Bao Zhu had made up her mind to visit Han Jun face-to-face in the dead of night and directly request travel documents for their group.

Wei Xun felt displeased, a tightness in his chest, but couldn’t think of any reasonable objection. He went to get the ordination certificates of his junior brother and master uncle for stamping, only to discover Zhou Qingyang’s room was completely empty. With the strict curfew in Zhongqiu County, it was the middle of the night—who knew where she had run off to.

He had no mind to investigate further. Carrying Bao Zhu on his back, he rushed all the way and infiltrated the county office once more.

Bao Zhu’s plan was to imitate their previous method with Dou Jing—to “appear in a dream” and convince Han Jun to provide documents with official seals. Who would have thought he’d spend the entire night in endless discussions with colleagues and subordinates. Hidden in the rafters of the room next to the flower hall, Bao Zhu crouched until her legs went numb.

Finally waiting for all the idle people to leave with only Han Jun remaining in the room, he still refused to go to bed and rest, continuing to burn oil and read and write by lamplight.

Bao Zhu was so drowsy her eyelids kept fighting, leaning against Wei Xun to change leg positions. She whispered to him: “You only see thieves eating meat, never see thieves getting beaten. This profession isn’t easy either.” Wei Xun, hearing this, covered his mouth and snickered quietly.

After much longer, Han Jun put away “The Six Canons,” removed his outer robe, revealing the underlayer’s shoulder-insert half-sleeves, looking like he was preparing for bed. From afar, Bao Zhu saw white hemp cloth wrapped around his arm and couldn’t help frowning.

Before sleeping, Han Jun moved to the brocade box containing official seals and fish tokens, taking out an exquisite small scroll. With gentle movements, he untied the binding cord and slowly unrolled it.

On the less-than-one-foot-wide Chengxin Hall paper was copied a short poem by Li He: “Why should a man not carry Wu hooks, to recover the fifty provinces within the passes.” The handwriting was vigorous and upright, the brushstrokes spirited and soaring. Being casual practice work, the original owner hadn’t carefully preserved it. The paper bore fold marks and had accidentally gotten two finger-width ink stains at the edges—from the traces, left by very delicate fingers.

After obtaining this authentic work, he treasured it like life itself, carefully mounting it with brocade backing and using fragrant wood for the roller, carrying it with him at all times. The poem contained ambitions soaring to the clouds, no less than any seven-foot man’s, yet the writer had died young with fragrant beauty vanished.

Han Jun admired the calligraphy with grieving heart. Overwhelmed by sorrow, tears streamed down his face. Fearing he might soil his beloved’s ink treasure, he hurriedly wiped his tears with his sleeve and began rolling up the scroll again. Halfway through rolling it, he ultimately couldn’t bear to part with it and gently touched the ink stains left by those delicate fingers.

Just then, a thud came from next door, as if some heavy object had fallen from the rafters. Immediately followed by rapid footsteps—someone strode boldly into the room, shouting at him with shame and fury:

“Stop touching it! That’s Li Yuanyi’s handprint, not mine!”

Seeing that piece from afar, Bao Zhu had a bad feeling. Squinting for a careful look, it was indeed her own handwriting. She vaguely remembered copying that poem as a calligraphy model for her younger brother Li Yuanyi. After he dirtied it, she casually rewarded it to a favored eunuch. Now seeing it in a stranger’s hands being fondled—how could she not be angry?

Han Jun was immersed in grief when he suddenly saw the long-dead Princess Wangshou angrily storm into the room. His entire being seemed frozen by a paralysis spell, instantly rigid.

Bao Zhu’s willow eyebrows stood upright as she sternly demanded: “Where did you get this calligraphy?!”

Han Jun looked dazed, staring as he answered: “Purchased for a hundred gold pieces from Palace Attendant Lu Yuan…”

The scene before his eyes was so vivid—she even carried a horn bow. Han Jun’s mind was bewildered. He touched his own forehead and muttered to himself: “Am I dreaming, or am I dead? Could it be plague? Dying unknowingly—that was quick enough.”

Bao Zhu snatched the scroll from Han Jun’s hands, originally intending to tear it to shreds, but it was mounted on brocade and couldn’t be torn easily. Looking up to see the white hemp wrapped around his arm and white headband, she became even more furious: “You self-indulgent country bumpkin, lying beggar—what right do you have to wear mourning for me!”

