In winter, sunrises always come a little late.

On the official road outside the Emperor’s traveling palace in Jiaosong County, the carriages of various civil and military officials were crowded together as they waited for their masters. The servant boys driving the carriages yawned incessantly, their puffs of white breath making the drowsy feeling even heavier.

Yet inside the palace walls at that very moment, the atmosphere was an entirely different scene.

Having witnessed with their own eyes what had just transpired in the main hall, everyone was trembling with apprehension and riddled with misgivings.

Each person was secretly turning over in their mind whether the Bai Family’s tangled, inscrutable case might somehow have a stumbling block — some pass or some pitfall — that could trip them up and drag them into it.

And so, the moment the assembly in the hall broke up and they had bowed their goodbyes to one another, they turned around one by one and drifted toward the side hall, waiting for a chance to perhaps seek a private audience with the Emperor to demonstrate their loyalty — and, beyond that, to feel out whether any danger lurked ahead for themselves.

Yet everyone seemed to have briefly forgotten one thing: the Emperor had never been fond of seeing people.

Private audiences with his subjects were even rarer still.

The assembled officials stood awkwardly outside the side hall for a spell, then had no choice but to bow their goodbyes to one another again and retreat to their guest quarters with uneasy hearts and bodies covered in cold dew and white frost.

After seeing off the last official, Dan Jiangfei carried the memorials in his hands into the hall, carefully shut the hall doors, and dismissed the night-watch attendants.

Perhaps having heard some movement, the man reclining on the soft couch behind the beaded curtain of the inner chamber slowly opened his eyes.

“What hour is it?”

The chamberlain outside heard the sound, lifted the beaded curtain, and came near.

“In reply to Your Majesty — it is now one quarter past the mao hour.”

“Are they all gone?”

“All gone.” Dan Jiangfei set the memorials to one side, took the soup bowl that had been warming on the small brazier nearby, and carefully carried it over. “This was prepared earlier on Your Majesty’s orders. Your Majesty has not had a single drop of anything since the sacrificial rites began. Please at least drink some of this hot broth to warm your stomach.”

The Emperor did not brush aside the chamberlain’s good intentions. He brought the porcelain spoon in the bowl to his lips and sipped a couple of mouthfuls, his gaze settling on those few scrolls of bamboo strips.

“What are they all about?”

“Only Director Jiang has stated explicitly that his concerns the report on expenditures for this rites ceremony. As for the rest, this servant does not know.”

The Tiancheng Director of Rites was responsible for the regulations and expenditures of all ceremonial rites and imperial audiences, large and small. Ordinarily, if things were the same year after year, there would be no need to submit a memorial requesting anything. But this year had two exceptional departures from precedent: first, the choice of Jiaosong as the location, and second, the fireworks set off when the deity was seen off on the Yue River.

In all the years since Tiancheng’s founding, there had never been a precedent of setting off sky lanterns and fireworks at the Hui Day sacrificial rites. But once the Emperor had opened his august mouth, who would dare not arrange for it? Yet after arranging it, there was still the fear that the Emperor might forget and later come back to assign blame — and so, out of concern for their own safety, they had sent along even the tedious account books in this fawning manner, presenting them before His Majesty for no other reason than to set their own minds at ease.

Dan Jiangfei deliberately held those bamboo scrolls at a slight distance and, without drawing attention to it, extinguished a few of the lamps.

“It is getting late. In two hours’ time, the imperial procession will set out on the road. Why does Your Majesty not sleep a little while? These scrolls are not urgent matters in any case — they can be looked over in the carriage on the return journey.”

But the Emperor had already set down the soup bowl and extended his slender, pale hand.

“No matter. Bring them over now.”

Dan Jiangfei had no recourse. Inwardly, he composed another round of criticisms aimed at those ritual officials who did nothing but eat without earning their keep, then dutifully carried those few scrolls of memorials over and passed them to him.

The Emperor’s movements as he picked up the bamboo scroll were unhurried, yet his eyes darted swiftly from line to line — evidently a matter he had long grown accustomed to.

As he read the characters on the bamboo scroll, he suddenly spoke up: “Which official was in charge of the punishment today for the Minister of Justice?”

The moment the man spoke, his chamberlain of many years immediately understood.

“Your Majesty need not worry. Cui En is an old hand in the palace. I told him to hold back — he naturally knows how to calibrate.”

