That deep, resonant voice spread throughout the entire royal court, echoing through the dead of night as if afraid people might not hear it.

Heilian Zheng and Gu Nanyi both looked at Feng Zhiwei simultaneously. Feng Zhiwei sat with her face half-turned, gazing at the cluster of flowers outside the window—her expression was unclear.

The atmosphere in the room suddenly became somewhat awkward. Only Peony, who didn’t know the full story, frowned and stared wide-eyed in confusion. “Which Prince Chu? The one currently most powerful in the court? Weren’t the royal congratulatory gifts already sent in the capital? Why did he send them all this way again? And to…”

She suddenly stopped mid-sentence, glancing at Heilian Zheng’s expression. Heilian Zheng turned his face away and simply said, “Zhiwei, please take good care of Chamutou.” He then strode out with large steps. From a distance, they heard him loudly order, “Someone, escort Living Buddha Dama to rest.” Then he shouted, “Send the gifts directly to the Great Consort’s quarters in the rear palace.”

Listening, Peony muttered in a voice just loud enough for Feng Zhiwei to hear, “My Jigou’er truly has an excellent temperament…”

Feng Zhiwei smiled slightly and said, “I’ll take Chamutou with me. Peony, I must say—since you believe in Living Buddha Dama, you shouldn’t have so many children.”

“You think I want to?” Peony’s attention was successfully diverted, her neck stiffening. “I’ve been married to him for twenty-five years and only had eight children in total! The Khuzhuo tribe loves many children and grandchildren. Kuku wanted many children, but I didn’t dare tell him what Living Buddha Dama said. I secretly found contraceptive medicine from the Central Plains to drink. He thought I didn’t want to have children, so every so often he would secretly pour it out or replace my medicine. What with all this preventing and leaking, the medicine itself wasn’t very effective either. So every few months, another one would pop out.”

“The old king doesn’t know the children are your…”

“I only told him the first half of Living Buddha Dama’s prophecy. He thinks it was Zhadalan Ke who died.” Liu Mudan’s voice dropped. “I didn’t want him to resent Zhadalan, but I also didn’t want to hurt him…”

So she just kept hiding it from him until death, bearing all the suffering brought by that prophecy herself?

Feng Zhiwei looked at Liu Mudan, somewhat puzzled by how there could be a woman in this world who indulged her husband so much. As she thought this, she suddenly became a bit dazed, feeling that Old King Kuku was truly very blessed.

“You can go now. Don’t ramble on here.” Peony actually urged her on. “I don’t talk with people whose minds are unsettled.”

Feng Zhiwei smiled somewhat awkwardly and left. She handed Chamutou to a wet nurse in the royal court, then urged Gu Nanyi to sleep. Gu Nanyi looked at her seriously for a long moment and said, “Don’t cry.”

Feng Zhiwei remained silent, forcing a smile. “What’s there to cry about?”

“In your heart.” Gu Nanyi pointed to her heart.

Feng Zhiwei stood silently in the darkness. The grassland’s cold, hard wind blew over, yet the flower fragrance remained soft, mixed with the clean, duckweed-like scent of the man across from her—a warm and soothing presence.

After a long while, she smiled faintly.

Gu Nanyi suddenly reached out, stroking her hair. His movements somewhat stiff, he pulled her into an embrace and patted her back twice.

That gesture was exactly the same as when he coaxed Gu Zhixiao to sleep…

In his arms, Feng Zhiwei wanted to laugh, but suddenly felt her nose sting. This was their first embrace—nothing to do with romance, only care and concern… He finally understood. How wonderful.

Something flowed quietly through the air, gentle and melodious like a serenade.

After a long while, Feng Zhiwei gently pushed Gu Nanyi away. Looking up at his finely sculpted jawline, she said softly, “Nanyi, don’t worry. Crying is fine. Everyone has times when they need to cry. As long as you remember to smile again afterward, it doesn’t matter.”

Gu Nanyi gazed at her steadily, then suddenly said, “If I ever cry for someone, I will never smile again.”

Having said this, without waiting for Feng Zhiwei’s response, he turned and entered his room. The door clicked shut—the sound was small, yet it startled Feng Zhiwei.

Unknowingly, Gu Nanyi seemed to truly be gradually opening his world. This was the first time she had heard him speak such complete, clear words that fully expressed his own thoughts.

Yet the meaning within made her heart tremble.

She silently stepped back two paces, gazing at Gu Nanyi’s tightly closed door. After a long while, a sigh scattered into the peaceful spring night of the grassland.

