Part 1: Seeking a Physician

The third year of the Xize reign, winter.

The deep blue sky stretched like a flawless piece of warm jade — luminous and clear. The blazing sun cast down its gentle warmth, gilding the green mountains, clear waters, red pavilions, and jade-tiled rooftops below with a layer of bright radiance, proclaiming to the world the peace of these prosperous times.

A long queue stretched from the inner hall to the outer hall and out into the street — white-haired elders and children barely three feet tall, burly men of six feet and delicate young women, those in purple and crimson robes and those in simple white and green — every one of them standing quietly and orderly in line.

The signboard facing the street bore three large, bold characters in plain script: Pinyu Pavilion. The board itself was nothing more than unadorned white wood with ordinary black ink, yet those three characters carried an air of dignified elegance that inspired respect in all who beheld them.

Pinyu Pavilion — all under heaven knew it as a physician’s hall. All under heaven likewise knew that its mistress was the greatest healer in the world: Jun Pinyu, known by the names “Wooden Guanyin” and “Living Bodhisattva.” And all under heaven knew her rule for receiving patients: regardless of rank or wealth, those who sought her care must come to Pinyu Pavilion in person. The divine physician would personally examine them — but she made no house calls. No exceptions.

In the spacious inner hall, a young woman of roughly twenty sat composed behind a long table, listening patiently as the patient seated before her described his ailments.

The young woman wore a light blue dress, her thick black hair pinned up with a single yellow jade hairpin — altogether understated in her dress, yet extraordinarily beautiful. Her face was the image of perfection — oval and fair, black brows and apricot eyes, cherry lips — a rare beauty by any measure. And the expression of gentle, compassionate serenity in her eyes was enough to ease even the gravest illness by three parts.

“Elder, take this prescription to the apothecary, one dose in the morning and one in the evening. After a month, the illness should be cured.”

Her voice was as smooth as flowing water — clear and pleasant, soothing to heart and spirit alike.

“Wonderful, wonderful.” The old man nodded repeatedly, his face wreathed in grateful smiles. “Many thanks to the Bodhisattva Jun.”

“Shiyan, please see the elder out.” Jun Pinyu gave a soft nod and turned her gaze to the next patient, her expression of compassionate gentleness unchanged. “What troubles this gentleman?”

…

While Jun Pinyu attended to her patients with unhurried efficiency, five men stood in silence at the far end of the hall, watching her intently.

The man at their head appeared to be around twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He wore only a plain light purple robe, and save for a jade crown binding his hair atop his head, there was not a single item of luxury about him — yet his bearing was of the highest order, commanding and majestic, his gaze carrying a natural authority that others instinctively dared not meet. The four men behind him, dressed as attendants, lacked their master’s remarkable appearance, but each was tall and capable in bearing, clearly no ordinary persons.

These five had arrived at the hour of si, yet they had not joined the queue nor sought seats and tea from the mistress of the hall. They simply stood to one side and watched — watching the plain Pinyu Pavilion, watching the female physician who presided over it, watching the apprentices, watching the patients in line. None of the five appeared to be ill. Shiyan had approached them once to inquire whether they wished to be seen — in which case they should join the queue — or whether they had other business, in which case they should return at the hour of you. But the man at the head of the group had only smiled faintly and shaken his head, as though Shiyan’s inquiry was itself something of an intrusion. So Shiyan left them to their own affairs and went back to work — having spent years at her master’s side, she had seen every manner of peculiar person imaginable.

At the half-hour of shen, Pinyu Pavilion closed its doors.

The last patient was seen off, and the hall that had been filled with a steady stream of people throughout the day finally fell quiet. Jun Pinyu, looking noticeably weary, pressed her fingers to her brow, cast a brief glance at the five men, and without a word of acknowledgment, retired to the inner rooms. The apprentices swiftly tidied and swept, then withdrew as well, leaving the five men still standing in the center of the hall.

“My lord?” One of the four attendants ventured a word, for given their master’s standing, to be left standing and ignored like this was hardly fitting.

The purple-robed man shook his head and let his gaze drift to a chair in the corner of the hall. An attendant immediately understood and brought it over. The purple-robed man settled into it comfortably and said with unhurried calm: “There’s no hurry.”

The four attendants nodded and stood quietly behind him.

The sand flowed softly through the hourglass. Time passed. The hour of you arrived. The light in the hall grew dim, and night crept quietly down.

At last, the blue curtain separating the inner rooms was drawn aside. A warm tangerine glow spilled into the hall, and Jun Pinyu emerged in a plain skirt, holding a small, elegant palace lantern. The gentle light illuminated the compassionate serenity in her eyes, making her look every bit like a Guanyin who had descended to the mortal world.

“You have waited here an entire day and watched me attend to patients for an entire day. Since you are still here even now, I can only assume my modest skills are not entirely beneath your notice. But forgive my dullness — I confess I cannot fathom what it is you have come for.”

Jun Pinyu hung the lantern on its hook and settled with unhurried ease into the examination chair, her apricot eyes fixing steadily upon the purple-robed man.

The purple-robed man met her gaze with equal steadiness, his expression somewhere between scrutiny and quiet appraisal. After a moment he said: “Indeed, I have come to ask something of you.”

“Oh?” Jun Pinyu gave a slight nod.

“I wish to ask you to come to my home and treat my elder brother’s illness.” The purple-robed man rose and bowed.

This bow caused the four attendants behind him to change color slightly, and their combined gazes shot toward Jun Pinyu — as though should she dare accept it while remaining seated, they would annihilate her with their eyes alone.

Fortunately, Jun Pinyu rose and stepped aside to return the bow. Not because she feared the four pairs of eyes — it was simply that she was not the sort to be arrogantly presumptuous, and she felt instinctively that she ought not accept the bow.

“Since the gentleman has come to Pinyu Pavilion, you must already know Pinyu Pavilion’s rules,” Jun Pinyu said, her voice measured and soft.

“That you never leave Pinyu Pavilion — this I know.” The purple-robed man sighed, a note of worry in his voice. “Only… my elder brother truly is unable to come here, and that is why I have come to beg you — is there any possibility of an exception?”

“Since Pinyu opened this hall at the age of twelve, the rules of this hall have never changed in ten years.” Jun Pinyu settled back into her chair with the same unhurried composure she brought to all her consultations. “Regardless of rank or wealth, those who seek treatment must abide by Pinyu Pavilion’s rules.”

“Is that so?” The purple-robed man’s brow creased.

“My lord…” The four attendants were indignant that after their master had so humbly requested this of her, she showed not the least inclination to accommodate him. What on earth was there in this world that could warrant such humiliation from a man of his standing?

The purple-robed man waved them silent, then looked at Jun Pinyu with an edge of urgency. “My elder brother… my elder brother truly cannot come. If I were to describe his condition to you, would you be willing to apply your skill to it?”

“Hmm?” Jun Pinyu had been about to refuse, but the man’s expression gave her pause.

Seeing that she had fallen silent, the purple-robed man grew more agitated. He stepped forward and stood before the long table. “Your healing hands have saved a great many people under heaven, but my elder brother has saved even more — and far more broadly. His life or death concerns the whole of the realm…” He stopped himself short, as though realizing he had said something he ought not, drew a breath, and then said: “If my elder brother can recover, he will be able to save still more people. You have a Bodhisattva’s heart — how can you bear to leave this without answer?”

Jun Pinyu regarded the purple-robed man steadily and said with the same composure as before: “You say that your elder brother has saved more people than Pinyu — then surely his medical knowledge surpasses mine as well. Why would he have need of Pinyu? And if even his own skill cannot heal himself, how could my modest abilities do what his could not?”

“That is not it,” the purple-robed man shook his head. “You save people through medicine, but my elder brother is different — he knows nothing of medicine. He has saved the countless households of this land through a different means entirely.”

The purple-robed man’s words were veiled and oblique, but Jun Pinyu did not press for clarification, saying only, in the same gentle tone: “If it is medical care that is needed, then the patient must come here in person. Even if his condition is critical, a soft litter or a reclining stretcher can carry him. Pinyu’s skills are modest, but she will do her utmost.”

“Ah, his condition is not yet so dire — but even if he were unable to sit or stand, he would never let anyone carry him.” The purple-robed man sighed quietly. “In the past, he dismissed every… every celebrated physician in the land, called them all charlatans, declared their prescriptions a waste of medicine, and refused every remedy. He acts always on what he himself feels is right, with no thought for others’ feelings. He… ah. I will not conceal it from you — my coming here today is without my elder brother’s knowledge. If he were to find out, he would likely give me an earful.”

Jun Pinyu’s dark brows drew together faintly. “If your elder brother is so averse to treatment and takes no care for his own life, what can others do, no matter how urgent their concern? If there is no cure to be had, that is a fate he has brought upon himself.”

The four attendants took some offense at these words, faintly critical as they were, but the purple-robed man only shook his head slightly. “It is not that he takes no care for his life, as you suggest. It’s just that he…” He trailed off, as though uncertain where to begin or as though the matter defied summary, and his gaze drifted to the palace lantern on its hook — as though looking through the bright flame to some brilliant figure luminous as the sun itself.

After a moment he continued: “His illness, over these years, has been seen by every celebrated physician under heaven, and every manner of rare remedy has been tried — yet none have brought lasting relief. Only a medicine left by an old friend manages to ease the symptoms somewhat, and so he refuses all other physicians’ remedies and forbids his household from seeking further treatment, not wanting to waste the efforts and resources of others. But his illness worsens every year, and his old friend’s medicine cannot cure him at the root. When the illness flares he endures it in silence, hiding it from others — yet we who are his family feel it as though the pain were our own. And so… you have the name of a divine physician, which is why I came. I only hope that some remedy might be found to save my brother.”

He turned his gaze to Jun Pinyu, a quiet plea in his eyes. “Just hear my elder brother’s condition. For the sake of all the lives he has saved, will you write him a prescription?”

Jun Pinyu studied the purple-robed man before her. By the set of his brow — proud bone, contained edge — this was a man of exceptional resolve and stubbornness. Yet here he was, willing to lower his head and ask for her help. By his bearing — composed, majestic — this was clearly a man of great wealth and standing. Yet here he was, willing to humble himself and appeal to her. In her experience, men of such rank who came seeking medicine either bullied with arrogance or pressured with wealth. When refused, they either dismissed her with contempt or collapsed into weeping. But this man, though he stooped to plead, had not lost his dignity. Though he was anxious and disappointed, he had not lost his composure. If the younger brother was this remarkable, what manner of person must the elder brother be?

“Tell me,” Jun Pinyu said at last, after a long moment of reflection.

At this single word, the purple-robed man’s face lit with relief. He began to recount his elder brother’s condition in complete detail. As he spoke, he watched Jun Pinyu’s expression closely. Seeing that her brows did not move and her face remained calm, he felt somewhat reassured — thinking that in the eyes of this female physician, his brother’s illness must not be so grave — and so he described everything in even greater detail, hoping that the more thoroughly she understood the case, the better she might be able to resolve it once and for all.

