Dawn had broken some time ago; a thin layer of frost had formed on the windows, mist curling like smoke.

Chang Lin entered the room.

He found his lord seated by the window, robe draped over his shoulders, a cluster of wintersweet blossoms blooming just beneath the sill. Through that cluster of flowers, one could see straight into the courtyard, where Shen Qingwu practiced her martial arts with striking vigor.

He looked again at Zhang Xingjian—dark hair falling loose over his shoulders, eyes like stars. Sitting there in a pose of obvious ease, he looked like a figure of ice and snow, moonlit and beautiful.

Even in this languid state, even with a faint air of contentment hanging about him.

Zhang Xingjian’s beauty rivaled that of any woman, and even someone like Chang Lin, who saw him daily, still found himself momentarily dazzled at the sight, eyes narrowing in astonishment.

Chang Lin lowered his head, thinking to himself: his lord’s “honey trap” tactics were getting more skillful by the day. Second Young Lady Shen must have been thoroughly enchanted last night.

Otherwise, the two of them wouldn’t look like this today… mm.

With that thought, Chang Lin remarked teasingly to Zhang Xingjian: “Looks like my lord made quite the gains.”

Zhang Xingjian merely gave him a lazy, smiling look.

Chang Lin added, “But you can’t rest on this. There isn’t much time left before the Lantern Festival.”

Zhang Xingjian smiled faintly.

He felt a quiet confidence.

He was naturally more perceptive than most—otherwise he’d never have brought the Zhang Family this far. His instincts told him that Shen Qingwu’s manner toward him yesterday had been subtly different—

Not the usual fierce frustration of someone who couldn’t have what she wanted, but something closer to genuine fondness, genuine feeling.

This filled him with quiet delight.

She’d even handed over Bo Rong’s letter to him—proof enough that her trust in him had grown considerably. So long as nothing went wrong, Shen Qingwu would come to love him.

He just needed to be a little more careful, a little more patient, take things a little more slowly…

Zhang Xingjian waved lazily at Chang Lin.

Chang Lin came over, and Zhang Xingjian handed him two letters.

He said simply, “Check whether the handwriting on these two matches.”

Chang Lin glanced down casually at first, but the moment he registered what the letters actually were, he froze in shock.

He snapped his head up to look at Zhang Xingjian.

Startled and alarmed, he said, “My lord?!”

The two letters—one was the letter Bo Rong had written to Shen Qingwu; the other was the letter Shen Qingwu had brought back from Third Young Master Bo, detailing how he and Kong Ye had conspired to kill Zhang Xingjian.

For his lord to hand him both letters together—wasn’t that…

His lord suspected Commander Bo?!

Suspected him of what? That Commander Bo had been the one controlling Third Young Master Bo, that Commander Bo was behind Third Young Master Bo’s death, or that Commander Bo was the one who wanted to kill his lord? If all these threads led back to traces of Commander Bo, then did Shen Qingwu’s arrival mean that…

Commander Bo was watching them?

And Shen Qingwu…

Zhang Xingjian said flatly, “The matter of the Zhang Family has nothing to do with Shen Qingwu.”

Chang Lin said, “But Shen Qingwu belongs to Commander Bo, she does whatever he says…”

Zhang Xingjian repeated once more: “The matter of the Zhang Family has nothing to do with Shen Qingwu.”

Chang Lin paused, then understood. No matter what the truth turned out to be, his lord intended to protect Shen Qingwu, to keep her entirely separate from all of it. And the foolish girl herself had no idea any of this was happening…

Chang Lin turned to look out the window.

He saw the young woman out there too, practicing her spear with such spirit and focus.

He sighed, and asked quietly, “Does my lord truly suspect Commander Bo? What could his purpose possibly be? You’re his brother! Does he not care at all about the Zhang Family’s reputation and future? Has he lost his mind? Or does he not trust you, and means to kill the young emperor himself?”

