Late summer, early autumn — a fine, ceaseless drizzle.

Rain fell over the eastern capital for days on end, and the streets grew quiet, foot traffic thinning. Whenever the occasional passerby, sheltering from the rain beneath a shop’s eaves, caught sight of the palace guard moving through the streets, their thoughts turned at once to the recent troubles of the Zhang family, and to that moon that had fallen from the sky.

Zhang Xingjian was held in the imperial prison, personally interrogated by Chancellor Kong Ye. The two men had never seen eye to eye politically, and this time, Zhang Xingjian was bound to suffer for it.

Everyone called it a shame, a waste.

No one could quite understand why a man like Zhang Yuelu would commit such crimes. Plenty at court had been implicated because of him, and plenty more were eager to kick him while he was down. Perhaps he’d simply grown too impatient, too eager to restore his family’s fortunes, too greedy for power, and it had led him to this.

The interrogation dragged on for a full month.

The Shen family, having watched and waited, wasted no time coming forward to break off the betrothal, declaring that Shen Qingye was the daughter of a great hero, and that the Shen family could not allow her to suffer such disgrace by association.

What could Zhang Wenbi do about it?

Her younger brother imprisoned, the imperial clan issuing reprimands, the whole family thrown into panic. The weight bearing down on her felt, in some ways, just like it had over a decade ago, when their elder brother had died.

The one similarity was that back then, her brother’s death hadn’t dragged the rest of the family down with him; now, too, Zhang Xingjian was taking on all the blame himself, begging that no one else be implicated.

Everyone, it seemed, delighted in the Zhang family’s misfortune.

Zhang Wenbi had no time to spare for something as trivial as a broken engagement. If the Shen family wanted to draw a clean line between the two families, so be it — she had far more pressing matters to attend to, calling in favors, seeking out old friends, paying visits to every person of influence she could think of, not hoping to spare Zhang Xingjian entirely, only hoping to spare him the death sentence.

To that end, she even went so far as to call upon the residence of Ande, Princess Imperial — a place she had, for over a decade, absolutely refused to set foot near.

The rain fell in sheets, mist gathering thick and heavy.

Her maidservant held an umbrella over her as she stood outside the Princess’s residence. The Princess claimed illness and refused to see her, so she came day after day regardless. She hoped desperately that the Princess, in memory of whatever bond they’d once shared, might show Zhang Xingjian some mercy.

The maidservant said softly, “Second Young Lady, there’s no need to worry so much. Third Young Master is a man of good fortune, heaven will surely watch over him…”

Zhang Wenbi said, “I would rather the imperial verdict exile the entire Zhang family, sharing in Zhang Yuelu’s suffering, than let Zhang Yuelu die in that prison. Chancellor Kong has never had any liking for him, and there’s no telling what torment he’ll put him through this time. And I can’t even get into the prison to see him…”

The maidservant said, “But before all this happened, Third Young Master told you not to worry, not to run yourself ragged on his behalf.”

The rain fell on Zhang Wenbi’s shoulders, mist blurring her eyes, and she said quietly, “He’s my brother. Just because he tells me not to worry about him doesn’t mean I won’t. The Zhang family has fallen before — it could survive falling again… but I, I…”

She didn’t want to lose family again.

Her parents dead, her elder brother dead, abandoned by her own betrothed — at fifteen, she had taken that porcelain-doll child from a branch of the family and, step by step, led him home by the hand.

The white mourning banners still hung in the memorial hall when she’d begun washing his hands and face, preparing his meals.

That obedient, quiet child — she had scolded him, punished him, disciplined him, and stayed with him every single day. In that narrow, well-like existence, gazing up at a sliver of sky, there had been no one but the two of them, staring up together from the bottom of that well.

Fifteen whole years.

An endless fifteen years.

Where would she find another fifteen years like that, if she lost him now?

The Zhang family could disappear entirely — but Zhang Yuelu could not be allowed to die in that prison. Even if — even if… she had to bow her head to Li Linge, had to beg her for help, had to forget every last shred of pride in front of her.

Lost in these thoughts, Zhang Wenbi was suddenly jolted by her maidservant. “My lady, it seems the Princess isn’t truly ill after all. Someone’s just arrived — the gate is opening.”

Through the drizzling rain, Zhang Wenbi saw a servant-looking figure leap down from a carriage that had just arrived, clutching a scroll of documents, hurrying to the gate and knocking his way into the Princess’s residence.

