Yan Qi’s loan was a small matter; the fact that he could persuade those wealthy merchants to lend money to the government was what truly relieved Shi Ting’s most pressing crisis.

“Thank you, Elder Brother,” Shi Ting said with heartfelt sincerity. “Elder Brother, rest assured—I will never let you shoulder this debt alone. The government will repay every cent, principal and interest both.”

“Money is a minor concern.” Yan Qi glanced at his younger sister, a trace of tender worry crossing his eyes. “Yan Qing is pregnant now, and you are going to the border to fight. There is no knowing how long this will take, and life and death on the battlefield cannot be predicted. If you feel indebted to our Yan Family, then win the battle and come back whole. Not only is Yan Qing waiting for you—your child is also hoping you return safely.”

Shi Ting took Yan Qing’s hand. Their eyes met, holding reluctance, but even more than that, trust.

“Elder Brother, rest assured. I promised Qing Qing I would come back safe.”

“I hope you keep your word.”

Yan Qi instructed a servant to hand the items over to Shi Ting’s adjutant, then said to Yan Qing, ‘Father has been in better and better spirits these past few days—he’s even been demanding to come see you. I managed to talk him out of it with some effort. Rest and recuperate here at the mansion. I will arrange for someone to care for Father, and if anything comes up, I’ll send word to you.’

“Thank you, Elder Brother,” Yan Qing said gratefully. “Now all the burdens of the Yan Family have fallen on Elder Brother’s shoulders. You must also take care of yourself and not overwork.”

“Father says the same thing,” Yan Qi replied. “Right now, my only hope is that Father recovers as quickly as possible. The family business truly cannot do without him.”

“Elder Brother has been doing wonderfully. Father often praises you in front of me.”

Yan Qi smiled briefly. “All right, enough of that. I can see the Young Commander is about to leave—I will take my leave first.”

“I will see Elder Brother out.” Shi Ting asked Yan Qing to remain in the courtyard while he personally escorted Yan Qi out with his adjutant.

When the courtyard gradually grew quiet, Yan Qing made her way to the small rear yard. The moment her footsteps approached, Jian Guo came bounding out joyfully, pressing its head against her leg and rubbing again and again.

“Jian Guo, how is Er Dan doing?”

Jian Guo wagged its tail and led her to Er Dan’s bed.

Er Dan had been lying down, but the moment it heard Yan Qing’s voice, it lifted its head immediately, letting out a low rumbling sound from its throat.

“Er Dan, are you feeling better?” Yan Qing crouched down before it and gently stroked the top of its head.

Er Dan pressed its face against her arm, rubbing softly, as though answering her.

Er Dan’s surgery had been a great success, and under Yan Qing’s attentive care, it was getting better day by day.

Yan Qing sometimes thought that Er Dan belonged to the forest—perhaps she should release it back, let it return to its true home.

Yet every time she watched Er Dan mimic Jian Guo’s habits and cling to people with such fondness, she dismissed the thought. She felt that if Er Dan were returned to the forest, it would never become king of the jungle—if anything, it might very well starve to death.

It was truly becoming more and more like Jian Guo every day.

“Miss, the fabric you ordered has arrived,” Jing Zhi said, finding Yan Qing in the rear courtyard.

Yan Qing had ordered bolts of fine fabric—some for winter garments, some for lighter clothing.

There was no knowing how long Shi Ting’s departure would last, so she intended to sew some spare clothing for him with her own hands.

Her needlework had grown far more skilled by now. Though she still could not match Luo Huaimeng, she had improved considerably—especially since Shi Ting, every time she made him a garment by hand, was so reluctant to take it off.

Time passed swiftly. When Yan Qing and Jing Zhi had nearly finished the clothing, Di Huai came to report that Shi Guang was to be executed that very day.

Yan Qing had always known that Shi Guang’s death was inevitable, but hearing the news now, she felt no particular satisfaction as she had imagined. What she felt instead was a quiet, weary sorrow.

The winner takes all; the loser is condemned. Shi Guang had become the loser in this struggle, and so this was his inescapable end.

If Shi Ting had not won, perhaps it would have been the same end awaiting them.

She recalled the very first time she had come to this world and laid eyes on Shi Guang. Because he looked exactly like Shen Liang, she had felt an instinctive revulsion toward him—that deep-buried hatred had made her involuntarily keep her distance, even knowing that Shi Guang was not Shen Liang.

Everything that followed played out vividly in her mind: from the broken engagement to his intent to take her as a concubine, Shi Guang’s fixation on her had never wavered.

Now the dust had settled, the smoke had cleared. As for right and wrong, let posterity judge.

“Miss, would you like to go and watch?” Di Huai asked. “The execution is at the vegetable market by the East Gate. People have been gathering since early morning to observe.”

“I won’t go.” Yan Qing shook her head. “I still have the buttons on these clothes to finish—I need to work hard today.”

She had seen enough corpses. She had no wish to witness a killing with her own eyes.

In this era, executions were often carried out in crowded public places—the main purpose being to serve as a warning to all, deterring them from breaking the law.

The onlookers were largely numb to it, treating a firing squad as a spectacle for entertainment.

“A bloody scene like that is not something Miss would go to see,” Murong said, shooting Di Huai a look. “It is also bad for the baby—the child should not be exposed to something so violent.”

