The moonlight of Yinyue City shimmered upon the surface of the river, rippling with light.

The night deepened. People had drifted into their dreams, yet within one opulent great tent, candlelight still blazed bright. A Di nobleman in his mid-thirties—powerfully built—was still feasting and making merry. He was Mili, the Western Di king’s nephew, famed throughout the land for his bravery and skill in battle. Together with Shan Yang, he was known as one of the two great warrior generals of the golden tent.

In a political order that believed in the law of the jungle, a warrior general of such renown commanded exceptional influence. Sitting beside him, drinking with him, was the woman he had married—a wife who came from an Eastern Di noble family. Her name was A’na, and in her youth she had been called the most beautiful flower of the grasslands.

She poured him a cup of wine, held it to his lips, and said with a smiling face: “Rest easy. That woman is all but cornered with nowhere to turn—she has even stooped to sending that Prince of Qin to beg for peace. You know what the Left Worthy King is like—he has always despised Han Chinese most of all. I fear that before he can even enter the tent, he will be frightened off. You are truly resourceful and heroic, coming up with such a brilliant scheme—now we have seized the upper hand in a single stroke.”

Mili shoved her wine aside and sneered: “You said before that the king of Suhuang had promised to help me get rid of that little Han Chinese boy. And how did that turn out? He came back perfectly fine! If not for your uselessness, would I have been forced into such a passive position?”

A’na, despite being rebuked, showed not the slightest trace of annoyance. She continued to smile and fed him the wine, changing the subject: “The new female slave I found for you the other day—how was she? Are you pleased?”

Mili took the wine and drank, answering only faintly, his mind seemingly elsewhere.

A’na was a little past thirty. She could not escape the fate common to women of the grasslands—early aging. To keep hold of her husband’s heart, she often searched out young and beautiful female slaves for him. Seeing him drift into thought, she knew he must be imagining the Han Chinese princess in the golden tent once again. She forced down a surge of jealous hatred that welled up inside her, lowered her face, and said coldly: “I must make one thing clear from the start—when you take the throne, I must be your principal wife and Princess Consort. That Han woman must rank below me. Your regard for her must not exceed your regard for me! Otherwise, my father and brothers will not let you get away with it!”

Mili seemed to already see the moment he would claim the golden tent—claim the Han Chinese princess he had coveted for so long—and could not help laughing with smug satisfaction. Just then, a subordinate came running in from outside the tent to report that a spy planted in the left territory had sent urgent news: the Left Worthy King had somehow been persuaded by that Prince of Qin, and was now convinced Mili was the one behind the attack. He was heading this way through the night with his forces.

Mili’s face drained of color. He sobered instantly and broke into a cold sweat.

Though he too had ten thousand cavalry under him, the idea of going head-to-head against the Left Worthy King was not likely to succeed—and besides, the Right Worthy King and Shan Yang were both watching nearby like prowling tigers. If all three sides joined forces against him, he had absolutely no chance of winning.

His expression darkened, his eyelids twitching without cease. He glanced at the lavishly furnished tent around him, and quickly made up his mind. He ordered everything that could not be taken to be left behind, set the tent on fire, consolidated his forces, retreated to avoid the fierce onslaught, and pulled out under cover of night.

Sanggan was burning with rage—he could not even wait for the next day—and led his forces riding through the night for the golden tent. Still on the road, he received word that Mili had taken his people and fled north, in all likelihood defecting to the Eastern Di.

Sanggan’s fury blazed even hotter. He immediately turned north in pursuit. But the next day, he received another piece of news: the Wuli people had seized the opportunity to attack the left territory.

He had left troops behind before departing to guard against a raid, so the Wuli people’s sneak attack had not succeeded. But his grandson, Tuotuo, had been abducted by the Wuli people.

Sanggan’s son had already died. Tuotuo was his sole remaining flesh and blood. Shocked and furious, he gave up on Mili altogether and rushed back toward the left territory. After racing through the road for a full day and night, he finally returned to his Wang tent. With a heart on fire, just as he was about to arrange a rescue for his grandson, he suddenly saw the boy crawl out of the great tent and come running toward him. Overjoyed, he dismounted and caught him in his arms. When he asked those around him how the boy had returned, he learned that after Sanggan had left, Li Xuandu had worried that the Wuli people nearby might take advantage of the chaos to cause trouble. He had stayed behind rather than immediately following Sanggan back to the golden tent—and sure enough, just as he had predicted, the Wuli people came. It was Li Xuandu who had led men to fight through the siege and brought Tuotuo back.

