Red evening clouds spread across the sky, a thousand shapes of cloud racing one another.

The fight flowed swift and grand, and even though Zhang Xingjian had anticipated this, even a man as coldly composed as him could not help but feel stirred by it—

Shen Qingwu guarded him from behind, gripping his bamboo staff, leading him into battle against this group of enemies. In Zhang Xingjian’s hands, the staff was merely a tool for feeling his way; in Shen Qingwu’s, its wild, sharp strokes sent enemies flying in every direction.

A person of formidable skill, even burdened with a companion of quite ordinary skill, was still more than enough to hold off attackers on every side.

Zhang Xingjian could think of any number of reasons for this: that these mountain bandits were only of ordinary skill, that Shen Qingwu had received Bo Rong’s personal guidance and instruction, that Shen Qingwu had already stood head and shoulders above her peers through sheer talent since her youth…

He gave himself countless reasons, yet none of them could stop the stunned admiration rising in his heart just then.

The cold wind howled, cloud-pale robes flying wild, the enemies’ voices drawing near then fading, while Shen Qingwu’s steady breath stayed constant at his ear.

When he turned his face aside—perhaps because of how close she was, perhaps because his eyesight had improved so much—for one instant, he truly saw her face clearly, saw her eyes clearly—

Bright yet indifferent eyes, wreathed in red evening mist, black hair brushing the corner of her lips.

The hand gripping his went suddenly numb; his heartbeat pounded so violently he found it hard to convince himself this was merely an ordinary fight.

He truly was, for that brief instant, struck by admiration for this woman’s brilliance and fierce spirit.

The fight didn’t last much longer.

Shen Qingwu killed without blinking, and having decided not to hide her identity any further, she made no attempt to look shocked in front of the enemy either. She even seemed to want Zhang Xingjian to see her true nature clearly:

This was simply how capable she was, how little she cared for others’ lives or deaths, how casually a wave of her hand carried the power to kill.

The scent of blood grew thick in the air, dusk light falling across the sky’s canopy, and the bamboo staff slipped from his grasp.

He turned involuntarily, meeting the eyes of the tall young woman behind him.

In that instant, he truly did see her face clearly.

Zhang Xingjian’s throat moved; slowly, he steadied himself, his arms stiff as he strained with everything he had to master this ill-timed attraction.

In the dusk light, the refined, elegant young master lowered his head, cupping his hands toward her in a polite greeting: “General Shen…”

Shen Qingwu didn’t wait for him to finish his pleasantries.

She had just finished killing, the bloodlust in her not yet faded. Her sharp gaze cut toward Zhang Xingjian—the look of one eyeing prey, her eyes too bright—left him numb all over, stunned for a long moment.

Shen Qingwu raised her hand and struck him unconscious—

When Zhang Xingjian woke again, all he saw before him was darkness. He tried to move his hands and feet, and the shackles—never removed—clanked; the moment he moved even slightly, his body was restrained.

He reached out to feel, and realized the chains on his wrists were bound with strips of cloth. He couldn’t sit up, and guessed his feet were likely the same.

Zhang Xingjian lay on a bed, the wound on his chest aching faintly, his hands and feet both injured, his eyes covered with cloth so he could see nothing at all.

This was a method meant to wear a person down, one that could drive a person mad.

Zhang Xingjian realized he must have been “imprisoned” by Shen Qingwu.

He was startled for a moment, then calmly accepted this state of affairs—he already knew something of Shen Qingwu’s temperament. It wasn’t strange that she’d do something like this. He had his own business to attend to, and to keep Shen Qingwu from interfering, he’d have to spar with this young lady.

There was no avoiding it.

Since Bo Rong couldn’t call Shen Qingwu back, Zhang Xingjian would have to handle this himself.

He lay quietly in the darkness for a long while, and then heard a laugh.

Shen Qingwu’s.

Her voice rose slowly: “Just like you, Zhang Xingjian.”

Shen Qingwu had never left the room.

With the handsome young master bound to the bed, unable to move, she’d simply sat in a quiet corner of the room, savoring whatever expression would cross his face the instant he woke.

She always wanted to see the moon sullied, wanted to see it stop looking like a moon at all.

But upon realizing his circumstances, Zhang Xingjian had simply waited quietly, without anger or complaint. Yet Shen Qingwu was certain he’d never be content with this state of affairs—he had to be thinking constantly.