Zhang Xingjian laughed softly: “Whether Bo Rong actually wants to kill the young emperor—even that, I’m no longer certain of. Go find out first whether the handwriting on these two letters matches… How many different hands Bo Rong can write in, how many layers of scheming he’s capable of—I honestly don’t know anymore. I doubt even my second sister knows.

“Oh, and send a team quietly back to the eastern capital, without letting anyone notice, and have them thoroughly reinvestigate the old injustice done to the Zhang Family. At the very least, find out for certain—Bo Rong’s parents, my second sister’s birth parents—exactly how they died. Were they truly killed by order of the young emperor, or harmed by the princess, or was there some other cause entirely…”

Chang Lin stood there, stunned.

Zhang Xingjian continued slowly: “Find out whether the Zhang parents died first, or whether the young emperor’s killings came first. What the Zhang parents’ relationship with the young emperor and the princess was like back then, whether there were any strange rumors circulating in the eastern capital at the time, what kind of people the Zhang parents actually were, whether they truly opposed their son marrying the princess… Investigate all of it for me.”

Chang Lin said, “Even this, you can’t trust?”

Zhang Xingjian said flatly, “It was precisely my excessive trust in Bo Rong that let him lead me step by step to where I am now, unable even to sort out the truth of Third Young Master Bo’s death. I’ve never understood why a person could remain so calm in the face of his own enemy… but if it’s all been an act, if Bo Rong wanted me to believe exactly what I believed, then everything makes sense.”

Chang Lin said, “This subordinate doesn’t understand.”

Zhang Xingjian fell silent for a moment.

Then he said slowly, “The princess still hasn’t broken with Bo Rong, still hasn’t returned to the eastern capital—which tells you his ambitions run deep. For Bo Rong to coexist peacefully with the princess, either he’s lost his mind, or love has blinded him… I think the odds of the latter are far too low. What do you think?”

He said to Chang Lin, “I think we’ve all underestimated my brother. I suspect he’s been out of his mind for a long time now, and I can’t keep trusting his lies. I need to investigate this myself…”

He frowned slightly, suppressing the anxiety rising in his chest.

Chang Lin said, “Commander Bo comes across as so gentle and refined, the picture of a noble gentleman.”

Zhang Xingjian said, “I hope he really is gentle and refined, a true gentleman. But if he isn’t… then we’re the ones in danger.”

Chang Lin turned to look out the window at Shen Qingwu again.

He worried for her.

Zhang Xingjian pressed his fingers to his temple and sighed: “Let’s leave it here for now.”

He hoped he was simply being paranoid.

But he didn’t dare gamble on it.

Eyes closed, he thought to himself: Bo Rong, what is it you actually want?

—

In a small town not too far from Yizhou, at dusk, the young woman running a stall at the mouth of the alley, writing New Year couplets, finished counting the string of coins a customer had handed her.

She presented the finished couplet with a graceful lift of her brow, delicate as morning dew on a camellia, utterly captivating.

The customer, momentarily dazed by her beauty, lost himself for a moment—until he turned and caught sight, from the corner of his eye, of the black-clad swordsman standing against the wall at the other end of the alley, and promptly reined in his wandering thoughts.

The black-clad swordsman stood sharp and severe as a blade; though he wasn’t looking this way, everyone knew he and the young woman always came and went together—who didn’t know the two of them were connected?

Shen Qingye smiled warmly: “Happy New Year, uncle.”

The customer gave her an awkward smile and hurried off with his couplet.

Shen Qingye sat back down at her writing stall, feeling a little wistful, and counted the coins she’d earned with a handkerchief. Her dark eyes, clear as water, glanced stealthily at Qiu Jun standing not far off.

Qiu Jun rarely spoke to her, but every time she looked at him, her heart pounded, her breath grew short, and she broke into a sweat.

No wonder—it was because she’d been deceiving him this whole time.