Being directly scolded by his beloved’s ghost, Han Jun felt so ashamed he wanted to crawl into a hole, his entire body flushed red like a cooked shrimp pulled from water. He thought to himself that the princess had a clear, pleasant voice like golden bells and jade chimes, yet her scolding was so harsh it hurt more than his father’s whip.

“I… Jun…” He stammered helplessly for a few words, not yet thinking what to say. While lowering his head in reflection, he unexpectedly noticed the visitor cast a clear shadow on the ground.

He pondered doubtfully for a moment, then mustered courage to look up and carefully examine the princess’s face.

Except for that first time when he fell in love at first sight watching her shoot yellow sheep, Han Jun had paid constant attention afterward and glimpsed the princess from afar several more times while on duty. But she was always surrounded by many attendants, galloping past on horseback. Even the closest encounter was over five zhang away—he’d never had the fortune of viewing the noble princess’s true appearance up close.

The princess’s beautiful soul before him was as radiant and moving as in life, with hair like black satin adorned with a jade comb, spirited and vigorous, appearing full of vital energy. In the cold of deep autumn’s midnight, her chest rose and fell in anger, and white mist could faintly be seen rolling from her mouth and nose.

Han Jun wondered greatly: Why would a ghost have a shadow? And emit warm breath when speaking?

Because of an old calligraphy piece, Bao Zhu couldn’t restrain herself and rushed out, completely disrupting the original plan. Always thinking highly of herself, the Han family’s refusal of marriage was an unresolvable knot in her heart, causing her to repeatedly lose composure in rage. Seeing Han Jun’s gaze shift from confused bewilderment to suspicion, she had to change tactics and think of another way.

Bao Zhu simply lifted her chin, walked to the main seat and sat down without a word, waiting to see his reaction before deciding her strategy accordingly.

Due to this karmic entanglement, though she’d had disagreements and conflicts with this person several times, this was actually her first time seeing Han Jun in person. She observed that he had sword-like eyebrows and starry eyes, handsome and refined. Even with anger in her heart, she had to admit he was indeed quite good-looking. Under candlelight, wearing white mourning clothes with a sorrowful expression, he appeared particularly touching.

Han Jun felt lost in fog, unable to distinguish whether the scene before him was a dream illusion or a beautiful soul’s manifestation. He bent down to pick up the scroll she’d thrown on the ground, gently brushing off the dust, carefully rolling it up, and respectfully presenting it with both hands while softly explaining:

“Jun once saw Palace Attendant Lu openly showing off the princess’s calligraphy at a banquet outside the palace. Unable to bear the sight, I redeemed it with money—absolutely not intentionally collecting such items. It was precisely this piece of writing that inspired me to decide to rush to the frontier, willing to serve the country with my life to recover lost territory, as if it were the princess’s posthumous commission. Tonight, with your gracious presence, it’s fitting that the object returns to its rightful owner.”

Bao Zhu remained noncommittal, coldly accepting it and casually tossing it onto the table.

Seeing her ten fingers stained halfway with balsam flower juice, Han Jun’s heart stirred. He thought silently: Whether dream or soul, it must be divine communication between heaven and man. Previously fate played tricks, but now facing this unprecedented opportunity, he must pour out his feelings to fulfill this lifelong regret.

Thinking thus, relying on momentary courage, he tearfully began his confession: “Jun has suffered this foolish affliction for long. Only today am I fortunate enough to see the princess enter my dreams, so I specially express my innermost feelings. When you were alive, my father interfered, causing us to have affinity but no destiny. Yet Jun’s sincere heart toward the princess remains unchanged as gold and stone…”

Han Jun’s confession was far from complete when suddenly a bone-chilling coldness shot up his spine. He immediately felt his hair stand on end as that undisguised killing intent struck like a tangible weapon. Being someone who had experienced battlefields, his reaction was extremely swift. He instinctively drew his sword and turned, standing protectively in front of Bao Zhu.

“Princess, please don’t move carelessly—there seems to be someone else in this room,” Han Jun said warily.

This strange occurrence was the second time today—he could no longer attribute it to illusion. He swept left and right with his sword, but the room was silent with no trace of any enemy. Could they be assassins sent by Chengde?

He wanted to immediately summon personal guards and servants to thoroughly search the county office, but thinking of the princess’s presence, he hesitated, not wanting idle people to disturb her.

“Put away your sword—I brought the person myself.” The female voice from behind made Han Jun freeze.

