As an ancient site for stargazing, the night sky above Suyan in Lingxi should have been ablaze with stars and bathed in gentle moonlight.

But in the middle of the desert, with no towns or hearth-fires anywhere nearby, the moment clouds covered the sky and blotted out the stars and moon, that vast and boundless expanse became a deep purple-black canopy, driving despair into the heart of anyone who looked up at it.

Xiao Nanhui strained to keep her eyes open, her eyelids burning and dry.

Her ears caught it first — a faint, subtle sound from somewhere in the air above — and then she saw the strange dark mass.

It resembled a small patch of cloud, indistinguishable from the darkness of the sky unless one looked carefully, but it moved with terrifying speed, drawing rapidly closer as a piercing shriek cut through the air.

Her spine pulled taut. She loosed her first arrow.

The dark mass shifted like smoke, and the arrow seemed to pass through a layer of black mist without leaving a mark.

She nocked two more arrows in quick succession and shot — with exactly the same result.

Lu Songping murmured, “Don’t stop.”

Xiao Nanhui’s heart hammered. Her chest contracted hard, forcing blood up through her arms and into her head.

Arrow after arrow — drawn, nocked, aimed, released. The stiff fletching flowed through her fingers in a stream of silver light, shooting up into the dark sky.

The dim light of night dilated her pupils wide. Yet the focal point of her gaze shook violently as it tracked that shadow’s movement, and fine sweat beaded at her brow.

How could she keep missing?

In order to rightfully claim Xiao Zhun’s white bow as her own, she had spent every spare moment in diligent practice. She would not call herself an eagle-eyed sniper, but she had always rated herself as first-class.

And yet she couldn’t hit this thing.

The dark shadows coiled and tangled, shrieking in fury, as if well aware she could do nothing to them — and they surged arrogantly forward.

If the target passed over this hillcrest, they would lose their best range.

Finally, Lu Songping moved. He drew his longbow to its full length. In her peripheral vision, Xiao Nanhui caught a glimpse of the arrow he had set to his string, and her gaze lingered there for a moment.

Long head, narrow fletching, the tail feathers twisted inward — the shaft and head were nearly one seamless piece in silver-white, hair-thin and perfectly straight. At rest against the string, it had the stillness of the first light breaking before dawn.

Without a sound, Lu Songping loosed the first arrow.

The arrow skimmed past the edge of the dark mass and scattered it — breaking one large shadow into several smaller points.

And then Xiao Nanhui finally saw what the dark mass was.

Membranous wings. Fanged mouths. Elusive, ghostly movements — a swarm of death’s-head bats flying under the cover of night.

They tangled together as they swept in toward the hilltop, the sound of wing against wing a dense, grating hiss, like something scraping along the marrow of the bones.

In the next instant, she spotted it — one of the bats in the swarm was different from the rest. Something was attached to it.

That was their target tonight.

The bat formation was broken, and they moved to regroup. She immediately loosed another arrow, cutting that particular bat away from the others.

Lu Songping’s second arrow followed close behind, dodged by the creature in a quick roll — but it grazed the bat’s wing and slowed it, and the gap between it and the swarm widened steadily.

Xiao Nanhui sent one more arrow after it. Then her hand reached back to the quiver and touched — nothing.

Her quiver was empty.

She looked at Lu Songping.

Lu Songping’s quiver had held only three arrows from the beginning.

Two were gone. Only one remained.

She dared not speak. She held her breath.

Lu Songping’s hands remained perfectly steady. If not for the arrowhead tracking slowly with the target, he might have appeared entirely motionless.

The swarm had already passed the hilltop, leaving only that one bat — and it was about to vanish into the dark with the night as its cover.

The fingers of Lu Songping’s taut draw hand finally released.

The silver arrow slipped away without a sound, like a silver snake gliding into a pool of ink.

Half a heartbeat passed — but it felt suspended, outside of time.

Xiao Nanhui watched the fast-moving shadow stagger and tumble down like a falling leaf. The breath she had been holding in her chest finally spilled out.

Both of them took two strides at once toward the fallen bat. To their alarm, the creature had not died outright; it was still struggling, and began rolling toward the steep slope to one side, on the verge of tumbling into the valley below.