But when Jun Pinyu finished listening to his account, she said only two words, delivered softly: “Incurable.”

“What?” Not only did the purple-robed man’s color change — the four attendants behind him also showed alarm on their faces.

Jun Pinyu was unmoved by their expressions and continued, clear and calm: “From what you have told me, your elder brother’s illness stems from an arrow wound he sustained more than three years ago. At the time, not only did he refuse to rest in bed and properly heal, he returned to ceaseless travel and labor before the wound had even closed — this is what planted the root of the disease. In addition, as you have described, he has been consumed by worry and toil day and night for years, without a single day of proper rest. Understand that a human being is a mortal body sustained by grain — not forged of gold or cast from copper. By now he must be utterly spent in heart and spirit, his body depleted, his energy exhausted. An ordinary person would very likely have died a year ago. That your elder brother has lasted until today is partly thanks to the medicine left by his old friend, and partly…” She paused, glancing at the purple-robed man. “You appear to have a solid foundation in martial arts. Your elder brother’s skills are likely no lower than yours. That he has endured until today is because he has been propped up by that very foundation — but when it is exhausted, that will be the hour of his death. He knows his own body, which is why he forbids you from seeking out further physicians and remedies.”

Jun Pinyu’s expression remained quiet and still throughout — few people could deliver such a verdict on a person’s life and death in tones so gentle.

The purple-robed man’s face had gone a pale white. His jaw was clenched. He maintained his composure by force of will, but the anguish in his eyes could no longer be concealed. He was not a fool, nor a man too weak to face reality. Over the years, not a single physician’s conclusion had differed from this one — yet he had never been willing to give up, always feeling that a man of his brother’s caliber could not possibly be brought down and killed by a mere arrow wound. And so he had sought out famous physician after famous physician, always hoping the next one would tell him something different. But now, the woman before him — the one known as the greatest physician in all the world — had pronounced the same sentence. It was like a death warrant handed down from the King of Hell himself.

“Pinyu’s skills are modest — she is no immortal who can raise the dead. Given your elder brother’s condition, there is no need for a personal examination. If you wish to extend his life, the only course is to begin from this very day: persuade him to rest in peace, cease all labor of mind and body, and supplement this with medicinal support. In that case, he may perhaps survive until next summer.”

Jun Pinyu felt pity at the sight of the purple-robed man’s grief, but there was nothing she could do.

“Until next summer?” The purple-robed man looked at Jun Pinyu with a slightly dazed expression, though in truth his gaze had already passed beyond her, falling somewhere unknown.

“Yes,” Jun Pinyu nodded. “An arrow shot to its limit cannot fly much farther.”

“It is already nearly the twelfth month — not even a full year.” The purple-robed man murmured, his eyes going blank, his body swaying slightly. He looked utterly shattered — a man whose spirit and soul had come apart. The depth of brotherhood between them was plain to see. “But how am I to persuade him? The only person who could make him listen is long gone.”

“Creak—!”

Just then, there came the faint sound of the hall’s outer door being pushed open, followed by the light sound of footsteps — growing closer, one step at a time — until a tall, slender silhouette stepped quietly into the inner hall.

The moment that figure entered, it was as though a sudden brightness ignited throughout the hall. The dim lamplight itself seemed to burn more clearly. Every person in the room turned to look — even the dazed purple-robed man lifted his head.

The newcomer appeared to be roughly the same age as the purple-robed man. He might have stepped out of the snow itself — his long hair fell loose around him in the white purity of snowfall, and his face, clean and beautiful as freshly fallen snow, surpassed even the finest of beauties. But the two ink-dark sword brows that swept sharply into his temples lent his face a cold, commanding vitality, and the eyes — clear as ice, transparent to the core — shot a gaze of cutting keenness. His light blue robes tempered the severity of his whole bearing, so that his cold and solitary energy was subtly softened, transformed into the proud, lofty grace of a man who stood apart from the world.

The reactions that followed from those in the room were each different.

The gentle calm in Jun Pinyu’s apricot eyes stirred, a soft smile surfacing on her compassionate face. “You’re back.”

But that greeting went unanswered.

The man who had entered was looking at the purple-robed man, his cold, ice-like face showing a hairline crack — a faint, barely-perceptible trace of feeling. The purple-robed man, for his part, was staring with eyes wide as saucers, as though he had seen a ghost — except that the expression on his face was not one a person would wear upon seeing a ghost, for no ghost could provoke such bright and barely-contained excitement. The four attendants likewise stared with wide eyes, all of their faces lighting with joy.

For a moment the hall was as silent as the deepest abyss, filled only with the sound of rapid, excited breathing.

“Xue Ren!”

The call rang out loud and clear, shattering the silence. A flash of purple crossed the hall in an instant. The rush of wind set the palace lantern swaying on its hook, and the whole hall was filled with flickering shadows.

“Xue Ren! Xue Ren! Xue Ren, you’re not dead! Thank heaven! Xue Ren isn’t dead!” The purple-robed man cried out again and again, and his body had already reached the light-blue figure, throwing both arms around him, his hands beating hard against the other man’s back. “Xue Ren, you really aren’t dead!”

And that ordinarily cold, remote man in blue now let himself be held and struck — as though he too needed those urgent words, that fierce physical contact, to confirm that the other person was real.

“Xue Ren, I couldn’t find you anywhere, I thought you were dead — but the Emperor… elder brother was absolutely certain you weren’t dead! So elder brother really was right, you really aren’t dead! This is wonderful! Isn’t it wonderful…”

The purple-robed man rambled on without pause. Every other person in the hall stared at him in his frenzied state, momentarily too stunned to react.

“Xue Ren, Xue Ren, why aren’t you saying anything?” Seeing that the man in blue remained silent, the purple-robed man finally released him and stepped back, looking him over from head to toe. Then his mouth stretched into a broad grin — radiant as morning sunshine. “I know, I know. You’re so glad to see this young master that you’ve been struck dumb with happiness and excitement! Haha! Xue Ren, you’ve been missing me, haven’t you — you’re so overcome that you could almost cry from not having seen me for so long! Haha! Don’t worry, go ahead and cry if you want — this young master absolutely will not laugh at you.” He even clapped the man on the shoulder as he said it. “Xue Ren, I’ll have you know — this young master hasn’t missed you even a tiny bit, but seeing that you still haven’t melted away, I am just a tiny bit glad. You don’t need to be too grateful.”

When the purple-robed man finished this little speech, Jun Pinyu, who had until that moment found him to carry the dignified air of a man of great stature, found herself seriously doubting her own judgment — he appeared to have reverted, in the blink of an eye, some fifteen years in age.

The man in blue only arched an eyebrow and looked at the purple-robed man with mild indifference. “Without Jiushuang around, I wouldn’t have thought you capable of being this noisy all on your own.”

“Noisy?! You dare call me noisy?!” The purple-robed man immediately erupted, stamping his foot and raising a fist to punch the blue-clad man in the shoulder. “After all my days and nights of worry since you disappeared — after all the people I sent to sweep your rooms every day — after all the trips to the temple to pray for your safe return — after all I—”

The purple-robed man went on listing his grievances, one after another. The blue-clad man had said he was noisy, yet he did nothing to stop him. He only stood there quietly, allowing the fists to land on his shoulder. They stung somewhat — but the sting was warm, and the pain was a relief.

Jun Pinyu, watching the purple-robed man, felt she was seeing him regress another decade — reduced to a bratty child who had been needled by a companion at his sorest point and could only lash out, hitting and scolding, to save face. And yet that lashing-out seemed to say: we haven’t seen each other in so long, how else am I to show you how close we are, how deeply I missed you?

And the other man — she shifted her gaze to the blue-clad figure — showed not the slightest irritation. In those ice-clear eyes, threads of warmth quietly surfaced. That was unexpected.

Three years ago, on that snowy night — she had been roused from sleep by Shiyan’s startled cry. She threw on her outer robe and had barely opened the door when she found Shiyan and the other apprentices carrying someone up to her threshold, the person a tangled mass of snow and blood.

Shiyan had already been asleep in the back room when a sound in the courtyard woke him. He got up and opened the door, and there in the yard lay a person drenched in blood. Though alarmed and bewildered, he could detect that the person still breathed, and rescuing life took priority — so he roused his fellow apprentices and brought the injured person to her.

The man had sustained only one sword wound, but that one wound had been deep and severe.

For nearly the whole of the first year, he lay in bed. Not until the second year could he manage to sit up, and even then he was confined to slow movement within the room. It was not until the end of that second year that he could be said to have fully recovered.

She recalled those first twelve months of treating his wound. He never spoke a word about his origins, never asked where he was or what this place was. He simply lay still, permitting whatever was done to him. Occasionally, his gaze would drift to the window, to look out at the clear blue sky beyond — but the expression in his eyes was dim and desolate, enough to squeeze the heart of anyone who saw it.

She had long contact with patients who hovered between life and death, and she could recognize that look. It was the despair belonging only to those whose hearts had already turned to ash.

Such a young and remarkable person — why such eyes? She felt a tightening in her chest. She recalled something of her own circumstances, and she felt a kinship in sorrow with him — not knowing his origins, she cared for him wholeheartedly nonetheless. In the spare moments she had, she would come to sit by his sickbed and talk with him. It was always she who spoke; he never replied. But she knew he listened.

Then one day, she had treated a badly injured wanderer from the jianghu earlier in the afternoon, and that evening, after washing away the smell of blood, she came to his room to chat as usual and naturally began speaking of affairs in the jianghu — of jianghu figures and their martial arts. And she said, quite naturally: “Though I don’t know who wounded you, judging by that sword wound, it must have been a rare master. The precision with which that single strike was placed was perfect to the last fraction — not taking your life, but ensuring you would be bedridden with grievous injury for two full years.”

The moment she finished that sentence, those ash-dead eyes suddenly flashed with a sliver of light. The gaze that had always stared blankly at the ceiling turned, with sudden urgency, to look at her — as though seeking confirmation. In that moment she understood: whoever had wounded him must be someone of the greatest importance to him. The wound was in the body, but the illness was in the heart — and her words had untied the knot within him.

The next day, when she came to check on him, he finally spoke. Two words: Xue Kong. Brief as they were, she understood he was telling her his name. In that moment, she — so accustomed to keeping her feelings smooth and undisturbed — felt a quiet flicker of gladness. She thought then: this person has decided to live. A living life is more joyful than a life extinguished.

After that, though he remained a man of few words, when she spoke to him he would occasionally reply. He cooperated fully with his treatment, no longer indifferent to whether he lived or died. His brow and eyes gradually came alive, and his rare, striking features and cool, lofty presence often left the apprentices of the pavilion momentarily speechless.

As he gradually recovered and was able to move freely, he could often be seen practicing swordsmanship in the courtyard. She herself knew some martial arts — a bit of inner cultivation for the sake of convenience in treating patients — but she was lazy about training in anything beyond that, and her skill in the martial path was less than half what it was in medicine. Still, she had encountered enough people from the jianghu over the years to have developed some eye for it, and she could see that his sword technique was extraordinarily rare in the world. In the remaining time he had, he would be found in her study — though unfortunately, her collection was composed almost entirely of medical texts, and it was remarkable that he could bring himself to read them.

