“Alright, I’m done playing.”

He smiled pleasantly. Wei Yushan was having none of it and immediately called after him: “Don’t be like that — just win one more goal. I know they’re no match for you.”

“Then say something nice to me first.” Pei Zhao teased him again.

Wei Yushan’s face instantly flushed crimson. He clenched his fists and still refused to speak. Pei Zhao provoked him further: “Fine. Then today’s loss is on you. The Northern Garrison’s pride is yours to throw away.”

Wei Yushan was boxed in by him with nowhere to go, and nearly driven to his wit’s end on the field. It was Cui Jingyu who finally couldn’t bear to watch and said: “Stop playing around. Finish the game quickly — we still have to patrol the camp tonight.”

“Everyone’s already left. What’s there to patrol?” Pei Zhao rested the mallet across his shoulders, still wearing that nonchalant air of his. Yet as he passed Yuan Xiu, he gave him a smile.

Yuan Xiu predictably took the bait and chased after him, asking: “General Pei, which family are you from? How is it I’ve never seen you in the capital?”

“Does one have to be from some distinguished family to play polo?” Pei Zhao was smiling, but not a trace of that smile reached his eyes.

Yuan Xiu was thoroughly spoiled and couldn’t read the room at all, continuing on obliviously: “Well of course — take General Cui, for instance. Though he rose through the military, he still has a distinguished lineage. General Pei plays polo this well — there’s no way he’s of common birth. Why not just tell me? I’ll find out sooner or later anyway.”

No one knew which remark of his had set Pei Zhao off, but what followed was Pei Zhao toying with Yuan Xiu and his gang of young nobles until they spun in circles across the field. Each time a perfect scoring opportunity arose, he deliberately held back. Alone, he led several nobles on a wild chase across the entire field. Though they all swarmed to box him in, he always found a gap and slipped free — then stopped to smile and ask Yuan Xiu: “How is it that Master Yuan comes from such a fine family, yet can’t even ride a horse properly?”

The way he played, even ladies who knew nothing about polo could see his mastery. A youth as strikingly handsome as a deity was rare enough — but to possess such skill on top of it was something else entirely. There he was, riding a steppe horse in a wild gallop across the field, playing his opponents like puppets, utterly dashing and free. Had it been Cui Jingyu’s style — direct, decisive, winning cleanly — that would have been one thing. But Pei Zhao had the nature of a cat: he loved to torment. One moment he was weaving and darting ahead like a butterfly threading through flowers, his movements so beautiful they were beyond description, drawing gasps from the ladies watching in the gallery above. It was like watching a tightrope walker — breathtaking, nerve-wracking — the onlookers could not help but tense up and worry for him. Yet every time it seemed he was about to be cut off, he escaped with some utterly unexpected trick, and how could that not set hearts racing?

That was only the half of it. When his pursuers grew angry and gave up chasing, he would deliberately provoke them again — even stopping entirely. The more furious Yuan Xiu and the others became, the more it threw into relief his smiling, fox-like expression. It turned out that handsome men came in many varieties: a man like Cui Jingyu grew more striking the colder and more composed he was, while this one grew more captivating the more he moved. Whatever expression crossed his face — a smile, a narrowed gaze, or a deliberate taunt — it all carried its own effortless, roguish charm. Especially when he leaned sideways out of the saddle, his entire body lean and supple as bamboo in the wind, yet nimble as an ape. His blue robe billowed in the breeze like a cloud bearing him aloft, and all of this was accomplished on the back of a galloping horse — one could only marvel at the strength in his core. It was more captivating than any performance.

Every lady in the gallery was transfixed. Even Lu Wanyang recited a verse aloud: “The barbarian youth encountered at every roadside turn, with a face of singular and charming grace. He begged apricot seeds to share among his sisters, and shot through willow leaves with one arrow’s wind.”

It was a poem that didn’t quite fit the occasion — Pei Zhao was certainly not the barbarian youth described as handsome as the Murong clan, and what he was doing now was polo, not mounted archery. But that unbridled, free-spirited quality of his, especially the way he seemed so casually at ease yet so utterly masterful — as though he were not competing to win or lose at all, but merely playing at something he happened to encounter — was just as magnetic as the youth in the poem.

