“Why are you still sitting there in a daze?” Zheng Yun turned to look at Ling’ai, who was staring absently at the flames. “Not tired?”

Ling’ai wanted to say — how could she possibly be tired with him sitting right beside her? She was wide awake, without even a trace of drowsiness.

“Are you tired?” she asked in return.

“What do you think?” Zheng Yun replied.

Ling’ai looked up — and met those deep, dark eyes of his directly. Heat flooded her face at once, and she quickly ducked her head back down.

“Go to sleep.”

Ling’ai murmured an affirmation, then slowly lay down on her side. But just as she had settled, Zheng Yun called out to her.

“Wait a moment.” He lay down before her, then stretched out one arm. “Rest your head on my arm.”

Ling’ai stared at him, wide-eyed, clearly taken aback.

“You’re not used to sleeping in places like this. Without a pillow, you’ll never get any rest. If you lie on my arm, it’ll be more comfortable.”

Before Ling’ai could react, Zheng Yun had already drawn her firmly against his chest, and her head settled securely into the crook of his arm.

By instinct she moved to sit up, but Zheng Yun held her down firmly. She could manage little more than a glare — she couldn’t budge at all.

“Sleep,” Zheng Yun said, closing his eyes. “Don’t fidget.”

Ling’ai rested her head on his arm, but sleep was entirely out of the question.

He was so close. His breath was warm at her ear, and the scent that was distinctly his drifted around her in soft, winding tendrils.

Yet the man beside her was utterly still, not making a sound. The rise and fall of his chest was deep and even, and she almost thought he had already fallen asleep.

She had heard him speak of his past — of the times when a case kept them on watch near a suspect’s territory for days and nights on end, snatching only brief, fitful dozes, never daring to sleep soundly. Such experiences had trained him to adapt to any harsh conditions.

“Zheng Yun.” Ling’ai called softly.

His voice came at once from above her head. “I’m here. What is it?”

“When did you go to Shun Cheng? And why did you go to Shun Cheng?”

Unable to sleep, Ling’ai decided she might as well dig into his past.

Zheng Yun opened his eyes, and his voice was steady and calm. “When I was fourteen, I followed my eldest brother into town to sell peaches. The town happened to be recruiting soldiers at the time — the only requirement was knowing some martial arts. I slipped away from my brother in secret and went to try out. In the end, I knocked everyone else flat.”

“Fourteen? You were still just a child.”

Zheng Yun nodded. “There was a fairly skilled man in that unit who refused to accept the outcome and challenged me to a one-on-one fight.”

“And what happened?”

“I took him down in one move.” Zheng Yun thought back to those days, and the memories felt vivid as yesterday. “The unit I’d enlisted with at that time was the Marshal’s own.”

“Did your family agree to let you enlist?”

“Not at first. My father and mother had already laid out the whole future for me — they wanted me to find a wife in the village, settle here for the rest of my life, and tend peach trees and sell peaches just like them. But I had no love for tending peach trees. I loved martial arts, and I wanted to see more of the world. Out there, there would surely be many skilled fighters I could learn from.”

“Did you sneak away?”

Zheng Yun gave a small smile. “When I got home, I told my father. Father was alright about it. But Mother refused — after all, I was the youngest, and parents are softer on the youngest. Mother wanted to keep me close. Father didn’t dare go against Mother’s wishes, so he stayed silent. My eldest and second brothers both supported me, but their word didn’t carry much weight.”

“And then?”

“The company commander personally came to Taohua Village to find me. He spent an entire day earnestly persuading Mother of all the benefits of military life — and in the end, he finally won her over. Then I left with him.”

“And how did you end up in the Military Police Bureau?”

“I spent several years in his unit, seeking out skilled fighters to learn from wherever I could find them. Eventually there was no one in the whole regiment who could match me. At that point, he introduced me to a great master and sent me to train under him. The master lived deep in the mountains, and when I went to find him out there, I met Seventh Brother.”

“Was the Young Marshal also training under this master?”

“He only went occasionally — he was far too busy to go often.”

Ling’ai marveled: “He only went occasionally, and still achieved what he has now. He truly is a genius.”

“Seventh Brother’s greatest skill is his steel-bead technique — he can send a single steel bead through a wooden board from a hundred paces away. The master taught him that.” Zheng Yun thought back to the first time he and Shi Ting had met, and a smile rose in his eyes. “The two of us sparred, and we fought to a draw. That young man left a very deep impression on me. After that I stayed on with the master and studied intensively. I crossed paths with Seventh Brother several more times during those years. Then, two years later, he came to find me out of the blue. He told me he’d established the Military Police Bureau and was looking to bring together exceptional talent — and I was the first person he’d thought of. I was young and full of fire back then, and I agreed without a second thought, even though I didn’t know the first thing about solving crimes.”

Zheng Yun had a wonderful voice. Listening to him speak was like listening to a storyteller — before you knew it, you were drawn in completely, and the scenes he described seemed to take shape before your eyes.

