The Waning Moon Over Yashan

In the second year of Xiangxing under the Southern Song, Lu Huaijin stood aboard a swaying ship, facing an endless night and an endless sea. Three years earlier, Lin’an had fallen. He lost everything, retaining only his name and a heart full of hatred with nowhere to go. Following the wavering dragon banner south, he became a minor clerk in the exiled court, keeping food records and drawing sea charts. Then, in a cabin crowded with wounded soldiers, he met Hu Xiao. She was stitching up the wound of a soldier who had lost an arm. Her expression was calm, and her hands were as steady as if she were embroidering. Blood stained her skirt, but she seemed not to notice. In this world, even men’s hands trembled as they held their swords, yet with a needle in hers, she wrested people from the hands of the King of Hell. Aboard this “court at sea,” sailing toward its end, two insignificant souls gradually drew closer beneath the shadows of hunger, plague, despair, and internal strife. They didn’t talk about tomorrow, because there might not be one. They cherished only the present: a stove warming a pot of medicine, a quiet conversation about the stars and the sea route, an embrace as they supported each other through howling winds and towering waves. Lu Huaijin had already foreseen the end history would bring. He knew the sea before them would become the grave of this dynasty, and perhaps of their love as well. As the Mongol warships loomed like dark clouds, and the final horns echoed across the waters of Yashan, should they join a hundred thousand soldiers and civilians in meeting the dynasty’s doom, or should he, at the very last moment, carve out for her a thorny path to survival, one that defied loyalty and righteousness? “Hu Xiao,” he said amid thunderous battle cries and flames, wiping the blood and tears from her face. His voice was hoarse but clear. “Look at me. Whatever the ending, we’ll be together...”