithe than lanky. He is fairly tall, but he doesn't give off an overwhelming impression.
  
  

  hair

  black like an inkstone and long enough to reach his lower back; usually put up in some half-updo
  
  

  eyes

  dark brown
  
  

  fc

  Yang Yang (洋洋)
• conscientious

  altruistic

  disciplined

  well-mannered

  dependable

  righteous

  benevolent

  incorruptible

  ingenuous

  compliant

  conformist

  inflexible

  starry-eyed

  image-conscious

  unimaginative

  PERSONA

  Benevolent, righteous, proper, well-educated, filial, honorable; Zeng Yangui is the picture-perfect icon of Confucian virtue. His reputation, built upon his lineage, but now crafted around his impeccable character, extends past even the influences of his clan name. He is the star student in your academy; top-ranking through diligence rather than genius, well-loved due to respect and kindness rather than force or power. He is the law-abiding civil servant -- hardworking, dutiful, and loyal above all, but also righteous and altruistic; the kind of man who would use his position to raise up anyone of noble disposition, regardless of wealth or background or reputation. He is the kind neighbor from your hometown -- benevolent enough to offer his home to the destitute, generous enough to go out of his way to help his neighbors. Zeng Yangui is the culmination of everything good, everything proper. He is no celebrity, no royal, no grand official, but his name is akin to a fairy tale.
  
  But Zeng Yangui is still mortal, still human, still flawed. For all of his benevolence and righteousness and humanity, Zeng Yangui has learned the entirety of his personality and values through books rather than experience. He's used to following a hierarchical society; used to listening to his teachers, his father, his superiors -- used to conforming and complying. He never had to truly think for himself, nor did he desire to make a decision that fell outside of what was "acceptable." After all, his moral guide is written in the Confucian Analects, and his desires are what the law states. Thus, for all of his glimmering virtue, Yangui can be as inflexible and unimaginative as a flat tone of gray. He's perfect at performing what's expected of him, but flounders with the unfamiliar.
  
  Perhaps the greatest consequence of Yangui's upbringing, however, is his naïveté. He is well-educated, but inexperienced. He has studied the Four Books and Five Classics intimately; knows how to analyze the law, how to shoot a bow and arrow, how to ride a horse. But he does not know how to bargain; how corruption plays out in the courts; how to read between the lines of politicians who wish to manipulate him. Even beyond that, even with his grounded disposition, Yangui is dangerously starry-eyed. Perhaps it's because virtue, virtue, virtue was the only thing he had been taught, making him unaware that the world was vice, vice, vice. Despite the maturity he was always praised for, his worldview is as trusting and as naive as that of a young child. Yangui has a hard time considering that kind people can be criminals, that generous politicians may only care about their status, that those close to him could have betrayed him. Zeng Yangui believes the world to be just as virtuous as he, and his disconnect with reality will be undoing.

  
  

  MISC

  likes

  tea ✧ zongzi ✧ chrysanthemums ✧ weiqi ✧ birds ✧ bitter melon ✧ baijiu ✧ rabbits ✧ early mornings ✧ myths ✧ sitting in the garden ✧ springtime ✧ summer rain ✧ reading ✧ calligraphy ✧ jade green ✧ clear nights ✧ lotus flowers ✧ herbal medicine
  
  

  dislikes

  hot weather ✧ big risks ✧ summer noontime ✧ martial arts ✧ archery ✧ insects in general, but especially butterflies and moths ✧ storms ✧ the color red ✧ dampness ✧ weapons ✧ aggression ✧ peanuts ✧ the scent of metal
  
  

  quirks

  he used to only drink white tea, but the longer he spends in court, the more his tastes change -- now, he has an affinity for pu-erh tea ✧ he enjoys playing weiqi even if he's horrendously bad at it ✧ his negative reaction to things is always sadness, never anger

  
  
• BACKGROUND

  
  

  There are times when Zeng Yangui will wake up in the dead of night, hands trembling and unable to sleep. His nightmares are akin to fading ghosts who have overstayed their welcome on earth -- hazy, unclear, and barely present. On those moonless nights, he'll remember his brethren and his beloved. He'll look up at the inkstone expanse above and laugh at how his knowledge of what happened on those fateful days is no brighter than the moonless, starless night.
  
