For an ordinary soldier, the greatest difference between cloth armor and the nimble yet solid Guangyao armor was this: beneath the Guangyao armor, one could wear combat clothes as normal. But beneath the heavy, coarse cloth armor, one could usually only wear a thin inner garment — anything more and it would be difficult to move and fight.

A full suit of Guangyao armor cost close to a thousand taels. It could deflect arrows fired from a hundred paces away and withstand the slash of sword and saber at close range. To put on and take off an entire suit required an hour and a quarter.

A suit of cloth armor cost thirty-seven taels and six qian. It offered no respite from the summer heat, no shelter against the winter cold, and not even the scorching gaze burning on her right now could be blocked by it. Taking it off and putting it on, however, could be done in an instant.

Her mind was in complete disorder. Heat spread up along Xiao Nanhui’s spine, and in just a moment, sweat had already soaked through her inner garment.

“This subject— this subject is sensitive to cold—”

Her voice was faint as a gnat’s hum; any softer and the wind would carry it away entirely.

After a long pause, that unhurried voice finally responded.

“Very well.”

Xiao Nanhui let out a long breath, but dared not let her guard down again.

She glanced up, and suddenly noticed a small purple-glazed ceramic bowl on the table before him, holding what appeared to be medicinal broth — which had by now gone cold.

It was the first time Xiao Nanhui had felt this grateful for her own powers of observation in a moment of desperation. She immediately said: “That medicinal broth appears to have gone cold — this subject will call someone to reheat it.”

Saying this, she moved to reach for the medicine bowl.

Her hand had barely extended halfway before his unhurried voice came.

“This medicine is meant to be taken once it has cooled. Besides, there is no one else here — why go to the trouble.”

Her hands hung awkwardly in mid-air, unable to advance and unwilling to retreat.

“Then Your Majesty should take the medicine — this subject may withdraw first—”

Before she had finished speaking, Su Wei’s fingers relaxed, and the porcelain spoon in his hand dropped into the bowl.

“My right hand is not convenient.”

What did that mean? Was he clearly expecting her to come forward and serve him?

Xiao Nanhui stared at that porcelain spoon, seething inwardly.

The person opposite appeared entirely oblivious. “Are you unable to attend to someone? I have heard that the adopted daughter of the Marquis of Qinghuai is the most capable of people — that every time the Marquis returned from battle with injuries, it was Chief Guard Xiao who helped manage his wounds.”

Xiao Nanhui forced back the twitch at her temple and spoke without expression: “The Foster Father has always been strict in military discipline, leading by example. On the march, his rest and treatment were the same as any soldier’s. Whatever remedies a common soldier used for injuries, he used the same.”

“Oh?” Something seemed to light up in Su Wei’s eyes, and a note of interest entered his voice. “Is that truly so?”

Xiao Nanhui nearly could not hold back the cold smile on her face. “It is truly so.”

The man seemed to be suddenly in a better mood. His left hand picked up the spoon, and he finally stopped troubling her.

Xiao Nanhui had barely let out a breath when she saw that man extend his other hand toward her.

“My hand was wounded because of you. If you still harbor any intention of making amends, I can overlook the crudeness of your skill.”

Was what happened at the traveling palace not entirely his own doing? How had it ended up being her fault?

Xiao Nanhui felt her chest and belly stuffed full of suppressed anger. She glanced at that pale, fair hand before her. It looked even more white than that white porcelain spoon — and somehow still conveyed a sense of pure, harmless fragility.

But if a knife were to cut open that purity at this moment, it would reveal that the bone and blood within were black.

She snatched up the medicinal ointment beside her, steeled herself, and stepped forward, kneeling before that small table.

“Your Majesty possesses a body of the highest value — please do not hold this subject’s clumsy hands against her.”

Hmph. You are thick-faced and black-hearted, so do not expect any gentleness from me.

Something she was not sure where she had found the nerve for, she felt a sudden impulse toward a kind of private revenge. With a few rough motions she tore away the bandaging on his hand — then, just as she was about to proceed with rough treatment, her gaze stopped at the wound.

Several days had passed now, and what she remembered as a crimson, blood-soaked gash, nourished with the finest medicinal ointment, had not healed and subsided. If anything, it looked more alarming and terrible than before — as though something dreadful were about to break open through that pale skin.

Seeming to sense that she had not moved for a long while, Su Wei slowly raised his eyes.

“What is this? Are you frightened?”

She had fought for years, endured countless injuries. She had seen blood and carnage by the hundreds: swords and spears without eyes — at their lighter end, skin split open to the bone; at their worst, stomachs ripped and intestines spilled. A mere knife wound to the palm was nowhere near worth ranking.