Scolded by Murong, Di Huai promptly and meekly retreated.

Though Yan Qing had not gone to the execution ground, it was packed tightly with spectators, not a gap to be found.

These people felt no fear at the sight of blood—they pointed and whispered, discussing with curiosity.

Shi Guang’s hands and feet were bound. He knelt now at the center of the execution platform, his hair grown long and tangled, matted against his face. His clothing was tattered and worn, his shoes so torn that his toes were exposed.

The last time Shi Guang had been imprisoned, the Commander had treated him with great generosity: a private cell, meat with his meals. He had emerged from those few days of confinement not broken, but high-spirited.

But this time was clearly different. He had thoroughly offended the Commander, and the Commander would no longer spare any consideration for appearances or the bond between father and son. As the Commander had said, he had already given him a chance—it was Shi Guang himself who had not seized it. Having twice tried to harm the Commander, the Commander had long since severed all feeling of duty toward him.

That day the wind was especially strong. The banners erected around the execution ground crackled and snapped, but even the fierce wind could not dampen the crowd’s enthusiasm for the spectacle—their voices rose in waves, one swelling over the next, very much like a bustling marketplace.

Shi Guang felt the wind sweep across his face, stinging the small wounds on his body.

He raised his head and looked at the crowd before him—those unfamiliar faces, those fingers of every size pointing at him.

What they were saying, he could not hear, and he did not care.

Before the execution, he had requested to see the Commander, but no one heeded him. He was no longer the Second Young Master of the Shi Family—he was nothing but a prisoner.

“I want to see Shi Ting,” Shi Guang said suddenly to the executioner. “I have something I need to ask him.”

“The Young Commander is occupied with countless matters and has no time to come,” the executioner replied, glancing at him. “Give up on that idea. Besides, the Commander has given orders—no one is permitted to see you.”

“I only want to ask him one thing,” Shi Guang said urgently. “I want to ask him—why does Yan Qing dislike me? I have never met her before, yet she disliked me from the very beginning. No matter what I did, she would never spare me a second glance. Why? I only want to know why.”

The executioner was taken aback. He had assumed Shi Guang wanted to see Shi Ting to beg for his life—he had not expected it to be about the Young Mistress.

At a time like this, was pleading for one’s life not the most important thing? What did being liked or disliked have to do with survival?

“I just want to ask him this one question. I humbly beg you to convey it,” Shi Guang called out loudly. “We were brothers once. I am asking him—let me die with at least this much clarity.”

“There is no need to ask.” Shi Ting’s adjutant stepped out from behind the executioner. “The Young Commander has just left the city on business. He will not be coming. As for your question—wait until you reach the underworld and figure it out yourself.”

The adjutant turned to the executioner, his expression stern. ‘The hour is nearly upon us. What are you waiting for?’

The executioner, knowing that the adjutant was sent by the Young Commander, quickly began directing the men to prepare for the execution.

Shi Guang understood now that he would not be able to see Shi Ting before his death, let alone Yan Qing. At this moment, his mind was not filled with the shattered dream of conquest, nor with regret or fear—strangely, the image of Yan Qing surfaced again and again in his thoughts.

He recalled the first time he had seen her. She was nothing like the rumored Sixth Miss—weak and incompetent. Though she bore a physical impairment, her bearing and grace drew every gaze without fail.

But why had she disliked him so? He had asked her this many times, and never once received an answer.

“Yan Qing, why do you dislike me? What is wrong with me?” Shi Guang closed his eyes and quietly tilted his face upward.

He heard the sound of a round being chambered. He had known his fate since the moment of his defeat, and so in facing death, he had long since made his peace.

He only had not expected that when the moment came to leave this world, the one regret he would carry with him was the one Yan Qing had left in his heart.

At this thought, Shi Guang suddenly burst into laughter, his head thrown back toward the sky.

As he laughed, it felt as though he had been carried back to his childhood.

As a boy, he had looked at his seventh brother—only a few years younger than himself—and asked: Seventh Brother, what do you want to be when you grow up?

He said: I want to be the Young Commander.

He said: The Young Commander is mine. You are not allowed to take it from me. I am the elder brother—what I say, goes.

Back then, his little brother had grinned and said: Then let us compete fairly.

Now, he had lost. Lost completely and utterly. If everything could be done over again, would he still choose this path?

A pity. There were no second chances.

A gunshot rang out. For a moment, the crowd fell silent—and then came a wave of cheers and acclaim.

In the eyes of these people, Shi Guang was a traitor, a rebel against Shun Cheng, and so his death drew nothing but cheers. Not a single person mourned him.

He was the loser—and the despised.

“Look, it’s snowing.”

“It is, it really is snowing.”

Someone felt a cold touch on their face. Looking up, they saw white snowflakes falling in great sweeping curtains.

The snow fell heavier and heavier, like feathers drifting ceaselessly through the air. Soon a layer had settled across the ground.

Shi Guang lay there, the snow falling on him continuously, until at last it swallowed him whole.

The past, the grievances, the grudges—all of it fell with the snow, then melted away, becoming in the end the waters of the spring river, the blossoms of yesterday.

Water always flows eastward; flowers bloom and wither. Who is there left to speak of right and wrong?