The New Year was drawing near, and everyone was hurrying to buy holiday goods, so the streets were more crowded than usual with people out and about.

Today, wind and snow filled the sky. Standing in front of the private schoolhouse, Shen Qingwu also saw many commoners on the street, bundled in thick padded coats, hunched over as they struggled forward through the snow.

The snowfall itself wasn’t heavy. This far south of the great river, sweeping, boundless snowstorms were rare.

Faced with this snow, most people showed more delight than distress—talk of “a timely snow promises a good harvest” and the like.

Shen Qingwu tilted her face up, letting the snow land on her cheeks, and suddenly thought of how many years it had been since she’d seen real heavy snow. She thought too of this same season last year, when she’d nearly been buried in a snowstorm on the mountain, and how someone had carried her out on his back.

He’d saved her.

But he wouldn’t admit it.

Zhang Xingjian…

The schoolteacher, closing the front gate, was startled to see the young woman who’d earlier stood stubbornly in the snow demanding an answer to her question still standing there. He frowned, worried this stubborn young woman might refuse to leave and bring trouble to his school.

A shadow swooped straight at Shen Qingwu’s head.

Standing below the steps, Shen Qingwu didn’t even look up—she simply reached up and caught a book in her hand. She glanced up at it, then at the teacher standing on the steps.

Her cold, indifferent expression was unnerving no matter the circumstances.

The teacher said, forcing bravado into his voice: “I wasn’t lying to you. That’s exactly what the book says—’the bright moon cannot be had, far off among the distant clouds.’ It’s freezing out here, and I still need to get home for New Year’s. Don’t you go causing trouble.

“And even if you do, we’re not afraid!”

The teacher stiffened his neck and put on a show of bravado, claiming he’d studied martial arts since childhood and had tremendous strength. Shen Qingwu gave the frail, bookish man a quick, indifferent glance, guessing that her standing there was simply blocking someone’s way home.

So she turned and left, taking the book with her.

As dusk gradually fell, Shen Qingwu made use of the last light before darkness to hurriedly flip open the book and scan it. This book matched the one Bo Rong had given her exactly, and the missing line was indeed the one about the bright moon.

So Zhang Xingjian really hadn’t wanted to teach her that line.

Why?

Shen Qingwu wondered as she walked.

That line taught a lesson about facing reality—if he refused to teach it to her, did that mean he had some hidden motive? But what could his hidden motive possibly be?

He’d been… so good to her lately.

Maybe not teaching her that line was simply to avoid shattering her illusions.

When had Zhang Xingjian become this gentle?

He was nothing like the cold, distant moon she thought she knew—

Three knocks on the door, and once the person inside answered, Shen Qingwu pushed the door open and entered, bringing in a gust of wind, snow, and cold.

A fire burned in the room, and under several bright lamps, Zhang Xingjian sat bent over the table, occupied with something.

He looked up at her with a smile, generous with his praise: “Our Wutong has learned to knock.”

Shen Qingwu tilted her chin up slightly.

The hostility she’d been carrying eased at his gentle teasing and his ever-present smile.

Shen Qingwu rarely let others influence her, but perhaps from spending so much time with Zhang Xingjian, she’d genuinely picked up some of his habits: her mood lifting because he smiled, feeling smug because he kept praising her, feeling like she must be pretty good after all because he never held her flaws against her…

Was this a good thing?

The thought left Shen Qingwu unsettled.

She heard Zhang Xingjian say gently, “There’s hot tea warming on the stove. Have some to warm yourself up.”

Shen Qingwu was displeased by this: “Why didn’t you bring the tea to me yourself?”

She found more to complain about: “I just walked in, and you didn’t even come greet me or help me out of my coat.”

The moment she said this, she paused, startled.

When had anyone ever cared where she’d just come from, whether she was cold or too warm…

It was all Zhang Xingjian’s fault!

Every time she walked in, he’d come over to greet her, brush the snow off her, take her cloak… had he given her some kind of condition?

Bent over the table, Zhang Xingjian’s eyes filled with amusement.

But he looked up, the picture of innocence: “I was busy with your lessons, wasn’t I?”

He was easy to please: “I’ll be sure to greet you next time.”

Shen Qingwu took off her cloak and walked over to him: “Busy with my lessons? You don’t teach with any seriousness at all—since when did you become this diligent?”

Zhang Xingjian smiled brightly: “I want to teach you painting.”

He reminded her: “Didn’t you tell me last night that Bo Rong never taught you painting? I will.”

