Xiao Nanhui thought: Lu Songping was probably born in the year of the rabbit.

A cunning rabbit has three burrows, and only a rabbit could run so fast and so silently, vanishing into its warren in an instant and leaving not a single trace for anyone to find.

She had only been half a step behind him, and yet by the time she thought to give chase, there was not even a shadow of him to be seen.

And of course, the carriage that had brought her here had disappeared as well.

Poor her — when she had climbed that earthen slope, she had been too busy watching his movements to pay any attention to the road, and if not for the relatively few obstructions in the vast desert and the one or two faint glimmers of light from the military camp, she might well have had to spend the night out in that desolate wilderness.

After this delay of roughly half an hour, by the time she rushed back to the camp, breathless and gasping, someone was just carrying a rolled-up bloodstained felt mat out of the main tent.

She froze, and then a wave of cold dread swept through her.

Could it be that the Emperor had already been assassinated by a spy —

She charged toward the tent in quick strides. The soldiers standing guard on either side reacted swiftly and grabbed hold of her.

She struggled and cried out in anguish: “Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Your subject has arrived too late. It is all because Lu Songping refused to show me the way and ran off by himself —”

“What are you wailing about? We are not dead yet.”

A familiar voice rang out from behind the felt curtain, and Xiao Nanhui’s cries died in her throat.

The next second, Lu Songping’s face appeared from behind the curtain. The corners of his mouth curved upward as he said to the soldiers on either side: “This is Right General Lord Xiao. Release her at once.”

The soldiers hesitated and let go of that strange woman, only to see her stand rooted to the spot with her face buried in her hands for a moment, before turning to leave.

“Come in.”

Someone issued another command.

Xiao Nanhui’s feet shuffled back and forth on the ground, but in the end she did not dare to simply turn and walk away, and obediently stepped inside the tent.

The interior of the large tent was utterly still and quiet, giving no hint of whatever heart-stopping scene might have just unfolded within.

But the blood on that rolled-up felt mat had been plain enough for her to see — something had certainly happened.

“Your subject came too late. Please forgive this transgression, Your Majesty.”

“Your devotion to us moves us deeply.”

It would have been better had he not said anything at all — hearing it now only made her face burn all the more.

The cold air she had inhaled during her sprint through the night began to expand in her lungs, and she could not help but start coughing.

“This… your subject had thought —”

“Rise and speak.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Only then did Xiao Nanhui stand up and raise her eyes to look around. She saw Su Wei slowly and unhurriedly adding fresh charcoal to the brazier. Behind him, in the shadows, stood a wooden rack, from which a man hung suspended — the bloodstains on his chest not yet dry, though his face was clean enough. She vaguely recognized him as Zhu Tingmao, Senior Military Secretary of the Upper Army.

So they had caught the traitor. Truly, one could not judge a person by appearances alone. Who would have thought that the one responsible for sabotaging the elite cavalry of the Guangyao Camp, all those millions of crack troops, would turn out to be such a decrepit old wretch.

Ding Weixiang was seated on a low stool in the corner, wiping his long blade. Noticing her gaze, he simply blew at the moisture still clinging to it: “Lord Xiao has come at an inopportune time — the finest part of the show is already over.”

“Still, she hasn’t arrived too late to catch the aftermath.”

Su Wei rose to his feet and positioned himself exactly one step away from Zhu Tingmao.

“To think that a mere civil official possesses such extraordinary abilities — you truly have opened our eyes,” Su Wei said, then gave the iron chain running through the man’s body a shake. Zhu Tingmao’s complexion went noticeably paler. “Before, we were lax — ordinary rope, it seems, cannot hold Lord Zhu. So we had no choice but to borrow the hook-spikes from the armory. Crude, we know, but please bear with it.”

With this final pretense stripped away, all trace of the loyal, honest persona Zhu Tingmao had used as a mask was gone. A certain numbness settled over his face.

“There is no need to waste your breath. I accept that I am outmatched, but I will say nothing more to you.”

Su Wei lowered his eyelids, unmoved by the resistance in the man’s words.

“Lord Zhu, you should know — before you made your attempt on us, we had in truth only come to suspect you. Even the matter of your visit to the prisoner camp was something we learned only when you admitted it yourself.”

Zhu Tingmao startled for a moment, and then his expression changed in an instant.

He should have realized it sooner. Tonight, the camp’s torches had been halved, and even the Black-Feather archers — renowned for their keen sight — might not have been able to tell in the darkness exactly who had gone where. Moreover, he himself possessed some martial skill; it was impossible that he had not been detected at all.

He had fallen into a trap and exposed himself as a spy.

“But —”

“But how did we come to suspect you in the first place — is that what you wish to ask?”

