Chapter 7: Shanhai’s Secret Name

“Xie Shanhai, are you saying this to me?”

A low chuckle rose from behind her.
A man’s voice—warm, amused—asked, “And what exactly did you do to him?”

Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. For a moment it felt as if she had stepped into thin air.

Xie Wuqing stood up, smiling toward the man behind He Wei, and extended his hand.

She followed politely. A middle-aged man in his forties, glasses slightly slipping down his nose, gripped Xie Wuqing’s hand tightly. Then, in one swift motion, he pulled her forward and gave Xie Wuqing a firm, powerful hug. Only after releasing him did he smile warmly at He Wei.

“Others have no right to make decisions for him,” the man said. “But I do. Miss, please continue.”

“What should I say?” She kept her tone light and polite, though her heart trembled with guilt.

“You’ve prepared your dowry for a wedding this New Year,” the middle-aged man said. “But General Xie is utterly careless about marriage. Tell me in what ways he’s careless.”
He tapped Xie Wuqing’s arm. “Good stab. Next time aim for his chest.”

He Wei forced an awkward smile. “I wasn’t talking about him at all. You misheard.”

Xie Wuqing’s gaze mocked her openly.

“The one who stabbed him was someone else,” she added quickly.

This time, the middle-aged man openly mocked him.

Xie Wuqing sighed helplessly, shaking his head.

Not wanting to attract attention, the man pulled up a third chair and sat down. “Come, sit. Let me introduce you.”

Once He Wei sat, Xie Wuqing gestured between them.
“This is Miss He, second young mistress of the He family shipping company.”
He then pointed at the other man. “And this is my former superior—Chief of Staff Zhao.”

“I dare not take such a title,” Zhao Yucheng laughed comfortably.

Given Xie Wuqing’s current status, only General Xie himself could be considered above him—except during that year. He Wei wondered when these two had first forged their bond, and suddenly her fondness for the man beside her deepened.

Just then, a hand pressed lightly on her chair. Bai Jinxing had returned from his social rounds.

“Old Zhao—long time no see.”

Zhao Yucheng lit up with genuine surprise, unaware Bai Jinxing was in Tianjin. The two embraced, exchanged warm words, and soon Zhao asked with a teasing tone, “And whose friend is Miss He?” His meaning was unmistakably pointed.

Bai Jinxing smiled. “I have ties with her father’s generation. My father sent me to Beijing to court her. Unsuccessfully.”

Zhao Yucheng burst out laughing and dragged him into the circle of conversation.

The table was now full. Eight chairs originally; only four remained once she entered, and Zhao Yucheng had taken the last.

He Wei shielded her face with a hand and whispered to Bai Jinxing, “So… escorting her was just an excuse? He actually wanted to see Staff Officer Zhao?”

Bai Jinxing nodded, amused.

“When should I leave?” she asked quietly.

“Stay for now,” he whispered. “Brother Qing needs your help.”

His expression told her he was not joking.

“I’ll explain later,” he murmured.

Suddenly Zhao Yucheng removed his glasses and asked with a nostalgic sigh, “Miss He, have you ever wondered about Xie Shanhai’s past?”

He had touched her secret directly.

He Wei nodded. “I am curious. But no one has told me.”

And so Zhao Yucheng began.

“That night, I was stationed by a ditch. Midnight came, and this boy sneaked up behind me.”
Xie Wuqing had been well-prepared, startling the grassroots officer so badly he broke into a cold sweat. He produced a torn student ID, name ripped off, declaring he knew how to lead troops and wanted to devote himself to the revolution.

“I barely had any properly trained officers. When I saw a graduate from an officer academy, I was so excited my eyes nearly turned red. But I didn’t dare trust him, nor use him. So I made him a platoon leader and sent him to the front.”

But Xie showed no fear, no hesitation. Within half a month, he had become Zhao’s most trusted man.

“I asked him, ‘What’s your name? If you die, I’ll write your family.’ He said he couldn’t reveal it—he didn’t want to implicate his family. He said his family had no men left, only the old, women, and children. No one else could die. Better if he died as a disappearance, giving them something to remember him by.”