In that split-second, Xiao Nanhui yanked Pingxian from her back and hurled it in a reverse throw.

Pingxian tore through the air with a crack and slammed the struggling bat to the ground with a metallic ring.

Lu Songping glanced at her, panting, and for once his expression shifted — just slightly. He said simply:

“The spear is not bad.”

Then he stepped forward and lifted the now-dead bat by its feet, examining what was wrapped around its leg.

She followed close behind, watching carefully as the loathsome, ugly thing with its needle-sharp teeth was inspected.

“This thing rivals the night hawks of the An Dao Institute in terms of being a nuisance.”

Lu Songping gave her a look, then replied frankly: “Night bats can’t match night hawks. Their advantage is simply that their movements are uncanny, and when they have a swarm around them, they’re at their most troublesome. When used to carry secret messages, the swarm serves as cover — the chances of escape are actually quite high.”

“The way you talk, it sounds like you’ve dealt with them before.”

A short hum from Lu Songping was all the confirmation she received. He then drew out the silver arrow that had pierced through the bat’s body, wiped it clean, and returned it carefully to his quiver.

“If I hadn’t faced them before, why would I have started with three Treading-Cloud arrows in the first place?”

Xiao Nanhui stared at that arrow and gave a private scoff. So that was something precious — no wonder he had kept them for himself while giving her an ordinary bow.

But in the next moment she understood: Lu Songping had anticipated what might happen from the start, and had made his preparations accordingly.

He had never expected her to hit the target. Giving her the ceremonial bow to shoot heavy arrows was meant to churn up the air — to force the bat to alter its flight path — while he used the Treading-Cloud arrows to intercept and bring it down.

This kind of technique demanded not only a supreme archer’s eye and precision, but also the ability to predict the target’s trajectory before it moved. It was beyond the reach of anyone short of the very best.

A skill like this — and he had gone to be a governor?

What if he was a deserter from the Black Feather Division who had simply taken someone else’s post in Jizhou?

The more Xiao Nanhui thought about it, the more absurd it seemed, and she studied Lu Songping from top to bottom.

“You’re a governor. What exactly is His Majesty having you do in the middle of the night like this?”

“Thanks to General Xiao, catching a spy.”

“Isn’t the spy—”

You the spy?

She did not manage to say the second half out loud.

One could hardly blame her. This man had seemed far too suspicious.

Lu Songping glanced at her, effortlessly read the unspoken second half of her sentence, and set it aside with a bland remark: “They say troops are a reflection of their commander. General Xiao’s spear does have a certain commanding presence — it just can’t make turns.”

He was mocking her, wasn’t he? Mocking her for failing to think around corners?

“Hmph. Even if I can’t turn, I can still fight you for three hundred rounds.”

This referred back to that night in the Kang Wang’s palace.

For some reason, something in Lu Songping’s expression began to shift into something strange. He stared at Xiao Nanhui’s face for a moment, and then appeared to grasp something all at once.

“The surprise assault at Sanmu Pass was His Majesty’s last-minute decision. The Jizhou garrison troops and the Governor were summoned overnight, and we spent the night fretting over the marching route, in quite a sorry state. Now I think I understand why.”

There was clearly something more behind those words, but Xiao Nanhui could not follow. She latched onto one key detail.

“Back when the Black Feather Division was at Sanmu Pass — were you also—”

Her words grew harder and harder to say. She genuinely did not want to ask a question whose answer she was afraid to hear.

But Lu Songping clearly already knew what she was going to ask, and he arched an eyebrow with unmistakable significance.

“General Xiao fought with extraordinary valor that day. This one was most impressed.”

So he had been there, then.

Remembering how wretched she must have looked in that moment, Xiao Nanhui felt her forehead prickle with heat, and a vein at the center of her brow began to throb.

“That was — that was a necessary tactical decision—”

But Lu Songping seemed entirely unconcerned with her crumbling dignity. He was already gathering up the bat’s body and turning to walk down the slope.

“This one must hurry back to make his report. If General Xiao still wishes to stay here and admire the moon, this one will not intrude further.”

The person’s form was light as a sparrow, and the words were barely finished before his voice was already coming from a distance.

