Xiao Nanhui opened her eyes in the darkness.

She found herself standing on a cold, damp surface, surrounded by walls that curved in a circle, trapping her inside.

Everything around her was pitch black. Only overhead, in a small patch directly above, could she make out a sliver of the starry sky — impossibly far away, as though separated from her by ten thousand miles.

Where was this? The realm of the underworld? So the underworld turned out to be a deep well — a rather spartan one at that.

She had done nothing truly wicked in her lifetime, but she had killed no small number of people. Would the King of the Underworld throw her into the lowest pits of hell?

She sighed, turned in a slow circle — and suddenly discovered that she was not alone in this space.

Tucked into a cramped and narrow corner was a stone bed, narrow and tall, and on it lay a person. By the shape and size, it was a child.

Why was there a child in the underworld?

Was it a little ghost? Or the King’s own child?

Well — she was already dead. What was there left to be afraid of?

Xiao Nanhui blinked, and crept quietly forward to look.

It was a child of roughly seven or eight years — wearing a robe that was far too large for them, as though it had been made for an adult.

The child’s face was turned toward the wall, apparently sound asleep, their entire body held in a stiff posture. It was no wonder — the stone bed they lay on was so narrow that even the slightest shift would send them tumbling off.

Just as she was thinking this, the child’s body gave a jolt — apparently startled by a nightmare — and immediately lost balance and fell from the stone bed.

She was given a fright too, and in that instant her eyes met the child’s wide, newly-awakened ones.

It was a face still young and unformed, the features not yet set — yet those long, narrow eyes already showed the beginning of what they would become, shifting and luminous as a pool of water when they moved. The surrounding darkness only made the child’s skin look more startlingly bright — the pallor of someone who had not seen sunlight in a very long time.

What a pretty boy.

The boy blinked, and clarity gradually surfaced in his eyes. He sat on the ground for a moment, then stood.

“Hey.”

The child brushed past her and walked directly to the corner without a word.

He couldn’t see her?

She refused to accept it, and followed after him.

The boy sat down on a flat stone in the corner and settled into a posture of meditation — remarkably correct form for his age. Before him lay an open scroll of scripture, worn and tattered, looking somewhat familiar.

But what was even more familiar came next.

The moment she saw what was on the child’s wrist, Xiao Nanhui felt her thoughts come to a complete halt.

It was a string of beads, the shape of them slightly irregular — too large for that not-yet-grown wrist.

Something this precious, this rare, this singular — there could not be two of them in the world.

She looked more carefully at the child’s features, and the puzzlement inside her only deepened.

Was she inside that man’s dream?

The boy lit a small oil lamp, then began haltingly reciting the obscure characters in the scripture, reading for what seemed a very long stretch of time.

She leaned over the scroll and peered at the strange, inscrutable characters, studying them for a good while without making sense of them. She went from bewildered to curious, and then, under the sleep-inducing rhythm of that chanting voice, found herself growing drowsy.

She didn’t know how much longer passed. When she blinked her eyes back open, the sky visible overhead had turned from starlight to daylight, and the boy was no longer at the scripture scroll.

The light inside the space had brightened somewhat, and she noticed that the circular walls around her actually had a ring of spiraling stone steps cut into them. From above came the faint sound of voices. She followed the steps as they wound upward, and found the small figure sitting at the entrance of an opening carved from stone, the voices drifting in from beyond.

Listening more carefully, it was all talk of state affairs and national policies — dull in the extreme. But the boy listened with great attention, and occasionally had to answer questions put to him.

She pressed closer and strained to see out the opening, but outside was nothing but blinding brightness. She could just make out the vague outline of half a figure seated there — everything above the neck was invisible.

What kind of teacher couldn’t even be seen properly? Not even his face.

She muttered to herself and retreated, trying to climb the stone steps higher. But when she reached the top she found the small skylight overhead was still impossibly out of reach.

What did it matter that she was Right General of Tiancheng? In life, she had fled across the wilderness with him. In death, she was apparently imprisoned underground for company. That hundred taels of gold had not been a good deal at all.

She raised her eyes, and noticed that someone was passing a tray through the cave opening — piled with exquisitely prepared dishes: osmanthus-wine-marinated shrimp, fresh seasonal fish slices, and a four-treasure stuffed dish, all top-tier cuts with nothing wasted, even the soups and side dishes made with care and elegance — likely fit for the imperial table itself.