His smile was serene: whatever impression Bo Rong had left on her, he wanted to erase; whatever impression Bo Rong hadn’t left, he was eager to be the one to leave it.

He refused to believe he was any less than Bo Rong.

Shen Qingwu scratched her cheek: “I’m no good at painting.”

Zhang Xingjian said, “I’m not asking you to become a great painter, just to get the gist of it. Besides, I have my own selfish reasons for teaching you painting.”

By now Shen Qingwu had come to stand in front of him. He rose to offer her his seat, pulling her to sit at the table. Leaning over her from behind, he had her look at his “unfinished work” together with him.

Sitting in the round-backed chair, Shen Qingwu saw Zhang Xingjian’s earlier painting: some circles, some trees, some mountains and grass.

The brushwork was casual, but the mood it conveyed was excellent. She couldn’t quite make out what he’d painted, but the brushstrokes flowed so freely that even she could tell his technique was no worse than Bo Rong’s.

His breath brushed lightly against the back of her neck as he leaned in from behind, smiling: “Can you tell what it is?”

Shen Qingwu forced out a single word: “Good.”

Zhang Xingjian laughed softly.

His breath tickling her neck made half her heart go soft at once, and the other half of her body felt numb from his laughter. Shen Qingwu suppressed the sudden warmth surging in her chest and forced herself to listen as he continued:

“Wutong, I’m working on a painting… I want to give it to you as a gift.”

Shen Qingwu wasn’t really paying attention.

He reached around from behind and took her hand, guiding it to hold the brush together with his. Distracted, she’d already forgotten what she was doing, and simply let him half-embrace her from behind as they painted a few strokes together.

Her fingers were stiff as boards in that moment, nothing like their usual dexterity with blade and spear.

Her ears caught the word “gift.”

She mumbled, “I don’t want it.”

But her tone had gone thoroughly halfhearted, nothing like her usual firmness.

He always managed to entice her this way—constantly gifting her beautiful clothes, styling her hair and helping her dress every day. Shen Qingwu, sinking into the comfort of his tenderness, found herself losing the will to resist his gift offensive.

Because Zhang Xingjian would say: how could giving clothes count as a gift? She needed to wear clothes anyway.

Shen Qingwu privately agreed: true enough. Back when he’d been sick, she’d spent so much money on him, left herself practically broke, and never said a word about it. What did a few outfits from Zhang Xingjian amount to? It was the least he owed her.

Shen Qingwu accepted his beautiful clothes without hesitation—but now he was bringing up gifts again…

She resisted, refused with real effort, repeating: “I don’t want it!”

Zhang Xingjian said gently, “It’s a New Year’s gift… Chang Lin has one too, so do all my attendants and maids. Are you sure you don’t want one? You won’t be jealous when everyone else shows off their gift from me?”

Shen Qingwu turned her face away.

As he held her hand, guiding her brush, she found herself wondering whether she’d actually be jealous.

If everyone around her had a gift and she alone didn’t, well, that really, truly… truly wasn’t such a big deal.

Hadn’t it always been like this, since she was young?

But back then, it had been because no one gave her anything—now Zhang Xingjian was clearly offering… Shen Qingwu immediately said, “I changed my mind. I want the gift. What are you giving me?”

Zhang Xingjian’s laugh was pleasant to hear.

He said, “Guess.”

Shen Qingwu scoffed coldly. She refused to guess.

She said she wouldn’t guess, but her mind had already wandered far off. So much so that it took her a good while to notice he’d been guiding her through the painting for quite some time already. Her clumsy, stiff strokes were about to ruin the whole thing.

She didn’t want to ruin it.

She yanked her hand back abruptly, but Zhang Xingjian seemed to have been watching for exactly this—the moment she loosened her grip, he tightened his, keeping her from pulling away.

Zhang Xingjian smiled: “Almost done.”

Shen Qingwu said, “I can’t paint, you’re going to ruin all your hard work like this.”

He remained entirely at ease: “Hm? I don’t think you have the power to ruin my work. Wutong, take a look at how this turned out—”

Shen Qingwu sat frozen, staring intently at the painting.

She had to admit—even with her stiff, awkward strokes added in, the painting still looked excellent. Her clumsiness had even added a certain sharp, striking quality to a few of the lines… she couldn’t quite explain it, but she was fairly sure she hadn’t ruined his painting.

Her eyes lit up: “I’m actually pretty good.”

Zhang Xingjian laughed.