He remained a man of few words, and the whole of his person carried a chill that matched his appearance. Yet the apprentices of the pavilion were drawn to him and liked to be near him. Without need for him to invite or respond, they would gather around him in their free moments — each talking about their own matters, each doing their own things — and yet they were entirely at ease together. At the end of a busy day, looking at such a scene could ease her fatigue by more than half.

When his wounds had fully healed, he made no mention of leaving. After two years of living together, everyone in Pinyu Pavilion had come to regard him as one of their own, and each of them would have been glad to see him stay forever. And so he remained. When she was particularly busy, he would occasionally lend a hand — though his help was rarely effective, for his extraordinary appearance inevitably drew the eyes of patients and apprentices alike, leaving them forgetting their own affairs entirely. After a few such occurrences, he rarely came out of the inner rooms, and instead could often be found going up Tianzhishan — out in the morning, back in the evening — returning each time with a bundle of medicinal herbs. He must have read a good many of those medical texts in the study after all.

Though she was not a jianghu person and kept no connection to the court, living among people as she did, she could perceive certain things. Xue Kong was no ordinary person. But she had practiced medicine for many years and had long since grown accustomed to the parting and loss of this world, to the full range of human affairs. He had come — so he had come. When the time came for him to go, then he would go.

And so another year passed. Those in Pinyu Pavilion seemed to have forgotten that he had arrived out of nowhere, and treated him as though he had always been there and always would be.

Yet now — this purple-robed man of unclear origins, clearly of extraordinary background, calling him intimately by the name “Xue Ren,” while that man who was cold to everyone suffered himself to be embraced and struck — warmth and gladness unmistakable in his eyes.

He would be leaving, wouldn’t he?

“Xue Ren, since you’re all right, why haven’t you come back? Don’t you know how worried we’ve been about you? Not even a word of news — you really are made of snow, not a trace of human feeling!” The purple-robed man was still going on.

“Xue Ren, is the reason you’ve stayed away all this time because of this woman?” The purple-robed man’s eyes suddenly shifted, and he pointed at Jun Pinyu.

Jun Pinyu had not expected him to say this. Though somewhat surprised, she felt none of the flushed embarrassment an ordinary woman might — she only cast a glance at the purple-robed man, whose eyes were now dancing with animation. He seemed to have entirely forgotten his elder brother’s illness, and the dignified bearing he had carried throughout the day had evaporated completely. She didn’t know whether he was very good at performing or simply had two very different faces.

Xue Kong, having known him for many years, understood his nature all too well, and only said mildly: “I was injured. I’ve been here recovering.” Three-odd years of time, condensed into one simple sentence.

“Injured?” The purple-robed man immediately looked him over from head to toe, and only relaxed when he saw nothing wrong. “At the time… Kang City… so you were severely wounded. Are you recovered now? When you disappeared, Jiushuang and I wanted to send people to search for you, but elder brother said there was no need — he said you would never die. I couldn’t rest easy at the time, but today I believe him.”

“Is… the Wang… is His Majesty the Emperor… well?” Xue Kong’s ice-blue eyes shifted, and he asked softly.

This question took back all the ease and happiness that had been on the purple-robed man’s face. He froze, not knowing how to answer.

His hesitation caused Xue Kong’s brow to knit, and he studied the man. “Why have you come here?”

“I…” The purple-robed man opened his mouth, his gaze sliding to Jun Pinyu, then back to Xue Kong, apparently uncertain whether to speak the truth.

But Xue Kong was no fool. One look and a moment’s thought was enough. “Those who come to Pinyu Pavilion come to seek medicine. If you’ve come…” His gaze went over the purple-robed man carefully. “You are not ill. The only one who could make you come here would be Jiushuang, or…” He caught himself. His ice eyes shot out a cold edge like the flash of a blade, and he asked, one word at a time: “Who is ill?”

The three words came out slowly but with low, forceful weight, carrying an unmistakable pressure. The five other persons in the room were unaffected — but Jun Pinyu’s eyes flickered with something unspoken.

“Jiushuang is fine,” the purple-robed man said, deflecting the question.

“Huang Yu.” Xue Kong’s voice now carried the severity of frost and snow.

“Ah.” The purple-robed man — Huang Yu — let out a quiet sigh. “It is elder brother.”

“What is it?” Xue Kong seized Huang Yu by the shoulders at once, the urgency of the question barely out before his heart already supplied the answer. Anyone who came to Pinyu Pavilion seeking the foremost physician in the world must be suffering from an illness extremely difficult to treat — and for someone who would come here in person, the case must be grave in the extreme, or else he would not…

In that instant, those ice eyes changed. The pupils, strangely, began to fill with blue — starting pale and deepening, until they were as pure and clear as the blue of snow fields and open sky.

Jun Pinyu, watching from the side, gave a silent sigh. She could not understand why his pupils changed color, but she could tell from his expression that his emotions were in extreme upheaval. This man had been cold as ice and snow from the moment she first saw him. Not even his own life or death had been able to move his expression — yet now… she truly could not imagine what kind of person could affect him so.

She gave a quiet internal smile, and felt, without knowing why, a faint and sourceless sense of loss.

“His arrow wound from that year never healed — it became the root of his illness, and then with all these years of ceaseless travel and labor, day and night without rest… he… he…” Huang Yu could not continue. His gaze went to Jun Pinyu, still clinging to some last hope that she might deliver a different verdict — but Jun Pinyu’s expression did not change. He drew a long, slow breath, and then the words came out quietly: “Just now, Physician Jun rendered her diagnosis. Elder brother… he will not survive past next summer…” At the last word, it was as though a thread in his heart had been plucked taut and snapped, and his face contorted involuntarily.

“What?” Xue Kong stared at Huang Yu with wide, disbelieving eyes, then slowly turned to look at Jun Pinyu.

The hall fell silent once more.

After a long moment, the sound of quiet footsteps rose. Xue Kong walked slowly to stand before Jun Pinyu. He looked at her steadily for a moment, and then he dropped to his knees on the ground.

This move startled Jun Pinyu to her feet, and Huang Yu too was shaken, stepping quickly forward. “Xue Ren!” He reached out to take his shoulder and pull him up.

But Xue Kong knelt as though rooted to the spot, his gaze bright and clear, yet at the same time cutting with authority. “You saved my life, and I have never told you my identity — that is Xue Kong’s failing. Xue Kong is Xiao Xue Kong, formerly the Sweeping Snow General of the Imperial Kingdom. In this life, I have knelt to no one save my own king. I have never in my life begged anyone for anything. But I beseech you now, shamelessly — please save my king’s life. The grace of saving a life, the grace of saving one’s sovereign — Xue Kong will repay it in the next life, with grass in his mouth if need be.” With that, he struck his forehead to the ground three times, each resounding and deliberate.

“Xue Ren, you…” Huang Yu looked at that forehead — clean as snow — now marked with dust and redness. His heart was filled all at once with something bittersweet, somewhere between sorrow and joy. This man was ordinarily above all earthly things, proud and pure as snow, untouchable. In all their years together, who had ever seen him lower himself before another? Yet now, for the sake of his elder brother, he had not hesitated for a moment. This man…

Jun Pinyu looked steadily at Xiao Xue Kong kneeling on the ground. She knew all too well that he had never knelt to anyone, never asked anything of anyone — a person so icy and proud in his purity, he would sooner let a sword break him than bend. What kind of person, in all this world, could make him do this? In that moment, her heart — usually so calm — ached with a sourness she could not explain, vaguely echoing something she had felt long, long ago.

“So you are the Sweeping Snow General of the ‘Wind, Frost, Snow, and Rain.'” Jun Pinyu spoke softly, her apricot eyes shifting gently to “Huang Yu.” “And I take it this gentleman is the Thunder Rain General of the ‘Wind, Frost, Snow, and Rain’ — the present Prince of Yun.”

She stepped back and offered a curtsy, speaking warmly: “Pinyu asks that the General and the Prince forgive her failure to recognize you. That Pinyu was able to save the General was her honor.”

Xiao Xue Kong still knelt on the ground, looking at Jun Pinyu with a faintly dazed expression.

“There is no need to make things so difficult for Xue Kong.” Huang Yu sighed and reached down to help Xiao Xue Kong to his feet. “Though Xue Kong never revealed his identity, I know him well — whatever the time or place, his nature and conduct never change. The person you came to know and recognize is entirely real. Why would there be cause for reproach?”

Jun Pinyu found herself genuinely surprised and looked at this Prince of Yun with new eyes. She had not expected him to be so perceptive — he had even caught that small, slight thread of irritation in her. But in truth, should she not have realized it the moment Xue Kong called him “Huang Yu?” “Huang” was after all the imperial surname of the current dynasty. The fault was only her own habitual indifference to the affairs of the outside world, which had made her slow to connect the pieces.

“My coming here in disguise to seek a physician has its reasons, and you are a perceptive person — you will understand that my elder brother’s illness concerns not merely his personal safety.” Huang Yu continued. “If word were to spread, it would inevitably affect the stability of state affairs.” He looked at Jun Pinyu with a steady, grave gaze. “I hope you will understand and forgive this.”

So that easy, unguarded side of him was only for those close to him.

Jun Pinyu lowered her head slightly and said, with the same placid gentleness: “Please rest assured, Your Highness. Pinyu knows how to hold her tongue.”

Huang Yu looked at her for a moment, and in the end still could not help himself. “Is my elder brother truly beyond saving?”

Jun Pinyu looked up. Six pairs of sharp eyes fixed on her from all sides — the intensity of it was almost enough to make her want to laugh, and almost enough to move her to sorrow.

Before she could answer, Huang Yu continued: “Today the realm is at peace, the national strength grows day by day, and the lives of the people grow ever more settled. One cannot say all of this is solely my elder brother’s doing, but he has certainly contributed enormously. Even if you are not doing this for him — would you not act for the sake of all the people under heaven?”

Jun Pinyu gave a quiet inward sigh, lowered her eyes, unable to look at six pairs of eyes waiting for her answer. “Your Highness, forgive Pinyu. There is nothing she can do.”

“Physician Jun—” Xiao Xue Kong stepped forward urgently, but a hand fell on his shoulder and stopped him.

“Xue Ren, there is no need to ask further.” Huang Yu closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened them. His expression had settled into cold, clear composure. “Physician Jun was willing to hear of my elder brother’s condition and willing to speak the truth — for that I am deeply grateful. In truth, before leaving, Yu Wuyuan once said to me: ‘He must cease his labors — otherwise his life will not be long.’ I had my misgivings then, but my elder brother being who he is, once he has decided something, who can stop him? All these years of pacifying the borders and managing state affairs have long since spent what he has to give. So many imperial physicians have reached this same conclusion — I simply could not resign myself to giving up, which is why I came to seek out Physician Jun. And now…”

“Your…” Xiao Xue Kong had begun to speak, then stopped, reminded that his king was now emperor of the new dynasty. He thought of the oaths made in former days, of king and general riding together through iron and fire, and for a moment felt as though in a dream.