He slowly turned around in the killing intent to see Princess Wangshou with a cold expression, seated regally in the place of honor. Her vermillion lips parted lightly as she said: “Do you think I would travel alone in the deep of night?”

Candlelight flickered gently, her dignified and noble shadow cast on the wall appeared much larger than her actual form, making her seem even more imposing.

Han Jun fell into deep confusion again. Was this fantasy or reality? Was she human or ghost? He gripped the blade tightly, trying to use pain to awaken his reason. Blood immediately rolled down the blade as sharp pain spread.

Bao Zhu said coldly: “You act recklessly, allowing rumors to spread among the people, damaging my posthumous reputation—do you still fantasize that I would be moved by this? I came tonight to take your head and wash away this hatred!”

Han Jun seemed struck by a muffled thunderclap, standing dumbfounded on the spot. After a moment, he resolutely removed his headband and cap, yanking open his topknot to present a disheveled appearance of awaiting punishment. Then, holding his sword with both hands raised above his head, he knelt before Bao Zhu, exposing his neck.

“Han Jun is guilty. To die by the princess’s hand would fulfill my deepest wish—what joy!”

Just as Han Jun lowered his head, Bao Zhu glimpsed a head poking out from the rafters, contemptuously sticking out its tongue at him before disappearing in a blink.

Bao Zhu had already thought it through before coming and never intended to take his life—she originally only wanted to speak a few harsh words to frighten him. Seeing his attitude was acceptable, she no longer pursued the matter. She reached into her calculation pouch, pulled out a writing brush, and threw it in front of Han Jun.

“I’ll let your head stay on your shoulders for now. First write me a travel pass—don’t be verbose.”

Hearing this, Han Jun was stunned again. His gaze moved from the ground to her shoes, seeing the soles stained with considerable mud and ash. Han Jun thought silently: Whether dream figure or wandering soul, neither would need travel documents, much less walk on solid ground. The muddy shoe soles and growing fingernails—these worldly traces made those incredible thoughts in his mind increasingly believable.

Steeling himself, he boldly asked: “Could it be… could it be the princess escaped disaster at that time and still lives?”

Bao Zhu didn’t intend to explain, sighing lightly: “Fate plays tricks. I brought several attendants, originally wanting to head north, unexpectedly delayed in Zhongqiu County.”

Han Jun asked: “May I ask what purpose the princess has in going to Chengde?” As soon as the words left his mouth, the answer became obvious: “You’re not going to Chengde, but passing through Chengde to reach Youzhou.”

Bao Zhu nodded slightly: “Quite clever of you.”

Han Jun’s heart immediately surged with tremendous waves. Countless thoughts rushed in like a tide—sometimes wild joy, sometimes confusion, sometimes regret—he could barely stand steady.

When the princess died suddenly for no reason, he had vaguely heard some conspiracy rumors. Perhaps with the palace full of crises, Prince Shao arranged for his sister to fake her death and escape, later arranging for her to return to his side? Thinking this way, Han Jun felt both happy for the princess and sadly hurt by the fate he had once missed.

He put down his sword, picked up the brush, and walked to the table, dipping it in the remaining ink. The brush hovered in mid-air as he didn’t know what to write. After all, he wasn’t qualified to know the princess’s name.

Bao Zhu grew impatient, snatched the brush from him, pushed him aside, then with flowing strokes swiftly wrote Yang Xingjian, Yang Fangxie, three attendants, and their pack animals—all the information on paper.

Han Jun had admired and studied her handwriting countless times, every stroke engraved in his heart. She was indeed using a false identity, but just seeing these few lines, he no longer doubted. After Bao Zhu finished writing the content, Han Jun hurriedly signed his approval and name at the paper’s edge and added his official seal.

Having achieved their objective, Bao Zhu pocketed the travel pass and, ignoring Han Jun completely, strode toward the door.

Watching her departing figure, Han Jun had thousands of words in his heart. In his urgency, he blurted out: “The Milky Way separates sky from earth, meeting you only as the candle burns low. May I ask for correspondence from your chambers, can I hope for word via carp and silk?”

Bao Zhu turned her head and coldly replied: “Fame ends with flowing streams, we’re separated by the divide between light and dark. Scattered and following the wind’s turns, this is no longer an ordinary body.” With that, she stepped over the threshold.

Her tone and steps were so resolute that Han Jun’s heart felt desolate, yet he had no recourse. He quickly followed, wanting to escort her partway, but just as he turned around the corridor pillar, she vanished without a trace.

