Xiao Nanhui practically ran all the way back to her own courtyard. It was now light enough that finding her way was far easier than it had been the night before. She dodged and weaved the entire route without coming face to face with anyone.

Back in her room, her first act was to close and latch the door, then examine the black ceremonial robe on her body.

She had no idea what method he had used to tie it, but even the sash at her waist defeated her entirely. She could not undo it. She didn’t dare yank at it, nor could she find where to begin. She worked at it for half a while and succeeded only in making her fingers sore, with not the slightest progress.

What was to be done? Surely she wasn’t going to be paraded around the Spring Hunt in the Emperor’s robe like this, drawing attention to herself?

This frenzy of anxious heat brought a fresh wave of sweat to her brow. She moved to raise a hand and wipe it away, and only then realized her hair was still half undone.

The hour for hunting was nearly upon her, and she steeled herself: Xiao Nanhui decided to deal with her hair first.

The whole thing was the fault of that preposterous situation from just now — she had been routed so thoroughly, had fled in such disarray, that she had even forgotten to retrieve the pin she had used to fasten her hair.

Come to think of it, this was already the second pin she had left behind at his residence.

The first time, the Imperial Household Bureau had compensated her quite a sum of silver. If the same happened this time — could this not, over time, become a rather ingenious means of enriching herself?

She floated away on the thought for a moment, then took a step forward — and the thin soles of her shoes, which had been soaking in water all night, gave out with a rrrip, splitting open a hole that seemed to stare up at her with mocking implication.

Xiao Nanhui kicked the ruined shoes off in aggrieved fury, cast a look at the single mud-caked boot sitting abandoned in the corner, and simply walked barefoot to the table.

Her room had been allocated according to her rank. Whether because the position of Consultant was typically held by men, there was not even a bronze mirror she could use to see her own reflection. She could only fill the washbasin with water and use the reflection to work at her hair.

When she was small and followed Xiao Zhun around the training grounds, she had always been somewhat scatter-brained — dropping her hairpins more often than not without noticing. Dujuan had seen this, and taught her step by step how to secure her hair without a pin at all.

She had been quite dexterous at it back then. But she had long since stopped losing her pins so frequently as she grew older, and she had not done it this way in a very long time.

She still vaguely remembered the method, but her hands had trouble keeping up — she tucked one side in and the other slipped out; she smoothed one bit down and a strand fell loose on the other side.

Knock knock.

A knock at the door.

The very thing she dreaded.

Xiao Nanhui froze, quickly grabbed the military gauze cap from nearby, shoved her hair inside it unceremoniously, and strode to the door.

Standing outside was Xiao Zhun.

He had a large bundle in his arms, and spoke quickly when she opened the door.

“Dujuan asked me to bring some things for you. I spotted them while packing this morning and—”

His voice stopped.

Xiao Nanhui had just exhaled in relief when she felt something shift atop her head. She reached up to feel around, and was horrified to discover two “whiskers” extending from her head.

In her haste to answer the door, her already hopelessly fragile hair arrangement had collapsed back into its natural state of rebellion — half of it trapped inside the cap, the other half hanging out in unrestrained freedom — which looked somehow worse even than letting it hang loose altogether.

Xiao Zhun stared fixedly at the peculiar head before him. The head’s owner, meanwhile, stood rigid in place.

The two of them remained like this — one inside the door, one outside — for a long moment.

Xiao Zhun’s expression grew somewhat strange. He reached out two fingers and pinched Xiao Nanhui’s two trailing wisps of hair.

“Your hair—” His gaze slid downward, landed on the black ceremonial robe, and stopped again. “This robe—”

Xiao Nanhui let out a dry laugh immediately and pulled her two “whiskers” back from his hands.

“Last night I got up and lost my hairpin. I thought I’d sort it out myself — as it turns out, my skill isn’t up to the task. A blunder, truly a blunder.”

Hearing Xiao Nanhui’s explanation, Xiao Zhun seemed to remember something, and held up the large bundle and gave it a shake.

“Dujuan packed some things for you. There may well be a hairpin inside.”

Xiao Nanhui stared at the enormous bundle, and could almost perfectly imagine the resolve and determination with which Dujuan had stuffed it to capacity.