Staring at the painting, she suddenly said, “What you painted… this is a tree, a wutong tree, isn’t it?”

She tilted her head back to look up at him.

His eyes were dark and clear, his lashes long, gazing down at her.

Their eyes met, and the starlight in her gaze sent ripples through his heart.

Her happiness made him happy in turn.

Zhang Xingjian nodded, said softly, “That’s right.”

Shen Qingwu hadn’t expected to actually be able to identify a painting—she’d never been able to make sense of anyone else’s work before. Was it that Zhang Xingjian’s skill was simply too poor, easy for even her to recognize? Or was his skill so good that even someone as artistically illiterate as her could tell exactly what he was painting?

Did all those brilliant, cultured young men and women from great families, with their vast learning, really carry knowledge far deeper and more vast than she’d ever imagined?

Zhang Xingjian smiled: “It depends on whether the painter wants you to know what he’s painting. If he wants you to know, you’ll always find a way to figure it out.”

Shen Qingwu paused, suddenly realizing she’d spoken her thought aloud.

So then… did Zhang Xingjian want her to know?

She said, “Don’t you think, talking to someone as uncultured as me, having to spell everything out in plain language, is a waste of all your learning?”

She peeked up at him with dark eyes: “Actually… I’ve noticed… that when you talk to me, it’s always very… easy to understand.”

Zhang Xingjian liked to speak in roundabout ways, but he never quoted classics or used words she couldn’t understand in front of her.

Zhang Xingjian said, “Because I’m lazy.”

Realization dawned on her.

She believed his nonsense completely, nodding seriously: “True, you can’t be bothered to make a fuss.”

Feeling quite confident now, she went back to studying his painting seriously. After a moment, she felt she’d figured out something else—

She said with confidence, “That’s the moon, isn’t it?”

Zhang Xingjian teased, “It’s just one circle—if you couldn’t tell that much was the moon, I’d really be worried.”

Ignoring his teasing, she studied the sketch on the rice paper intently for a long while, saying nothing.

Her silence began to unsettle Zhang Xingjian, unsure whether it came from her being naturally quiet, or from her genuinely not understanding what he was painting.

After holding it in for a while, he couldn’t help but ask softly, “You’ve spotted the moon, and recognized the wutong tree too. Do you still not understand what I’m painting?”

Shen Qingwu looked up at him.

She asked, “Does it mean a wutong tree gazing up at the moon?”

Zhang Xingjian’s eyes lit up, and he was about to nod.

Then he heard Shen Qingwu say, lightly, “Why should it, though?”

Zhang Xingjian froze.

He asked, “What do you mean?”

Shen Qingwu said, “Why does the wutong tree have to keep gazing up at the moon forever? You’re the white swan, I’m the lowly frog—I’ll spend my whole life never catching up to you? Is that what your painting means?”

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

Her stubborn obtuseness left him momentarily speechless.

He countered, “Why does it have to be ‘wutong gazing at the moon’? Can’t it be ‘moonlight shining on the wutong’ instead? Must you always assume the worst of me? Not a shred of credit for anything good I’ve done?”

Shen Qingwu paused, embarrassed, and lowered her eyes.

After a moment, she glanced at him furtively, and saw him with a stiff face, lips pressed tight, one hand braced on the armrest, refusing to look at her.

Shen Qingwu said nothing.

Zhang Xingjian’s eyelids lifted slightly, his gaze landing on her face, as if waiting for something—

Waiting for an apology?

But Shen Qingwu never apologized.

After staring at him for a long moment, she said instead, “Are your arms tired?”

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

She said, with great seriousness, “Holding still like that for so long, your arm must be sore, right? And your back’s been bent this whole time too—does your back hurt? Back pain isn’t something to take lightly, you should take care of it early. Once you’re older, everything becomes a problem.”

Zhang Xingjian said nothing, silent.

Shen Qingwu leapt up and grabbed his arm. He stepped back, but she’d already slipped nimbly and eagerly into the crook of his arm, wrapping her arms around his waist, her fingers kneading gently at his back.

Zhang Xingjian stiffened at once, twisting his waist away from her: “Shen Qingwu!”

His cheeks flushed, sweat beading at the tip of his nose—clearly, he was affected.

He caught her wrist.

Shen Qingwu didn’t move, waiting calmly.

After a moment, their eyes met.

Shen Qingwu broke into a smile, her eyes bright; unable to hold his composure under her gaze, he let out a sigh and pulled her into an embrace, forgiving her lack of consideration.