Sure enough, hearing her voice, the bound young man on the bed slowly turned his face toward her.

Hazy daylight fell in from outside, landing on his jade-like face, on the white cloth over his eyes.

His voice was calm and composed: “What does General Shen intend to do with me?”

Shen Qingwu said coldly: “Take care of you.”

Zhang Xingjian smiled faintly: “Is this what you call taking care of me?”

Shen Qingwu returned the smile: “I’m treating your eyes—the physician said you can’t be exposed to strong light, hence the blindfold.

“You’re a wanted criminal of the court, having fled during your exile—your crimes are grave, and the whole realm has orders out for your arrest. Binding your hands and feet is to keep you from leaving this safe place.

“You’ve toiled for days, your wounds left untended for too long—I feared they’d leave lasting damage. So I need to give you medicine, to treat your illness.”

Shen Qingwu said unhurriedly: “Where exactly have I done wrong?”

Zhang Xingjian said: “I’m grateful to General Shen for the debt of my life. But if the General needs something, she need only say so plainly—why humiliate me like this?”

Shen Qingwu said: “I’ve saved your life three times. I want you to give yourself to me in return.”

Zhang Xingjian fell quiet for a moment.

He said: “The A’Wu from before…”

Shen Qingwu: “Was me.”

She said mockingly: “Didn’t you already know that long ago?”

What was the point of pretending now.

The young man on the bed lay as quiet as a beam of moonlight, listening to her words laced with barely-contained violence and impatience; his wrist shifted slightly.

Zhang Xingjian said calmly: “I can’t.”

Shen Qingwu instantly understood where his subject had shifted: “And if I insist?”

Zhang Xingjian: “The General should understand the principle of not forcing others. You and I each have our own needs—why torment each other?”

Shen Qingwu: “It’s not torment.”

She stood up in the darkness he couldn’t see, her eyes glinting faintly.

She said: “Then let’s find out.”

Zhang Xingjian said gently: “You’ll fail.”

Zhang Xingjian: “General Shen, don’t do something you’ll come to regret.”

Shen Qingwu closed the distance in an instant, leaning down to grip his chin, her grip pressing red marks into his pale skin.

Shen Qingwu understood perfectly well what she was doing: “Not getting you is what I’d regret.”

The more gently, the more coldly he spoke such words, the more it drew her in. That she was so caught up in Zhang Xingjian was precisely because of how hard he was to conquer, because of how he was at once careless and not careless at all.

Who among them wasn’t, in the end, an ordinary person?

That long stretch of leave Shen Qingwu had taken had, from the start, been about settling this obsession in her heart.

If she couldn’t have his heart, she’d have his body; if she wanted his heart, she’d first have to have his body—

And so Shen Qingwu began carefully studying the romantic tales of scholars and beauties she’d bought in town.

She had no interest whatsoever in the drawn-out, mushy courtship scenes, and the frail heroines in these tales didn’t suit her at all. She naturally cast herself in the male role instead, naturally set about imitating the domineering, willful young masters in these stories, learning how they conquered those delicate, fragile fairy-like beauties.

Shen Qingwu wasn’t entirely deceiving Zhang Xingjian.

The court’s arrest warrant was genuine.

Using her position as general, Shen Qingwu easily rented a new courtyard residence.

She went out every day to buy food and medicine, and the neighbors on the street soon learned she had a frail “sickly beauty” of a husband. No one had ever seen this young master’s true face, but the physician Shen Qingwu had brought in to see him assured everyone upon leaving—

that the lady’s husband was handsome as an immortal descended from the heavens.

But heaven was ever so fair in its dealings.

A young master of such looks was nonetheless perpetually sickly, coughing softly throughout each examination. Shen Qingwu stood behind him, catching his every movement the moment he made it.

Pressing close to his ear, Shen Qingwu asked softly: “Husband, what do you need? I’ll fetch it for you.”

The physician couldn’t see Shen Qingwu’s hand resting on Zhang Xingjian’s shoulder, seemingly affectionate, yet ready at any moment to strike a killing blow. Nor could the physician tell what tremendous force of will lay behind Zhang Xingjian’s calm smile—under Shen Qingwu’s threat, he still managed to remain pleasant, thanking the physician warmly for coming.

It wasn’t only the wound on Zhang Xingjian’s chest—his wrists and ankles had also suffered considerable injury during his imprisonment. This time, Shen Qingwu had plenty of time on her hands to help mend these lingering afflictions.

