Xiao Nanhui had always believed that those who had survived hunger could endure far more than ordinary people.

She could travel a thousand li alone — crossing deserts, scaling snowcapped mountains, passing through oases. She had thought that with enough conviction, there was no place that could not be reached.

But she had never imagined that what was harder to bear than hunger and thirst was darkness.

Endless darkness.

Her torch went out after one hour. In its wake came darkness without edges, without end — like a punishment with no fixed term, meant to break the last line of defense in a person’s heart.

Whenever her emotions teetered on the verge of collapse, she would reach out and take his hand, pressing it gently against her face.

His palm seemed even colder than the rock walls and earth around her, yet the faint, cool scent that lingered on him always managed to calm her.

The floor of the passageway was somewhat uneven, but compared to the mountain path at Douchenling, it was far smoother. The difficulty was that she was now carrying another person on her back, and could not see a thing ahead of her — so she frequently walked straight into the rock walls, scraping her shoulders.

At first she found him quite light, not much heavier than Dujuan. Gradually, she found him growing heavier and heavier, as though he weighed more than a battering ram carried by soldiers at the front of a siege.

At such moments, she would sit down, and while catching her breath she would curse Ding Weixiang’s wretched luck at the top of her lungs — as though he might appear right before her, compelled by loyalty to his master, if only she cursed him loudly enough.

After cursing for a long while, her mouth would inevitably go dry, and since she had no water pouch, she could only press herself against the rock wall and lick at the water that seeped through the cracks in the stone. The longer she crouched there, the more she suspected the water she managed to drink was less than the sweat she shed drinking it.

Gradually, resting no longer restored her strength very well. Sometimes the moment she stopped moving, her legs felt as though they had been filled with lead and refused to take another step.

But she would not allow herself to linger too long in one place. She counted her own pulse and heartbeat, marked off the time, and set out again.

In the first few li, she would sometimes stop and listen carefully for sounds around her, comforting herself with the thought that if she could hear the clash of blades between the Shen Family and Ding Weixiang, at least that would ease her mind a little. But from the moment she took her first step, the only things she could hear were her own breathing and the scrape of stone beneath her feet. Nothing else.

She moved through the belly of the great mountain, and all sound and light could not reach her here. She had only herself to rely on.

She began using her periods of sleep to gauge the passage of days — from fitful dozing at first, to long, heavy slumber in the end. Even this method gradually lost its accuracy.

It was deep in her fifth long sleep that, in a foggy half-consciousness, she heard a faint rustling sound.

She opened her eyes, though she was not certain whether she was dreaming or awake.

It was still pitch dark before her. The sound was somewhere close to her hand, and after a moment it became a soft, furry sensation crawling across her fingertips.

Her wrist — which had been too weak to move for some time — snapped shut in an instant. A sharp, high-pitched squealing erupted against her palm.

It was a blind shrew, and it had just been licking at her hand to eat the salt from her sweat.

She released the small creature, which was still screaming in protest, and listened to its four tiny claws scrabbling back and forth across the ground. And then, without warning, she smiled — her first smile in a very long time.

There was a mouse. That meant they were not far from the way out.

She hoisted Su Wei onto her back, struggled upright, and followed unsteadily after the little animal.

Three or four paces on, the surroundings remained just as still. Time and space were frozen in the impenetrable dark. The only living thing was that mouse.

It scratched here, dug there, and let out a squeak every now and again — a sound more comforting than anything in the world right now.

At last, her ankle struck a stone step. And then the squeaking disappeared ahead of her, and the passageway fell silent once more.

Xiao Nanhui took a slow, deep breath and carefully crouched down, feeling forward.

One step, two steps, three steps—

Seven steps in total. At the top was a hard, damp wooden panel, with a gap along its edge about half the width of a palm — the same gap the mouse had squeezed through.

Her legs began to tremble. The exhaustion accumulated over a long time began to crash over her now.

She set the person on her back down on the steps and gently patted his face.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”

The urgent calls bounced and echoed at the end of the passageway, and still there was no response.

She checked his pulse again. Everything was steady, but he remained completely unresponsive, all five senses lost to him.

