Chapter Twenty-Five: The Mid-Autumn Festival

Beyond the Jinggu Pass, two armies stood face to face beneath an endless azure sky, unmarred by a single cloud. The scorching sun poured forth its domineering brilliance. Song Mo’an and his troops guarded the city gate, never expecting that, after so long a silence, the army of the Mingyue Kingdom would launch their assault on the eve of the Mid-Autumn Festival.

Before the true clash, it was customary for both sides to exchange taunts across the field. Amid the thunderous roll of war drums, Song Mo’an, perched atop a majestic steed, raised his right hand; the drums, as if obeying his command, abruptly fell silent.

“Prince Ningxu, I trust you have been well,” he called out.

At the head of the opposing host, dressed in a robe adorned with cranes and crowned with crane feathers, his delicate features serene, stood the Seventh Prince of Mingyue—Changyu Ningxu.

“Tsk, tsk, Song Mo’an? So it’s you. I was wondering who it might be. Long time no see! And where’s Song Moting? Don’t tell me the sight of my arrival has sent him scurrying into hiding, haha!” Changyu Ningxu raised his eyebrows, his voice dripping with mockery—his arrogance was enough to provoke anyone.

Song Mo’an had grown up alongside Song Moting in the military camps. Though he had never crossed swords with Ningxu himself, he had followed Moting into battle against him several times, and remembered well how, time and again, Ningxu was reduced to utter disarray by Moting’s hand.

Three years ago, Moting had led just five thousand men to rout their thirty-thousand-strong force, driving them beyond the Chishui River. Their swagger today came only because Moting was not present.

“Hmph, who was it that lost every encounter under my brother’s command? Dealing with the likes of you hardly requires his presence,” Song Mo’an replied coolly, his tone unruffled, deliberately pressing on the old wound.

At these words, his soldiers burst into laughter. Changyu Ningxu clenched his fists, his face flushing a sickly green with rage.

“You! Hmph! So what if you have a sharp tongue? Soon enough you’ll be kneeling, begging for mercy!”

“Then enough talk—let’s settle it blade to blade and see who kneels!” Song Mo’an spurred his horse forward. Changyu Ningxu did the same, and with a great shout, both armies surged into battle. In an instant, the air was filled with war cries, the clash of blades, the neighing of horses, and the acrid scent of gunpowder.

Though the Ming army held the advantage in numbers and weaponry, they lacked experience in formation; relying on brute strength, their momentum soon faltered before the disciplined forces of Youzhou.

Meanwhile, Changyu Ningxu and Song Mo’an exchanged a flurry of blows. Though Ningxu barely held his own, he clearly struggled compared to the dashing Mo’an—his feathered headdress askew, his appearance utterly disheveled.

Just as the Ming troops began to collapse and Song Mo’an was about to seize Ningxu, the prince suddenly grinned with a twisted glee.

“Hahaha! Don’t think it ends here—the real show is just about to begin!”

No sooner had he spoken than a strange buzzing arose from the horizon. A black swarm of unknown flying insects blotted out the sky, so dense it sent chills down the spine. The horses sensed danger and reared in panic. Alarmed, Song Mo’an immediately ordered his troops to retreat.

“Fall back, quickly!”

Inside the camp, Song Mo’an sat with furrowed brow, still haunted by what he had just witnessed. The swarm had descended upon his men—creatures with the heads of flies and the tails of bees, injecting venom into wounds and, as the stricken soldiers fell, swarming over their bodies to devour their flesh.

When Qiao Muqing entered, he saw Mo’an’s untouched meal and shook his head. Always, he and Mo’an had fought under Moting’s command. Now, with Moting summoned back to the capital, the burden of leadership fell heavy on Mo’an’s shoulders.

“You should eat something, Mo’an. Starving yourself won’t help matters—if you collapse before finding a solution, what will we do then?”

“I have no appetite. Tell me, Muqing, how are the wounded faring?”

“Don’t worry, all the wounds have been treated.”

“That’s a relief.” Mo’an sighed, then asked, “Do you know what those insects were? How can they be so deadly? We can’t go on like this.”

Qiao Muqing frowned. If he had not seen it himself, he would never have believed such fearsome insects existed.

“I have no idea, but we should inform His Majesty at once. We’re just soldiers—we wield swords, not books. Perhaps the learned tutors at court will know what they are.”

“That’s our only option. But we must act quickly—if we can’t counter them before the next battle, we won’t be able to hold Jinggu Pass.”

If the pass fell, it would open the gates of Youzhou itself—the consequences would be dire.