Shen Qingye had once told Qiu Jun that she was heading south to find her elder sister, and her own servants and maids. In truth, she had no idea where Shen Qingwu was, and after discovering just how formidable Qiu Jun’s martial skills were, she’d long since given up any real intention of looking for her sister.

She’d tricked him into accompanying her south, under the pretense of visiting their parents’ graves.

She knew, too, that having vanished for so long, the Shen family must surely be searching for her everywhere. She needed to make the most of this time—if the Shen family found her, she’d never be able to leave home again.

Having deceived a top-ranked assassin this entire way, she naturally felt a flicker of guilt every time their eyes met.

Suddenly, a great eagle let out a piercing cry, circling several times against the darkening sky. It swooped down and landed on Qiu Jun’s raised arm.

Qiu Jun’s cold gaze didn’t so much as glance her way.

Shen Qingye, frightened, quickly averted her own eyes. She knew that eagle belonged to Qiu Jun, that it had been following them all along. This eagle, she guessed, was some kind of message carrier for the “Autumn Moon Night” organization—she’d seen him pull notes from its talons more than once…

Qiu Jun walked over to her.

Shen Qingye kept her head down, continuing to count the copper coins in her handkerchief.

He stopped in front of her, his aura cold and cutting as an autumn wind, making her count her coins with even greater focus.

She heard him say flatly, “What does this character say?”

Shen Qingye looked blank.

She heard his voice, still cold: “No need to play dumb. I’m talking to you, Fifth Young Lady Shen.”

She looked up. He leaned down, one arm braced against her rickety little table, his presence washing over her, chilling her face like snow. But his other hand, gloved in metal, hovered before her, a finger tapping a character on a slip of paper.

She hadn’t meant to look closely, but a glance was enough—she saw clearly that the note was an order for Qiu Jun to kill someone.

She told him quietly what the character meant: “‘Sin.'”

His expression remained calm; without so much as a word of thanks, he straightened up.

He turned to leave, but Shen Qingye suddenly stood, staring at his retreating back, and gathered her courage: “Where are you going? You took my commission—shouldn’t that mean you can’t take anyone else’s?”

He turned back, glancing at her.

Meeting his ice-cold eyes, her face went even paler. She was clearly terrified of him, never daring to speak to him day after day, holding her breath whenever he came near… and yet she always found the courage to speak up at critical moments.

He said flatly, “Took your commission?”

She said, “Y-yes, that’s right.”

They’d traveled all this way together, south from Yizhou, side by side the whole journey. Didn’t that mean he’d taken her commission, agreed to protect her personally?

True, she hadn’t paid him a single coin, but wasn’t she constantly writing and painting to earn money for him?

Qiu Jun’s mouth curved.

His cool eyes studied the young woman: “When did I ever say I took your commission?”

Shen Qingye: “…”

He countered, “If I’d taken your commission, do you think I’d let you keep lying to me this whole time?”

He stepped closer to her, and this time she genuinely retreated, stumbling back until she hit the wall. This tall, imposing, lean young man had only to lean down to loom over her like a mountain, and she felt the chill radiating from him.

She thought: he must have killed a great many people. His killing intent ran far deeper than Shen Zhuo’s ever had.

He said, “Fifth Young Lady Shen, do you take me for a fool?”

Her pretty face flushed red, her dark lashes fluttering rapidly. She clearly wanted to speak up and argue, but under his gaze, she couldn’t get out a single word.

He thought to himself: just like a rabbit.

For someone with barely any courage, she still kept jumping up to try to fool him, again and again.

He said coldly, “That sister you claim to be looking for, Shen Qingwu—even the army doesn’t know where she is. How would you? Shen Qingwu is highly skilled, and she conceals her tracks well; few in this world could ever find her. I have no idea where a girl with no martial skill at all found the nerve to boast to me that she knew where her sister was.

“You also said you were looking for your servants and maids. You did draw a few portraits, sure, but if I’m not mistaken—those portraits and the real people probably look nothing alike. You never actually wanted me to find your servants and maids at all. That outrageous reward you promised me was pure fiction, of course.”

