The end of winter and the beginning of spring in Jiaosong County in the second month — days without wind were rare.

On this particular morning, however, there was not the slightest breath of wind.

The palace gates of the traveling palace opened directly onto the flowing Yue River. An early-rising boatman, bundled in cotton, drifted past on the water in his boat. The sharp bow cleaved the mirror-smooth surface, like a blade cutting through a bolt of silk.

A layer of black-gray ash now floated on what had been clear water — the residue of burnt sky lanterns that had fallen. It was just like the atmosphere along both banks of the ancient river at that moment: nothing but the desolation that follows riotous celebration, as though last night’s strange and resplendent sacrificial rites had been nothing more than a dream.

A lantern was lit at the head of the ancient bridge, and that single small flame had not yet been extinguished — but dawn had already stolen away its glow, leaving it faint and pale.

On the wide official road, no other carriages were to be seen. Only one man and one horse stood alone at the head of the old stone bridge, gazing, it seemed, out at the eastward-flowing river.

Only that man himself knew that what he gazed at was not the surface of the river, but the elevated platform rising above it.

In just ten short days, ten thousand timber beams and columns had been transported onto the river to build that magnificent stage — and in the end, it had earned only one brief night of splendor.

The fishy smell of the river water drifted into his nostrils, pulling Xiao Zhun’s thoughts back to the platform the previous night.

Before the rites began, when the lanterns had not yet been fully lit, the surroundings dimly lit, and the assembled officials murmuring and exchanging pleasantries — he had been standing alone at the head of the bridge. He had never imagined that the Emperor would suddenly appear before him.

The Emperor wore ivory-white ceremonial robes. That color had diminished somewhat of the oppressive weight he carried, yet it inexplicably gave off a hazy, ambiguous luminescence in the moonlight.

“Marquis of Qinghuai — it has been a long time.”

The other’s expression was mild. In Xiao Zhun’s memory, that face had seemed to wear this very expression many years ago.

This sovereign of Tiancheng — he had always felt a certain wariness toward him.

He had ascended the throne young, without any notable achievements or failures. He appeared conservative, yet no one could steer him. In the years of his reign, he had already caused countless deeply entrenched court ministers to fall from power one after another, while seeming to show exceptional leniency toward military generals.

And all of this was nothing more than a prelude to the campaign to recover Bijiang.

The first time he had seen him was after the slaughter of Xiao Zhun’s entire clan and family.

As the sole surviving member of the Xiao bloodline, he had been summoned to the Yuanhe Hall — while the other had been a young Emperor who had only recently ascended the throne, and this had been the first time he had ever privately summoned a subject.

The chamberlain had lowered a long gauze curtain to separate him from the Emperor. After performing the proper salutation and rising, Xiao Zhun looked across.

He was somewhat older, yet by comparison the Emperor’s build seemed too slight — that deep-cut robe hung on him loosely, giving the odd impression of a woman rendered fragile by her own garments.

He sat composed behind the gauze curtain; the wind that threaded through the hall blurred his silhouette slightly, making him look almost like a specter.

That very first glimpse had left a complex, profound impression on Xiao Zhun’s heart.

It was a cold, faintly ominous quality — one that would adhere to you the moment you drew near, seeping slowly into your bones, lingering for a long time before it would fade.

He had not liked this new Emperor.

Born to a military family, with a fiery, unyielding nature. Young and headstrong as he had been then, having just suffered a devastating blow to his family, and burning to know the truth — in the space of that brief exchange, he had confronted the Emperor several times.

The palace attendants and ritual officials on either side had drawn in breath again and again, and in the end had all knelt prostrate, trembling in a row.

Yet no matter how he provoked and challenged, the person behind that gauze curtain had seemed forever of one manner — not even the cadence of his voice had changed by the slightest degree.

At last, he had grown tired. His grief and indignation settled a little, and he finally fell silent.

“Does young Xiao know the story behind ‘Asking About the Bridge’?”

Xiao Zhun was briefly taken aback.

Though the Xiao Family were military people, they were by no means ignorant of books. He had read a great deal in his childhood as well — but the two words “Asking About the Bridge” left no impression on him at all.

