It was late autumn, and the wind had turned sharp and bitter. Dressed in a thin shirt and straw sandals, he m…
It was late autumn, and the wind had turned sharp and bitter.
Dressed in a thin shirt and straw sandals, he made his way down an unfamiliar mountain path, shivering as he walked.
There was no "home" left to return to. And the shed his distant relatives had given him wasn't even enough to keep out the rain, let alone the wind.
Down below, the lights of the valley flickered through the mist, growing fainter the farther he went—as if he were looking up at the world from the bottom of a lake.
He thought of the masked general on the stage, alone in a sea of soldiers, carving a path through countless foes.
A song could not keep the darkness at bay. Worse, it might draw the attention of mountain beasts or passing bandits.
But none of that mattered to him now.
His heartbeat pounded like the war drums from that day, the general surging forward, fearless and unshaken.
He ran—toward the distant glow of firelight.
As the glow deepened, he began to hear it: the spiraling notes of a pipa, the cheers and cries of the crowd.
It was his second time standing before the stage.
Though the season was one of withered grass and falling leaves, the moment before he closed his eyes, he saw pear blossoms—thousands of them—snowing down from unseen branches.
"We breathe lightning.
I grasp thunder above my head, grind stone soft beneath my feet. Strength in my right hand,
command in my left. When the sun sets in the west, the east rises silver as the moon.
Beat the drums—let the long song roll."
Gu Qiuhua, a native of Huzhou, was born with music in his bones.
As a child, he was saved by Cheng Su of the Masked Troupe and later joined the Pavilion of Returning Snow. His talent was unmatched, his voice clear and bright—
and of all his performances, none surpassed The Prince Enters the Formation.