Duan Xu laughed out loud, shaking his head. Finally, finding a comfortable position leaning against the bed curtain, he said, “Revenge? What revenge would I take? My master treated me well, like cherishing a fine weapon. Although I didn’t want to be a weapon, it wasn’t to the point where I hated him.”

“Master was from Huqi nobility and couldn’t tolerate any stupidity. In his eyes, stupid Huqi people were trash, and stupid people of other ethnicities didn’t deserve to live. That’s why Tianzhixiao only selected those with good aptitude, regardless of ethnicity, but after entering Tianzhixiao, we all had to become children of the Azure God, swearing lifelong devotion to Him. When I was wandering the streets, his sedan chair had already passed by, yet he specifically turned back to pick me out from among the beggars and take me to the palace—probably because he valued my natural talent.”

“Living in Tianzhixiao… was much more comfortable than when I was wandering the streets. At least I didn’t have to worry about food or clothing, and some priests would recite the Azure Scripture to us. We had to memorize everything about the Azure God. I had a photographic memory since childhood. Before going to Danzhi, although I couldn’t understand the Four Books and Five Classics, I could recite most of them. Naturally, I could recite the Azure Scripture backwards and forwards.”

“So Master favored me somewhat. With over a hundred disciples in each cohort, he didn’t have time to teach everyone personally and only appeared during examinations. In seven years, he probably couldn’t even recognize everyone. But occasionally he would come to test me individually and even gave me his military books to study, discussing military strategy with me. I heard Master had no sons—perhaps he treated me as half a son.”

The bright morning light fell on Duan Xu’s face. He looked somewhat lazy and described Tianzhixiao in a relaxed tone, as if it were just an interesting experience, even with some sentimentality.

He Simu leisurely drank her tea and said, “What a touching father-son relationship. Yet you still had the heart to blind him and escape.”

“We had fundamental differences, though I never mentioned them, and he didn’t know.” Duan Xu was silent for a moment, then simply shook his head and smiled. “No one should presume they can change another person.”

“So what exactly do you want by getting involved in this war?” He Simu asked.

Duan Xu looked up at He Simu, blinking innocently and with confusion: “I’ve told you, many times—I want to reclaim the seventeen provinces north of the border rivers.”

He Simu’s brows dangerously furrowed, and instantly the dimly lit room took on an atmosphere of an impending storm.

Duan Xu had excellent perception and immediately raised his finger to his forehead, saying earnestly, “I just said I would tell the truth. I swear everything I’m saying is sincere.”

He Simu sneered, not buying it: “When you entered Tianzhixiao, you probably also swore lifelong loyalty to the Azure God, didn’t you?”

“I never saw the Azure God, did I? Swearing to something whose existence I can’t confirm naturally doesn’t count. But I have seen Your Highness, so my oath to you is genuine.”

Duan Xu’s tone was quite righteous.

But he knew such an answer was hardly convincing to He Simu. Duan Xu paused, then continued: “The first few months in Tianzhixiao were pleasant, except for having to pretend to believe in a god I didn’t believe in; everything else was fine. After several months, we began our true training.”

“Or rather, we began killing people.”

The smile in Duan Xu’s eyes faded. His fingers tapped idly on his knee as his gaze drifted far away.

“Seven and eight-year-old children holding swords… rows of low-status Han civilians who had committed offenses were tied up and kneeling before us, and we would go through them row by row, killing them. At first, we were all afraid. Some cried and made a fuss, unable to bring themselves to do it. Later, the children who made the biggest fuss were killed in front of us, and the remaining ones who cried were punished. Those who killed too slowly were also punished. After that, no one made a fuss anymore.”

“Eventually, everyone got used to it.” Duan Xu’s fingers withdrew, and those fingers still bearing blue-purple bruises pointed to his chest as he said slowly, “Me too.”

“At first, I also felt afraid, but gradually I came to see it all as natural. Later, when I killed people, I felt nothing in my heart. Killing and killing until I even thought—how tiring, my arms are sore, why haven’t I finished killing yet? If only they would all just die at once.”

The narrative about Tianzhixiao finally sheds its relaxed exterior here, revealing its true and cruel outline.

The morning light poured in at an angle, partially blocked by the bed curtain. Light and shadow divided at Duan Xu’s nose bridge, his eyes in the darkness, while the exposed skin from his jaw to his upper body was starkly pale in the sunlight.

Just like the impression he gave people—half in light, half in shadow, ambiguous and unclear.

“Soon we disciples of the same cohort began drawing lots for duels. The results of various assessments determined the quality of our weapons in these duels. In each duel between two people, one must die. Back then, we didn’t feel anything was wrong with it, as if putting all our effort into killing those around us was the most normal thing in the world. Winning a duel meant getting one step closer to the Azure God. These duels continued round after round until the Mingshi test in the seventh year.”

“This went on for about two years. Then one day during training, as usual, I went to kill a low-status civilian who had committed an offense. Generally, their hands and feet were bound, and their mouths were gagged so they couldn’t make a sound. But that day, someone’s mouth wasn’t gagged properly. When I walked in front of him, the cloth covering his mouth fell off.”

“He looked at me, anxious and uneasy. The sunlight that day was beautiful, pouring from the sky into the execution courtyard, with dust particles floating in the rays. He seemed resigned to his fate and tremblingly said to me—’ Sir… the weather is so nice today… please be gentle when you do it.'”