  The Zeng clan, famously descended from Confucius's disciple, Zengzi, was oft looked to as the pinnacle of virtue and Confucianism. As the eldest son of his generation, Yangui was designated as the heir apparent to his father's title, and the next-in-line to wear the crown of his ancestor's legacy. For many, the expectation to uphold the strict virtues professed by your most impressive predecessor would have been akin to a too-tight collar on one's robe -- stiff, inflexible, and stifling. For Zeng Yangui, his duty was like water -- as fundamental as the air he breathed, as ingrained into the earth as the Yellow River. He was not perfect by any means, nor was he good at everything, but the things that mattered -- virtue, diligence, responsibility -- came easily to him. His father would often present Yangui to his associates as if he were an impeccably polished piece of jade -- a stone valued by its purity and praised as imperial by the nation. Yangui took every obligation in stride, and when his two younger brothers, Yanzhi and Yanshu, joined the family, he would uphold his brotherly responsibilities as well as any other duty.
  
  Yangui's reputation among his peers was no less pristine than his conduct towards his elders. A good student through diligence rather than genius, he seemed equal parts grounded and lofty, equal parts mortal and divine. Yangui gathered an adoring following during his years of schooling, but even he was not infallible. Beneath the chortles and praises of enthralled young ladies and admiring juniors were the bitter whispers of his fervent criticizers, their dark eyes trailing Yangui's form from the shadows of the courtyard. They have always been an ostracized group -- who were they to despise the paragon of Confucianism, to oppose the values of society? Nonetheless, they believed themselves to be the only ones intelligent enough to see through Yangui's illusory persona, the only ones not to fall into the crowd of lovestruck sheep. They called Yangui a mindless follower, a lapdog who couldn't think for himself. Though they would fade into obscurity soon after their schooldays -- fade into the shadows they once lingered in -- the undeniable truth of their criticisms would reach full bloom once Yangui ascended the steps of the imperial court. Only then, would Yangui remember them. Only then, would Yangui come to terms with their painfully truthful words.
  
  Behind the folding screen, Yangui's mother would spoil him with unconditional affection. Everyone else, he was paragon, a model citizen, a caricature of the surname "Zeng." When held against his mother's bosom, he was simply a boy. His mother sung him tales of lofty myths, painted him images of quixotic dreams. Her stories lit up the world and tinted it rose and gold. It is here where a permanent sense of romanticism and naïveté engraves itself into the unblemished jade of Yangui's heart -- for better or for worse.
  
  And so, this is the life of Zeng Yangui -- perfect, pristine, predictable. Like a cloudless, moonlit night, like the clear, unrippled pond water in his family's garden.
  
  Then, by that analogy, Ning Rong would be comparable to the dusting of rainclouds on a warm, summer night. Obscuring the shape of the moon, but not stifling its glow. Calling upon a gentle pitter-patter of rain, light enough that it would be reminiscent of a dancer's grace rather than a god's wrath. Ning Rong would be comparable to a bloom of lotus flowers at the edge of their pond -- perhaps rendering the water's surface not-so-perfect anymore, yet all the more beautiful. The two of them had a pleasant friendship, though Ning Rong was always different from the rest of Yangui's friends -- different from his blindly loyal admirers, different from his always composed acquaintances, different from his, at times, insufferable younger siblings (not like Yangui would say that, ahem). It might've been Yangui's perception of Ning Rong that distinguished the latter from everybody else, but regardless of how truly special Ning Rong was, he would grow to be just that. Yangui would come to realize that Ning Rong had migrated from the middle ground he categorized most people into -- reserved for the masses whom he always treated kindly due to his disposition -- and to a particular place in the recesses of his heart. A place reserved for people like his mother and his brothers. A place where love took priority over any Confucian principles Yangui held near and dear.
  
  The transition was warm, honey-sweet, and slow, until it was cleaved in the heart by a demand that would test everything that had gone by noiselessly in Yangui and Ning Rong's relationship.
  
  Zeng Yangui, descendant of Zengzi, highest scorer on the recent provincial exam, found himself peering at his dear friend through the iron bars of a prison cell. He had waded through a sea of low murmurs to get there, treaded through whispers of "is that the young Duke of Zeng?" and "what mess could've brought him here?" He had heard the silent rush of water, silent thoughts of who could've sullied the virtue of this boy and the Zeng family must be losing their luster. And as he took his place in front of his dear friend, he heard his own thoughts awaken, telling him this is not your world and you are out of place and you know nothing about what happens here.
  
  It was true. Yangui was a clean piece of jade among earthen coal. He sat gingerly, unsure of what to do, and gathered his robes close to his form. He couldn't fathom why Ning Rong was sitting behind bars. The Zeng family lived up to their name, and Yangui had never dealt with criminal behavior firsthand -- only read about it through reports and his studies. Of course, he had heard about the recent scandal of corrupt officials and men disloyal to the emperor. But why had that cruel storm swept up Ning Rong as well? He was only eighteen. Even if his father was guilty of corruption, Ning Rong had his hands clean. Yangui, for all his inexperience with worldly realities and societal sin, would know if anyone in his close circles had done anything against the law. He was the first son of Zeng Shangru, dearest friend to Ning Rong, zenith of Confucian virtue. He was learned, dutiful, and devout. He would know.
  