In his heart he did not know — yet he was unwilling to admit it, and so he clenched his jaw and said nothing.

The young Emperor saw through his embarrassment at once, though his words carried no mockery. “The story of ‘Asking About the Bridge’ comes from the scriptures — it would be perfectly natural not to have heard of it. Shall I tell it to you?”

Xiao Zhun remained silent. The other’s even voice rose again.

“There was a certain monk who was very poor, and he set out to travel to a great gathering of almsgiving. Along the way, the things he observed gave rise to all manner of foolish questions — such as who had built the bridge before him — until he had posed seven thousand eight hundred questions in total. Because of this, he delayed the time it took him to reach the almsgiving hall, so that by the time he arrived, all the goods to be given away had long since been distributed and nothing remained. He returned with nothing to show for it. What does young Xiao make of such a person?”

Xiao Zhun could not understand why the other had told this story, and only frowned. “Every question he asked was foolish—”

The words were barely out of his mouth when he suddenly realized the other was using this as a metaphor for him. The expression on his face became immediately uncomfortable.

“What happened with the bridge has nothing to do with me — how can it be compared to my situation?”

But that voice remained calm. “In my view, there is no difference at all. When something joyful or sorrowful occurs, one gives way to happiness or resentment, and wishes to trace the cause and the beginning — yet in the end, the situation cannot be reversed. The bridge has always stood in its place. All things in this world follow this same cycle of repetition. I urge young Xiao to let go of the many questions in his heart as soon as possible, so that he may cross the bridge and reach the other shore all the sooner.”

Those few short sentences, though they sounded merely like a Zen koan, had pointed out a path for the Xiao household at a time when they were isolated and without allies, their prospects bleak.

The decline of Prince Shuo’s household was by now a foregone conclusion. He was still young, and pursuing the cause of what had happened was not something that could be done now — what was needed was to preserve his strength and wait for the opportunity to rise again. That was the right course.

When the Emperor had finished speaking, he did not wait for a reaction, but rose and disappeared behind the gauze curtain.

More than a month later, an imperial edict descended: His Majesty, by personal decree, bestowed upon Xiao Zhun, son of Prince Shuo, the title of Marquis of Qinghuai, with a separately designated fief and residence, along with innumerable gifts and rewards.

Over the five years that followed, he had rarely received a private audience with this Emperor again.

Yet in every chance glance on the floor of the court, or in those countless times he had looked across through the gauze curtain, he could always sense that cold, detached quality.

Serving at an Emperor’s side is like living beside a tiger.

Even in spite of that early act of guidance and grace, he had never allowed himself to lower his guard.

Once inside the chamber, if you can glimpse the great tiger, you will instinctively stay alert — but if only a human form is visible, that is all the more terrifying.

After all, who could know what lay beneath this human disguise — whether only a great tiger, or something else altogether?

“This subject pays his respects to Your Majesty.”

He bowed respectfully. But before his knee could even touch the green stone bricks of the bridge, the other’s voice broke in.

“No need. I only have two or three things to say, and then I shall go.”

The Emperor gave a light wave of his hand, and that young chamberlain withdrew with the palace attendants and guards to a place where the light grew uncertain.

The bridge surface emptied in an instant, only the two of them standing facing each other.

“Why did the Marquis of Qinghuai fail to keep his appointment tonight?”

Xiao Zhun startled, barely able to conceal the expression on his face.

“The Marquis need not be alarmed. I know full well that the northern borderlands excel in expanding territory through military campaigns, but not in this sort of matter.” The Emperor did not look at him, his gaze fixed on the platform not far off. “In the three days before the rites began, every seat sold and every banquet invitation issued by every inn along both banks of the Yue River had already been thoroughly investigated. Naturally, the Listening Wind Tower’s choice to host a perch banquet on the second day of the second month also required looking into. Learning that two invitations passed through the hands of Yaoyi of Wangchen Tower and landed at the Xiao household was not at all difficult.”

That being said, why bring it up at this particular moment?

After a moment’s thought, he said cautiously: “I had previously made a last-minute arrangement to discuss the matter of selecting and ranking new military officers for the new year with Senior Colonel Ma — and so could not make my way to the Listening Wind Tower.”

