“Last night, everyone who attended the banquet besides Zhang Sanlang can be accounted for. Only the General Who Guards the West went missing for a stretch of time.”

“A dagger was found dropped at the scene of the fire. Among the guests, very few possess that level of martial skill. And the General Who Guards the West happens to be one of them.”

As Princess Li Linge listened to her attendant’s detailed report, she began to believe that someone specific had disrupted her scheme the night before.

She was furious.

Zhang Xingjian was easy to deal with, but not without principle—he would surely retaliate against her. And Shen Qingwu… Zhang Xingjian was Shen Qingwu’s brother-in-law, so it was hardly surprising that Shen Qingwu would help him escape. Did Li Linge want to make an enemy of Shen Qingwu?

She closed her eyes, recalling the young woman she’d seen that evening.

Young, cold, resolute. The young female general had stood beyond the screen, towering like a frost blade beneath cold river waters, unsheathed yet already commanding awe through its edge alone.

Shen Qingwu was the only female general in the Great Zhou dynasty, a force the princess wished to cultivate as her own. Li Linge had no wish to make an enemy over someone like Zhang Xingjian, yet she also couldn’t allow her authority to be challenged.

In the cold night, lost in thought, Li Linge shivered, beginning to regret that provoking Zhang Xingjian had truly not been a wise decision.

But what could she do?

That person was dead.

Zhang Xingjian was that person’s younger brother. Of the entire Zhang family, only the “moon”—raised personally by Zhang Wenbi—resembled him most.

Li Linge pressed her hand to her forehead, candlelight flickering faintly against the thin gauze at the window.

Her attendant draped a robe over her shoulders, calling out worriedly, “Your Highness.” Li Linge’s lashes trembled softly as she said slowly:

“Gather the evidence of Shen Qingwu setting the fire last night, and send it to the Shen family. How the Shen family chooses to discipline this daughter of theirs, I won’t ask further.”

She had heard that this Second Young Lady’s relationship with the Shen family was strained. She wouldn’t turn against Shen Qingwu outright, but she would still give her a small lesson.

With the matter of Shen Qingwu settled, Li Linge now had to face what came next: Zhang Xingjian’s retaliation.

Before the new year’s court session had even resumed, several impeachment memorials concerning Princess Ande spread through the court and beyond.

Poorly managed land development that encroached on farmland and displaced peasants; several royal merchants engaged in mismanagement and duplicity; improper relationships between the princess and certain officials that shouldn’t have been made public; the princess’s garden construction draining the national treasury…

These memorials piled up on the emperor’s desk.

The young emperor, who consulted the princess on everything, flew into a rage upon hearing these accusations, demanding the censors be executed. Caught in the middle, the princess found herself overwhelmed.

These accusations she could still manage, but what troubled Li Linge more was the vague, persistent murmur running through the court—

That the emperor should marry soon, ascend to full power soon, and reclaim authority from the princess and the chancellor. What right did a true dragon-emperor have to remain under another’s control, a mere puppet?

Whether or not the young emperor had been influenced by such talk, Li Linge grew privately more and more furious.

She knew that Zhang Xingjian’s hand was behind all of this, knew she was in the wrong for having set her sights on him. But amid her anger and humiliation, she also found herself somewhat lost in thought—

The sons of the Zhang family, with their methods, truly resembled…

In the past, Zhang Rong had used similar methods against her.

The difference was, Zhang Rong had shown her mercy; Zhang Xingjian showed neither mercy nor desire.

Within the Zhang household, dusk had fallen, lanterns lit one by one.

The courtyard was utterly silent, the leaves already withered. Servants gathered beneath the eaves to chat idly, or retreated to their quarters to rest. The candlelight in the main hall burned bright—the young master was attending to matters there, and none of the Zhang household’s servants dared disturb him.

