The rain that had stopped for a full day and night had started again.

The weather in Yu’an was always like this. It was this way now; it had been this way a dozen or so years ago as well.

A dozen years — enough time for a young sapling to grow into a towering tree.

The Iron-Armored General stood before the ten-thousand-strong mountain forest, the horse beneath him shifting restlessly. It was a warhorse long seasoned by the battlefield; its senses were more acute than those of ordinary creatures, and it could always detect the murderous intent lurking beneath that silence.

The general gave a light pat to the black horse’s mane as reassurance.

He too had sensed the enemy drawing near, yet for some reason he was unable to concentrate on this imminent battle — his thoughts were unusually scattered.

It must be because the ground beneath his feet had been soaked with the blood of those dear to him; otherwise, how could he, in this hazy, rain-soaked darkness, have suddenly recalled those memories of a time once bathed in sunlight and untouched by dust?

At fifteen, because of the glorious legacy of the Xiao clan, there was not a single day he had not daydreamed of riding to war and winning glory on the battlefield; he had given not the slightest thought to the warmth and contentment of the ordinary days before him.

He did not know then that a life numbed by killing would become the inescapable curse of his remaining years, and that the warmest and most lively general’s residence on all of Yukun Street would exist only as something to be revisited in dreams.

He woke at the first cock’s crow to practice with his spear, then after dawn followed his father and elder brothers to the Xiaoji Camp to train in horsemanship and archery, not returning home until sundown. After dinner, he was still obliged to study military law and the art of governing troops. His mother, feeling tender concern for him, used “martial achievement must not neglect learning” as her justification to insert him into the academy where the sons of the capital’s nobility and princes studied. Between training sessions, he always had to carve out some time to spend with the academy’s teachers.

His ability to compose literary sentences never matched that of his elder brother and sister-in-law, but he could manage to write a poem or two.

He did not enjoy writing poetry — he always felt that the expressions drawn from wind and moonlit scenes were soft and fragile, entirely at odds with the things he wanted to do. The friends he knew at that time were mostly the sons of his father’s close associates; everyone’s interests lay in wrestling and archery, and when they had leisure time, horse racing and hunting were not thrilling enough — how could they possibly gather to recite verses and compose poetry?

In the scorching heat of midsummer, the academy was unbearably hot, and sitting still to read was torturous. Sometimes he would sneak out of the city with two or three friends, racing horses and splashing about in the clear, cool stream at the city’s outskirts. At such times, he would always enlist the academy’s “inside men” to cover for him with the teacher. After all, both the Bai brothers were excellent in their studies, and even if the teacher puffed up his mustache and glared for half a while, it would always come to nothing in the end. As his way of thanks, he would offer the freshest seasonal river delicacies from Quecheng to the two of them. The academy’s outer wall and the back gate of the Bai residence became the usual meeting point for those few young men. Whenever one was caught, they would take turns “bearing the blame,” and their expressions were uniformly solemn when marching to the teacher’s study to receive swats on the palm.

The dusty training grounds. The academy on an afternoon. Osmanthus flowers and wine. Horses tethered at a tall building.

That was what his youth was like — always yearning for an extraordinary life, yet flowing quietly along in the ordinary.

The path he was to travel was that straight, measured road between the military camp and the city gate; on either side stood towering greenery that blocked all other views even if one turned to look. He was supposed to keep walking along that road forever.

And yet he did glimpse a different view — one small patch of white amid the scenery rushing past.

He remembered it was a dusk at the tail end of summer and the beginning of autumn, the sky a pure, seamless blue dyed gold by the setting sun. He and his companions, three or four of them, were riding back from the training camp outside the city, and when they entered the city on Jiazi Avenue they were stopped by crowds of people streaming to watch.

After some time, a procession of carriages slowly appeared from the far end of the street — red carriages, green horses, flowers strewn across the road.

He learned from bystanders that it was the daughter of the Mei family being given in grand marriage to the Duke Xuanyuan — which was why for half an hour beforehand the entire Jiazi Street had been filled with onlookers.

Being young and proud at the time, he deliberately avoided looking at the spectacle and only complained to his companions that they had taken the wrong road and been trapped by the impenetrable crowd.