He Wei looked at Xie Wuqing quietly.

Indeed—only he remained in the Xie family, a young man in his prime. And this teenager had chosen to bear the weight of a nation of four hundred million.

“He said, ‘I came for the mountain and the sea—to reclaim every inch of Chinese land.’”

From that moment, the Xie family lost Xie Wuqing.
The world gained Xie Shanhai.

Her chest tightened. She had wondered many times about the meaning behind his courtesy name. Never had she imagined this.

Zhao paused, sipping his wine. Memories clung to him as if they were from yesterday. Yet for the young people dancing wildly on the floor nearby, his words were old stories, irrelevant to their present joy.

Ten years were enough to make—and erase—a generation.

Girls no longer bound their feet. Boys with short hair were no longer mocked as foreign. Dance partners could lean close, legs brushing; once, they needed a matchmaker to catch even a glimpse of a face.

These were the fruits of the bloodshed of those who came before.

“He’s not old,” she silently corrected herself. “He shouldn’t even be called a predecessor.”

Xie Wuqing refilled Zhao’s glass.

“If you’re bored,” Bai Jinxing murmured beside her, “I’ll dance with you.”

He stood, extending his hand.

Knowing they needed to discuss serious matters, she followed him to the dance floor but guided him toward the edge. “I’m not very good at this,” she whispered.

“Neither am I,” he replied with a soft smile.

Without the pressure of an engagement, they were far more at ease.

“The first time I saw you,” she said, “I thought you looked like my brother.”

Bai Jinxing smiled. “If you think that… then your brother must be an exceptional man.”

She laughed softly. “Then why did you agree to marry me? I had my reasons—but what were yours?”

“I’ve never once obeyed my father in my life,” he said lightly. “So I thought… just this once, I’d listen to him.”

Then he sighed. “It seems Heaven doesn’t want me to be a filial son.”

“You mean he needs something from me?” she asked.

“He wants you to remember that man—Zhao Yucheng,” Bai said quietly. “If one day he needs saving, he asks that Miss He lend a hand. As long as it doesn’t endanger you or your family.”

Her gaze drifted toward Zhao, who was laughing with Xie Wuqing, one hand resting casually on the table.

“We’ve all long chosen the path of sacrifice,” Bai said. “Life and death… we are indifferent to it. Brother Qing just… couldn’t bear it. His concerns are small—and this man is one of them.”

She nodded. She understood.

To outsiders, Bai Jinxing simply appeared to be whispering sweetly to her.

Even Zhao noticed, asking Xie Wuqing, “I heard the French Concession is sealed off. Did Jinxing get a pass from the French Minister?”

“Yes,” Xie answered. “For that girl.” He gestured toward He Wei.

“No wonder,” Zhao said. “I saw Jinxing in Beijing yesterday, and here he is in Tianjin today.”

“Jinxing arrived early this morning,” Xie replied with a faint smile.

He had used Bai’s name to secure a coveted pass—rare and highly sought after. Its appearance spread through Beijing and Tianjin instantly. For a previously unknown young man from the Northwest to demonstrate such connections was impressive; many now considered him someone worth cultivating.

This unexpected fame was the amulet Xie had discreetly gifted his old classmate before he left to study abroad.

But Zhao pressed on. “Why is the French Concession sealed? What news?”

“They claimed lost property,” Xie said. “But they’re arresting people.”

Zhao’s brow furrowed.

“You know very well who I am now,” Xie said quietly. “Yunnan and Guangxi have sided with Mr. Sun. So has my father. A clash with the warlord government is inevitable. You must not ask further—and you must not meet me alone again.”

Zhao fell silent.

The divided state of the nation pained him. Had their comrades shed blood only to let warlords become new emperors? It was an insult to the dead.

He opened his mouth to speak—

But Xie cut him off. “My father has risked his life for years. Whether I state my stance or not, everyone assumes it. As for you, Old Zhao… say nothing more.”

He clinked Zhao’s glass, drained it in one gulp.