The cold wind swept past. Xiao Nanhui sniffled, and felt rather thoroughly used.

The kind of use that ended with being kicked aside the moment she was no longer needed.

The time of one stick of incense passed quickly.

The command tent was again crowded with people. Every general and minister in the campaign sat with necks craned, waiting for the Emperor to deliver a single verdict — anything that would let them finally bring this nerve-shredding conference to a close.

The Emperor looked exactly as he had when that stick of incense began — not a trace of fatigue on his face — and he seemed to be finding the whole drawn-out affair rather to his taste, with no apparent desire to end it.

Just as the assembled crowd was on the verge of surrendering entirely, a hurried set of footsteps rang out from beyond the tent.

Every ear sharpened at once. No one knew what act of this play was coming next.

After a brief announcement, Lu Songping appeared inside the command tent in a cloud of road dust. He casually dropped what he was carrying onto the ground, bowed, and said:

“Your subject Lu Songping pays his respects to Your Majesty.”

Hadn’t Lu Songping declined to attend tonight’s conference? Why had he appeared at this moment?

Inside the command tent, every pair of eyes stared straight ahead. Every heart was angled toward Lu Songping.

Not a few of those hearts harbored contempt and resentment. Since Prince Kang’s death, there had been those who regarded this young Governor with little warmth. Who could say whether he had quietly turned Jizhou into his own territory by now?

“Ah, Governor Lu. We had excused you earlier — we wonder what brings you back at this hour.”

The Emperor was evidently quite indulgent toward Lu Songping, which only deepened the dissatisfaction of several others.

So one could be excused from attendance. Had they known, they would never have waded into this mess and been made to stand here all evening for nothing.

“In answer to Your Majesty, your subject was out night-hunting outside the camp and unexpectedly brought something down. He has come to present it to Your Majesty.”

Lu Songping then spread open the dark, shapeless mass on the ground — blood matted into a few clumps of damp black fur, unmistakably the body of a dead bat.

The military men let out a collective scoff. The officials drew in a collective breath.

“Has Governor Lu been addled by the cold wind? We are here conferring with His Majesty on matters of the utmost military importance — who has the leisure to concern themselves with some dark-furred little creature?”

“This filthy, bloody thing — how can it be presented before His Majesty? Does it not insult His Majesty’s eyes?”

The tent erupted in a volley of complaints, every ember of frustration that had been smoldering all evening now fanned in Lu Songping’s direction. For a moment, more than one person forgot there was an Emperor in the room.

Lu Songping remained perfectly composed, looking up at the one seated above with calm eyes. “This subject came forward because something was found on this creature.”

At those words, a new, wary silence fell.

Yan Guang, reading the situation, stepped forward. “Your subject is willing to examine it on Your Majesty’s behalf.”

The Emperor waved a hand, and Yan Guang began to inspect the bat on the spot.

In an instant, he found the problem. An uncertain look crossed his face.

Lu Songping, standing nearby, gave no reaction.

“General, why are you silent? Has something been found on the creature?”

“Your subject has found — this.” Yan Guang held up the strip of cloth he had just removed, cupping it in both hands and raising it above his head.

A ripple of rustling movement ran through the tent, and every pair of feet stepped forward half a step without being told.

“What is it? We are some distance away — it is not clear.”

Yan Guang seemed to make a decision, and said in a steady voice: “This object is a scrap of fabric. At first glance, your subject believes it resembles the cloth from the inner lining of a Tiancheng military uniform.”

With that, everyone in the tent had a rough sense of what the cloth scrap was.

So it was not a trap closing to catch what was already inside — it was bait drawing out what had been hiding.

The Emperor had played this hand with remarkable steadiness, precision, and ruthlessness. Out here in the desert, deep in the night, not even a wandering ghost could get half a li away without being spotted.

More than a few people were privately astonished. But one person had begun to sweat.

The one who had set this whole trap scanned the dozen-odd faces inside the tent, and continued to perform his ignorance.

“Oh? How extraordinary — a Tiancheng soldier so compassionate toward a wild creature, tearing away his own clothing to staunch its wounds and dress its injury. A truly saintly act.”

