Zhang Zhixu felt as though he were walking along a road, long and cold, with frigid wind pressing in from all sides — yet far ahead, there was a light.

He ran toward it with all his effort. The light grew larger and larger, blooming open like a flower and folding itself around him.

When he opened his eyes again, it was his own familiar bedchamber that greeted him.

“Fengqing.” Someone at his bedside called out to him urgently.

Zhang Zhixu took stock of his own body — the warm sensation below was gone. The aching soreness in his lower abdomen and back was gone too.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, still somewhat dazed, and turned his head.

Sun Sihuai sat beside him with a grave expression, gold needle in hand, his left hand extended and pressing two fingers to Zhang Zhixu’s pulse.

Somewhat better than the last time — but still extremely weak. He would fall back into unconsciousness again before long.

“Do you still remember what you said last time?” Sun Sihuai asked.

Zhang Zhixu gave a light nod. Recalling the suffering of a moment ago, he turned his gaze sidelong toward his shadow guard: “Ningsu — have someone take a few bolts of cotton and linen from my storeroom, the ones that aren’t being used, and send them to Chen Baoxiang. Then go to the medicine dispensary for some pain-relief herbs, and send those along as well.”

He considered a moment, felt it was still not enough, and added: “Send a sharp-minded maidservant along to deliver them. Someone who can think ahead and help figure out what else she might need.”

Ningsu received this entirely unprepared — the dark face beneath his hood went blank with bewilderment.

Sun Sihuai, equally caught off guard, let out a sound somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “This child of mine…”

“Master, my head is spinning.” Zhang Zhixu murmured. “First bring paper and brush — write down everything I’m about to say.”

“Ready and waiting, my lord.” Ningsu had already prepared the writing implements.

Zhang Zhixu pressed a hand to his temple, his voice strained with effort. “The Huitong Silver Exchange has a problem. You must have people watching Liu Sheng without fail — follow the thread back to its source, place everyone he’s in contact with under surveillance and control, and if necessary, have him detained outright.”

“The matter with Cheng Huaili will require some careful maneuvering. Send word to the fourth branch of the family — tell them I have been thinking of Yinyue, and ask Fourth Uncle to please postpone the wedding date without fail, until I have recovered.”

“Then take my seal to the Bureau of Works and Industry and find Yin Fengshi. Have him arrange a secondment — Zhang Xilai to assist Elder Lü — and see to it that the proposal piled up on the case file, the one for restructuring the Shangjing weaving workshops, gets dealt with.”

“The records I wrote up previously contain a set of established procedures. Bring those along for them as well.”

“And the matter of constructing the Expansive Dwellings Quarter — have them handle that with all urgency, without fail.”

He spoke at length, one matter after another, until his breathing grew labored. Sun Sihuai, listening, knit his brows together. “Must all of this be done in this very moment?”

“It must.” Zhang Zhixu drew a breath. “Every hour it waits, more people suffer more.”

“Ningsu — bring the imperial stationery as well. I still need to write a memorial with my own hand.”

Cheng Huaili had already recovered, while he himself had been unconscious for nearly two months. If word of his condition was not released, knowing Cheng Huaili’s arrogance and volatility, the man might very well press his advantage against the Zhang family.

His hand trembled uncontrollably; the characters that emerged were crooked and unsteady. Even so, Zhang Zhixu instructed Ningsu: “Send it exactly as it is. Do not have it recopied.”

“Fengqing — please don’t frighten me.” Someone choked and threw herself against him.

Zhang Zhixu started. He looked up, caught off guard.

Gong Lan — his birth mother.

The Gong family, too, was an established clan, though not as wealthy as the Zhangs. Unwilling to let their daughter marry into another family under its name, they had divided the arrangement: three children, two surnames, with Gong Lan and Zhang Yuanchu each running between both households. Combined with the fact that Zhang Zhixu had been kept in unceasing lessons since childhood, mother and son rarely saw each other, and their relationship had always been distant and cool.

This was the first time he had ever seen her so frantic.

Almost without thinking, his hand moved to press against his abdomen. He pursed his lips, then said, with a certain stiffness: “Mother — it must have been hard on you, when you gave birth to me.”

Gong Lan’s eyes went wide.