They said the Flower Festival Banquets were for securing advantageous marriages, for wedding into noble families and royal houses. But what girl didn’t secretly dream of marrying a young man like this — following him to spring outings on Leyou Plain, to summer afternoons by lotus ponds, to autumn pilgrimages up mountain temples, standing beside him on a hillside bathed in the fading evening light, stealing glances at his handsome profile, thinking that a youth this beautiful was not wasted at all.

By now the polo match had reached a point where the outcome was all but clear. Official Chen stepped forward with a smile to advise the Prince of Rui: “Perhaps we should let Master Yuan come off the field? It would be a shame to sour the mood — both sides shaking hands and calling it a draw would be perfectly fine…”

“Who says? I haven’t even played yet.” A voice spoke up from beside the Prince of Rui.

Official Chen looked more carefully and was momentarily puzzled. He was thoroughly acquainted with all the noble sons of the capital — even Yuan Xiu, who spent most of his time within the palace walls, he could identify on sight. But this youth in a crimson brocade robe in the Hu style was entirely unknown to him.

Quite fine-looking, and carrying himself with equal distinction — skin white as snow, hair black as ink, a pair of phoenix eyes, and an air of nobility through and through. He suspected he was a member of the imperial clan who had come out with the Prince of Rui, and was just about to offer a polite greeting when the youth had already vaulted onto his horse. The horse, too, was exceptional — a solid date-red color, standing a full head taller even than Yuan Xiu’s blood-sweating steed.

The youth rode into the field without many words, only turning to Yuan Xiu and saying: “Send someone off. I’ll deal with him.”

Yuan Xiu was seething at that moment and instinctively wanted to flare up — but when he saw this youth, he swallowed his anger and simply pointed at Old Yuan, saying: “You, get off.”

The youth rode onto the field, and while the ladies in the gallery had been carefully schooled in proper conduct over the years, those acquainted with the outstanding noble sons of the capital had a running mental count — and this one they had never seen before. Yet somehow he seemed vaguely familiar, and they were all whispering to their mothers or the matrons who had accompanied them, asking about his background, only to find that even their elders did not know. Lu Wanyang, however, was quick — she seemed to have recognized him, and a look of faint hesitation crossed her face.

Qinglan noticed this, and her heart sank. This is bad.

Out on the field, the youth had already entered the game. Without delay, he went straight for Pei Zhao. Pei Zhao, who was still being swarmed by several opponents, happened to catch sight of him, and immediately laughed: “The little shorty’s here.”

Shen Biwei’s temper ignited at once. She and Pei Zhao had been at odds from the very first moment they laid eyes on each other — and if one were to trace it back, it was really all because of Ye Lingbo. Each of them felt the other had stolen Lingbo away. Especially since she had just learned that Pei Zhao had given the peregrine falcon to Ye Lingbo — she had scolded him for it, calling him reckless, but she was privately stung as well. Where on earth would she find another gift as remarkable as that to give Lingbo?

In truth, she was judging others by herself. Only someone like her and Pei Zhao — people who had nothing better to do — would treasure a troublesome creature like a peregrine falcon. As Ye Lingbo herself had put it: If you went and claimed a reward from the authorities for it and brought me the money, now that would be a proper gift.

But she and Pei Zhao were two tigers who could not share the same mountain, and the sight of each other made their eyes go red. He insulted her, so she immediately insulted him back: “You penniless border soldier — still dreaming of pursuing her? Get yourself as far away from me as possible.”

Those words struck General Pei right where it hurt. She had no idea the two of them were currently in a state of having completely fallen out. Pei Zhao heard it and, if anything, smiled wider — those who knew him well knew this meant he was truly furious.

“Then I won’t be holding back.” He only smiled and said those words to Shen Biwei.

“Funny — like I need you to hold back?” Shen Biwei only gave a cold laugh, swung her mallet — and actually intercepted his polo ball cleanly, then charged ahead at full speed straight toward the Northern Garrison’s goal.

Cui Jingyu, with his sharp eyes and long acquaintance — he had known Shen Biwei’s character for four years, since back when she was always in Lingbo’s company, practically like his own little sister — saw her flare with genuine fury as she charged toward him, and rather than blocking her, he lifted his long mallet and stepped to the side.

He was twenty-four, not eighteen. He wasn’t about to squabble over a petty rivalry like this.

But there were eighteen-year-olds on the field perfectly willing to. Wei Yushan saw him yield and cried out in dismay: “Brother Cui!” — and immediately rushed over to cover the defense. Yuan Xiu was not to be outdone, charging over as well; the two of them locked into a tangle, jabbing at each other with their mallets, both beginning to lose their tempers for real.

