Shen Qingwu’s state was distinctly off.

She was far too worked up, excitement running high.

Evening sunlight filtered over the low wall, falling across the flagstones of the alley. Few voices carried from outside; a handful of yellow leaves drifted down, hollow as dried moths. Zhang Xingjian thought this even as Shen Qingwu threw herself at him.

Tall as she was, she still leapt straight into his arms. Not an ordinary jump, either—her whole body flung itself at him, legs clamping around his waist, her weight hanging suspended against his upper body.

Struck by her impact, he staggered back, swaying; the wound on his chest very nearly split open again from the force of it.

He steadied himself against a wall, forced to wrap his arms around her to keep the swaying Shen Qingwu from falling.

For a well-bred young master raised under such strict tutelage, this posture was more than a little mortifying. But Zhang Xingjian had no time to worry about propriety just then. Leaning against the wall, head tilted back, he rested one hand on the firm muscle of the leg clamped around him and patted it gently.

Sunlit dust settled in his handsome, upturned eyes: “Shen Qingwu?”

She looked down at him from above.

These past few days, the mountain bandits had put her through no small ordeal. Having stolen a few sheets of paper, she’d been pursued relentlessly ever since. She wanted to turn and strike them down, yet worried her own carelessness might endanger Bo Rong, and so had been forced to hold her temper in check.

What was more, she’d been poisoned by something on that letter.

The poison had spread through her organs; she’d rather force it toward her fingertips again and again with her internal energy than abandon the letter. Now, throwing herself into Zhang Xingjian’s arms, her entire left arm had already gone numb, without feeling at all.

Her whole body felt light and floating, as though she’d drunk watered-down wine.

And yet she was happy.

She’d only just escaped those mountain bandits when she ran into Zhang Xingjian. Though her mind wasn’t entirely clear just then—she’d even briefly wondered if this was some final flicker of consciousness before death—the moment she’d leapt onto him, she’d known for certain this wasn’t a dream.

The clear, quiet scent that clung to Zhang Xingjian, something between moonlight and thin snow, belonged to no one else. Every time she caught that scent on him, she felt as though she stood beneath moonlight itself.

Did moonlight have a scent? She didn’t know.

But he carried the scent of the moon regardless.

Shen Qingwu greeted him happily: “Zhang Xingjian, hello there.”

She’d assumed that with her away, he’d surely have fled.

Yet he hadn’t left after all!

He never left!

Though she knew he was only waiting to learn the outcome of the Bo Rong matter, Shen Qingwu genuinely felt her spirits lift at the sight of him just then.

Someone had seen her!

Zhang Xingjian watched her somewhat “manic” state with concern.

Ordinarily, Shen Qingwu was cold and aloof—she’d never leap at him like this without asking why he was even there. Under normal circumstances, she’d have immediately suspected the suspicious timing of his appearance, bristling all over, demanding to know if he had some scheme afoot again.

Truthfully, he had no scheme.

Truthfully, he’d simply been searching for her this whole time, racking his brain to guess every place she might possibly turn up, checking each one, lying in wait.

The formidable General Shen was, of course, no match for mere mountain bandits, but the formidable General Shen was also reckless and thought little before acting, and he… couldn’t help worrying she might fail to secure the information on Bo the Third.

Right now, Zhang Xingjian gazed up at Shen Qingwu.

He was even, in a way, somewhat annoyed.

Suppressing all his emotions, he patted the long, slender calf clamped around his waist once more, signaling for her to get down. Zhang Xingjian said gently: “Let’s talk once we’re home.”

Home?

Shen Qingwu suddenly remembered what she needed to do.

She needed to treat her injuries, purge the poison!

In her current state, even one more step could do her body real harm.

Shen Qingwu hastily leapt down from his arms; Zhang Xingjian, assuming she meant to come along with him, reached out with reserved courtesy to take her hand.

Shen Qingwu leaned in instead, and planted a light kiss on his cheek.

The stench was indescribable.

Yet a faint flush colored Zhang Xingjian’s face regardless.

Composed, he said nothing—then watched, startled, as Shen Qingwu suddenly darted away, too quick for him to catch. She tossed a scrap of tattered cloth she’d been carrying at him and dashed off.

She spoke urgently: “I’ve still got something to do. You go on ahead.”

Zhang Xingjian: “Wait, what did you just give me? Where are you going?”