Su Wei beckoned with a finger, and Lu Songping, standing nearby, retrieved a stack of letters from a sealed box and respectfully presented them.

Zhu Tingmao only needed a single glance to know whose letters they were.

“Has Lord Zhu forgotten how our ancestors conquered this realm? The first thing our royal father taught us was how to keep our court officials in check. In the Tiancheng court, the movements and social contacts of every official from the seventh rank and above are reported to us monthly. For officials of the fourth rank and above, beyond that, even their personal correspondence is laid before us. Family letters included.”

The muscles at Zhu Tingmao’s temples stood out as he clenched his jaw. He could scarcely believe that he had been exposed several months ago.

“You are a clever man. You knew that sending secret reports from within Quecheng was far too risky, so you concealed what you wished to say within these family letters before sending them out — quite a reliable method.”

“I am certain I never mentioned this matter in any of my letters. How, then, did you discover it?”

Su Wei curved his lips.

He rarely smiled, and never laughed aloud. This expression was more like a silent, contemptuous sneer.

“Lord Zhu has come to seek instruction. Very well — since today we agreed on candor between ruler and subject, we will not conceal it from you. After our Black-Feather Guards intercepted officials’ family letters, they would examine and review them. This included not only overt communications but also coded language. And since it is coded, there must always be some telltale sign. In Lord Zhu’s letters, starting from half a year ago, a particular phrase began to appear — ‘joint pain.'”

Zhu Tingmao said nothing, but inside he was in violent turmoil.

He had suffered from joint pain for years. He had chosen those two characters as his code word precisely because they should have been the least likely to arouse suspicion.

“Quite so — the phrase ‘joint pain’ seems perfectly innocuous, and in the sense of informing one’s family of an ailment, it would be reasonable enough if written to an elderly parent or a young child. Yet in truth, in a thousand family letters, such a phrase would barely appear once — for illness is taboo, and mentioning it only causes others worry. Those two characters seem plausible, yet they lack the natural feeling of genuine correspondence. And in the family letters you sent to your hometown of Haicheng, that phrase appeared no fewer than three times within a single month, after which news of Prince Kang’s death arrived. That was the first crack.”

“For this campaign against Bijiang, you had not anticipated that we would personally lead the troops. The covert channel for intercepting battle reports sent to the palace could no longer be used, so you had to find a way to follow us to the front lines. As Senior Secretary, you have no obligation to accompany the army on campaign, yet you went so far as to rope in several other clerks to provide cover for yourself — which only drew more attention to you. That was the second crack.”

“Several days ago, our Right General returned to camp in disguise to report to us. You calculated that this might be connected to your sabotage of the Guangyao Camp’s surprise attack, and had someone replace the interrogating official overnight and instructed them to secretly eliminate the person under questioning. That was the third crack.”

“If you wish, we could point out many more. It is a pity that Lord Zhu, riddled with cracks from head to toe, still believed himself to be impenetrable. Whoever sent you has truly poor judgment.”

Zhu Tingmao trembled all over — whether from the agony of his wounds or from the rage burning through him — and after a long pause, he finally forced words out through clenched teeth.

“Your Majesty may indulge in wordplay all you like. I am already a broken man; hearing a few more words is no worse than a tickle —”

“Is Lord Zhu intending to drag his entire family down with him? But then again, it makes sense — we heard that your most beloved only son passed away from illness a year ago, and so, one imagines, you have nothing left to keep you here.”

Zhu Tingmao’s expression did not change, but his breathing quickened.

Xiao Nanhui, who had been standing silently to one side, suddenly felt that the scene before her was strangely familiar.

That was it — Zhu Tingmao was so very like An Lu back in Huozhou. Both had so readily given their lives for that person of unknown identity, and both had lost the one they loved most.

“This is not the first time we have dealt with someone like you. The reason we did not hand you directly over to the Chief Justice and Right Monitor is precisely because we wished to hear a few honest words from you. If you do not speak now, we do not know whether you will have another chance to open your mouth at all.”

Zhu Tingmao’s expression shifted and wavered. He seemed to sink into the memories of the past, and ultimately had no choice but to return to the present.

After a long silence, he murmured.

“Your Majesty is the master of these rivers and mountains, yet you are not the master of Heaven and Earth.”

Su Wei drew his sleeve loosely about him, the wide, flowing robe concealing the prayer beads at his wrist.

“Life, aging, illness, and death; the waxing and waning of fortune; the shifting of the stars — when have these ever turned at a mortal’s heart’s desire? Lord Zhu, you must be going senile.”

