The next morning, Xuanyuan Lige personally drove the carriage to escort Ziqing away, bringing not a single soldier with him, heading straight for the already-conquered southern city gate.

They had traveled less than half a li when Xuanyuan Zhaoxi came racing up with a squad of elite troops, blocking the carriage’s path.

The moment the horses stopped, Xuanyuan Zhaoxi demanded furiously, “Xuanyuan Lige, are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Xuanyuan Lige paid her no mind at all, turning the horses to go around her. Xuanyuan Zhaoxi immediately leapt down from her own mount, throwing her arms out to block his path, demanding, “Xuanyuan Lige, our scouts report that Jun Beiyue has left ten thousand troops stationed at the southern gate — don’t tell me you don’t know about this?”

“That’s none of your concern. Move aside,” Xuanyuan Lige said flatly, paying his younger sister no mind at all. He understood perfectly well why she’d come chasing after him.

What she cared about was hardly his life or death.

What she cared about was the military authority still in his hands — the tiger tally, the troops still under his command. Eastern Qin’s northern frontier held a legion no one dared underestimate — an army of zither-warriors, using zither-based combat techniques as their weapon, guarding Eastern Qin against the incursions of the northern nomads.

If he died, who exactly would inherit command of that legion, stationed for years in the frozen northern reaches?

“Mother’s orders — you’re to return to the capital and recover. The southern frontier’s forces are all being transferred to me!” Xuanyuan Zhaoxi declared, producing an imperial decree with one hand. “Someone, escort His Highness back!”

Inside the carriage, Ziqing listened silently to the commotion outside. At the word “transferred,” she finally caught the unmistakable scent of a power grab, and couldn’t help but smile privately to herself. So much for the bond of siblinghood — apparently it wasn’t about supporting one another in times of hardship, but rather about kicking someone while they were down.

Xuanyuan Zhaoxi’s plan to meet Jun Beiyue at the gorge had clearly been an ambush all along — with a hostage in hand, why would she ever willingly let Jun Beiyue off easy?

Clearly, this overconfident woman was still hoping for another round of fighting.

Xuanyuan Lige’s actions, though, puzzled Ziqing just as much. This man, riding out alone like this — was he genuinely walking straight into his own death?

Jun Beiyue was absolutely not the type to let a defeated enemy escape unpunished.

The moment the decree was produced, guards immediately surged forward. Ziqing was just about to lift the carriage curtain when Xuanyuan Lige’s cold, almost lifeless voice cut through the air outside. “The tiger tally for the cavalry is right here. What does an imperial decree matter against that? A general in the field need not always obey the sovereign’s command.”

At once, every guard froze in place. Even Xuanyuan Zhaoxi stood stunned — not shaken by the tiger tally in Xuanyuan Lige’s hand, but by the sheer weight of his words.

Who exactly was Xuanyuan Lige?

Xuanyuan Lige wasn’t merely Eastern Qin’s crown prince — he was a warrior and assassin personally trained and cultivated by the Empress herself.

Every male heir of Eastern Qin’s royal house died before the age of ten. The Empress had spent an entire decade, pouring the full resources of the royal house into preserving his life for thirty years.

For no other reason than this: he alone possessed the gift for zither-based combat.

In his brief life, his entire purpose had been distilled into just two words: “obedience” and “sacrifice.”

Absolute obedience to the Empress. Absolute sacrifice for the restoration of Great Qin.

And today, he had openly, brazenly defied an imperial decree.

As everyone stood frozen in astonishment, Xuanyuan Lige’s cold, detached eyes betrayed nothing but sheer impatience. With a sharp “Hyah!” he shot forward through the crowd at a full gallop.

As they raced ahead, Ziqing couldn’t help but speak up. “Young Master Xuanyuan, your sister isn’t wrong. You’re riding straight to your death.”

“The victor becomes king, the defeated becomes an outlaw. Death is only fitting.”

Ziqing finally couldn’t help but lift the carriage curtain to look at him directly. Did this man ever show any emotion at all?

That a statement like that could be delivered so utterly without feeling — he was as indifferent to others’ contempt as he was to his own. But she had never once been the type to gamble carelessly with her own life.

“Xuanyuan Lige, it’s just one lost battle. This war you spent ten years preparing for — so what if it failed? Even if it takes you another ten years to rise again, so what? Giving up entirely after a single defeat, abandoning yourself to despair — that’s what真正 makes someone a failure!” Ziqing said coldly.