And yet Shen Qingwu still refused to let him heal fully.

Shen Qingwu intended to use the conquest of his body to conquer his heart.

In those romance tales, the young ladies would often sleep with the young masters a few times, and no matter how resistant they’d been before, they’d inevitably be won over afterward by the young master’s body, won over by his single-minded devotion. What the young masters in those tales achieved seemed so simple—Shen Qingwu believed she could manage it too.

Her leave stretched a full half year; she had plenty of time to try different approaches—

Zhang Xingjian barely spoke to Shen Qingwu at all.

Throughout his confinement, forced to lie in bed each day, he said nothing.

Shen Qingwu observed him for a long while, noticing he never seemed troubled by the darkness, never anxious or lonely from having no one to talk to. She watched with great interest, waiting to see when he’d finally break—but grew more and more impatient as time went on.

When she brought him his meals, she tried talking to him; he still said nothing.

Zhang Xingjian, utterly unmoved by anything, wore down what little patience Shen Qingwu had left.

Then, one day, while out buying vegetables in the street, bored out of her mind, she overheard someone mention “bone-melting powder,” the words laced with something crude, a snickering laugh carrying an unspoken “you know what I mean.”

The bustle of everyday life filled the streets, a few lanterns slowly being hung up.

Under the dim, uncertain glow of the lanterns, Shen Qingwu stood amid the crowd and slowly turned her head, seeing at the end of a small side street a hunched-over man duck swiftly behind a door.

It was he who had spoken those words.

And even earlier than that, Shen Qingwu had heard of this drug before—Princess Ande Chang had once tried to use it to break Zhang Xingjian.

That night, Zhang Xingjian had…

Something stirred in Shen Qingwu’s heart.

She walked toward that street, toward that door, toward that miracle drug capable of breaking Zhang Xingjian through its effects alone—

Not getting Zhang Xingjian was what Shen Qingwu would regret.

She had once worked very hard to suppress her own sense of injustice, worked very hard to avoid ever seeing this man again.

Yet fate’s coincidences kept pushing Zhang Xingjian back toward her, again and again.

The restless, unresolved feeling stirring in Shen Qingwu’s heart had long since been lit, already burning wild as a brushfire.

When she’d left the capital in the nineteenth year of Tianlong, she hadn’t necessarily felt she had to have Zhang Xingjian; at the Lantern Festival in early Tianlong twenty-three, listening to that tune about youth being consumed away, watching Zhang Xingjian before her, something in her heart had begun to smolder and burn.

At the end of Tianlong twenty-three, Zhang Xingjian had carried her step by step through the snowy mountains, and that moon had hung suspended at the tip of her heart, breaking through the surface of the water.

A person’s feelings couldn’t be suppressed forever.

If you wanted something, you had to go after it yourself.

Even if, once she had it, she’d discard it like a worn-out shoe; even if, once she had it, she’d find it nothing special after all—first, she had to, had to—

She simply had to have this moon—

And so the story circled back to where it began—

The bed curtains flew wild, the white cloth over his eyes damp with mist, his hair in disarray.

Their breath tangled together, mingled into chaos.

Yet the kiss felt so familiar.

Every time she held him, every time their breath crossed, it was utterly captivating.

Shen Qingwu’s bold, direct approach left Zhang Xingjian struggling to breathe. The more so, the redder his face grew, the more vivid his lips—Shen Qingwu, hearing only the sound of his voice, felt an especially strong stirring within her.

She hadn’t taken out her hairpin, and her loose strands already mingled with his own at his neck and shoulder. Her hair was somewhat coarse, while his was soft and glossy as silk. The corner of Shen Qingwu’s mouth curled slightly as she wound a lock of his hair around her finger:

Even his hair moved her.

The arrow was already nocked; there was no such thing as a bow that could take back its shot.

Shen Qingwu leaned down, and Zhang Xingjian suddenly reached out, pressing a hand to her waist. He’d never done this before—his hand burning hot, his throat trembling constantly, a flush spreading beneath his neck.

Yet he gripped her waist tightly, his voice sharp: “A’Wu, don’t lose control.”

Shen Qingwu: “Who’s ‘A’Wu’? I’m General Shen.”

