Nine Nights Owl Song

In the first year of Yong'an of the Great Liang Dynasty, in winter.

The heavy snow had been falling for three days and three nights, burying the entire city of Luojing in more than a foot of snow. The eaves of the houses were covered with icicles that were a foot long, and even the moat was covered with a thick layer of ice.

In this kind of weather, even the stray dogs on the street huddled in the holes in the walls, and the beggars crowded around the bonfire in the City God Temple, staying as still as possible.

But the Marquis of Dingyuan's mansion was brightly lit tonight, and servants were running around under the eaves carrying hot water and cotton cloths. From the delivery room came screams that grew louder and louder.

"Push, madam! Push harder!" The midwife's voice squeezed out from the crack in the door, filled with barely concealed anxiety.

Outside the main house in the backyard, Marquis Dingyuan, Su Zhentian, stood with his hands behind his back on the porch, wearing a black fox fur cloak, his brows furrowed in a tight knot.

He had been standing there for two whole hours.

"My lord, it's cold. Please come inside and wait." The old steward, Su Fu, stepped forward with an umbrella, which was already covered with a thick layer of snow.

Su Zhentian didn't move, his gaze fixed on the direction of the delivery room: "What time is it?"

"Reporting to Your Excellency, it's just past midnight."

It's past midnight. Nearly six hours have passed since dusk.

Su Zhentian clenched his fists.

His wife, Madam Shen, came from a prestigious family and had always been in good health. During this pregnancy, she even consulted the best gynecologist from the Imperial Medical Bureau for treatment, so it shouldn't have been so dangerous.

Inside the delivery room, Shen's voice gradually faded.

"Madam, you can't sleep!" the midwife's voice suddenly rose, trembling with tears. "The baby's head is out! Push again!"

Shen's face was as white as paper, her bangs damp with sweat, clinging to her skin in strands. She bit down on the cork in her mouth, using her last ounce of strength…

A baby's cry pierced the night sky.

"It's born! It's born!" The midwife picked up the baby, her voice filled with the relief of surviving a close call.

"Congratulations, Madam, it's a little..."

Her voice stopped abruptly.

The midwife looked down at the baby in her arms, and her face changed instantly.

The baby was bluish-purple all over, not breathing, and lay limply in her arms like a kitten that had frozen to death.

"What's wrong?" Shen forced her eyes open, her voice as weak as a wisp of smoke.

The midwife's hands were trembling.

"Madam, the child... the child..."

"Let me see." Madam Shen held out her hand.

The midwife handed the baby over, her hands trembling.

As Shen took the tiny body, the light in her eyes gradually faded.

"No...it can't be..." Her voice began to tremble, "My child...how could my child..."

"Madam, please accept my condolences." The midwife knelt down.

"Perhaps...perhaps it's been in my belly for too long and is feeling suffocated..."

Ms. Shen held the baby tightly in her arms, tears silently streaming down her face.

She carried her child for ten months, hoping day and night, only to be met with this small, cold corpse.

Outside the delivery room, Su Zhentian heard the baby crying. His tightly furrowed brows had just relaxed when the crying abruptly stopped.

Immediately following was Shen's heart-wrenching cries.

His heart sank, and he pushed open the door and went inside.

Meanwhile, in the east wing of the Hou Mansion's backyard.

Aunt Zhou sat in front of the bronze mirror, slowly and deliberately removing the pearl hairpins from her head.

She is twenty-five years old this year, with almond-shaped eyes and peach-blossom cheeks, and is the most favored concubine in the Marquis's mansion.

At this moment, a faint smile played on her lips as she tidied her sideburns in front of the bronze mirror, her demeanor so relaxed as if the dramatic childbirth in the front yard had nothing to do with her.

"Madam." Her personal maid, Cuiping, lifted the curtain and entered, lowering her voice.

"A messenger from the front yard reports that the lady has given birth."

Aunt Zhou paused, holding the hairpin in her hand. "What did it give birth to?"

"It's a..." Cuiping swallowed.

"It was stillborn."

In the bronze mirror, Aunt Zhou's lips slowly curled upwards.

She took out a silver ingot from her sleeve and casually tossed it on the table: "Take this to Granny Wang, the midwife, and tell her to keep her mouth shut."

Cuiping hesitated for a moment: "Auntie, that...that child..."

"What child?" Aunt Zhou turned her head, her eyes suddenly turning cold and sharp. "Madam's child was stillborn, so where would she get another child?"

Cuiping shivered, bowed her head and replied "Yes," before hurriedly leaving.

Aunt Zhou turned back to the bronze mirror, removed the last hairpin, and let her long, black hair fall down, making her face appear even whiter.

She reached out and touched her abdomen, which was flat and firm, but only she knew that three months ago, a life was growing there.