Yet Xuanyuan Lige said flatly, “If I don’t die, Eastern Qin will lose half its territory.”

Hearing this, Ziqing finally understood.

Jun Beiyue’s temperament wasn’t something Xuanyuan Zhaoxi could hope to match. If Xuanyuan Zhaoxi caused any further trouble, Eastern Qin would surely suffer for it. Xuanyuan Lige was offering himself — riding out without a single soldier, as a gesture of pure sincerity — using his own life to buy Eastern Qin some measure of safety. And Jun Beiyue’s explicit demand for him personally made his true intentions unmistakably clear.

Both fell silent. The carriage raced faster and faster, and soon Ziqing could see, far in the distance, the gleaming silver-white glow of the southern city gate.

At that moment, flying high above the southern gate, whipped by the wind, wasn’t Eastern Qin’s banner, nor Great Zhou’s — but a single, powerfully rendered character: “Yao” — Prince Yao.

From a distance, the entire gate, inside and out, gleamed with silver light — the reflected brilliance of Jun Beiyue’s White Tiger Army’s silver-white battle armor.

And amid all that gleaming silver, one solitary streak of black stood out atop the towering gate, impossible to miss.

It had been barely a month since she’d last seen him, and yet Ziqing suddenly felt as though years had passed.

He had come in person. Jun Beiyue.

“Xuanyuan Lige, take me this far and that’s enough. I’ll help you — I guarantee Jun Beiyue will withdraw his troops.”

Ziqing spoke earnestly, not entirely sure herself why she’d made such an impulsive offer. But watching this silent, unreadable man beside her, only one thought filled her mind: what a waste it would be.

The moment she finished speaking, the carriage jolted to an abrupt stop, nearly throwing Ziqing forward. Xuanyuan Lige turned to look at her. “You?”

“What, don’t you believe me? You believe Jun Beiyue would fly into a rage over a woman — but you don’t believe this ‘woman’ could actually bring ruin to an enemy?” Ziqing teased.

“Why?” Xuanyuan Lige asked, clearly caught off guard.

“You gave me a gentleman’s promise — you protected my hands. Shouldn’t that promise also cover making sure I actually finish learning ‘Parting Sorrow’? I’m slow — I can’t teach myself. If you die before I’ve mastered it, who would I turn to when I hit something I don’t understand?” Ziqing asked earnestly.

Xuanyuan Lige froze, saying nothing for a long moment.

Ziqing simply felt a bit embarrassed — was saving him really so hard to believe? They’d never truly been enemies. If circumstances were different, perhaps they might even have become friends who shared a love of music.

“What, don’t want to honor your promise? Or you just don’t trust me?” Ziqing pressed, raising an eyebrow. At this, Xuanyuan Lige finally broke into laughter. “Han Ziqing. I started learning the zither at six years old, and after fourteen full years, I still haven’t finished mastering ‘Parting Sorrow.’ How many years do you think you’ll need?”

“I don’t know. As long as I haven’t finished learning it, I’ll keep coming back to you. We’re about the same age — learn from me and value your own life a bit more. Ten years, twenty, thirty — however long it takes, I’ll keep studying under you,” Ziqing said, perfectly serious.

Xuanyuan Lige said nothing, but he smiled.

Ziqing found herself staring, faintly captivated — even a man this cold and detached could smile so brilliantly. Perhaps it was that very moment of distraction that made her, usually so perceptive, miss the flicker of quiet regret that passed through Xuanyuan Lige’s eyes.

Han Ziqing, oh Han Ziqing. Why, in this one life, did fate have to bring me face to face with you, of all people?

Ten years — could you really finish learning “Parting Sorrow” in that time?

“All right,” he finally said.

Ziqing lit up with delight, leaping down from the carriage at once. Just as she was about to walk off, she turned back. “Xuanyuan Lige. Are we friends?”

“Outside of matters of state, yes — we are,” Xuanyuan Lige answered.

“Understood!” Ziqing gave a light wave and walked off without a backward glance.

At that moment, atop the southern gate, Jun Beiyue watched every bit of it with perfect clarity, his deep, pool-black eyes fixed unwaveringly on Ziqing, utterly unreadable.

“My lord, Xuanyuan Lige is about to flee. Should we pursue?” the White Tiger General asked quietly.