Zhang Xingjian’s courtyard had already been turned into an airtight iron barrel. No matter which direction Shen Qingwu ran, blades and sharp edges waited for her in the cold night.

When the bells below rustled, Shen Qingwu caught the instant’s stillness in the air—danger was closing in from behind. She always trusted her instincts; even with a clear path to safety in sight, she twisted violently mid-air, spinning around.

An arrow shot out from the trees behind her, grazing past her cheek.

A few strands of dark hair fell loose at her ear as she crouched on the roof, hearing footsteps converging from all sides, hearing Chang Lin’s sharp shout: “Assassin! Protect the young master—”

Shen Qingwu’s eyes were cold as autumn frost, her heartbeat not quickening in the slightest.

This was clearly a trap set specifically for her. Hidden weapons came from every direction; she wasn’t afraid of the fight—her only frustration was that she had no free hand to conceal her identity.

Shen Qingwu twisted aside to dodge a thin blade flying at her from the rear side, and as she turned, a dagger shot from her sleeve, striking at the net closing in from above.

Guards converged on the scene, Chang Lin at the forefront, drawing his blade: “How dare this little thief try to assassinate the young master—huh—”

He froze, eyes going wide.

Those clear, distant eyes, that perpetually cold expression, that tall, slender figure carrying an air of fierce menace… the woman’s slightly disheveled hair clung to her cheek. Chang Lin was still staring in shock when Shen Qingwu struck without hesitation, one palm sending him flying backward through the air.

More guards closed in around Shen Qingwu, shouting in unison: “Surrender!”

Chang Lin, knocked flat and struggling to rise, let out a half-formed cry: “Young Master!”

He turned to see Zhang Xingjian stepping out from the house into the quiet, cold night, his apricot-yellow robe fluttering, a wolf-hair brush in hand, the ink on it still wet.

Zhang Xingjian’s dark eyes were like glass resting in clear water, lantern light pooling softly over him. He was watching, intently, the young woman locked in fierce combat with the guards throughout his courtyard.

Chang Lin scrambled up from the ground and charged at Shen Qingwu once more.

He knew he didn’t need to say anything more—the young master had already recognized who this night intruder was. Since he’d said nothing, naturally they were to continue trying to capture her alive.

Poor Second Young Lady Shen… how had she ended up at their young master’s mercy?

Zhang Xingjian watched quietly as Shen Qingwu fought through the courtyard.

Her movements were sharp, her reflexes swift; aside from not managing to cover her face in time, she’d made almost no mistakes in the fight. But no matter how skilled she was, the courtyard held far too many hidden mechanisms and weapons—as she guarded against blades coming from every direction, her martial robe was torn through in several places with a soft rustling sound.

Had she truly not been so highly skilled, she would certainly have been caught here tonight.

In the midst of the fierce fighting, Chang Lin fell back to Zhang Xingjian’s side again, asking quietly: “Young Master…”

—Should he trigger the next layer of traps to properly trap Shen Qingwu?

Zhang Xingjian said nothing. Chang Lin looked up to study him, catching a trace of hesitation on his face.

Chang Lin was utterly astonished: their ruthless, merciless third young master—hesitating?

Hesitating over what?

Shen Qingwu?

Chang Lin felt a little glad on Shen Qingwu’s behalf—as long as the young master didn’t order the truly dangerous mechanisms activated, she wouldn’t be seriously hurt. Chang Lin thought there must be some misunderstanding here—how could Second Young Lady Shen possibly be trying to assassinate the young master?

Didn’t Second Young Lady Shen intend to talk things over with the young master about what had happened the night of the princess’s banquet?

In the darkness, Zhang Xingjian watched unblinking as Shen Qingwu was forced back step by step by the surrounding guards.

He was indeed somewhat hesitant.

The wolf-hair brush in his hand, ink still wet, reminded him of the character “Wu” on his desk, and reminded him to remember the jade pendant on Shen Qingwu’s person.

She had some connection to his brother, who should have been long dead.