Shen Qingye stared at him, stunned.

He said, “Who would’ve thought—someone who looks this brainless actually has a mind after all? Scared speechless?”

She had, in fact, been genuinely frightened speechless. But hearing him say this so flatly, without a trace of expression, she couldn’t help pressing her lips together and letting out a startled laugh.

She covered her mouth, her dark eyes flickering as she watched him.

He looked away, took his note, and turned to leave once more.

Lowering the hand covering her mouth, she leaned forward, faintly embarrassed: “So you knew all along… then you’re not taking my commission!”

He gave a faint sneer: “Fifth Young Lady Shen, if I had taken your commission, and you’d dared to deceive me, you’d be a corpse by now. You should be thanking me that I never took it—you were never my employer.”

She said, “Then… then why have you been with me this whole time…”

What was the purpose?

He looked back at her.

He said calmly, “I’m resting.”

She pointed lightly at the note in his hand: weren’t you about to go kill someone?

His eyes suddenly turned cold.

She lowered her head, not daring to press further.

He gazed at her for a long moment, his eyes still distant and cold.

He recalled returning to “Autumn Moon Night” recently, finding the other assassins excitedly discussing when exactly Qiu Jun had acquired a wife—a wife who was, apparently, being held captive at some black inn, waiting to be rescued.

He really did need to rest.

He’d grown weary of killing, had begun to question the meaning and worth of life itself.

While resting, he’d come to observe this audacious “wife” of his—the Fifth Young Lady of the Shen family in the eastern capital, a frail, sickly beauty—and figure out just why she kept lying to everyone around her.

She had a face utterly incapable of deception, yet every word out of her mouth was false.

He’d never intended to take her commission from the start. From the very beginning, he’d come only for her, the person herself.

But he had no intention of telling this trembling, fearful young woman any of that.

Let her go on being afraid of him.

Once he’d figured out what she truly wanted, once he’d rested enough, the two of them could simply part ways, each returning to their own life, undisturbed. That would be for the best—

At New Year’s, everyone stayed home, no one venturing out.

From the moment dawn broke, Shen Qingwu heard the crackle of firecrackers everywhere. Their courtyard, tucked away and quiet as it was, still saw neighbors coming by all day to offer New Year’s greetings. And no matter who came, Zhang Xingjian always had a red envelope prepared for them.

Shen Qingwu sat on the eaves, watching people come and go.

She thought Zhang Xingjian seemed just like the head of a household—like Bo Rong. Everyone came to him, everyone brought their problems to him; he genuinely seemed busy.

But even as busy as he was, he hadn’t forgotten her.

As she sat on the roof enjoying the breeze, Chang Lin called up to her from below: “Come down quick! Our lord’s handing out red envelopes, giving out gifts…”

Before he could even finish, Shen Qingwu had already vanished from the roof. In the blink of an eye, Chang Lin saw her pushing open the door to her own room instead.

Chang Lin said, “Wrong way, wrong way! Our lord isn’t in your room!”

Shen Qingwu glanced back at him: “I know. I’m changing clothes.”

Chang Lin blinked, baffled: “Since when did you get so particular about that?”

There’s no use explaining winter to a summer insect.

She gave him a cool glance and pushed through the door curtain into her room.

When they’d first moved in, Shen Qingwu’s room had been bare and cheerless. But after more than ten days of living there, the room now held a large trunk, packed full of colorful women’s clothing.

She received a new outfit every single day, and had personally spent a small fortune having a large trunk custom-made specifically to fold and store all her clothes, which she checked over every day.

Chang Lin teased her for going to such lengths.

He said, “We’ll be leaving here soon, and you can’t take all these clothes with you—why bother having a trunk made just for them?”

Shen Qingwu said, “I’ll carry the trunk myself. No need for you to worry about it.”

Now, Shen Qingwu crouched in her room, opening this precious trunk, digging through it for her favorite outfit.