Clutching the wrapped object in his hand, he chased after her. Shen Qingwu’s entire gait was wildly unsteady, like a drunkard’s, which only worried him more. Yet unsteady as she was, she still moved with such speed that Zhang Xingjian couldn’t catch her.

Watching the direction she headed, his eyes widened in surprise, a flicker of anger rising: “Shen Qingwu, where are you going? Have you even looked properly at…”

The place she was heading straight for was a small three-story building, lanterns just beginning to glow within, though outwardly it flew no banners or flags of any kind. A wooden plaque above bore, in respectable script, the words “One Night of Spring Breeze,” yet business seemed sparse.

Shen Qingwu’s abrupt entrance left the two doorkeepers outside momentarily stunned.

Then, right behind her, they saw a fair-faced, elegant young master come walking up.

The two men exchanged glances.

Zhang Xingjian stood before the building, brow furrowed, glancing toward the brightly lit interior.

The two doorkeepers sized him up: this establishment was a house for young male companions, catering to certain noble ladies. Ordinarily, most women, bound by upbringing and propriety, never came anywhere near such a place—even passing by, they’d sneer and hurry past.

Tonight, a disheveled woman had marched straight in, unusual enough on its own.

Even more unusual was this refined, elegant young master, now appearing at their door too.

This young master had a faint melancholy about his eyes, a slender waist, temples touched with the sort of grace poets praised—his clean, tall bearing put even their establishment’s top attraction to shame. A young master like this didn’t look the type to favor men—perhaps his family had fallen on hard times, offering himself for hire?

His simple, crude clothing, mismatched with his refined bearing, lent the theory of a fallen family some credence.

The two doorkeepers nodded to themselves, already scheming how to persuade this young master to stay on as their new top attraction. Before they could speak, Zhang Xingjian had already stepped past them into the building.

Zhang Xingjian entered, glancing about in every direction, searching for Shen Qingwu’s trail.

A cough sounded.

He turned, and with perfect naturalness cupped his hands in greeting to the madam, his manner exceedingly gentle: “That young lady who came in just now—where is she? I’m with her.”

The madam’s eyes lit up.

Before she could speak, a fidgeting young gigolo came rushing over, whispering in her ear: “Auntie, can I go serve that young lady?”

This young man looked quite young, his face lightly powdered; he glanced at Zhang Xingjian with some wariness, clearly worried Zhang Xingjian might steal his position. He pleaded with the madam: “Business has been so slow lately—the women who come in are either old, or plain, or heavyset. I haven’t seen a real beauty in ages…”

The madam: “I didn’t notice that young lady being especially beautiful.”

The young man: “Sure, her clothes were dirty and stank, her face was covered in dust, easy to overlook. But I’ve seen enough women to spot at a glance the fine, delicate face hidden beneath all that grime…”

Zhang Xingjian coughed once.

The madam and the young man, unsure why he was coughing, looked at him in confusion.

Zhang Xingjian said, somewhat helplessly: “Forgive me, but the woman you’re describing should be… my wife.”

The two of them stared, eyes wide.

Just as Zhang Xingjian was about to explain further, another young man came rushing over excitedly: “Auntie, Auntie! I asked that lady if she needed anyone to attend her, and she said, quite happily, ‘Sure, come on in, I’ve got someone else attending me already.’ Auntie, let me go serve her!”

The first young man protested at once: “What? I saw her first!”

The two of them exchanged a glance, then both turned and dashed upstairs together, calling out in unison: “Whoever gets there first gets her!”

The madam: “…”

Her suspicious gaze fell on Zhang Xingjian; he offered her a faint smile, his voice gentle: “My wife seems a bit confused about the situation. I’ll just go check on her.”

The madam said: “Er, if you’re truly husband and wife, well, marital disputes are none of our business, naturally. But this is a house of pleasure, after all—it wouldn’t do to call them back either, and your wife does seem, perhaps, possibly… naturally lovely…”

Zhang Xingjian said gently: “Of course. I won’t disrupt the establishment’s arrangements or trouble you, Madam.”—

Shen Qingwu, in her dazed state, had wandered into this brightly lit building; no one had stopped her, though people along the way had given her some strange looks.

Shen Qingwu, long accustomed to such strange looks, paid them no mind whatsoever.