“Oh? Is that so?” The Emperor seemed indifferent to this reply. “In that case, I wonder whether the Right General is aware of this?”

Xiao Zhun felt another jolt in his heart.

He had vaguely guessed why the Emperor had come, yet he had not expected the other to be so blunt.

“My adopted daughter is not aware of this matter. However, I would have had an opportunity to explain at the banquet, so there was no urgency.”

As they spoke, a line of rafts slipped quietly out from beneath the ancient bridge. On the stern decks of boat after boat were rows of sky lanterns and fireworks arranged neatly — not yet launched, but their eventual grandeur was already easy to imagine.

“I anticipated that you might not keep the appointment, and so prepared something else.” The Emperor watched the convoy of rafts moor beside the platform, his tone as though describing something of no consequence whatsoever. “After the first month, fireworks are genuinely difficult to find. In the end, there was nothing for it but to have some specially made at short notice. Whether the Marquis of Qinghuai grasps my intention here — I wonder if even one part in ten comes through?”

If this question had been put to someone else, the answer might truly have been nothing.

But Xiao Zhun knew that the other had put the question to him deliberately.

Among all the people he knew, there was only one who loved fireworks.

And the one he had not intended to keep his appointment with tonight — was only her.

The Emperor’s implied meaning was so plain, yet he could almost not believe it, and even less could he speak it aloud.

“This subject does not understand—”

“In my view, you understand perfectly well.” Su Wei’s voice came coolly, entirely out of keeping with the passionate atmosphere around them.

“Your Majesty is not this subject — how can you know this subject’s mind?” Xiao Zhun’s brow did not move, but his words had already carried a note of firmness.

The man heard this and gave a quiet laugh. The slight rasp in his voice made the emotion in those words seem almost unreal.

“The human heart is difficult to fathom — but in the end, it is only a human heart, and from my perspective there is no great difference.” After saying this, the laughter abruptly stopped. “You lost your family in youth, and the loneliness took root in your heart. You took her in as nothing more than a place to anchor your thoughts. You took advantage of her love for you, took advantage of her youth and simplicity, took advantage of the fact that she would never dare defy or overstep — and so you could dress things up day after day in a show of peace, until one day when it could no longer be sustained and you pushed her away completely, whether she lived or died.”

He paused, and when that voice returned to its calm, it carried a cold, pitiless quality of one watching from far above.

“Many years have passed, and the Marquis of Qinghuai has still not crossed the bridge. And now, who is it you mean to trap alongside you?”

Those few light words, like an incantation, nailed Xiao Zhun in place.

After so many years, the same scene was playing out once more.

He was still the same rash and headstrong young man he had been — with two or three strokes, his defenses had been broken through and the blade struck true to his vital point.

He knew he carried too great a burden. This life of his was destined to be one of solitude and difficulty, and he truly had nothing he could offer by way of a promise. Yet for the sake of that trace of warmth he craved in his heart, he had insisted on sheltering her under the name of family — a bond that would scatter at the first breath of wind. How long could such a thing protect anyone?

Not far away, from both sides of the platform, came a burst of clamor and laughter. Several pale green tents stood there, and the candlelight cast the silhouettes of performers changing and dressing onto the canvases, shifting and flickering — like a troupe of alluring ghosts about to swarm out in full force.

The Emperor turned. The long hem of his robe swept a shadow across the ground.

“Does the Marquis of Qinghuai enjoy watching opera? Today’s performance is not easily seen on an ordinary day — make sure not to miss the final scene.”

Xiao Zhun looked up, but the Emperor’s figure had already vanished into the crisscrossing light and shadow.

At that moment, he had only a vague premonition, without any ability to truly foresee what was about to happen.

It was only several hours later that he came to know this cruel answer.

His thoughts were broken by a dull resonance in the distance. Xiao Zhun looked up, and saw the towering palace gates slowly opening.

Ancient timber and bronze ground heavily over the stone bricks. The sun had not yet risen — the light illuminated only half of one gate, while the rest was swallowed by shadow.

After a long while, a figure slowly emerged from behind the half-open gate.

She wore clothes of a deep russet-brown. Her hair was half loose.

