Xiao Nanhui opened her eyes and found herself lying face up at the bottom of a stone staircase.

Raging flames burned beyond the massive stone door, their tongues like the probing tentacles of a beast, curling inward every so often before quickly retracting.

She stared blankly for a moment, then gathered her consciousness — which had been scattered into pieces from the fall — and struggled to her feet.

A few steps behind her, Ding Weixiang had already helped Su Wei up. She rushed over and seized his hand, peering closely at the wound on his palm where he had been pierced by the mechanism’s spike.

Amid a faint remnant of blood, she could just barely make out the black dot in the center of his palm, like a speck of grime embedded in jade.

Xiao Nanhui looked at him with tense eyes, her voice even more tense than her expression.

“How do you feel? Is there anything wrong? Does anything hurt? Is there—”

He looked at her quietly, with a childlike mischief in his eyes, deliberately waiting until she had run out of words before slowly opening his mouth.

“No.”

“But — but why?” she stammered, still turning his hand over and over to examine it. “Didn’t you say the mechanism was poisoned? But then why did Zou Sifang get poisoned?”

Ding Weixiang beside her had not said a word, but she sensed it was not because he had nothing to say — it was that everything he might have said had already been asked by her.

Su Wei thought for a moment, then answered sincerely.

“Perhaps because the mechanism is so old, the poison on it has long since lost its potency.”

Lost its potency? The case containing the imperial seal had soaked in the northern marshes for who knew how long, and when it was finally fished out, it had shown no signs of losing its potency whatsoever — had it not left Zou Sifang half-dead in bed for half a month?

Xiao Nanhui could tell he was brushing her off, yet she had no proof and no idea how to argue the point. She felt a mixture of indignation and grievance.

These feelings were plainly written across her face. He could see them perfectly well, yet he deliberately said nothing more about it, only signaling to Ding Weixiang to scout the surrounding area.

“This is not a place to linger. We lit Shen Shi’an like a sky lantern — the Shen Family will not let this rest. Once the fire dies out, they will marshal all their forces and pour in one after another. When that happens, it will be a fierce battle.”

Knowing there was no use pressing further, Ding Weixiang tore a strip from the hem of his robe, wrapped it around a stick to make a torch, and illuminated their surroundings.

They were in a dark, hidden passageway. The air was damp and stifling. The torch in Ding Weixiang’s hand dimmed, flickering into a feeble, dark red.

The flames beyond the stone door were still consuming the air inside the cave. The temperature around them continued to rise. Xiao Nanhui rubbed her aching knees, and the small joy of having narrowly escaped death gradually cooled within her.

“This doesn’t look like a good place — it seems like it hasn’t been opened in far too long. It wouldn’t happen to be the Shen Family’s ancestral burial ground, would it?”

“There’s some moisture here, which means this shouldn’t be a dead end inside the mountain. As long as we follow it, we should—”

Ding Weixiang stopped mid-sentence.

“What is it?”

She leaned over, puzzled, and then she too froze in place.

In the faint light of the torch, she could clearly see that the passageway branched into two paths just a few zhang ahead.

Xiao Nanhui took a deep breath. In the brief silence that followed, she was the first to speak, turning to Ding Weixiang.

“You take him along this path. I’ll go draw them toward the other one.”

Before Ding Weixiang could respond, the man swiftly made his decision.

“No.” The two words came quickly — his voice was not loud, but they carried an unmistakable firmness that brooked no argument. “If we are to separate, I can only go with her.”

After a long pause, Ding Weixiang’s voice came, deliberate and measured.

“This subordinate begs to be excused from following that order.”

Xiao Nanhui let out a long sigh.

This was a return to the same situation as when they had first descended into the cave — three people, each with their own conviction, like three segments of an orange that could never be cleanly separated, pulling and tugging until all three fell apart.

She did not want that.

“Perhaps we could all go together—”

Ding Weixiang glanced at her.

“Even if these paths connect to the outside world, they have gone untrodden for many years. There is no guarantee every route is clear. If we run into an obstruction and are delayed, the Shen Family’s pursuit troops will catch up with us.”

She was not satisfied.

“Then what if I scout ahead first—”

This time Su Wei was the one to look at her.

“How would you know whether this path forks again further down? And how would you know how long it would take to reach the end?”

She finally fell silent. The passageway sank into a heavy stillness once more.