From the crowd came a constant stream of eager chatter and exclamations. On the last of the ten carts of dowry stood a massive red-lacquered wooden box. Inside the box was no gold, silver, or fine silk — but a tree. A tree covered with buds, ready to come into full bloom.

A companion exclaimed: that was the most precious item of dowry that Old General Mei had given his beloved daughter — named Yingshui Chonglou, one of only three remaining double-petaled, green-stamen plum trees in the world. He wrinkled his brow and stared at it for a long time, unable to see what was so precious about those dry, gnarled branches, aged into a twisted silhouette.

And then he saw her.

She was wearing a simple garment in a pale color; her dark hair was wound into the style of a man’s topknot. Her profile in the golden sunlight of the setting sun traced a bright and vivid outline. Though it was only half a smile and half a happiness, it was more complete and precious than any beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Everyone’s eyes were on that plum tree. His eyes were on the young girl looking at the plum tree.

He did not understand what had shifted in his heart at that moment. He only felt that the lines of verse he had once dismissed from the depths of his soul suddenly, in that very moment, had something real and tangible to anchor to.

That night he had a long dream — in it they held hands and kept looking at each other and smiling.

He had never had any exposure to that kind of gentleness, and so his imagination of it was naturally quite impoverished.

Yet at the time he did not feel that way at all. He would often feel happy about those dreams, linger on them long afterward, and even set brush to paper to write down verses — then cut the paper on which he had written down the verse, and hide it carefully against his skin.

After all, he was going to be a general. How could a general write love poems?

One day, on his way back to the city, he stopped as usual to let the horse drink at the stream, and on a whim bent the bow to shoot at the reeds on the bank. When he rose to his feet, he suddenly discovered that the piece of paper he always kept inside his boot was gone.

His heart gave a lurch, but his face remained composed. It must have fallen in some corner of this uninhabited place.

Until he saw that piece of paper at the tips of the young girl’s fingers.

He had not expected to encounter her again in the outskirts of the city. After all, any family of standing in Quecheng would never let their female family members go out into the city unaccompanied, let alone linger beside a wild stream at the outskirts.

The astonishment was written on his face. The young girl held that paper, and the corners of her mouth curved in a playful smile.

He read a note of gentle teasing in that smile, and immediately became even more flustered.

“What is there to laugh about?”

The other party shook her head, put on an expression of mock seriousness, and pressed the paper back into his palm.

“Nothing to laugh at. Only — it is surprising that there is still someone who carries his own poems against his skin, to admire at any moment.”

His ears burned at once — whether from indignation or from shame.

“How do you know I wrote them? I was — I was keeping them for someone else — I happened to set them down there—”

She laughed again, but did not expose his clumsy lie. She turned and picked up the bow he had left to one side.

“Your arrow — you shot it wrong.”

He had not expected her to change the subject so abruptly. He was taken aback, and then pride and self-regard began to assert themselves.

He had grown up without anyone ever saying his horsemanship and archery were poor. He had assumed that at his age, no one could do better.

And to have it said by a girl, of all people.

“What is wrong with it?”

The thin-skinned young man was somewhat vexed, but still put on an air of calm composure.

“You think I am deliberately goading you?”

So the young girl was not only bright-eyed and lively — she was also quite perceptive.

He wanted to appear open-natured, so he answered straightforwardly.

“What if you are? Can you shoot better than me?”

“If I tell you that your footwork is solid and your strength is good, but your accuracy leaves something to be desired — would you be angry?”

You know I’ll be angry and you still ask?!

He was already angry, yet still worked to keep his face expressionless; that spirit of not conceding defeat surged back up inside him.

“If you say my accuracy leaves something to be desired — is it the arrow that is the problem, the bow that is the problem, or is it me?”

She watched the rapidly changing expressions cross his face, and far from retreating, her smile only deepened. Then she turned and pointed at a brownish rock on the far side of the stream.

“If you do not believe me — shall we make a bet? If I can shoot an arrow into the hole in that stone, you will admit I am right, and promise me one thing.”