The maids only dared, behind the Second Young Lady’s back, to steal glances at the young master of the house—one to be looked at, never touched—

In the early winter night, a thin layer of frost had settled, the window half open, the young master seated at his desk.

He wore a loose, casual robe in pale yellow, tied with two sashes. Ignoring the maids who blushed and peeked at him, the moon had risen high by the time he’d sat there for a full hour beneath the window.

Zhang Xingjian picked up his brush and wrote, on the rice paper before him, a single character: “Wu.”

His calligraphy was elegant and archaic, refined to the utmost. The final stroke swept upward with flair, the last flick of ink flung outward as though it meant to leap off the page entirely.

Had Shen Qingwu been there, she would have been startled to discover that the character Zhang Xingjian had written bore the exact same brushwork as the “Wu” carved on her jade pendant.

And this was precisely why Zhang Xingjian sat in silent contemplation.

Zhang Xingjian was the third child in the main line.

Above him was an elder sister, second in line, Zhang Wenbi.

Besides her, he should have had an elder brother. But had that elder brother lived, Zhang Xingjian would never have become who he was today—

Few knew that Zhang Xingjian was not Zhang Wenbi’s biological younger brother.

Thirteen years ago, nine-year-old Zhang Xingjian had been led by the hand through the gates of the Zhang household by Zhang Wenbi, kowtowed three times, and was formally entered into the main line of the Zhang family register.

That year, the Zhang family’s parents had passed away, and the eldest son of the Zhang family had soon after died of grief and illness. Only Zhang Wenbi remained of the main line—a young woman alone with no one to rely on, who needed a son to serve as her younger brother and help her restore the Zhang family’s standing.

It was under these circumstances that nine-year-old Zhang Xingjian was chosen by Zhang Wenbi from among a collateral branch of the family.

From that year on, Zhang Xingjian kept the name “Zhang Rong” firmly etched in his heart.

The world would forever compare him to Zhang Rong.

Zhang Rong, who had died young, had become Grand Tutor before even reaching adulthood. He and his father had achieved equal renown, celebrated as “two Grand Tutors from one household.” Learned and cultivated in many arts, gentle and refined, he had been beloved by all. But after his early death, the world stopped speaking of him, because his existence had given rise to a scandal within the imperial family—

In his youth, Zhang Rong, alongside his father, had tutored the young princess, as well as the even younger emperor.

A refined and talented young scholar, and a beautiful young princess—there should have been a story between them. But though bound only by the names of teacher and student, that story was one the Zhang family was ashamed to speak of, and the imperial family kept tightly sealed.

As the Zhang family’s fortunes declined, the past was buried, and the family grew quiet and desolate. Over a decade later, the capital of Dongjing no longer had an innocent, lively princess—only Li Linge, who now held tightly onto power.

All these years, the empty courtyards of the Zhang household had been kept by only Zhang Wenbi and her younger brother, the two of them alone.

Zhang Xingjian had grown used to being his family’s sole hope, used to being called “the moon.” But he never forgot that before the moon, there had once been a sun.

That sun had long since set.

Besides Li Linge, who else remembered Zhang Rong? Even Zhang Wenbi, once Zhang Xingjian had grown up, no longer spoke of him.

And yet, in this moment, Zhang Xingjian found himself forced to remember Zhang Rong once more.

He sat at his desk, staring at the character “Wu” he had just written, then opened an old book he had once annotated, and found within it, with unerring precision, the very same character “Wu.”

He stared at the character, its brushwork identical to the one he’d just written, unmoving for a long while—

This book had belonged to Zhang Rong.

On that night when his senses had scattered, holding the disoriented woman in his arms, the “Wu” character on the jade pendant he’d touched against her skin had matched, exactly, the calligraphy he remembered.

In that moment, it had felt to him as though a lake of ice water had been poured over him all at once, chilling him to the bone.

Now, sitting quietly in his room, he turned these thoughts over: why would a style of calligraphy that should have vanished from this world appear on Shen Qingwu’s person?