Fengqing was the most precocious, most self-possessed of her children. He had never given her cause to worry. He had never shown that he needed her. Beyond the customary greetings, he had never come to her when he was hurt or in pain.

That he should speak of his own accord today was something she had never anticipated.

Her fingers trembled as they clutched at his bedding. “No… no, it wasn’t hard at all.”

“Certainly it was.” His gaze dropped. “You were a female official yourself, once. You gave up your post to carry me, and then spent so many long, exhausting years doing so — and I have rarely opened my heart to you.”

“How could any of that be your fault.”

Gong Lan’s sobs would not be stilled. “They declared you extraordinarily gifted, and the Zhang family kept you buried in lessons one after another. Your younger brother and sister at the Gong household were utterly spoiled, constantly getting into trouble and pulling me in every direction. I didn’t even make it back for your birthday — not once…”

“It is I who have wronged you.”

“I used to wonder why I saw so little of you,” Zhang Zhixu said with a small nod. “Now I think I understand at last. You had your own difficulties too, Mother.”

“Giving birth to me when you did was remarkable in itself. You owe me nothing.”

Gong Lan heard it out, and then everything — all the tension that had wound tighter and tighter inside her over a decade and more — gave way at once. She flung herself against him and wept without restraint, uncontrollable and ungoverned.

She had borne three children. Her heart and attention had poured themselves into the two at the Gong household, indulging them until they caused trouble without end. Fengqing was the one she had treated most poorly — and he was the one who had said these words to her.

She was so ashamed she wanted to disappear into the floor.

Gong Lan wept and could not stop.

Zhang Zhixu’s expression remained its usual, quiet self. His hand moved to his mother’s back, patting — once, and again.

Sun Sihuai watched, and could only feel that this disciple of his had gone through some kind of ordeal and come out transformed — gentler, somehow, from the inside. He was warmer than before.

And there was another thing. The last time Sun Sihuai had administered the Consolidating Vitality Needling Method, Zhang Zhixu’s will to live had been weak — not strong enough to sustain him for more than the space of a few words before consciousness slipped away again. But this time, even though his condition remained poor, he had managed to stay alert for this long.

It was as though, somewhere along the way, he had found reason to keep living.

Sun Sihuai’s throat tightened. He turned away, feeling somewhat moved himself.

The dizziness was rising again. Zhang Zhixu fixed his gaze on the canopy of his bed and, out of nowhere, said: “When it comes time to change the fabrics next spring — have them put in something embroidered with gold thread.”

His voice faded as he spoke.

“Fengqing? Fengqing…”

His consciousness was blurring again — but unlike before, Zhang Zhixu felt no particular desolation this time. If anything, there was something close to relief.

Beyond life and death, no matter is truly great. If he could see through even that, there was no reason to keep nursing old grievances.

Chen Baoxiang, meanwhile, was being thoroughly tormented by her monthly flow.

The ash pouch below was filthy, and it kept leaking — after changing her trousers twice in a row, she gave up entirely and simply sat on the chamber pot without getting up.

“Miss.” A maidservant called from outside.

Chen Baoxiang answered weakly: “Whatever it is, it can wait a few days. I truly cannot get up.”

Several pieces of fine cotton and linen cloth were pushed in through the window — sewn into the same shape as the ash pouch, clean and soft.

What is this?

She picked them up and tried them, a wave of delight washing over her — followed immediately by a little hesitation. “It looks awfully expensive…”

“Conjured for you by immortal techniques. Costs nothing.” Zhang Zhixu said, with no particular graciousness.

“Great Immortal, you’re awake!” Chen Baoxiang’s eyes brightened. “I was calling for you just now and you weren’t responding — I thought you’d gone off again.”

Gone I did — but I still haven’t found the spiritual medicine. So it seems I had to come back.

Zhang Zhixu closed his eyes and put on her trousers and skirt. When he opened the door, the maidservants had already delivered everything, just as he’d arranged.

A warming brazier, red sugar water with soft-boiled eggs, qi and blood-nourishing medicine, and a large box of clean, replaceable cloth pieces.

Chen Baoxiang’s jaw nearly fell off: Great Immortal — did your immortal techniques do all this too?

They did. A few days of cultivation, and there’s been some advancement.

He said it without the slightest flicker of expression: Impressive, isn’t it?