“I’ve met many people lately—from all sides. When you return, say I didn’t give you face. That old friendships couldn’t sway me.”
Then he added, soft but resolute: “Take care.”

—

Xie did not appear on the day she saw Bai off from Beijing.

This, too, they had planned.

In the next two days, turmoil erupted in the French Concession. Dignitaries were arrested, shops burned, armed conflicts broke out everywhere. What happened at its northern gate at dawn was barely a drop in the storm.

Throughout all this, Xie had been acting—for the old men watching from the shadows. His only fear was He Wei being exposed. Yet Beijing had surrounded him with beautiful women and dramatic events, so he assumed the danger minimal.

But when he returned to Ashunde, his father’s telegram arrived, harshly rejecting the arranged marriage. Something was wrong. He feared he had unknowingly become the chosen son-in-law—and that his affection for He Wei was now the greatest obstacle.

So he reminded Bai: they must end the charade quickly. Whether they chose marriage or not, they must close this performance.

And so in Tianjin, the two men took turns pursuing Miss He.
Xie removed himself.
Miss He Er became his ex-lover.

And she left unscathed.

—

Now came He Wei and Bai Jinxing’s tearful farewell.

“That young lady caused a scene that day,” she said, folding a handkerchief into a small square and slipping it into his pocket. “I suppose I’m not that important.”

“I’ve never met her,” Bai replied. “Probably someone from Brother Qing’s early years… He doesn’t talk about himself, especially not about matters like this. Or really, any matter. He loves schemes. Never reveals his true thoughts. Even relatives can’t distinguish truth from lies. But he truly wants to clear your name.”

He thought she was only acting and pulled the handkerchief out, but she pressed it back down.

“Kandelstrasse in Berlin is Chinatown,” she said. “An elder there owns several apartments. I’ve rented one for you. Studying abroad is hard—people look down on you. This uncle is my brother’s mentor. He can help you if you ever face trouble.”

Bai felt uncomfortable being helped by someone so young and tried to refuse.

“Take it,” she insisted. “Someone recently had their passport canceled in China and was deported from Germany the same day. This uncle has diplomatic ties. He can protect you.”

Only after several refusals did he accept.

Their third meeting ended at the train station near Qianmen.

The He family maintained an inquiry desk at the ticket office, and a special clerk for foreign passenger ships. That morning’s guest list included a name—Zhao Yucheng—who had booked his ticket at Zhengyangmen. He Wei memorized the information and, after seeing Bai off, went with Lianfang to inquire about the man’s appearance.

The clerk—trained for VIP memory—said, “Around forty. Military-looking. Wears glasses.”

It matched.

He Wei asked about several more names to hide her interest, then instructed the clerk to deliver all tickets personally with utmost care.

As she flipped through her notebook, she wondered if she could still see him.

If he was in a hurry, he might come himself.

The clerk gave her a subtle signal.

She turned—and there stood Zhao Yucheng.

He passed her without a flicker of recognition.

“This person…” the junior clerk muttered, “If he ignores the young mistress, we won’t issue his ticket.”

He Wei simply smiled and left a few instructions before exiting the waiting room.

She stepped outside—nothing. The more time she lost, the further behind she fell. Not even a glimpse of his back.

But her intuition told her he had recognized her.
He simply refused to greet her—troubled by something.

She and Lianfang reached the car. Just as they were about to leave, she saw him at the rickshaw stand, anxiously trying to hire a ride. Two rickshaws refused him; the third was occupied, and he begged the passenger to let him take it.

“Go ask that man,” she said to her driver. “He’s one of our passengers.”

The driver whispered to him.

Zhao glanced at her and shook his head sharply.

He Wei grew anxious. “Uncle Mao, drive us over.”

Uncle Mao took the wheel.

She stepped out herself. “Where are you going, sir?”

“Miss…” Zhao’s weathered face showed no recognition, but his eyes held the warmth of greeting an old friend. “Thank you for your kindness. But where I’m going is too far. I dare not waste your time.”

