"Gentlemen, think about it. One by one, all the wealthy men in the city slipped away, sneaking out with their families and fortunes, leaving the city behind. By the end, only Lord Yi remained, with a handful of common soldiers. He had no choice but to press the merchant guards into defending the city as well. Now, who is this Lord Yi? He's a man who would never retreat. He climbed the city walls himself, sword in hand, directing his men and swearing to hold the line against the Scorpion Clan's attack! Battle after battle, the city walls ran red with blood. The Scorpion soldiers came like waves, but Lord Yi and his men fought to the last, not taking a single step back!"
The crowd in the teahouse listened, rapt. A few murmured in admiration, their voices low but fervent: "A loyal warrior—he'd rather die than surrender!"
The storyteller nodded, a heavy sadness in his eyes. "But loyalty isn't enough when there's no help coming. The merchant guards had no will to fight, and the Scorpions were relentless. Lord Yi's men were just common soldiers; they could only hold out for so long. One by one, his soldiers fell along the wall, blood soaking the moat below. And yet, Lord Yi did not retreat. He wielded his sword with both hands, drenched in blood, fighting side by side with his men until his arms could barely lift the blade."
"Bravo!" someone in the crowd shouted, and others cheered along.
But the storyteller lowered his voice, shaking his head. "It was no use in the end. The Scorpions had too many men, their assault too fierce. The walls began to fall, one section after another, until the enemy flooded into the city. But Lord Yi had prepared for this. He'd hidden gunpowder throughout the city, and as he saw the end approaching, he ordered his soldiers to ignite it. In an instant, fire roared up to the sky, and countless Scorpion soldiers were burned alive!"
"Bravo!" The listeners cheered again, fists clenched, swept up in the tale.
The storyteller's face darkened, his voice turning bitter. "The Scorpions suffered heavy losses and finally retreated. But by then, the city was in ruins. Only a handful of soldiers were left standing, and barely one in ten of the townspeople had survived. And just as things began to quiet down, those same wealthy nobles and merchants who had fled… returned. Now, gentlemen, can you guess why they came back?"
The teahouse fell into hushed murmurs, someone muttering, "Surely they weren't coming back to claim credit?"
"Exactly!" The storyteller slammed his hand on the table, eyes blazing with anger. "Those nobles had the gall to return under the guise of 'restoring order,' spreading lies that Lord Yi had 'failed to defend the city' and even accusing him of collaborating with the Scorpions!"
"Outrageous!" The crowd erupted in fury, some pounding their fists on the tables. "Shameless!"
"Shameless indeed!" The storyteller nodded, his face as dark as thunder. "They used the Scorpion invasion to their advantage, pushing all the blame onto Lord Yi while declaring themselves the city's 'saviors.' The merchants, eager to safeguard their own wealth, sided with the nobles, smearing Lord Yi's name. In the end, he was labeled a traitor and abandoned by everyone."
The storyteller let out a long sigh. "With no one left to defend him, Lord Yi was thrown into prison, his position taken by those very men who had deserted the city. The court ordered him exiled to the frontier. And the people he'd fought to protect? They not only refused to speak up for him, but they cursed him for the fire that had ravaged their homes. Gentlemen, I ask you—was there ever a man more wronged?"
The teahouse fell silent. Heads shook in sorrow, and some listeners even wiped away a tear, hearts aching for the loyal general who had sacrificed so much.
After a long pause, a voice spoke up. "Where is Lord Yi now?"
The storyteller looked up at the ceiling, his gaze distant. "He's been banished to some desolate village near the border. Gentlemen, perhaps some of you have even crossed paths with him. Perhaps he lives in a little hut just outside the city, all alone, waiting for the end of his days."
A murmur of sadness rippled through the crowd, filling the air with a heavy silence, as if the tragic fate of the city itself lingered over them.
Under the night's dark cloak, stars barely visible, the guards at the city gate stood watch, their figures solitary under the dim lantern light. A merchant crept to the gate, furtively opening it, and led a few men toward a campfire where a cluster of refugees huddled.
The refugees watched, eyes wide with a glimmer of desperate hope. One by one, they offered up their last coins, pleading for a chance to escape. The merchant looked them over, choosing only the strongest men and a few women with striking features. The rest—the old, the weak, the sick—were left to wait, hopeless, in the biting wind.
One kindly old soldier whispered directions to a hidden path in the mountains, offering the desperate group a sliver of hope. About seventy refugees gathered, forming a small, weary procession that began the grueling trek along a narrow mountain trail. The journey would be perilous, but what else could they do? In times like these, even the faintest kindness could feel like a gift, a fragile warmth against the vast and uncaring darkness.