The child could not be saved.

She took the abortion pills herself.

It's not that she doesn't want it, but that she can't have it.

The Marquis already has three children born out of wedlock; adding another would only be icing on the cake. But what if the Marquis had no legitimate heirs—

The title of Marquis of Dingyuan could only be bestowed upon his eldest son, who was born out of wedlock.

But for the sake of the Zhou family, she couldn't wait any longer.

Shen's pregnancy could not survive.

Aunt Zhou withdrew her hand, got up and walked to the window, pushing it open a crack.

The wind and snow, carrying a chill, rushed towards her face. She squinted and looked towards the front yard.

The snow was so heavy that it covered everything.

In the delivery room, Shen's cries had turned into low sobs.

Su Zhentian stood by the bed, looking at the bluish-purple baby in his wife's arms, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, and he remained silent for a long time.

He was a military general who had seen life and death on the battlefield, but seeing his first legitimate child born in this state still felt like being hit hard in the chest by a blunt object.

"Someone come here." His voice was hoarse.

"Take the child away and give him a proper burial."

"No!" Madam Shen hugged the child even tighter. "No one is allowed to touch my child! My child is alive! She's just... she's just too cold. Take her to the fire, she'll warm up..."

Su Zhentian closed his eyes and took a deep breath: "Madam, the child is already..."

"No!" Shen's voice was almost hysterical. "My child won't die! Get out! All of you get out!"

The maids and servants in the room looked at each other, none of them daring to move.

Su Zhentian was silent for a moment, then bent down and placed his hand on the back of Madam Shen's hand: "Madam, take care of yourself. We... will have children in the future."

Shen raised her head, her eyes bloodshot:

"Later? Su Zhentian, tell me, now that my child is dead, are your illegitimate sons and daughters happy? Is your concubine Zhou happy?"

Su Zhentian's face darkened: "What nonsense are you spouting?"

"I'm talking nonsense?" Madam Shen gave a bitter smile.

"Do you think I don't know? My pregnancy was going very well; the imperial physician said my pulse was strong and powerful. How could it suddenly..."

She couldn't continue speaking; she collapsed as if all her energy had been drained.

Su Zhentian frowned, his gaze falling on the bluish-purple infant, feeling a pang of heartache.

Meanwhile, in the east wing, Aunt Zhou was unaware that her seemingly flawless plan was beginning to crack...

It was past midnight, and the wind and snow were getting worse.

The side gate at the back of the Marquis's residence was silently pushed open, and a hunched figure carrying a bundle emerged.

It was Granny Wang, the midwife.

She is in her early sixties, with a face full of wrinkles. She is a famous midwife in Luojing City, and most of the pregnant women from wealthy and powerful families have asked her to help.

Her face was deathly pale. She wrapped her cotton-padded coat tightly around herself and walked unsteadily toward the edge of the city.

Inside the bundle on his back was fifty taels of silver, a reward from Aunt Zhou.

This money is enough for her to buy two acres of land in the countryside, build a house, and live out the rest of her life in peace and comfort.

But her legs kept shaking.

It's not because it's cold.

It's because the bundle on her back contained more than just silver.

And that stillborn baby.

No—that wasn't a stillborn baby.

Granny Wang quickened her pace, almost jogging.

Her mind was in complete turmoil, repeatedly replaying the events of two hours prior.

The claim that the lady gave birth to a stillborn child is false.

When the child was born from Shen's womb, she was clearly alive, crying loudly, with strong limbs, and was a healthy baby girl.

Aunt Zhou bribed her to switch the baby with a pre-prepared stillborn infant.

The baby girl who had come into this world was now wrapped in a tattered cloth and taken away by Aunt Zhou's people.

Wang Pozi didn't know where she took them, nor did she dare to know.

All she knew was that the sins she had committed in this life would likely send her to the eighteenth level of hell after death.

"Amitabha, Amitabha..." Granny Wang chanted the Buddhist prayers tremblingly as she turned into a small alley in the south of the city.

At the end of the alley is a mass grave.

Three miles outside the south gate of Luoyang City, there is a mass grave.

It's called a mass burial ground, but it's actually just an abandoned mortuary site that's been neglected for years, with only a few broken walls and half a collapsed shed remaining.

Unclaimed corpses, abandoned infants, and the bodies of beggars were all thrown here, where wild dogs gnawed and crows pecked at them, and over time it became a dark place that everyone avoided.

On a snowy night, the place seemed even more terrifying.

The bare branches creaked in the wind, as if something was chewing on bones.

Several snow mounds were faintly visible on the snow, and it was unknown who was buried underneath them.

A dark figure appeared at the edge of the mass grave.

It was a man, dressed in coarse cloth and a black cloth covering his face, holding a baby wrapped in rags in his arms.