From the front corridor to the doorway was seven steps. From the doorway to the front corridor was seven steps.

Feng Zhiwei used her own stride to measure that small distance before her door more than ten times.

All around was very quiet—not like the great clans of the Central Plains where people were always nearby ready to serve you. This quietness usually seemed pleasant, but at this moment felt somewhat uncomfortable.

The moonlight rose to the center of the courtyard. Feng Zhiwei looked up at the sky, sighed helplessly, and pushed open her door.

A specially designed gift basket sat quietly in the center of the room. The basket was moon-white, woven with pale gold and black borders. This style, at a glance, reminded one of a certain person.

Feng Zhiwei stood at the doorway, silent for a long time, then slowly walked over. She didn’t open it first but instead tried to pick up the basket.

When she tried to lift it, it didn’t budge. She looked down in surprise, only to discover the basket had actually been glued to the floor.

She raised an eyebrow—he actually had Chunyu Meng glue the basket to the floor? Just because it’s glued down doesn’t mean I can’t throw it away.

Using a bit more force, the basket lifted off the ground, but with a “snap,” a letter fell down.

It couldn’t really be called a letter—it was a piece of stiff paper card placed at the bottom of the basket, with just a few simple words written on it.

“Feng Hao’s birth date and time are inside. If you wish to know the hidden truth, please open.”

Feng Zhiwei stared at that paper card, her brow furrowing with a hint of helplessness.

Ning Yi—that man’s thoughts were truly meticulous beyond what ordinary people could match. He could always find your vulnerable spot and grasp it firmly, not letting you escape.

He had calculated that she might not want to open the gift at all and would discard it, so he glued down the basket. He calculated she would forcefully pull the basket, so he set up this mechanism. He further calculated that upon seeing these words, she would have to open the basket no matter what.

Feng Zhiwei crumpled the paper card and went to undo the basket’s outer seal. At the top was a small decorative knot—according to Imperial Capital custom, small trinkets like golden bells or jade buckles would be tied here. However, this particular trinket had such an unusual design that it made Feng Zhiwei’s eye twitch.

A small golden broom.

The broom was exquisitely crafted, delicate and lifelike—the kind of long-handled broom used for sweeping snow. Even the bamboo joints on the handle and the individual bamboo bristles of the brush portion were rendered distinctly.

A broom.

Their first meeting at the ice lake of the Qiu Mansion—she had been dragging a large broom to sweep snow and had used that very broom to send the Fifth Concubine, who had been secretly communicating with him, to death’s door.

Feng Zhiwei’s fingers gently caressed that broom… If she hadn’t harbored murderous intent back then, hadn’t killed the Fifth Concubine, would she have never met him? If she had never met him, would there have been none of the subsequent events?

No… fate had destined them to be opposed. They would have met eventually, circling around.

Her fingers pressed down forcefully, plucking off the golden broom and tossing it aside.

The basket had many layers, seemingly containing quite a few things, arranged layer by layer.

The first layer: a pot of wine.

The wine pot was made of crude pottery, very rough, without even a mark. The various wine houses in the Imperial Capital all had their own brewing workshops and would engrave their family seals on the wine pots. Only small taverns had none.

Ning Yi traveled thousands of miles to send such inferior wine?

Feng Zhiwei stared at that wine pot, feeling it looked somewhat familiar. She opened the wine pot and carefully sniffed the wine’s aroma.

The smell was sharp, absolutely not mellow. One could imagine it was very strong—the kind of cheap wine that laborers loved to drink in winter to warm their bodies.

Feng Zhiwei’s hand holding the wine pot trembled.

That night on the lonely bridge, sharing a pot of inferior wine from a small tavern, listening to tales of the Great Cheng dynasty’s legacy—his tone had been indifferent, filled with concerns, while her mind had been elsewhere, only thinking about the road ahead.

At the time, she thought they were just casual words, but looking back now, his every sentence had deep meaning. Even going to that bridge might have been intentional.

That winter night on the bridge with its light snow—unknowingly, it had already covered a thick stretch of the path ahead.

How difficult it must have been for him to actually find the small tavern that sold that wine.

Feng Zhiwei smiled faintly, grabbed the wine pot, and drank it all in one gulp.

The wine burned down her throat like a knife—fierce and hot—a line of fire dragon rushing into her lungs. With a whoosh, her five organs and six viscera seemed to burst into flames instantly.

She coughed violently, her face flushing completely red. She stared at the empty pot in amazement, unable to understand how she had drunk it so nonchalantly back then.

