Xie Queshan disembarked at the ferry crossing and walked toward them.

Nanyi hurriedly dismounted from the horse. Song Muchuan reached out to help her, but Xie Queshan moved first.

Xie Queshan’s movements weren’t gentle—he pulled her to his side with one swift motion.

Song Muchuan’s hand grasped empty air, and he sensibly withdrew it.

“Get on the boat first.” He commanded her, but his gaze remained fixed on Song Muchuan.

Nanyi hesitated. Clearly these two were old acquaintances and didn’t seem like enemies. But with Pang Yu’s incident as precedent, she feared Xie Queshan would kill someone.

After thinking, she actually stepped forward and directly removed the sword from Xie Queshan’s waist.

Xie Queshan stared at Nanyi in disbelief.

Nanyi clutched the sword tightly and quickly escaped before he could lose his temper: “You two have a good chat. I’ll wait for you on the boat.”

Song Muchuan watched Nanyi board the boat before looking directly at Xie Queshan without dodging or avoiding.

Between them, it was as if several taut strings were stretched—whoever let go first would snap back at the other, but if neither let go, the strings would cut painfully into their fingers.

Song Muchuan was the first to let go.

He smiled palely: “Xie Chao’en, my parents are both dead.”

Xie Queshan’s eyes instantly reddened. He hadn’t expected that when they reunited after years apart, the first thing Song Muchuan would say to him was this. Song Muchuan knew how to kill the heart while killing the person.

Back in Eastern Capital, Xie Queshan had no family of his own, so he had always lodged at Song Muchuan’s house.

The Song family elders had treated him like their own son, caring for him meticulously, allowing this rebellious “unfilial son” to still live gloriously and respectably in Eastern Capital.

He had even boasted that he would support the Song family elders like his own birth parents.

Why couldn’t they wait for him? Why did they just die like that?

He hadn’t even been able to kneel before the elders and hear them curse him as a treacherous minister.

Xie Queshan struggled to control the trembling in his body. Every string in Song Muchuan’s hands had struck him precisely—at this moment he was already bloodied and wounded all over.

But he couldn’t show pain, couldn’t show weakness.

His eyes bloodshot, he viciously spat out a few words at Song Muchuan: “Who told you to come to Li Du Mansion?”

“Walking and walking, I just arrived here.”

“Get out, or I’ll kill you—just like I killed Pang Yu.”

Song Muchuan’s eyes also reddened, his fingers slowly clenching beneath his sleeves.

He had seen brief mentions of Pang Yu’s death in intelligence reports, stating he died at the hands of Qi soldiers. He hadn’t dared to consider that possibility, thinking their Xie Chao’en wouldn’t do such a thing. But until this moment when he personally admitted it, the last thread of hope in his heart was crushed.

“Chao’en, I should have died on the day of the Jingchun Incident. Heaven let me live six more years just so you and I could reunite and settle matters of life and death.”

How could Xie Queshan not know that before the Jingchun Incident, Song Muchuan had knelt for seven days in front of Wende Hall for his sake, nearly crippling both legs and sacrificing half his life?

He had also heard that Song Muchuan had exiled himself and traveled far from home. He hadn’t dared to deliberately seek news about him—this was all karma he had created.

Deep in his heart, he didn’t want to reunite with any of these longtime friends at all.

He hoped they would be cowardly, fearful, that they would surrender like those weak people and stop resisting. But none of them were such people.

Song Muchuan had said the same thing as Pang Yu—settling matters of life and death, nothing more than a fight to the finish. When they met again, they were destined to be enemies.

Xie Queshan had nothing to say. Before his emotions could overflow, he turned and left.

Lifting the curtain and stepping into the boat cabin, he raised his hand and drew the sword from Nanyi’s arms.

Nanyi was startled: “What are you doing?”

Xie Queshan raised his hand and severed the mooring rope of the small boat nearby.

That was the small boat Song Muchuan had left at the ferry crossing. The boat drifted downstream with the rapid current, quickly leaving the riverbank.

Standing at the boat’s rail, he gazed at Song Muchuan from afar and coldly left his final words: “Don’t wade into waters that aren’t yours to wade.”

Song Muchuan stood on the riverbank, watching the two small boats leave the ferry crossing one after the other.

By the river, only he remained, solitary and alone.

The bright moon rose over the river, and the dark mountains receded.

Inside the boat’s awning, the atmosphere was extremely tense.

Xie Queshan wore a dark expression, and Nanyi didn’t dare move at all. The small boat had no one rowing and drifted downstream on its own. Before long, it bumped against the riverbank.

“Young Master… shall I go row the boat?”