Assuming this was some kind of restaurant, she found a private room and pushed the door open, again unimpeded. Only then did someone finally react, asking her: “Miss, would you like to be attended to?”

Shen Qingwu thought their attitude here was really quite good.

Even the attendant was rather good-looking.

Almost a tenth as handsome as Zhang Xingjian.

Shen Qingwu instructed them to bring hot water and a bathtub; the young man who’d spoken to her smiled with a rather suggestive air: “Of course, right away. Can’t make things difficult for a guest, after all. By the way, does the lady have any particular preferences? Any requirements for whoever attends you?”

Shen Qingwu: what fine service.

Had her arm not been so numb, had she not felt as though she were soaking in molten metal, her mind no longer capable of coherent thought, she’d have been happy to answer such questions properly.

As it was, she gave only a curt reply: “The best-looking one.”

The young man who’d asked watched her slam the door shut with a loud bang, and though disappointed, understood well enough—everyone who came here wanted the best-looking one.

This lady didn’t look particularly wealthy, yet her looks were striking. No doubt the house’s top attraction would be willing to lower himself for beauty like that—

And so, outside Shen Qingwu’s door, the two young men very nearly came to blows over it.

One carried a pot of Yangxian tea, the other a plate of lion-face chestnut cakes. As Zhang Xingjian and the madam came upstairs, they found the two locked in fierce, petty combat—tripping each other, shoving one another.

A vein throbbed at the madam’s temple.

The two argued: “She said the best-looking one—that’s me!”

“No, me!”

Something flickered in Zhang Xingjian’s eyes; from these fragments, he roughly guessed the source of this misunderstanding. He sighed, stepped forward, and positioned himself behind the two flush-faced young men.

He raised a hand unhurriedly, his slender wrist catching the candlelight, handsome enough that even the madam found herself momentarily entranced.

The madam thought: with a husband like that at home, who’d ever need to come to a place like this? Though perhaps looks alone weren’t everything—perhaps even the handsomest husband grew tiresome after long enough acquaintance…

Just as she mused on this, her eyes widened—she watched that handsome hand rise and come down in a swift chop against the back of both young men’s necks.

Zhang Xingjian stepped smoothly aside, then, with remarkable grace, caught the tea and cake that had nearly toppled from their hands. He gave a discreet kick, ensuring the two collapsing young men didn’t crash into the wooden railing or door and startle the guests inside.

Zhang Xingjian sighed: “I had no choice but to do this. My apologies to you both.”

The madam: “You, you, you…”

Zhang Xingjian: “There’s someone outside—please have them settle the bill for me.”

Composing herself, the madam watched Zhang Xingjian, tea and cakes in hand, move to push open the door. For the sake of the establishment’s reputation, she felt compelled to protest weakly: “Your wife asked for the best-looking one…”

Zhang Xingjian turned back, looking at her with genuine puzzlement.

His face was deceptively persuasive, his voice as unhurried as ever: “Hm? Am I not the best-looking one?”

He knew perfectly well what his own looks were worth.

Growing up, he’d rarely enjoyed the benefits of his appearance.

His acceptance into the main line of the Zhang family had come through his resemblance in bearing to Zhang Rong, and through his own cunning, not his looks.

Zhang Wenbi had devoted herself entirely to his upbringing, always stern and severe with him, forbidding him from ever using his looks to entice anyone. Even a smile shared with a household maid, or clothing worn slightly loose, would earn him a lecture from his second sister demanding self-reflection.

She’d always feared that if his naturally indolent nature were ever indulged, it would lead to irreversible consequences.

It was only after meeting Shen Qingwu, only after being constantly fixed under her burning gaze, that Zhang Xingjian came to realize appearance could genuinely matter. Whatever advantage his looks offered found its fullest expression with Shen Qingwu.

Though at times, he wasn’t entirely fond of that particular expression.

…At least, through him, Shen Qingwu wasn’t seeing Bo Rong—that much was something.

Zhang Xingjian mused on this idly, then set the thought aside. He pushed the door open and entered the room, ready to attend to whatever ailed this troubled General Shen—

Shen Qingwu sat cross-legged against the wall on the bed, eyes closed, her mind sunk deep in concentration.

She guided the flow of true energy within her body, slowly working to clear her meridians. As she examined each pathway, wherever she found something amiss, she forced the poison further toward her hand.

Her left arm was no longer merely numb—it had begun to ache.