“I am going back. Will you come with me?” Huang Yu looked at Xiao Xue Kong.

“Ah? I…” Xiao Xue Kong opened his mouth, but his mind had gone blank. He seemed unable to face the earnest longing in Huang Yu’s eyes, and turned his head slightly away — only to find himself looking directly into Jun Pinyu’s gaze. Both looked away at once, quickly and without a trace.

Huang Yu caught this, and only smiled faintly. Years of hardship had long since turned him from the oblivious youth he had once been.

“After Kang City fell and your fate was unknown, Jiushuang and I could never quite accept it. After our sovereign ascended the throne, I asked him several times to issue decrees searching for you — but he always said you must surely be alive, that Feng Wang would not take your life after Yingzhou, and that if you chose not to return, he could hardly compel you.” Huang Yu clasped his hands behind his back with the natural, unhurried bearing of a man born to royalty. “He said the two of you had been sovereign and subject, and that he knew you well. You had not failed him — how could he fail you? And so, if you wished to return, there would be many people who would rejoice. If you chose not to return, no one would hold it against you.”

Xiao Xue Kong lifted his eyes to Huang Yu, uncertainty and turmoil moving through them.

“Xue Ren, you and I are different,” Huang Yu said quietly. “After so many years of service, your duty and loyalty are long since fulfilled. But I — whether he listens to me or not, I must always be at his side to share the burden.”

Then he grinned suddenly and leaned close to his ear, lowering his voice: “Xue Ren, if you can’t bear to leave the beautiful divine physician and want to stay here — well, that would also be a fine thing. When the happy occasion comes, you must absolutely let me know. Even if I have to sneak away, I’ll be there to witness the ceremony.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Xiao Xue Kong shot him a rare look of exasperation. Huang Yu was all the more delighted. He turned with a bright, cheerful smile to Jun Pinyu, his light golden eyes brilliant and glowing — which caused Jun Pinyu’s heart to skip, followed immediately by a prickling sensation at the back of her scalp.

“Physician Jun, I have one final question.”

“Please speak, Your Highness.” Jun Pinyu lowered her head slightly.

“I have heard that a certain young nobleman once composed a love poem for you as a token of his admiration — but that you, Physician Jun…” Huang Yu paused, his gaze shifting in a rather sly manner.

Jun Pinyu now understood why her scalp had prickled.

“You gave me a quince, and I returned a fine jade pendant. Not merely as repayment — but as the token of our lasting bond. You gave me a peach, and I returned a beautiful jade stone. Not merely as repayment — but as the token of our lasting bond. You gave me a plum, and I returned a fine jasper stone. Not merely as repayment — but as the token of our lasting bond!”

Huang Yu recited it with great theatrical relish, shaking his head as though savoring each verse. “What beautiful poetry! What deep feeling! And yet, you apparently replied: ‘Since you said you would give me quinces, peaches, and plums, why have none appeared? Since you said you would return jade pendants, stones, and jaspers, why have none arrived? Quinces, peaches, and plums are not only good for the complexion — the pits can be used in medicine, and would save on the cost of buying herbs. The jade pendants and jaspers could be pawned to buy a few baskets of fresh pears — we’ve run out of pear syrup for coughs in the pavilion!'” He burst out laughing. “Hahaha! I just had to know — did you truly say all of this? That poor man and his heartfelt sentiment… hahaha! After that, you were given the name ‘Wooden Guanyin’ — people say that though you have the face of a Guanyin, you have the soul of a wooden post, utterly unmoved by romance! Hahaha!”

Huang Yu laughed so hard he nearly doubled over, prompting a brief sideways glance from Xiao Xue Kong.

As for Jun Pinyu — her expression had not shifted in the slightest. Her face remained gentle and serene. “Pinyu did indeed say all of that. In Pinyu’s eyes, those quinces, peaches, and plums would have been of more practical benefit than all the jade poetry in the world.”

“I yield!” Huang Yu, still bent double with laughter, nonetheless managed to press his hands together in a salute — which made the whole thing rather comical.

The four attendants, well accustomed to their master’s extravagant behavior, finally took the opportunity to step forward and pay their respects to Xiao Xue Kong.

When Huang Yu had finally laughed himself out and composed himself, he looked at the unmoved “Wooden Guanyin” before him with quiet wonder. From the first moment he had seen her, that expression of gentle, compassionate calm had not shifted by a fraction. That smooth and unhurried voice of hers had not risen or fallen. It was as if she wore a mask. This Wooden Guanyin truly was a wooden Guanyin.

“Well then — questions asked, night approaching — it’s time for me to be on my way.” Huang Yu straightened and composed himself, then walked to stand before Xiao Xue Kong and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be at the traveling palace for three days. Whether you decide to come back or not, you’re welcome to come and talk — after all, we are brothers, and after all these years there must be things to say.”

“I will come,” Xiao Xue Kong said with a nod.

Huang Yu gave Jun Pinyu a slight nod, turned to leave, then turned back after a few steps to call to Xiao Xue Kong: “Oh — I nearly forgot to tell you. Elder brother now has a son, and the Empress is with child again. Jiushuang and I are married. Don’t fall too far behind.” He finished with a wink in Jun Pinyu’s direction.

Part 2: The Road Home

The hour of xu had passed. Yet the study of Pinyu Pavilion still burned with lamplight. In the warm glow, a blue-robed woman sat holding a medical text, her eyes fixed on the page — yet her gaze had not moved for half an hour, and the page had not been turned.

In the courtyard, beneath the trellis of wisteria, a lone figure stood, looking up at the full moon hanging in the night sky.

Tonight, the moonlight was cold and clear, spreading across sky and earth like white frost — rooftops and tree branches all dusted with a faint silver-white. A gentle breeze stirred the shadows of the trees, their branches swaying. Against the vine-draped trellis stood a figure as beautiful and serene as a painting in snow. The small courtyard had become, in this moment, something like the Moon Palace itself.

The study door opened softly, and Jun Pinyu stepped out, brows lightly furrowed. She looked at the figure standing motionless in the courtyard and felt no particular surprise.

“Not yet asleep,” she said, her voice mild.

The figure in the courtyard did not answer. He looked back at her briefly, then returned his gaze to the night sky.

For a moment neither spoke. Jun Pinyu looked at the person standing beneath the trellis — still as a snowcapped peak, solitary and austere. He had always been like this. She raised her own eyes to the ice-white moon above, which seemed far more a place suited to him than this small Pinyu Pavilion. This little hall could never be somewhere he would stay for long.

“I imagine even the Mid-Autumn moon would hardly be more beautiful than tonight’s,” came Xiao Xue Kong’s voice, unexpectedly. She turned to look, and on that face of ice and snow was a rare expression of wistfulness.

“There was once a person I admired — the way one admires the full moon. Even across the distance of nine heavens, one cannot help but be drawn to that extraordinary brilliance. Only…” He paused, then said quietly, “…that kind of person is like this moon. No matter how I looked up, no matter how I tried to reach — always distant beyond measure, between heaven and earth.”

Jun Pinyu felt something stir in her at these words, and she recalled her own single experience of being moved, long ago. Had she not similarly been drawn by that person’s unparalleled grace? Such a person existed nowhere else in this life — in that moment, the feeling had arisen before she could stop it. When feeling comes, how can the will control it?

“That injury gave me an opportunity. Let the Sweeping Snow General die in the ruins of Kang City, and let only an ordinary person named Xue Kong be reborn. I wanted to understand the jianghu that had shaped that person’s free and unrestrained manner. I wanted to try that kind of life. I wanted to be closer to that person. So I did not go back, and I stayed. But three years passed and I gained nothing from it. The carefree jianghu, the everyday life of rice and firewood among the common people — none of it stirred in me any longing to remain. I have only grown lost and without direction.”

Xiao Xue Kong raised his hand. A cold gleam arced through the air. His Sweeping Snow Sword left its scabbard, casting a chilling light in the moonlit night.

“But Huang Yu’s arrival today has cleared my mind. I simply cannot blend into the jianghu. I am simply incapable of living an unremarkable life. I simply cannot forget the oaths I swore in former days. I simply cannot let go of my king.”

He flicked the sword lightly with one finger. It sang like a dragon. His ice eyes opened fully, and in that instant every edge came alive — person and sword as one, the cold blade and the proud bone.

“Whether in life or in death, Xiao Xue Kong will always be the Emperor’s Sweeping Snow General!”

The words came out quiet but unshakeable. The eyes beneath that frost of composure were keen and clear. That cold and austere person held within him a heart of fire.

“Has the General finally made his decision?” Jun Pinyu walked slowly out into the courtyard.

“Ruling a country is harder than founding one. Xue Kong is flawed in his abilities, but he must give what he can for his sovereign.” Xiao Xue Kong returned his sword to its scabbard, his edge contained.

“Then Pinyu must congratulate the General on rekindling his resolve.” Jun Pinyu gave a slight bow.

Xiao Xue Kong looked at her quietly, and after a moment turned his gaze back to the night sky. “Everyone who sees this moon is moved by its beauty, is that not so?”

“Hmm?” Jun Pinyu did not immediately follow his meaning.

His gaze shifted from the moon above to Jun Pinyu’s eyes, and he looked at her steadily. “Tonight you and I are both captivated by this moon. But when the brilliant, blazing sunrise comes tomorrow morning, we will be swept away by that vast and boundless light as well. In one lifetime, there are many things that move the heart and stir admiration, but not all of them can be grasped and held. Many can only be gazed at from a distance. Many can only pass by us, and we by them. And some are already gone before we even understand what we have lost. So what we can actually hold in our hands is, in the end, very little.”

“Oh—” Jun Pinyu blinked, startled. She had not expected this person — frozen and remote as ice — to speak so many words tonight, and words of such depth.

Xiao Xue Kong saw that she did not quite follow, and tried again — but unfortunately:

“I mean… you and I… that is… Bai Fengxi and Hei Fengxi… they… like… that… we… the two of us…”

His tongue seemed to tie itself in a knot, and the sentence could not be made to come together in any coherent form.

“Does the General mean to say—” Jun Pinyu seemed to have dimly caught his meaning, and dimly felt something like anticipation — and found, to her consternation, that her heart was beating hard.

“What I mean is, you and I… we have our own connection… and they… they are…” Xiao Xue Kong very much wanted to say it properly and clearly, but his mouth refused to obey, and the hand gripping his Sweeping Snow Sword was very nearly sweating. In the end, he seemed to abandon the effort entirely, and stopped.

Jun Pinyu looked at him blankly — seemingly unable to understand, yet seeming also to wait.

The courtyard was quiet, but not cold. They faced each other, and what could not be said passed between their eyes instead.