Such terrible wine—she remembered that despite his noble status, he had drunk it without even furrowing his brow. This man… never wanted to live authentically.

Feng Zhiwei wiped her lips, bringing the bit of wine on her fingertip to her lips. In that burning fieriness, she slowly recalled the taste from the past.

She had drunk much fine wine this past year. It turned out only this one pot was the true taste of life.

The second layer: a peculiarly shaped, exquisite small crossbow.

The crossbow didn’t seem to be of Central Plains manufacture. On both sides hung red tassels from snake-shaped decorations, and the crossbow bolts above were of varying lengths with a slightly reddish luster.

Feng Zhiwei didn’t recognize it at first glance. After examining it for quite a while, she vaguely felt those crossbow bolts looked familiar.

The night before the academy’s grand examination, drunk, she had accidentally stumbled into the rear courtyard, just in time to encounter Ning Yi emerging from the tunnel, preparing to move against the Crown Prince.

At that moment, his deep black cloak had been swept up by the night wind, flying backward before her eyes. In a flash of pale golden flowers, deep red crossbow bolts had aimed at her back.

She had rolled away in a狼狈 scramble. In her haste, she had glimpsed those crossbow bolts, slightly red like a hawk’s eye…

If that arrow had struck her back then, Mother and younger brother might not necessarily have died.

Feng Zhiwei gently stroked that small crossbow, her fingers tracing over and over the streamlined crossbow body and pale red short bolts.

“Crack, crack crack.”

Several low, crisp sounds in the quiet night.

On the felt mat, several slightly red short bolts fell silently, broken in half.

The third layer: a package of Golden Sand Crabapple Fruits.

On the day of the Qingming Academy’s grand examination, an assassin had used a specially made soft sword folded into a dish to present these Golden Sand Crabapples before the imperial throne.

When the sword light suddenly flashed, the vermillion crabapple fruits, accompanied by spurting blood, stained the ground a vivid, splattered red.

An elaborate ruse, a scheme within a scheme—he had gone to great lengths, not sparing even himself, determined to bring down the Crown Prince. He couldn’t tolerate her, a newly appointed National Scholar, peering into his secrets.

Behind the screen, his blood-stained fingers had rested on her neck. In his eyes, she had seen surging killing intent.

Yet ultimately, he had let go.

Feng Zhiwei trembled.

“Today you spare me. One day, I will also spare you once.”

Some words were said carelessly at the time, but when the moment came, one realized they were prophecies of fate.

The Golden Sand Crabapple fruit slowly dissolved between her teeth. This world-renowned tribute sweet fruit tasted bitter in her mouth.

Like the old events in this life—revolving, recurring, not daring to remember.

The fourth layer: a blue-green medicinal pill.

Drunk at the Wei Mansion, Princess Shaoning had given it to her, asking her to apply it to Ning Yi’s wrist pulse while taking his pulse when he was drunk. In the future, at the golden hall, Heilian Zheng would petition and accuse Ning Yi, ensuring he would lose favor with the Emperor and never rise again.

She had taken his pulse, made the sobering soup, but hadn’t applied the pill.

She didn’t believe that the ever-calculating Ning Yi would rashly become drunk in her residence, just as she didn’t believe Ning Yi would completely trust her.

Indeed, her choice had been correct.

Everything had been within his calculations, even that blue-green pill in Shaoning’s hand that could turn blood golden—he had possessed it.

Ning Yi.

Do you want to thank me for not acting back then?

Or are you telling me I can never escape your grasp?

The fifth layer: a piece of transparent crystal with irregular edges—clearly a fragment of something shattered.

At the exit of the tunnel in the Tiansheng Palace, a crystal beauty statue had confronted them, her brows and eyes graceful, her posture alluring.

Yet that person’s sword light had suddenly risen, shattering this rare treasure with one strike—only because it was someone’s permanent desecration of his most beloved woman.

In the abandoned palace during the rainstorm, their hearts laid bare. She had touched the scar on his chest, and also touched the scar in his heart.

Feng Zhiwei held that piece of crystal in her palm—it felt ice-cold to the touch, like her current mood.

Her heart ached slightly. Her fingers unconsciously pressed down with a bit more force, yet there was no imagined piercing pain or bleeding. When she lifted her hand, she discovered that the originally sharp edges of the crystal had actually all been carefully ground smooth.

Who had silently and soundlessly polished those sharp edges smooth in the quiet night? Fine crystal dust scattered on the desk like glittering tears.