Before she could answer, he added gently, “Miss, please return to your car. The wind at Zhengyangmen is strong today…”

In the distance, from the flow of people entering and leaving the station, a sudden commotion broke out—seventeen or eighteen men burst from the east gate, several of them drawing guns as they ran.

Her mind went blank. When awareness snapped back, she blurted out in a frantic whisper, “Steal my car—quick…”

The look Zhao Yucheng gave her stretched time to its breaking point. He Wei could hear her own breathing, sharp and ragged, each inhale squeezing painfully from her chest.

Then Zhao Yucheng shoved her—hard—slamming her against the car door. The shock of pain in her back jolted her fully awake.

Gunshots exploded in quick succession. A heavy thud followed—someone collapsing to the ground—swallowing all other sounds of the world.

It was the first time in her life He Wei had witnessed someone fall to gunfire. And only a few steps away, right under her feet, Zhao Yucheng lay there. Blood had not yet begun to spill beneath him… He strained for breath, tried to push himself up—but two more shots rang out, as if tearing through the back of his skull.

His body went still. He crashed back onto the ground.

His face fell into the dark muddy water mixed with ice and slush, his eyes still open.

…

He Wei stood frozen, watching the entire scene, feeling as if the bullets had pierced her own body, as if she had died with him. Gasping, she leaned against the car door, unable to look away from Zhao Yucheng.

Unaware of her state, Lianfang and Uncle Mao rushed forward and blocked her view, shielding her from seeing anything more. People were shouting around them, demanding to know who they were. Lianfang, pale and shaking, shouted that they were from the He family, shoving back the hands trying to seize her. Uncle Mao took advantage of the chaos, dragging He Wei into the car. More members of the He family stepped out of the vehicles behind them, creating a barrier. They stood in front of Zhao Yucheng’s body, locked in a tense standoff until the patrol chief from the station arrived. After confirming He Wei’s identity, he forced the men to abandon their attempt to take her away.

But they still held the car, refusing to let her leave.

Ordinarily, Zhao Yucheng would have been moved long ago. But today—an entire hour passed, and no one dared touch him. To stop the crowd from gathering, a line of men formed a distant circle. At first, people stopped to watch, but eventually they drifted away—those who needed to go left, those who needed to enter the station continued on. Only a thinning ring of onlookers, a car, and a single motionless man remained in the mud.

Inside the car, He Wei could no longer bear to look in that direction. She turned away, staring at the station gates through a haze of tears.

“It’s okay, it’s okay… Uncle Mao went to find someone,” Lianfang whispered, reaching out to hold her.

He Wei lifted a trembling hand, refusing the comfort.

“Someone’s coming,” the driver said suddenly, excitement breaking through his fear.

Lianfang gasped, “Thank goodness—Young Master Xie.”

He Wei turned sharply.

It was Xie Wuqing.

Through the glass, she saw him tear the sling from his injured arm, seize the accompanying official, and punch him square in the face. The man collapsed, scrambling backward, terrified of the gun at his own waist, desperate to escape. Xie Wuqing didn’t chase him. Instead, he took a few steps toward the man who had lain there for over an hour…

He caught sight of Zhao Yucheng’s face—and froze.

The world outside, and the people inside the car, seemed to hold still with him.

Then he moved. He bent down, picked up the military uniform jacket he had casually thrown over his shoulders earlier—now soaked with mud from the beating—and returned to Zhao Yucheng. Dropping to one knee, he gently spread the uniform across the mud.

Xie Wuqing reached out, cupping Zhao Yucheng’s head, guiding his face to rest upon the jacket.

He Wei watched the silent scene unfold, her hands clamped desperately over her mouth and nose, tears streaming uncontrollably.

And as she looked, she saw more than the present. She saw the shadow of an old battlefield—where a nameless boy, his student ID torn in half, had crept to the riverbank in the dead of night to offer himself to a grassroots general who had staked his life countless times. One face filled with fear, the other with a bright, reckless grin. From that moment on, they had been bound tightly together—through life, through death, through unspoken loyalty. A bond so deep it became a lifetime’s regret, a tie they could neither break nor survive without.

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