Yan Guang’s mouth twitched, and he continued his report: “Your Majesty, this scrap of cloth bears writing.”

“What writing? Read it aloud.”

For the first time, Yan Guang’s voice fell.

In a few dozen characters, every detail of Tiancheng’s most current military movements was laid out — including, with perfect accuracy, the order issued just an hour or so earlier for the Black Feather Division to pull back twenty li to the southeast.

Even those who had harbored suspicions beforehand were shaken when they heard it for themselves.

The assembled generals erupted in outrage. Righteous fury lit every face — those who had earlier wondered whether the Guangyao Division was crying spy for their own benefit now felt their indignation wholly unified. They could have torn the traitor limb from limb on the spot, as compensation for the soldiers of Tiancheng who had died for nothing.

The Emperor tapped a finger lightly against the armrest, as though faintly regretful.

“We had always believed our management of the army was sound. To find that something like this has happened still — we must reflect on ourselves, and ask whether we have perhaps been too lenient.”

Zhu Tingmao, his hands hidden in his wide sleeves, quietly wiped the sweat from his palms. He stepped forward and said loudly, “Your subjects all request a thorough investigation of this matter — we will restore the truth to Your Majesty.”

A number of people stepped forward to add their voices. The Emperor raised his hand slightly to settle the room, then looked toward Lu Songping.

Lu Songping understood, and reported what he had already verified: “Your Majesty, your subject has compared the handwriting in this letter, but the writer had clearly taken pains to disguise it — no identifiable hand is discernible.”

The generals exchanged glances.

Since when had Lu Songping become so capable?

“Then has the sender been identified?”

“Your subject checked the soldiers who were on duty and moving about this evening. By matching the gap in the uniform hem, the individual was found — a squad leader from the prisoner camp. The moment he was apprehended, he took his own life. Your subject was unable to stop him in time. We failed to take him alive.”

At those words, a certain sweat-dampened fist loosened, involuntarily and undetected.

He could barely contain the satisfaction churning inside him.

The Emperor had laid a trap to catch him. And so what? He had still slipped through, hadn’t he?

As long as he remained careful enough, no one would ever find him—

“Lord Zhu, what is there to be pleased about?”

The sovereign’s voice came without warning. Zhu Tingmao gave an involuntary shudder.

No — impossible. His face had shown nothing. Not a thousandth of what he felt.

Zhu Tingmao arranged his features into a look of plain honesty, and replied deferentially, “In answer to Your Majesty, your subject feels this is fortunate — while the spy has not yet been caught, the critical intelligence has been intercepted. Governor Lu’s contribution is beyond measure.”

“Lord Zhu is quite right. However, the meritorious individual is not Governor Lu alone. Just now, during that stick of incense, we had Black Feather Division sentinels posted at high points to observe everyone. Who returned to their tent, who went to relieve themselves, who—” the Emperor paused, and let his gaze settle on Zhu Tingmao — “who went in the direction of the prisoner camp — we are entirely clear on every detail. Is that not so, Lord Zhu?”

Zhu Tingmao kept himself from trembling, but the color drained steadily from his face.

He maintained, with great effort, what remained of his dignity, and offered a calm defense: “In answer to Your Majesty, the reason this subject went toward the prisoner camp was that a suspicious person had been spotted, and your subject wished to follow and investigate.”

“And did the worthy official discover anything?”

“This subject was unable — the individual was too cunning, and slipped away in a few moves. Your subject feared that what he had seen was a trick of the light and did not press further.”

Wei Yuanxiu, standing nearby, watched with cold eyes, then spoke: “If that is so, Lord Zhu, why did you not summon the patrol soldiers nearby to come and investigate on the spot?”

The generals nodded in agreement. But Zhu Tingmao paused barely a moment before replying: “Your subject was not certain whether what he saw was truly irregular, and in these extraordinary circumstances, he did not wish to make a stir. He had not expected that this very choice would invite suspicion. Your subject truly has been wronged.”

My word against yours. This could go in circles without end.

Everyone turned their eyes to the one seated above.

At last, the Emperor’s expression shifted, as though he had exhaled a long breath.