She had led him on an escape through the edge of a desert before as well. The situation then had perhaps been even more desperate, and she could not have claimed her heart had been without turmoil. Yet for some reason she could not name, as long as he was still awake, she had not felt quite so utterly alone.

Hunger and exhaustion assailed her body, yet they left her mind more clear-headed than it had ever been.

Rather than hurrying to push at the wooden panel, she held her breath and pressed close to listen to the sounds beyond it.

This hidden passage had been dug from within the Shen estate — who knew what might be on the other side. If she had just escaped the wolf’s jaws only to walk into someone else’s tiger’s den, she had not even half a measure of strength left to fight with anyone.

Then again, she had even less strength to make it back the way she had come.

Beyond the wooden panel — silence. Like the highest-priced woman in a pleasure house: not so much as a whisper until the moment of the spring night arrived.

Life or death — it all came down to what was on the other side of that door.

With that thought, she actually felt calm. She drew out the dagger — its edge curled from the grappling line — and inserted it into the gap along the panel. She twisted both arms hard and drove her right leg forward with everything she had.

A dull crack of splintering wood rang out. Xiao Nanhui pushed the panel open, and a wave of damp, musty air descended on her together with a shower of dust and dirt.

Xiao Nanhui coughed violently for a moment, not entirely certain whether this wretched tunnel had truly led anywhere at all.

When the dust cleared she blinked, and found the darkness just as complete around her — not a glimmer of starlight, not a shadow of the moon, and the air was still and unmoving.

Xiao Nanhui’s heart sank, bit by bit.

Had they reached a dead end?

She clenched her fist, pulled the person behind her close, and had just started to hoist him onto her back when she straightened and knocked her head soundly against something.

She cried out in pain and crouched back down. When she reached up to touch whatever had struck her head, her hand found a wooden board laid overhead, its cracks matching those of the panel she had just come through — some of the gaps had already widened to about the width of a finger or two, clearly having been there for quite some years.

Whose building was this? Why would there be such a low ceiling?

Surely — surely she had not ended up inside one enormous coffin?

With everything she had seen and heard in the past few days, a creeping horror climbed up her spine and up the back of her neck. The terror of the unknown was magnified endlessly in the dark, and she felt the hair all over her body rise on end.

But she could not retreat.

Right now, he had only her. If she retreated, they might both die here — and then Tiancheng would have no Emperor.

No. That could not happen.

A man like him — a man of such quiet distinction, like moonlight reflected in a jade cup — could not die in an obscure corner unknown to anyone. And she, who had spent her whole life longing for warm sunlight and free, open winds, could not end her days in such a stifling, wretched place.

Xiao Nanhui clenched her fist.

Whatever lay in the darkness ahead, she could only keep moving forward.

After several slow, deep breaths, she finally braced herself into a low, half-bent posture and gathered her courage to go on.

She had barely taken one step when she felt her foot knock against something.

A low, hollow thud.

Something round and of some weight rolled around a few circles beneath her foot before coming to a stop.

She swallowed, listened carefully for a moment, and once she was certain the thing had stopped moving, slowly stretched out her hand to feel for it.

It was cool to the touch, round and plump, with what seemed to be a slightly rough, bristly texture on its surface.

Xiao Nanhui was taken aback and reached out to feel it again, her expression shifting gradually from confusion to astonishment.

She hurried forward a few more steps and crouched down to feel around once more.

This time her hands found something long and oval-shaped — smooth at one end, rough and scarred at the other.

She sat down heavily on the ground, sat in a daze for a moment, and then suddenly laughed out loud.

A winter melon. A head of cabbage.

She thought she knew where she was now.

Three days later, on a dusty, sandy little road to the southwest of Quecheng, an ox cart creaked along.

The sun blazed overhead. The cart’s roof was covered with only half a tattered cloth, which if pulled to the left left the right side exposed, and if pulled to the right left the left side uncovered.

Beneath the tattered cloth sat two people side by side, one in gray and one in white.

When the wheel hit a bump and rolled over a mound of earth, another cloud of dust mixed with the smell of dried cow dung rose up. The white clothing was so thoroughly coated in dirt and ash that it was almost indistinguishable from the gray.