“I am not going senile!” Zhu Tingmao’s emotions surged; this was the first time since being nailed to the wooden rack that he had tried to struggle, and the iron chains across his whole body rang out sharply. “May I ask, Your Majesty — the Niexuan Qiu clan has been deluded and dissolute for generations, so why have they been able to reign over these lands for hundreds of years? Does Your Majesty truly not wish to know the Qiu clan’s secret?”

Ding Weixiang was already on his feet with his blade drawn, its point aimed at Zhu Tingmao’s throat.

“Insolence!”

“Weixiang.” Su Wei’s voice was mild, but Ding Weixiang still sheathed his blade, though he positioned himself a step closer to the Emperor.

“Rumor has it that the forty-ninth Emperor of Niexuan, Qiu Yuan, could commune with deities and command the five elements. Is this the secret you speak of?”

The words fell lightly from his lips, yet Xiao Nanhui, listening from the side, was shocked to the core.

What sort of imperial secret was this? Could she please not hear it? Surely the Emperor would not have her killed to silence her afterward?

Zhu Tingmao, however, showed not the slightest surprise at Su Wei’s words. Instead, a fanatical expression spread across his face: “Precisely! Only the bloodline of the gods can be the true sovereign of Heaven and Earth. To serve as a divine subject — ten thousand deaths would not be too many!”

“You wish to tell us that there truly are gods descended into this world, and that the person you serve is the descendant of such a god?”

“He is not a god’s descendant. He is the god himself.” Zhu Tingmao raised his head, red threads spreading through his wide-open eyes. He seemed in that moment incapable of feeling the pain of his body; a strange light shone out from his gaze. “Why does Your Majesty not come with me to witness the divine miracle? Anyone who has seen it will be utterly convinced. As long as one serves with a sincere heart, never mind ruling all under heaven — even immortality, eternal youth —”

“You are mad.”

Su Wei’s voice had gone cold, as if his interest in this man had cooled entirely.

“Take him away. Question him properly. Determine whether the matter of Prince Kang is connected to him.”

Ding Weixiang acknowledged the order and had men lower Zhu Tingmao from the wooden rack and drag him out of the main tent.

The chains scraped a line across the ground, passing right at Xiao Nanhui’s feet.

Zhu Tingmao’s gaze lingered on her face for a brief moment, then he suddenly cried out: “Lord Xiao, how does the Qinghuai Marquis fare?”

Xiao Nanhui startled, and before she could react, Zhu Tingmao had already looked away. He began to mutter things that made no sense, now laughing loudly, now raving and cursing wildly — whether it was a performance or whether he had truly lost his mind, there was no way to tell.

The sound of Zhu Tingmao’s voice gradually receded, until not a whisper of it remained.

A deathly silence fell over the tent. Ding Weixiang and Lu Songping both stood without a word, as if long accustomed to this kind of atmosphere.

Xiao Nanhui could only stand there awkwardly. She began to wonder why she was in this tent at all.

It seemed — the Emperor had asked her to come in?

“You two may withdraw. We wish for some quiet.”

Lu Songping and Ding Weixiang saluted and retreated. Xiao Nanhui hastened to follow.

“Xiao Nanhui.”

She was one step away from crossing out of the tent when her feet stopped of their own accord. After a moment, she turned back reluctantly.

“Does Your Majesty have further instructions?”

“Accompany us for a walk.”

* * *

Dawn on the open wilderness always came a little early.

Light drove away the gloom of the long night, pushing the boundary of brightness ever farther into the distance.

Xiao Nanhui trudged up the earthen slope with her head down, and when she lifted her eyes, she could see, two or three steps ahead of her, the heavy fox-fur–trimmed cloak of that man rippling in the wind like the folds of a great wave.

An hour ago, she had just come down from this wretched little hill, and now here she was, climbing it again.

The Emperor had opened his august mouth and asked for her company. Wherever that man went, she had to follow. And if anything should happen to the Emperor, that brute Ding Weixiang would probably skin her alive.

Utterly unreasonable.

Su Wei had not spoken a word the entire time. The coarse grains of desert sand swept past his cheeks, and he did not even raise a hand to shield his face — only pausing occasionally to cough softly a few times.

At last, there was no path left ahead of them, and Xiao Nanhui, as though given a reprieve, hastened to make this fact known.

“Your Majesty, there is no road ahead.”

Su Wei said nothing. He stood with his back to her and gazed at the sky to the east, not far away.

There, a thin line of red light was stirring restlessly, on the verge of breaking free from the horizon.

Xiao Nanhui blinked. This was, indeed, the second sunrise they had watched together.

She and Xiao Zhun had never watched a sunrise before.

Though she had been following him on campaign since she was a young girl, living through countless nights, in all those countless dawns and sunrises, Xiao Zhun had never once given her so much as a moment to linger and look — and so she had always glanced past them in a hurried blur.