The cold jade pendant at her neck pressed against his skin, alternating hot and cold—a layer of chill that let Zhang Xingjian find a thread of clarity amid his hazy, drowning senses. His earnest pleas only met with her greater insistence; he found it harder and harder to resist.

Pressed close to his ear, Shen Qingwu teased: “I’ve heard men never refuse a forward woman—that a woman who makes the first move loses her value, becomes cheap. Is that true, Zhang Yuelu?”

At such a moment, the two of them could barely manage more words at all—only suppressed breathing, intimate touches.

Zhang Xingjian had clearly resisted at first, but he too was mortal, was a man. He could barely hear her voice anymore, lost in this murky, boundless space. This was an experience he’d never had before, a space his reason had never before reached.

Rising and falling in this sea of feeling, thoughts arising and dissolving—so this was what it felt like.

Sweat dripped down his cheeks; the hand pressed to her waist shifted from initial resistance to urging her on.

He heard her low laugh, heard her breathing.

Her damp lashes brushed lightly against his cheek, and he knew she felt just as he did.

Everything before Zhang Xingjian’s eyes was a churning blackness; for one moment, he suddenly wanted to abandon reason, wanted to cast aside all his calculations, and simply lose himself in all of this.

Shen Qingwu, Shen Qingwu…

In his blank, unseeing eyes rose the image of Shen Qingwu at sixteen, blazing with anger; Shen Qingwu at nineteen, leaping down from a high tree at the Lantern Festival, her eyes cold and empty of everything; and last winter, when she’d slept amid falling snow, her head resting against his shoulder.

Over and over she’d told him: Zhang Xingjian, I want to kill you.

Not understanding feeling, not understanding love, expressing every emotion through hatred, anger, blame, and resentment instead. Unable to understand herself, unable to understand others, and yet insisting on walking into this world of desire, insisting on staining herself with its dust.

Shen Qingwu…

The hand Zhang Xingjian had pressed to her waist tightened, and Shen Qingwu felt his instant of blankness, his instant of being moved.

He trembled faintly, the flush rising against his snow-white face drawing her closer despite herself.

Shen Qingwu laughed softly against his ear: “You like this too, don’t you?”

Zhang Xingjian couldn’t speak.

Shen Qingwu asked: “Men never refuse a forward woman, isn’t that right? No matter who she is, no matter how much they dislike her, they’d never refuse what’s already within reach, isn’t that right?”

She didn’t expect an answer.

Throughout this entire encounter, apart from his initial attempt to persuade her to stop, he’d said nothing more, only breathing hard and ragged.

But this time, Zhang Xingjian spoke abruptly: “That’s not right.”

Not right about what?

He didn’t say.

He simply reached up suddenly and pulled away the already-loosened blindfold covering his eyes. Half-sitting up, he tilted his head back to look at Shen Qingwu above him. His moist, dark eyes, hazy and cold, glimmered like stars.

Shen Qingwu froze for a moment, uncertain whether he was truly looking at her, uncertain whether his eyes could actually see now.

For he only raised his arms and embraced her. In her dazed confusion, he turned his face aside, his breath brushing against her ear. Shen Qingwu’s body went rigid, a flash of fury rising in her eyes, and she shoved him down hard.

Shen Qingwu fell into that dream she’d had countless times before—

A night of crackling thunder and lightning, she advanced sword in hand, splitting open the storm-wracked sky, breaking apart the rolling, layered clouds. She stood atop a mountain peak, seeing the night like frost, the moon like daylight, suspended before her, its radiance vast and overwhelming.

Moonlight bright as day, slowly sinking into the sea.

A parasol tree stood atop the mountain peak, gazing for a long, long time at this falling moonlight.

Its leaves shook loose, immense radiance enveloping the bright moon. Moonlight scattered down gently, travelers passing by in a hurry—only she lingered, looking back again and again.

This was the finest thing in the world—

It was like a fierce, exhilarating battle.

Many rounds of fighting always brought exhaustion.

When the will to fight grows weary, laxity follows.

By the time their battle upon the bed drew to its close, the cloth strips binding the chains on Zhang Xingjian’s hands and feet had long since come undone. Still, Shen Qingwu insisted on not removing the shackles themselves—though she knew that in his current state he couldn’t get far even if he tried to flee, she had no wish to give him any opening at all.

Waking again, before she’d even opened her eyes, Shen Qingwu sensed an extra presence breathing beside her.