After a long while, Ding Weixiang stepped forward.

The torch in his hand lit up his face, and she had never seen such an expression on him before. It was as though in a single instant he had staked the entirety of his honor as a swordsman — and lost it all, every ounce of his skill and his pride.

“I gave my oath to remain by His Majesty’s side, to follow through life and death, never to betray — how could I break that vow?”

“If you follow me, she will die. If she dies, I will not live on.”

Xiao Nanhui stood still, stunned.

She had once imagined what circumstances might bring her to hear his true feelings. But now that she heard them, there was not a trace of joy in the deepest part of her heart.

Ding Weixiang was also speechless. He could only stare blankly at the man — his palm bleeding, his expression serene.

After a long while, Su Wei’s voice returned, soft and quiet within the passageway, its tone unchanged from always.

“You and I have been master and servant, inseparable companions for many years. You know my character better than anyone. What I set my mind to, I will accomplish. What has already been done, I will never regret. Life and death, meeting and parting — these are only matters of sooner or later. Whatever choices one makes, all roads lead to the same destination in the end. As a warrior, you must keep your edge keen and sharp. Do not let ties to me hold you back and cause you to miss the moment to draw your blade.”

Ding Weixiang lowered his head. His gaze fell on the scabbard at his left side.

He still remembered the day the man before him had gifted him the blade and given him his name, and the words spoken to him then.

A raptor is most alert in the moment before it takes flight. A blade is sharpest in the moment before it leaves the scabbard.

Through all these passing years, he had kept those two lines close, carving them into his bones as the measure of his every word and deed. Yet he had never imagined that one day he would find what was called “cutting decisively” to be so utterly, devastatingly difficult.

If he could, he wished for more time right now — time to think something through, or to leave something behind.

But he understood: fate rarely grants those who must choose too much time to choose.

“Blade and scabbard depend on one another. Without its scabbard, even the sharpest blade will one day be worn and chipped. A blade drawn must return to its scabbard. This subordinate firmly believes that there will come a day when we meet again.”

When he finished, he held the blade across his chest and bowed in a solemn farewell.

“Weixiang accepts his orders and takes his leave here. My lord, please take good care of yourself.”

With that, he stood, handed the torch to Xiao Nanhui, stepped back several paces, gathered his energy, and then drew his blade and struck the wooden beam embedded in the stone wall that served as a support.

With a tremendous roar, collapsing rocks and cascading earth poured down, instantly sealing off the junction of the two paths.

The man gazed quietly at the rubble for a long while, waiting until the dust settled before turning away.

“Let us go.”

Xiao Nanhui raised the torch and shone it into the depths of the passageway ahead, which led to an unknown destination.

Where were they going? She did not know. But she knew they no longer had a way back.

The torch dimmed again, yet it did not go out — which at least confirmed that Ding Weixiang’s judgment had been right. This passage should lead to the outside.

But the road ahead seemed to stretch on without end. An unnamed unease spread quietly through the dark.

She walked forward with the torch, a hollow ache in her heart, and grasped at a topic to fill the silence.

“Just now you said — you said—” she fumbled for a moment, her voice dropping, “you said that if I died, you would not live on. Did you mean that?”

Silence behind her. No one answered.

She immediately felt a pang of regret for asking. Of all the things she could have brought up, why that? Anyone would say something so embarrassingly heartfelt in the heat of the moment — it wasn’t to be taken at face value, least of all coming from him.

“I only thought it sounded like something out of a dramatic opera — I was just casually asking which play you were quoting from—”

She was trying to walk it back when, at last, some movement came from behind her.

But it was not the sound of speaking.

Only a dull, heavy thud — and the footsteps behind her disappeared.

Xiao Nanhui slowly turned her head. In the faint light of the torch, she could only make out the outline of him, sunk to his knees on the ground. His long hair had slid from his shoulders and pooled on the ground; his pale fingers were pressed tightly against the earth, not a trace of color in their tips.

She could not say how she stumbled across to him. She only felt the flame of the torch waver, making it impossible to see his expression clearly, and it was only then that she realized it was because the hand holding the torch had been trembling all along.

“It is all right. Don’t be afraid.”

He finished that one sentence and then coughed heavily twice. A few dark droplets fell on her clothes and sleeves, like the smear of vermilion ink he left behind when stamping documents in ordinary times.

