Shen Qingwu first met Zhang Xingjian just as the Milky Way seemed to play its pipes, and the parasol trees gazed up at the moon.

In the nineteenth year of Tianlong, a great war broke out between Great Zhou and the Western Di.

The great hero Shen Jie and his wife together held Ganzhou, until both fell in battle. The Shen couple gave their lives for their country, leaving behind only a daughter living alone in their old estate in Jiangnan. The Shen clan of the Eastern Capital petitioned to support Shen Jie’s line, and every member of the Shen family threw themselves into the war effort.

That summer, sixteen-year-old Shen Qingwu, under the instructions of her elders, traveled south of the Yangtze to bring the orphaned girl Shen Qingye, who had lost both her parents, back to the Eastern Capital.

Shen Qingwu took Shen Qingye and, dodging danger at every turn, spent months crossing the Yellow River. As they traveled north, the two girls heard that the court had sent a minister to the border to form an alliance with the Western Di — a minister who would not disgrace Great Zhou’s dignity, so that Great Zhou would soon welcome an era of peace.

Hearing this, Shen Qingye wept in the night, torn between joy that the nation would know peace and grief that both her parents were gone, leaving her to depend on others with no idea what would become of her.

But the name Shen Qingwu heard most often was “Zhang Xingjian.”

Though young, she was of a gloomy temperament, and hearing others discuss this name everywhere left her feeling nothing in particular.

Over tea and meals, whenever her cousin wept in sorrowful self-pity, Shen Qingwu would sit calmly nearby, gnawing on a steamed bun, listening to the tea-house storytellers discuss “Zhang Xingjian” —

“A fine son of the Zhang family — barely of capping age, and already he’s taken first place in the palace examination! He argued down a whole court of scholars, and young as he is, he talked the Western Di envoys until they coughed up blood. This alliance — we owe it all to him!”

“A hero in his youth! The Zhang family’s talents had all but withered — the great clans had nearly forgotten them. Then this young master of the Zhang family bursts forth — once he does anything at all, it’s astonishing.”

“I heard this young man is as lovely as a beautiful woman, gentle and warm-natured. If I had a daughter, I’d break down the Zhang family’s gates myself.”

“Ha ha ha, the Zhang family sets its sights high — they’d never look twice at the likes of you!”

The storyteller and the passersby all discussed the young hero’s glory for the nation. Mixed in among the crowd, Shen Qingwu thought quietly to herself —

“These people have it wrong. The storytellers before clearly said he wasn’t yet of capping age.”

Just as the storyteller was in full flow, he noticed among the excited crowd a young man who looked like a wandering swordsman.

The young swordsman wore a vermilion-embroidered headband, dressed in a gold-and-white cool-weather robe, two sashes tied at his waist, sword and dagger pouches clinking softly. His brows were cold and clear as frost, yet beneath his dark lashes, a pair of eyes — black and white sharply defined — moved like winding water, full of unexpected life…

Delicate, in a way, like a girl’s.

The storyteller blinked, about to look closer, when a gap opened in the curtain of a carriage behind the young man, and a young girl wearing a rounded cap called out timidly:

“Cousin, haven’t you bought the steamed buns yet?”

The storyteller’s eyes swam — he saw the young man who’d been listening clutch the oil-paper package to his chest and dart back to the carriage in a flash, ducking inside.

The carriage door shut with a bang. The storyteller rubbed his nose and laughed at himself:

How could that possibly be a girl? The war had only just ended, the world was still in chaos — judging by that young man’s attire, he must be from a good family. But what good family would let their daughter go about so boldly in times like these?

Behind the curtain, inside the carriage, Shen Qingwu knelt on the cushioned mat, carefully opening the oil-paper package so that her pale-faced companion could catch the scent of the buns and perhaps find a little appetite.

Shen Qingwu’s tone was flat: “These buns were just steamed. I watched the cook myself. Made to your taste, southern style, and I had them rinse the kitchen knife three times so there’d be no strange smell. Eat.”

Her tone was cool and quiet, not the sort that endeared her to people.

Sitting in the carriage, Shen Qingye wore a lotus-colored short-sleeved wrap skirt, a jade pendant at her waist, silk sashes trailing. She was frail and delicate, her complexion clear as jade and bright as a flower, pale and fine, her watery eyes like apricots. She was both the loveliest girl Shen Qingwu had ever seen, and the most fragile one she knew.

Hearing this, though her body ached with illness, Shen Qingye forced down her dizziness and reluctantly took a warm bun.

She said softly to Shen Qingwu, “Cousin, you don’t have to take care of me like this… you should eat something too. We’re almost at the Eastern Capital — you don’t have to keep dressing as a man anymore. It’s because of me that you can’t wear women’s clothes…”

Tears welled in her cousin’s eyes. Shen Qingwu looked up, somewhat startled, somewhat puzzled.

She couldn’t understand what her wearing men’s clothes or not had to do with her cousin, nor could she understand how anyone in this world could resent being cared for too much.

Shen Qingwu’s lips moved, but her nature would not let her find any comforting words to say.

At last, under her cousin’s beautiful, searching gaze, she pressed her hand into a fist against her knee, lowered her eyes, and said flatly: “You’re not a burden.”

She thought for a moment, then added: “I’m actually rather happy.”

Being able to leave the Eastern Capital, leave the Shen family, and travel about… she really was happy.

Shen Qingwu turned to look at the carriage wall as soon as she finished speaking. Shen Qingye watched her cousin in confusion for a while, but seeing that her cousin had no intention of paying her any more attention, she gave up.

This cousin wasn’t like the ordinary genteel young ladies, but it was thanks to her skill in the martial arts that they’d made it this far safely.