Yet she found it unbearable to look at. She could not stand to look at it even a moment longer.

Those hands were slender and pale, with well-proportioned bones and flesh — whether holding a brush or playing the zither, they would have looked beautiful. They were the sort of hands that should have been kept far from the gleam of blades and the bitterness of hardship. And yet now they had been destroyed beyond repair, beyond restoration.

Her eye twitched. She did not want to look more closely, yet that scar seemed to be engraved upon the back of her eyes, impossible to erase. Indeed, with only one glance, she had already noticed a faint, old trace of a scar below that fresh wound.

That was the mark left behind by years of pressing hard against the bowstring.

“The piece ‘Laying Down a Straw Sandal on the Bridge’ — you will hear it no more. You are entirely free to mock me, to say that the records exaggerated my name, and that I am nothing but an undeserved reputation.”

He was truly a person of wicked cunning, knowing full well that her guilt came from this, yet deliberately speaking it aloud to see her at a loss with nowhere to turn.

The suppressed resentment in Xiao Nanhui’s heart turned into something that felt closer to grievance. It was clearly she who had the most wretched outcome of anyone — yet somehow it seemed as though she were the one who had wronged him.

“This subject would not dare.”

The man gave a cold huff. “What would you not dare? I see you have nerve enough in plenty. Just now, when you were about to apply the medicine, you had quite a forceful manner.”

Her intentions had been seen through. “Bold Xiao” became all the more deflated, and even her movements slowed somewhat.

“When I treated myself in the past, I was rough and used to being heavy-handed. Your Majesty did say you would not hold it against me.”

“Every army camp is equipped with a field physician. If your hands are clumsy, you may find someone to take over. There is no need to torment yourself.”

Xiao Nanhui pursed her lips, feeling inwardly a certain disdain for this Emperor who had no idea how hard the world could be.

“In battle, harsh conditions are the norm. A unit of eight or nine soldiers is not enough even with eight or ten physicians. If one is trapped somewhere during an engagement and cannot return to camp for months, there is no dry ration, let alone physicians and medicine. Even during a ceasefire, small injuries are unavoidable on the march — one cannot always rely on others. And if someone is privately seeking to make trouble, it is all the more impossible to make a sound—”

She had been about to mention the unpleasant business of Xu Shu finding fault with her back in the Beizhi Camp. But the words reached her lips, and she realized she had said far too much. She made a sharp stop — though it already seemed a little too late.

“The second son of Prefectural Judge Xu.”

“Hmm?” Xiao Nanhui’s mind was momentarily slow to follow.

“The one who caused trouble for you — was it Xu Zhi’s second son, Xu Shu?”

“It is—”

Wait — how did he know about this?

Xiao Nanhui looked up sharply, meeting Su Wei’s expected gaze.

“I naturally keep on hand a record of whose civil and military officials are on good or bad terms with whom — how else did you suppose it would be?”

She had supposed that he, taking notice of her circumstances—

Xiao Nanhui pressed the corners of her mouth flat, suppressing the impulse to laugh at herself.

To think that she, at the time a minor squad leader of no consequence — how could she have drawn his attention? It was only on account of the Xiao household that her every move had come under scrutiny.

And yet he had known of the feud between the Xu Family and the Xiao household all along. That day in the main hall of the traveling palace, he had still allowed the other to act on that ill intent. Did it truly mean nothing to him beyond the game of checks and balances, with not a shred of loyalty between sovereign and subject — or anything else?

The bitterness she had pressed down a moment ago rose again in her heart. Her fingertips curled inward involuntarily. The bandaging in her hand pulled taut with the motion, and the barely healed wound opened suddenly, seeping blood.

The Emperor drew in a sharp breath. His black brows arched upward.

“The first person Chief Guard Xiao ever bandaged — has the grave grass grown three feet high yet?”

Xiao Nanhui snapped back to herself, looked down, and was so alarmed she nearly flung the strip of bandaging in her hand onto the Emperor’s head.

“This subject begs Your Majesty’s pardon! This subject was briefly distracted. Would it not be better to call Head Chamberlain Dan over—”

“He is very busy. Do you imagine everyone is as free as you?”

Su Wei lazily withdrew his hand, seeming to not care much about the wound at all. With one hand he knotted the loose end of the bandaging — the technique was nimble enough to leave Xiao Nanhui staring in disbelief.

If she did not know better about the character of the person before her, she might almost have suspected that this sovereign had taken toying with her as one of life’s great pleasures.

The man paid no attention to her expression and reached with his other hand to lift the lid of the red copper, round-bellied small incense burner set on the table beside him. At the bottom of the burner was an incense seal, already burnt through by more than half, the original pattern impossible to make out.