She remembered that New Year’s called for new clothes.

Though she claimed not to care, much of what she knew about New Year customs had genuinely come from the Shen family. In the army camp, New Year’s was nothing like it was for ordinary people—just eating, drinking, singing, and dancing. The finer customs belonged to households that observed such things properly—

Zhang Xingjian had just finished handing Chang Lin his red envelope when he heard a very polite knock at the door.

Chang Lin watched the amusement deepen instantly in his eyes: “Come in.”

Chang Lin glanced over casually and saw Shen Qingwu enter: a jade-green dress, an elegant pearl headpiece, her wide sleeves flowing gracefully as she walked, her height lending her movements an air of effortless elegance.

His eyes lit up: “What a beauty—Shen Qingwu!”

She glanced at him, a flicker of approval in her eyes: not bad.

She said, “You’re looking quite dignified and impressive yourself today.”

Chang Lin blinked, startled to realize Shen Qingwu was actually complimenting him.

He hadn’t expected her to compliment anyone; after a moment of stunned silence, he glanced furtively at Zhang Xingjian, who sat with his chin propped on his hand, smiling at Shen Qingwu—a look of besotted affection so obvious only a blind person could miss it.

Shen Qingwu was, apparently, that blind person.

She bounded straight up to Zhang Xingjian, paying no attention to anything else. Dressed in her formal attire, her bearing carried a touch of solemnity, almost reverence.

She blinked up at him: “Where’s my gift?”

As if all her good behavior had been in service of getting a present.

Chang Lin clicked his tongue at this. Zhang Xingjian laughed softly, clearly having prepared for exactly this. He rose and retrieved a long wooden box from a compartment in the bookshelf behind him. The sandalwood-scented box settled into his hands, and even Chang Lin found himself holding his breath at the sight.

But then Zhang Xingjian seemed to hesitate.

Shen Qingwu stood perfectly still, watching him with eager anticipation. Her patience, for once, seemed boundless, as she waited for him to hand over the gift.

He slowly extended the box toward her.

She reached out to take it.

He didn’t let go.

She looked up, puzzled and wary: what did this mean? Surely he wasn’t planning to take it back?

She reminded him: “It’s mine.”

—You said it was for me, so you shouldn’t go back on your word. If you do, I’ll… I’ll…

She’d meant to say “kill you,” but felt that threatening him with violence wasn’t quite appropriate.

She fell silent, locked in a quiet tug-of-war with him, inching the box steadily toward herself with great determination.

As he hesitated, Zhang Xingjian felt considerable force pulling from the other end… he glanced down, seeing Shen Qingwu practically playing tug-of-war with him, her fingers gripping her end of the box with growing strength.

Chang Lin, watching from the side, looked thoroughly entertained: “…”

But he made no move to leave.

Lately, Chang Lin had developed a particular fondness for watching his lord and Shen Qingwu’s little dramas, thoroughly enjoying every moment, never tiring of it.

Zhang Xingjian said, “Wutong?”

She looked at him without a word, her eyes full of reproach: don’t you dare go back on this.

He had no choice but to let go, saying, “It’s not that I don’t want to give it to you—it’s just that this gift, this gift… I made it myself, and I’m worried you won’t like it.”

She said nothing, and right in front of him, snatched the box and opened it at once to look inside.

Inside lay a clean, translucent piece of jade, carved with the words “Moonlight on the Wutong Tree”—beneath swirling clouds and mist, the moon and the wutong tree gazing at each other across the distance, the composition beautifully evocative.

Her fingers traced every carved line on the jade: she recognized every stroke of this painting—she’d even added a stroke or two of her own to it. Zhang Xingjian had told her she wouldn’t ruin the painting, had lured her into painting alongside him.

She’d quickly forgotten about that painting afterward.

She hadn’t known he’d personally carved a piece of jade from it.

She looked up at him.