Oh. The food’s rather good.

She reached out to grab one of the sesame milk pastries — her hand passed right through it. She could only crouch back down in frustration and watch someone else eat.

The boy ate very slowly, taking only a little from each dish. When he finished, he set his chopsticks back in their place and pushed the entire tray, untouched dishes and all, back out through the opening.

She thought of the rules she had heard of for the imperial household: at every meal, one must not eat too much of any dish, not finish any dish entirely, and not leave any dish untouched. In short, a thoroughly vexing way to eat.

Taking in so little food each day, in a space that never saw sunlight with no room to move around — no wonder no one could grow strong or sturdy here. Was this really a prince? Or some stand-in the late emperor had found to take his place?

Various plots from popular story books and plays began tumbling through Xiao Nanhui’s mind. The tale of the cat switched for the crown prince. The secret swap of the dragon child. The story of the shadow and the true self. She amused herself by running through them all, and by the time she was done the sky had darkened again without her noticing.

The boy returned to his stone bed, the same as when she had first arrived here.

Day rose and day fell. The moon waxed and waned.

The boy repeated the exact same sequence of actions day after day, while she watched from a corner, so bored she began counting the bricks in the walls.

Until the third night, when she saw the boy appear to be suffering through another nightmare.

That small, thin body couldn’t even curl up properly — it lay stiff, turned toward the wall, the thin robe tracing the shape of his spine, which seemed to be trembling slightly.

She was in his dream and watching him dream.

The feeling was a little strange — and a little touching.

She had never seen an emperor like this, with every trace of fragility laid bare.

Even knowing he couldn’t hear her, she couldn’t help walking up to him and gently calling: “Hey. Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

The next second, the boy actually opened his eyes.

He seemed to look directly at her face, and then slowly sat up.

Xiao Nanhui found that a little unsettling, and backed up a few steps. But the boy also got to his feet and walked forward — stopping precisely in front of her. Then he tilted his head back and fixed those dark eyes intently on her face.

The staring made her uncomfortable. She murmured: “You can see me?”

After a long pause, the boy’s brows drew together. “Why are you still here?”

Good grief! You could see me all along and said nothing — let me talk to empty air all this time, you little—

She might not dare bully an adult, but was she really going to let a child get away with this?

She reached out to pinch his face — and once again her hand passed through nothing.

Xiao Nanhui was furious: “You can see me, you can hear me — why didn’t you respond for the first few days?”

“Why should I? They come and go, one after another. If I responded to all of them, how would I ever get my studying done?”

Her eyes lit up: “Oh? So there have been others like me who appeared out of nowhere?”

The boy gave a small nod. “Only they don’t linger the way you do. Most disappear within half a day.”

Xiao Nanhui made a helpless gesture.

“I want to leave too — I just don’t know how to get out.”

The boy turned away without concern, as though this were entirely unremarkable. “It doesn’t matter. When the time comes, you’ll simply go.”

Well. The way he spoke, the way he carried himself — truly the same at this age as at any other.

She wasn’t satisfied, and followed after him, pouring out all the questions that had been piling up inside her.

“Tell me, then — what exactly am I? Am I a ghost? Can you see ghosts with some kind of spirit-sight?”

The boy seemed to find her guesses rather beneath him, and said unhurriedly: “If I could see ghosts, then you would already be dead. Doesn’t that frighten you?”

She dug a finger in her ear. “Dead is dead. I already wrestled with that question while I was alive. Now that I don’t have to wrestle with it anymore, it’s actually a relief.”

The boy finally looked up at her, and was silent for a moment before speaking. “My mother told me that you are all people I will encounter in my lifetime. Meeting you now is simply a little earlier than it was meant to be. There is no need to worry — we are destined to meet again.”

When he mentioned his mother, something momentarily fell across the boy’s expression.

He had not yet cultivated the manner he would later have — the composure of someone who had given up everything for a solitary life of cold devotion. Though he appeared far more mature than other children his age, certain emotions could still be read on his face.

Xiao Nanhui gave a small cough, feeling that she ought to at least appear adult-like, and arranged her expression into something appropriately compassionate. “You have a mother? Where is she? Why has she left you alone in this place?”