Yikong took off his conical hat, shook the dust from its brim, and put it back on his head.

“How many more days?”

Hao Bai’s face was expressionless. He had wrapped a cloth over his nose and mouth all the way to below his chin, and his whole person sat motionless as a mountain, giving off an air of do-not-approach.

“Don’t know.”

The young monk seemed entirely incapable of reading the person beside him and spoke with unconcealed surprise.

“But you’re from Wancheng — how can you not know how long it takes to get home?”

Hao Bai finally moved.

He blinked and felt grains of sand and dust raining down from his lashes, then tore the cloth from his nose and mouth and flung it onto the ox’s rear end.

“I only know how many days it takes by horse or by carriage — how am I supposed to know how long it takes by ox cart?!”

The young monk produced a palm-leaf fan from somewhere and fanned himself with leisurely contentment.

“The weather is dry and hot. Patron Hao should learn to cultivate a calm and tranquil mind.”

“We’ve been on the road three days already, and you haven’t produced a single copper coin. I only have thirty wen left — are you planning to beg our way through the rest of these hundred li?!”

Yikong’s fan continued steadily. His other hand went up to shade his eyes as he gazed into the distance.

“Patron Hao, please don’t put it so harshly. It’s called seeking alms.”

“Seeking alms?! From yesterday until now, what have you actually managed to gather? If I hadn’t brought a few sesame cakes before we set off, we’d have starved to death before even making it out of Chizhou—”

Hao Bai’s relentless stream of complaints drifted out across the scorched, empty wilderness, and even the crows sheltering in the shade of the old walnut tree couldn’t be bothered to pay him any attention.

The air shimmered and warped from the heat, until even the dirt road seemed to curve and bend. A large poplar tree in the distance cast a patch of shadow across the road, which at a quick glance looked as though it split the road in two.

Yikong narrowed his eyes, and catching sight of something, he rose and patted the old yellow ox on its rump. The cart creaked and swayed its way toward the tree.

This short stretch of road still took about the time it would to burn half a stick of incense. By the time they drew close enough to see clearly, the two of them could make out two carriages stopped in the shade of the tree — newly lacquered roofs, bright patches of light from between the leaves dappling their surfaces.

Yikong’s eyes seemed to catch the same light. He brushed the dust from his robe and looked at the irritable physician beside him with great cheer.

“Here come our travel funds.”

Hao Bai’s complaints came to an abrupt halt.

He had been having a particularly unlucky streak lately. In the few times he had ventured far from home, he had either nearly had his head cut off in a brush with death, or been tricked into a stronghold to treat a female bandit’s leg. He had once tried to do a good deed rescuing a horse on the roadside only to be locked up and made to serve as a laborer for several months.

The alarm bells in his heart rang loudly. Unease made his voice come out differently than usual.

“Travel funds from where? Someone you know?”

Yikong said nothing, only smiled faintly.

The calmer he was, the more nervous Hao Bai became.

“What’s there to smile about?! I’m telling you — you’re a monk who’s barely left the mountains and has seen very little of the world. When you’re out traveling the roads, the worst thing you can do is stop your cart at random. This is exactly how mountain bandits rob travelers. If we really ran into some, do you think you could hold your own for even two or three rounds?”

“Mountain bandits?” Yikong’s tone remained unhurried, though his hands were urging the ox along at a fine pace. “Is there anything on either of us that a bandit would want to steal?”

Hao Bai was briefly at a loss for words, but the humiliations of past experiences were vivid in his memory, and he quickly conjured an even more alarming scenario.

“They don’t only rob people of their belongings — they also seize men and drag them back to their strongholds for the female chieftains to use for sport and entertainment. Don’t think that being a monk means they’ll let you off—”

While he was speaking, the ox cart had drawn even closer to the poplar tree. The carriages beneath it — and the young scholar in a pale hat standing before them — were now visible in full detail.

A scholar? Surely a bandit raiding party wouldn’t bring a scholar along?

Hao Bai’s heart, which had leapt up to his throat, settled back down slightly.

The ox cart stopped in the shade of the poplar, facing the two carriages.