In the morning light, the corner of Duan Xu’s lips turned up slightly, as if recalling that person’s incoherent situation. He said languidly, “At that moment, I raised my eyes to look at the sky. The sunlight was intense, the leaves rustling in the wind—it truly was nice weather. It was as if I had awakened from a long nightmare, trembling with fear all over. I thought: what am I doing? Why do I have to kill this person? Why does this person have to die by my hand? All these people we’ve killed—did they commit crimes? Why… why had I never realized these questions before?”

“This was a person, a person living in this world just like me. He also appreciated nice weather, yet I only complained about my arms getting tired from killing him.”

Duan Xu took a gentle breath and smiled faintly: “In that instant, I suddenly realized I was turning into a monster. Even if I didn’t end up dying at the hands of my cohort, what meaning would there be in surviving as a monster?”

The place he was in was full of malice and filth. He was being trained to lose his brain and heart, to lose his thinking and conscience—becoming a monster, becoming a weapon. Just one more step forward and he would be beyond redemption.

He suddenly awoke at the edge of the cliff.

He Simu was silent for a moment, then said, “So what happened to that person who spoke with you?”

Duan Xu’s face showed no turmoil; he even smiled without much happiness.

“I still killed him. The instructors were standing right behind me. If I didn’t kill him, I would die. After him, eighty-three more people died at my hands like this. Later, I began carrying out missions, working for the Danzhi royal court. The more I understood, the more blood debts I accumulated.”

When awake, fear clung to him like maggots to the bone.

He discovered he was living in hell, yet surrounded by people who thought they were in heaven, unable to escape.

The absurdity was that only he believed it was hell.

For a time, he felt he was going mad. If all these ideals and principles that Tianzhixiao had instilled in him were false, how could he be certain that the Four Books and Five Classics he had read as a child were true? What kind of world was he living in? What was true and what was false? What principles should he follow?

Just over ten years old, he didn’t know what he would become. He knew he was changing, beginning to enjoy killing, craving violence, and despising life. But he didn’t know how to become human again.

Those poems and articles he had once memorized, those phrases he had recited without understanding their meaning, now emerged from the depths of his memory, tearing at the violence Tianzhixiao had cultivated in him.

In this tearing, he painfully pieced together what he believed the world should be like.

Breaking his twisted bones, cutting away the rotten flesh, yet still having to pretend to be hunched and deformed. Pretending to be colder, more fanatical, and more devout than anyone else—this was the only way to deceive his master and fellow disciples.

He tied up the beast within him, telling himself again and again: stay awake, stay awake, you cannot become a monster.

One day you will return to the sunlight, reclaim your name, and live as a proper human being.

Seven years like this, two thousand five hundred and fifty-six days and nights.

“When I left Tianzhixiao, I swore that one day I would reclaim the seventeen provinces and end all this absurdity on the northern bank.”

He Simu put down her teacup. Sitting at Duan Xu’s bedside, she ran her hand over those old scars of varying depths on his body, then looked up at him.

This young man’s eyes showed a calm and composed tranquility. The bottomless cold pond suddenly caught light, revealing a glimpse of its deep bottom.

He Simu thought, perhaps he wanted to untie the ropes binding those Han people’s hands, remove the cloth stuffed in their mouths, and let them stand upright in the sunlight. Perhaps he wanted to ensure that in the future, no one would be slaughtered like livestock again.

Perhaps he also wished that there would never again be people like him, like Fifteen, who almost lost themselves in lies and killing.

His rescue of the lost seventeen provinces was like trying to save Seventeen from Tianzhixiao years ago.

Time passes like a glimpse of a white colt through a crack, yet it has been like struggling to stay afloat in water.

There was little pity in He Simu’s eyes, only calmness: “So have you succeeded? You’re not a weapon now—are you human?”

Duan Xu’s eyelashes trembled, and his usually confident narrative rarely showed a trace of uncertainty. He smiled and said, “I should be human. Just… not quite normal.”

He Simu stared into his eyes. She suddenly smiled and patted his cheek, neither too gently nor too roughly. Duan Xu let out a hiss as she touched the wound on his face, then heard He Simu say: “You’ve treated yourself like an object to be hammered and patched together as you grew up. All these years, in such unbearable mire, yet somehow you didn’t grow crooked.”

Duan Xu was taken aback and laughed softly: “Is that so…”

“What is normal, what is abnormal? Young general, little fox, my curse-bound person—live well, go through your life in this world, fulfill your wishes, and then die without regrets. That is the most normal life.”

Duan Xu was silent for a moment. He moved closer to He Simu, leaning out from the shadow of the bed curtain, letting the sunlight fall into his eyes.

Perhaps the sunlight was too bright; his eyes narrowed slightly, covered with a thin layer of moisture.

He said softly: “Are you comforting me?”

“No, I’m not trying to comfort you, nor do I pity you. Young general, I’ve seen many tragic life stories in the ghost register—yours isn’t much. So you can believe that I’m telling the truth.” He Simu’s expression was calm and firm.

Duan Xu looked at He Simu for a while. For a moment, he seemed to see behind her the long years, like a great river drowning out his suffering. He suddenly smiled, his eyes curving, brilliant as a sea of stars.

He reached out to hold her sleeve, shaking it gently as if asking for mercy as he always did, and said, “Thank you, Simu.”

He Simu temporarily ignored his cloying gesture and raised an eyebrow, repeating, “Simu?”

“Your Highness, may I call you Simu?”

“I’m nearly four hundred years older than you. I advise you to think carefully before speaking.”

“I like…” Duan Xu’s words stopped.

He Simu asked, “Like what?”

He smiled beautifully, looking like a bright-eyed, white-toothed youth.

“I like your name. I make a wish to you, exchanging one use of the five senses—please allow me to call you Simu.”