Chapter 55: The Wordless Stele

At the break of dawn the following day, I shattered the ceramic basin for my old squad leader. Weeping, I followed the funeral procession as it headed straight for the "Outer Graveyard."

Along the way, white funeral banners fluttered under the clear sun, creating a scene of desolation and sorrow beyond my power to describe. Between heaven and earth, it felt as though only the sobbing of myself, Zhao Haikun, and the others existed. Amidst these thin, fragile cries, I mourned my squad leader from the bottom of my heart, feeling a deep sense of loss for the withering of the Zhao family.

Another abbot of the "Five Viscera Temple" had departed; another thread of an ancestral line spanning hundreds of years had been severed. Was this the inexorable trend of the era, or merely the cruel mockery of fate?

My old squad leader was a cook who valued his conscience; he was a good man. He cooked with honesty and lived with integrity, spending his life upholding the principles of the Confucius Temple and practicing the culinary dao of the sages. Yet, why do good people receive no good reward? Why must even the funeral of a good man be fraught with such obstacles... and end in such an ignoble burial? He had served his country and his people his entire life, committing no crimes—so why was he forced into this "Outer Graveyard," a place reserved only for the wicked and those who died violent, shameful deaths?

Is the human heart truly so treacherous... or is Heaven simply blind?

In my grief and indignation, I wept even harder. It was the first time since my discharge that I had cried with such heart-wrenching, soul-shattering abandon. Amidst the solemnity, it was only after the coffin was lowered, the earth filled, and the firecrackers set off that I finally calmed down under the consolation of my friends. After kowtowing, I stood with the Zhao family relatives and my comrades, gazing gloomily at the modest mound that was my squad leader’s grave.

A person... arriving from the earth and returning to the earth—perhaps that is the best final destination after all. At this thought, I found a small measure of comfort.

When the ceremony concluded, I cast one last look over my shoulder time and again as we slowly departed the lonely, silent Zhao family "Outer Graveyard." I had been too busy weeping when we arrived; only now, as we left, did I have the heart to observe the appearance of this burial ground for "sinners."

As Zhao Haikun had said, the cemetery was small, with only a dozen or so barely discernible graves. It seemed the Zhao family had been quite law-abiding for these past few hundred years. Weeds grew rampant between the mounds, clearly untended for many years. The tombstones were also quite peculiar, their inscriptions matching exactly what Zhao Haikun had described: "Unfilial son..." or "Wicked child so-and-so." It was my first time seeing such tombstones. Driven by curiosity, I looked around as I walked.

As I walked, my footsteps suddenly halted before one particular headstone. I raised my eyes, staring at the inscription, feeling a strange sensation. This tombstone was truly unique. The reason it felt so special was that... I could not see a single character on it.

It was a "wordless stele."

The significance behind a wordless stele is profound. Throughout history, they have not been uncommon; many famous emperors and historical figures left them behind. The most famous, of course, is the one belonging to Wu Zetian, the female emperor of the Tang Dynasty. During my school days, I had heard the story of that monument and the empress herself. Because my teacher had described it so vividly, the memory remained fresh to this day.

As the only female emperor of an orthodox Chinese dynasty, Wu Zetian lived a legendary and complex life, and historical judgment of her is sharply divided. Those who admire her praise her for her ability to recognize talent and stabilize the nation, calling her an enlightened ruler. Those who loathe her condemn her as a cruel and vicious woman who corrupted the government with torture. In short, history oscillates between these two extremes, leaving one at a loss. After all... this woman was both emperor and empress, both enlightened ruler and tyrant. She doted on her daughter yet murdered her own sons. She was a bundle of contradictions.

Perhaps realizing her awkward position in history, that Zhou Dynasty emperor left behind a stone monument without a single word. It was as if she were declaring to the world: The Empress is weary; she has no desire to say more. As for my life, guess for yourselves! I felt that the wordless stele was a naked mockery of the chattering generations that followed. From Wu Zetian’s monument, I surmised that such stones are rarely as simple as they appear; they carry many implied meanings and many hidden stories. The owner of the wordless stele before me, I suspected, must also have had an unspeakable tale.

Seeing me stop, Zhao Haikun signaled for Gui Yuxiu, who was pushing his wheelchair, to halt. He sat in line with me, gazing at the wordless stele and the small mound. With a long sigh, he said to me, "Buried here... is the last patriarch of the Zhao family."

"Why is there nothing carved on his stone?"

Zhao Haikun shook his head. "He was a traitor to his people! His evil deeds were beyond description; he did not deserve to leave a name behind."

Hearing this, I suddenly realized. "Oh! I remember now. He is the patriarch who burned down the Zhao Family Tower, isn't he?"

I did remember, for my old squad leader had spoken of this man. The squad leader had said that the Zhao Family Tower was prosperous during the Republic era, but just before the Japanese invasion of the Central Plains in 1937, a Zhao patriarch had committed an act of utter infamy by receiving a Japanese spy named Onizuka Senmaru. That meeting initiated a "genocidal cycle" for the Zhao family that lasted over half a century.

At the time, the patriarch had kept the man in the ancient Zhao tower for three days of discussion. On the night of the third day, the Zhao clansmen were horrified to find the ancient tower—which had stood for over five hundred years through the Ming and Qing dynasties—engulfed in flames. The inferno did not just consume the tower; it razed most of the village of Zhaojia Lou as well.

Under this blow, the Zhao Family Tower fell into total decay. The descendants of the Zhao family scattered, living lives of wandering exile. All of this was the handiwork of the patriarch whose tombstone remained blank.

I looked at the barren stone, feeling a sense of desolation. Subconsciously, I asked Zhao Haikun, "In all these years, has the truth of what happened ever been uncovered? What was the spy’s purpose in seeking him out?"

Zhao Haikun shook his head. "No clues. We only know the Japanese were looking for something in Zhaojia Lou, but what exactly, no one knows."

Zhao Haikun added that they knew this because of the strange behavior of the Japanese at the time. According to his father, Zhao Deguang, after the fall of South Shandong during the War of Resistance, a squadron of Japanese soldiers descended directly upon Zhaojia Lou. Their arrival was different from the occasional passing of warlord armies; they were clearly targeting the village, and they were well-prepared, even bringing engineers and drilling equipment.

Zhaojia Lou was a small village; it could hardly withstand such an assault. The Zhao family chose to avoid disaster and fled into the Yimeng Mountains, a massive blow to the clan. After the Japanese arrived, they tore down houses and dug up graves, working frantically for three days, though no one knew what they were digging for. On the third day, a clansman who had gone to scout returned to tell everyone that the Japanese had been struck by a mysterious illness, losing over a dozen soldiers, and were forced to retreat.

"A mysterious illness?" I asked, surprised. "Was it altitude sickness? Or cholera?"