Was she joking? She had ridden here on horseback — where on earth would she have space for something like this? And moreover, to arrive at the hunt carrying such a “piece of luggage” on horseback would earn her the staring attention of the entire Light and Essential Camp.

She took an inconspicuous half-step back, and gave a courteous wave of the hand.

“This — Dujuan’s kindness was surely meant especially for you, our adopted father. How could I possibly accept it?”

The other party, undeterred, advanced another half-step, pushing the bundle forward another fraction.

“I have ten more of this size. I can spare one.”

Xiao Nanhui was dumbfounded.

A moment later, she burst into laughter.

She had thought Dujuan only gave her this special treatment — who would have thought she treated Xiao Zhun this way as well.

Picturing Xiao Zhun arriving here hauling all ten of these enormous bundles, she found it almost impossible to contain her amusement.

She lowered her voice, putting on a grave expression.

“Might our adopted father find this bundle unbearably heavy — more difficult to manage than an eighty- or hundred-jin great dragon chopper?”

Xiao Zhun’s lips curved, though his brow was a picture of performed suffering.

“As Nanhui has described it — truly a source of great distress. I wonder if there is some clever solution?”

Xiao Nanhui deliberated for a moment.

“Should there be a next time, adopted father need only mention the hardship of insufficient funds at home — perhaps Dujuan will restrain herself somewhat. As for now—” she paused, and reached out to take that crushing bundle, “—let it be said that Nanhui is making a willing sacrifice, accepting this ordeal.”

Xiao Zhun smiled, and performed a ceremonial bow.

“In that case, I am most grateful.”

Xiao Nanhui was briefly startled.

It had been a very long time since she had seen Xiao Zhun smile. Everything that had happened in the past year had carried a devastating, overturning force — and for a time she had thought many things no longer existed.

But just now, on an ordinary morning in late spring, that long silence and distance had been gently broken. The warmth and closeness of years spent together began quietly reasserting itself, emanating heat.

Xiao Nanhui understood: Xiao Zhun would always be a deeply important person in her life — and not only because she had once had feelings for him.

How many stretches of ten-odd years does a life hold? They pass in a blink — before one knows it, one is in the twilight of old age, facing the parting of death. And her first decade and more of life had been spent entirely alongside this man before her. They were fellow disciples, student and master, kin of different surnames, friends who had supported one another through grief and made it out the other side.

Yes — Xiao Zhun was Xiao Nanhui’s friend. A friend who had led her out of the desert and given her a new life.

He truly owed her nothing.

They had simply walked the same road together, until the time came when they needed to part ways.

Xiao Nanhui drew a slow breath.

She wanted to apologize for the distance between them these recent months, and to lay bare at last the secret she had been keeping buried.

“Adopted father — there is actually something I—”

Just as she was weighing up whether to speak first of her involvement with the Emperor, or of Zong Hao and the cord, the voice of Ritual Official Sichuan cut across everything.

“I pay my respects to the Marquis of Qinghuai. I have been searching everywhere for you, my lord.” The official was slightly out of breath — clearly he had hurried the whole way. “The Spring Hunt ceremony is about to begin. All generals who are to participate in the hunt must prepare half a shichen in advance. Shuibei is ranked second — there is no time to spare.”

Xiao Zhun gave a nod, then glanced once more at Xiao Nanhui. She read him at once.

“Then please go, adopted father.”

The ritual official seemed to notice her for the first time, and offered a perfunctory bow.

“Greetings to Consultant Xiao.”

As he raised his head, his gaze landed on Xiao Nanhui’s bizarre and disheveled hair. His expression went blank for a moment — then the blankness shifted into alarm, then from alarm rapidly into confusion.

Xiao Nanhui, expression unchanged, picked up her two loose strands of hair and flicked them back over her shoulder.

“I practiced martial arts late into the night yesterday — this morning there was no time to get presentable. Do forgive the sight.”

The official fell silent for a beat, then turned an urgent gaze on Xiao Zhun — his meaning clear: let us please depart at once.

Xiao Zhun, however, looked at Xiao Nanhui.

“The thing you were about to say?”

Catching sight from the corner of her eye of the official’s frantic expression, she gave a laughing wave of the hand.

“It’s nothing — I’ll tell you when the Spring Hunt is over, adopted father.”