Zhang Xingjian gazed down at her, his eyes lowered, and said softly: “You told me Bo Rong gave you a New Year’s gift, personally carved you a piece of jade. Well, I can give you a New Year’s gift too, and I can carve you a piece of jade as well. All he did was carve the character ‘Wu’—and that’s not even your real name, yet you wear it on you every single day. What I carved is, genuinely, truly you.

“Shen Qingwu, you’re not the ‘Wu’ that means nothing at all—you are ‘Wutong.'”

She said nothing, only stared at him, her dark, clear eyes fixed unwaveringly on his, and her gaze made his heart pound, made him unexpectedly nervous.

He’d never felt this nervous before.

He was terrified she’d refuse it.

His palms damp with sweat, he said softly, “Let me put it on you…”

She cut him off, asking, “Does anyone else have one like this?”

He paused: “What?”

He quickly recovered: “Chang Lin and the others got red envelopes. There are other gifts, but nothing like yours.”

She said, “Why is mine different? Because I’m a woman?”

He said, “…Yes.”

She said, “So does that mean the other maids in the household have the same jade pendant? Or is it different?”

Zhang Xingjian didn’t know how to answer this. He vaguely sensed the reason behind her concern, but before he could figure out how to respond, Shen Qingwu had already turned and made her own decision: “I’ll go ask.”

She leapt out the window and left.

Chang Lin said, “My lord, look, she’s jumped out the window again!”

Zhang Xingjian rubbed his nose, a faint smile surfacing.

He’d barely sat back down at his table when Shen Qingwu came flipping back in.

The wind curtain flew open, cold air rushing in from outside. The brightness in her eyes made Chang Lin glance at her once, then again.

She came right up to his table, looking down at him, eyes shining: “None of the other maids have one. Only I do.”

By now Zhang Xingjian had regained his composure.

He arched an eyebrow at her, smiling: “That’s right. Because I can’t have other women misunderstanding—giving someone a jade pendant carries a different meaning.”

Her expression relaxed, and she broke into a smile: “I’m not afraid of misunderstandings. If anything like this happens again, you can just give it to me. It’s not like I’ll ever…”

Her “never marry” went unfinished, as Zhang Xingjian cut in: “Let me help you tie it on—around your waist, is that all right?”

She said, “Mm.”

Chang Lin pulled up a chair and sat down to keep watching. He saw Zhang Xingjian stand and straighten her collar, tying the jade pendant into place for her.

Wind stirring the lotus, moonlight bright and clear—watching them like this, there was even a hint of the classic image of the talented young man and the beautiful young woman.

Zhang Xingjian asked her quietly, “Will you wear it every day?”

She said, “I will.”

The amusement in his eyes deepened; he looked down at her, unable to resist pulling her into a light embrace. Shen Qingwu, still not quite reassured, pressed further: “Really, only I have one?”

She cared whether she was truly one of a kind, whether she’d received a treasure no one else had. She wanted, for once, to receive the same impartial affection everyone else got—and she believed, in this moment, that she was finally getting it.

Something flickered in Zhang Xingjian’s eyes.

He said slowly, “Actually, it’s not quite true that you’re the only one who has one… Wutong, would you want someone else to have one?”

She said, “No.”

He probed further: “Not even me?”

She paused, startled.

She didn’t understand what he meant—the gift he’d given her, and now he was saying he had one too?

She said, “Who gave you one? You still belong to me right now, you can’t be wearing something some other woman gave you.”

She looked him up and down, especially around his waist. But his robes hung clean and unadorned, not a trace of rouge or perfume anywhere on him.

Zhang Xingjian smiled: “…Of course I don’t have one. Who would give me one? Surely not Wutong.”

In truth, the jade pendant was one of a matched pair—he’d had two carved, meant to complement each other.

He wanted to keep one for himself, and give her the other. A matched pair, set apart from whatever Bo Rong had given her—so that Shen Qingwu would understand this carried a meaning entirely different from Bo Rong’s gift. But for now, Zhang Xingjian had no intention of telling her this.

