Xiao Yuan, the illustrious General Who Guards the North, is arrested under an emergency warrant during the victory banquet celebrating his triumph at Yumen Pass. He is accused of “colluding with the enemy and betraying the country.” His strategist and close friend, Xie Zhibai, sees through the plot by the powerful chancellor Li Siyuan and spends his entire fortune and every ounce of strength trying to save him.
But Chancellor Li's methods are ruthless and meticulous. Witnesses are killed, evidence is destroyed, and everyone who might help is purged. All hope of overturning the verdict is extinguished.
The emperor's order arrives: Xiao Yuan is sentenced to immediate execution, and his entire clan to death.
As they say their final farewells, Xiao Yuan begs Xie Zhibai to take his wife and flee to save himself. Despairing, Xie Zhibai vows in grief and fury, “If I cannot clear your name, then I willingly share your fate and the curses of generations to come!”
At the execution ground, just as the executioner's blade falls, Xie Zhibai, dressed in plain white mourning clothes, rushes forward like lightning and kneels beside Xiao Yuan, shouting his vow before the crowd.
The blade flashes. Two heads fall, their blood mingling.
The two headless bodies remain upright, their hands clasped even in death, forming a monument of blood that shakes the heart.
The enraged Chancellor Li manipulates public opinion, branding the two men traitors and rebels, their names becoming curses.
Yet the scene at the execution ground leaves an indelible mark, passed secretly among the people and sowing the seeds of dissent in the border army.
Xiao Yuan's secret orphaned heir survives. Xie Zhibai's widow, Liu Yan, struggles to raise the child amid public scorn, quietly guarding the truth and the vow.
A century of upheaval passes, and dynasties rise and fall.
Every spring, pure Blue Star flowers bloom across an unmarked grave in the northwestern outskirts of the capital.
Children play among them, singing an old, indistinct ballad: “The general's bones, the strategist's blood... their clasped hands will never part... cursed for generations... together they forged a monument...”
The ink of official histories may preserve their disgrace, but the human heart has soil of its own.
