Chapter Sixteen: The Tree and the Vine

The other three went to fetch water on the opposite side.

Di Ying sat down obediently, took the flatbread, and began to chew.

Though his eyelids drooped, his ears missed none of the slightest sounds around him.

At this point, he had no chance whatsoever to escape. Even if he wanted to slip away under the pretense of relieving himself, they followed him closely.

Moreover, they were clearly far more familiar with the terrain here than he was.

Once their meal and drink were finished, the four men simply lay down on the grass around Di Ying.

It was late March, edging into early April; the nights were still cold.

Those men, raised in martial practice since childhood, found it merely refreshing.

Only Di Ying, a frail scholar, suffered—curled up in his official robes, which he hadn't even had time to change out of, shivering on the ground.

Yet, seeing how truly weak he was, the group eased their guard around him.

But within himself, Di Ying remained tightly wound.

These men set up no tents, nor did they seek shelter in caves; without even so much as a blanket or pad, they simply slept in the open like wild men. This, in turn, only further diminished his already slim chances of fleeing.

What could he do?

He rolled over, lay flat, rested his head in the crook of his arm, and began telling a quiet story to himself.

“Look at these mountains and forests—no matter where you go, there are wild grasses, shrubs, great trees, and all kinds of vines.

Don’t think them insignificant, nor imagine they grow just any which way. Each one exists in harmony with the others.

The tall trees draw birds to roost; the birds, in turn, drop their droppings, nurturing the weeds below. The shrubs offer refuge and ambush for wild beasts of the woods.

The great trees themselves support the vines, allowing them to climb higher, stretch longer, and bask in sunlight and rain.

Now, there was once a great tree—lucky, for there were none taller or stouter around it, and the water in the earth was plentiful.

So it grew, and grew.

Around it, the grasses and shrubs thrived as well.

Of course, there were vines, too.

The tree nourished all these companions in its own way.

But some shrubs grew unruly, daring to compete with the tree for water and nutrients.

Angered, the tree wanted them gone.

Yet, with neither hand nor foot, how could it destroy them?

After a moment’s thought, it decided to send the vines.

It told the vines, ‘You live by clinging to me, so you must heed my command. Do as I say and nothing else.

If you refuse, I will stop feeding you, keep you from the sun, and let you wither and die.’

The vines quaked with fear.

For they depended wholly on the tree; without its support, they truly could not survive.

So they obeyed the tree’s order, twining themselves around the shrubs, squeezing and strangling them one by one.

Satisfied with the vines’ work, the tree soon found itself discontented once more, looking askance at even the lowly saplings nearby.

In this patch of earth, the tree wanted only itself to thrive. Anything else, it could not bear to see.

It always felt the neighboring trees were eyeing it, ready to steal its nutrients at any moment.

Haunted by this thought, the tree ate poorly and slept worse.

Again it ordered the vines to strike at the saplings.

So it was that the shrubs and lesser trees were cleared away, and in time, not even the weeds were spared.

The vines, for reasons they couldn’t even name, aided the tree as its most ruthless accomplices.

They grew used to obeying, to living as commanded, believing it was the only way to survive.

They forgot they had roots, branches, and leaves of their own.

Until one day, with nothing left around but the solitary tree, a violent storm broke, lightning crashing down from the heavens.

No other plants remained to shield the tree.

A thick, blazing bolt of lightning struck the tree’s trunk.

Terrified and desperate, the tree frantically commanded the vines to intercept the lightning, to share its burden.

Blankly, the vines obeyed.

One after another, they fell in the storm.

At last, the tree had used up every vine it possessed, yet could not escape its fate; fire roared up its trunk, crackling and snapping.

Even then, the surviving vines and roots clung stupidly to the burning tree.

They believed that if the tree died, they could not live either.

For that is what the tree had always told them.

What they failed to notice was a small vine, quietly retreating underground—parting from the tree.

After the tree was burned to death, a gentle rain fell from the sky, and the little vine timidly poked its head above the soil.

Perplexed, it gazed at its companions, now reduced to ashes, and in its tender, childish voice, softly asked, ‘We have roots of our own—why can’t we live by ourselves?’

It thought, any debt owed had long been repaid; the tree was gone, and now, it could live on its own.

So, bravely, it sent its roots deeper into the earth, and as it grew, it clung to the mountain rocks, belonging to no one.

It drank in sunlight and rain as it pleased, stretching toward all it longed for.

But it did not forget the shrubs and grasses.

Using its supple strength, it gathered seeds from distant grasses and trees, carrying them here and planting them in the soil that had come alive anew.

One cannot choose to be born grass, tree, or vine.

But how to grow—this, I believe, is ours to decide.”

With that, Di Ying folded his hands over his stomach, closed his eyes, and prepared to sleep.

Before long, he heard, in the breeze that swept down the mountain hollow, a faint sigh.

…

Elsewhere.

A lone figure stumbled through the western foothills of the Taihang Mountains.

Behind him, over a dozen dark shapes gave relentless chase.

Peng Liang, bodyguard to Zhang Jiafu, Minister of Personnel.

When Zhang Jiafu was attacked on his inspection tour, Peng Liang shielded him at the risk of his own life, but was left for dead by the roadside due to his injuries.

He was later rescued.

Once his wounds were barely healed, he returned at once to the capital to report to Zhang Jiafu.

But Zhang Jiafu had long since presumed him dead.

To prevent any future trouble, Zhang had already slaughtered Peng Liang’s entire family.

Seventeen-year-old Peng Liang knew nothing of this.

Fulfilling his duty as a bodyguard, he had first gone to seek Zhang Jiafu.

Upon learning of his return, Zhang Jiafu sought to have him killed.

It was only when a colleague whispered the truth—that his whole family had been wiped out—that Peng Liang fought to escape, fleeing through many hardships until he reached Luzhou.

Barely recovered from his wounds, he was discovered by pursuers and fled into the Taihang Mountains.

Now, with old wounds reopened and new ones added, Peng Liang was utterly exhausted.