Xiao Zhun nodded, and before he left, pointed at her head, signaling that she absolutely must do something about her hair before stepping outside the courtyard. Then he followed the official away.

The courtyard settled into quiet once more.

The one benefit of a low rank — however great the commotion, nothing would be traced back to her. Even on an occasion as grand as the Spring Hunt, one more or one fewer of her made no real difference.

She rummaged through the bundle, and — unsurprisingly — found four or five hairpins. There were even two spare pairs of shoes and boots.

Dujuan knew her through and through.

She put up the simplest twist of a bun in a few quick movements, swapped into fresh shoes and socks, thought for a moment, and pulled the Light and Essential armor on over the black ceremonial robe.

When she was ready to leave, she suddenly had a peculiar impulse — to jump onto Jixiang’s back and gallop out the gate, and tell Xiao Zhun everything she had not finished saying.

She stopped, and decided the impulse was entirely unfounded and completely unnecessary.

She shut the door, briskly took hold of Jixiang, and set out toward the Imperial Hunting Ground.

If she hadn’t said it, she hadn’t said it.

It would take a while to tell, in any case. This would give her time to think it through properly — to figure out where to begin when the moment came.

The Spring Hunt and Autumn Hunt of Tiancheng had in earlier times been held together with the Spring Sacrifice and Autumn Sacrifice.

The Spring Sacrifice, also called the Qingyang Sacrifice, had its origins in Wancheng and later spread into popular culture, becoming one of the most beloved festivals among merchants and those of the rivers-and-lakes world. The Autumn Sacrifice, called the Baicang Sacrifice, had been passed down from the most ancient times. By now, so many of its secret rites had been lost to history that even the Imperial family knew only fragments of it — and so it had simply been discontinued. The two hunts were thereafter merged into one, held every year around the Grain Rain solar term, with the primary purpose of sharpening military readiness, and the secondary purpose of offering sacrifice to Heaven, earth, and the mountain rivers.

Even so, whenever a great battle had been won, Tiancheng’s Spring Hunt was always conducted with extraordinary ceremony. Even the rite of opening the grounds and entering the mountains lasted a good part of a shichen, presided over by Tiancheng’s Chief Ritual Master and Chief Diviner, assisted by the Yulin Villa Commander, with officials at every level coordinating their roles. The Beast Platform, where the sacrificial rites were performed and the hunting tally counted, was said to have been built — based on the contents of the ceremony — over half a month of overnight construction.

Of course, Xiao Nanhui did not see a single moment of any of this.

Tiancheng’s great army lined up in strict accordance with the rank and military grade of every soldier in every camp. Those below company rank without military merit had not even the qualification to participate in the encirclement hunt.

For Xiao Nanhui, she ought by rights to have been standing at the glorious front of the advance, admiring the sweeping grandeur of the distant mountains, while watching this legendary Spring Hunt ceremony unfold before her.

That was — before she had been stripped of her Right General’s position.

Now she held the token of the Second Camp, but was only a Consultant. If not for the military achievements she had won in the battle of Bijiang, she likely would not have the standing to participate at all.

She was squeezed in behind the rear ends of numerous generals, cavalry commanders, elite cavalry officers, colonels, and captains. Never mind any sight of witch-priestesses or shrine maidens — even the Beast Platform looked no bigger than a thumbnail from where she stood. The chanting of the Chief Ritual Master in the ceremony drifted like a faint sound from beyond the sky, lulling her dangerously close to sleep.

And then, after some indeterminate amount of time, a sharp crack of the whip sounded from the front. The area erupted in an instant.

The neighing of warhorses mingled with the low shouts of riders into a single roar. A great churning cloud of dust rose up. By the time Xiao Nanhui gave a start and came back to her senses, all she could see was a mass of muscular horse hindquarters disappearing into the distance.

Jixiang made a slow, leisurely circle in place, all four hooves treading back and forth in the pile of horse droppings left behind.

Too many wolves, too little meat, too many monks, too little porridge — looking at the scene today, if she managed to bring down a single rabbit by tomorrow’s sunset, she’d count herself lucky.

With a sigh, Xiao Nanhui gave Jixiang his head and set off in the direction opposite to the main body of the hunt.