He strode quickly to the depths of the mass grave, threw the swaddled baby on the ground, turned and left without even looking back.

The swaddled baby landed on the snow with a dull thud.

Wrapped inside was a newborn girl, less than two hours old.

She didn't cry.

It wasn't that she didn't want to cry, but that she was too cold, so cold that she didn't even have the strength to cry.

Her lips had turned purple, and her skin had an abnormal bluish-white tinge. Only her chest was still rising and falling weakly, proving that this tiny life was still making its last struggle.

Snowflakes fell on her face, one, two, three.

Her little hands slipped out of her swaddling clothes, her fingers slightly curled, as if trying to grasp something, yet unable to grasp anything at all.

The wind grew stronger, and the snow fell thicker.

The baby girl's breathing grew weaker and weaker, and the rise and fall of her chest was almost invisible.

The mass grave returned to a deathly silence, with only the sound of wind and falling snow.

In another quarter of an hour, or perhaps half an hour, this child who has just come into the world will become one of the countless souls in this mass grave, buried by the snow and eaten by wild dogs. No one will know that she was ever here, and no one will remember her.

but--

Just as the baby girl's life was about to end, a hand reached out from the snow.

No, not from the snow.

It was from that half-collapsed shed on the edge of the mass grave.

It was a human hand, withered, dark, and covered with frostbite and scars.

The owner of the hand was an old beggar huddled in the corner of the shed, covered in filth, with disheveled hair and beard, holding a wine gourd in his arms, and the tattered cotton wadding on his body had hardened into clumps.

He was already completely drunk when he was awakened by a faint sound, like a cat's meow.

The old beggar opened his cloudy eyes, listened intently, and then stood up unsteadily.

He followed the sound and saw the swaddled baby in the snow.

The old beggar squatted down, used his calloused hands to brush away the snow, and picked up the swaddled baby.

"Tsk." He glanced at the baby girl's bluish-purple face, clicked his tongue, and said, "Which family can't afford to raise her again..."

He paused, his words trailing off.

Because he saw the baby girl's hand, that tiny, curled hand, which clenched tightly when it touched his rough fingers.

Such small hands, such great strength.

It's as if they're saying: I don't want to die.

The old beggar remained silent for a long time.

The wind, carrying snowflakes, lashed his face and seeped into his tattered collar. He stood there, like a stone statue weathered beyond recognition by the passage of time.

"That's enough."

He finally spoke, his voice hoarse like sandpaper.

"I haven't done many good deeds in my life, so I'll do something good today."

He tucked the baby girl into his arms, wrapped her in his tattered cotton-padded coat, and turned to walk back into the shed.

There was nothing in the shed except for a pile of nearly extinguished firewood and a floor covered in wine stains.

The old beggar took out a gourd from his pocket, uncorked it, and took a sip.

He swallowed the strong liquor and exhaled a long puff of white breath.

Then he brought the gourd of wine to the baby girl's mouth and dripped a drop of wine onto her purple lips.

The baby girl instinctively moved her tongue and licked the drop of wine into her mouth.

The old beggar shed another drop.

One drop, two drops, three drops.

The baby girl's face gradually changed from bluish-purple to pale, and then from pale to a faint pink.

She finally burst into tears.

The crying wasn't loud, as if the person had been frozen for too long and their voice was hoarse, but in this snowy night, it was clearer than any other sound.

Hearing the crying, the old beggar grinned, revealing several uneven, yellow teeth.

"Cry," he murmured. "Just cry it out. Being able to cry means you're still alive."

He took another swig of wine, leaned against the crumbling wall, and pressed the baby girl against his chest.

The snow is still falling.

The wind is still blowing.

But inside this dilapidated shed, a tiny fire was burning.

That was the fire of a new life.

The old beggar looked down at the tiny, ugly baby girl in his arms, and suddenly remembered something from many years ago.

"I'll call you A-Jiu," the old beggar said.

"Today is the ninth day of the twelfth lunar month. I found you, so you will be called A-Jiu."

He paused, then said, "Nine is the ultimate number; it means either reaching the pinnacle or facing utter ruin. I'd like to see how you manage to live."

The snowstorm didn't stop.

Inside the shed, the firewood crackled and popped, half a pot of wine remained in the gourd, and the old beggar's snores and the baby's breathing mingled together, becoming each other's only support in the long night.

Winter of the first year of Yong'an, on the ninth day of the twelfth lunar month.

The eldest daughter of the Marquis of Dingyuan died on this day.

But a baby girl named Ajiu came back to life on this day.

At that time, no one knew what kind of existence this baby girl, abandoned in the mass grave, would become in the future.

She will be the sharpest knife in the night, the deepest nightmare of the powerful, and the strongest shield of a dynasty.

Her name will strike fear into the hearts of the world.