Zhang Wenbi studied the emblem on that carriage: “…That’s the Kong family’s carriage.”

Strange. Since when did Kong Ye have any connection to the Princess? Could it possibly have something to do with Zhang Xingjian?

Gritting her teeth, Zhang Wenbi darted out from under her umbrella and ran toward the side gate, which was already swinging shut. Her maidservant called out anxiously after her, but she forced her way against the closing door, gritting her teeth at the startled attendants of the Princess’s household. “I am the Second Young Lady of the Zhang family, an old, close friend of the Princess from years past — I demand to see Her Highness!

“Why can a mere servant gain entry while I cannot? I refuse to believe the Princess won’t see me — go and ask her again, ask her — will she truly not spare even this much courtesy for Zhang Rong’s own sister?!”

Half an hour before Zhang Wenbi’s outburst at the Princess’s gate, Kong Ye had received word from the imperial prison.

Just as the world suspected, Kong Ye had no intention of letting Zhang Xingjian off easily — he genuinely wished to see him die in that cell. He wouldn’t act directly himself, but his men would see to it that Zhang Xingjian suffered every possible humiliation, determined to ensure he never walked out of that prison alive.

Half an hour earlier, Zhang Xingjian, in his cell, had offered a single piece of information in exchange for sparing the rest of the Zhang family, for keeping the punishment from extending to nine generations of kin. That information was this:

Zhang Rong was still alive.

Battered by considerable torture in the prison, Zhang Xingjian, in a half-conscious daze, had given them a rough idea of where Zhang Rong might be found, clinging to life in secret. Whether the news that Zhang Rong lived could buy Zhang Xingjian’s own life, could spare the rest of the Zhang family, remained to be seen.

This piece of information had been arranged, long in advance, between Zhang Xingjian and Bo Rong. Bo Rong was willing to use this news to help elevate his younger brother’s position, to give him a chance to overpower Kong Ye, a chance to work his way close to the young Emperor’s side.

Besides, Zhang Xingjian needed a reason to leave the eastern capital. As a senior minister of the central court, he couldn’t simply leave the capital on his own accord. But for the safety of the Zhang family, and for Bo Rong’s safety, and to protect the secret of Bo Rong’s true identity, Zhang Xingjian needed to personally handle certain matters elsewhere.

And Kong Ye had been investigating the Zhang family for some time, his suspicions and guesses never quite as certain as Zhang Xingjian’s own confirmed answer now was.

Kong Ye found himself torn: should he use this information to destroy the Zhang family on a charge of deceiving the throne, or use it instead to lure the Princess out of the capital? Which mattered more — wiping out the Zhang family, or getting the Princess to leave?

Given how the Princess felt about the Zhang family, they might well survive the charge of deceiving the throne regardless. But if the Princess left the capital, her control over the young Emperor would slip, and Kong Ye would have his chance to win the Emperor’s full trust for himself.

An Emperor with no interest in governing — how could three formidable figures around him possibly maintain some stable three-way balance of power? Kong Ye wanted both Zhang Xingjian and the Princess out of the picture, so he alone could control the court, control the Emperor.

For the sake of this news that Zhang Rong lived, Kong Ye was willing to spare Zhang Xingjian’s life, to promise the Zhang family would not be wiped out entirely… so long as Zhang Xingjian gave up whatever clues he had about Zhang Rong’s whereabouts.

Years of court politics had long since transformed the once-innocent princess into a woman who craved power above all else. Kong Ye couldn’t think of any means that would make the Princess willingly relinquish her grip, willingly leave the eastern capital. In fact, the Princess never once loosened her hold on the young Emperor, never once left the capital at all.

Only Zhang Rong could move Li Linge.

In the long hours Zhang Wenbi waited in the rain, Kong Ye made his decision — to deliver the news that Zhang Rong lived to Li Linge himself.

At the very moment Zhang Wenbi forced her way into the Princess’s residence, standing before Li Linge, pleading for her help, Li Linge was standing by her window, holding a single rain-blurred page delivered by the Kong family’s servant, gazing blankly out at the drizzling mist.

Fifteen years.

An endless fifteen years.

She had nearly convinced herself she’d forgotten that man.

And yet she knew, with absolute certainty, that she never truly had.

The reckless, unjust passions of youth always found their way back to you in the fullness of adulthood, once everything else had settled into place — clinging to you, tormenting you, day and night.