Xiao Nanhui was looking up at it when her stomach suddenly, without any warning, let out a loud rumble.

She had gotten up earlier than usual today, waiting for Lady Dai’s medicine. She had only had a few bites of food, and it was perfectly natural to be hungry by now.

On a large, noisy street, a sound like this might not have amounted to anything. But in a place this utterly quiet, where even the sound of the wind was perfectly clear, that belly-growl had something of the quality of thunder rolling across a clear sky.

She bowed her head, and for a second time felt the strong urge to throw herself off the railing of this tower.

She could not see the other person’s expression, only heard his voice.

“It is still early. Leaving your stomach empty is good for you.”

Good? What good?

She had never heard before that going hungry could be good for anyone.

“Jiangfei should have delivered that ceremonial sword to the household by now. Seeing that you have honored your promise in good faith, I will allow you to ask three questions today.”

The scent of sinking wood drifted into her nostrils, dissolving a little of the restlessness that hunger had brought. Xiao Nanhui composed herself and pulled herself together.

“No matter what questions?”

“Of course.” The Emperor paused with a crafty timing. “Though whether to answer, and how to answer, is up to me.”

Xiao Nanhui strained to hold back the urge to roll her eyes, and thought over how to use this opportunity to reclaim some small advantage.

But she was no fool. She did have many questions — about the secret seal, about the killings thirteen years ago, about Pu Huna. Yet she also knew that these questions might not gain her any answers.

She had been about to ask: why had he called her here today? But the words reached her lips and she thought — that was a foolish question. If the Emperor wanted to tell her, the answer would naturally come out of its own accord before long. If he did not want to tell her, asking would be no use at all.

Thinking this, she suddenly felt these three questions were somewhat pointless, and lost the energy to think them through carefully. She simply asked the most groundless question that came to her.

“What exactly is this place?”

The man’s gaze drifted toward the distance. His eyes held a stirring of emotion that was difficult to name, yet his voice remained as unhurried and cool as ever.

“This tower is called the Still-Wave Tower. It was the residence of my mother consort during her lifetime.”

As he said it would be — anyone not of the imperial family could never have a tower and terrace built this close to the palace walls, much less have the Black Feather troops who trained the imperial personal guard provide its cover.

But an imperial consort — ought she not to reside within the palace? Why should she be living outside the palace walls?

Su Wei had already turned his gaze back to the woman sitting there lost in thought before him.

She was too easy to read — her emotions and thoughts were all written on her face.

She had not asked further. Yet he suddenly found himself wanting to speak.

“The given name of my mother consort before she left her family contained the character for ‘mirror.’ The imperial father, wishing to make her smile, did not spare himself — he gathered together every finest bronze mirror in the realm. But the consort would not spare them even a single glance, and continued day by day in her gloom, never unfolding a smile. In the end, the imperial father had this tower built for her on all four sides with no wind, and within it he opened up a stretch of lake. There is nothing in the lake — only a surface of still, unmoving water. And so this tower was named the Still-Wave Tower.”

Su Wei’s voice held a brief pause.

He had not spoken of the past in a very long time. He had intended never to speak of it again. But today, for some reason he could not fathom, these old things seemed to have a will of their own — they flowed out of his mouth like a spring that could not be stopped, overflowing from a corner no one had ever seen.

“The Still-Wave Tower was nominally a place for the consort to meditate in quiet. In reality, it was a place of confinement. Once she ascended this tower, she never left again. From the year I turned seven, I never saw her again — the next news I heard of her was the news of her death.”

Su Wei’s voice remained calm throughout.

He seemed to be able to use this manner of speaking in any situation to say anything. And this way, no one could ever read anything from his joy or his sorrow. No one could know his joy or sorrow at all.

“Did Your Majesty ever miss your own mother?”

She asked without thinking, and Su Wei’s gaze shifted to her face. Two pitch-black pupils locked onto her eyes, as though trying to look into the depths of her soul.

“Is this your second question?”

She nodded, and did not look away from this sudden, direct gaze.

“Yes. Your Majesty need not answer if you would rather not.”

Su Wei was quiet for a moment, seeming to give the question genuine thought, before at last offering an answer.

“At first, perhaps there was some missing her. But later, I rarely thought of her at all.”

How could that be?

The thought rose in Xiao Nanhui’s heart almost instinctively — she could not believe this answer.

How could there be anyone who did not miss their own family? Even an orphan like herself, who had never met her parents, still sometimes conjured up the image of a mother and father she had never known.

She did not believe it. He could see that, and was indifferent to it.

“When I was young, I lived outside the palace, with little contact with others. But I dreamed often. In the dreams, all manner of people came and went like a tide, and the consort stood before me, waving her sleeve to drive them all away. At that time I often could not tell the waking world from the dream, and thought the consort was still at my side. From the day she died, I stopped dreaming, and gradually stopped thinking of the things that had appeared in dreams. Naturally, I no longer thought of her either.”