While they were heating up on their end, Pei Zhao was fighting at full force on his. Before Shen Biwei could reach the goal, he hooked the ball from behind, intercepting it cleanly and carrying it back to midfield. He had said he would not hold back, and he meant it — he didn’t treat Shen Biwei as a girl at all. She chased him, and he simply shoved her mallet aside. Luckily Shen Biwei had superb horsemanship and did not fall — she swayed in the saddle, then steadied herself.

“Can’t even keep your seat? And you’re playing polo?” Pei Zhao asked her with a smile.

Shen Biwei had never been subjected to this sort of treatment. Her martial skill was not merely impressive among the noble sons of the capital — she was capable enough to serve as a commander in the Northern Garrison. Yet she had run into a freak of nature like Pei Zhao, and could only grit her teeth and chase.

Their contest drove all the way to the goal on Yuan Xiu’s side. True to his terrible character, Pei Zhao arrived at the goal and still did not score — instead he went back to toying with Shen Biwei, passing the ball to bait her. But Shen Biwei was far more formidable than Yuan Xiu and his lot; her style of play was ferocious. She came at him with her long mallet like a spear, and the two mallets caught. She twisted her mallet sharply in an attempt to disarm him — if Pei Zhao hadn’t reacted fast enough and jerked his head aside, the blow would have landed squarely on his face.

“Hoh — the little shorty fights dirty.” Pei Zhao deserved every bit of what he got.

“Oh? Afraid I’ll knock your fox-spirit mask right off?” Shen Biwei only cursed him. “If you’re going to score, then score. Stop putting on a show. Picking the flower is the only thing that counts.”

Pei Zhao said no more. He swung his mallet in a single clean strike, scored the goal, and urged his horse straight toward the bamboo pole.

Shen Biwei immediately followed. She had learned from the Duke of Yongguo through and through — she appeared rough and bold on the surface, but there was precision beneath the brashness. As she herself put it: the old man is full of tricks. She had also recognized that her polo was no match for Pei Zhao’s. Though she played freely and instinctively, she was a woman after all, with no one to practice polo against her, and her technique had its limits. So she abandoned polo altogether and instead competed on pure martial skill — luring Pei Zhao in to pick the flower, then teaching him a thorough lesson.

The two of them charged straight toward the bamboo pole, a fierce clash imminent, when a maidservant’s voice rang out from the gallery above: “Second Young Miss Ye — ten taels of silver, betting General Pei cannot take the flower — let peace prevail.”

Both of them paused. They both understood — Ye Lingbo had seen through the two of them settling a personal score, and spoken up to rein them in and make them shake hands and make peace.

But these two were hardly the sort to listen. For matters of real importance, they could never be bothered to strive. Yet at a moment like this, over a flower ball, they were willing to bash each other’s heads in.

Sure enough, Shen Biwei burst out laughing first: “Look at this — Lingbo bet gold for Cui Jingyu, and only silver for you. You ought to know exactly where you stand.”

General Pei was not the sort to ever sneer — yet this moment was the exception, and he sneered.

“And what about you, little shorty? Where do you stand?”

“I’ll finish you off today and go drink with Lingbo tonight,” Shen Biwei asked him calmly in return. “And you?”

Before her last word had faded, she struck — her mallet swung like a spear, driving straight toward Pei Zhao’s face. It was the old man’s finest technique: in war, all stratagems are fair, and a surprise attack is the supreme principle of the battlefield — it aimed to catch the opponent completely off guard. But Pei Zhao had come off a real battlefield himself and feared nothing of the sort. He twisted to the side and evaded it. Seeing Shen Biwei fight this ruthlessly, he no longer bothered showing any restraint — he swung his mallet back in a counter, swift as a dragon, and it was clearly also a spear technique.

In theatrical performances of generals at war, battles always unfold over a dozen exchanges with elaborate choreography all across the stage. In a real fight, it was nothing like that — it was over in an instant. Shen Biwei twisted her mallet, thrusting toward Pei Zhao’s face; Pei Zhao tilted his body, half hanging sideways off the horse, and from that suspended, footless position his hands still swept out the shadow of a spear strike. It seemed Shen Biwei was about to be swept across the waist — so she slapped the saddle with her palm, launched herself into the air like a hawk, and dropped toward the ground, while the mallet in her hand shifted from a thrust to a sweep, lashing toward Pei Zhao’s throat.