The mountain forest in the last days of spring and the first days of summer was nearly motionless — the rainy season had just arrived, the southern wind had not yet risen, and even the fine drizzle fell without a sound. This only made the calls of the birds and beasts clearer and more clamorous.

The mushrooms of Yu’an were not as fine as those of Beizhi, but they grew in abundance. The moment Jixiang set foot in the forest, his nose never left the ground — sniffing here, nibbling there — and before long he had meandered off into the deep heart of the woods.

Xiao Nanhui paid him no mind and let him drift without purpose. The forest all around was deep and shadowed, loud with the chirping of insects and birds — quite pleasant, as it happened.

Morning and evening were the hours the birds and beasts preferred to roam. At other times, one was unlikely to spot them — tracking and searching in those off-hours was more often failure than success, all effort for nothing.

The hour was still early. She found an open clearing by a stream, turned Jixiang loose to hunt for mushrooms, and then climbed a thousand-year-old banyan tree herself, wove a quick makeshift hammock out of trailing vines, curled herself into it, and lay back to gaze at the sky with easy pleasure.

Today’s sky looked even more washed-out than yesterday’s. The feeble sunlight could not penetrate the cloud cover — only wisps of water vapor moved silently.

She gazed at it for a while, then was reminded of something. Her hand went to her waist, and she drew out the Exquisite Shrine from inside the pouch.

She had been in too much of a rush this morning to examine it properly. Now, turning it over in her hands, she was even more certain: this thing was a hundred times more intricate than the black ceremonial robe she was wearing — not even ten of her combined could open it.

Hmph. The Emperor was very good at calculation. He had entrusted this troublesome object to her, and could be perfectly confident that no matter what methods she employed, she would never manage to pry it open on her own.

The drowsiness of a sleepless night crept over her. She stowed the Exquisite Shrine back carefully, removed her heavy outer armor, rolled over, and settled in for a nap.

She had no idea how long she slept, before a faint, subtle sound from the base of the tree snapped her awake.

By instinct she did not move at all — only shifted her eyes toward the source of the sound.

Through layer upon layer of deep green branches and leaves, she first saw a pair of slender, fine-boned hooves — then a coat of brilliant gold — and after a moment more, the creature’s head came into view. Fluffy large ears. A neat little mouth marked with white. A wedge-shaped head set with a pair of alert, watchful black eyes.

A golden muntjac.

Xiao Nanhui’s eyes went wide.

In the Spring Hunt awards, the first tier of gold prizes went to brown bears, mythical beasts, and leopards. The second tier went to tigers, leopards, jackals, and wolves. The third tier went to foxes, raccoon dogs, badgers, and wild boar. The fourth tier went to roe deer, deer, musk deer, and elk.

And beyond these categories, for the sake of added interest, the handlers responsible for managing the preserve’s wildlife always introduced a special feature. This year’s special feature was the golden-coated muntjac.

Whoever caught the golden muntjac would win outright.

The muntjac was timid by nature and extraordinarily keen-sensed — the slightest disturbance from a thousand li away would make it vanish in the blink of an eye. Even in the depths of the mountains it was rarely encountered, and with the racket of hoofbeats and bowstrings in the hunt, one would be lucky to catch even a glimpse of its fur.

Xiao Nanhui quietly shifted on the tree, rolling into a position with a better angle of observation on her quarry.

It was a doe — hornless, with only a slight raised ridge. Beneath her eyes, two black-and-white streaks ran like tear stains. She had followed the sound of the stream, arriving at the bank to pick through the newly grown fresh water-weeds at the waterline, her tail wagging with contentment.

Xiao Nanhui reached back and unhooked a crossbow from her back, readying herself to string and draw.

She could no longer pull a full-sized bow. In close combat she could still rely on a blade, but for hunting she was at a great disadvantage. She had borrowed this defensive crossbow from Mo Chunhua.

The crossbow was lighter than an ordinary longbow — but the doe was even sharper than she had anticipated. The faintest scrape of Xiao Nanhui’s fingertip against the trigger string was enough to startle the creature.

The golden figure hesitated — then turned and fled.

Xiao Nanhui cursed under her breath. She had no time to fasten her armor properly, and instead grabbed it and flipped down from the tree. One sharp whistle, and Jixiang came bounding forward to catch her, and the two of them gave chase after the fleeing figure.