Who had Shen Qingwu encountered?

Who had given her that pendant?

Was he simply being overly suspicious, or was there something strange behind Zhang Rong’s “death”? What did Shen Qingwu know, and what did Li Linge know? On the night he’d been drugged, was it truly nothing more than an incident between a man and a woman, or was there some other conspiracy at work?

This world shouldn’t hold so many strange coincidences.

“General, once we’ve paid visits to these few remaining officials, we should leave Dongjing and head back to Yizhou.”

That night, Yang Su returned from outside with several other officers, carrying bags large and small, cheerfully delivering this good news to Shen Qingwu.

Sitting at her desk, absently turning the jade pendant beneath her collar between her fingers, Shen Qingwu looked up, gazing at them with utter indifference.

Shen Qingwu said nothing.

Having spoken with her more these past few days, Yang Su had come to understand her temperament somewhat better, and reminded her with a smile: “General, won’t you pick up a few things to bring back to Yizhou, to share with your friends? Dongjing’s riches don’t come around every day—it’s not easy to make this trip.”

Shen Qingwu showed no interest. “I have no friends.”

Yang Su studied her for a long moment, and seeing no response, cleared his throat awkwardly. “Even if not for anyone else, General Bo has advanced your career every step of the way—won’t you prepare a gift for him at least?”

Shen Qingwu suddenly understood.

She’d learned something.

Shen Qingwu stood up and asked, “When do we leave for Yizhou?”

Yang Su, caught off guard by her decisiveness, answered, “We should at least let the men spend the Lantern Festival in Dongjing. We ought to leave after the festival, or we’ll run afoul of court convention… General, you’re leaving just like that?”

Shen Qingwu had already left the post station, and naturally couldn’t answer his question.

Along the market street by Nine Bridges Gate, Shen Qingwu wandered from one end to the other, but had no idea what Bo Rong might like. She didn’t trust her own judgment, and after circling the whole street, still hadn’t decided on anything.

Without realizing it, she found herself in a quiet, secluded lane behind the market. The Bian River ran cold and clear; looking up, she saw the bright moon hanging behind the high walls, and paused.

This alley was where the Zhang family resided.

This was where Zhang Xingjian lived.

A thought suddenly struck Shen Qingwu: both Bo Rong and Zhang Xingjian were fine-looking men. Though one was a military officer and the other a scholar, when Bo Rong wasn’t on the battlefield, his elegant, unhurried bearing wasn’t so different from Zhang Xingjian’s.

So perhaps, in choosing a gift for Bo Rong, she could take some inspiration from Zhang Xingjian’s tastes?

The Zhang family was an ancient clan spanning centuries, something a newly risen house like the Shen family could never compare to. Surely Zhang Xingjian’s residence held all manner of fine antiques and curiosities she could draw ideas from.

With a plan in mind, Shen Qingwu once again lightly scaled the wall of the Zhang estate, making her way with practiced ease toward Zhang Xingjian’s courtyard.

…Having someone doesn’t trouble the heart; it’s the almost-having that gnaws at it. Ever since that night, she’d been restless, unable to settle.

Now, at last, she’d found herself an excuse.

The cold night wind stirred. Shen Qingwu leapt lightly onto the eaves, and the moment her foot touched a roof tile, she felt as though she’d stepped on a taut wire. She sprang sideways toward a nearby tree, only to catch a glint of cold light flashing among the leaves—the glint of a weapon.

Alarm surged through Shen Qingwu, and in the dead of night she leapt again, retreating swiftly—

What was that troublesome moon up to this time?!

Bells beneath the eaves rang out, rustling and jangling.

Inside the dimly lit room, Zhang Xingjian, seated by the window in thought, heard the bells and rose to push the window open—

Hm?

That little thief who was always sneaking into the Zhang household, who hadn’t come in the past few days—had she come again?

The trap he’d set was finally about to prove useful.