Xie Queshan looked up, his gaze containing inexplicable anger, as if he wanted to see right through Nanyi: “Didn’t Xie Sui’an tell you who Song Muchuan was? Why did you get close to him?”

Now it was Nanyi’s turn to be surprised: “He’s Song Muchuan?”

Xie Queshan frowned.

Nanyi quickly added: “He only told me his name was Song Yushu… I accidentally saved him twice, and today he accidentally saved me…”

Xie Queshan’s mind buzzed, and he could no longer hear what Nanyi was saying. Song Yushu, Song Yushou… these pronunciations had countless possibilities, but he immediately understood—it was “Yushu,” meaning “grant me forgiveness.” This was the courtesy name he had chosen for himself.

The last string in his hand still snapped back at him.

His skin torn and flesh lacerated.

In this world, if there was still one last person who wanted to save him, it would definitely be Song Muchuan.

But his heart had long been like stone.

Suddenly, a cool touch brushed across his cheek. He looked down to see Nanyi’s fingers.

Nanyi seemed to see Xie Queshan shedding tears. She couldn’t believe it and tentatively reached forward to touch. Just as she was about to withdraw her hand, he grabbed it firmly.

He gripped her hand tightly, his palm brushing across her knuckles. The tear tracks were quietly wiped away.

But Nanyi distinctly felt the moisture on her hand.

She didn’t dare move or speak. She seemed to have glimpsed Xie Queshan’s unknown vulnerability.

At this moment, the small boat was turned around by the current and began drifting again, only their positions were suddenly reversed.

He faced away from the direction of the current while the outside scenery moved forward. This was a dangerous posture, but at this moment he simply didn’t want to care where the small boat was drifting. This was his sudden willfulness, which could only occasionally be vented under such an unknown night sky.

After a long silence, he seemed to be in a daze, still not releasing her hand.

This evidence that he had shed tears—as long as it was held firmly in his palm like this, it wouldn’t be opened, wouldn’t be discovered. As if this way, he would never be vulnerable.

Quite inexplicably, Nanyi felt some heartache for Xie Queshan.

She tried to start some other topic to break this suffocating atmosphere: “You… why did you come to Tiger Kneel Mountain?”

“Second Sister came home, but you still hadn’t returned.” He did answer after all, brief and concise, his voice deeply weary.

“I was being pursued and only focused on escaping with my life. Later I lost track of Madam Gantang.” She voluntarily confessed.

“You discovered nothing?”

“Nothing… but I did manage to shake off those pursuers myself!” She wanted to make her tone sound more relaxed.

Xie Queshan didn’t respond, but his eyes finally focused, looking at her meaningfully. Her heartbeat suddenly skipped, realizing she seemed to have said something she shouldn’t have.

If he pressed further and asked how she had shaken off the pursuers… wouldn’t he discover that she knew where Madam Gantang was hiding?

But she immediately felt justified.

She had only hidden in a tree and used the sleeve arrow to create false noise, leading the pursuers away. As for whom the pursuers encountered and who dealt with them—what did that have to do with her?

She had left no traces. If asked, she simply didn’t know.

However, Xie Queshan didn’t ask. He only laughed quietly and finally released the hand he had been gripping.

“You’ve grown capable.”

His words sounded like praise at first, but still made Nanyi’s back go cold, not knowing what he was referring to.

She pretended to naturally fiddle with the sleeve arrow in her hand, adding a pleasing tone to her voice: “Isn’t it because the sleeve arrow Young Master gave me was useful!”

He didn’t respond, his gaze like a damp southern wind settling on her, low and winding: “Do you know why I chose you?”

Nanyi was stunned: “Why?”

“Because you want to live, which makes things simple,” he sighed deeply. “I don’t know why there are so many people in this world who just want to throw their lives away.”

Nanyi was speechless. She knew his thoughts were still immersed in Song Muchuan’s matter.

She vaguely sensed that he wanted to save some people. Even though he stood with the Qi people, he didn’t want his relatives and friends to die.

But this was a secret. On this small boat, they shared this secret that would be buried in their hearts forever.

Once they reached shore, they would be on clearly divided opposing sides.

The small boat swayed forward, drifting with the moon.

Not knowing how much time had passed, they finally approached the ferry crossing.

Nanyi had already fallen asleep leaning against Xie Queshan. Xie Queshan hesitated for a moment but ultimately didn’t wake her, carrying her as he disembarked.

Nanyi slept hazily, feeling the swaying motion beneath her, as if floating in clouds.

“Are we going home?”

She asked softly, her voice in the half-dream state like fog that wouldn’t disperse.

“Yes.” He answered.