“Physician Jun…” Xiao Xue Kong spoke again, and this time his tongue did not tie itself. A softness surfaced in his ice eyes. “Would you be willing to come with me to the imperial capital? Pinyu Pavilion can be opened in the capital just as well — wherever you are, that is where Pinyu Pavilion is.” When the last word was out, something rare appeared on that snow-pale face: a faint wash of color, suffusing his cheeks — entirely visible in the moonlight.

Jun Pinyu felt her heart lurch violently, and opened her mouth to speak — only to discover she could not produce a sound.

Xiao Xue Kong did not wait for her answer. He added hastily: “Take some time to consider it. Think on it carefully.” And before the words had finished landing, he leaped — in the blink of an eye gone, vanished into the air, having made his escape by qinggong.

The courtyard was left to Jun Pinyu alone, and to the sound of her own heartbeat, perfectly clear.

“Was that… the ice-man’s confession just now?”

A long moment passed before the quiet murmur escaped her lips. Then her face went warm, and she raised a hand to touch her cheek — only to find she could not cover the faint, sweet smile that had appeared at the corner of her mouth.

“You wretched Xue Ren — leaving me to wait three whole days!”

Early the next morning, Pinyu Pavilion received a visitor. This visitor, upon entering the pavilion, did not bother to have himself announced but headed straight to the back courtyard, and upon catching sight of the person in the yard immediately began shouting furiously.

Xiao Xue Kong glanced with mild disinterest at the person fuming before him, and said coldly: “Busy.”

“Busy?!” Huang Yu’s eyes went wide, and he pointed at Xiao Xue Kong’s nose with righteous indignation. “Given the years between us, you can’t even spare one hour to come see me?! I… I… I’m going to sever our brotherhood right here and now!”

“Stop blocking the way. I need to pack.” Xiao Xue Kong was entirely deaf to his rage and accusations. He reached out, pushed Huang Yu aside, and walked on.

“You… you…” Huang Yu shook with fury. “You dare push me out of the way?! What rubbish packing is so important that you can’t even spare me—wait. Packing? You’re packing? Packing for what? Could it be that you’re…”

Huang Yu hurried after him, grabbing his arm to demand an explanation, but was shaken off.

“If you have time to complain, you may as well make yourself useful. There is a great deal in Pinyu Pavilion, and the medical texts alone have already filled three carts.”

“Ah?” Huang Yu went rigid on the spot. Then, realizing what this meant, he leaped like a child. “You mean — you mean Physician Jun — Physician Jun is coming too? You and I… you and she are both coming back to the capital with me?”

Without even waiting for Xiao Xue Kong’s reply, Huang Yu was already beaming from ear to ear, grinning so wide his smile nearly reached his ears.

This was wonderful! Wonderful beyond measure! This journey had yielded a great harvest indeed! Not only had he found Xue Ren — he had also managed to bring back the foremost physician in all the world. And with her there… elder brother… elder brother would surely not… next summer… surely he could make it past next summer!

“Take this to the carriage in the back lane.”

Huang Yu was still smiling to himself in the courtyard when something dark came hurtling through the air with no warning at all, heading straight for his forehead. He barely registered it in time, leaped back three paces, swept a palm to redirect the force, and caught the thing firmly in both arms. He looked: it was a black wooden box, roughly three feet on each side.

“You dead Xue Ren! Are you trying to murder me?! I am a royal prince, you know — how dare you assault your superior?! Just wait until we get back to the capital, this prince will have a layer of your skin peeled off!”

“Speaking of which — a prince’s standing is indeed too exalted for Xue Kong to ask a prince to do manual labor. These are all Pinyu’s medical instruments. Best let Pinyu carry them herself.”

Huang Yu had been about to seize the moral high ground at last, but Jun Pinyu appeared from nowhere and with one quiet sentence left him no choice but to bow his head immediately. If he annoyed the divine physician and she refused to go to the capital, then elder brother’s illness would…

He broke into a smile like morning sunshine, his voice warm as a spring breeze, radiating good cheer in all directions: “No, no, no! I am completely free at the moment! Happy to help! Delighted!” With that, he scooped up the wooden box and marched off toward the back lane with a spring in every step.

He reflected that though he was now the honored brother of the Emperor, he had always ranked last among the “Wind, Frost, Snow, and Rain” — a fact that had galled him for years. Now that he was a proper royal prince, he ought by rights to finally stand first in line. But one of the others had gone and gotten a wife who was the boss of him, and the remaining one — clearly paying not the slightest heed to his princely dignity — had moreover brought a divine physician along who had her finger on his weak point. It looked very much as though, in this lifetime, “Rain, Snow, and Frost” would forever be beyond his reach.

“Prince Yun is truly an interesting person,” Jun Pinyu said with a smile, watching Huang Yu’s retreating figure. She turned to look at Xiao Xue Kong. “With a brother like that, one wonders what kind of person the Emperor must be.”

A trace of reverence stirred in Xiao Xue Kong’s ice eyes. “His Majesty is… His Majesty.”

“Oh?” Jun Pinyu looked at Xiao Xue Kong’s long hair, white as snow, and in a fleeting moment was reminded of another person — black-robed, dark-eyed, dark-haired, with a wholly different manner of elegant, encompassing dignity. Such exquisite and unparalleled grace of face and bearing — nowhere seen in this life, never to be seen again. To claim no regret would be a lie. But the person before her — she felt gladness for him now. What rose in her heart now was warmth. To leave her hometown behind and journey with this man was something she was willing, in this moment, to do. That was enough. A person’s life is only so many decades — to have met this one was already fortunate.

“Human life holds a hundred shapes, and feeling takes ten thousand forms.” Xiao Xue Kong looked at Jun Pinyu’s wistful expression with understanding, with sympathy, and with quiet reassurance. “You and I are among the ordinary multitudes of this world, and yet we are each irreplaceable. To have met and to be together — let us cherish what fate has given us.”

“Well said.” Jun Pinyu smiled softly and nodded.

They had set out from Hua City nearly a month ago. As they neared the capital toward the year’s end, the days grew cold, and on this particular day the snow finally came — great goose-feather flakes drifting and swirling from the sky, spreading a thick white blanket over the earth.

The group pressed forward through the snow. Horse hooves and carriage wheels carved deep tracks into the white ground.

“Xue Ren — do you think this snow is falling for you?” Huang Yu, on horseback, looked up at the unceasing flurries above. “Because it knows you’re coming back, it’s snowing to welcome you, the Snow General.”

At these words, Xiao Xue Kong’s gaze flickered, and he could not help but think of the day Kang City fell.

That day too had seen snow, though not heavy — only a light dusting. He had opened the door at dawn to find a figure standing motionless in the treetops, barely visible through the drifting flakes, like something between real and dream. And on that day, that person had said something similar: “Xue Kong… is today’s snow falling for you?”

Lost in the memory, he no longer heard Huang Yu’s chatter beside him. His ears filled only with the sound of howling wind and singing sword — and a clear, solitary voice rising through the snow, sword-breath curling around it, the song winding slowly upward into the vast, gray sky, where it lingered and would not dissipate…

“Xue Ren! Xue Ren! Are you listening?!” Huang Yu gave Xiao Xue Kong a sharp thump, alarmed by his vacant expression — he looked as though his soul were about to leave his body.

Xiao Xue Kong snapped back to himself and looked at Huang Yu with a slight frown. “What did you say?”

Huang Yu glared, but repeated himself: “I’ve already sent someone ahead to tell elder brother you’re coming back. I was afraid if you appeared in front of him too suddenly, it would excite him too much — given the state of his health. The capital is almost within reach. You two come stay at my estate first; once your own residence is put in order, you can move over. I’ll go into the palace tonight; you can come with me to see elder brother tomorrow.”

“Hmm?” Xiao Xue Kong looked at him with mild puzzlement.

Having known him for years, Huang Yu understood well enough what he was puzzled about. “Of course elder brother set aside a residence for you when he granted me mine. He said that if you came back one day, he couldn’t have you without a home to return to. Our two estates are adjacent; only one wall separates the back courtyards. I’ve had people maintaining the place these years, but if someone is to live there now, it will still need some preparation.” He paused briefly, and a shadow passed over his expression. “Yingzhou’s tomb is beside our two estates. Elder brother said the four of us — ‘Wind, Frost, Snow, and Rain’ — should always be together.”

“I see.” Xiao Xue Kong lowered his head, his expression unreadable.

But Huang Yu had no wish to probe further. He pointed ahead. “The capital is here.”

“Yes.” Xiao Xue Kong lifted his head. Ahead, the towering gates of the imperial capital rose against the sky, soldiers ranked along the ramparts.

“Let’s go.” Huang Yu raised his whip, and his horse broke into a gallop toward the gates, snow flying up beneath the hooves.

Xiao Xue Kong likewise raised his whip and rode after, and the seven carriages and all the attendants urged their horses forward as well, pressing close behind.

The guards stationed before the city gates, seeing the rider approaching, dropped to their knees in unison. “We welcome the return of Prince Yun, His Highness of Ten Thousand Years!”

“Rise!” Huang Yu raised a hand, and his horse swept through the gate. The carriages and riders behind pressed through in quick succession.

Because of the snow, the streets were nearly empty. The group wound its way through the capital’s twists and turns unimpeded, finally stopping before an imposing and stately estate. The two great stone lions flanking the gate were buried under thick accumulations of snow, looking less like fierce guardians and more like round, gleaming jade lions descended from the celestial realm — their severity entirely dissolved, replaced by something translucent and rather charming.

“Here we are.”

Huang Yu dismounted, and as he drew closer to his own gate, he became a little nervous. He had been away two months without a word — only a brief note left behind when he departed. There would very likely be a reckoning waiting for him. And moreover, why were there suddenly so many guards at the gate, and familiar-looking ones at that? Could it be that a certain woman had specifically stationed them here to settle accounts with him the moment he arrived at the door?

“Welcome back, Your Highness!” The guards at the gate knelt in unison.

“Rise.” Huang Yu waved a hand. “Quickly, go inform Steward Lin — honored guests have arrived. Prepare guest chambers, food, and wine, and send people to unload the luggage.”

“Yes!” One man was dispatched at once.

“Your Highness, His Majesty is in the estate.” The captain of the guard reported.

“Ah?” Huang Yu said sharply. “You say elder brother is here? When did he arrive? Why come out in such heavy snow?”

“His Majesty arrived at the hour of wei,” the captain replied respectfully.

“Xue Ren.” Huang Yu turned around with a grin. “It looks as though elder brother has been waiting for you. Come in quickly.” He moved at once to the first carriage, knocked on the carriage wall. “Physician Jun, we’re home.”

The carriage door creaked open, and Jun Pinyu stepped out, wrapped in a fox-fur cloak and snow hat.

Huang Yu extended a hand to help her down, then grabbed the still-frozen Xiao Xue Kong by the arm and steered him toward the estate entrance. “Come on, Xue Ren, we’re going in — leave all of this to them. Don’t worry, they won’t break anything.”

The three passed through the front courtyard and along the main corridor. The great hall came into view ahead.