If he hurt her now, how would he ever uncover the truth?

But if he didn’t hurt her, wouldn’t that only encourage her fondness for him?

He needed to find a way to both give Shen Qingwu a small lesson for her excessive liberties, and let her understand the extent of his “tolerance” toward her.

Zhang Xingjian closed his eyes, exhaling softly: the person who’d been secretly spying on his household all this time wasn’t an assassin, wasn’t a spy—it was Shen Qingwu after all…

He should have been thinking about how to extract information about Zhang Rong from her. Instead, his mind went blank for a moment, drifting to thoughts entirely unrelated to the present situation.

He thought of that deeply intimate, lingering kiss at the princess’s banquet. He thought of the bewildered look in Shen Qingwu’s eyes three years ago, in the rain, when her blade had struck him. He thought, too, of the recurring dream—a young woman riding away amid drifting yellow leaves, never once looking back.

Zhang Xingjian silently thought to himself: Shen Qingwu, do you even understand what you’re doing? You swore we’d have nothing to do with each other ever again—is this because you can’t accept that, or because you can’t let go?

But you don’t even seem to understand what “feelings” really mean.

“Young Master—” Chang Lin’s raised, urgent cry made Zhang Xingjian’s lashes tremble faintly.

He looked up, and in the next instant saw a dark shape lunging straight at him—

Zhang Xingjian’s vision went dark for a moment, then a faintly familiar, chilled presence collided against him. Someone seized him by the throat from behind, and Shen Qingwu’s voice sounded out: “Don’t move. Take one more step and I’ll kill him.”

The guards froze in place.

Chang Lin, furious: “Shen Qingwu, how dare you! Do you think you can escape? You’d do better to stay and explain why you broke into the Zhang household at night—”

He saw Zhang Xingjian’s eyes lowered, the corner of his mouth curved in a faint smile.

The woman behind him had always had considerable grip strength, her hand pressing a red mark into his throat, yet Zhang Xingjian looked distracted, utterly absent-minded.

Chang Lin: “…”

Young Master, you’re about to be strangled by Shen Qingwu—

Zhang Xingjian’s lashes were thick and long. From behind, Shen Qingwu could see his dark lashes, his pale profile. She found herself briefly lost in thought, an inexplicable numbness rising in her chest.

She heard Zhang Xingjian murmur softly: “Have you always been this unkempt?”

Looking down, what he saw was the torn collar of her robe, a few loose strands of hair caught on her sleeve, and… a long red mark visible on her exposed arm.

That was from a few days ago, in the cluttered storeroom at the princess’s banquet, where his dagger had cut her arm. She’d bled quite a bit at the time and hadn’t even bothered to bandage it afterward; Zhang Xingjian noticed the scar once more.

Shen Qingwu paid him no attention, since dense arrows were striking toward her from the wall above, and she cared little whether Zhang Xingjian might get hurt in the process. The young man she was holding hostage twisted his wrist, and a thin blade shot out from the tip of the wolf-hair brush, swinging toward her.

This caught Shen Qingwu off guard.

But fortunately, she’d already known Zhang Xingjian would make a poor hostage.

Before her mind had even caught up, her body had already instinctively shoved Zhang Xingjian away. He struck a tree stump, his vision swimming with darkness, as he heard footsteps closing in rapidly.

Chang Lin: “Young Master, Shen Qingwu’s escaped—”

Zhang Xingjian said, “Pursue her.”

He wanted to talk with Shen Qingwu.

The night’s fighting and chase had drained Shen Qingwu’s stamina considerably.

She raced through the cold, dark alleys, darting between trees and along walltops. Once familiar with the streets of Dongjing, years away had left her somewhat unfamiliar with them now. Worse still, the pursuers behind her showed no sign of letting up.

The urgency and tension of it all nearly rivaled the battlefield.

The more dire the situation, the calmer Shen Qingwu grew: she would absolutely not fall into Zhang Xingjian’s hands.