A setting like this one — just the two of them, quiet and utterly apart from the world — had never existed before.

So it was true, what they said: the paths life leads you down are sometimes beyond all reckoning or telling.

Her inner musings complete, she suddenly recalled a scene from that evening at sunset when they had been leaving Bijiang.

Previously, because of various peculiarities, she had not reported this matter at the first opportunity. Now, however, seemed like a good moment to speak of it.

After all, the person before her was prone to sudden shifts in temper. He seemed agreeable right now, but if he later charged her with “concealment of information,” she would not be able to bear the consequences.

“Your Majesty — your subject… your subject has a matter that has long gone unreported.”

Su Wei’s silhouette remained silent. She hesitated for a moment, then decided that since the words had already left her mouth, she could not swallow them back.

“When your subject was in Bijiang, she once caught sight of An Lu. He appeared to have colluded with members of the Bai Shi. Your subject also discovered that he seems to have mastered some form of arcane arts, which bears a certain resemblance to the divine miracle that Zhu Tingmao spoke of —”

“Let me ask you — do you believe there is such a thing as a divine miracle in this world?”

Su Wei suddenly cut her off.

This was the first time, since revealing his true identity, that he had used “I” in her presence rather than the imperial “we.”

But this only made things harder for Xiao Nanhui. She was not so foolish as to think she could presume to speak freely on such a subject, and so she could only hedge awkwardly: “Just as Your Majesty said — it sounds like the raving of a madman, not to be taken seriously.”

Su Wei turned his face slightly. The wind had loosened his long hair from its binding at the back of his head, and the strands swept across his brow and eyes, blurring the expression on his face in that moment.

“My birth mother is the very person he spoke of — someone of eternal youth. Past thirty years of age, she was no different from how she had been a decade and more before. Do you know what became of her, blessed by such divine favor?”

Xiao Nanhui was stunned.

She had heard fragments about the Emperor’s birth mother — only that she had once been enormously favored, but that her unusual appearance had later sparked rumors of demonic sorcery, and her end had been utterly wretched.

If the person before her were Yaoyi or Jixiang, she could clap them on the shoulder and pull them into an embrace, offer a few words of comfort, and then drink until neither of them could stand.

But the person before her was the Son of Heaven, and she had never faced a situation like this.

Nor, she thought, had probably any of the hundreds of officials of Tiancheng.

In a flash, she suddenly recalled the words this man had said that night when they left Bai Yaoguan.

Only now did she begin to understand why he harbored such aversion toward the idea of immortality.

“Your Majesty once said that eternity is a mere illusion. It is precisely because beautiful things will one day pass away that we cherish the present all the more. Is that not so?”

Her words were scattered by the wind in all directions. She did not know how many of them had reached his ears.

The next instant, Su Wei suddenly turned around and stepped toward Xiao Nanhui.

They had already been standing close; this movement brought them almost face to face.

Her feet forgot to move. She raised her head, and she could almost feel his breath — carrying with it a cool, clear scent — closing around her from every side.

“Shall we tell you a secret?”

He had reverted to the imperial “we,” yet his tone held none of the dignity of a sovereign — it was more like a child who had yet to know the ways of the world.

Those eyes — that perpetual half-smile that was never quite a smile — suddenly came alive in this moment. The morning sun blazed behind him, and in that light, even the hair at his temples seemed to carry a soaring, free-spirited radiance.

“Our royal mother suffered on account of others. The one spoken of as mad in the mouths of the world is not her — it is us.”

Xiao Nanhui stared into those jet-black eyes, in which the pale glow of dawn had kindled two points of flame. In the wind, they blazed and spread, gradually becoming a fire that consumed the plains.

“Xiao Nanhui — are you afraid of us?”

The man stood exposed in the golden morning light, every fine hair on his face clearly visible.

It was as though he had shed, in this one moment, all that darkness and all those masks, leaving no room for any scheming or calculation — becoming tangible, warm, and real.

He wore no hairpin today, only a brocade ribbon tied where his hair was bound.

The wind picked up, setting that ribbon fluttering and lifting.

As if guided by some unseen hand, she reached out and caught it just before it could blow away.

She paused for a moment, then rose onto her toes and tied the ribbon back into the Emperor’s hair.

“There are tens of millions who fear Your Majesty — perhaps even hundreds of millions. Your subject is only one person, and her absence would hardly be noticed. So — your subject is not afraid.”

Fine grains of sand swept past in the wind, as if trying to blind someone’s eyes.

The Emperor’s long lashes lowered, concealing the emotion hidden within.

“Xiao Nanhui — remember what you said today. Do not come to regret it.”