She looked down at the small red mark on her own hand. Somewhere in the haze, drops of water kept falling, trapping her in the rain. The memory of Bolao growing cold in her hands surfaced, unbidden and uncontrollable. Fear took root in the deepest part of her heart, grew wildly, and would not be driven away.

She heard her own dry, hoarse voice tremble with a plea.

“Don’t die. You cannot die—”

Even when a great blade had once come swinging down at her head on the battlefield, she had never been as helpless with panic as she was now. Because she had always told herself she possessed very little, she had never feared losing anything.

But just now — just now, in the moment she thought she had finally come to possess the most precious thing in the world — fate was reaching out to take him away.

“I will not die.”

He raised a hand to wipe the blood from the corner of his mouth, then used his other clean hand to wipe the tears from the corner of her eyes, and then gently shook his head, signaling her to stop repeating those meaningless words.

“I have kept the Qu Family confined within the capital all this time — surely not with the intention of making enemies of them.” He drew from his sleeve a small, flat porcelain vial and poured out the single pill inside, examining it. “I had originally intended to have Qu Mo try it first. It seems there is no longer an opportunity for that now.”

With that, he hesitated no further and swallowed the pill.

She thought back to the time at Mu Er He, when Hao Bai had used the Buddha bone relic as a medicinal catalyst and successfully brought Zou Sifang back from the brink of death. A flicker of hope rekindled within her.

“Is it an antidote?”

He did not answer directly. Instead, he reached out and took her hand.

“From what you have seen and heard at the Shen Family estate on this journey, you must have drawn some conclusions of your own. As things stand, for me, the worst possible outcome is not death—”

In the faint torchlight, she saw those eyes — always so calm and clear — grow distant, only the barest thread of clarity still remaining within them.

“Su Wei and I arranged a meeting point in advance. Once you get out of here, go to the Cold Studio at Lane Thirteen in the old quarter of Mu Er He City and find a man called Master Luo He. Show him the prayer beads on my wrist, and he will arrange for us to leave Huozhou.”

“All right.”

She nodded, pressing close to his face.

“Remember — do not take the waterway. No matter what happens along the road, do not stop. Not until you reach Tiancheng.”

“All right.”

She felt his breath slowly fading at her ear. The hand that had gripped hers gradually loosened.

“Do not be afraid. We will both survive this—”

On the northern stretch of the main road approaching Quecheng, Zhao Youshan was taking shelter from the sun beneath a catalpa tree.

He had pulled consecutive night shifts for several days and had finally been given a daytime assignment. He had seen to his instructions early and taken advantage of this small window in the afternoon to doze off.

He had barely closed his eyes when a gust of wind skimmed past his sweat-drenched neck, bringing a few moments of pleasant coolness.

He squinted in comfort and was just about to roll over and scratch himself when a thin slip of paper slapped against his forehead with a sharp crack.

Zhao Youshan jolted upright and roared.

“Who’s there?!”

A man in black armor was standing before him — he had no idea when he had appeared, and he had not sensed him at all.

Zhao Youshan’s instincts told him something was wrong. He immediately drew his saber, and soldiers stationed in the camp, hearing the commotion, quickly converged and surrounded the uninvited guest.

In his alarm, Zhao Youshan had drawn his saber before he remembered there was still a piece of paper stuck to his forehead. He hastily tore it off.

On it was a portrait of the wanted criminal known as Lu Songping.

He had stared at this face day and night until he was thoroughly tired of it — yet the moment his gaze shifted to the face of the man before him, he could not help but look back at the paper again.

Paper, then man. Man, then paper.

Watching Zhao Youshan break into a cold sweat and stand there speechless, the ring of soldiers around them grew even more tense. They exchanged glances, none certain whether they should move against the man standing in the center.

After a long moment, Lu Songping extended two fingers and took the paper from Zhao Youshan’s hand.

“Not a good likeness? The likeness may be a touch off.”

Zhao Youshan came to his senses. The forty-four rules of military discipline flashed through his mind, and at last he remembered his duty and found his voice.

“Seize him! Take him down!”

With the order given, everyone surged forward at once.

One cup of tea later, the entire unit of the Ding character Sixth Camp was gathered neatly beneath the catalpa tree — some clutching sore arms, others rubbing bruised thighs, the whole scene one of complete disarray.

Lu Songping sheathed his sword and tossed his identification token onto Zhao Youshan’s face.

