Behind the curtain and the basket, that candlelight had grown faint, flickering in and out.

The air felt distinctly unusual.

Shen Qingwu lay looking up at the fine, handsome young man above her. In this moment, she found herself sensing something unfamiliar, something genuinely different from usual—

Though his expression stayed composed, the faint tremor of light swimming in his eyes, catching on the moisture of his lashes and pupils, was thoroughly captivating. His hair had come partly loose, faint sweat gathering at his temples.

However hard he tried to stay calm, how could he possibly stay calm, in a moment like this?

Shen Qingwu watched him; the longer she watched, the more he turned his head aside, avoiding her gaze for an instant. But soon he lowered his eyes again, leaning down toward her lips and nose.

His breath trembled with every motion.

The warmth at her neck and cheek grew almost scalding, strands of his hair brushing her skin, that faint, ticklish itch leaving her restless, impatient.

Shen Qingwu tilted her head back, calmly raising an arm to hook his shoulder, pulling him down into her embrace.

He made no sound, only trembled faintly in that hair’s-breadth distance between them, his movements slipping slightly out of control.

Shen Qingwu watched his face, no longer so “detached and dispassionate.”

Before this, she truly could never have imagined a man like him kneeling over the bed, growing this intimate with her. He didn’t seem the type prone to losing himself in such things.

Perhaps her gaze was too direct, too plain—it drew his eyes to her again and again.

She said nothing, only let her breathing and her racing heart betray her emotions, letting him read her pleasure and her stirred feelings from them.

Zhang Xingjian felt a mix of shyness and joy, and an unease and confusion at gradually laying his true heart bare before her…

Desire and feeling, exactly as he had long suspected, tangled together in his chest, leaving him utterly without composure in this moment.

He truly disliked exposing himself like this.

But looking down at the woman beneath him, warmth bloomed bit by bit at the center of his chest, a bittersweet, aching, joyful feeling tormenting him.

Shen Qingwu, hair loose, face cool, her dark eyes hazy and unfocused, stretched out fully, hiding nothing of her feelings, savoring the pleasure of the moment. Watching her—that unwavering, unblinking gaze, the playful chase and challenge in her breathing—left Zhang Xingjian utterly captivated.

However inexperienced he was, he knew Shen Qingwu had to be different from other women in this.

No other woman would be so relaxed, so quiet, and yet so bold, all at once.

The pleasures of the bedroom were both indulgence and battle. She faced him, this enemy, without a word, yet without guarding herself against him either, letting him invade her territory freely. Her disheveled, long hair clung to sweat-damp skin, and she was so beautiful—

It made him want to lean down and kiss her.

But he needed to restrain himself.

Yet however much Zhang Xingjian tried to hold back, he still couldn’t stop himself from leaning down to kiss her again.

Shen Qingwu never refused his closeness; in such moments, their warm breath mingled together, and neither could easily escape this instinctive, natural pleasure.

Zhang Xingjian’s voice, low and hoarse, kissed her again and again, his fingers brushing her hair aside to look at her face: “The way you’re looking at me—it’s rather mortifying.”

Shen Qingwu said, “Sorry about that.”

Even as she spoke, her own expression caught for a moment—the hoarseness in her own voice surprised even her.

Something flickered in Zhang Xingjian’s eyes, his feelings deepening faintly.

He said, amused: “A little. Aren’t you?”

Shen Qingwu said nothing, gave no answer. As she closed her eyes, she felt his kiss land on her eyelids.

Too pleasant.

She wrapped her arms around him, loving the scent of him beyond measure.

Eyes open or closed, all she saw was him, the feeling maddening. Shen Qingwu rarely bothered controlling her own surging passion; unable to bear his teasing, tickling advances any longer, she opened her eyes to face him again.

His breath was heavy, restrained.

Shen Qingwu said, “You’re just going to leave your clothes on like this?”

Zhang Xingjian said, “Hm? Is that not allowed?”

Once on the bed, he hadn’t done what Shen Qingwu had hoped—letting her see, by candlelight, the fine skin hidden beneath his clothes. He’d proceeded directly like this instead, so reserved, so restrained. Even with her keen eyesight, she couldn’t make out much.

