One year later.

When she woke, she felt very warm.

As if she were a bird that had lain dormant all winter, finally waiting for this bit of reviving sunlight that slanted in through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the terrace. She lay in bed, looking up at the canopy above her head. Peach-red tassels hung down from one side of the canopy, swaying before her eyes like gauze. She reached out to play with the tassels, slowly winding the silk threads bit by bit around her fingertips.

She was very thin now, her mind also quite unclear. She remembered nothing. In winter she had fallen seriously ill and never recovered. Now she had improved slightly, but her mind was even more confused.

Suddenly there was commotion outside the door. Tao Ziyi insisted on barging in while several guards still tried to block her—naturally no one dared actually lay hands on her. Ruixiang pleaded all the way: “Madam, you can’t go in. The Director gave orders that you absolutely cannot enter this room.”

Tao Ziyi wore a standing-collar cotton satin qipao with gorgeous peonies embroidered in gold thread on the hem. Over it she wore a black wool cloak. Her head held high, her face lightly powdered, dignified and beautiful, imposing without anger: “You wretches! Whoever dares touch me, I’ll make sure you die without a burial place!”

Neither Ruixiang nor those guards dared cross her. They all meekly retreated, allowing Tao Ziyi to barge straight through the door. She saw a figure faintly lying in the bed curtains. Tao Ziyi strode forward rapidly, the hem of her qipao swaying continuously. She swept open the bed curtain, but the instant she saw Ye Pingjun, she was shocked. An incredulous light appeared in her eyes: “How did you become like this?!”

Pingjun seemed disturbed by such commotion. She slowly turned her head to look at her, her eyes full of blank dullness. Tao Ziyi, caring about nothing else, went straight to the point: “Miss Ye, do you know Jinling and Yuzhou are at war?”

Pingjun seemed not to hear her words. Her hand still clutched the tassel hanging from the canopy, slowly twisting it, a faint smile on her face.

Tao Ziyi suppressed her fury, saying with tears: “Miss Ye, I don’t have time to joke with you. I won’t hold it against you for stealing my husband. I’ve endured him spending every day here fooling around with you. Now I’m lowering myself to come here and beg you—beg you to persuade him to go to Japan with me.”

She lay there without a sound. Ruixiang beside her said in a low voice: “Madam, please don’t make things difficult for Miss Ye anymore. She has no idea what you’re saying right now.”

Tao Ziyi was startled, frowning: “What did Jiang Xueting do to her?”

Before Ruixiang could speak, Pingjun suddenly smiled at Tao Ziyi: “Did you see my letter? Did you see it? Why won’t you come find me… why won’t you come…”

Tao Ziyi stepped back, looking at all this with horror, feeling the hairs on her back stand on end one by one. She still wasn’t willing to give up and wanted to make one last effort: “Miss Ye, do you know the Yu army is about to attack? Almost all of Xueting’s Northwestern Army has defected to Yu Changxuan. Yu Changxuan wants Xueting’s life. I originally wanted to… wanted to… He won’t listen to me, but he’ll listen to you. At least you can persuade him to leave with me…”

She only smiled at Tao Ziyi, innocent as a child. Tao Ziyi turned her head away, tears streaming down. She turned and quickly walked out of the room. Ruixiang hurried to help Pingjun lie down. Pingjun reached out to grasp Ruixiang’s hand, suddenly saying cheerfully: “Your shirt is torn. Let me mend it for you.”

Ruixiang was stunned: “Miss Ye…”

She still smiled cheerfully: “When it’s mended, I’ll embroider a pear blossom on it. When you wear it, the pear blossom will be pressed against your chest. You must remember it was me who embroidered the pear blossom for you… don’t forget me… you must never forget me…”

Ruixiang, flustered by her chatter, could only vaguely coax: “Alright, alright, I won’t forget you, I won’t. You want pear blossoms? I’ll go pick some for you.”

She nodded with relief, slowly closed her eyes, and soon fell peacefully asleep.