But Zhang Xingjian still reached out to gently stroke her cheek, chiding her: “Don’t always assume the worst of me.”

Shen Qingwu nodded repeatedly.

She instinctively cast him as the villain, as the one who’d bully her and abandon her. She could never quite escape the shadow of her sixteen-year-old self… but that probably had nothing to do with Zhang Xingjian.

Her life experiences, from childhood on, had taught her that no one was obligated to care about her happiness or sorrow.

If Zhang Xingjian were her lover, it would be natural to hold accounts with him; but he wasn’t—he was merely a prisoner she’d bound to her.

She didn’t place any expectations on a prisoner.

Besides, as a bedmate, Zhang Xingjian had been good to her, had never wronged her… they could part on good terms.

She’d already decided to let him go, to separate from him. That should be enough for her… shouldn’t it?

—

After two days of learning to paint, Shen Qingwu grew thoroughly bored of it.

She wasn’t actually this impatient a student by nature—whatever Bo Rong had taught her in the past, she’d learned dutifully; if she couldn’t grasp something, she said nothing and let the teacher decide when to give up. But faced with Zhang Xingjian, her preferences seemed to assert themselves strongly.

There were things she liked, and things she didn’t.

Because Zhang Xingjian wasn’t like Bo Rong. Bo Rong was a good teacher, and a good teacher cared whether she’d actually learned something; Zhang Xingjian wasn’t a good teacher—he himself taught halfheartedly, slacking off from time to time, so it seemed only natural that Shen Qingwu might say “I don’t want to learn this.”

That night, Shen Qingwu tossed down her brush and wiped the ink off her hands with a cloth.

She told Zhang Xingjian, “I don’t want to learn painting anymore. My hand’s tired from holding the brush, I don’t want to keep going.”

She accused him: “It must be that you’re a bad teacher.”

Zhang Xingjian was lying half-reclined on the bed, leaning against the wall. While she’d been laboring over her painting at the table, he’d sat nearby with a book. As she complained, his dark, glossy eyes peered out from behind the book, brimming with amusement.

He was remarkably easy to please: “Mm, I suppose I really am a poor teacher. Wasted your talent, hm… what should we do about that?”

Shen Qingwu frowned, feeling that his words seemed to underestimate her, as if implying she truly couldn’t learn.

Zhang Xingjian wasn’t good at everything, and she had her own strengths…

She stared at him for a while, then had a sudden idea: “Teach me chess instead.”

Zhang Xingjian paused.

She challenged him: “What, you don’t know how?”

She thought smugly to herself: she’d seen the halfhearted way he played chess.

With his terrible skill, who could he possibly teach?

She’d beat him so badly he wouldn’t know which way was up.

Zhang Xingjian watched her quietly, and Shen Qingwu arched a brow: “Zhang Yuelu, do you really not know how?”

Zhang Xingjian slowly set down his book.

His smile was faint: “Haven’t you always said I’m a man of vast learning? It’s just chess—how could I not know how to play? What does Wutong want to learn?”

Shen Qingwu pressed her lips together.

She named a chess manual, telling him how far Bo Rong had taken her through it. She watched Zhang Xingjian as he listened calmly, then rolled up his sleeves with a smile: “That manual? I happen to have read it.”

Shen Qingwu thought privately: of course you’ve read everything.

Zhang Xingjian had Chang Lin fetch a chessboard, and his composed, effortless manner made Shen Qingwu start to doubt her own judgment. Was Zhang Xingjian’s chess skill actually on par with Bo Rong’s, and he’d simply been playing the fool around everyone all this time?

When Chang Lin came in and heard that Zhang Xingjian wanted the chess manual, he looked startled, then shot Shen Qingwu a sympathetic glance.

Shen Qingwu read that look perfectly.

She relaxed at once: Chang Lin was pitying her for what she was about to suffer at Zhang Xingjian’s hands—which only confirmed she had it in her to crush him completely.

So the board was brought out, and Zhang Xingjian picked up the black and white stones, setting up the position. He sat across from her, explaining the endgame with great seriousness, walking her through it.

He explained it well, actually—clear, accessible, easy to grasp—clearly someone who genuinely understood the game and had truly studied the manual she’d mentioned.

Shen Qingwu grew a little impatient waiting.

Once he’d finally finished all that talking, she leaned forward, perfectly serious: “Teacher, just explaining moves won’t help me remember. Why don’t we play a match, teacher against student?”

Zhang Xingjian looked at her without speaking.