She only glimpsed his snow-white collar, the faint hint of pale skin beneath his loosened robe, his dark hair spilling soft and thick along his waist.

Occasional flickers of candlelight let her catch glimpses of him, his whole body like fine porcelain jade—only the scar on his chest looked somewhat unsightly, for want of proper care.

Shen Qingwu thought of her own body, covered in scars large and small, then looked at his fine, delicate skin.

Hmph. Nothing but a pampered little immortal boy, raised sheltered indoors.

Zhang Xingjian suddenly asked her, “Why have you never once asked what you look like, through my eyes, right now?”

Shen Qingwu, puzzled: “Don’t I know what I look like myself? Why would I need to ask you?”

Zhang Xingjian fell silent.

He smiled faintly. There was nothing particularly wrong with her answer—he simply heard, in it, how little thought she’d given to how she appeared to him.

No woman in this world was ever entirely indifferent to how she looked in her lover’s eyes. If she truly didn’t care, it could only mean she hadn’t given him her heart.

Then again, this was something Zhang Xingjian had already known.

Besides, what were they to each other, really?

How could he dare call himself her “lover”?

He was nothing more than her prey, her prisoner—

The candlelight grew fainter still.

Wax dripped, drop by drop, onto the table, silent.

The winter snow tapped against the window, a dull, muffled sound.

The two of them sighed.

Zhang Xingjian unhurriedly cleaned up with a cloth afterward, feeling somewhat lazy, wanting only to hold her, unwilling to do anything more for the moment.

The mood was pleasant; his eyes darkened faintly as he nipped lightly at the tip of her nose. Seeing her expression stay blank, he softened, worried she was in pain but simply too used to staying silent about it, and gently ran his tongue over the mark his teeth had left, trying to soothe it.

But Shen Qingwu hadn’t noticed any of these small gestures at all, entirely absorbed in admiring the sheer physical beauty of the man before her.

Shen Qingwu said, aggrieved: “I still can’t see properly.”

Zhang Xingjian’s eyes curved. “Hm? What do you want to see?”

Shen Qingwu said nothing, simply reached out her hand.

Zhang Xingjian froze abruptly.

Shen Qingwu raised an eyebrow.

The color on his face deepened further, but he composed himself and caught her wrist, gradually pulling her hand away. Shen Qingwu didn’t resist, leaning back lazily instead, amusement glinting in her eyes.

She looked down, seeing only layer upon layer of clothing still blocking her view.

Sensing her gaze, Zhang Xingjian leaned down again to kiss her lips, blocking her line of sight.

Displeased, Shen Qingwu turned her face away: “Hey!”

Zhang Xingjian laughed, helpless: “General Shen is simply too formidable—I can barely keep up. Allow me a moment.”

Shen Qingwu said, disdainful: “Useless.”

Zhang Xingjian said, good-natured: “I suppose I am rather useless.”

Shen Qingwu’s gaze softened; she slipped a finger inside his collar, touching his chest. Thinking she meant more mischief, he flinched slightly—only to hear her ask, quite seriously: “Does it hurt?”

Zhang Xingjian froze for a moment.

He glanced down, catching sight of the arrow-wound scar on his chest.

It had been over a month now. The wound would split open at times, then close again. Some nights the pain kept him from sleeping, his whole body chilled, and he simply endured it in silence, waiting for it to pass.

Shen Qingwu had never once asked.

Zhang Xingjian’s eyes curved. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Seeing her frown, he explained, “I’ve always had a higher tolerance for pain than most. Besides, General Shen has been channeling internal energy to help heal me quite often lately, and the medicine I’ve been using is quite good. To have healed this much in a month is already remarkable.”

Even if he still looked drained and pitiably frail most days.

Shen Qingwu said, “I wasn’t asking about the arrow wound.”

She knew exactly how vicious that arrow shot of hers had been. After all her years in the army, she also knew that a wound like that would take Zhang Xingjian at least half a year to fully heal. And he’d been forced to keep up with her, running all over the countryside, after barely a month…

It could only be called reckless of him.

Shen Qingwu said, “The old soldiers say if you don’t take a wound like that seriously when you’re young, it’s easy to die from it later. You don’t strike me as someone with a long life ahead of you either. You should be more careful.”

Zhang Xingjian choked slightly.