The quiet courtyard was lonely and vast—only the rustling sound of autumn wind brushing through the trees could be heard. A faint, subtle elegant fragrance lingered in the air, but nothing else remained. Everything seemed like flowers in a mirror, moon in water—a fleeting dream.

Wei Xun carried Bao Zhu on his back, head lowered as he walked through the deserted streets and alleys. Unlike their arrival when he had raced across rooftops like the wind, he moved unhurriedly at an ordinary traveling pace.

The second watch had arrived. Except for night watchmen and patrolling guards, there were no pedestrians on the streets.

Drowsiness overcame Bao Zhu as she yawned repeatedly. Originally eager to return to the inn to rest, seeing him walk so slowly, she found it strange and reached out to touch his face. Wei Xun immediately nuzzled against her palm.

Since taking Zhou Qingyang’s medicine, his skin wasn’t as ice-cold as before and had gained some warmth. Bao Zhu tilted her head and asked: “Are you tired?”

“No,” Wei Xun said in a muffled voice.

Thinking he was ill and had rushed back and forth in the deep night, perhaps feeling quite uncomfortable, Bao Zhu tried to struggle free: “I’ll walk myself.”

Wei Xun supported her with one hand while his other hand instantly grasped her wrists that were around his neck, holding them firmly and saying forcefully:

“I can carry you!”

He had never restricted any of her movements, yet now insisted she not get down. Unable to move, Bao Zhu heard something strange in his tone and pressed: “What’s really wrong?”

“The ground is muddy—just stay up there,” Wei Xun casually deflected.

What was really wrong? Actually, nothing much. Every movement and glance during her confrontation with Han Jun, he had seen clearly from the rafters—not a hint of intimacy. Yet they could write on the same paper and respond in verse, while he was completely lost in clouds and fog, unable to catch even half a line.

This inexplicable emotion blocked his chest, unable to rise or fall, like practicing breath-holding exercises in childhood—always nearly suffocating, extremely uncomfortable. For this reason, he hadn’t waited according to their prior arrangement for her to just step over the threshold before impatiently snatching her away.

After a while, Wei Xun muttered with some sourness: “I once wore mourning for you too—do you remember?”

The scene at Cuiwei Temple clearly emerged—his mischievous, teasing expression still vivid, making Bao Zhu’s teeth itch with irritation. Quite speechless at this strange competitive spirit, she frowned: “Of course I remember—nearly made me die of anger. Must this kind of thing be compared for who’s first and last?”

Wei Xun remained silent, just walking forward with his head down. At that time it was intentional mockery and teasing—little did he expect to be hit by his own boomerang from a thousand li away, getting what he deserved.

“Among tomb visitors, you’re the only one. The next person who dares rob my tomb—I won’t spare him.”

Subconsciously sensing something, Bao Zhu explained the imagery in the poem: “Shen and Shang are two stars in the sky. One in the west, one in the east—when one rises, the other has already set. One appears as the other disappears, never meeting. After passing Zhongqiu County, we’ll have no more connection with that Han fellow.”

The city was small as a pellet. With Wei Xun’s speed, running from one end to the other wouldn’t take long. Yet he insisted on walking slowly and wouldn’t let her down. Following his steady walking rhythm, Bao Zhu yawned, unable to resist drowsiness any longer. Resting her chin on his shoulder with their heads touching, she soon dozed off.

Hearing her peaceful breathing, Wei Xun slowed his pace even more, trying his utmost to extend the time before reaching the inn.

Shen and Shang—one appearing as the other disappears, belonging to completely different worlds, two stars that originally would have no intersection, only having this encounter due to an unprecedented accident. But upon reaching the destination, they were destined to part ways and go their separate directions.

From the day he opened the coffin to steal the pearl, Wei Xun had asked his conscience and felt no shame, never doing anything despicable. Yet at this very moment, he gave birth to a greedy thought—a desire completely contrary to their travel purpose.

He didn’t want to put her down, didn’t want to let go. He hoped this road would be endless, that they would never reach the end.

Author’s Note:

“Scattered and following the wind’s turns, this is no longer an ordinary body”—This line is by Tao Yuanming. I really couldn’t write anymore.

Li Su refers to letters (mentioned earlier—carp bearing the national surname of fish, he’s asking the princess to add him on WeChat).

Strange male competition: competing over who wore mourning first.

Wei Xun, this supreme martial artist, has taken his worst beatings this whole journey from boomerangs he threw himself.