Sweat beaded on her forehead, her face burning. The sweat soaked through her clothes; in the dim candlelight, a faint sheen glimmered.

She heard someone push the door open and enter.

Must be the attendant, here to set down the water and tub before leaving.

Shen Qingwu didn’t open her eyes, but stayed alert to the sounds around her. Sure enough, the person came and went several times, the wooden tub scraping against the floor, then setting down the tea and refreshments.

Throughout, whoever was attending her remained quiet and thoughtful, considerate in every detail.

Once she’d finished purging the poison, she could properly enjoy all this.

Such a thoughtful attendant—she’d love to take him along… no, Zhang Xingjian was still waiting for her.

Once she recovered, she’d need to have it out with Zhang Xingjian, three hundred rounds and more.

Shen Qingwu’s thoughts drifted, fragmented, unable to fully concentrate with someone moving about nearby. Her body exhausted, unwilling to open her eyes, she could only hope that this thoughtful young man, seeing her unresponsive, would be considerate enough to close the door and leave.

Who let a stranger linger nearby while channeling internal energy?

But this person didn’t leave.

Though the room stayed quiet, Shen Qingwu could tell the extra presence hadn’t gone. After a long stillness, that person slowly began approaching her.

A chill ran through Shen Qingwu’s heart: could this be someone meaning her harm?

The figure advanced step by step, stopping a few paces from the bed, as though studying her.

Shen Qingwu hated being scrutinized. Her uninjured right arm shot forward, seizing this person who dared spy on her, and she flipped upright in one motion. The instant her hand closed around his wrist, she paused abruptly—this feeling…

By the time she opened her eyes, she’d already pulled him close and pinned him to the bed frame.

Her numb, aching left elbow pressed him down; her more nimble right hand pinned his throat, gripping the vital point with lethal precision. She’d already sensed something familiar in the feel of him, and now, with him pinned beneath her, that cool, clear scent of his and his fine features registered before her all at once—Shen Qingwu froze in shock.

Shen Qingwu: “Zhang Yuelu?”

She was baffled: “Weren’t you going home?”

Zhang Xingjian gazed at her quietly.

He’d grown rather used to being pinned by her by now.

He tilted his face slightly, glancing up at her. She still lay sprawled over him, though the fingers gripping his throat had loosened, no longer choking him.

Enduring the numb ache in her left arm, Shen Qingwu’s eyes shone bright as scattered stars, her mood suddenly lifting: “I get it now—couldn’t bear to be apart from me, had to follow me here?”

Zhang Xingjian: “General Shen, do you have any idea what kind of place this is?”

Shen Qingwu: “No idea. Some kind of restaurant, I assumed… what’s it to me?”

Zhang Xingjian smiled: “A house for young male companions.”

Shen Qingwu raised an eyebrow.

Her thoughts moved sluggishly, her mind a muddle. Her body already felt wretched, yet talking with Zhang Xingjian still pleased her. Lust clouding her judgment, she insisted on enduring the discomfort to chat with him: “So you’re here to work as one, then?”

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

He laughed softly: “The two who wanted in earlier weren’t me, but two other men. I hadn’t realized General Shen was quite this fortunate in love—two men actually came to blows over you.”

Shen Qingwu’s brow lifted.

She began recalling the two men she’d encountered upon entering.

It dawned on her: no wonder she’d thought all the men in this building looked so fine—this was that sort of business, of course they’d need to look good.

Zhang Xingjian asked her: “Which one did General Shen prefer?”

Shen Qingwu: “Both were fine.”

Pinning him down, arm aching worse by the moment, she still had no intention of getting up. Perhaps the poison truly had left her abnormally excitable—she’d already felt an unbearable itch seeing Zhang Xingjian in the street at sunset; now, in this quiet room, with him right here, Shen Qingwu felt even more stirred up.

Deep down, perhaps she genuinely did enjoy being close to him.

It was only that, ordinarily, she was always on guard against him, always wanting to spar with him, always wanting to torment him—so that fondness had to be downplayed, concealed a little.

Zhang Xingjian said quietly: “Both were fine? You truly can’t tell which was better?”

Shen Qingwu, following his line of questioning, thought back seriously on both men’s features. She answered honestly: “Truly can’t tell. I fell in love at first sight with both of them.”

Love at first sight…

Something stirred, quiet, in Zhang Xingjian’s eyes.