Who, with meticulous care, had secretly ground down the sharp corners—only because they feared that in that moment, the beloved might be overwhelmed with emotion and harm herself?

One could polish crystal but not the cracks in a heart. That night had been so desolate.

The sixth layer: a golden-handled drumstick.

At the Honor Consort’s longevity banquet, Prince Heilian’s drumstick had struck the drum repeatedly as noble daughters from various families competed fiercely.

One flower-pinning banquet, several prize-winning poems. She had thrown her cup and splashed wine in the hall, seemingly admonishing Hua Gongmei, yet her eyes had been looking at him.

“Seeking perfect completeness, forgetting life-or-death struggles, appearing imposing and mighty on all sides, actually utterly senseless, completely forgetting familial affection, tormenting until the five organs fail, entangling until the four limbs are powerless, confounding until unable to eat three meals a day, ultimately ending in two lands looking at each other—better to cast aside this devoted heart!”

Ultimately ending in two lands looking at each other—better to cast aside this devoted heart.

Feng Zhiwei laughed softly.

Sometimes one had to admire one’s own foresight.

To glimpse the desolation of the far shore in the midst of present prosperity, to perceive early on the bleakness of fate.

She gently picked up the drumstick and raised her hand. The golden handle traced a brilliant gleam of light in the darkness.

“Dong.”

Unable to pierce the night’s heaviness—a muffled sound.

The seventh layer: crabapple sauce flatbread.

The crabapple sauce flatbread tucked in her bosom had blocked the treacherous Fifth Prince’s hidden blade.

“Who will you save?”

Some questions really didn’t need to be asked. The answer lay clearly before them. Rivers and mountains versus a beauty—which was lighter, which was heavier? Ning Yi was not the former dynasty’s Li Emperor who toppled his empire for a consort. She, Feng Zhiwei, was also not the legendary demon consort who vainly attempted to seize the world with her beauty alone.

That time was the first time she heard of the Golden Feather Guard. He had reminded her in such an indifferent tone.

“We who are subjects must all be more careful.”

“To live, one must naturally be doubly cautious.”

Feng Zhiwei—you were actually still quite dull, quite dull.

You could see the boundary between you clearly, the dividing line like the Chu River and Han border, yet you couldn’t see the painstaking arrangements right beside you.

Feng Zhiwei slowly picked up that crabapple sauce flatbread. The journey from the Imperial Capital to the northern frontier was long and distant—the flatbread had already become hard, so hard it hurt one’s teeth. She slowly gnawed at it, as if still back then, leaning against the corridor railing before the Imperial Study, eating flatbread.

Back then, the flatbread had been fragrant and soft, the smile relaxed and easy. For an instant, it felt like another lifetime.

She ate it bite by bite like that.

It had no taste.

The eighth layer: pine nuts.

“Let’s negotiate with our upstairs neighbor and share some food.”

The owner of that pine tree had retreated step by step under her silver tongue, having its entire winter store plundered by an evil guest.

“Human evil surpasses that of beasts. Animals rarely provoke you, betray you, trample you, or harm you without reason. But humans will.”

Just as when she was hungry, she emptied a squirrel’s winter provisions, naturally she would also encounter those who, for their own needs, would empty her of everything.

The way of the world cycles thus. The principle has always been so.

The ninth layer: dried fish.

Upon first arriving at Nanhai, the show of force had crashed down like waves. The dried fish thrown at the ship by commoners had been shared and eaten by him and her with remarkable understanding.

“His Highness will personally set out chopsticks. Lord Wei will personally cook. And we invite Lord Zhou to board the ship to tend the fire.”

In this life, you set out chopsticks while I cook—these are merely ordinary household chores for common families. When done by people of different status and position, it seemed destined to be sung as an extravagant swan song.

The tenth layer: pine kernel crisps and mint cakes.

Two very ordinary pastries—things she loved to eat. Compared to all the specially meaningful gifts before them, these seemed to lack any representative significance.

She frowned, pondering for a long time. Perhaps Ning Yi was just bringing along some southern foods she enjoyed?

A scene suddenly flashed in her mind: a man and woman leaning close together, his hand pressed firmly on her bare shoulder, her face pressed tightly against his exposed chest.

Behind the embracing couple on the table sat pastries prepared for her.

Some things might not be noticed at the time. Long afterward, when memory retraced its steps, one would discover in the flashback certain overlooked details from the past.

He had prepared pastries for her, waiting for her who was bound to be unsatisfied after the seafood feast. What he waited for instead was a dangerous misunderstanding.