The Left Worthy King stood there struck dumb. A moment later, coming to his senses, he looked around: “Where is the Prince of Qin?”

“After rescuing Tuotuo, he returned to the golden tent.”

The Left Worthy King said nothing. He handed his grandson to his subordinates and ordered them to look after the boy well. Then he turned, and with his forces behind him, set out once more for the golden tent.

Li Xuandu and Shan Yang’s party arrived back at the golden tent after an absence of three days.

What awaited them was a piece of bad news.

Mili had fled under cover of night, setting fires as he went. Princess Jinxi had been fighting the fires and calming the people all at once, while dispatching men to give chase—but unfortunately he had still managed to escape. However, one of his capable subordinates had been captured and confessed that the Western Di king’s right consort had previously been bought off by Mili and had been serving as his eyes and ears. And as ill luck would have it, the Western Di king had regained consciousness the previous night, learned of this, and ordered the right consort executed—after which he could no longer hold on and had passed away on the spot.

Li Xuandu immediately galloped back to the golden tent. From far off, he could already see the blackness of kneeling Western Di warriors of all the tribes filling the area outside. He rushed in and saw Princess Jinxi the Great Long Princess dressed entirely in white mourning clothes, seated quietly in the center of the golden tent, the exhausted and tear-stained Huaiwei asleep in her arms.

The Right Worthy King and the others were all kneeling around her to the left and right. The tent was utterly silent.

Li Xuandu stood at the entrance of the tent for a moment, then slowly walked forward and went down on one knee at her side, quietly calling out: “Aunt…”

He said only that one word and stopped—for a moment he could say nothing more.

Princess Jinxi’s eyes were red and swollen. She was silent for a long while, then raised her gaze and nodded to him: “Aunt is all right. Do not worry.”

“Thank you. Huaiwei is now Khan.”

She said this in a hoarse voice, slowly.

…

The rebel Mili had been driven off. His tribe had long been renowned for its wealth among the Western Di, and the people and tens of thousands of livestock he had been unable to take with him in his flight were distributed to the various tribes—even those tribes that had not contributed much effort during this crisis received a share, however small.

The Western Di nobles were uniformly jubilant. After the funeral, following tradition, a ceremony was held in which oaths were sworn to pledge loyalty to the new Khan. But as he was still young, the affairs of the golden tent would be administered by the Empress Dowager Princess Jinxi on his behalf until he came of age.

This decision met with no dissent even from the Left Worthy King—who, in a reversal of his usual manner, did not voice any objection—and not a single one among the other lesser kings and tribal lords dared to oppose it; everyone submitted without demur.

That evening, Yinyue City was ablaze with bonfires, lively and festive beyond measure, filled with song and dance as a grand banquet celebrated the new Khan’s enthronement.

Prince of Qin Li Xuandu naturally became the most celebrated figure of the night. Everyone competed to befriend him. The Left Worthy King made a point of calling him aside to offer his private thanks: “Honestly speaking—your Li Dynasty, the Grand Empress Dowager Jiang, I respect. Your late father, His Majesty, was passably acceptable. But your current emperor—I have no regard for him. But your courage and ability—I respect that! A friend like you—I will make! From this day forward, I am willing to support that little Han Chinese boy as Khan. And of course, if you were to become the Li Dynasty’s emperor, I would respect you even more!”

Li Xuandu saw he was drunk and rambling, smiled and shook his head, told him to stop talking nonsense, and had someone help him inside.

Sanggan refused to go. He had someone bring a golden plate, and with one sweep of his hand, removed the cover.

In the plate lay a cow’s heart that had just been cut from the sacrificial altar—bloody and raw, and looking closely, still faintly beating.

Sanggan took up a knife and split the cow’s heart in two, seized one half himself, and bit into it on the spot while still eating, he said: “Eating this cow’s heart that has been blessed by the gods—that makes us our own people. Any betrayal, and the gods will punish!”