He was still so young, and already being cursed with an early death?

Shen Qingwu’s manner of speaking really was something…

He laughed, helpless: “My thanks for General Shen’s concern.”

Shen Qingwu frowned. “Actually, I wasn’t asking about the arrow wound. I meant… that dagger I stabbed you with, years ago.”

Her fingertip, faintly warm, traced lightly across his chest, still tender there. She found the exact spot over his heart, the precise place where that dagger had gone in, all those years ago.

Shen Qingwu said, “The arrow wound and the dagger scar are in the same place. You must have suffered quite a bit.”

Something shifted in Zhang Xingjian’s eyes.

Her hand rested against his chest; she looked up at him, waiting for his answer.

Back then… not yet twenty, Zhang Xingjian had stood in the rain, deliberately provoking her, deliberately courting that dagger thrust, trying to sever whatever might exist between them through self-destruction… and now here the two of them lay together, sharing the same bed.

Zhang Xingjian said, low: “Could we not talk about what happened back then?”

Shen Qingwu had only meant it as idle conversation, never expecting him to be reluctant to discuss it.

Caught off guard, she vaguely began to sense that perhaps she hadn’t been the only one affected by what happened that day, all those years ago.

But however long she puzzled over it, she still couldn’t guess where Zhang Xingjian’s feelings on the matter came from.

Shen Qingye was so beautiful! His fiancée had been so virtuous, so gentle… and yet here he was, lying in bed with her instead. However false the affection between them might be, this in itself gave Shen Qingwu a certain illicit thrill.

A beauty like Shen Qingye couldn’t have Zhang Xingjian—but Shen Qingwu could!

She sat up abruptly, pressing down on Zhang Xingjian’s shoulders. “Can’t keep up anymore?”

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

Shen Qingwu, delighted: “I’ll take over.”

Zhang Xingjian, alarmed: “You can’t—ah.”

Sure enough, before he could finish his sentence, Shen Qingwu had already flipped their positions. Zhang Xingjian, brow furrowed, barely caught his breath before she was already moving with reckless abandon, nearly the death of him.

He kept retreating, his head knocking against the headboard, stars bursting before his eyes. Trembling, he gripped her wrist, sweat beading across his forehead, and said with great difficulty: “Shen—Wutong, give me a moment…”

Shen Qingwu paid no mind. “A moment for what?”

Forced steadily backward, caught in that agonizing push and pull of heat and cold, the fingers gripping her wrist trembled. Sweat beaded at his fingertips, his upper body arched back, breath coming quick and ragged.

One hand gripped her wrist, the other rested at her waist. Torn between wanting to push her away and wanting to pull her closer.

Shen Qingwu, thinking only of her own pleasure, indifferent to his suffering, left him thoroughly wrung out, tormented.

She watched him without ever looking away.

Suddenly, in that moment, something clicked into place, and she found herself faintly amused at her own earlier confusion: why should she care whether Zhang Yuelu liked her or not?

If he didn’t like her, she’d make him like her. If he did like her, she’d make him like her even more.

Her whole leave of absence had been for exactly this purpose. It wasn’t over yet—why would she let it go to waste before the final day?

She meant to enjoy her leave to the fullest, just as she meant to enjoy Zhang Yuelu to the fullest.

…That business about whether the Miao girl thought he liked her or not—none of it mattered to her at all, really.

Having worked this out, Shen Qingwu’s expression eased, her brow relaxing. Looking down at him from above, the candlelight flickering across his disheveled figure lent him a striking, almost bewitching beauty.

Seeing him in visible distress, Shen Qingwu asked, “Do you yield?”

Zhang Xingjian’s eyes swam with hazy, glimmering light, lost in his own predicament; a long moment passed before he registered her voice, his chin caught in her grip, demanding an answer. His breath came damp and inviting; she asked again.

Shen Qingwu: “Zhang Yuelu. Do you yield to me?”

Zhang Xingjian tilted his head back, sinking fully into the bedding, staring without blinking at this formidable, commanding general above him.

The hand gripping her waist tightened, veins standing out sharply.

Zhang Xingjian slowly closed his eyes, letting himself go slack, his voice very soft: “General Shen, unrivaled under heaven.”

Shen Qingwu leaned down: “What?”