She walked very slowly; each step she set down was unsteady. The short distance of a hundred paces took a full cup of tea’s time.

At last, she stepped out of that shadow. Morning light fell on her face, making the pallor of her complexion look more than ever like a sheet of white paper.

Xiao Zhun opened his mouth, but in the end did not call her name. He took up his cloak and went to meet her.

“Are you all right?”

Xiao Nanhui slowly raised her head, and the image of Xiao Zhun’s anxious, haggard face filled her eyes.

She tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I am all right.”

He wrapped the cloak around her and his gaze settled on her hair.

Her hair knot had come partly undone, and her cap was nowhere to be found. Looking further down, her outer robe, stained through with blood, had been thrown over her haphazardly, the ties fastened in a careless tangle—

He sharply averted his gaze, wanting to reach out and touch her shoulder, but in the end his hand stopped short.

“Did the Emperor make things difficult for you?”

Xiao Nanhui stared at that hand hovering above her shoulder. The hollow corner of her heart that had already grown empty suddenly sent out a heavy, resonant ache.

At this very moment, she suddenly wanted to tell him: yes, the Emperor had indeed made things difficult for her.

But then what? And what would happen after that?

She was silent for a moment. The words changed into something else entirely when they reached her lips.

“Why did you not come to the Listening Wind Tower last night to keep your appointment, Foster Father?”

Xiao Zhun had clearly not expected her to ask this. He hesitated before answering.

“I have never liked eating fish.”

Xiao Nanhui looked blankly at the person before her. After a moment, she suddenly laughed.

It could not really be called a laugh — it was more like a sigh.

He could have said the rites ceremony was too complicated in its proceedings and he as Marquis of Qinghuai had needed to take his seat early. Or he could have said that the Beizhi Camp had urgent military business and he could not get away. But he said neither of those things. He simply said he did not like eating fish.

They were very alike.

Even the clumsy look of them when they lied — it was almost identical.

In the past, she had been deeply drawn to that likeness. She had felt as though she were part of him, as though it bore witness to some unshakeable bond between them. But now, that sense of similarity wounded her.

The expression on her face as she stood there fell on Xiao Zhun’s eyes, and he could not bring himself to look at it. He turned away.

“Let us go home.”

Just as that man had said, the few days in Jiaosong County had been nothing more than a great spectacle played out at the Imperial hand. Now, he could only hope this performance would end quickly.

“Foster Father.”

She spoke suddenly. Her voice was low, but at the head of this deserted ancient bridge it sounded abrupt and urgent.

Xiao Zhun’s figure stilled. He did not turn around.

She stared at his back, and suddenly felt as though words were lodged in her throat, impossible to choke out.

That one sentence had been caught there for a very long time — so long that it seemed to have grown into her very flesh and blood.

But today, a current of air was surging and shifting through her chest and abdomen, and she felt that if she did not pry that question loose from her flesh and blood with a knife, she would suffocate and break apart.

Xiao Nanhui drew a deep breath and asked the question she had thought she would never allow herself to speak aloud.

“Foster Father — have you ever had feelings for me?”

The moment the words left Xiao Nanhui’s mouth, Xiao Zhun reacted as though pricked by a needle. A flush rose on his face — whether from shock or from embarrassment, it was impossible to tell.

Seeing his reaction, Xiao Nanhui felt her heart sink further down toward the depths of an abyss.

Her own declaration in the main hall was still vivid before her eyes; Su Wei’s words in the side hall still echoed in her ears.

In all the countless speculation and sleepless nights over the years, she had wondered too: she had been by his side for so long, and her feelings were not a matter of a day or two — could he truly have been entirely unaware? But if he had been aware and had not responded, what was she to do then?

Xiao Nanhui spoke again; her voice now had turned rough. “Have you ever — have you ever truly had feelings for me?”