Li Xuandu knew this was a Di custom. He had heard that when Princess Jinxi first came here, to be accepted by the local people and make the populace trust her, she had once publicly eaten a raw cow’s heart cut from a sacrificial altar.

He looked at the bloody raw meat left for himself, smiled as well, picked it up, and without any change of expression, ate the raw cow’s heart. When he was finished, he had the iron crossbow brought over and presented it to Sanggan.

This had been a powerful crossbow that, back in the days when he served in the Northern Bureau, he had gathered skilled craftsmen and participated in personally—repeatedly researching and refining it until at last he had succeeded. It was painstaking and time-consuming work—and naturally, very expensive.

In those days he had been as dashing as a silver spear in the wind, full of soaring ambition. He had planned to equip the entire Eagle-Soaring Guard with this powerful crossbow; if possible, he hoped someday to forge for the court a cavalry armed entirely with iron crossbows to sweep the battlefield clean.

But his dream had shattered in the sand, his glory turned to void. Before his schemes could be put into motion, someone had first gotten him into trouble.

This iron crossbow was among his personal possessions, kept in the Penglai Palace all these years, gathering dust. When he set out this time on imperial orders, he thought of it and brought it along on a whim—he had not expected it to prove useful.

The crossbow’s power was tremendous in its own right; with the right technique it could shatter animal bones. He had deliberately chosen a wolf’s head that had been frozen solid as a target, so the effect would be even more astonishing—truly terrifying—which had smoothly achieved the goal of intimidating his audience. Sanggan had been eyeing it greedily, and Li Xuandu had noticed long since.

Producing this weapon required not only the standard metalworking process of the grassland peoples—which was considerably behind in any case—but also the addition of a secret mineral during the iron-smelting stage to make the metal sufficiently tough, so it could withstand the enormous recoil force generated when the crossbow was fired. Otherwise, with ordinary iron, after a few shots the frame would inevitably crack apart and become useless scrap. In those days he had gone through countless failures before at last successfully refining it. So even with a model to work from, outsiders could not possibly replicate it. He might as well sell a favor and give it away.

After seeing the weapon’s power demonstrated in the great tent that day, Sanggan had been coveting it—but had felt too embarrassed to ask outright. Now, seeing Li Xuandu so magnanimously hand it over without a second thought, he was overjoyed. He took it and turned it in his hands for a moment, completely enchanted by it. He thanked him with a great laugh and promised he would reciprocate.

Li Xuandu had already drunk a great deal that night, and after eating the raw cow’s heart, he was surrounded by those Western Di nobles and subjected to round after round of toasts. He could not hold out any longer, and stumbled off to take his leave, thoroughly drunk.

After Princess Jinxi married into this place, some of the local customs and habits had gradually changed over the years. Proper houses had been built in the city—much like those in the capital—and there was even a royal palace.

After Li Xuandu arrived, he was arranged to stay within the royal palace.

He barely managed to hold himself together until he reached his quarters. Before he could even go inside, he was seized by a wave of nausea, bent over the courtyard, and heaved up everything he had consumed that night. Only then did he feel a little more human.

Luo Bao had been left behind with her; he had not brought him along this time. Princess Jinxi had assigned him a steady and experienced older maidservant to attend to his daily needs.

After finishing being sick, he dismissed the attendants and told them to go rest. He pressed a hand to his abdomen—which was throbbing with a dull ache—and went inside. He was about to call for the maidservant to bring water so he could wash up, and then he stopped short.

Two beautiful Western Di female slaves were kneeling in his room, their clothing revealingly sparse, their skin snow-white. One was full-figured, one slender—between them, an air of pliant obedience. Seeing him enter, they rose from the floor, stretched out their hands to help steady him.

Li Xuandu stepped back. “Who sent you here?”

The female slaves exchanged a glance and said in low voices that they had been sent by the Left Worthy King.

Li Xuandu finally remembered—Sanggan had said tonight he would find a way to reciprocate the gift of the crossbow. This, apparently, was his reciprocity. He felt both amused and exasperated, and swept his hand to dismiss them.

Both women had received orders from the Left Worthy King to serve well from that day forward and make sure the Prince of Qin was satisfied. On one hand they feared punishment from their original master; on the other, hearing that their new master was of such high and noble rank and yet this young and handsome, they were unwilling to simply leave like this. They entreated him to let them stay.