Frail as she always was, Shen Qingye had come to be quite fond of a cousin like this.

That night, they did not stop at an inn.

The night wind rustled, the sky hung like a mirror. Shen Qingwu drove the carriage through the winding forest paths, doing her best to keep it steady so her resting cousin inside would feel less of the jolting.

The wheels rumbled over fallen leaves; maple-red and parasol-yellow leaves swirled up in the carriage’s wake.

In the pitch-black night, Shen Qingwu heard the urgent sound of hoofbeats approaching from one direction. Sitting at the front of the carriage, her expression remained unchanged, her back straight, while her hand quietly settled on the hilt of the blade at her waist.

Having escorted her cousin north all this way, she’d seen no shortage of bandits and ruffians. Shen Qingwu’s parents had made clear beforehand: if her cousin did not return safely to the Eastern Capital, there was no need for her to return either.

But if not there, where else could Shen Qingwu go? However vast the world, she had nowhere of her own to go.

The wind swept parasol leaves against her face.

Shen Qingwu suddenly raised her eyes, her bright gaze meeting several riders galloping their horses out of the forest.

The riders wore black cloaks, hidden within them, their sharp eyes sweeping over the travelers on the night road. Seeing only a slight, thin young man sitting at the front of the carriage, utterly harmless in appearance, they relaxed and let go of the hands resting on their sword hilts.

The two parties passed each other, backs straight on both sides.

As they passed, Shen Qingwu’s eyes trembled faintly — a flash of light, pure as snow, glinted off one of the cloaked riders and struck her eyes for an instant.

She kept driving, calm as ever.

After two breaths’ time, Shen Qingwu stopped the carriage and closed her eyes: that snow-bright gleam on the cloaked man was nothing unfamiliar to someone who had studied martial arts since childhood.

It was the light off a blade.

The other party hadn’t even sheathed it.

Which meant… they had just killed someone.

Shen Qingwu pressed her lips together and turned to glance at the dense, dark woods the cloaked men had left behind.

Her hand on the hilt loosened, then tightened again, then loosened once more.

She heard her cousin’s faint, weak voice from inside the carriage: “Cousin, what happened? I smell blood.”

Of course — a body as delicate as Shen Qingye’s could not be fooled by the slightest disturbance.

After a moment’s hesitation, Shen Qingwu said softly toward the carriage: “It seems someone’s run into danger…”

She wanted to go and look, but she didn’t dare leave her cousin behind.

She spoke hesitantly, her voice very low, but Shen Qingye understood at once and answered gently from inside: “Cousin, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Let’s go take a look.”

Shen Qingwu let out a soft breath. Where Shen Qingye couldn’t see, her brows lifted lightly, like a butterfly spreading its wings, light dancing in her eyes.

Having someone on her side made things easy for Shen Qingwu.

She turned the horse’s head, snapped the reins, and steered the carriage toward the direction the cloaked men had come from.

The carriage entered the dense woods, parasol leaves drifting down one after another, the Milky Way winding overhead, the mortal world vast and hazy as a song.

The cloaked men, mid-journey, suddenly came to a halt.

Their leader closed his eyes, thinking of the young carriage driver they’d just passed.

Calm brows, tranquil eyes, utterly composed.

The way he sat cross-legged, upright at the front of the carriage — clearly someone trained in the martial arts.

In times like these, someone driving calmly through the night was no ordinary person. And what they were doing tonight could not afford the slightest mistake.

The leader gave the order: “I’m uneasy about this… let’s go back and check!”

An old-fashioned carriage stood among the withered, fallen leaves. Shen Qingwu leapt down nimbly, treading lightly over the leaves as she moved through the forest.

An unusual pattern in the piled leaves caught her attention. She grew more certain something was wrong here.

Hand resting on the blade at her waist, she said quietly over her shoulder: “Don’t get out of the carriage.”

Her cousin agreed, and Shen Qingwu crouched down before a spot where the fallen leaves rose in a slight mound.

It was a natural hollow in the ground, leaves scattered thickly over it, easy to overlook in the deep woods. But crouching there, Shen Qingwu caught the sound of a faint breath.

She reached out to gather the leaves, brushing aside layer after layer of crumbling yellow leaves, searching for the source of that weak breath.

Yellow leaves scattered.

Shen Qingwu bent low, lifting away the last layer of leaves. A stray leaf brushed her eyes, dust catching on her lashes. Blinking, she caught sight of the black river of stars above, the clear, bright moon emerging from behind the clouds.

As the leaves scattered away, the living man buried beneath them was revealed, his handsome face closed-eyed and at peace.

Like a full moon rising slowly from beneath the sea.

Inside the carriage, Shen Qingye, drifting in and out of consciousness, grew anxious as her cousin failed to return for so long.

She struggled to lift the carriage curtain, wanting to look outside.

She saw the parasol leaves flying, the night surging like a tide, and Shen Qingwu kneeling on the ground with her back to her, head bowed, the wind stirring the loose strands of hair against her cheek.

The wind rushed past. Shen Qingwu carefully lifted away one last leaf, her hand coming to rest on the face of the young man buried beneath the leaves.

A chill crept up silently from behind.

Shen Qingye’s heart clenched: “Cousin, watch out!”

At her cry, a dozen or so cloaked figures burst from the darkness, blades drawn, striking at Shen Qingwu. Shen Qingwu sprang up from the ground, blade flashing from her hand, its curved light clashing against the weapons of her attackers in a burst of silvery-white brilliance —

“Clang!”

And so it was that Shen Qingwu saved Zhang Xingjian, just this once —

That night, the Milky Way seemed to play its pipes, and the parasol trees gazed up at the moon.