“One day I will become a simple woman. But a simple woman is only suited to a simple man and a simple life. When that time comes, I hope for a small house, a few acres of good land, and also an appropriate simple person who will stand up for me when I’m humiliated, who will wield a blade against those who betray me, who will face the hearth fire with me and slowly coax me when I’m disappointed, who will scold me impatiently when I’m hurt and crying, then hold me and let me cry.”

Ha… Ning Yi, when these words were spoken, we both knew—never mind that you weren’t that simple man, even I couldn’t be that simple woman.

We laugh falsely all our lives. We have no right to cry.

Who can cast aside worldly attachments and forget a hundred years as an ordinary person?

The eleventh layer.

Feng Zhiwei had thought it would be that kind of box made from phoenix-tail wood. She hadn’t expected it to be a section of tree branch, somewhat withered, with scattered finger marks on it.

She examined it for a long time without recognizing it, and could only open the last layer.

The twelfth layer held a letter lying quietly.

Feng Zhiwei gazed at that letter. She had read many of his letters before—back then, in the refreshing sea breeze of Nanhai, she had read them full of joy.

Afterward, while clearing out sea pirates on the ocean, she had reread them countless times.

Letters from a thousand miles away required a tender, expectant heart to open properly, to read out life’s long, enduring bonds.

Times and scenery had changed, circumstances and people transformed. Now the letter remained, but the mood for reading it was gone.

“His Highness’s feelings for you cannot be said to be shallow. It’s just that no matter how deep, they cannot compare to this realm and empire. You must think clearly.”

The clever and perceptive Hua Qiong had, at her most uncontrolled and reckless moment, revealed the truth with one statement.

“I am someone who has died once. Therefore I want to try harder to live well, want to learn to cherish some rare sentiments in life, want to occasionally indulge myself and follow my heart.”

The consequence of giving the horse free rein was trampling through measured mountains and rivers.

Now, Ning Yi, what more do you have to say?

Explanations? Perhaps. Pleading? Impossible. All business, treating each other like strangers—most likely.

In the moonlight and shadow, Feng Zhiwei smiled faintly, then finally slowly picked up the letter and read it word by word.

At first, she showed an expression of “just as I expected,” but gradually her brow drew together.

“On the low tree outside the side hall are scattered finger marks—were they left by you? Did you take that tree for me? Taking it for me is fine, but why didn’t you wait until I arrived to personally tighten your fingers around my throat yourself?”

Turning her head, she saw the scattered finger marks on the withered branch.

That day of heavy snow, she had wandered in confusion for a long time outside the side hall. She remembered lingering under a tree. At that time, her spirit had been scattered, not knowing what she was doing—she no longer remembered what she had done to that tree.

How remarkable that he could actually find that tree, could make out those impressions that couldn’t really be identified as anything, and could even associate them with his own neck.

Feng Zhiwei smiled. That smile didn’t reach her eyes.

The truly lasting mark she left that day concerning him had been written in the vast snowy ground, covered layer by layer by heavy snow, then carried away bit by bit by footprints. Even if he were an immortal, he could never know.

True thoughts—never to be revealed.

Like melting snow without a trace.

The gift basket was now empty. Exquisitely crafted twelve layers, twelve ordinary objects, a journey’s worth of memories.

He was telling her he hadn’t forgotten, gaining in return her silent speechlessness in the midnight grassland wind.

My feelings—where have they been stored?

You ask me, yet I cannot give an answer. Perhaps in the hideous bullet hole at Mother’s temple. Perhaps in the wide-open eyes of Feng Hao in the side hall of Anping Palace. Perhaps in that lonely grove at the foot of Pine Mountain in the capital suburbs. Perhaps long ago transformed into the paper money that flew that day, martyred together with the snow.

The moonlight gradually brightened, tinged faintly with red. She sat on the floor, leaning against the window. Occasionally turning her head, she saw the dawn breaking at the horizon’s edge, already replaced by bright daylight.

Eleven gifts, one letter—unknowingly, an entire night had passed.

She gathered up those things scattered on the felt mat—except for what had already been eaten, she put everything back as it was.

She couldn’t help but smile—Ning Yi had tricked her again. He said Feng Hao’s birth date and time were inside—where?

In the pale daylight, her smile no longer held its usual gentle distance, but was real, slightly cool, covered with accumulated snow, plated with autumn frost.

Then she slowly covered her face, burying her head in the crook of her arm, curling her body into a ball—a posture of self-protection, refusing the outside world.

She didn’t know.

Outside the corridor, someone slept against the railing, hands pillowing his head, eyes wide open like colorful gemstones, watching the moonlight from east to west.