If one day he succeeded in marrying her, only then would he tell her about the anxious hopes he’d carried on this day, only then would he dare let her know—

Shen Qingwu, I once went to such lengths, for you.

For now, though, keeping his feelings hidden, Zhang Xingjian heard Shen Qingwu say, quite abruptly: “I have a gift for you too.”

Chang Lin, thoroughly enjoying the show, said, “Huh?”

—Since when were you this thoughtful?

She shot Chang Lin a cold glance, unable to understand why this man simply wouldn’t leave. She didn’t usually care about being watched, but lately she found Chang Lin’s presence particularly grating—why didn’t Zhang Xingjian seem to mind it at all?

Doing her best to ignore Chang Lin, she told Zhang Xingjian: “You’ve been very good to me. You’ve taught me to read. That day I went to the schoolhouse in the snow…”

She trailed off, not admitting that she knew about the hidden line of poetry about the bright moon.

She continued haltingly: “And you’ve been willing to play chess with me, for such a long time…”

Finally, she looked down at the jade pendant tied at her waist.

She knew she shouldn’t have accepted it—her instincts told her it meant something different. But another instinct inside her told her she absolutely had to have it, that if she refused, she would surely regret it.

Zhang Xingjian really had been so, so good to her…

Better than she’d ever experienced, holding her closer to his heart than anyone ever had. She knew how others saw her, knew that there were more good people in the world than bad, knew that she wasn’t easy to like… and among all those who liked her and those who despised her, Zhang Xingjian remained the one who stood apart from all of them.

Maybe it was because he was her moon.

She’d watched him for years, understood him for years—he wasn’t just another one of the countless mistakes in her life.

She repeated, “I have a gift for you too.”

She wanted to repay him.

She wanted to return the kindness he’d shown her—

Zhang Xingjian waited for her gift with anticipation, unease, and no small measure of delight.

When Shen Qingwu lifted the curtain and came back in, she found Chang Lin still lingering there, refusing to leave.

How annoying.

She shot him a sharp glare, then noticed Zhang Xingjian had been lost in thought. Seeing her return, light flickered back into his eyes, and he rose to greet her.

She looked at him and said nothing.

He said, “Wutong?”

She glanced at Chang Lin.

Zhang Xingjian, not having registered Chang Lin’s presence as a problem until now—his mind had been entirely occupied with anticipating her gift—finally caught on as she kept glancing at Chang Lin again and again: why was Chang Lin still here?

Chang Lin pressed eagerly: “What gift did you get for our lord? Let me tell you, our lord’s used to the finest things, he doesn’t usually think much of ordinary objects. But you’re different—whatever you give him, our lord will treasure it.”

Zhang Xingjian cleared his throat, amusement flickering in his eyes: “Chang Lin. Quiet.”

But privately, he shot Chang Lin an approving look.

Shen Qingwu, to her own surprise, found herself hesitating just as Zhang Xingjian had earlier.

Finally, she said, “I haven’t given many people gifts before. The sword I once gave Bo Rong—he barely ever used it, didn’t seem to like it much. What I’m giving you now, you might not like either.

“I’m not like you—I don’t know how to pick out gifts. If you don’t like it, just give it back, I won’t mind.”

Zhang Xingjian said gently, “Whatever you give me, I’ll treasure gladly. I understand what it means, coming from you… you’re not like anyone else, and I’ll cherish it.”

With that, Shen Qingwu set a small bottle of medicine down on the table.

Zhang Xingjian blinked.

Chang Lin looked utterly lost.

Shen Qingwu said, “It’s a potency tonic.”

She looked at him expectantly. She figured a man so driven by desire as he was would surely appreciate it. She’d worried he might not like it… but she was fairly confident he would.

She’d chosen this gift with great care, spending quite a bit of money on it. She’d long since decided that if Zhang Xingjian gave her a gift, she’d have to give one back in return.

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

Chang Lin’s mouth twitched.