When Jiang Xueting arrived, she had already awakened. As soon as he walked into the bedroom, he saw her sitting on the carpet looking at the moon outside the floor-to-ceiling window. Her long hair hung all the way to the carpet. On one side of the window stood a flower stand with a vase holding several asparagus ferns. The bedroom had heated water pipes—warm and cozy. In her hand she clutched several sprigs of pear blossoms, slowly shaking them, murmuring something unintelligible.

He walked over and called her name: “Pingjun.”

She turned around, immediately smiling joyfully, raising the pear blossoms in her hand toward him: “It’s snowing, it’s snowing…” Her mind was never clear. She looked at him and smiled foolishly. Moonlight from outside shone on her body. Her shoulders seemed paper-thin, her shadow cast on the carpet to one side like pearls and jade sunk in well water.

He bent down to hold her in his arms, saying softly: “It’s cold here. Go lie in bed.”

She shook her head forcefully. Seeing she wore only a satin nightgown and was barefoot, he touched her shoulders—also ice-cold. He insisted on carrying her to bed. She suddenly became frightened, struggling and kicking and hitting chaotically. The pear blossoms in her hand fell on the carpet. The satin nightgown slid softly through his palm like water. She cried: “Let me go, let me go! I don’t want you!”

He finally released her, but lowered his head, supporting his forehead with his hand. The corner of his mouth twitched silently. Seeing him like this, she reached up to push his hand aside, asking softly: “What’s wrong with you?” He took advantage of the moment to slide his hand down from his forehead, took a deep breath, raised his head to gaze at her, and smiled faintly: “I’m fine.”

She stared blankly at his face, smiling foolishly: “Don’t cry.”

Something warm flowed down from his face, like a tiny insect crawling on his skin. His breathing quickened, his voice caught in his throat, pained and sorrowful: “Pingjun, how did I harm you to this state?”

She didn’t look at him, going instead to find the pear blossoms on the carpet. Finally tiring of them, she threw them aside. On one side of the floor-to-ceiling window stood a huanghuali cabinet. On the cabinet sat an enamel self-striking clock covered with a transparent glass cover. She removed the glass cover and reached out to fiddle with the clock’s hands, playing and giggling. Her complexion wasn’t very good—in the moonlight she seemed like a piece of warm, lustrous, pale jade-green jade.

He gazed at her, finally slowly closing his eyes, his face full of desolate, desperate color.

Zhou Zhenghai’s voice came from outside the door: “Director Jiang, military report from the front!”

He opened his eyes but smiled faintly: “Having reached this point, what’s the use of reading military reports? Just let Yu Changxuan attack directly into the city.”

“Director Jiang…”

“Get lost!”

There was no more sound outside the door.

She was startled by his shout, turned her head to look at him in his fury, and stepped back several paces. He lowered his eyes, not looking at her, and took out a cigarette case from his overcoat. His hands trembled involuntarily. With difficulty he extracted a cigarette from the case and bit it between his lips, but searching all over his body, he couldn’t find matches. Just as he was becoming irritable, his vision suddenly brightened—she had struck a match and brought it before him.

He bit the cigarette, staring at her blankly.

Pingjun smiled cheerfully, bringing the lit match to his cigarette, murmuring endlessly: “For you, for you.”

He silently lit his cigarette with the flame in her hand, then blew out the burning match. She held the blackened matchstick in her palm, looked at it for a long time, then threw it away. She walked barefoot back and forth on the carpet. The carpet color was grape purple, the soft pile clinging to her snow-white feet. Wherever she looked, she smiled foolishly at it.

Jiang Xueting snuffed out the cigarette in his hand, stood and walked to her side, kissing her headlong and face-covering. She was most afraid when he acted this way, so frightened she couldn’t stand steady, but he took advantage to embrace her. She shook her head, avoiding his lips. In the distance came faint cannon fire, rumbling continuously, like soul-demanding ghosts.

He suddenly steeled himself and used force. The two almost fell onto the bed. He irritably kicked off his shoes and frantically entangled with her, not even hesitating to brutally hurt her—as long as it was a mark he left, belonging to him, proving she had once belonged to him, even if it was a scar. She clutched the tassels on the pillow tightly, suddenly crying out in discomfort—muffled, thin and weak like a child whose head was covered. He couldn’t manage her. That satisfaction of being warmly enveloped was simply soul-melting and bone-gnawing for him. He could no longer care about anything.