“Don’t these people know to keep the hall doors shut? With wind and snow like this, what if elder brother catches cold?” Huang Yu grumbled at the sight of the wide-open doors — not pausing to consider that when guests arrive from afar, closing the doors against them might send a rather different message.

“So you’ve finally thought to come back. Have you had a fine two months on your travels?”

The moment the three crossed the threshold, a clear and bright woman’s voice rang out.

A woman with a spirited, confident face stood before the decorative screen near the hall doors, looking at Huang Yu with an expression of amusement that was not quite a smile.

“Honored guests first.” Huang Yu immediately pushed Xiao Xue Kong and Jun Pinyu forward.

Qiu Jiushuang — formerly the Cold Frost General, now Princess Consort of Yun — turned her gaze to Xiao Xue Kong, and in that moment her bright eyes filled with a glimmer of moisture. Her lips trembled. She could not speak. The expression on her face strained toward a smile and could not quite make it — it came out instead as something caught between laughter and tears.

“You snow Bodhisattva — all these years without a single word to us. You made me think you had truly melted away, so that I had no choice but to marry that insufferably self-important man!” Qiu Jiushuang steadied her emotions, stepped forward, grabbed a handful of Xiao Xue Kong’s white hair, gave it a sharp tug to pull his face close, and slapped him soundly. “Good — Xue Ren’s face is still this beautiful!”

A warmth stirred in Xiao Xue Kong’s ice eyes. He pulled his hair free from her grip and clapped a hand firmly on Qiu Jiushuang’s shoulder. “A man’s temper with a woman’s mouth. You haven’t changed.” Concise, as always.

“You infuriating Xue Ren — I am a delicate woman, couldn’t you be a little gentler!” Qiu Jiushuang glared at him, rubbing her aching shoulder, then turned to Jun Pinyu. Her face lit up with genuine warmth. “Physician Jun, you must be exhausted from the journey — please, come in.”

“Pinyu pays her respects to the Princess Consort.” Jun Pinyu gave a bow.

“Oh, none of that.” Qiu Jiushuang caught her at once, steadying her. “We’re family from now on — no need for all this formality.” She gave Jun Pinyu a conspiratorial wink. “Xue Ren owes you an enormous debt for these years — but you’ve had your reward, haven’t you?”

Jun Pinyu smiled to herself. Those two — the Prince and his Princess Consort — were perfectly matched.

“What are you all doing standing at the door? Come in.” Huang Yu pressed in from behind, pushing Xiao Xue Kong along.

“Quite so — there’s someone else waiting for you inside.” Qiu Jiushuang took Jun Pinyu’s hand and led her forward.

The group rounded the jade stone screen, and there at the head of the great hall, seated on a long couch, was a man — holding a cup of hot tea, blowing gently on the leaves before taking a slow sip.

The moment she saw that person, Xiao Xue Kong’s stride halted. Then he stepped forward quickly, and when he was three paces from the man, both knees folded and he dropped to the ground, his voice rough and low: “Xue Kong pays his respects to His Majesty!”

The man on the couch set his teacup lightly on the side table and looked up toward them. In that instant, Jun Pinyu felt her whole body jolt — and without thinking, she knelt alongside Xiao Xue Kong.

Light footsteps crossed the great hall. Then a voice, mild yet carrying its own natural authority, came from above: “So my Sweeping Snow General has finally returned.”

A warmth settled on Xiao Xue Kong’s shoulders, and he was gently, unhurriedly helped to his feet. He lifted his head. A pair of golden eyes looked at him with deep feeling and quiet joy. In that moment, Xiao Xue Kong felt his eyes sting with unexpected heat, and could no longer see his sovereign’s face clearly. He reached up and gripped the hands on his shoulders. “Your Majesty — Xue Kong has failed Your Majesty!”

Huang Chao looked at his beloved general — those ice eyes now luminous with a blue shimmer, the faintest glimmer of moisture within — and he smiled. “What nonsense are you talking? My Sweeping Snow General has a cold blade and a proud spirit. He never sheds tears.”

“Yes. Xue Kong lost composure.” Xiao Xue Kong lowered his head and raised a hand to his eyes.

“Physician Jun, please rise.”

A hand, long and slightly slender, extended before Jun Pinyu. She reached up instinctively, and the hand helped her to her feet. It was warm and steady.

“Your benevolence and skill are a blessing to all the people under heaven.” The quiet words carried natural authority — yet also a sincerity that came from the heart.

Jun Pinyu raised her eyes. Before her stood a man in pale purple everyday robes, simply dressed, without any crown or jade ornament — yet his presence was effortlessly commanding, noble and composed, such that one could only look up. In this snowy day with no sun to be seen, those golden eyes still shone bright and clear as noon — and when they swept lightly toward her, they were full of luminous warmth.

This man is a patient?

This is the gravely ill man she had herself pronounced unable to survive past next summer?

Whatever she looked at — his face or his expression — she could see not the slightest trace of illness, let alone the hopeless, incurable case that Prince Yun had described.

No, surely this man is not a patient. Surely Prince Yun misled her.

“You can’t be this cold in winter — what if you have a flare-up?” Huang Yu was scolding his elder brother, pulling him back to the couch and picking up the white fur robe lying on it to drape over his brother’s shoulders. “Elder brother, I don’t mean to lecture you. You didn’t need to come today — tomorrow I would have brought Xue Ren to the palace to see you. It’s not as though a few more hours matter, after all these years. And he wouldn’t blame you for not coming, right, Xue Ren?”

“Yes.” Xiao Xue Kong nodded, serious, and moved to stand beside Huang Chao, looking closely at his complexion. “Your Majesty, your health—”

Huang Chao settled back on the couch, his chin lifted slightly. “Am I made of crystal?” And in that tilt of his head, the sweeping, sovereign air of one who looks down on all the world rose naturally from him. The golden eyes held their keen edge, as ever.

“You are not!” Xiao Xue Kong replied with conviction. “Your Majesty stands tall between heaven and earth — how could a minor ailment lay you low!”

“Haha!” Huang Chao laughed openly. “Xue Kong understands better than my fourth brother. If I die, I will not die in a sickbed!”

“Enough of that word!” Huang Yu flushed with alarm. Having witnessed his brother’s attacks — the helpless, harrowing inability to do anything — the very mention of that word made his chest close. He glared at Xiao Xue Kong, then at Huang Chao. “I hate hearing that word!”

“Indeed — a man like His Majesty is ill-suited to die in a sickbed.”

Huang Yu had barely finished his outburst before he heard the word again from another direction and turned his glare on Jun Pinyu.

Jun Pinyu paid him no heed, stepped forward with perfect composure, and without a moment’s hesitation, took hold of the sitting Emperor’s wrist. Her slender fingers pressed against his pulse point. All three people beside her immediately tensed, their attention fixed entirely on her.

The moment her fingers found his pulse, Jun Pinyu’s heart sank. She looked up — and met a pair of calm, composed golden eyes. He seemed to have read her expression entirely. He gave a faint smile, as though offering reassurance.

How could such a person die young? No — absolutely not. This must not be.

Jun Pinyu had spent her life doing what she could and leaving the rest to heaven. But in this moment, she refused. Even if it meant struggling against fate itself, she would try. She would save this person — not for the sake of his position, not for the sake of all the people under heaven, but simply because she could not allow this particular sun to go out of the sky.

“Your eyes and face remind me somewhat of an old friend,” Huang Chao said, looking at the gentle, compassionate expression in Jun Pinyu’s eyes, and for a brief moment he seemed lost in thought.

“From this day forward, Your Majesty’s diet, sleep, and daily routine will be according to Pinyu’s direction.” Jun Pinyu spoke quietly, her gaze steady and calm but firm. “And please allow me unrestricted access to the palace.”

Huang Chao’s brow lifted. A flash passed through those golden eyes.

He looked at the unmoved female physician before him. Not only was her manner similar — even the way she spoke had a certain echo. In all this world, only that one person had ever addressed him so directly, told him plainly to do as they said. And he, for all that he was the supreme sovereign under heaven, had never once refused a word they said.

“Your Majesty.” Xiao Xue Kong dropped to one knee and touched his forehead to the tip of Huang Chao’s shoe. “Xue Kong’s sovereign is Your Majesty and Your Majesty alone. Please allow Xue Kong to follow at Your Majesty’s side for the rest of this life.” And so — please live long and well, for Xue Kong will follow until the end.

“Elder brother!” Huang Yu and Qiu Jiushuang knelt together.

Huang Chao looked at the brothers and subjects kneeling before him, then shifted his golden eyes to the jade stone screen at the far end of the hall — gazing at the high mountains and blue lake carved into its surface. After a moment he said softly: “All of you rise.”

He had not spoken a direct answer — and yet in that moment, from the corner of her eye, Jun Pinyu caught something in those golden eyes: a trace, the faintest trace, of solitude.

The end of winter in the third year of the Xize reign brought the capital city a succession of joyful occasions.

First, Her Majesty the Empress was again found to be with child. When the news spread, the whole of the imperial court and the people alike were overjoyed — the Emperor currently had only one son, the Crown Prince, and the imperial family line was thin.

Second, the Sweeping Snow General Xiao Xue Kong, long recuperating from severe injuries in the countryside, at last returned to court. The Emperor was greatly pleased and bestowed on him the rank of First-Class Grand General.

Third, the Emperor personally arranged the marriage of the Sweeping Snow General and the female physician Jun Pinyu, and presided over the ceremony himself.

The fourth year of the Xize reign, the fifth day of the first month.

The great snow that had fallen before the new year had not fully melted, but the accumulated snow on the streets had long since been cleared away.

Today was the auspicious day — chosen by the Emperor himself — for the marriage of the Sweeping Snow General and the female physician. Heaven was generous with its cooperation. The sun rose early and bright, its warm light falling gently over the rooftops and treetops still dusted with remnant snow, cloud-glow and snow-brightness together making the whole world luminous and magnificent.

Before the General’s estate, red lanterns hung high and colored silk was strung all around. Carriage after carriage drew up without cease, and guests arrived like clouds.

The Sweeping Snow General’s battle achievements were brilliant, and he enjoyed the deepest trust of the Emperor — and so every official at court, great and small, counted it an honor to come and offer congratulations. Even those who had once been enemies and now served together in the same court — Qiao Jin, Duanmu Wensheng, He Qishu, Qi Shu, Xu Yuan, and Cheng Zhi — all came to offer their good wishes.

“The auspicious hour has arrived — the bride and groom shall perform the ceremony!” The Officiant gave his voice full rein, the proclamation ringing throughout and beyond the General’s estate.

The bride and groom had neither parents nor living kin, but seated in the place of honor at the head of the great hall was the reigning Emperor himself, with the Prince of Yun, the Emperor’s own brother, serving as chief attendant to the groom, and the renowned former Cold Frost General, Princess Consort of Yun, serving as the chief attendant to the bride. On either side, smiling and bearing witness, were the Prince of Hui, the Prince of Xin, and the six generals — Qiao, Qi, He, Xu, Cheng, and Duanmu — known as the Six Stars of the Imperial Court. Below, the civil and military officials of the whole court attended. What more could any wedding ask? Even the wedding of Prince Yun in his day had not been so magnificent.