Next door, someone sat cross-legged, palms pressed tightly against the wall, toward the direction her back leaned against.

When day broke, except for the three who had been sleepless all night, everyone else was quite energetic.

Most energetic was Living Buddha Dama who had arrived last night. To say he “arrived” was false—the old fellow whose bones had all gone soft was actually wrapped in a cloth sack by people Heilian Zheng sent and carried over on horseback at high speed.

The old man had wanted to announce his presence as soon as he arrived last night, but was sent to his room to sleep by Heilian Zheng, who worried he was tired. No one was permitted to disturb the Living Buddha. Early this morning he got up and specifically summoned Heilian Zheng.

Hearing the commotion from the front hall direction, which seemed somewhat tumultuous, Feng Zhiwei opened her door and immediately saw Heilian Zheng sleeping in the corridor. She couldn’t help but pause in surprise.

Heilian Zheng rolled over and scrambled up, extending his hand toward her. “Come, let’s go see Dama Ala.”

His smile was open and honest, his extended hand full of tolerance. Yet in his eyes were fine bloodshot lines from not sleeping all night.

Feng Zhiwei looked at him and slowly placed her hand in the crook of his arm.

Before they even reached the front hall, they saw Peony energetically directing servants to arrange for guests. In front of a spacious hall, many felt mats had been laid on the ground. About a hundred people were already seated, making the front courtyard noisy and chaotic.

“Where did all these people come from?”

“They’re all your grandfathers, grandmothers, uncles, aunts, elder uncles, elder uncles’ wives, younger uncles, younger uncles’ wives…” Peony came over, rattling off endlessly.

“Where did all these relatives come from?” Heilian Zheng dismissed this. “From now on, they are all my subordinates, my subjects.”

“Zhadalan!” Someone rolled up his sleeves and shouted loudly, “Is that your Han woman? My god, she’s yellower than a dirt clod under grass roots!”

Laughter erupted from all sides. Those brothers who coveted the throne regardless of their power all laughed, slapping the ground, nearly rolling over with all four limbs in the air.

“That is your Great Consort!” Heilian Zheng’s violent shout shook all the courtyard’s clamor into momentary silence. “Anyone who doesn’t know the rules, get out immediately!”

Chunyu Meng led his guards and stood with a thunderous presence in the center of the crowd. The crisp sound of long blades clashing with iron armor rang out, their gazes more coldly sharp than those blade edges.

The noise around them quieted somewhat. Some people’s faces showed hostility.

“Zhadalan, do you want to use force before Dama Ala?” That man glared sideways at Heilian Zheng.

Heilian Zheng sneered coldly and immediately began rolling up his sleeves, but someone pulled him back.

“Zhadalan is a grassland person and cannot use force before the Living Buddha.” Feng Zhiwei smiled as she strolled over.

That man snorted coldly, not even deigning to glance at her.

“But the Great Consort and my subordinates are Han people and don’t necessarily need to follow certain rules.” Feng Zhiwei methodically adjusted her sleeves, tilting her head toward Chunyu Meng.

Chunyu Meng happily exclaimed “Hey!” and stepped forward, kicking over that person’s table with one foot.

“I’ve been looking at you with displeasure! If you’ve got guts, let’s fight!”

“Bah!” That person stood up defiantly.

The two began brawling. Chunyu Meng, who came from a military general family and had long been taught by famous martial arts masters, was naturally not comparable to these grassland men whose moves lacked method. Before long, he had forcefully pinned the man down, beating him thoroughly.

People around them showed angry expressions, ready to move. Feng Zhiwei said calmly, “Anyone who wants to gang up on us is welcome.”

In a gang fight, no one could beat her three thousand guards. Moreover, Chunyu Meng was winning handily in his one-on-one match. Everyone could only watch helplessly as that man groaned in muffled pain. Chunyu Meng grabbed a handful of yellow mud from under the grass roots and stuffed it in his mouth. “Damn it, look closely—is it yellow? Is it yellow?”

Peony stared at Chunyu Meng’s back with blazing eyes, drool flowing down to her feet. “How did I never notice before that this boy is so heroic and robust? Listen to how he asks that question—’is it yellow? is it yellow?’ Yellow!”

Feng Zhiwei glanced at her, thinking: Divine woman, why do you get so excited hearing the word “yellow”?

“See clearly now? Once you’ve seen clearly, you can get lost!” Chunyu Meng threw his hand out, hurling that fellow’s massive body several yards away. It crashed to the ground with a resounding thud.