  So when Ning Rong lifted his head, eyes glimmering with tears, and professed his predicament, Yangui's heart twisted in sympathy and settled in relief. He was right -- Ning Rong was not a criminal. He was Yangui's dearest friend, framed by a deplorable felon who tried to rub the blood on his hands on the sleeve of an innocent.
  
  When Yangui left the prison, the twilight sky had bled purple and blue like a bruise. He rushed to his venerable father, reached out to his extensive connections. By the time the crescent moon, skinny like an eyelash, had begun to rise into the inkstone sky, Ning Rong had already been released. Yangui fell asleep to the cloudless night, the waters in his heart unbothered and unrippled.
  
  His fitful rest was interrupted only a few hours later. The sky was dark and empty -- seemingly void of clouds, stars, and birds, void of all except for the moon. When Yangui peered out the window and past his home, he could see a faint dusting of clouds in the distance, growing smaller as if running away.
  
  He left his bedroom to be met with the sight of his father, ever devout and esteemed, arguing with a gaggle of armed officials. They leave before Yangui can understand why they're there. The only phrase the young man catches is, "you have two days, Zeng Shangru. Two days."
  
  Once the officials' heavy footsteps fade out into the night, Zeng Shangru, normally serene and composed, lets his teacup slip from his fingers and watches it shatter on the floor. Their family has run into some trouble, he says, panicked and aghast.
  
  "I don't understand how this could've happened," he mutters, dismayed, and Yangui agrees. The Zeng clan's respectable lineage ran on for over a millennia. Their reputation was commendable and almost divine in its purity, and Yangui believed that there were few in the nation as devout and law-abiding as them. His father held a respectable position in government, and though his two younger brothers were outshone by Yangui, they were accomplished in their own right; Yanzhi in the sciences, and Yanshu in the martial arts. In an age of multiple wives and concubines, his father, ever virtuous, only devoted himself to one woman. The family never fought except for rare squabbles involving Yanshu, and they always treated each other and everyone else with upmost respect. Even disregarding their conduct, their ancestral lineage was enough to garner esteem.
  
  What could they have done to run into trouble? Yangui did not panic like his father, but as he retreated to his mattress, he pondered deeply, unable to sleep. Their family was pure by the standards of their society, and even by the most stringent of ideals, they had only sinned once in recent generations. The truth was, Yanshu was born out of wedlock, born out of a drunken, one-time affair between his father and some unnamed woman. It shouldn't had mattered at all; most upper class men had multiple wives, and even a Confucian icon such as Zeng Shangru could've gotten away with it unscathed. But they were the Zeng clan -- too strongly defined by their predecessor, too strictly constrained by "virtue." In his shame, Yangui's father had named the youngest Zeng Yanshu -- 赎 as in redemption.
  
  Yangui fell asleep to his thoughts and the endless ink of the night sky. It had to be a mistake, just as Ning Rong's guilt was fabricated. His father's one sin was not sin enough to bring down their family line.
  
  The next time Yangui awoke, it was to a red dawn, as if the sun bled over the sky. He heard a muffled argument from the next room over, the telltale pubescent rasp of Yanshu's voice the center of it all. As their voices rose and fell, the white sun pulsed and and stilled, bleeding red, red, red all over.
  
  Yangui entered the room, stilling at the sight of his two brothers staring at each other, dead in the eye. Only a saber, clenched in Yanshu's trembling hand and suffocating grip, stood between them. The red sky glinted off the blade, casting the younger's visage in a vermillion glow.
  
  "Zeng Yanshu, what do you think you're doing?" Yangui settled his hand over Yanshu's clenched fist, chiding at him to let go of the blade. The younger's hand trembled even more, but his grip never loosened.
  
  "I overheard father speaking to the officials last night," he muttered, so quiet that the other two had to strain to hear him. The red glint of the blade reflected into Yanshu's obsidian eyes, and Yangui suddenly felt as if his youngest brother looked like a madman.
  
  "Did you know," Yanshu continued, "that they were coming for me?
  
  "They wanted to take me away to prison, me away to the gallows. Me!" Yanshu shoved Yangui's hand away, and the elder two in the room instinctively backed away from the swaying blade.
  
  "I've done nothing wrong. Or so I have, apparently -- just by being born! Even then, I've spent my entire life trying to be some cheap imitation of you, Zeng Yangui. I know my place, and I've sat here for fifteen years trying to pretend like I could wipe off whatever filth that makes me, me. Except that's not possible, is it? I'll always be Zeng Yanshu, the product of Zeng Shangru's shame. It's in my fucking name, even; my identity is "bastard child born out of shame," just like yours is "the perfect Zeng son." I've always been the stain in this fucking family's pristine record, I'm the one who's implicated everywhere because I'm me."
  