This was the last time, he knew.

When she awoke, he was still sleeping in utter exhaustion.

Pingjun groped on the floor for her own thin nightgown. She put it on herself, then stood dazedly in the center of the room. Several sprigs of pear blossoms lay scattered on the purple velvet carpet, illuminated by moonlight like frost condensed on grapes. The moonlight was very cold, illuminating the entire floor-to-ceiling window.

She walked dazedly to the rosewood wardrobe. The mirror on the wardrobe reflected her appearance—thin as a sheet of paper, like a pale soul. She was a homeless soul.

The person in the bed made tired breathing sounds.

Pingjun slowly bent down, lay prone on the carpet, pressed her ear to the carpet pile. She heard distant cannon fire—very loud cannon fire, as if wanting to blast to pieces the entire world in this city. She forcefully reached her hand under the wardrobe, almost probing half her body inside. Later she felt that object.

Intense pain awakened Jiang Xueting from deep sleep.

He opened his eyes to see Ye Pingjun right before him. Her face was pale as snow. In her hand she clutched a coldly gleaming short sword—that dagger-sized short sword was extremely delicate, several exquisite plum blossoms carved on the hilt. She gripped the sword handle and thrust the blade into his abdomen.

The corner of his mouth twitched, calling out barely audibly: “Pingjun…”

Her gaze vacant, she actually responded: “Mm.”

His face deathly pale, his gaze fixed firmly on her face. Tears rolled from his eyes, scalding hot like burning coals. Bright red blood surged from his mouth. He stared at her obsessively: “How can I never get you back…”

When she withdrew the sword, he let out a muffled groan. Unstoppable blood gushed from his abdomen. She clutched the sword and turned around, slowly walking to sit by the floor-to-ceiling window, a blank, dazed expression on her face. He pressed one hand over the bleeding wound, struggling to fall from the bed.

Pingjun held the short sword, gazing up at the moonlight outside the window, motionless.

Jiang Xueting trembled as he reached into the cabinet beside the bed and took out a sheet of paper. Intense pain made even breathing extremely difficult for him. He could clearly hear the sound of blood flowing from his wound. He placed that sheet of paper on the carpet, dipped his finger in his own blood, and wrote three words on the paper: Let her go.

He supported himself on the bed and stood up trembling, step by difficult step walking to Pingjun’s side. He stuffed that sheet of paper into Pingjun’s hand, breathing with difficulty: “Pingjun, hold it, hold it tight.”

She was like a lifeless puppet. His nightgown was soaked with blood. Blood drops dripped down from the hem, splashing open into blood flowers on the carpet… She suddenly turned her head and smiled brilliantly at him, beautiful and charming like that little girl who once wore twin buns. She pointed at the blood he dripped on the carpet and said joyfully: “Flowers…”

He nodded with difficulty, face deathly pale: “As long as you like them…”

She smiled gently: “I like them.”

His vision went black, and he finally fell on the carpet, simultaneously knocking over a large celadon vase with carved interlocking branch patterns sitting on the flower stand. With a “bang,” the vase and flower stand toppled together. The asparagus ferns in the vase scattered across the floor. Outside the door came guards knocking: “Director Jiang!”

Before losing consciousness, he heard someone open the door and walk in. His gaze finally rested on Pingjun. In her hand she still clutched that sheet of paper. Her thin figure was reflected on the window rippling with moonlight, like a blooming pear blossom. The corner of his mouth trembled as he struggled to smile, his faint voice like a dream murmur: “You’re free, Pingjun…”

The Yu army defeated the Northwestern Army and entered Yuzhou city on a morning of drizzling rain.

Checkpoints were set up at the city gates. All entering and exiting had to submit to inspection. The entire city was hung with Jinling government flags, fluttering fiercely in the cold wind. The light rain fell damply on people, pricking the skin with waves of pain. The sound of cart wheels turning rumbled “gulu gulu” in her ears. She was wrapped in a shabby sheepskin coat, hair disheveled, lying on her side on a bamboo mat in the cart, her whole body trembling continuously.