Now the hundred-plus people finally quieted down.

“Who exactly is that man?” Feng Zhiwei looked at the man still struggling to climb out of the pit and asked.

“Kuercha’s eldest son, Jiade.” Peony whispered in Feng Zhiwei’s ear. “He’s refusing to hand over those twenty thousand military forces.”

“The Khuzhuo tribe’s royal army is different from the scattered civilian militias of other tribes.” Feng Zhiwei said. “In view of the Khuzhuo tribe’s support for the court, the royal army has its own separate organization, and the Yuzhou grain route is responsible for part of the provisions and supplies. He won’t hand them over? Very simple. I’ll write a letter right now and have Chunyu Meng deliver it to the Yuzhou grain route, saying that the grassland currently has sufficient grain stores. However, we’re expecting heavy snowfall this winter, and the grassland doesn’t have large-scale grain storage facilities, so we should temporarily store half in the Yuzhou granaries. Then… you know what to do.”

Peony’s face lit up with joy, but she hesitated. “I know—withhold the provisions for those twenty thousand troops. But after we get those twenty thousand troops back, what if we don’t have enough to eat?”

“Just ask for more.” Feng Zhiwei smiled lightly. “Chunyu Meng will be taking some of the dowry guards to the Yuzhou main camp. At that time, the Yinji tribe can casually send some people to assist the court’s forces. The Yuzhou side won’t withhold grain.”

“Wewei, my darling.” Peony emotionally grasped her hand. “Marrying you is truly my Jigou’er’s blessing…”

Feng Zhiwei smiled. Out of the corner of her eye, she suddenly caught a flash of white in the distance—it was Zong Chen summoning her.

After brushing off Liu Mudan with a few words, she followed Zong Chen to a corner. Zong Chen said, “I’ve investigated Kele. After leaving Binggu River, he went straight to Living Buddha Dama at Huyin Temple, then returned here ahead of you. After you returned, he’s been circling around the perimeter. Seeing our tight security, he hasn’t attempted to approach. This person is definitely suspicious. You should be careful.”

“He must be connected to Hongjile.” Feng Zhiwei said. “First, guard the Potala Second Palace well. I still need to deal with that old fellow and a bunch of relatives.”

Passing through the crowd, the second courtyard had gathered the tribal chiefs, who had all witnessed the earlier scene but pretended not to see it.

Ever since the Golden Alliance Conference, the chiefs all knew this woman was not to be trifled with. Those young men of the Yinji tribe who coveted the throne would soon see their dreams come to an end.

The chiefs had come early in the morning to pay respects to Dama, who rarely left his temple. The old fellow was one hundred and thirteen years old this year, the longest-lived person on the grassland. With his wisdom and guidance, he had led the tribespeople out of困境 many times and was highly respected and revered.

Heilian Zheng’s enthronement ceremony had to be presided over by Dama.

“Ala!” The chiefs prostrated themselves outside the door, respectfully paying their respects to the person inside.

“Where is Zhadalan! Zhadalan!” A wheezing voice came from inside, calling directly for Heilian Zheng.

Heilian Zheng, holding Feng Zhiwei’s hand, entered the room.

Living Buddha Dama sat on the felt mat facing the door. Though the day wasn’t too cold, three braziers heated the room. His body had already shrunk to the size of a child. Using a telescope someone had given him, he peered toward the door.

As soon as Feng Zhiwei entered, she saw the huge telescope pointed at her face and was startled.

“This woman—” Dama, having already seen the giant Feng Zhiwei through the telescope, suddenly roared, “Get out—”

Heilian Zheng froze.

The smiles on the chiefs’ faces solidified.

Peony, who was just about to enter with one foot on the threshold and one outside, forgot her next move.

In the complete silence, only Feng Zhiwei’s expression remained unchanged, hands clasped behind her back, standing with a slight cold smile. She asked, “Why?”

“You are a mother wolf lurking on the grassland, every hair tip carrying insoluble poison,” the withered Dama said hoarsely. “Behind you trail blood and war fire that will ultimately spread to the Khuzhuo tribe’s fertile grasslands. You are Zhadalan’s calamity and trap. Him holding your hand is like holding a walking skeleton.”

Throughout the courtyard came sounds of sharp intakes of breath. Living Buddha Dama had been calm all his life, making countless divinations and prophecies for people, but had never used such chilling language.

“Oh?” Feng Zhiwei still used that same tone, smiling. “I remember I’ve only just met you. How can you divine so clearly?”

