Everyone packed up their shelters, shouldered their equipment, and mounted horses to follow. Soul-Confusing Valley was thick with blizzard snow, like breaking through wall after wall of snow.

“When morning roosters first crow, when evening crows compete in noise, who doesn’t go into the world’s chaos? The road is long, the water far, all fame lies on Chang’an’s path. Today’s youth, tomorrow’s old. The mountains remain beautiful, but people grow haggard.”

This “Hillside Sheep: Lamenting the World” was a famous work by Yuan Dynasty poet Chen Cao’an, simple and easy to understand, almost everyone could sing it. Its popularity was like the later “The Most Dazzling Folk Style”—”The boundless horizon is my love.”

When “Bowl-Cut” began singing, a hundred men joined in, their voices adding even more desolation to the blizzard.

Mu Chun deliberately tried to liven the atmosphere, spurring his horse to follow closely behind “Bowl-Cut,” shouting loudly: “I also know a ‘Hillside Sheep’ song. Do you want to hear it?”

Everyone said: “No!”

Mu Chun was just being polite in asking—he hadn’t actually consulted everyone’s opinion and sang:

“Cloud-like hair in a spiral bun, warm mandarin duck quilt, hiding in spring chambers for a heartbroken spring sleep. Willow catkins fly, little Qiong Ji, with one cry of ‘Snow brings auspicious signs,’ the reunion dream is awakened. Who doesn’t make it beautiful? Bah! It’s you!”

This “Hillside Sheep: Boudoir Thoughts” was also extremely popular among the people, with a circulation like the later “Sweet Honey.” It told of a young woman longing for her husband who had an indescribable spring dream, only to be awakened by a little maid’s cry of “It’s snowing,” leading to a disappointed “bah, it’s you!”

This must be a maid from the south.

Mu Chun sang while performing, posturing on horseback, his “Bah, it’s you” spoken with such reluctant expression that it was extremely vivid—even spitting out saliva droplets, more feminine than women, causing everyone to burst into laughter and join the singing.

Thus, in the blizzard, a chorus of “bahs” arose, adding human warmth to the atmosphere and inexplicably making things feel warmer.

Seeing the troops’ morale lifted, Mu Chun sang with increasing enthusiasm, getting more and more ribald.

“Coming at dusk’s pale yellow hour, being with my lord until the second watch deep. Whip-soft flesh and fat, clinging body accompanying you. Rolling back and forth, letting my lord fulfill his desires. Elder sister says: My dear lord wielding a pole in rushing water shows true skill, while little servant girl becomes a wild ferry with no one—boat crosses by itself.”

In the blizzard, boos arose everywhere. Though the Yingyang Guard’s pampered military second-generation and the bandits from Jiangxi’s Guaishi Ridge and Xi’an’s Eighteen Strongholds weren’t devils, they weren’t decent people either. They were all stirred up by Mu Chun’s provocation, thinking of their lovers or wives, their minds wandering, with several nearly falling from horseback.

Decadent music!

The eleven-man unit Mu Ying had sent were ashamed and indignant, wishing they could saw off their young master’s mouth. Even the singing girls of Qinhuai River weren’t as lewd as their young master!

Seeing the army’s morale greatly boosted and blood boiling hot enough to melt the blizzard, Mu Chun was very satisfied and was about to offer another song when the military physician quickly stopped him: “Lord Mu, you were born noble—don’t soil the Mu family’s reputation! Don’t ruin Marquis Xiping’s good name!”

You’ve completely disgraced the Xiping Marquis mansion!

Mu Chun snorted disdainfully. Originally he had wanted to sing something more subtle, but now that the military physician brought up his father and ordered him to shut up, he refused!

Not only that, he deliberately wanted to sing something explicit, thoroughly trampling his father Mu Ying’s reputation underfoot. This old lecher with a house full of wives and concubines, nearly forty years old and still taking a fourteen-year-old concubine—when he could do such things, what was wrong with him singing a pure song? Who was more filthy than whom?

At his most rebellious age, Mu Chun said: “I just dreamed about eating white rice dumplings from home. Let me sing everyone a ‘Dumpling Song.'”

The Yingyang Guard and bandits all said it was boring, too plain—if you’re going to eat, eat meat dumplings.