Past the second watch, just after the night watchman had passed through the alley, the world fell utterly silent.

Shen Qingwu, breathing hard, held her breath and hid behind the window of an abandoned, empty house. Wind leaked in through every gap in the walls; she held her breath, listening to soft footsteps drawing steadily closer.

Inside, a black cat wandered leisurely across a beam, letting out a couple of soft mews.

Shen Qingwu didn’t move a muscle.

She lowered her eyes to the moonlight on the floor, gauging the distance between herself and the person outside through the shifting shadows. She drew the blade at her waist, her expression growing calmer and calmer:

She recognized whose unhurried footsteps those were.

If he wouldn’t let her go, she wouldn’t hesitate to kill him either.

Cold light glinted off her blade, reflected in the young woman’s icy eyes. Outside the window, Zhang Xingjian stood before the house, raising a hand to stop the guards behind him, who could barely contain themselves.

Under the moonlight, standing at the corner of the wall, he spotted the shadow of the person hiding inside.

Zhang Xingjian’s wolf-hair brush suddenly flicked forward, ink splattering across the paper window. The window paper tore; in the next instant, the thin blade of the person inside shot out to meet the brush in his hand.

Their exchange in the darkness was swift and chaotic, one steady, one fierce—as Zhang Xingjian’s wrist twisted, he narrowly avoided being grazed by the blade several times. Suddenly, a “meow” darted past; the person inside faltered for a moment, and Zhang Xingjian’s wrist thrust forward.

A cat burst through the window, leaping straight at Zhang Xingjian.

Shen Qingwu let out a quick, muffled sound, apparently scratched by the cat’s claws. As she froze for a moment, she saw something flying straight at her…

She hastily stepped back.

Something cold and sharp struck her between the brows, dragging downward hard before falling away. Shen Qingwu grabbed at it and found it was the wolf-hair brush.

Ink streaked down her cheek.

Shen Qingwu wiped at her face just as Chang Lin burst through the door.

She looked up, meeting Chang Lin’s eyes as he rushed in.

Chang Lin couldn’t hold back his laughter. The ink from the young master’s brush had streaked across half of Second Young Lady Shen’s face; her eyes were wide, glaring coldly at him, fierce in bearing yet utterly bewildered underneath…

Chang Lin shot her a meaningful look.

Shen Qingwu said nothing—no understanding passed between them, no idea what he meant.

Chang Lin, taking matters into his own hands, called out toward the door: “Young Master, there’s no one here—the little thief must have escaped!”

Shen Qingwu was startled.

The next moment, she heard Zhang Xingjian’s laugh, light as flowing water.

Zhang Xingjian said unhurriedly, “I see.”

Hidden behind the house, Shen Qingwu watched through a crack in the window as Zhang Xingjian scooped up the black cat and turned to walk out of the alley with his guards.

His apricot-yellow robe fluttered as he walked, unhurried, effortlessly elegant. Faint moonlight brushed over him; he looked cold as a god.

Shen Qingwu stayed alert, watching to see if they’d truly gone.

She poked her head out, tangled dark hair sticking to her face; she brushed it away irritably.

Ink smudged across her lashes. Just as her mood soured further, she saw Zhang Xingjian, already at the mouth of the alley, glance back over his shoulder. As she moved to duck out of sight, her eyes met his—curved with a hook of a smile.

Starlight seemed to shimmer, scattered, in his eyes. His fingers toyed gently with the cat’s tail. Hazy moonlight spun in slow circles across his fingertips.

The cat in his arms mewled, nipping lightly at his finger.

Zhang Xingjian lifted the cat up, rubbing its head gently, his voice soft, half-scolding, half-teasing: “Aren’t you a fierce little thing.”

Shen Qingwu leaned against the wall, hidden in the ruined house.

Her wild instincts caught the strange leniency in Zhang Xingjian’s attitude toward her. Her heart, calm just moments ago, now pounded hard.

Shen Qingwu scrubbed at the ink on her face: he was toying with her!