Li Xuandu’s expression darkened. He made as if to draw his sword in a drunken lunge. The two women were terrified, grabbed their clothes, and fled.

“Zheng—” With a clear ring, Li Xuandu tossed the sword casually aside. Staggering inside, a wave of drunkenness surged over him; he lay down, closed his eyes, and slept. He did not know how long he had slept, but somewhere in the midst of blurry and chaotic dreams, he seemed to see something, and tried to grasp it—but the dream dissolved, and he woke with it. Other than a headache, he had not a shred of drowsiness left.

He lay awake for a moment, waiting for the throbbing in his head to ease, then opened his eyes and turned to look out the window.

Moonlight like snow fell quietly before the window.

He looked at it for a moment, then slowly sat up, opened the door, and walked out.

The Yinyue River lay ahead, like a jade belt winding its way around the city walls. Looking out from a distance, the rippling light shimmered as if beckoning.

He wandered without a particular destination down to the riverbank. He sat on the bank at last, facing the water, gradually letting his thoughts settle. Suddenly he sensed someone approaching from behind. He turned his head and saw the Great Long Princess standing not far behind him on the bank, gazing at him quietly in silence, with several attendants waiting at a distance farther back.

In the moonlight, she was dressed entirely in white mourning clothes, her beauty luminous and ethereal—not like a woman of this mortal world, more like a divine goddess descended from the heavens.

“Aunt!”

Li Xuandu called out and was just about to rise when Princess Jinxi gestured for him to stay seated, and walked over.

“It is so late—why is Aunt not resting?” Li Xuandu asked, dusting a rock on the bank clean for her to sit on.

Princess Jinxi sat on the rock and smiled. “I heard that the Left Worthy King sent you two female slaves tonight and you sent them away. The women were afraid of punishment when they got back, so they went to Rouliang for shelter. Rouliang found it amusing and came to tell me. I could not sleep anyway, so I came to look in on you. These past days since you arrived, you have been running east and west—Aunt has not had a proper chance to talk with you. Tonight I came especially.”

Seeing her up close, Li Xuandu noticed her face was visibly thinner, and her voice carried a hoarseness. He knew these days had been extraordinarily taxing for her—she had likely not slept for several nights running. Thinking also of the experiences she had lived through in this first half of her life—hardship and suffering borne alone and in silence—and knowing that from now on, with Huaiwei still small, the weight of an entire nation, of dozens of tribes, would rest entirely upon her shoulders, he was moved: “Aunt, you have had it so hard.”

Princess Jinxi started, then smiled gently. “A family with one field, one house, and one gate—people like that, though they enjoy a peace and tranquility you and I can only envy, must still toil and labor for the sake of food and clothing. Yuli’er, tell me—who in this life has it truly easy? Aunt is doing very well. I had been worrying about you all these years. Now that I see you, Aunt is very glad.”

“By the way—Aunt has heard that your wife is the granddaughter of the Pu clan, the daughter of the Left General Pu?”

She gave a quiet sigh. “In those days, it was after leaving here that her father met with misfortune…”

Li Xuandu understood—she must have heard about it from Huaiwei.

“Aunt, do not be troubled. This is not something Aunt could have controlled.” Li Xuandu comforted her.

Princess Jinxi was silent for a moment, then continued: “I have heard quite a bit about her from Huaiwei. I understand that during the autumn hunt, she volunteered to join Princess Consort Duan Wang on the polo field and even defeated the arrogant Eastern Di princess?”

Li Xuandu nodded. “Yes.”

He thought of what she had said to him that early morning when they parted.

“Aunt, she has always been very good to Huaiwei and has constantly protected him. When I came here this time, she also asked me to remind you—she had a feeling someone might mean harm to Huaiwei and told me to warn you. As it turns out, her instincts were entirely right.”

Princess Jinxi said in surprise: “Aunt is genuinely curious now! Tell me about her—what kind of woman is she?”

Li Xuandu said: “She is very beautiful, very intelligent, lively in temperament, and seems to have an inexhaustible store of energy…”

Her temper is also rather bad—she always says your nephew is useless.

The number of men who want to get close to her is not small. One day, perhaps at any moment, she might decide she no longer wants your nephew…

These things he said aloud; the other part he turned over quietly in his mind.

Princess Jinxi smiled and looked at him. “You must be very fond of her.”