Her breath fell against his cheek; he knew she was toying with him again. Zhang Xingjian smiled: “Lady Shen the Second, unrivaled under heaven.”

“Shen Qingwu, unrivaled under heaven.”

She pressed further, and he praised her again and again, saying exactly what she wanted to hear, hoping she’d let him be. The more tenderly he spoke, the more it stirred her on.

A dead-fish Zhang Xingjian, Shen Qingwu had no interest in letting go easily; a responsive Zhang Xingjian, she was even less willing to let slip by.

And in his heart, Zhang Xingjian thought: little Wutong… unrivaled under heaven, indeed.

Zhang Xingjian was no match for Shen Qingwu’s will.

She wore him down, in less than half a shichen, twice over, until his back ached and his strength gave out entirely, drowsiness settling deep. He wasn’t alone in this—Shen Qingwu, too, having thoroughly indulged herself, felt her own exhaustion afterward. By then the candle had long since gone out; satisfied, Shen Qingwu set aside all her earlier tangled thoughts and settled beside him to sleep, necks entwined.

Half-conscious, both of them let out a sigh, thinking how good this feeling was, yet also not entirely good. If there were ever another chance like this in the future…

And in that same moment, the same thought stopped short in both their minds: would there even be a “future” to speak of?—

The next day, thoroughly satisfied, Shen Qingwu finally told Zhang Xingjian what she’d learned from Second Hu.

Zhang Xingjian said, “I see. Perhaps they suspect something about my identity. General Shen, I’m afraid they don’t trust us.”

Shen Qingwu said, indifferent: “Distrust is only natural. A wealthy merchant suddenly appearing out of nowhere, wanting passage and offering to pay them off—I wouldn’t trust that either, in their place.”

Bent over, one long leg propped on a wooden stool, she calmly tucked a dagger into her boot. As she arranged herself, one slender hand reached toward her.

Zhang Xingjian said, “Allow me.”

Shen Qingwu watched as he helped arrange the weapons on her person, and once fully outfitted, she prepared to head out again to gather information.

Just as the two of them had planned, once she’d learned what she needed to know and confirmed the third young master Bo’s hideout, she would make her move. Zhang Xingjian’s slow, deliberate strategy had worn thin Shen Qingwu’s patience, though she’d cooperated fully all the same.

She had her own way of solving problems.

Shen Qingwu said, proud: “Once I catch the third young master Bo, I’ll decide whether to kill him depending on the situation. If I decide not to, I’ll hand him over to Bo Rong to deal with personally. You have no objections, I take it?”

Zhang Xingjian had only stayed silent at the time, saying nothing in response.

Now, seeing her in such high spirits, he couldn’t quite tell whether it was the pleasure of the previous night putting her in such a mood, or the thought of helping Bo Rong.

She woke without saying a single word more about what had passed between them.

Zhang Xingjian lowered his eyes: had last night meant nothing to her at all?

Having finished dressing, Shen Qingwu turned back to look at his calm, composed face. She loved his handsome features; warmth rushed through her, her mind filling with memories of the previous night’s pleasure. She leaned in and pressed an eager kiss to his lips.

Zhang Xingjian looked at her, startled.

A faint light flickered in his eyes.

His breath warmed; he reached out to hold her, but she’d already slipped away, standing pressed against the door.

Shen Qingwu said, smiling brightly: “Don’t try to tempt me. I have no terms to negotiate with you right now. And I don’t feel like helping you with anything at the moment either.”

Zhang Xingjian smiled. “I wasn’t asking you to help me with anything.”

Shen Qingwu said, “Right, we need to deal with Bo Rong’s matter first. I’m off.”

Zhang Xingjian said, “Wait a moment.”

He handed her a bundle he’d prepared in advance; seeing her not take it, he simply strapped it onto her back himself.

Shen Qingwu said, “What is this? Something to kill me with?”

He gave her shoulder a light tap, not too hard.

Shen Qingwu opened the bundle to look, finding it full of jars and bottles, the strong scent of herbal medicine wafting out. She said, “Carrying all this around, if I run into anyone with a keen nose, there’ll be no escaping.”

Zhang Xingjian said, “Use your judgment.”

Shen Qingwu turned to push open the door.

Zhang Xingjian said again, “General Shen.”