A little girl in a red cotton jacket sat on one side of the cart. Between the little girl’s eyebrows was a cinnabar mole. Her cheeks were frozen bright red. She extended her tender hand to wipe the rainwater from Pingjun’s face, saying quietly: “Are you cold?” Ye Pingjun’s breathing was rapid, her teeth chattering continuously, unable to speak. The little girl smiled: “My name is Qiu’er.”

Pingjun became slightly more lucid, like a final burst of energy before death. Her breathing grew lighter and lighter. With difficulty she said: “Where are you… taking me?”

“We took money from a Mr. Zhou.” Qiu’er raised her hand to point at an old man driving the cart up ahead, smiling at Pingjun: “He’s having Grandpa and me take you out of the city!”

Suddenly there was commotion ahead on the street. The cart jolted. The driver cracked his whip, urgently moving the cart to the roadside. Several military officers on tall horses galloped from ahead, closely followed by large numbers of guards and attendants, as well as fully armed military police, quickly blocking all idle people on the street to both sides of the road.

Yu Changxuan, surrounded in the center, held a riding crop in one hand and pulled the horse’s reins with the other, sitting steadily on horseback. He wore a large raincoat. The face under his military cap was resolute and profound, but had already added several traces of weathering and fatigue. On his black military boots were gleaming spurs, dazzling to the eyes.

All around were Yuzhou citizens wanting to leave the city, watching this newly arrived group with nervous, flustered eyes. Yu Changxuan rode his horse, his gaze casually sweeping down from horseback. He saw a little girl sitting in a cart looking at him, her eyes clear and bright, not panicked at all, only very curious-looking. Beside the little girl lay a haggard woman covered with a shabby coat. The woman’s hair was disheveled, her form withered, body curled up, her skeletal frame thin as dry kindling, constantly trembling, as if seriously ill.

He only glanced blandly, then turned his head back.

From ahead also came the sound of horse hooves. In a short while, adjutant Wu Zuoxiao had already ridden to Yu Changxuan’s side, quickly dismounting and standing at attention, the shock on his face not yet dissipated: “Reporting to Commander, we’ve found Miss Ye’s whereabouts.”

Yu Changxuan’s body shook, his voice immediately becoming urgent: “Speak quickly!”

Wu Zuoxiao hurried to say: “Jiang Xueting had a small mansion on the south bank of Yuzhou. The independent battalion that went to confiscate it captured a servant named Ruixiang from the mansion. She said Miss Ye had always been imprisoned by Jiang Xueting in the mansion. Jiang Xueting…”

Before Wu Zuoxiao finished speaking, Yu Changxuan without another word spurred his horse and galloped toward Yuzhou’s south bank. The remaining attendant officers and adjutants hurriedly urged their horses to follow, chasing after him.

What he so urgently sought was that spiritually beautiful girl with a small round bun who turned her head to smile faintly at him.

Was that tender lover who embroidered pear blossoms for him under lamplight.

Was that beautiful woman Ye Pingjun who held the betrothal short sword in both hands saying she would share life and death with him, every frown and smile透着faintly fragrant, cold air.

She watched him gallop away on horseback.

The cart moved again, swaying and jolting. Her face was haggard and pale, breathing increasingly difficult, the light in her pupils scattered. Beneath her body was spread a cool bamboo mat, hard against her skeletal bones. She looked dazedly at the sky overhead. Cold rain threads fell on her deathly pale face. Her tears silently seeped into the mat’s texture…

Qiu’er suddenly turned her head, smiling brilliantly at her, her expression full of admiration, saying innocently: “That person was so imposing—he must be a remarkable great figure.”

She closed her eyes and said nothing.

The sky was gray and hazy. Vaguely came one or two steamship whistles from the direction of Hanjiang ferry—that sound extremely sharp, like a sharp knife that could cut through past dreams. And only in dreams would anyone truly believe those tales of eternal devotion and seas drying and rocks crumbling. But when the dream ended, still nothing remained.

She curled up on the cool bamboo mat, her breathing already extremely weak.