She had tried to find traces of that man in Zhang Xingjian, tried to find echoes of that youthful figure in countless others… none of them had ever measured up to the real thing.

Li Linge gripped the rain-smudged note in her hand, her fingers trembling with the force of her grip, her eyes bright as midnight, forcing back the surge and tremor of blood coursing through her entire body.

She had told herself she no longer loved Zhang Rong.

Time had long since carried away every trace of that love.

But regret, unresolved longing — that never truly ends. Because she had never once had that man, the smoother her life became, the wider the hollow at its center grew; the more she gained of everything else, the more unbearable it became that there remained one person she could never reach.

She needed to break free of that old shadow — whether by letting the man go, or killing him, or rekindling what had once been between them, or locking that old bond away forever — she needed to bring this to some kind of close, once and for all.

Whether she meant to keep the young Emperor a puppet forever, or finally resolve to depose him, she first needed to shed every weakness she carried, the one true weakness she had — Zhang Rong.

Zhang Wenbi stood in the depths of the grand hall, and yet her words seemed to arrive from some great distance. Through the heavy curtain of rain and mist, it took a long while for her words to finally reach Li Linge’s ears—

“…And so, I beg Your Highness to intervene, to spare Zhang Yuelu’s life.”

Li Linge turned slowly.

The light behind her left her face indistinct, tinged with a strange, vivid beauty.

Zhang Wenbi heard Li Linge laugh softly, distantly. “You needn’t worry.

“Zhang Yuelu will not die in that prison. Though he may escape the death sentence, he can hardly escape all punishment — he did, after all, sell official posts, embezzle funds, corrupt the law. A few years of exile is the least he can expect, surely?”

Zhang Wenbi, overjoyed at this, said, “Thank you, Your Highness! Your Highness, I—”

The Zhang family had risen through Zhang Xingjian, and would fall through him too — this, Zhang Wenbi could fully accept.

Li Linge waved a hand, her smile gentle. “I’ll be leaving the capital shortly, to attend to some private matters of my own. There’s no need to thank me for this small thing.”

She gazed at Zhang Wenbi, thinking silently to herself: did Zhang Wenbi have any idea that Zhang Rong was still alive?

Her thoughts turned over once, twice, and she decided, in the end, to be a little kinder to the Zhang family.

Just in case — just in case… this journey of hers bore fruit—

That autumn, the entire Zhang family was sentenced to exile, and Zhang Xingjian alone was escorted, under guard, toward Lingnan.

Setting aside the sighs and murmurs that rippled through the court and beyond, on the day the Princess left the capital, Li Mingshu, suppressing a private thrill of delight, returned to his chambers and immediately summoned Kong Ye, eager to go slumming among the common people, to indulge himself freely.

Li Mingshu offered a thin pretext. “I’ve suddenly realized I’m not very close to any of my officials, don’t really understand them at all. With my sister away, I’ll have to handle state affairs myself — I ought to go ask some of the senior ministers what they think. Why don’t we visit the Shen household first?”

Kong Ye understood all too well how thoroughly this young sovereign had let himself go, lost in his own idle pleasures.

Kong Ye said, “Your Majesty, I received word this morning that when Zhang Xingjian was escorted out of the capital, Shen Qingye was overcome with grief and fainted. She wished to observe mourning for him as though widowed, but the Shen family, naturally, would never permit such a thing. In her deep sorrow, she declared she wished to leave the eastern capital, to travel south to her family’s ancestral home, to sweep her parents’ graves.

“The Shen family’s carriage departed the eastern capital just this morning.”

The young Emperor froze.

Foolish as he was, even he sensed something suspicious in the timing… he couldn’t help glancing at Kong Ye.

Kong Ye found it suspicious too, but held little interest in women himself; what he truly relished was the thought of sending troops to hunt Zhang Xingjian down along the road and quietly finish him off — he had no patience to spare helping the young Emperor chase after some minister’s daughter.

Kong Ye coaxed him instead. “Has Your Majesty ever visited the pleasure houses of the eastern capital? This humble official would be glad to accompany you there.”

Li Mingshu, sullen, allowed himself to be persuaded for the time being, and nodded, reluctant—

Around that same time, autumn rain fell over Yizhou as well.

Shen Qingwu sat in her tent, stringing a bow, the sharp twanging sound drawing puzzled glances from the soldiers outside.