Li Xuandu paused.

“When you spoke of her, Aunt could see it in your eyes—your affection for her.” She offered this in explanation.

Li Xuandu turned his face away, looking slightly ill at ease.

“Aunt truly hopes that someday you will bring her here—Aunt would very much like to meet her.” He heard the Great Long Princess say, still smiling.

Li Xuandu wanted to make that promise on behalf of the young woman—but when the words reached his lips, he fell silent, and only gave a smile. A moment later, another matter came to his mind.

Knowing it might not be quite the right moment, he hesitated, then could not help himself. He said quietly: “Aunt—Jiang, my cousin on my mother’s side, has been raising horses at Shangjun for many years. He is still alone. If Aunt has anything to say, do not hesitate to tell me. If there is ever an opportunity in the future, I can convey it on Aunt’s behalf.”

The smile on the corner of the Great Long Princess’s lips stilled, and slowly faded.

She looked at the reflected moonlight on the water’s surface and fell into silence.

Li Xuandu looked at her profile and suddenly felt regret. He quickly said: “Aunt, forgive me—your nephew spoke out of turn just now!”

The Great Long Princess turned to look at him.

“I left for the frontier before you were old enough—how did you come to know about what passed between him and me in those days?”

“The year before Aunt left, on the night of the Lantern Festival in the capital, the sky was ablaze with the lights of fire trees and silver flowers. Your nephew snuck out of the palace to play and happened to encounter you two on the street. You had stopped by the roadside; people on their way to view the lanterns streamed past all around you. He was holding your hand, you were looking at the lanterns, and he was looking at you…”

“…Your nephew didn’t understand then. Later he did.”

Li Xuandu said softly.

The Great Long Princess gave a slight start. She fixed her gaze on the rippling moonlight before her feet on the river’s surface, her eyes growing hazy, as if she had sunk into some deep memory.

Li Xuandu sat beside her and dared not make another sound. After a moment, he heard her say quietly: “If you ever have the chance, tell him on my behalf—he is still in his prime years; he must not let them pass him by. If there is a suitable person, he should start a family early. I hope that someone who knows how to tend to warmth and cold will be by his side, growing old together with him. Only then can I feel at ease.”

Li Xuandu said in a choked voice: “Aunt, I am truly unwilling to carry such words to him on your behalf! Have you never once thought—that someday you might be able to set everything here aside and return to your homeland?”

The Great Long Princess was lost in thought for a moment, then said: “Yuli’er, as long as the Eastern Di is not destroyed and the Western Regions are not pacified, there is no possibility of my returning home in this lifetime. From the day Aunt agreed to this marriage, she never once thought of going home.”

She rose from the rock and said gently: “Think no more of it. The wind here is cold—you should go back and rest too.”

Li Xuandu looked out at the river: “Aunt go ahead and rest. I am not afraid of the cold—the scenery here is quite fine, and I want to sit a little longer.”

The Great Long Princess looked at his back—carrying with it a trace of stubbornness—and seemed to see again the boy from long ago who, when she was being sent off, had refused to let her go and walk away. She breathed a quiet sigh, patted his shoulder, and turned to leave.

Li Xuandu clasped his hands behind his head and lay back freely on the stretch of smooth white river-stones that the Yinyue River had polished over the years along the bank. He closed his eyes. The exhaustion of a sleepless night finally began, slowly, to wash over him.

He began to dream again—still a muddled dream—but this time he finally caught sight of what he had failed to grasp before.

It was a woman’s face.

He woke from the dream and still had his eyes closed, yet his heart gave a sudden, strong beat—steady and vigorous, like a war drum.

He lay quietly for another moment, thinking back over what he had seen in the dream.

That morning, she had come rushing out of the tent to find him and say something to him—her eyelids pinkish and faintly swollen; clearly she had been crying the night before.

And yet he had been so heartless: merely because she had accidentally broken some old object of his, he had not offered her even half a word of comfort, turned his back on her, and simply left.

How on earth had he managed to do that? A heaviness settled in Li Xuandu’s chest—thick and suffocating.

He suddenly very much wanted to see her. To see her right now.

His eyelids gave a faint tremor, then snapped open. He sprang from the bed, pulled on his clothes in haste, turned, and walked quickly outside.