The groom’s face — snow-like in complexion — was made all the more striking by his wedding robes and ornamental crown, and the cool sharpness of his brow and eyes was softened today by a quiet radiance of happiness. The bride’s face was veiled behind the pearl tassels of her phoenix crown, her features hidden — yet her slender figure and graceful, upright bearing allowed one to imagine without effort the beauty concealed within.

One was the Grand General of the realm. One was the foremost female physician of the age. With such identities, such appearances, such a wedding — how could this be anything less than perfect? Who under heaven would not envy them?

The first bow — to heaven and earth, in gratitude for the bond they had bestowed.

The second bow — to the Emperor, in gratitude for the blessing he had given.

The third bow — to one another, in gratitude for the future each had offered the other.

From this day forward, husband and wife are one — to share in honor and disgrace, in fortune and calamity, in illness and sorrow.

“Ju Quan, acting on my master’s orders, comes specially to offer congratulations!”

Just as every person in the hall was watching the newlyweds complete the rites with joy and admiration, a somewhat low and unhurried voice drifted in from far away, reaching the ears of every guest in the hall with perfect clarity.

The officials did not think much of it, but every one of the generals present, as well as the guards stationed outside the estate, had their expressions change in an instant. The voice had come from beyond the estate gate — several hundred paces away — yet it sounded as clear as though spoken directly into one’s ear. Whoever this was possessed deep inner cultivation, and considerable skill at that.

The guards outside fell into immediate readiness. Those inside turned their eyes to the Emperor in the place of honor. Huang Chao’s expression did not shift. He only looked at Huang Yu with a mild nod.

Huang Yu understood. “Welcome our guest!” His voice was not loud, yet every person in the hall heard it distinctly — and, remarkably, the guards outside the estate gate heard it just as clearly.

“My thanks!”

That low, unhurried voice came again. A short while later, the crowd watched as a figure in coarse linen robes came walking unhurriedly through the garden gates in the distance, his bearing relaxed, his step easy. In a moment he had arrived in the hall.

Only now could the guests see him clearly: a rather young man, no more than twenty-five or twenty-six, both hands bearing a small ornately carved wooden box roughly a foot square. He was tall and upright, his features clear and fine. Though he could not match the groom in otherworldly beauty, he carried a natural ease and freshness, and he stood entirely unperturbed in this hall full of high officials and distinguished guests.

A few people could not help but wonder quietly: if the servant is this impressive, what must the master be like?

The linen-robed young man entered the hall and made no introduction of himself. He ignored every high official and nobleman present. His gaze went directly to the Emperor seated above, and he gave a slight bow — this alone serving as his salute.

The Emperor showed no displeasure. Several of the officials were mildly offended, but the princes and generals present remained watchful, their expressions undisturbed. Among them, Qiao Jin, Duanmu Wensheng, and He Qishu showed particular reactions — their gazes fixed intently on the linen-robed young man, not with anger, but with something closer to barely-suppressed excitement and gladness.

“Ju Quan comes representing his master, bearing fine wine, wishing the bride and groom a long life together and a harmonious union.”

The linen-robed young man — Ju Quan — set the carved wooden box on a nearby table, opened the left door of the box, and from it withdrew a jade bottle, roughly three inches tall, of deep translucent green. He then opened the right door and took out two jade cups. He gently drew out the stopper from the jade bottle, and immediately a fragrance of wine wafted out — pure and crisp and clear. It filled the entire hall in moments, and every person present was transfixed by it, their eyes going to the jade bottle. What celestial vintage could this be, that its fragrance was so rich and fine?

Ju Quan then tipped the bottle lightly, and wine the color of flowing cinnabar spilled out, pooling in the jade cups — emerald cups filled with sunset — a sight that was altogether beautiful. When the last drop fell, the two cups were exactly full, not a drop more, not a drop less — and those who had been intoxicated by the wine’s fragrance felt a pang of private envy that there was no portion for them.

“This wine is called ‘Vermillion Clouds.’ It was brewed by Ju Quan three years ago to celebrate a joyful occasion in the master’s life, and only this one bottle was kept. The master has instructed it to be given to an old friend.”

Ju Quan offered the jade cup to the groom.

Xiao Xue Kong looked with intense focus at Ju Quan — or rather, at his clothes. The collar of the linen robe, washed until it had faded somewhat, bore an embroidered wisp of white cloud. The sash at his waist was embroidered with a pale orchid. These simple details made Xiao Xue Kong’s heart lurch in his chest, and for a moment he could barely keep himself composed.

He bowed deeply, then accepted the cup with both hands and in a voice of utmost respect: “Xue Kong thanks the honored master for this wine!”

He turned and passed the second cup to the bride at his side. Both drank it off in a single draught.

Ju Quan collected the jade bottle and cups, then from the left compartment of the wooden box withdrew a white jade bottle roughly two inches tall. From the right compartment came a white jade cup. He drew out the stopper, and fragrance filled the hall once more. Those nearby breathed it in: first it seemed the pure fragrance of fine wine, then on the next breath something faintly floral, and on the third breath a clean herbal note — until every person in the room felt their hearts ease and their whole bodies refresh. Ju Quan poured the wine into the white jade cup with extreme care, as though the contents were of incalculable value, not one drop to be wasted — yet unlike the former wine with its vivid, sunset-red color, this one was colorless, a clear liquid shimmering in the cup.

“This wine is called ‘Azure Heaven.’ In all the world, there is only this single cup, and my master instructs Ju Quan to offer it to His Majesty the Emperor.” Ju Quan cupped the vessel in both hands, and gave a slight bow.

“Since you come as representative of your master, you are in this matter as your master himself. We accept the gift with gratitude.”

The supreme sovereign of the realm rose from his seat and walked forward — and took the cup from Ju Quan’s hands himself. The entire hall gasped.

If the Sweeping Snow General’s bow of receipt had already astonished the officials, then this gesture from the Emperor left them stunned beyond words. The Grand Empress Dowager and the Empress Dowager had both passed away within the last two years — was there truly someone left in this world to whom the Emperor would show such deference? Their curiosity about Ju Quan and the master he served deepened by the moment.

“Cangya Fengyi!”

A cry of shock from the bride rang out through the great hall. Everyone watched as she raised her hand to sweep aside the pearl tassels of the phoenix crown that had been obscuring her face, revealing features of serene, compassionate beauty like a Guanyin. She stepped quickly forward to stand before the Emperor, and lifted the jade cup from his hands, holding it beneath her nose to breathe it in carefully. Then she looked up at the Emperor with eyes full of joy. “Your Majesty — it truly is Cangya Fengyi!”

The officials were bewildered — not one of them had any idea what “Cangya Fengyi” was, or what could cause the bride to lose her composure so entirely. But the groom, the princes, and the generals all seemed to be infected by the bride’s joy, and smiles appeared on their faces one by one.

Jun Pinyu turned to face Ju Quan and gave a deep bow. “Pinyu thanks… thanks the honored master on behalf of all the people under heaven!”

Ju Quan inclined himself slightly. “There is no need for such ceremony, Madam. The master once said this wine would not go to waste — and so it has proven.”

Jun Pinyu turned, not sparing a glance for the bewildered guests, and swept her eyes over Xiao Xue Kong, Huang Yu, and Qiu Jiushuang. The gladness and urgency in her eyes startled them into understanding at once.

Huang Yu gave the Officiant a meaningful look. The Officiant caught it immediately and raised his voice: “The ceremony is complete — the bride and groom will now offer wine to His Majesty!”

Jun Pinyu and Xiao Xue Kong took their places on either side of the Emperor and accompanied him back to his seat. Attendants quickly brought a screen and positioned it before him, neatly concealing the scene from the view of the other guests.

“Your Majesty, please drink this cup and then steady your breathing and circulate your qi.”

Jun Pinyu placed the jade cup before the Emperor, then unpinned the jade hairpin from her hair and gave its tip a gentle twist — it detached, revealing the hairpin to be hollow, filled with dozens of fine silver needles.

“Cangya Fengyi is a spiritual medicine encountered perhaps once in a hundred generations — no wonder it is said there is only one cup of it in the world. To think they have given it to Your Majesty — truly, this is Your Majesty’s blessing. For the next two years, Your Majesty’s illness should give no cause for concern.” Jun Pinyu spoke quietly.

A light moved through Huang Chao’s golden eyes — something touched, something wistful, something he seemed to want to say and then not to say. At last he simply closed his eyes gently and set his mind to directing his inner energy.

Beyond the screen, while the officials were still exchanging bewildered glances, Huang Yu strolled smiling toward Ju Quan and offered a bow. “Ju Quan, your master has sent such fine wine — the bride and groom and elder brother have all partaken. I wonder whether Huang Yu might be fortunate enough to receive a cup as well?”

“Though I am only a woman, I have always loved fine wine,” Qiu Jiushuang added with a smile. “Might Ju Quan also be willing to spare one for me?”

The officials’ attention was immediately drawn away to the Prince and Princess Consort, all eyes fixed on Ju Quan and the carved wooden box, wondering what other celestial vintage it might hold, and who else might be so fortunate as to taste it.

Ju Quan made no answer. He only smiled faintly, then opened the box once more and withdrew a crystal bottle roughly six inches tall. The bottle was clear as water, and everyone could see the jade-green wine within — lustrous and gem-like. He then produced six crystal cups, drew the stopper, and poured the green wine in equal measure into each — a clean, crisp fragrance drifting out and through the hall, setting every appetite alive.

As the guests looked on with envy, Ju Quan set the crystal cups upon the white jade tray that had been on the table, arranged them carefully, and walked forward — stopping before Qiao Jin, Qi Shu, Xu Yuan, He Qishu, Cheng Zhi, and Duanmu Wensheng.

“This wine is called ‘Cinnabar Valor,’ and is the master’s gift to these six generals. The master says: the six generals are loyal of heart and righteous of courage — answerable above to heaven and earth, and unbowed below before sovereign or people. Truly they may be called ‘Cinnabar Valor.'”

The guests who had been feeling disappointed suddenly watched as all six generals dropped simultaneously to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the ground. “We receive the gift in gratitude!”

“The six generals, please accept the wine.” Ju Quan extended the tray.

The six rose, accepted their cups with solemn care, raised them high above their heads, then tilted them back and drank in one draught.

The officials stared at the six generals, dumbfounded. They had bowed with this same ceremony to receive the Emperor’s own gifts. Who on earth was Ju Quan’s master, that six such men would honor him so? Several people were nearly bursting to ask aloud. They glanced at Huang Yu — who, remarkably, showed not the faintest trace of displeasure. And some, looking at the six generals’ reverence and then recalling their origins, began dimly to understand.

“How is the master?” The six generals, having drunk, gathered around Ju Quan and asked in unison.

“Where is the master now?” The impetuous Cheng Zhi pressed eagerly for more.

“The six generals may rest at ease. Both masters are well — free and at peace, very happy indeed.” Ju Quan replied with a smile.