“The worthy official speaks with reason. Yet circumstance is against you — and you were the only one anywhere near the prisoner camp. If there is truly no one else who can vouch for your account—”

The composure in Zhu Tingmao’s face finally began to fracture. He sank to his knees, his voice carrying a thread of anguish.

“Your Majesty, this subject is aggrieved! Your subject has been wronged — someone must bear a grudge against me, and wishes to frame me, to entrap this subject in injustice—”

Zhu Tingmao was not a young man. An elderly minister of sixty years, prostrate on the ground in tears — the spectacle was genuinely pitiful.

More than a few hearts were beginning to soften.

“Your Majesty, perhaps there is indeed some misunderstanding here. Perhaps it would be better to first investigate more thoroughly—”

The Emperor breathed another long sigh. He appeared deeply pained and regretful at the sight before him.

“The worthy official is most sincere, and we have no wish to force you. Since you are a man of such transparent conscience, incapable of bearing the stain of unwarranted accusation—” the voice drifted down toward Zhu Tingmao from directly above, carrying even the faintest note of warmth, “we grant you the right to take your own life before the royal seat, to prove your innocence. Are you willing?”

What pain? What regret? All of it had been an illusion.

This man before him was simply a stone — entirely without feeling.

Zhu Tingmao clenched his back teeth. He made one final attempt. “There is — there is no direct evidence pointing to me — why does Your Majesty insist on refusing to—”

“We have never presumed to call ourselves an enlightened ruler. In managing affairs, we trust only what we see with our own eyes and hear with our own ears, never what others bring as proof. If the worthy official should die unjustly, we will wait until after our own hundred years to meet you in the underworld and offer our apology.”

That was it — the man could bear no more.

He was standing on the inner side of the tent, only five or six steps from the Emperor. With everything exposed, he had no path left to life. The murderous light flared behind his eyes, and his hands were already moving.

The Black Feather guards who stepped forward to seize him felt their grip go suddenly light — Zhu Tingmao had twisted free of the binding ropes as though he were a slippery fish, and before anyone could react, he lunged directly toward where the Emperor stood.

Everything happened too quickly. Yan Guang and the others were white with shock, and could only manage to draw their swords.

Zhu Tingmao’s lips curved in a triumphant arc. Between the tips of his fingers was a sharp, thin blade — a finger-knife — aimed directly at the unarmed sovereign before him.

Three steps — two steps — one step—

Three inches — two inches — half an inch—

He stared at the gleaming edge of his blade and found that no matter what he did, it could not advance another fraction.

The blade hovered at the Emperor’s throat. Killing intent and rushing wind lifted the hair at his shoulders — but could not stir the expression in those eyes.

Zhu Tingmao stared into those eyes, and a bewilderment, a deep and growing dread, began to take hold of him.

How could anyone, with a blade pressed to their throat, hold that kind of gaze? Utterly unmoved — as calm as a dead man.

The pain arrived belatedly, rising from somewhere below his ribs. Zhu Tingmao slowly lowered his eyes. He saw a long blade burst through the back of the tent directly behind the Emperor, driving straight into his left chest.

He had sensed nothing. He had heard nothing. The blade seemed to have materialized from nothing — in a single instant, it was inside him. Even the blood was slow to respond, and only after a moment’s delay began to seep out along the blade, following the strange patterns etched into the metal, spreading and flowing.

At last, the Emperor moved.

He rose slowly to his feet, reached out, and removed the finger-knife from Zhu Tingmao’s hand, holding it close to his eyes as though examining it carefully.

“Lord Zhu has truly been an education. We have shared the bond of sovereign and minister for these many years, and yet we never knew you had such a clever little thing. It must be that we have communicated too rarely — and grown distant because of it. Would you not agree?”

Zhu Tingmao tried to speak. The moment his lips parted, bloody foam spilled from the corner of his mouth. His arms fell slack at his sides. His legs were going soft, and his whole body seemed to want to hang from that long blade — but in the next instant, it was yanked back out, as fast as it had appeared.

He sank heavily to his knees at the Emperor’s feet. His head, grown too heavy, would not lift. He could only hear that low, unhurried voice descending from above him, like the summons of death itself.

“Do not be impatient, worthy official. There is still much we have not yet discussed. We will not let you die.”