Pei Zhao’s spear momentum was spent. No one could imagine how he would get out of this — not even Shen Biwei knew how he dodged the blow. All they saw was him twist at the waist, hoist the eight-foot-long mallet onto his back, in a move strongly reminiscent of the sword technique called “Su Qin Bears the Sword” — yet also distinctly different from it. “Su Qin Bears the Sword” raises the blade overhead and brings it down behind the shoulder to catch a blow with the flat; his technique of carrying the mallet on the back was more like the opening stance of a spear form. In many spear forms, the opening posture is to hold the spear down at the side with the tip pointing to the ground, most of the shaft concealed behind the back — so that when it swings into action, it catches the opponent completely off guard.

Pei Zhao’s move worked exactly this way — he used the carried mallet to block Shen Biwei’s strike, then immediately reversed his grip, landing a light, glancing blow on her shoulder, sending her flying.

Even in a moment like this, he still had the composure to hold back. Lingbo’s ten-tael bet had probably helped restrain him — the blow was feather-light. Shen Biwei, with her excellent martial skill, used the momentum to spring backward, landing lightly on the ground. She did not pursue the matter further, tucking the long mallet behind her — a gesture of ceasefire, declaring the end of the contest.

It sounds complicated, but it was over in the space of a lightning flash. In the eyes of the ladies in the gallery above, and indeed the spectators on the ground below, it amounted to nothing more than these two clashing near the bamboo pole, mallets making brief contact, Pei Zhao pushing Shen Biwei off her horse, and Shen Biwei flipping nimbly to the ground. Only a master of Cui Jingyu’s caliber could have perceived the full depth of the exchange.

For this flower-picking, Pei Zhao dispensed with the horse entirely — he simply flung his long mallet skyward. Though it was wooden, it struck the silk cleanly and the silk snapped apart, the flower ball falling without the slightest deviation straight into his arms. His spear technique truly was extraordinary. When Shen Biwei was small, she had heard the old lame groom at the Duke’s estate tell a story: how the young Duke of Yongguo, encountering the old Khan of the Northern Rong on patrol with a guard of over a thousand men, had dared to charge in and attempt an assassination. Surrounded on all sides, he had taken aim at the old Khan who was fleeing under the cover of his retainers — and hurled his long spear like a javelin, skewering the old Khan clean through. Though he himself had nearly died in that ambush, he had been enfeoffed as a marquis upon his return for what he had accomplished.

But Shen Biwei could not recall when the old man had taken on a student like this.

“You lost,” Pei Zhao announced coldly from his horse.

Shen Biwei, on the contrary, laughed.

“Did I?”

Pei Zhao’s blow had sent her tumbling, and even the cord binding her hair had come loose, leaving it slightly disheveled. But she stood in the fading light of dusk, lazily raised the long mallet in her hand, and reproduced the move without a single error — precisely the move Pei Zhao had just performed on horseback, carrying the mallet on his back.

“Once I go home tonight and demonstrate this move to my old man, your origins, little fox-spirit, will be as clear as day. Fooling people will be a good deal harder after that.” She smiled and put the question back to Pei Zhao: “At that point, let’s see who really lost.”

In war, all stratagems are fair — that was the real skill the old man had taught her since childhood.

Life in the capital was tedious, and for a woman, the sky was an especially cramped one. Twenty-four banquets of the Flower Festival Season, and it all amounted to nothing more than waiting to be auctioned off. It was only when Pei Zhao suddenly burst into her territory — and dared to entangle himself with her Ye Lingbo — that this year’s entertainment had truly begun for her. She had always been the finest of hunters, possessed of patience, and when she found the prey she had in mind, she could track it through dense forest for a full day and night without the slightest fatigue, until she put an arrow clean through its skull.

Once she stripped the skin from this fox-spirit and presented it to Ye Lingbo as a plaything, then he’d know how formidable she was.

Yet Pei Zhao seemed completely unruffled, and only turned to look back at the View Pavilion from his horse.

“There’s nothing remarkable about my origins. As for yours — everyone is about to find out.”

In fact, even as the two of them were locked in combat with all eyes riveted on them, Qinglan had already quietly moved to the balcony railing.

No one could have guessed who she would choose to address at a moment like this.

“Wanyang.” The one she appealed to was, of all people, Lu Wanyang. “You are a person who has read the words of the sages. Do not lose yourself.”