The man did not immediately reply, only absently turning through the bamboo scroll in his hands.

One scroll, two scrolls — when he reached the third, he finally stopped.

The side hall was extremely quiet. Fine charcoal burned silently in the brazier, making almost no sound at all.

“Is the wind not picking up outside?”

Dan Jiangfei walked to the window and fiddled with the latch on the window lattice, then looked at the small bell hanging from the eave’s corner outside: “Tonight is very still — not the slightest breath of wind.”

The Emperor fixed his gaze on the candle flame dancing inside the glass lamp.

All around was silent and windless, yet that flame moved without any wind, then settled back to stillness a moment later.

With a sharp crack, the bamboo scroll was flung to one side.

“Go call Weixiang to take a look at the side gate. When you see that someone has left through the palace gate, come back and report to me.”

Dan Jiangfei froze, hardly able to believe the order he had just heard.

“Your Majesty means to send Lieutenant Ding—”

“Yes.”

The chamberlain’s face betrayed undisguised urgency: “Your Majesty has many attendants as personal guards. Sending someone else to check would serve just as well. The imperial procession will be departing this place before long, and that criminal is still at large — this servant worries—”

“A’Fei.” The Emperor called him by his name, a rare occurrence. “Do not delay.”

He rarely heard his own name spoken aloud. The last time it had been called like this, he could no longer recall which critical juncture it had been, or how many years ago.

“Yes.”

The chamberlain summoned a composure and gravity that seemed at odds with his age, and without slowing his steps made his way out of the hall.

The Emperor’s fingers tapped on the table, striking a monotonous, irritating rhythm in the silent side hall.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Xiao Nanhui’s unfocused gaze gradually converged on the green stone bricks before her. She saw dark red blood falling drop by drop into a hollow in the floor, where it had already pooled into a small dark puddle.

That was her blood.

“Chief Guard Xiao, it is over now.”

The interrogation official in charge of the punishment called to her for the third time, and only then did her soul, which had seemed to drift out of her body, snap back into her flesh in an instant.

Xiao Nanhui climbed off the punishment bench. Her hands were trembling so violently she could not pull the outer robe that had been pushed down to her waist back up over her shoulders.

The interrogation official was decent enough. He stepped forward to help straighten her clothing, then called a palace attendant over.

“There should still be a good many people gathered outside the palace gates right now. If Chief Guard Xiao can still walk, this servant will have someone escort you out through the west side gate.”

Xiao Nanhui laboriously raised her sleeve to wipe the cold sweat from her face. “I am grateful for the trouble.”

The interrogation official returned the courtesy politely. “Think nothing of it. The army breaks camp and sets out on the return journey in one hour — Chief Guard Xiao, do not fall behind.”

She gave a dazed acknowledgment, and followed the faint glow of that palace attendant’s light out of the punishment chamber.

In Chizhou, the first month of the year had only just ended — the cold had not yet fully retreated.

The chill of the early morning hours penetrated her clothing. In no time at all, Xiao Nanhui felt the blood on her neck and back and shoulders had congealed between her skin and the fabric of her clothes. Every movement was a lacerating, bone-deep pain.

Yet even that searing pain was no match for the desolation in her heart. Her chest felt as though a piece of flesh had been gouged out — a place that had once held warmth and memories, now hollow and empty.

She tried to persuade herself that Xiao Zhun had had no other choice.

He wanted to keep the entire Xiao household safe, and he wanted to preserve Bai Yun’s life. If this punishment were not to fall upon her, there was no way to have both.

What she stood to lose was perhaps only a pair of hands that could draw a bow. Bai Yun, on the other hand, would lose her life.

She was the most cost-effective move in this game of strategy. Even she herself saw it that way.

Tonight the roads within this traveling palace seemed particularly long and difficult to endure. She walked the stone-paved path for a long while, then turned into a small lane.

The small lane came to a fork at its end — a left branch and a right branch — each leading to an unassuming side gate.

Xiao Nanhui instinctively turned to the right, but the palace attendant guiding her had stopped on the left.

“Chief Guard Xiao, the way is over here.”

Xiao Nanhui was slightly disoriented. She vaguely recalled that when she had come, it seemed she had taken the eastern side gate.

“The western side gate requires going around the back garden. That area has been locked — outsiders are not permitted in at night.”

The pain had slowed her reactions considerably compared to usual. Without giving it much thought, she lifted her heavy legs and headed to the left.