The bow beneath her hands was fine material, pale blue-white all over; the clear, taut string reflected her cold eyes, and once fitted with an arrow, it could split a hair, shatter gold, cleave jade.

Bo Rong, after having someone announce him, lifted the tent flap and entered. He glanced around the tent, noting how unusually tidy Shen Qingwu’s quarters had become.

The bedding was neatly folded, spears and blades set properly on the weapons rack, the floor swept clean of dust, a small bundle sitting on the table, while Shen Qingwu sat bent over her new bow, absorbed in adjusting it.

Bo Rong said with a smile, “Since when have you taken up archery?”

Shen Qingwu said, “Just now.”

Bo Rong said, “Anyone who didn’t know better might think A’Wu was preparing all night for some assassination.”

Shen Qingwu looked up and glanced at him.

Wary, she said, “I’ve already taken my leave. I have the imperial decree to prove it. There’s no urgent military business right now — I’m free to leave camp.”

Bo Rong smiled. “I never said you couldn’t go.”

Seeing that Shen Qingwu was still watching him warily, he couldn’t help rubbing his nose. Shen Qingwu wasn’t one for deep thinking, but her instincts served her better than cleverness ever could. On instinct alone, she could tell he had some purpose in coming.

Bo Rong sighed inwardly.

He had no choice but to press on regardless.

He lifted his robe and sat down, saying warmly, “What does A’Wu make of the news from the eastern capital about the Zhang family recently?”

Shen Qingwu said, “What does that have to do with me?”

Bo Rong murmured, half to himself, “I hear the Shen family broke off their betrothal with the Zhang family… That young lady from the Shen family, didn’t you two get along rather well?”

Shen Qingwu’s eyes said plainly: what business is that of yours.

Bo Rong murmured on. “Has A’Wu decided where she’d like to travel? I’ve been to a fair number of places myself, over the years — would A’Wu like some suggestions?”

Shen Qingwu said nothing.

Bo Rong, for all his silver tongue and clever schemes, found himself, as always, forced to simply say things plainly when dealing with someone as unmovable as Shen Qingwu. He cleared his throat, turned his face aside, and his lashes flickered once.

Bo Rong said, “If you’re not too busy, I wonder if I might ask you a favor — to keep an eye on Zhang Yuelu for me?”

Shen Qingwu’s eyes narrowed slightly.

She stared at him in surprise, and for one moment suspected Bo Rong somehow already knew what she was planning. Shen Qingwu felt a flicker of guilt at the thought, half expecting him to scold her for whatever bandit-like scheme she had in mind — but Bo Rong sat sideways, not facing her directly, and showed no sign of wanting to reprimand her for anything reckless at all.

Getting no answer, he turned to look at her directly.

Shen Qingwu blinked, all innocence. “Who?”

Bo Rong: “…”

He couldn’t help but be amused by her feigned ignorance, though he had to play along with her innocent act in return, keeping a perfectly straight face. “Third Young Master of the Zhang family, in the eastern capital — Zhang Xingjian, also known as Zhang Yuelu. You’ve dealt with him a number of times — don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

Shen Qingwu said, “Maybe it’s because the man is so unremarkable, so easy to lose in a crowd, that I simply forgot about him.”

Bo Rong: “…”

Weighed down as he was with troubles of his own, he couldn’t help a small smile at that.

He heard Shen Qingwu ask him, quite seriously, “What do you mean by ‘keep an eye on him’? What’s your relationship with him, exactly?”

Bo Rong considered this.

Unable to settle on an answer, he finally said, “If Zhang Yuelu is willing to tell you himself, you can hear it from him. With the trouble that’s befallen the Zhang family in the eastern capital, I worry his political enemies won’t let him off easily. I want someone with real martial skill to protect him… if A’Wu isn’t too busy, I wonder if you might do me this small favor?”

Shen Qingwu asked, “What exactly do you mean by ‘keep an eye on him’?”

She’d already asked this question twice now, and Bo Rong caught the emphasis in it.

But he looked at her, puzzled, unsure what she was really getting at.

She blinked at him. He blinked back at her, mimicking her.

Shen Qingwu pressed her lips together, and asked, with perfect sincerity, “I mean — does making sure he keeps all his arms and legs attached count as ‘keeping an eye on him’?”

Bo Rong: “…”

Shen Qingwu went on, “As long as he’s still breathing, still alive — does that count as me doing a good job of keeping an eye on him?”