Meanwhile, Jing’an City was ablaze with lanterns and laughter, the Mid-Autumn Festival in full swing—a time for reunion and joy. Yet this year, squads of soldiers patrolled the streets alongside the throngs of revelers.

Within the palace, the Hall of Supreme Harmony resounded with music and dance, but the faces in the audience were clouded with worry. News from the front had reached them early, and even among the multitudes of ministers present, none could name the strange insects.

As the feast wore on, Rong Jiu grew ever more restless. After the last incident, her brothers no longer allowed her to wander freely, and her meeting with Song Moting had fallen through.

She glanced surreptitiously in Moting’s direction. He sat, brow tightly furrowed, drinking in silence. She knew he was troubled by news from the border. Though she did not know the details, she gathered from her brothers’ words that it was a crisis beyond their ability to resolve.

Seeing him so heavy-hearted left her ill at ease. Knowing she could not help, she felt stifled and resolved to slip outside for some air.

Stepping into the cool evening, she felt her spirits lift. As she climbed the steps, a blossom drifted to her feet. She picked it up and hurried to the city wall, where the scene unfolding before her was like a dream.

Palace attendants were hanging lanterns in the trees; golden light washed over crimson petals, swaying in the breeze, the flowers drifting down like fairies from the boughs.

“How beautiful these flowers are,” she murmured.

The sudden voice startled her—turning, she found Song Moci behind her, with Amu nowhere in sight.

“Are you part cat? You walk without a sound,” she grumbled, glaring at him. Had she been any more timid, she might have died of fright.

“You’re mistaken,” Song Moci replied mischievously. “I’m more like a dog.”

She rolled her eyes; she had only been joking, but he took her seriously.

“Hey, what are you doing out here alone? Tired of the banquet too? Honestly, I was about to fall asleep in there,” he chattered, drawing closer.

“It is dull. Out here is much nicer,” she agreed.

Through the layers of city walls, she imagined the bustling streets below, the calls of vendors, the laughter of the crowds. She and Song Moting should have been among them tonight…

“Hey, do you know what happened at the border?” Rong Jiu asked earnestly, gazing up at Song Moci.

“The border? Why are you, a girl, so concerned about that?” he replied, puzzled.

“Can’t I be curious? Never mind, forget it!”

Seeing her pout, Song Moci relented and recounted the events in detail.

“Insects like flies, but with bee-like tails?” Rong Jiu mused, her head bowed. It sounded so familiar.

“Could it be… the bee-tailed fly?” A flash of memory struck her—she had read about such a creature in an ancient book. She loved to lose herself in old texts, and the bee-tailed fly had caught her interest.

“Wait, don’t move, you’ve got a petal in your hair!”

Song Moci stepped closer, carefully picking the petal from her head. With their height difference, to her he seemed a living wall, and she held her breath, not daring to move.

Unbeknownst to them, from a distance, their closeness could easily be misunderstood.

Watching, Song Moting’s eyes narrowed, his whole being radiating an icy fury. He should never have come searching for her out of concern.

He was about to turn away when Rong Jiu noticed him.

“Your Highness, did you come looking for me?” she exclaimed, running over, paying no mind to the now sullen Song Moci.

“It seems I’m intruding,” Song Moting said coldly, casting a frosty glance at his brother.

“Big brother is certainly tactful,” Song Moci retorted.

The two glared at each other, the air between them sharp as knives. Rong Jiu, caught in the middle, could only sense the temperature plummeting.

“No trouble at all! Really!” she said hastily, inserting herself between them. “Your Highness, are you still worried about the border?”

Song Moting’s brows drew together, surprised she had read his thoughts so easily.

“You’ve been frowning all night, drinking alone. I don’t like to see you this way,” she said softly, pouting.

Song Moci’s eyes tightened. Though he had always known Rong Jiu’s heart belonged to his brother, hearing it was still hard to bear. He knew there was no place for him here.

Truth be told, Song Moting felt a surge of delight at her words, but it quickly faded. Over and over, he reminded himself she was still young, innocent of certain matters—her feelings for him were nothing more than admiration, not true affection.

A sudden gust of wind sent petals swirling, the scene dazzling and ethereal.

“The wind has picked up. Allow me to escort you back, Princess,” Song Moting said, his gaze turning away.

“I don’t want to go back yet—I have something important to tell you!” Rong Jiu lifted her head, catching sight of his chiseled profile, her eyes growing dazed with admiration.

Truly, the man she had chosen was remarkable—how handsome he was!