The six still had countless things they wished to say and ask, when from behind the screen Huang Chao emerged.

“Convey these words for us: we have a jar of hundred-year-aged wine that we have been keeping, and have long wished to share it with your two masters.”

“Ju Quan will carry the message. However, the two masters have no fixed abode and come and go like the wind — even Ju Quan rarely sees them unless summoned. Of late it is said that Madam wishes to go to Biya Sea to subdue a dragon, so they will likely have little time to visit the capital.”

What audacity — to decline the Emperor’s invitation for a drink and say they had no time! Several officials fumed silently.

“Could it be that your masters fear they cannot match us cup for cup?” Huang Chao spoke with quiet authority, yet those golden eyes held the ghost of a smile — and within that smile, something faint and hopeful.

Going to Biya Sea to subdue a dragon? Only that one person would ever come up with such outlandish notions.

“That question I cannot answer on the masters’ behalf.” Ju Quan smiled slightly, then bowed. “The gifts have been delivered. Ju Quan must return to report. I take my leave.” He turned to go.

“They all got wine, but not me. How unfair.” Over to one side, Huang Yu was muttering to himself, his gaze fixed on Ju Quan with just the faintest air of grievance.

Ju Quan’s feet paused. He turned back and looked at this man — the Emperor’s own brother, second only in the land — whose expression was exactly that of a child denied a sweet. He gave a small smile, drew from his sleeve a porcelain bottle painted with blue flowers, and tossed it lightly. “This is what Ju Quan had on hand to quench the road’s thirst. If the Prince and Princess Consort do not mind, they are welcome to have it.”

Huang Yu reached out and caught it. He drew out the stopper, and wine fragrance flooded his senses — intoxicating, head-spinning, surpassing any vintage in the palace by a measure impossible to calculate. He exclaimed at once: “Excellent wine! Excellent wine! Many thanks!”

Ju Quan smiled with a slight wave of his hand, and glided away.

“The ceremony is complete — honored guests, please be seated!”

The Officiant’s clear voice rang out to every corner. The General’s estate came alive with movement — guests finding their seats, servants and maids weaving among them like dancers, the great hall and courtyards all set with a hundred tables.

The Clear and Bright Festival — Qingming — and the rains that usually accompanied it were absent this year. The weather was clear and fine. But that travelers on the road had broken hearts — this part, at least, held true. Throughout the streets and lanes and footpaths, every person young and old carried incense and offerings to the grave, and every face was shadowed.

Not a hundred paces from the Prince of Yun’s estate in the capital stood a bamboo grove, belonging to the estate, rarely visited by outsiders. Within it stood a small bamboo cottage — serenely tucked among the deep-green, jade-dark stand of tall bamboo, a place of particular quiet and refinement. Ordinarily, only the Prince and Princess Consort would come here to sit quietly and pass a day — one was never quite sure what they were doing.

Behind the cottage was a grave. The stone marker was of white jade, the grave surrounded by green bamboo — modest and dignified.

Before the grave now stood four figures: the Prince of Yun, the Princess Consort, the Sweeping Snow General, and his wife.

“Yingzhou — another year has passed. I wonder what it is like for you over there?” Qiu Jiushuang poured a full cup of wine and offered it.

“Ah — he went ahead so many years ago. By the time we get there, he will already have made who knows how many accomplishments. When we are ranked, he will surely be first again.” Huang Yu murmured with a sigh, and upended his cup over the ground.

Xiao Xue Kong and Jun Pinyu each offered a cup as well.

“I wonder if he’s found himself a wife over there. Knowing how quiet and reserved he was, it can’t have been easy.” Qiu Jiushuang said after a moment.

“You’re right — the three of us, ‘Rain, Snow, and Frost,’ have all married. It isn’t right that he should be alone. Perhaps next time we should send him a beauty?” Huang Yu chimed in.

Xiao Xue Kong gave Huang Yu a brief, frigid look, then looked away.

Jun Pinyu smiled gently. “The Fierce Wind General — a hero in life and a mighty spirit in death. He truly deserves a great beauty.”

“‘Great beauty’ is too weak a phrase for someone like Bai Fengxi,” Qiu Jiushuang said from the side, casting a glance at Xiao Xue Kong with a glimmer of gentle teasing in her eyes. “The one Yingzhou could never stop thinking of — it was her.”

Xiao Xue Kong was entirely impervious to that glance. He only looked up at the tombstone. On the white jade surface was the Emperor’s own hand: Tomb of Yan Yingzhou, the Fierce Wind General.

“That’s true,” Huang Yu said, uncharacteristically not contradicting his wife. “‘Great beauty’ is faint praise for Bai Fengxi.”

“Someone like Bai Fengxi is unparalleled in this world — how could a single phrase say it all?” Jun Pinyu glanced at Xiao Xue Kong, warmth and ease in her eyes.

Xiao Xue Kong looked at her, gave a faint nod, a soft light briefly passing through his ice eyes.

The four were still talking when a clear, distant voice came drifting through the bamboo — faint as something from the far end of the sky, yet perfectly legible to the ear. Listening carefully, it was a poem:

“Clouds drift all day long across the sky, while the wanderer does not return. Three nights running you visit my dreams — such closeness shows the feeling you hold. At parting, always hurrying, abrupt, saying again and again how hard the journey: The rivers and lakes are full of wind and waves, and I fear the boat may founder first.”

The clear voice filled the bamboo grove, light and tinged with a quiet sorrow. All four were startled, and looked in every direction — yet they could not find where the speaker stood. That voice seemed to come from all sides at once, and even Huang Yu, Qiu Jiushuang, and Xiao Xue Kong, with all their martial skill, could not determine where the person stood.

“Setting out, I scratch my white head, bitter that I have fallen short of my life’s ambitions. The capital is full of official carriages and fine hats — and yet this one man grows thin and haggard. Who says the net of heaven casts wide? Growing old, I find myself more entangled. A name that will endure a thousand autumns — is in the end a lonely thing, born after death.”

The recitation ceased. A silence settled over the grove. The four looked at one another and each gave a quiet nod.

“Who dares intrude into this prince’s territory?” Huang Yu raised his voice, a faint authority threaded beneath the words.

Xiao Xue Kong drew Jun Pinyu closer, wrapping an arm around her waist in protection. She was with child — care was needed.

Jun Pinyu looked up at him and gave a soft smile.

“Nothing more than a little bamboo grove — if this young master wishes to walk through it, he would not hesitate even at the palace gates. If he does not wish to, you could invite him and he still would not come.” The voice drifted over them, unhurried, like the clear sound of a plucked string.

A white shape moved through the shifting bamboo shadows, light as a floating cloud, and in the blink of an eye, a white-clad young man stood before the grave. All four looked up involuntarily and felt a quiet admiration rise within them.

The young man was robed in white as clean as cloud, his bearing like carved jade — no more than eighteen or nineteen by appearance, yet between his brows lay a spirit of unrestrained ease, and in his manner an ineffable quality of clear and free-moving grace. He stood before the four of them in a perfectly at-ease, unhurried manner, for all the world as though he were standing in his own back garden, regarding four uninvited strangers who had wandered in.

The white-clad young man’s gaze passed over Huang Yu, Qiu Jiushuang, and Jun Pinyu in turn, then paused when it reached Xiao Xue Kong — not because he was struck by his appearance, but rather as though he recognized him. Still, it was only a moment’s pause before his gaze settled on the tombstone. He stepped forward, bowed slightly at the waist, and offered three bows before stopping.

“Is this gentleman an old acquaintance of Yingzhou’s?” Qiu Jiushuang was the first to ask, once the young man’s rites were complete.

The white-clad young man straightened and turned back. “I never knew him,” he said evenly. “But my sister respected him as a hero — and so I too will give him three bows.”

“Your sister is—?” Huang Yu asked, inwardly astonished. He had no idea when that wooden, oblivious man had managed to acquire a female admirer.

The white-clad young man glanced at Huang Yu but did not answer him, shifting his gaze instead to Xiao Xue Kong at the side. “I came specifically to ask you — do you know where my sister is now?”

“Oh?” This question made Huang Yu, Qiu Jiushuang, and Jun Pinyu all turn to look at Xiao Xue Kong with curiosity.

Xiao Xue Kong had been watching the white-clad young man steadily, feeling a sense of familiarity he could not quite place. Then, at this question, something clicked, and the name came out before he thought: “You are… Han Pu?”

The white-clad young man nodded. “Where has my sister gone?”

Xiao Xue Kong looked at Han Pu with no small astonishment of his own. This clean-white, fine-featured, highly skilled young man before him was the same scruffy, tear-streaked little child who had once kept crying out for his sister to save him?

“Hey — I asked you something. Are you deaf?” Han Pu, seeing that Xiao Xue Kong was only staring at him and not answering, said with mild irritation.

“This young man has no manners at all,” Huang Yu remarked from the side, clicking his tongue. This insufferable boy had appeared out of nowhere and swept his gaze past all of them as though they were invisible, hadn’t answered a single one of their questions, and was only chasing someone else for information about where his sister had gone.

“People who won’t even pour a man a drink are nothing so impressive,” Han Pu retorted.

“Ha!” Qiu Jiushuang immediately burst out laughing, completely disregarding that the man in question was her own husband. She looked at the young man with delight — and in that moment she knew quite well who it was he was looking for.

“You little—” Huang Yu’s voice was fierce, but his eyes had already softened with amusement.

“I don’t know where your sister is,” Xiao Xue Kong said.

“None of the other six know either — and you don’t either.” Han Pu looked disappointed. “I thought that since she was willing to give you wine, she must regard you differently.”

“If Young Master Han is simply trying to find Miss Feng, we may be able to lend some small assistance,” Jun Pinyu offered. She could see the suppressed anguish in the young man’s eyes — if it stayed shut in too long, it would harm his health. She could tell he had some deep connection with Bai Fengxi, and she could not bring herself to stand by without offering help.

“The Wooden Guanyin does have a Guanyin’s compassionate heart.” Han Pu gave Jun Pinyu a nod of acknowledgment. “But if none of you know where she is, how exactly would you help?”

“Young Master Han — is your only wish simply to find Miss Feng?” Jun Pinyu asked, with slight surprise.

“My sister promised me we would meet again in five years. But five years have already passed, and she still hasn’t come.”

White robes billowed, and in the blink of an eye, the figure was gone — leaving only a long, quiet sigh hanging in the air.

“Does that boy have nothing in his heart besides his sister?” Huang Yu stared at the place where Han Pu had vanished.

Xiao Xue Kong looked toward that same spot with a quiet sigh, then steadied Jun Pinyu. “Let us go back.”

“Let’s go.” Qiu Jiushuang took one last look at the tombstone, then took Huang Yu’s hand and walked out of the grove.

The bamboo grove fell silent and still. Only a lingering fragrance of wine remained, drifting. Sunlight filtered through the bamboo leaves and scattered broken shadows on the ground. A wind came through, rustling softly.

The years pass easily. Look up, and once more a spring has gone and summer has arrived.