“Urgent business — I ask, you answer. If anyone questions you afterward, you need only say you were following military orders.”

Zhao Youshan nodded. It was the only thing he could do.

“Did a horse-drawn cart carrying a coffin, driven by a single person, pass through from the eastern approach to the capital?”

Zhao Youshan was the kind of man who had spent many years in the military and had a certain slippery cunning about him. Seeing that Lu Songping had something of a delicate and refined appearance and had shown no intention of taking anyone’s life, his vague and evasive words slipped out by instinct.

“There may have been — but this subordinate is on rotating duty across various checkpoints every day, and the number of carts and servants he sees in between is beyond counting. Not to mention a coffin cart — even distinguished officials pass through all the time, and failing to remember them all is a perfectly common occurrence.”

“Quite the collection of distinguished officials you’ve encountered.” Lu Songping’s tone shifted. Though still unhurried and soft-spoken, it carried a chill that was difficult to place. “I wonder whether those distinguished individuals, upon learning that the wanted criminal sought by the court was personally let through into the capital by you, would see fit to find some means of interceding on your behalf.”

That struck Zhao Youshan at his most vulnerable point. Given his background and abilities, rising to his current rank in the military had been no small feat. In a few more years he could collect his silver and retire in peace. But if he made a mistake at this critical juncture, all the bitter days he had spent licking blood from blades and fighting for survival through sand and hardship would have been for nothing.

“This subordinate recalls now — there was something, yes.” Zhao Youshan strained to reconstruct his exhausted memory from two nights prior, working to connect the broken fragments into a coherent thread. “That night, not long before dawn, an old man — thin and swarthy — drove a cart past. He said he had come from Jiaosong and was heading to Dawei Town to stay with relatives. He was transporting the body of his son. The cart reeked terribly, and several of us confirmed he was not a wanted criminal—”

Zhao Youshan faltered.

He stole a glance at the man before him and, seeing no sign of anger, finally lowered his voice and finished.

“So — so we let him through.”

“But you never actually checked what was inside the wooden plank coffin.”

Lu Songping’s voice was cool — in fact, more refreshing than the breeze that had passed by a moment ago.

Zhao Youshan clenched his fist and suddenly dropped to his knees.

“This subordinate was negligent, but this subordinate is willing to make amends with every effort and redeem his failure.”

He had not performed such a deep bow in a long time. His belt pressed into the flesh of his belly, making it somewhat difficult to breathe.

Yet Lu Songping seemed content to leave him kneeling there. After an indeterminate stretch of time, he finally spoke.

“Not a complete fool after all. You recognized who I am, didn’t flinch, and showed some backbone. Get up and get to work.”

Zhao Youshan exhaled with relief and stood, one hand at his lower back.

“What are your orders, Lieutenant Lu?”

“Pick the sharpest men from under your command and the fastest horses, then split into two groups to carry messages. One group goes west to find General Wei Yuanxiu of the Guangyao Camp and ask him to relay word to the Andao Academy — I will draft the encrypted report personally. The other group heads north to the northern gate of the Yanyi Camp, presenting my token to the garrison commander Yan Guang with a request that he immediately deploy troops to seal off the mountain foot from Douchenling to the Yulin Villa.”

Zhao Youshan acknowledged each instruction in turn and quickly made the arrangements. When he turned around, Lu Songping was already inspecting the horses.

Unease rose in Zhao Youshan’s chest.

In the next instant, Lu Songping tossed his saber back to him.

“Take the rest of the men and follow me to Yulin Villa.”

Yulin Villa — wasn’t that in Yu’an? Yu’an was no pleasant place. Trouble had broken out there over ten years ago, and again just a few months past.

Zhao Youshan had no desire to go, but he knew full well this was a journey he could not avoid.

“This lowly one still has a seventy-year-old mother at home and a pair of young children. May I ask, Lieutenant, whether danger awaits us on this road? If there is risk to life and limb, this lowly one would like to leave a letter for his wife and children, lest there come a day when he can no longer speak.”

Lu Songping led out a black horse. In a flash of silver, his blade flicked out and severed the wine pouch and cloth satchel hanging from the saddle.

“You ought to know that from the moment you put on this uniform, a day like this was always coming. Rather than leaving a letter, you would do better to sharpen your mind for me. Make it through this, and peace and prosperity are all yours.”