For an instant the air was still — then a loud, rolling snore drifted out from inside one of the carriages, rose and fell, and faded back into silence.

Hao Bai stared in baffled suspicion. The scholar standing beside the carriage, red with embarrassment, turned toward the window and coughed deliberately.

“Teacher, our guests have arrived.”

A dull thud came from inside the carriage. After quite a long interval, someone pulled open the carriage window.

Hao Bai looked at the face behind that window and stared in utter disbelief.

Yikong, for his part, had evidently already known what — or who — he would find.

After all, over the years, countless carriages had made their way up to his mountain. He always had a rather good memory for which households offered more generous incense donations.

“Has the Chancellor been well of late?”

“Quite well.” Bai Zhaoyu smiled. Behind the carriage curtain, his beard quivered three times. “It’s only that I have been sleeping lightly and dreaming often at night, unable to rest properly. I was meaning to go to the temple again to ask for some of that sleep-calming incense, but I was told that the Reverend had already come down from the mountain. That is why I have been waiting here.”

“The incense is gone, but I do happen to have a talisman. If the Chancellor does not find it too humble, please accept it.”

With that, Yikong drew from within his kasaya a thin, flat slip of paper.

Bai Zhaoyu nodded, and the young scholar standing beside the carriage respectfully received the slip from Yikong’s hand and passed it to his teacher.

The paper was now in his hands, but Bai Zhaoyu did not open it right away.

“As the saying goes, in troubled times, no news is good news. Reverend, might I ask — does this talisman bring peace, or does it bring misfortune?”

Yikong was quiet for a moment, and for an instant the smile on his face faded.

“This monk once made a vow to his master but has been slow to fulfill it. Now that the time has come to complete that task, certain realizations have come to me — whether they are joyful or sorrowful, fortunate or ill-omened, I could not say. However, if the Chancellor has been sleeping poorly, perhaps he might read this after he has slept his fill.”

After sleeping his fill? He hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in the past month or so.

The old Chancellor cursed silently, said no more, turned to retrieve a small box from the carriage, and instructed the young scholar to hand it to the young monk.

“The Reverend and Master Qu undertake this long journey and must have endured a great deal of hardship. His Majesty once instructed this old servant that should he encounter those setting out on a long road, he must offer whatever assistance he could. This box and the carriage over there are a small token of goodwill. May both of you have a smooth journey and may all go well.”

Yikong accepted the box graciously. The moment it was in his hands he could already tell by the weight how many taels of silver had been packed inside, and his smile grew all the broader.

“This monk extends his gratitude to His Majesty for his care, and to the Chancellor for seeing us off. The road is long — we shall be on our way now. May the Chancellor sleep peacefully each and every night.”

With that, Yikong nimbly leapt down from the ox cart and, dragging Hao Bai and the luggage along, quickly climbed up into the empty carriage.

Before leaving, he thought of something and leaned half his body back out.

“Ah, one more thing.”

The young scholar looked up. Bai Zhaoyu also reopened his carriage window.

“What is it?”

Yikong courteously pointed to one side.

“The ox and cart are one of the three sacred treasures of our temple. This monk would be most grateful if the Chancellor could see that it is returned.”

Without waiting for any response, Yikong flicked the reins and drove the horse carriage away at a brisk pace.

The horses, freshly fed, were swift on their feet, and in the blink of an eye only a trail of dust was left behind. The young scholar watched the carriage disappear, then looked back at the ox cart before him, and a flicker of indignation crossed his face.

“Teacher, why is it that people are always borrowing the manor’s carriages? And after borrowing them, they never return them — isn’t that a bit shameless—”

“How dare you!” Bai Zhaoyu scolded with a huff. “That person is not someone you are in any position to speak of.”

The young scholar fell silent, disgruntled, and went to take the reins of the grass-chewing yellow ox.

“Though, you’re not entirely wrong either.” Bai Zhaoyu composed himself and ran his fingers over the talisman Yikong had left behind. “Next time we really ought to get something in return — including the cost of that sleep-calming incense—”

He stopped himself abruptly, then forcefully pulled the carriage window shut.

“Ptui, ptui, ptui! There won’t be a next time!”