Dama lifted his eyelids to glance at her, saying nothing.

Feng Zhiwei wouldn’t let it go, standing calmly before him, staring at this pile of old bones.

“You cannot become this Great Consort.” After a long while, Living Buddha Dama calmed down a bit. “I permit you to stay by Zhadalan’s side as his woman. This is the greatest grace I can grant you. Now, you may leave.”

“No!”

The one who spoke was not Feng Zhiwei, but the newly awakened Heilian Zheng.

“She is my Great Consort!” He stepped forward, not looking at anyone, his tone resolute as iron. “There will be no one else!”

“Zhadalan, you’re mad!” Dama sat bolt upright, his withered body seemingly filled with rage. “Do you want to die?”

“So what? What mother wolf? What skeleton? What calamity and trap? No one knows better than I what kind of person Zhiwei is. I’ve been hoping for her to be my Great Consort, like an eagle hoping to fly in the high heavens—Dama Ala, don’t speak of this matter again! How do you know you didn’t divine incorrectly?”

“My King!” This time the angry shouts came from the chiefs. Dama was the god of the grasslands—how dare Zhadalan question him?

“It’s just not becoming Great Consort,” someone thought Heilian Zheng was afraid of violating the imperial decree, earnestly advising him. “Previously, the Han women bestowed by the court have not all been made Great Consort. The grassland has its own rules. The court has always not interfered in such matters. Great King, you need not worry about this.”

“I’m not afraid of the court’s blame!” Heilian Zheng flung his hand out. “I’m saying exactly that—no one else, only her!”

“My King! Opposing Living Buddha Dama without cause means publicly receiving flogging with thorny switches!”

At this point, the arguing voices had already spread outside. Over a hundred grassland nobles crowded at the door. Hearing this statement, they immediately erupted in clamor. Someone shouted loudly, “Make this Han woman get lost!”

“Make her get lost!”

“The grassland won’t raise a malicious mother wolf!”

“Get lost!”

“Get lost, your grandmother!” Chunyu Meng jumped up and down outside the crowd, cursing loudly, directing the guards to beat people up. Feng Zhiwei calmly turned her head, pressed her hand down to signal Chunyu Meng to be patient. Her gaze swept over the crowd. Everyone who met her misty, water-like yet chillingly clear eyes shivered. The insults on their lips could no longer be spoken, though their eyes still filled with hostile hatred. They blocked the doorway, refusing to leave.

Heilian Zheng laughed coldly.

He suddenly strode toward Living Buddha Dama. The chiefs, thinking he meant to harm the Living Buddha, cried out in alarm and rushed forward.

“My King, you cannot—”

But Heilian Zheng grabbed a small lama behind Dama who was holding thorny switches. Those switches had been held behind the Living Buddha for years and years, yet no one had ever tasted their sting. The sacred Living Buddha—the grassland’s children bowed in worship. No one had ever thought of opposing him.

Heilian Zheng grasped the thorny switches in his hand. For an instant, his eyes showed some confusion. He too was a devout child under the Living Buddha’s seat. Before today, he had never thought of opposing the Living Buddha, who was like a grandfather to him. He had even hoped Dama would favor Feng Zhiwei as he had his mother, allowing the new generation’s Great Consort of the grassland to truly be accepted by the grassland, then come to love the grassland.

But things ultimately didn’t go as hoped.

That confused look lasted only an instant. Then he gripped the thorny switches tightly. Though called “switches,” they were actually the most resilient bull hide whips, wrapped with thorn-date branches covered in countless barbs. Just from that one grasp, Heilian Zheng’s palm had already split open, blood dripping drop by drop onto the ground.

He seemed oblivious, grabbing Blue Bear tribe chief Hutejia with one hand and heading outside. Hutejia followed in confusion. The surrounding people stupidly made way.

A shadow flashed—Feng Zhiwei blocked his path, saying calmly, “Go back. There’s no need to suffer physical pain for empty titles. Whether or not I’m Great Consort isn’t that important.”

Heilian Zheng pushed her aside with one hand, smiling. “I’ve never done anything for you. You should at least give me this chance.”

Feng Zhiwei was stunned. Heilian Zheng had already strode out, the blood from his palm trailing all the way as he walked to the first courtyard outside. Under the gaze of over a hundred grassland nobles, he mounted the high platform seat originally arranged for him, kicked over the table with one foot, handed the thorny switches to Hutejia, removed his upper garment to expose a body of pale honey-colored, crystalline, solid skin, turned his back to everyone, knelt down, and shouted loudly:

“Come!”