She flipped up and leapt to her feet at once, about to strike at whatever presence had crept close without a sound—only to open her eyes and find Zhang Xingjian’s face before her, his clear, dark eyes.

He was sitting at the edge of the bed, leaning over to look at her. His long hair spilled loose over his shoulders, his white robe hanging loose, a steaming hot cloth in his hand, as if he meant to wipe her face.

He met her sharp, wary gaze head-on.

Zhang Xingjian’s brow rose slightly.

As he set down the cloth, the shackles on his wrist knocked against the bed frame. Shen Qingwu stared into his eyes and asked: “Can you see now?”

Zhang Xingjian smiled: “It seems I can make out a little now. Thanks to General Shen’s help, my eye condition, after this month, is nearly healed.”

Shen Qingwu looked at him with an odd expression.

After she’d fallen asleep, he’d clearly already been free of his restraints—why hadn’t he left? Shouldn’t he have fled far from her? What was he doing sitting here? What was he doing with that cloth?

Her gaze fell to the hand holding the cloth.

Sensing her stare, his fingers moved slightly. He remained seated, unmoving, smiling: “General Shen, let’s talk.”

Shen Qingwu: “Talk about what?”

He hesitated a moment, his face flushing faintly.

He asked: “Are you… in pain?”

Shen Qingwu looked at him, expressionless.

His lashes trembled, lowering like a moth folding its wings. He said softly: “I mean nothing untoward by it. I’ve simply heard that it’s painful for a woman, the first time. What happened between us was… rather excessive, admittedly.”

Shen Qingwu looked back at him, bewildered.

He lifted his eyes to meet hers.

After a long moment, Shen Qingwu answered: “It’s a minor injury. Doesn’t hurt.”

Zhang Xingjian said: “That’s good, then.”

He asked: “Might you become pregnant?”

He’d long known she wasn’t easily able to conceive, but Shen Qingwu had no idea he already knew this. She only found his sudden thoughtfulness strange, and grew more bewildered still by his endless fussing concern now that he was awake.

Shen Qingwu never expected concern from anyone.

Not even from Zhang Xingjian.

Shen Qingwu said: “I won’t get pregnant, you needn’t worry.”

He went on asking, at length, why she wouldn’t get pregnant, expressing concern over contraception, bringing up conventional attitudes on the matter. Shen Qingwu listened expressionlessly, falling silent—she never engaged with topics that didn’t interest her.

Yet Zhang Xingjian finished saying all he meant to say regardless.

At last he looked at her gently, smiling: “I truly have put A’Wu through a great deal.”

Shen Qingwu waited a long while, expecting more words that never came.

She slowly lifted her head, looking at him.

She said: “You don’t intend to say anything else?”

Zhang Xingjian: “Hm? What should I say? What’s done is done—I have nothing further to say.”

Shen Qingwu: “I won’t be letting you go.”

He laughed with a sigh: “I know. Since it’s come to this, I’ll accept it.”

Shen Qingwu: “I’ll keep forcing you into what happened last night.”

He fell silent a moment.

He turned his face aside, and under her unwavering gaze, she saw a faint flush color the side of his face.

He hesitated: “This sort of thing takes a toll on the body—it shouldn’t be done too often.”

Zhang Xingjian turned back to smile at her: “I’ve thought it through. I can’t beat A’Wu, and I can’t escape A’Wu either. Since A’Wu is fond of me, why shouldn’t I try cultivating feelings for A’Wu in return?

“Whatever A’Wu wants, I’ll do my best to provide.”

A strange, irritable feeling rose in Shen Qingwu’s chest.

She’d imagined Zhang Xingjian trying to flee, imagined him berating her, imagined him resisting with everything he had—she simply hadn’t imagined he’d stay this calm, that he’d accept all this so naturally.

Shen Qingwu leaned toward him suddenly.

He tilted back, leaning against the bedpost, her cold, sharp expression reflected in his eyes.

Shen Qingwu: “I’ll lock you away here, keep you as my treasure. You’ll go nowhere but here. I won’t let you go, won’t let you leave this room, won’t let you out of my sight for even a moment. Are you truly willing to accept that?”

Zhang Xingjian lowered his eyes, smiling: “A’Wu surely can’t stay with me forever—A’Wu will eventually cast me aside, won’t she?”

He said: “It’s no trouble to keep A’Wu company a while. Besides, any man would be moved by such relentless pursuit from someone like A’Wu.”