Riding at speed through the forest was the height of recklessness — the roots underfoot crossed and tangled, the light was dim and shifting, and a single misstep could bring a horse down.

But Jixiang was no ordinary horse. In years past he had roamed north and south with Xiao Nanhui, and knew this terrain as well as any creature born to it. His stubbornness, too, was legendary — he had never admitted to being unable to outrun any four-legged animal, and so, huffing and straining, he gave chase for several li without pause.

When Xiao Nanhui raised her head and looked around her, she found she had already drawn close to the deepest part of the mountain.

The hunt was bounded by the forestland, with the mountain foothills as its limit. She had nearly reached the edge of the Yulin Villa’s territory.

Not far ahead, the golden doe, pressed into something like a corner, leapt three times, five bounds, and disappeared into a gap where two mountain faces met. The terrain there was too steep and sheer for horses to pass. Xiao Nanhui saw this and quickly dismounted, running on foot in pursuit. She rounded a few groves of Chinese hornbeam — and then her footsteps slowed to a stop.

Sheer rock walls towered on both sides. Between them, a narrow passage stretched into dimness. Strange stones blotted out the sky. Moss covered every surface in a thick, light-blocking green.

A slot canyon.

She had traveled through no few deep mountain forests in her time, and had seen plenty of such places in the most rugged terrain — passages so narrow that only one person might pass. A strategist knew the uses of such advantages well. A slot canyon like this was an ideal position for ambush and slaughter — a handful of archers and infantry was enough to ensure that even a thousand mounted soldiers would go in and not come out.

And so, for as long as she could remember, she had always taken the high ground instead of the low. Whenever she encountered a slot canyon, she would avoid it if she could.

Such places mean danger.

Yet the quality that emanated from the landscape before her felt instinctively different from any such place she had seen before.

This slot canyon was visible only for a dozen paces or so ahead. Beyond that, the overhanging rock above closed in and sealed off the sky, while the ground below shifted from fine grass to tumbled stones — great boulders piled against one another in disorder, the gaps between them fathomlessly deep, as though the darkness beneath extended a hundred zhang downward, all the way to the very heart of the earth.

The depths of that fissure were too still. Even the wind could not enter. The twisted vines and the thick wet moss conveyed a weight accumulated over long ages.

She felt a primitive and ancient pressure — putrid and heavy — as though to look one moment longer into those depths would be to be pulled in, never to see daylight again.

Just like the doe.

Should she follow?

Her feet hesitated. Just as she was about to step forward, a sharp voice rang out from behind her.

“Xiao Nanhui!”

She snapped back to herself and turned. A short, stout figure was standing on a broken tree stump not far behind her. The stump, groaning under the weight, let out a low creak.

It was Bolao — who she had not seen for many days.

She looked somewhat exasperated, and less well-nourished than she had the last time.

“I called you three times before you turned around. Did something get into you?”

Three times? Had she really called three times?

Xiao Nanhui was a bit dazed, but she was already turning back toward her.

“What are you doing here? Where have you been? I thought you’d decided not to come at all.”

Bolao’s expression flickered. With unusual restraint, she did not clap back immediately.

“It’s a long story. Let’s get out of here first.”

Xiao Nanhui frowned.

“Out of here? And go where?”

She still had her eye on that doe — she still thought that a prize of gold would give her a little more backbone in front of the Emperor. Even if that prize money was still his silver.

But in the next moment, once she clearly saw what Bolao had produced, she let that thought go entirely.

It was a string of rust-pitted iron keys, rattling dryly between Bolao’s short, plump fingers.

“Yu’an old city. The Xiao family’s former residence.”

Deep within the slot canyon, where darkness swallowed the light.

The golden doe moved through the black, sniffing at everything, picking her way carefully over the tumbled stones.

Then — without warning — a withered, gaunt hand extended from the darkness and closed around her throat.

The doe struggled frantically. Cries of distress poured from her mouth. Her four hooves struck out in futile, flailing arcs. Her eyes bulged. After a long while, her pupils gradually lost their focus, and her limbs grew rigid.

The withered hand finally, slowly, loosened its grip — and then moved across the beautiful golden fur, stroking it.

“What a pity. One got away.”