She turned back. “What is it now?”

Zhang Xingjian was quiet for a moment before saying, “How many days will you be gone?”

Shen Qingwu said, “Depends how long the third young master Bo can hide.”

Zhang Xingjian said, “If things go badly, retreat in time.”

Puzzled, she looked at him as he calmly went on giving her instruction after instruction. He had so much to say that Shen Qingwu began to suspect he was hoping for her death. Otherwise, why so many “just in case”s?

It was only the third young master Bo, after all.

She’d faced down armies of thousands—why would she worry over some cowering little mountain bandit hiding in a hole?—

Shen Qingwu set off up the mountain, taking with her the servants disguised as government soldiers.

Zhang Xingjian sat alone in the quiet lodging house. Outside came two soft knocking sounds, something like the clash of weapons.

The door was knocked, and Chang Lin pushed it open, stepping inside.

Chang Lin glanced around the shabby little room and immediately felt a pang of grief nearly bring him to tears: his own pampered, cherished young master Three, reduced to living out in the open like this, following Shen Qingwu around from place to place. She hadn’t taken proper care of his young lord at all.

The young lord looked so pale, so thin.

Zhang Xingjian glanced at Chang Lin.

Chang Lin said, “Young master, those mountain bandits really were watching us. They tried to make a move, all clumsy about it, and I scared them off. Do you think they’ve guessed you’re the third young master of the Zhang family—that you’re Bo Rong’s younger brother?”

Zhang Xingjian said, indifferent: “I’m afraid it’s more than that.”

Chang Lin didn’t understand what he meant by “more than that,” and waited for his young lord’s next instructions.

Zhang Xingjian said slowly, “Everything depends on Shen Qingwu’s return. Only then can I be certain.”

Chang Lin nodded.

He said, “Don’t worry, young master. The prefect’s been hoping to hitch a ride on your good graces, hoping to land a fine post in the Eastern Capital. He and the Kong family don’t get along, and given that you two are ‘fellow disciples,’ he’s been waiting for a chance to curry favor with you for a long while now… He’s been unusually eager about this whole bandit-suppression business.”

Zhang Xingjian remained silent.

Chang Lin studied him for a while.

Chang Lin said, “Young master, when exactly do you plan to leave with me? Are you truly not going to clear your name, return to court? The young emperor has quite a few grievances against Kong Ye these days… and with the Princess away from the capital, isn’t this the perfect chance for you to return?

“Why do you keep lingering out here in these mountains and wilds?”

Zhang Xingjian said, mild: “Soon.”

Chang Lin: “Hm?”

Zhang Xingjian said, “If my judgment is correct, Shen Qingwu will capture the third young master Bo alive. He’s likely got quite a few crimes to answer for, and Shen Qingwu, mindful of the Marshal, will act cautiously because of that connection. She may well cut her leave short and return to Yizhou to find the Marshal.”

Chang Lin understood at once.

He muttered, “So the young master still remembers that plan after all. Here I thought…”

Zhang Xingjian said, smiling: “Thought what?”

Chang Lin, working up his nerve: “I thought you’d grown attached to Shen Qingwu, being held captive by her all this time—that you couldn’t bear to part with her.”

Zhang Xingjian smiled. “Absurd.”

His tone remained perfectly calm, showing neither irritation nor surprise. As though everything had gone exactly as he’d expected, as though he understood his own situation with perfect clarity.

Chang Lin studied him for a long moment, then said, “Actually, if you truly can’t bear to part with Shen Qingwu, why not… why not…”

Zhang Xingjian: “Hm?”

Chang Lin: “Why not just take her back to the Eastern Capital with you? Isn’t she… utterly infatuated with you?”

Zhang Xingjian’s lips curved into a smile, though no warmth reached his eyes: “She won’t come with me. Go on, then. I’ll think more on our current situation.”

He hadn’t denied wanting to bring Shen Qingwu along at all…

Chang Lin was stunned, too shaken to speak for a long while.

That his young lord hadn’t denied such a crude, probing question—the shift in his young master’s heart left Chang Lin deeply unsettled.

He could only hope his young lord knew what he was doing.

Even Chang Lin understood that the Zhang family would never accept someone like Shen Qingwu as its mistress. Surely the young master himself, having handled things so ruthlessly back then, understood that too?