He knew perfectly well her state was off right now, that she was speaking without thinking, perhaps using the wrong words entirely—and given her limited education, she likely wouldn’t even notice the slip herself. And yet Zhang Xingjian still found himself amused despite it all…

He said, gently: “I’ve never once heard of anyone falling in love at first sight with two people simultaneously. General Shen truly has a rare gift.”

He praised her as having “a rare gift.”

Shen Qingwu’s eyes curved into a smile.

Zhang Xingjian thought, suppressing his irritation: fool!

But he knew her state was off; sparring with her now would only waste time.

Forcing down his displeasure, Zhang Xingjian steadied her waist and slowly helped her sit up. She was quite docile, following his lead without protest. He reached out to check her pulse, assessing her condition.

He was no physician, after all, and could only tell that her pulse was erratic, her blood and energy in turmoil, her meridians disordered—beyond that, he couldn’t discern much.

As he checked her pulse, he said quietly: “Shen Qingwu, if you still want to… maintain this arrangement with me, you can’t go carrying on with other men. Even if I hadn’t come today, you shouldn’t be entertaining anyone else.

“I can tolerate a great deal else from you, even you pining after Bo Rong in your heart… but you mustn’t test my limits, don’t truly provoke my anger.”

His speech ran too long; Shen Qingwu had already forgotten most of it by the time he finished.

She only remembered his very first words.

She said: “Mm, I want to sleep with you.”

Zhang Xingjian choked, then couldn’t help laughing.

He frowned: “Are you poisoned?”

He studied her eyes; Shen Qingwu answered: “Yes, but it’s fine, I’ve taken medicine for it.”

Zhang Xingjian: “What poison?”

Shen Qingwu: “Not sure, but it’s minor—won’t kill me.”

She lifted her chin, rather proud of her own martial prowess.

Zhang Xingjian smiled, reaching out to grip her chin and pull it back down. He ran a hand through her greasy, dirty hair, his voice gentle: “If I didn’t know better, I’d think little Wutong here had taken some sort of aphrodisiac.”

He added: “Though if Wutong had actually taken an aphrodisiac, I doubt she’d be talking this much—more likely…”

His eyes flickered, and he left the thought unfinished.

Shen Qingwu studied him.

Zhang Xingjian came back to himself and asked: “How do you intend to cure the poison? Why not just come with me instead?”

Shen Qingwu told him how skilled she was in martial arts, gripping her already-swollen left arm with her right hand, showing off to him how she’d already forced the poison this far. Given time, she could force it out entirely.

She said, disdainfully: “I’ve fought through a hundred battles—something this small won’t bring me down.”

Zhang Xingjian: “Fine, then I’ll keep you company.”

Shen Qingwu nodded, pleased—

Purging the poison took her a full two hours.

At first, overly excited, she clung to him and refused to let go, saying all manner of things she’d never normally say. Later, Zhang Xingjian managed to press her back down, and only then did she settle into properly purging the poison, though not before making him promise not to leave.

Zhang Xingjian agreed to everything.

He’d finally gotten this reckless young lady to roll off him and settle down to patiently treat her poison. He sat at the edge of the bed watching her; Shen Qingwu sat cross-legged, and once her eyes closed, her expression gradually stilled.

Once calm, she finally returned to her usual quiet, taciturn self.

Zhang Xingjian: “Shen Qingwu.”

Eyes still closed, Shen Qingwu: “Hm?”

Zhang Xingjian: “Once the poison’s gone, what do you want to do?”

Shen Qingwu: “I want to eat. I’m starving—I can smell those pastries you brought. Get me more of those.”

Zhang Xingjian agreed, then added slowly: “If I stay with you, is eating pastries really all you want?”

Shen Qingwu: “I want lots of pastries, but I can’t remember what they’re called. Just bring a few kinds, I’ll try them all.”

Zhang Xingjian gently prompted her further: “If I lay beside you on the same bed, keeping you company, talking with you—what would you want then?”

Shen Qingwu, impatient: “Pastries! Are you not listening! Don’t make me angry!”

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

He laughed under his breath: “Fool.”

Shen Qingwu opened her eyes: “What did you say?”

Zhang Xingjian said gently: “Praising your rare gift.”

A blockhead doesn’t become one overnight; there was little point talking further with someone not in their right mind.

Never mind, then.