Shen Qingwu said sweetly, “Teacher, are you scared?”

The corner of his mouth slowly curved upward.

He lowered his head: “Hearing you call me ‘teacher’ surprises me, that’s all. Let’s play, then. Does Wutong want the first move?”

She said modestly, “Teacher Zhang should go first.”

She thought coldly to herself: even with the first move, you won’t win.

He glanced at her, his pale wrist reaching for the stones, entirely composed.

Her nerves flared up again.

But after just a short while, she let her guard down.

She wasn’t wrong.

Zhang Xingjian’s play really was terrible.

He played slowly and kept losing focus. Several times, Shen Qingwu had to remind him it was his turn before he’d snap back to attention, yawning.

His conduct at the board wasn’t great either—

As she bent her head, deep in thought over the board, she suddenly felt something shift. She looked up sharply at Zhang Xingjian across from her, saying coldly, “What are you doing?”

He was holding a cup of tea—partway through the game, he’d claimed he was thirsty and asked for water. She’d patiently obliged him.

And now, holding that cup, he was surreptitiously trying to tip it over the board, to spoil the game… but Shen Qingwu was quick, catching his movement before it happened, lunging forward to grab his wrist.

Zhang Xingjian blinked.

She admired his nerve, gritting her teeth with a laugh: “Zhang Yuelu, what are you sneaking around trying to pull?”

Caught red-handed, he didn’t seem the least bit guilty.

He smiled: “It’s getting late. I’m afraid Wutong will tire herself out playing—why don’t we end early and rest?”

Shen Qingwu said, “I’m not tired. No need to trouble yourself on my account.”

Zhang Xingjian spread his hands: “But I’m tired…”

She kept a firm grip on his hand: “You’re going to play this game properly.”

Zhang Xingjian sighed.

He said, “The night is short and precious—why waste it on chess?”

She said, “You sat there watching me paint and snickering to yourself—why wasn’t that a waste of time then?”

She fixed her eyes on him: “Zhang Yuelu, can’t you handle losing?”

His expression turned mildly serious.

He said, “It’s just a game of chess—what’s there for me to lose gracefully about? I was only thinking of you, and you don’t appreciate it. Fine, let’s keep playing then.”

Looking back on it afterward, Shen Qingwu admitted that having watched his chess skills so many times before, combined with this little performance, she’d come to hold Zhang Xingjian in some contempt.

Or rather, it was Zhang Xingjian who’d led her to believe he really was that inept, that inferior to her.

And so, an hour later, Shen Qingwu stared blankly at her thoroughly demolished position on the board, sinking into a long silence.

She had no idea when the game had turned to this.

She couldn’t believe it—Zhang Xingjian couldn’t even beat Chang Lin at chess, so how had he beaten her?

Staring bitterly at the board like she’d suffered a grave injustice, Zhang Xingjian came up from behind and wrapped his arms around her, pressing a light kiss to her warm cheek. Mimicking her earlier words, he teased, “What, Wutong, can’t handle losing?”

She spun around instantly and grabbed his collar.

He let himself go with the motion, allowing her to press him back against the wall, sitting there tilted up toward her.

She glared at him: “You tricked me?”

Zhang Xingjian sighed.

He said, “When did I ever say I knew nothing about chess? When did I ever say I was certain to lose?”

Pinned as he was, he still reached out to embrace her waist, toying with it, tracing lingering, testing circles, gently kneading.

Shen Qingwu remained unmoved.

She said, “Everything you did before—was it all a setup? You wanted me to get careless, to underestimate you, so you could teach me a lesson?”

Zhang Xingjian: “No.”

He said, “My chess skill really is quite good.”

She didn’t believe him.

He said, “It’s just that I’ve been playing for so long, and no one’s ever willing to play a full game with me.”

He lowered his eyes with a faint smile: “Wutong, you’re the first person who’s ever managed to finish a whole game with me.”

Shen Qingwu froze, and the aggressive grip she had on his collar softened.

He wrapped his arms around her, tenderly using the pad of his thumb to wipe away the flecks of ink that had splattered onto her face. His voice was gentle: “Let me guess—Wutong watched me play chess once, and decided right then that I must be inferior to Bo Rong, inferior to everyone. You thought anyone could outplay me at chess?”

His touch felt good against her skin.

She lowered her eyes, her indignant tone losing its edge: “If you’re actually this good, why do you always act like you’re not? What good does that do you?”

Zhang Xingjian said, “I’m not acting, Wutong.”

The helplessness in his tone made her look up at him.