Bo Rong was thoroughly stunned.

He said, hoarse, “A’Wu, you…”

He had assumed Shen Qingwu and Zhang Xingjian were on decent terms, had assumed she’d be concerned for him, had thought he’d need to find some plausible excuse for her leave of absence… Bo Rong found himself utterly baffled: how had Zhang Xingjian managed to offend Shen Qingwu, of all people?

Shen Qingwu asked, finally, “Are you handing him over to me, letting me do whatever I like with him, as long as I don’t actually kill him? Is that what you mean?”

Bo Rong said sharply, “Shen Qingwu!”

She answered at once, “Then I won’t take your commission. I won’t escort him, won’t protect him. My leave is important to me, and I’m very busy — I don’t have time for your errands. Not even for you, Bo Rong.”

A long silence fell over the tent.

After a long while, Shen Qingwu, having finished adjusting her new bow, walked, satisfied, toward the bundle she’d left on the table, and finally heard Bo Rong’s voice, strained and helpless, but gentle all the same:

“…Fine. Just make sure he stays alive. That’s all I ask.”

His heart uneasy, he could only hope Zhang Xingjian could handle a Shen Qingwu like this.

He needed someone he trusted to protect Zhang Xingjian — but he couldn’t guarantee that someone with as strange a temperament as Shen Qingwu’s would treat him gently.

…He’d done all he could.

The rest, he supposed, would simply have to be left to fate—

At the end of September, Zhang Xingjian, shoved along by soldiers, set out on the road of exile to Lingnan.

Both hands and feet bound in iron chains, his body covered in wounds, his vision blurred, unable to see clearly.

All of it, gifts bestowed on him by Kong Ye during his time in prison — proof enough, after all these years, of just how badly Kong Ye had wanted him dead. If he hadn’t offered up the information about Zhang Rong, he might well have died in that cell after all…

Lost in thought, Zhang Xingjian was suddenly shoved hard from behind. He stumbled forward several steps, tripping over what might have been a stone or a hole in the ground, and fell. The soldiers behind him only laughed.

“Still think you’re the moon of the eastern capital? Now that you’ve fallen into our hands, brother, there’s no going back for you.”

Zhang Xingjian turned to look at them, at the mockery behind him.

They all noticed how gaunt his frame had become, his face pale and drawn, his long hair matted and tangled against his skin, his lips cracked and dry, his unfocused eyes clouded and hazy. Even reduced to such a state, his lofty bearing and elegant features lent him an air of forlorn, broken beauty.

Wasn’t that enough to stir private resentment in any man alive?

And so, the moment Zhang Xingjian struggled back to his feet, he was shoved down again, someone jeering: “What are you glaring at me for, blind man? Can you even see anything?”

In truth, Zhang Xingjian could make out blurred shapes moving.

This kind of vision was something entirely new to him; he found himself, oddly, curious about it, filtering out the insults of “blind man” and “cripple” hurled at him in turns, treating them all as though he’d heard nothing at all. His calm, composed expression through it all only made the soldiers find him tiresome.

Tormenting someone who fought back had its own pleasure. Tormenting someone who showed no reaction at all was simply boring.

The soldiers grumbled among themselves. “Hurry up and walk! The sooner we reach the post-house, the sooner we can rest. Having to escort you all the way to Lingnan — who knows how long that’ll take…”

Their eyes flickered as they thought of the gold leaves they’d been given before setting out: if they finished Zhang Xingjian off tonight… heh heh.

Beneath the dim, overcast sky, a cold, grim male voice suddenly rang out from the dense forest ahead: “If you’re not going to make it to Lingnan, then rest right here — no need to go any further!”

“Who’s there—” The soldiers drew their blades at once, and from every direction, arrows hissed through the air as Chang Lin and the other masked guards, dressed for night operations, advanced steadily.

Their target was clear: Zhang Xingjian.

The soldiers shouted, “Someone’s trying to rescue the prisoner! Don’t let him escape!”

Arrows whistled through the air without pause, blades clashed in a blur of motion; Zhang Xingjian, still struggling to make out his blurred surroundings, was seized by one of the soldiers and dragged along at a run.

These men were soldiers sent by the court itself, chosen for the task of quietly disposing of Zhang Xingjian — their skill was hardly weak. Chang Lin and the others, Zhang Xingjian’s own guards and loyal followers, were equally formidable.