All around was pitch black — the darkest hour before dawn.

The path beyond that side gate had not a single palace lantern. The air carried an indescribable smell, like something rotting.

At first, Xiao Nanhui thought it was only because of her own sluggish steps that she had not yet glimpsed the outer gate of the traveling palace — but after the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, she finally sensed that something was not quite right.

The surroundings were far too quiet. Aside from herself and that palace attendant, she could not pick up a single sound of another human presence.

If they were near the palace gates, there would at least be the sounds of the night-watch guards making their rounds — it would not be this dead silent.

Xiao Nanhui stopped walking and made an effort to keep her voice steady.

“I beg your pardon — is this path truly the one leading to the palace gates? Why, after walking so long, is there still no sign of the palace wall?”

The figure ahead stopped but did not move.

“It is of course. Just a little farther now.”

The swaying lantern made her eyes swim. Xiao Nanhui narrowed her eyes and tried hard to make out the surroundings.

“There should be Black Feather troops guarding the area near the palace gates — why is there not a single light to be seen?”

The palace attendant finally turned around slowly.

He held a lantern in his hand, but the lantern only illuminated half his face. On that half face, one eye drooped, while his mouth wore a smile — an eerie, unsettling sight.

“You are more alert than I imagined.”

Xiao Nanhui stepped back half a pace; her injured shoulder began to throb uncontrollably. “Who exactly are you?”

“We have met before — you simply do not remember.”

As he spoke, he slowly drew a dagger from his sleeve.

The situation before her was far too strange; it was impossible to make sense of in an instant. Xiao Nanhui pressed her lips together, rapidly calculating in her mind how to subdue the enemy with a single strike. She had just endured her punishment and was in a state barely better than half-crippled. She did not even have a single object nearby for self-defense — she would need to strike first in order to have any chance.

But before she could make a move, that palace attendant swiftly blew out the lantern in his hand with a single breath.

The surroundings instantly plunged into total darkness. Her eyes had not yet adjusted to the dim light before she heard the sound of rushing wind coming from straight ahead. Acting almost on instinct, she threw herself to one side.

Her assailant lunged and missed. The sound of his breathing came from her left and slightly ahead — it did not sound like that of someone with martial training.

That dodge had sent Xiao Nanhui off the small path. Beneath her feet was soft grass that had frozen with frost — her boots slipped treacherously with every step.

A trace of moonlight finally filtered through, and Xiao Nanhui could dimly make out the figure before her.

The palace attendant noticed her gaze on him and lunged at her with the dagger raised. His movements were stiff, yet he carried a reckless, heedless ferocity.

Xiao Nanhui dodged frantically. Dark shapes loomed all around — she could not tell fake mountains from tree shadows. She stepped into the edge of a flower bed, her boot wedging into a gap between tiles, and for a moment she was completely stuck and toppled, sitting on the ground.

The moment she hit the ground, she immediately sensed something was wrong.

Her hands touched what seemed to be soft, yielding tendrils of some vine. A strange fragrance rose around her, as though some scent that had settled into the earth was being stirred and churned up. The air began to feel heavy and soporific.

Xiao Nanhui immediately recalled what she had encountered that day in the Xuemi Palace. But the fragrance in this darkness was far more overpowering and clinging than that time — within an instant it made her head swim, her vision blur, and her limbs go weak.

In the time she spent gasping for breath, that palace attendant had already slowly climbed back to his feet. Dagger raised, he walked toward her step by step, seemingly entirely unaffected. That ghastly smile still hung on his face.

At this moment of life and death, Xiao Nanhui used her other leg to kick hard at that person’s stomach.

She put every ounce of strength she had into it — she could almost hear the crack of ribs breaking inside his abdominal cavity. Yet that person seemed incapable of feeling pain, and his right hand drove forward with undiminished force, thrusting the blade straight for her throat.

Xiao Nanhui strained to raise her arm in front of her to block this lethal blow. But in the next second, the sound of rushing wind came from behind her.

A violent gust of wind grazed past the side of her face. The blade of the long saber flashed in the moonlight, swift as a bolt of lightning.

She saw that hand holding the dagger slowly slide down, leaving behind a dark, bare stump.

Warm blood splashed across her face.

What a clean, decisive slash.

Xiao Nanhui thought this, and then sank into deep, heavy darkness.