These registrars — every one of them had wives and children waiting in the capital. However valiant they might be, they charged no further than the middle of the formation, instinctively wanting to preserve their lives.

But Chen Baoxiang — this person they had previously dismissed as a case of nepotism — had pushed all the way to the very front. Her blade fell and blood splattered; she cut down five men in succession, and it galvanized the fighting spirit of the entire force.

She had even swung her blade across to save Registrar Zhao when he failed to react in time. Under the blazing midday sun of Tianning Mountain, the red cord in her hair blazed brilliant as fire.

“With me here, everyone will make it home alive.” She laughed and reached out her hand to him.

In that moment, Registrar Zhao had very nearly dissolved into tears.

Fighting on the bandits’ home ground, they had hoped for nothing more than escaping unscathed.

But Chen Baoxiang didn’t see it that way. When a small engagement ended, she stood before the formation and called out at the top of her voice: “Everyone here — aren’t we the finest warriors among ten thousand? These scattered rabble are no match for us! A rare opportunity for merit has presented itself, and you will all follow my command — kill two men and earn a promotion, kill five and get rich!”

Those present answered with a great roar, their voices shaking the mountain, their blood running hot.

What had seemed impossible was made real, bit by bit, under her rallying cry. When they tallied up the results after suppressing the bandits, their Bureau had many wounded — but the injuries were not severe, and not a single person had died.

Nothing is more persuasive than combat, and nothing compares to the camaraderie forged by fighting together on the edge of life and death — especially when you yourself have come away largely unscathed, while the one who led you is gravely wounded.

Both Registrar Zhao and Registrar Su could hardly keep themselves from prostrating themselves before Chen Baoxiang.

To hell with their prejudice about connections. To hell with their prejudice about age. To hell with their prejudice about gender. As far as they were concerned, Chen Baoxiang was the most capable leader in all of Shangjing.

Zhang Zhixu watched as these registrars — who had always carried themselves with such dignity and composure — spoke over each other with boundless enthusiasm, their spittle flying, each afraid of leaving something out and failing to convey just how formidable Chen Baoxiang was.

The smile on his face gradually widened. “Commissioner Chen was born to be a military officer.”

“We don’t know how her injuries are faring,” Registrar Su said. “We’d trouble you, sir, to convey our regards on our behalf. When the time is right, we would also like to call on her.”

Injuries?

Zhang Zhixu looked at the state of them.

They were all from the Ninth Battalion. These two were practically unscathed. Why on earth should Chen Baoxiang be injured?

……

Chen Baoxiang was gravely injured.

She had charged at the very front, and had naturally taken the most blades and arrows. Her wounds, raw and gaping, had never been stitched or treated — only wrapped in white cloth. From her abdomen to her shoulder, down her arm and to her left leg, a trail of blood had soaked through in a savage red stain, leaving not a single patch of unblemished skin.

Even Biqing, who had only come to keep watch on her, felt her eyes well up.

“Quick—” Chen Baoxiang’s voice came out weakly.

Biqing bent close at once, assuming she wanted water or medicine.

Instead, the woman opened her mouth and said: “Hurry and paint me looking like this, then present the picture to Her Highness. On the mountain just now I was so focused on projecting spirit and presence that I forgot — injuries this severe simply cannot go unshown. It would be a tremendous loss!”

Biqing: “…”

Half laughing, half in distress, she rose to go pour a cup of water, and then saw someone enter through the doorway.

Zhang Zhixu was composed and elegant as always — his hair pinned neatly, his robe immaculate. He stepped inside like a wisp of white mist drifting above a mountain peak.

But he was breathing heavily as he entered.

He took one look at the person in the bed, then turned to Ningsu. “Go find my master. Bring all the medicinal herbs from the household along the way.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned to Jiuquan. “Go and prepare ice.”

“And would this young lady kindly boil some clean water?” he said to Biqing.

“Also—”

Chen Baoxiang couldn’t help speaking up. “There’s no need for such a big production. I’m not—”

“Be quiet!” Zhang Zhixu snapped.

He looked at the bloody wound on her arm, and his eyes went red. “The injury from last time had barely healed, and now all this on top of it. Even if every grave in the Chen family were covered in horse-tail grass, it wouldn’t be enough to help you.”

“Everyone in the Bureau is a military officer. Why is it that you’re the one injured like this while the rest of them are still in one piece? Did they all hide behind you when the charge came?”

“Sir…”

“I’m not done yet!”

He sat down at the edge of her bed and touched the blood-soaked cloth adhering to the wound, his fury deepening. “The incident in the western suburbs — you didn’t tell me. Going to Tianningshan Mountain — you didn’t tell me. Getting hurt — you didn’t tell me. It’s only right you should be in such pain. Good riddance, I say — at least it gives my eyes some peace.”

Chen Baoxiang was so thoroughly scolded that she was left dazed.

She had never seen Zhang Zhixu like this — rattling off this torrent of words without pause, his voice so loud.

She wanted to laugh a little, but seeing how genuinely furious he was, she felt somewhat sheepish. She blinked and blinked, and softly called his name: “Fengqing.”

“Don’t call me.” He sat at the bedside, expression sour.

The wound had been only roughly wrapped in cloth up on the mountain. By now the cloth had soaked through and fused with the wound. Zhang Zhixu muttered and grumbled the whole while, dabbing at the cloth with a handkerchief soaked in hot water to loosen it.

When a great patch peeled away to reveal the wound beneath — nearly down to the bone — his voice trembled. “Has my master not arrived yet?”

“Should be soon.” Jiuquan answered softly.

He pressed his lips together, took out the medicine he always carried on his person and fed her two pills, then flipped open his silver needle case, selected a needle of ox-hair gauge, and began inserting it into her body.

He worked through the acupoints in sequence, his technique practiced and fluid, causing her almost no pain. The moment all the needles were in place, the agonizing pain in the wound eased.

It was at this point that Sun Sihuai was brought in by Ningsu — stumbling as he ran, nearly tripping over the doorstep.

“Goodness, how does it keep coming to this.” He set down his medicine case and began heating the needle and threading the suture. “You really are something else, young lady. This is going to hurt more than the last time.”

Zhang Zhixu rose to greet him with a bow and then stepped aside to make room.

The wound was smeared with a large mass of mafei herb. Chen Baoxiang flexed her arm and murmured weakly, “How strange — it’s as though my arm isn’t even there.”

“Bite your tongue.” Sun Sihuai frowned deeply, and when he judged the medicinal effect sufficient, he began the stitching.

Crimson blood smeared everywhere — on Sun Sihuai’s hands, on the bedding, even a spot on Zhang Zhixu’s jaw.

He seemed not to notice. He only looked down at her arm. Every time the needle passed through skin and flesh, his brow creased in response.

Sun Sihuai, wanting to distract Chen Baoxiang, asked: “Who did this to you?”

Chen Baoxiang answered in a daze: “I didn’t get a clear look. At the time I was surrounded on all sides, and this cut came from a sneak attack from behind.”

“Are there any other serious injuries?”

“There’s an arrow wound here, a blade wound on my left leg… and my head was also struck by a rock. I think there might be a bump.”

Sun Sihuai heard his apprentice’s breathing grow heavier.

He quickly sutured the knife wound on her arm, then rose and stepped aside. “Your master is getting old. Eyes aren’t what they used to be. You take over from here.”