Which left the weakest one in the entire clash, by far, Zhang Xingjian himself, caught between both sides.

Shoved down, dragged along, over and over — Zhang Xingjian had likely never been left in such a wretched state in his entire life.

Shen Qingwu sat atop a rocky outcrop on the hillside, watching this dusk-lit skirmish unfold with quiet interest—

“You… you traitors!” the soldiers spat through gritted teeth, even as they were forced steadily backward.

A wounded guard, sprawled in a pool of blood, cried out furiously; Chang Lin, already having shaken off the unlucky man who’d just been sprayed with his own blood, rushed toward Zhang Xingjian, who now sat slumped on the ground.

Chang Lin cried, “Young Master!”

He saw Zhang Xingjian’s pale, gaunt face, his misted eyes, empty of light.

Zhang Xingjian smiled faintly. “I can’t see. How many of you came?”

Chang Lin froze: his young master, just to escape the eastern capital, to lull Kong Ye into complacency, had gone so far as to mutilate himself like this. Chang Lin felt he could never match such ruthless resolve.

His heart aching, he bent to try to find some way to break the chains binding his young master’s hands and feet — when suddenly, he grabbed Zhang Xingjian’s shoulder and rolled them both aside. “An ambush—”

A cold, sharp arrow shot from the horizon, streaking straight toward the guards who had only just begun to relax. Having just worn themselves out fighting off the soldiers, they now faced yet another brutal battle.

Chang Lin and the others turned to face the arrow streaking in from the distance — impossibly fast, fired from somewhere high in the dense forest, while they themselves stood in an open clearing with no cover at all… Chang Lin felt a cold sweat break out: whatever tactic they’d just used against the soldiers was now being turned against them in kind.

Their enemy had copied their own strategy!

But what could they do about it now?

Chang Lin cried out in alarm, “Young Master—”

He watched, helpless, as the arrow from the forest bore down, step by step, straight toward Zhang Xingjian, who had only just managed to stagger back to his feet.

Chang Lin’s heart went cold: had Kong Ye sent some master assassin to finish his young master off? How could they have arrived so quickly, so soon after leaving the capital? This… this didn’t match anything his young master had anticipated at all…

Since every arrow was aimed directly at Zhang Xingjian, Chang Lin and the others found themselves helplessly constrained, afraid to act for fear of endangering him. Their unseen enemy in the forest was but a single person, and yet, by threatening to kill Zhang Xingjian, that single archer had them all completely pinned down, utterly at their mercy.

Chang Lin shouted fiercely, “Why don’t you show yourself, whoever you are! Whatever price Kong Ye is paying you, we’ll pay ten times over! I beg you, master archer—”

“Hiss—” Another arrow flew.

Zhang Xingjian blinked: he had become, it seemed, nothing more than a liability now.

He had always been a ruthless man at heart, and seeing his enemy use him as a weapon against Chang Lin and the others, how could he possibly let them succeed?

And so, as the next arrow came flying toward him, even as Chang Lin shouted directions for how to dodge it, Zhang Xingjian deliberately avoided anything vital, but moved directly into the path opposite where Chang Lin had told him to go.

Zhang Xingjian’s clouded eyes went wide—

A cold arrow cut through the air, bearing down on him without mercy.

The arrowhead drove straight into his chest; the tremendous force sent him staggering backward, a choked sound catching in his throat before he coughed up blood.

He swayed and collapsed to the ground, catching, in his fading vision, a hazy glimpse of the stars wheeling overhead in dense array, dim yellow leaves swirling wildly in the wind, the roaring rush of sound like a rising tide.

It was just like that autumn night, long ago, deep in the small hours, when Shen Qingwu had saved him, set him down, and ridden away — the same drifting river of stars he’d glimpsed then, through his fading, dazed vision.

This had to be an illusion.

As he slipped toward unconsciousness, his eyes closing, Zhang Xingjian’s last thought was that his vision must simply be too blurred to see clearly — that he must be mistaken—

Once Zhang Xingjian fell, the attack from the forest only grew fiercer.

Chang Lin and the others, facing a formidable threat, gritted their teeth and struggled to hold their ground. At last, their unseen enemy stepped out from the trees, treading over fallen leaves, a tall, slender figure gradually coming into focus—

Chang Lin, sprawled on the ground, spoke through gritted teeth, stunned: “Shen—”

Shen Qingwu raised her bow toward him.