  "Yanshu, I'm sure it's a mistake," Yangui interjected, slowly approaching the youngest as if he were a frightened animal. "We know you haven't done anything wrong. That's why we're biding for time, so we can figure out who did this to you."
  
  "No."
  
  ". . . No?"
  
  "A-shu," Yanzhi spoke up for the first time. "Take a deep breath, think about what you're doing. Think about the consequences. There's a better option out there."
  
  A pause, then two. Yanshu swallowed heavily, before setting the blade down. "All right, A-zhi. I'm sorry." He suddenly choked, and Yangui rushed to wrap him in an embrace. "I'm just -- I'm just stressed. And I'm scared. About what's going to happen to us."
  
  Yangui suddenly remembered that Yanshu was still a child. A baby -- at least to them. He was the youngest, the one who always had to chase after his older brothers. He was a teenager -- impulsive, and at times brash. This was normal.
  
  "Let's go to sleep, and we'll discuss this when the sun is up. How does that sound?"
  
  With a final nod, the three brothers departed, and Yangui returned to his sound sleep for the third time that night.
  
  He awoke for the last time only a short hour later. The sun was low in the pale sky. All seemed at peace, and Yangui's eyes fluttered shut until he heard his mother scream.
  
  The scene in the next room over reminded Yangui of western paintings he had scene at the trading ports -- dramatic chiaroscuro and arched poses and solemn faces. His mother was crouched over Yanzhi's slumped form, her hands cradling his bleeding head. His father stood in the corner, appearing even more shaken than he had the previous night. Yanshu was gone; so was the saber.
  
  The next days passed in a red haze. If you asked Yangui to recite the events that took place, he could. But he could only recite them like one recited numbers off an answer sheet for a math exam. He can't remember how he felt, can't remember the color in the scenes, only the sequence; if asked about his feelings, he supposed the only appropriate answer would be "numb."
  
  Yangui had trusted Yanshu to go to bed. He hadn't. Instead, Yanshu snuck out of the home, slamming the blade against Yanzhi's head in a panic when he heard him stir. After the early morning scene, the Zeng family waited in apprehension, only drinking tea for that day. In the evening, the officers came again, reporting Yanshu's treasonous and violent actions, and how he was killed in an effort to contain him. They left with his father, for questioning. Zeng Shangru never returned.
  
  Afterwards, Yangui returned to his normal life -- what else could he do? In his search for a particular text in the communal library, however, he had heard whispers about the Zeng family. His family. About how there was a plot to remove Zeng Yanzhi, and maybe the mother Li Jing as well. But not Zeng Yangui, never him. Zeng Yangui was to remain untouched, for he defined his virtue outside of his surname, creating his own identity that was separate from that of his family.
  
  Yangui returned home with a sour note in his throat. If anything, his identity was the least separate from the identity of Zeng. If anything, "Zeng Yangui" was so synonymous with "Zeng," that the world might as well erase the latter two characters.
  
  Yangui did not question it, however, like he didn't question most things. He didn't linger either, instead reaching out to a few elderly friends in the next province over and sending his brother (he only had one, now) and his mother into hiding. He communicated to the official that confronted him later, telling him that his brother had been taken away earlier, and that his mother had been escorted back to her hometown for the time being. Most of the conversation are things Yangui will never repeat. But that doesn't matter now, does it? The chain of command had gotten the visiting official's message and decided that they were satisfied.
  
  As the only surviving Zeng, Yangui ascended to the position of Duke of Zongsheng, managing his fallen family's revered temple. He returned to his studies, passing the imperial exams and securing a spot in the Beijing courts two years later. His mother returned to him as well, and though Yanzhi would remain officially stricken from the records, the two brothers met every few months.
  
  Five years later, the Zeng incident had not been forgotten, but it was selectively ignored. It had been five years since the deaths of Yanshu and Shangru and "Yanzhi", five years since the Zeng slate had been wiped clean. And who better to revitalize the virtue of the Zeng family than the esteemed Zeng Yangui himself?

  remaining years《余年》— xiao zhan (肖战)

  
  
• RELATIONSHIPS

  曾尚儒

  zeng shangru
  relation — father
  status — alive (47) / deceased

  李婧

  li jing
  relation — mother
  status — alive (44) / alive (49)

  曾衍质

  zeng yanzhi
  relation — younger brother
  status — alive (18) / in hiding (23)

  曾衍赎

  zeng yanshu
  relation — youngest brother
  status — alive (15) / deceased

  甯荣

  ning rong
  relation —
  status — alive (18) / unknown (for now)

  曾几何时

曾
衍
贵

水

coded by reveriee.