He paused, then rephrased her question from the night before: “No man would refuse a woman like that.”

Zhang Xingjian added: “Only, I wait here alone for A’Wu’s favor—please don’t make me wait too long.”

Shen Qingwu thought: but last night, in the depths of your confusion, what you actually said was “that’s not right.”

A sudden dullness settled over her.

The moon she wanted was certainly not one this obedient, this compliant—

Shen Qingwu fastened her belt, put on her martial robe. Zhang Xingjian asked if she wanted him to prepare a meal; she didn’t answer.

Because of how thoroughly compliant he’d become, Shen Qingwu had lost all interest in rebinding his chains, in fearing he might flee.

The more agreeable he was, the less she cared to deal with him.

As she was about to leave, a thought crossed her mind, flat and unsatisfied: so that’s all it was.

Much the same as what the romance novels described.

Winning his body would win his heart. He truly had changed his attitude toward the first person to have him—a man’s first time truly did matter that much, it seemed…

Shen Qingwu’s hand rested on the door, and she stood still for a long moment.

Something was wrong.

Slowly, it dawned on her: everything happening to her matched exactly the way these stories always unfolded—

She’d taken him by force; he’d resisted at first; once she succeeded, his attitude changed completely.

He’d begun caring about her affairs, asking after her constantly, beginning to wistfully hope she’d stay by his side more, spend more time with him…

If the story continued along this path, next he’d start growing attached to her, start pursuing her relentlessly, start pining for her, asking every day where she’d been.

Exactly like how these stories always unfolded!

Zhang. Yue. Lu!

Shen Qingwu spun around abruptly, her gaze turning icy as she looked at Zhang Xingjian, still leaning against the bed, smiling at her.

His smile was serene as the moon, yet the depths of his eyes were dark and unfathomable. He had never been someone anyone could simply manipulate at will.

Shen Qingwu advanced on him, step by step.

He raised an eyebrow, asking: “What is it?”

Shen Qingwu leaned down over him: “Zhang Yuelu, are you following some script, trying to tame me?”

Something flickered in his eyes.

He smiled: “I don’t understand what A’Wu means.”

Yet the smile on his face was so distant, his true feelings clearly nowhere near it.

Shen Qingwu: “You know exactly what I intend to do to you, you understand perfectly well where my obsession with you comes from. I can’t have you, so I chase you relentlessly. But you have your own affairs to attend to, and you don’t want me clinging to you. So you’ve schemed to let me have you—

“It’s only a body, after all—why would Zhang Yuelu care about that? Giving it away freely costs nothing.

“You schemed to put on this act of being tamed, this act of being forced into loving me. You’re deeply calculating, and you understand exactly what kind of person I am—the harder something is to get, the more I want it; once I have it, I lose interest entirely.

“You’re using that against me, to make me grow tired of you, to make me give you up on my own.”

Shen Qingwu lowered her head, meeting Zhang Xingjian’s faintly smiling eyes.

She sighed, laughing softly: “What a… difficult moon you are.”

Zhang Xingjian gazed at her.

She had no extraordinary intelligence; she acted on instinct, recklessly. And yet, somehow, by sheer accident, she’d stumbled onto the truth.

Shen Qingwu: “You want me to let you go? Dream on. If you want to scheme against me, I’ll play along!”

She knelt at once on the bed, reaching to pull at the cloth strips. She shoved him down, meaning to bind him to the bed once more. Her eyes shone with brilliant, dazzling light—she was far too drawn to a man like this.

Zhang Xingjian closed his eyes, sighing inwardly.

He heard her say, close to his ear: “I’ve seen through your little scheme, and it won’t work. How pitiful, moon.”

Her breath brushed his lips, and his eyes narrowed faintly.

Shen Qingwu tilted his chin up, kissing his eyes with a mix of affection and cruelty, asking him: “What will you do now, Zhang Yuelu?”

What filled Zhang Xingjian’s vision was the smooth line of her jaw; his hand, hidden in his sleeve, clenched into a fist, his face calm and smiling: “Then I suppose I’ll simply have to do my utmost to resist General Shen.”

His form of address shifted—from “A’Wu” back to the cold “General Shen.”

And this was precisely what set Shen Qingwu’s blood racing, thrilled by the prospect of battle.

Shen Qingwu: “Try it, then!”

Zhang Xingjian said: “I shall.”