She had no intention of killing them, for Bo Rong, after that earlier conversation, had come to find her once more, still uneasy, and warned her not to harm any innocent people — he’d told her that if she did anything truly wicked, he would cut all ties with her at once.

Shen Qingwu had no wish to make Bo Rong angry.

She wouldn’t kill these men — but they would still get in the way of her taking Zhang Xingjian with her.

So she settled for wounding them badly enough to keep them recovering for a good long while, slowing them down enough to serve her purpose.

Brute force solved everything.

She cared nothing for whatever tangled schemes these men might be caught up in — she had her own way of ensuring she always held the upper hand.

Chang Lin and the others fell, unconscious, sprawled unwillingly in pools of their own blood. The swirling yellow leaves, stained red by the soldiers’ blood, drifted down as Shen Qingwu, bow slung across her back, walked with unhurried steps toward the desolate young man she had just struck down with a single arrow.

She bent down over him.

She had always listened to Bo Rong. She would not let Zhang Xingjian die.

But Zhang Xingjian would be coming with her regardless—

Zhang Xingjian was startled awake by a wave of cold.

His mind hazy, his whole body chilled, weakness spreading through him, every breath sent a shudder of pain through his chest, and every shudder left him drenched in a fresh layer of cold sweat.

He heard a faint, trickling sound.

He couldn’t tell if it was rain, or the sound of some mountain stream.

Zhang Xingjian lay still for a moment, his misted eyes turning slowly in every direction. He could just make out, at a distance, the blurred shape of a figure crouched nearby, seemingly washing something. The dampness in the air must be coming from that sound of water…

Was he in the mountains now? Which mountains?

Where were Chang Lin and the others?

Who was this person?

Zhang Xingjian tried, in silence, to piece together his surroundings.

Brow furrowed, he slowly felt his way, familiarizing himself with what he could sense around him. Each small movement sent fresh blood seeping from the wound at his chest, though he seemed entirely unaware of it. Bracing himself against a bamboo pole, he pulled himself to his feet, the iron chains still binding his hands and feet, their clinking ringing out with startling clarity in the quiet.

The cool autumn wind stirred his blood-soaked white robe, cold and desolate.

Zhang Xingjian said, his voice gentle: “Was it you, brave one, who saved this humble man?”

He made no mention of being taken captive, no mention of the battle before he’d lost consciousness — only spoke of being “saved.”

Crouched by the stream, washing her bow, Shen Qingwu turned her head in surprise, studying this uniquely elegant young lord. She had expected that the moment he woke, he’d start scheming against her, trying to negotiate terms with her… but this reaction from him — well.

She studied Zhang Xingjian’s hazy, beautiful, glass-bead eyes.

So black, so clear, and yet utterly without light. Like a landscape shrouded in autumn mist, layer upon layer of haze, strangely poetic.

Shen Qingwu flicked a bit of water off her hand, propped her chin, and blinked:

Zhang Xingjian had gone blind.

…Poor Zhang Xingjian, really.

What could you possibly do now, Zhang Xingjian?

An idea suddenly struck Shen Qingwu: if she weren’t Shen Qingwu at all — would Zhang Xingjian fall for the woman who’d saved his life? Would he find himself drawn to stay close to his rescuer?

If she weren’t Shen Qingwu — could she win Zhang Xingjian over as someone else entirely? Compared to Shen Qingwu, wouldn’t he be far more easily moved by some delicate, gentle woman, someone more like Shen Qingye?

If, from the very start, the circumstances of their debt to each other had unfolded differently — might things have turned out differently too?

Hearing no response, Zhang Xingjian assumed the person was still studying him, and softened his tone further. “May I ask this brave one’s name?”

He heard, in reply, an oddly stilted but delicate, timid woman’s voice: “This one is called A’Wu. Not much of a hero, really. Young master, why were you lying collapsed outside my door?”

Zhang Xingjian froze slightly.

Something about it struck him as strange, though he couldn’t quite place what.

He stood there in the cold wind, his fine, jade-pale features striking, endearing.

The stream murmured on, yellow leaves drifting down, the mountain scenery around them, withered and barren, slowly stirring back to life.

By the stream, Shen Qingwu cleared her throat, rose slowly to her feet, and slung the bow onto her back.

She walked toward him, her voice pitched in the tone she’d picked up from watching Shen Qingye: “Young master, what’s wrong with you? Can’t you see?”