The boy looked at her with an odd expression, then resumed his composed bearing.

“My mother must attend upon my royal father. Naturally she cannot come attend to me as well.”

She was even more confused: “Then why does your royal father leave you alone in this place?”

The boy looked at her. “Why should I tell you that?”

She was taken aback, a little embarrassed, and feigned indifference: “It sounds as though you don’t know yourself.”

The boy lowered his head to think for a moment, and then said: “So that is what my teacher calls a provocation tactic.”

Having been seen through twice in succession, she was genuinely losing face. Combined with the full stomach of grievance she had accumulated from being dragged here without warning, she simply sat down on the ground and sulked.

The air went quiet again, the same quiet as before.

The damp, cramped space felt suffocating, and one couldn’t summon the least bit of spirit.

The boy stared at the open scripture before him. Suddenly he found he could not read on.

“Why aren’t you talking?”

She gave a sulky sound and turned away.

Silence again from behind her. Just as she was on the verge of turning back to look, the boy’s voice arose very quietly.

“Almost everyone who knows my secret is no longer in this world.”

Xiao Nanhui turned back around, and said with full sincerity: “It doesn’t matter — I’m barely even a person anymore. You can tell me without worry.”

The boy stared at her for several seconds, and then — actually smiled. Immediately seeming to catch himself, he swiftly composed his expression again.

“My royal father says I have a hysterical affliction. Until this illness is under control, he cannot allow me to leave.”

“Hysterical?” Something about that word struck her as off, though she couldn’t quite place what.

“I must learn to govern my emotions. Anger, grief, joy, fear — all of them cause me to lose control, and when I lose control, everyone around me suffers.”

This time, silence was hers.

She remembered why she was here.

“Hey.” The boy called to her softly. “I’ve said so much to you, and you still haven’t told me your name.”

Xiao Nanhui looked quietly at the boy’s face, and felt as though this moment had somehow frozen still.

She opened her mouth: “My name is—”

Xiao Nanhui—

A voice arose suddenly near her ear.

She startled, then stuck a finger in her ear. “Did you hear something just now?”

The boy shook his head gently, still looking at her. “You were saying — your name?”

Xiao Nanhui—

The voice drew closer, as though it was inside her very head.

She got to her feet. She had just been about to say something to the boy when everything went dark before her eyes, and a force seized hold of her and sent her plunging.

She sank again into that dim, blurring darkness, and after a time she couldn’t measure, she followed the voice that had been calling her name and began moving toward the light.

The light seemed to hold the shape of a figure, swaying there, back and forth—

Oh, that’s really annoying.

She shot out her hand and grabbed hold of that shadow, and suddenly she was awake.

What greeted her eyes was a face the size of a round flatbread, set with a pair of thick brows and wide eyes that were currently rolling around to look at her.

“Awake?”

Xiao Nanhui bolted upright from the bed, and then — like someone shaking off the last grip of a nightmare — gradually came back to herself.

She looked at the face before her, the face she had thought about day and night and ached to see, and her lips trembled. A wail rose in her throat, and she threw her arms around the person in a fierce bear hug.

Bolao wheezed, half-strangled, and cursed: “What is wrong with you? Hao Bai! Hao Bai! You quack — didn’t you say she was fine?!”

The room door was shoved open, and a certain someone in white robes strode in with long steps, bringing with him a light scent of face powder.

“Move. Let me check.”

He pressed two fingers to her wrist in an exaggerated display of medical gravitas, then stroked his nonexistent two little whiskers and intoned unhurriedly: “From what this pulse tells me — constitution excellent, generally robust — only with some congenital deficiency of the intellect, which I fear is quite beyond my abilities to remedy—”

She had known perfectly well he would not have a single kind thing to say.

“Get lost.”

Xiao Nanhui swung a foot at him. He sidestepped it with practiced ease — no doubt a skill sharpened during their days in Bijiang.

Bolao was still standing to one side with her arms crossed, expression skeptical. “Truly nothing wrong with her?”

Hao Bai pointed at the person on the bed with residual alarm. “Look at that energy of hers — does she look like someone with something wrong? And that leg — I set it myself — look at the strength, look at the agility—”

She pushed herself up on the bed with her arms, and aside from some mild dizziness — probably from lying in bed too long — she felt no worse.