He said, “This is just who I am… Wutong.”

He furrowed his brow slightly.

He seemed hesitant, flushed, resistant, uncertain. Perhaps this was a subject he’d never needed to discuss with anyone, and laying himself bare for the first time inevitably brought some shyness and awkwardness.

He spoke slowly: “You should know, I’ve had very little freedom, growing up. Since I first opened my eyes as a child, I had to start studying, had to learn every skill under various teachers… it was exhausting.

“I probably really am less driven than Bo Rong—I don’t share his endless thirst for knowledge about everything. There were plenty of times I didn’t want to study, didn’t want to strive, but I couldn’t stop either. Because I couldn’t go back to being a side branch of the family, couldn’t stop being my second sister’s brother… Wutong, I don’t know if you can understand this, but I can climb from a low place to a high one, but if I ever fell back down from the height to where I started, everything would fall apart completely.

“Who was my birth mother, my birth father? Since I was nine years old… none of that has mattered to me anymore. Amid all of that, chess is actually one of the few chances I have to truly relax.

“Wutong, it’s just a game—why should I have to win? I already work myself so hard every day; why does even a game of chess have to be about winning or losing?”

Shen Qingwu stared at him, stunned.

She said, word by word: “You don’t care about winning or losing.”

He held her, letting her settle against him. He rubbed her waist, letting her defenses ease bit by bit until she was willing to rest in his arms.

Zhang Xingjian nodded: “I truly don’t care about winning or losing at the board. Chess, for me, is just a way to rest… so…”

Understanding lit up her eyes: “So that’s why you always lose focus, why you go back and forth between playing and eating and drinking. You forget where you last placed a stone in the middle of a game, and you’ll spend ages trying to remember, and if you can’t, you’d rather just knock everything over and start fresh…

“Because you’re allowed not to care about winning or losing there. Because it’s the one place that belongs only to you.”

She slowly raised her arms, wrapping them around his neck.

She didn’t know why, but the anger she’d felt just moments ago had turned into something stirring, something exhilarating. She expressed this excitement through kisses, kissing him until his cheeks flushed and his lips glistened, his eyes flickering.

Her voice, rare in its gentleness, said, “No one’s ever played with you this long before, have they? So it always seems like you’re the one losing?”

Zhang Xingjian lowered his head and smiled.

His quiet, composed manner was like soft moonlight, like pristine mountain snow—remarkably moving.

Her breath came hot and quick.

He suddenly lifted his head to look at her, and asked, “Do you want me?”

She nodded.

She said, “I don’t know why, but after everything you just said, I feel so…”

She said, “Teacher, will you sleep with me?”

Her bluntness left him flushed, bashful.

The intimacy of shared secrets, of excessive closeness—it really did stir desire. He’d been using his own experience against her, refusing to believe she felt nothing for him at all.

See, she really had fallen for him.

She reached eagerly for his chin, pulling him up to share this pleasure with her. Her heart pounded—she’d held back for so long, and tonight, she didn’t want to hold back anymore.

Pressed against his lips, she suddenly said, “Zhang Yuelu.”

His black hair mussed, his face flushed like a peach blossom, eyes closed, his voice came out rough: “Mm?”

She said, “If life is a battlefield, I’ve always felt like I was the one losing.”

Zhang Xingjian opened his eyes.

He didn’t get to see her, because her kiss had already landed on his eyes. Not desire, but something tinged with feeling.

His heart pounded violently.

He gripped her wrist tightly.

Under the flickering candlelight, the young, beautiful woman pressed the refined, elegant young man beneath her, kissing him again and again.

Cupping his face in her hands, she felt his breath suddenly turn hot, his arms tightening around her waist.

She kissed his neck.

His pulse throbbed steadily beneath her lips.

Feeling his breath, and the tenderness Shen Qingwu showed for the first time, she said: “Zhang Yuelu… you make me feel like I’m not so terrible after all.

“…Maybe I’m not the one losing. At least, I haven’t lost every single time.”

At least, she’d come to know him.

She was willing to abandon every principle, to disregard past and future, no matter how others condemned her for it, just to have Zhang Yuelu. At least in this moment, she felt she wasn’t losing.

Zhang Xingjian only held her tightly, saying nothing—

Life as a battlefield.

The one who always won held the woman in his arms. A thousand words, and nothing he could say. His heart full of tenderness, none of it spoken aloud.

The one who always won felt that, this time, he would lose catastrophically.

But he couldn’t turn back now.