The eleven-man unit felt slightly relieved.

“Bowl-Cut” remained silent from beginning to end, as if deaf.

Mu Chun sang: “The fifth day of the fifth month is my birthday arrival, wearing a green silk jacket, little feet bound pointed and curved, untying the fragrant silk belt…”

The eleven-man unit shouted in unison: “Shut up! What kind of behavior is this! An insult to civility!”

Yet Mu Chun persisted in finishing the “Meat Dumpling Song”: “…nibbling all over my body.”

The eleven-man unit felt that even if they could bring their young master back to the capital in one piece, they would probably have to commit suicide in apology. The young master hadn’t lost his life, but he had completely lost the Mu family’s face, trampling it underfoot with horse hooves a hundred times over.

“Bowl-Cut” pulled his reins and said coldly: “We’ve already left Soul-Confusing Valley. Check your compasses.”

Mu Chun opened the box—the compass finally stopped spinning wildly.

Chen Xuan and others also opened their compasses and nodded, expressing their thanks.

“Bowl-Cut” didn’t take this rescue seriously, saying matter-of-factly: “Follow your compasses’ direction back to the city. I won’t escort you all the way—I need to return to the Yuan army camp promptly, or it will arouse their suspicion. Farewell.”

Mu Chun followed and asked: “Hero! What’s your name? I’ll definitely repay you well in the future.”

“Bowl-Cut” recalled the “lewd songs” this young general had just sung and didn’t have much confidence in his ability to survive the next Northern Expedition, so he said: “My identity must remain secret.”

A person about to die—what a waste of his time.

Mu Chun stuck to “Bowl-Cut” like dog-skin plaster, saying: “You can’t be a scout forever. When you return in the future and encounter any trouble, just go to the capital and mention my name—”

Mu Chun removed his sheepskin riding gloves and reached into his pants pocket for a token, fumbling around like catching lice, left and right, pulling out half a leftover walnut, five cold candied chestnuts, some broken silver pieces, toilet paper nearly squeezed to fragments… nothing presentable.

Mu Chun switched to searching his upper body, groping around. Just when “Bowl-Cut” thought this man who looked like he hadn’t bathed in a month would roll up a mud ball, he produced a fan case of gold thread brocade, drew out the fan inside, and solemnly handed over the case: “Take this fan case to the Xiping Marquis mansion—they’ll bring you to see me.”

“Bowl-Cut” didn’t accept it: “Such a precious item in my hands might expose my identity—no need. Besides, I’m alone now with no ties or attachments. I won’t have occasions requiring favors from others.”

Mu Chun was cruelly rejected again and felt somewhat embarrassed. He could only take back the fan case and put the fan inside. In the bitter cold, everyone wore gloves, but Mu Chun had removed his to search for the token. Now with both hands exposed to the blizzard, they quickly became stiff and clumsy. The fan case was tight, and after fumbling to insert it, his hand slipped and the fan fell.

“Bowl-Cut” was quick-eyed and fast-handed with sharp reflexes. He first extended his long leg, kicking the fan that was about to fall in the snow like kicking a shuttlecock, then accurately caught it and returned it to Mu Chun: “Be careful. Something carried close to your body should be very precious.”

Who knew Mu Chun showed no gratitude and even complained wildly to his benefactor: “Aiya! Even if you kick me, don’t kick my fan! Let me see if you broke it…”

Mu Chun breathed warm air onto his frozen hands, then snapped open the fan with a “pa.” The golden Chuan-gold fan spread in a semicircle—the surface appeared undamaged.

Mu Chun sighed in relief, gently blew away the hexagonal snowflakes that had fallen on the fan surface, carefully closed the fan, and put it in the case: “Good thing it’s not broken.”

Mu Chun’s full attention was on the fan. He didn’t notice that in the instant he opened the fan, his benefactor “Bowl-Cut”—whose expression hadn’t changed throughout all those Wu region love songs—underwent a dramatic transformation.

When his gaze collided with the inscription “Hu Shanwei,” it was like flint striking stone—sparks flew in all directions with a sharp sound.

However, it was only for that instant. The sparks died out, “Bowl-Cut” blinked, and immediately returned to normal. He calmly told Mu Chun: “That’s a nice fan. I like it very much.”