“How long have I been asleep?”

Bolao held up three fingers.

“Three days?”

In her mind flickered a few fragments of the dream. She had seemed to spend three days in that strange place too.

Was it really only a dream? How had it felt so vivid—

While she was still turning it over in her mind, Bolao leaned close again and studied her face hard. “I still say it’s not congenital deficiency — it’s the brain getting rattled later. She can’t even count a few fingers.”

Xiao Nanhui pushed her face away, already too tired to bother.

“Where is His Majesty? Is he all right?”

The room went quiet for a few seconds. Her face changed at once, and she began scrambling urgently to get off the bed and into her shoes.

Hao Bai quickly spoke up: “What’s the hurry? I haven’t said anything yet. If that person had actually come to harm, do you really think you’d be waking up in a condition like this?”

She felt dazed, and more than anything else, anxious. “Then what is his condition?”

“The arrow he took in the back was indeed very serious. But at the moment there is no immediate danger to his life. Only—”

Hao Bai paused for a moment, as though weighing how to phrase it.

“Only what?” She was growing more agitated.

“Only he hasn’t regained consciousness yet. And even when he does — I’m not sure what we’ll find.”

The events of those final moments in the cave before she had lost consciousness came flooding into her mind like a tide, tangling with the already-fading dream, until her head throbbed with it all.

What in the world had actually happened?

“I need to go see him — just one look. From a distance—”

Bolao spoke up suddenly: “I’d advise you not to go over there.”

“Why not?”

Bolao’s eyes went impossibly wide, as though baffled that Xiao Nanhui was asking such a dim-witted question. “Why not? Ding Weixiang’s lackeys would love nothing better than to chop you into a thousand pieces right now. That’s why not.”

She finally drew her foot back.

“When did you get this close to the Emperor?” Hao Bai, lounging nearby with his legs crossed, put this question with characteristic directness.

Xiao Nanhui steadied herself and gave him a flawless answer: “His Majesty was personally escorted here under my protection. Is it not my duty to be concerned about whether he lives or dies?”

Hao Bai offered a cryptic little smile, clearly not intending to let this go. “You know, he is actually—” He deliberately paused, then continued: “— don’t you have any other feelings about that?”

Bolao’s eyes narrowed with quick interest. “He’s actually what?”

Hao Bai pointed at Xiao Nanhui. “Ask her.”

With that, voices outside announced: “Is Physician Hao present? Lieutenant Ding requests your presence.”

“Coming directly.”

Hao Bai shot Xiao Nanhui a meaningful look, then rose and drifted gracefully out, leaving her and Bolao to stare at each other across an awkward silence.

She was genuinely afraid Bolao would press her on that half-finished question, since she truly didn’t know where she would even begin, and so she spoke first: “I have something important to ask you. How did you find us?”

What she actually wanted to ask was: what exactly did you see when you arrived?

Bolao studied her for a moment, then asked in return: “You don’t remember any of it? Not even how His Majesty came to be shot with an arrow?”

Her heart hammered. On instinct she lied: “I don’t remember. I only remember running into a group of assassins — they looked very much like that group we encountered in Mu Er He. I fought them, and then, then—”

She was running out of story to tell.

It was her own fault for lying in bed so long — her brain was even less reliable than usual.

Just as she was sure she was about to give herself away, Bolao picked up right where she had trailed off and carried it forward for her.

“No wonder, no wonder. They say the sandstone in Lingxi is loose, and that inside the caves you must never raise your voice — otherwise the whole thing might come crashing down. And yet there you were, fighting a battle inside one. I imagine that’s why a section of the cave collapsed.”

“Collapsed?” Xiao Nanhui murmured to herself.

The cave had collapsed because of their fight?

She was fairly certain that was not what had actually happened. But Bolao appeared fully convinced.

“Could it be anything else? When we got the night owl’s message and arrived, we found you practically without any effort at all — precisely because that whole section of caves had come down completely. It took a full company of soldiers an entire day of digging before they pulled the two of you out. The fact that you came out alive at all is genuinely lucky.”

Xiao Nanhui fell into a brief silence. Then another thing that had been weighing on her surfaced.

“What about my adoptive father? Is he all right? Did he come with you? Is he—”

Bolao hadn’t even managed to open her mouth when hurried footsteps sounded outside the door.