The call of wild geese drifted from afar. After days of heavy snow the sun appeared, peeking a thread of gold from behind the clouds. That thread of gold passed through the carved railings below the bracket-and-beam eaves and fell on the space between the two of them — illuminating the man’s face for a brief instant.

Xiao Nanhui gazed, transfixed, not knowing whether it was the face or the light that held her.

She felt, she did not know why, that what he had just said was exceedingly precious. Precious enough that she pressed not only those words but the surrounding scene into the deep folds of her memory too, wanting to tuck it away somewhere secret — though she did not know where such a place might be found.

She had always felt there was a layer of mist that could not be driven away settling over him, like the snow-capped mountains of the far northern plateau, forever veiled in cloud and fog. Now the mist seemed to have parted a little, and she suddenly found that the mountain was right before her — so close she felt a sudden wariness, and did not dare to measure it.

“My mother consort’s family bore the compound surname Zhong Li. But since the consort passed, there is no longer anyone of the Zhong Li clan in this world. Do you know why?”

She shook her head blankly, and then suddenly recalled something.

The name Zhong Li Jing — that had been, it seemed, his mother consort’s given name.

“Because on the day of his marriage to the consort, the imperial father had her entire clan put to death — even the infants still in their swaddling clothes were not spared.”

The world said only that the Emperor’s birth mother had been a beautiful but ill-omened madwoman — yet no one had ever spoken of why she had become mad.

She could barely conceal her shock. She bumped into the medicine bottle near her elbow, then scrambled to right it again.

The man before her did not move, only watching her reaction with steady eyes. His voice carried something that was half question and half soliloquy.

“Tell me — would a mother consort like this ever truly love the imperial father?”

Of course not.

A voice in Xiao Nanhui’s heart burst out before she could stop it.

No one could love an enemy who had slaughtered their own blood and kin. That was the common law of the world.

And yet, there existed in this world one thing alone that could not be measured by any so-called common law — and that thing was human feeling.

She thought of Bai Yun, who had betrayed the Xiao household and brought about the deaths of them all. Even across a sea of blood, Xiao Zhun had still been unable to bring himself to end her life with his own hand.

She thought, too, of herself in the main hall of the traveling palace that day — adrift, humiliated, tormented past endurance.

And he had sat on the throne in plain sight, knowing full well that the Xu father and son had come with deliberate malice and were stirring the pot — and he had used it, used the tide against her, until she was driven to a precipice. Because of a single word he gave, she would never be able to draw a bow for the rest of her life.

By all rights she should hate him. She should despise him. She should want to kill him every time she laid eyes on him.

But she did not.

Within her heart there was a complex feeling knotted together — just as contradictory and fierce as the impression he had made on her the first time she had ever seen him, impossible to settle.

“Your Majesty still owes me one last question.” She drew a deep breath and lowered her head, her heartbeat reverberating inside her eardrums. “That day on the precipice of the Tianmu River — why did Your Majesty save me?”

The air was quiet for a moment. He turned the question back on her rather than answering.

“That day in the main hall of the Jiaosong traveling palace — why did you take the blame upon yourself?”

“That was because—”

That was because she could not stand by and watch Xiao Zhun be destroyed before her eyes.

Even though she now knew his heart was not with her — she still could not bear to watch him suffer and be brought down into the dust.

Her voice lodged somewhere deep in her throat, and she could not get it out no matter what she tried.

It had been many days since then. The wound on her shoulder had already begun to scar over. Yet she still could not face that feeling head-on.

“You need not open your mouth to answer. There is only one thing you need to understand.”

His voice drew near again. His breath passed over her eyelashes, as though something light and airy had drifted down and settled.

“Your answer is my answer.”

This time, he had not referred to himself with the imperial pronoun.

It made his tone lighter than it had ever been before — and yet the weight within those words seemed to carry ten thousand thousand layers of meaning.

She seemed to see the mountain before her falling forward, pressing toward her with an unstoppable force. She had nowhere to flee and nowhere to retreat — she would be buried beneath its rapidly expanding shadow, until at last she merged with it entirely. And only when, a thousand and ten thousand years from now, heaven and earth crumbled and split, would she ever be free again.

A gust of wind passed through. The last trace of incense in the burner burnt away. The thread of smoke did not stop, though — it wound around the two of them like something with a will of its own, coiling like tangible thought.

Just as she was on the verge of being unable to withstand the emotion entangling and reverberating through the air, he finally rose to his feet.

“The time has come. Let us go. There is somewhere to be.”