He turned to look in the direction she was pointing, and saw that in the center of that brownish boulder there was a naturally formed crack — so thin as to be almost invisible.

With a crack that size, even holding an arrow up to it and measuring might not be enough for it to pass through cleanly.

In the training ground they also practiced mounted archery, but the military emphasis was on speed and force — the key was to strike a rapidly moving target with penetrating power in the shortest possible time.

He felt the young girl was being absurd.

“Then let us bet.”

The young girl stretched out her hand toward him. “Do you have a dagger I could borrow?”

He unhooked the dagger at his waist and passed it over; the other party raised a hand to take it and deftly drew out an arrow, then trimmed its fletching.

She cut with a firm hand; in just a few strokes the tail feathers had been trimmed very narrow. He watched from beside her, and could only think that the arrow now looked stranger than even the spiraled-feather arrows he had seen before.

Could an arrow like this truly be shot a hundred paces and beyond? He was more skeptical than ever.

In the next instant, the dagger was pressed back into his hand.

“You do not believe it?”

He certainly did not believe it.

This arrow had been in use for many years, and there were no shortage of experienced weapon-handlers in the army. If it were truly as easy as the other party made it seem, why would there have been no advancement in all those years?

The young girl said nothing more. She simply pinched the arrow, nocked it cleanly, drew the bow, and loosed it.

Her young arms trembled slightly from the exertion, but the arrow she shot was very steady.

That slender arrow traced a smooth arc through the air, and with unerring precision sank into the crack in the stone — clean and decisive, without a single sound of metal scraping against stone.

He stood rooted to the spot, feeling as though the arrow had not pierced that rock at all but had passed clean through the very center of his heart.

“Do you admit that what I said was right?”

He went quiet, then nodded. And in the same instant, an idea formed swiftly in his mind.

He resumed his usual manner; nothing could be read on his face, except for the hand gripping the dagger, shifting with a subtle restlessness, betraying a hint of feeling.

“You shoot arrows with decent accuracy, but your strength is lacking.” He paused, and finally said the words. “Shall I teach you?”

“All right — but before that, you must first honor your promise.” The young girl looked steadily into his eyes; beneath her lashes it was as though another small stream was rippling. “I want the newly bloomed Yingshui Chonglou of next year. You will bring it to me, won’t you?”

He smiled too, though he could not see his own expression in that moment; he believed he was still being reserved.

“It is settled.”

A year — that was enough.

He would bring her not only the flower she loved, but also offer her his most sincere and devoted heart.

In those days the young man was full of spirited ambition, and in the end it was precisely his superb archery that won the Emperor’s appreciation, earning him the chance to accompany the imperial retinue to the hunting grounds.

He had already decided: among the exceptional martial figures gathered for the spring hunt, he did not aspire to come out on top. He only wished to distinguish himself as a young standout, and thus have an opportunity to personally thank the Emperor for his grace.

He did not want gold or silver, nor military authority or rank. He wanted only a single branch of plum blossom — and the Emperor would surely grant him that.

Yet what he ultimately obtained was not a branch of red plum, but a sea of blood.

The imperial hunt was to last two full days before departing the enclosed grounds. He moved by night and rested by day, and on the evening of the first day, while chasing a doe, he veered off from a remote stretch of the course onto a mountain fork and found himself unintentionally outside the hunting grounds.

Passing by the Yueze Garrison, his black horse grew agitated and uneasy. He realized then that the garrison troops were nowhere to be seen. The gates of Yu’an stood wide open. In the separate courtyard residence that housed the Xiao Family, blood soaked the earth and corpses lay strewn everywhere.

He staggered through it all, trying to identify the faces of his former kin among those mutilated and bloodied bodies — and at the same time terrified of actually recognizing them.

In the end, he stopped looking at their faces and went instead from body to body, testing for breath — wanting only to confirm whether anyone was still alive. But after seventy-nine bodies, not one had any sign of life. It was not until he found his aunt in the dry well at the back courtyard — barely more than a blood-soaked figure, hacked to near death — that he stopped.