The implication being: give me the fan.

Mu Chun shook his head like a black whirlwind in the desert: “You can choose anything else, but not this or the longbow on my shoulder.”

“Bowl-Cut” didn’t insist, smiling in a gentlemanly way: “It must be a gift from someone very important.”

Mu Chun smiled vaguely, neither confirming nor denying. This was between him and Sister Shanwei—he didn’t want others to know.

Mu Chun patted his chest: “I’m called Mu Chun. If you consider me a brother, come find me in the capital when you have time.”

Mu Chun, eldest son of Marquis Xiping Mu Ying—every military household in the capital knew this. Marquis Xiping was this year’s Northern Expedition Marshal, who achieved great victory with seven days and nights of surprise attacks on Yuan forces. Who would have expected his eldest son to be so… uniquely extraordinary.

Everyone clasped hands to bid farewell to “Bowl-Cut” and followed Mu Chun. After running several steps, they heard their benefactor call from behind: “Whose matchlock gun?”

Everyone checked their equipment. Captain Shi discovered his gun holster was empty and quickly turned his horse back: “Sorry! It’s mine!”

Captain Shi went back for his gun while everyone continued spurring their horses forward.

“Bowl-Cut” stood in the snow holding the gun. Out of respect, Captain Shi dismounted to retrieve it.

“Bowl-Cut” seemingly casually asked Captain Shi: “Hearing Lord Mu sing those songs… has Lord Mu married and had children at such a young age?”

Remembering the decadent music, especially the dumpling-eating part, even Captain Shi, a bandit by origin, blushed for Mu Chun and quickly clarified:

“Our lord isn’t married yet. He sings those songs without malicious intent—just to boost morale and stimulate our will to survive. He often does this kind of ‘looking at plums to quench thirst’ thing. We’re used to it. Since you’re seeing it for the first time, it’s normal that you can’t accept it. Actually, Lord Mu has his good points, or we wouldn’t follow him into battle.”

“Bowl-Cut” made an “oh” sound: “So Lord Mu has a pure mind and innocent romance—I misunderstood him. Just now when I saw him open the fan to check it, he cherished it greatly. I thought it was from his wife.”

Seeing no one around, Captain Shi smiled: “To be honest, our Lord Mu is still a virgin who doesn’t even know where the door is. He just talks tough and pretends to be an old hand to keep the veteran soldiers in line.”

“Bowl-Cut” asked: “Then who gave him the fan? Why does Lord Mu care so much about it?”

Captain Shi shook his head: “Don’t know. The longbow on Lord Mu’s shoulder is a relic from his maternal grandfather. That fan is probably a relic left by his mother.”

Captain Shi took his matchlock gun and caught up with the main force.

“Bowl-Cut” stood in the blizzard, opening his compass to find the way back to camp. Here, far from Soul-Confusing Valley’s magnetic field chaos, the needle pointed steadily south. But his heart was in chaos, like a compass caught in a soul-confusing formation, swinging wildly:

Mu Chun’s mother was the legitimate eldest daughter of Duke Songguo Feng Guoyong, surnamed Feng. How could it be her?

At her age, she should have long since remarried, had children, and become a mother. Why did her name appear on Mu Chun’s fan? Was it just the same name, or the same person?

Could it be… she actually never remarried?

What was her relationship with Mu Chun?

In the snowy ground, the person remained. The heart was in turmoil.

“Bowl-Cut” spurred his horse back to the Yuan army camp. Here, he was a clerk in the Northern Yuan Privy Council.

The Privy Council was the Yuan Dynasty institution managing military secrets, national defense, and imperial guards. After years of careful management, subversion, and infiltration by the Ming, part of the Privy Council had become Ming informants.

After all, many people in Northern Yuan, especially officials, simply weren’t suited to returning to the barbaric nomadic lifestyle. They wanted to go back.

How numerous were such people? So many that when the Privy Council held meetings and someone said “there are traitors among us,” five out of ten would feel guilty.

“Bowl-Cut” wrote a secret letter inquiring about his fiancée Hu Shanwei’s current status from his superior, signing his real name at the bottom: Wang Ning.