Chang Lin made up his mind: he had to get his young lord away from here—

Shen Qingwu was gone a full five days.

The soldiers disguised as servants who’d gone with her had all returned. Shen Qingwu still hadn’t shown herself.

Anxiety gnawed at Zhang Xingjian, though he was careful not to say too much, lest it arouse suspicion. Each day, he discreetly tried to learn of Shen Qingwu’s whereabouts, asking Second Hu whether he’d seen her.

Second Hu finally showed himself once.

He said, blank: “No idea. Didn’t she come back with the rest of you? Maybe the snowy roads were too slippery—wasn’t your wife simple-minded? Maybe… well, my condolences. My condolences.”

Second Hu’s casual dismissal, laced with quiet malice, told Zhang Xingjian everything he needed to know.

At the same time, Zhang Xingjian found himself facing a string of small probing attacks from the mountain bandits—attempts to eliminate him.

He deflected each attempt, and forbade the soldiers from taking any further action of their own. Because Shen Qingwu still hadn’t returned—and Shen Qingwu was carrying vital information.

These past days, while Zhang Xingjian struggled on his end, holding every pressure at bay, Shen Qingwu had been acting entirely alone.

She had, in fact, found the third young master Bo.

The man proved to be extraordinarily timid, hiding himself away in a cave deep in the mountains. Shen Qingwu had endured being mocked and shoved down the mountainside by the bandits, who took her for a fool—all in service of tracking down the third young master Bo’s whereabouts.

Moving cautiously through the mountains, she finally, one night, followed Second Hu to that hidden cave, and heard him address the man inside as “Old Three.”

Old Three Bo had spent all these years in hiding—too afraid to let the authorities find him, yet insisting on playing bandit lord to a band of followers all the same. His clever little scheme had, admittedly, worked out rather well for him.

Shen Qingwu held herself in check, waiting until Old Three Bo finally left the cave before slipping inside to search it. She found some letters within, and without time to read them, hastily tucked several away inside her robe.

But the moment her hand touched the letter paper, a numbing sensation shot through her, and her whole body stiffened.

The paper had been poisoned.

Shen Qingwu still insisted on taking the letters with her, slipping out of the cave. As she hurried along the mountain path, she could only hope the medicines Zhang Xingjian had given her would do something against the poison—

Two more days passed.

At dusk, Shen Qingwu appeared in the small town at the base of the mountain.

Her steps were steady; she forced herself, through sheer will, not to stumble, not to give herself away. She’d already managed to suppress the poison using the medicine and her internal energy, but between hiding from the bandits the whole while, she’d had no time to rest. Having finally slipped free of the bandits’ watch and made her way down the mountain, Shen Qingwu spotted a building nearby… quiet, seemingly with few people inside.

No matter—she needed somewhere to tend her injuries.

Shen Qingwu turned into an alley, quickening her pace.

Rounding a corner, she suddenly heard someone call out to her from ahead: “Shen Qingwu!”

That voice—how familiar it was.

Startled, Shen Qingwu looked up, and there, not far ahead, stood Zhang Xingjian.

Seeing her, a faint smile touched his eyes; he stepped forward twice, then stopped, meeting her dark, still gaze: “It’s me. I’ve been looking for you the whole time.”

Dazed, Shen Qingwu stumbled forward a couple of steps herself, stopping haphazardly.

She brushed aside the tangled, greasy strands of hair sticking to her face. “Zhang Yuelu?”

Just as Zhang Xingjian opened his mouth, meaning to say something to ease her guard—expecting it would take considerable effort to earn her trust—this reckless, fearless Shen Qingwu, caring nothing for schemes or plots, simply lit up at once.

Was she so close to death that she was experiencing some final burst of clarity?

Her spirits soared: “Zhang Yuelu!”

Shen Qingwu broke into a run.

Filthy and reeking, this disheveled little wutong tree hurled herself straight at him, the brilliant, dazzling light of dusk pouring into her eyes, dancing without pause.

Like some unsteady toddler just learning to walk, she leapt into his arms, staggering his footing, and ordered him: “Hold me!”

It seemed, after all, that she still preferred a beauty entirely unlike any mountain bandit.