Xiao Dai still had a single breath in her, yet she was no different from a dead person. He had never seen such wounds in his life. Though the weapon had already left the body, it was as if the blade’s energy still lingered within the blood and channels — wherever it had passed, tendons were severed and flesh fell apart.

He trembled as he pulled his aunt from the well, forcing himself not to look at that shattered face. Using two ropes from the well’s bucket, he bound his unconscious aunt to his back, and tried to find help nearby. He knew the killers might not have gone far; he had to leave Yu’an before they found him.

Relying on instincts honed by a childhood spent hunting with his father in the northern mountain forests, he galloped along the mountain track of Douchenling Pass.

In the distance, rumbling thunder came from afar and drew steadily nearer, gathering behind him.

It was not thunder — it was hoofbeats.

Some dozens of people at least, each one rigorously trained, bearing down on him from behind.

Using the twisting mountain road to his advantage, he reasoned that as long as they could not get close, he still had a chance.

But he was carrying a person on his back; the black horse beneath him had already reached the limit of its strength. Even as he lashed the whip until it drew blood, the hoofbeats behind him were drawing closer and closer.

Suddenly, in the darkness, another kind of sound tore through the air — sharp and clamorous, like the shrieking of some small creature in a swarm.

The hoofbeats behind him began to fall into disorder. The sound of metal striking metal became dense as driving rain and wind, stirring the winds in the mountain valley, carrying the metallic smell of blood to his nose.

Before his death, his father had taught him: when on the march, never look back.

To look back meant hesitation; it meant being paralyzed between advance and retreat; it meant the desperate hunger for an outcome.

It meant impending failure.

But the rising and falling howls drew nearer and nearer; the thudding sound of flesh being cut was as though right beside his ear, and he could almost feel the heat of blood spraying against the back of his head.

He still could not help it — he only turned his face slightly to one side.

In the darkness before the storm, he saw a net woven of countless silver threads shifting and changing behind him. Those black-clad riders on black horses were trapped within it, still fighting with desperate strength to cut toward him—

In that single glance, he felt something fly past his left shoulder at great speed, and then the shoulder blade was seized by a sharp pain.

As his vision swayed, he dimly felt that whatever had pierced his left shoulder was a black arrow.

Crows shrieked through the night.

The mountain forest erupted in a sudden commotion — a flock of birds, startled, rising into flight.

The memories dispersed like smoke. Xiao Zhun opened his eyes and saw a subordinate striding quickly toward him.

“Report to the General: to the due east, there is an ambush force of approximately one thousand, likely remnants of the Bai clan. Do we—”

As expected — what had to come still came.

“Have any orders been relayed from the main command?”

“They say each company is to hold its position. Nothing beyond that.”

Xiao Zhun’s gaze moved to the faint point of firelight on the distant plain.

That was where the Beast-Taming Platform stood — and where the royal command tent stood. The entire perimeter of the Beast-Taming Platform was a small, completely exposed plain, ringed on all sides by an unbroken sea of forest and mountain ridges. This made that small plain, formed against the mountain, seem like a dead-end trap, with the mouth of the trap facing the newly opened imperial spring hunt grounds.

What a fine spectacle: the spring hunt re-opened, old debts newly settled.

The spring hunt was the moment when the throne departed the capital — and the Bai clan’s final opportunity. The Emperor would not fail to understand this, and would not be unprepared.

Well before their departure, each of the major camp commanders had already received a sealed order: using the spring hunt as cover, to advance deep into the various sections of the Yulin Villa hunting grounds, to hold the defensive while drawing the enemy into the trap.

Every arrangement was merely one link in the chain of luring the quarry into the cage. What the so-called “spring hunt” was hunting was not birds or beasts, but the old plague that had been lying dormant in the shadows for years.

“Hold the troops for now. Have the guards heighten their vigilance and watch for developments.”

“Yes.”

The subordinate accepted the order and withdrew; as he left, he could not help looking back at the general once more.

The Qinghuai Marquis, still in his prime, had always appeared more solemn than others his age. Tonight he seemed unusually heavy, that silhouette standing on the jutting boulder, as though he had already merged with the earth beneath his feet — turning, in this wind and rain, into a stone figure.