“I followed Seventh Brother to the Military Police Bureau and started learning from the ground up. Over the years with him, I’ve learned more than I can count. And he is the person I admire most. He’s not much older than me, yet he has a depth of mind and a shrewdness of character that I simply don’t have. He sees far ahead, plans carefully, and he seems to possess some kind of magnetism — something that makes everyone who follows him willing to give everything, body and soul.”

Ling’ai had also heard Yan Qing speak of it — Shi Ting had this ability to draw the people around him together and forge them into something as swift and sharp as a blade.

“After that, you know the rest.” Zheng Yun tilted his head to look down, catching only the black crown of her head and the upturned tip of her nose.

“Would someone like you be considered a credit to your family?”

Zheng Yun smiled. “What I’ve done — only my family knows about it. And they keep a low profile. They don’t care for spreading things around. So as far as the villagers are concerned, all they know is that the Zheng family’s third son went off to serve as a soldier in Shun Cheng. What exactly he does there — they have no idea.”

“Little Third.” Ling’ai heard him say it, and couldn’t help laughing out loud. “They all call you Little Third?”

Zheng Yun rubbed the side of his nose, a little sheepish. “It’s an easy name to remember. The villagers got used to it and couldn’t change the habit. Even now, every time I come back, they still call out ‘Little Third.'”

As he spoke, he ruffled her hair gently. “Done with all your questions? If you are, then go to sleep.”

“Don’t you have anything you want to ask me?”

“No,” Zheng Yun said.

She was just about to speak again when he cut her off. “Ling’ai — none of that matters to me. What I care about is only the person you are right now. To me, you’re still the same bright, warm-hearted young woman you’ve always been. That has never changed.”

Ling’ai’s nose prickled as she heard those words, but she didn’t want him to see. She could only press the tears quietly back.

“All right. Sleep now.” His hand gave her back a gentle pat.

Ling’ai obediently closed her eyes. Perhaps it was the warmth of his breathing so close to her ear, or the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat — but somehow, on this rough, messy straw mat, in this narrow little mountain cave, she fell asleep quite quickly.

When she woke again, sunlight was already filtering in through the cave entrance. The fire was still burning — he must have gotten up several times in the night to add wood — and she had slept through all of it without knowing.

While she was still half-dazed, a soft laugh came from above her. “Seems I underestimated your ability to adapt.”

Ling’ai sat up quickly, and realized she was still resting on his arm.

“Is your arm numb?” She felt a pang of guilt.

“It’s alright.” Zheng Yun sat up too, massaging his arm as he spoke. “I added wood to the fire several times in the night, thinking it would wake you — but you were sleeping more soundly than anything.”

“What are you implying?” Ling’ai looked up at him. “Were you about to compare me to some kind of animal?”

Zheng Yun laughed, held out his hands in a gesture of innocence, and leaned back slightly as if bracing for a strike. “I didn’t say anything.”

Ling’ai scooped up a handful of dry straw and flung it at him. “You’re terrible.”

She got up and went to the entrance of the cave to look outside. Yesterday’s dense fog had cleared entirely, without a trace. Sunlight filtered down through the treetops, falling gently across the forest floor, and the calls of various birds rose and fell together, weaving themselves into a clear, bright morning symphony.

Ling’ai breathed in a deep lungful of mountain air. The natural fragrance of earth and plants was intoxicating.

“Zheng Yun.” When Ling’ai turned around, he was already standing right behind her. She pivoted and nearly walked straight into his chest. “Look — the fog has cleared.”

“Indeed. Let’s head down.”

Ling’ai hadn’t forgotten the medicinal herbs she had gathered the day before — the ones that had nearly cost her her life.

Zheng Yun took the basket from her hands and slung it over his own back, then took hold of her hand in one fluid, natural motion.

Ling’ai looked down at the hand holding hers, considered it for a moment, and did not pull away.

In truth, she had already made up her mind the night before: as long as he was happy, as long as he didn’t mind, she would face whatever difficulties lay ahead alongside him, no matter what they were.

If worse came to worst, they could always leave it all behind and start fresh elsewhere.

With Zheng Yun there, finding the way down the mountain was far simpler. By the time they reached the village, Dr. Sun and Zheng Shu Cheng were already standing at the village entrance, scanning the path.

“They’re back, they’re back!” Dr. Sun cried excitedly, pointing ahead. “Little Third and Miss Ling are back!”

Zheng Shu Cheng’s face broke into a smile, and he waved at them.

The moment she saw people, Ling’ai quickly slipped her hand free from Zheng Yun’s. Even in a city, it was considered improper for an unmarried man and woman to hold hands in public — it was quite simply scandalous behavior.

Seeing Ling’ai put some distance between them, Zheng Yun said nothing. He simply deliberately slowed his pace so she wouldn’t fall behind.

“Thank goodness you’re both back — I was beside myself with worry.” Dr. Sun patted his chest in relief. “This is entirely my fault. I never should have let Miss Ling go up the mountain alone. It’s a lucky thing Little Third came back when he did — nobody knows those trails better than him.”

Ling’ai heard his words and couldn’t help glancing at Zheng Yun. He was right — even though Zheng Yun had long since grown up, the villagers still preferred to call him Little Third.