Xiao Zhun could no longer remain silent. After a long pause, he spoke. “I was only nineteen the year I took you in. You were a child of six or seven. I felt pity for your bitter circumstances and kept you in the household under the name of adopted daughter. Teaching you your skills was also in the hope that one day you would be able to stand on your own in this world without anyone taking advantage of you — beyond that, I harbored no other thoughts. As for your name, I confess I acted with some private intention, but if you dislike it, you may change it once you are married into another family. I have never married and have no children of my own. I do not know what the love between a father and daughter ought to feel like. But in treating you as a senior to a junior, my heart has never been anything but sincere—”

Xiao Zhun said a great deal. But what landed in Xiao Nanhui’s heart was only two words.

Never had.

“Then it is that you never had feelings for me.”

Xiao Nanhui’s voice broke out abruptly, cutting off Xiao Zhun’s confession.

For the sake of this answer, come so belatedly, she had waited many years, wasted many seasons, and let the steps forward stall in place.

She remembered what Yaoyi had once said to her. Looking back now, it was all precisely accurate, without the slightest deviation.

She had seemed strong, but in truth she was cowardly. Her admiration for Xiao Zhun had never made her stronger — year after year it had only consumed her courage. The appearance of Bai Yun had been a boulder fallen from the sky, forcing her to pull herself free from the whirlpool in which she had grown up and wasted away until now.

Could the gap between people be bridged through effort over time?

She had once believed it could. But in the instant she saw Bai Yun release that arrow at the Listening Wind Tower, she had known it was impossible.

That black-feathered arrow, loosed in such haste, had passed through the carved latticed windows of the Listening Wind Tower, threaded through the smoky air above the Yue River, and finally slipped through the overlapping crowds and the imperial canopy left and right of the Emperor, arriving at its destination with unerring precision.

To shoot an arrow like that, one needed talent.

But she had no such talent. What she had was nothing but grueling practice, day after day. And even so, she still could not match the other’s marksmanship. It was the same between her and Xiao Zhun — even with more than a decade of living side by side, she still could not measure up to those memories from his youth.

She bit the corner of her lip. The expression on her face gradually grew still. Only her voice still trembled somewhat.

“Foster Father — do you know that while I was accompanying His Majesty in Suyan, there was once when I nearly fell from a cliff and lost my life?”

Xiao Zhun had nothing to say.

He knew that many things had happened to her during her time in the western ridge regions, but he had never thought deeply about what turns and difficulties those things might contain — or how those turns and difficulties might have changed the person now before him.

“The Bai Family has a swordsman of great skill named Yanzi. He once wounded me with his sword energy, and at the time I was wearing the Guangyao armor. That armor took the fatal blow for me. But a moment later I found myself on the edge of a cliff in the ancient ravine of the Tianmu River, and the weight of that iron armor was dragging me ceaselessly downward — it nearly cost me my life.”

“Foster Father, you gave me my martial training, taught me how to conduct myself and the principles of practicing military arts, gave me a roof to shelter from the wind and rain, and gave me hot food and meals — just like that iron armor, offering me protection. But armor is not of one body with me in the end. There will come a day when I set it down. Just as there will eventually come a day when I—”

She paused, finding it difficult to go on.

But thinking of all the courage she had summoned for this moment, and all those sleepless nights she had endured, she resolved in the end to bring everything to a close.

“Just as there will eventually come a day when I leave the Xiao household — and leave Foster Father.”

The air froze for a moment. A dull ache in her heart left Xiao Nanhui unsure what expression to wear.

As she looked up in a daze, the face of Xiao Zhun before her seemed to be veiled in a mist — difficult to see clearly.

How she wished the person before her would say: No — you do not need to leave. We will always, always be together.

But she knew he would not.

Xiao Zhun would never say those words to her, because for things he could not bring himself to do, he had never spoken carelessly or made promises lightly.

She also knew that in the moment she spoke those words aloud, it was already certain that the relationship between them would soon grow infinitely distant, and never return to that intimate closeness they had once shared — half father, half teacher.

She had once craved the warmth that closeness brought, and had fantasized that it might one day transform into the kind of feeling she hoped for. But the answer time gave her was a cruel one.

Now, at last, she had heard that answer with her own ears.

Unmistakably clear, deafening, like the toll of a bell resounding in the depths of her heart.

Let it be, then.

It does not matter.

These things had never belonged to her — she could return to that barren and desolate world on her own.

She had always belonged to that world.

In the instant she turned away, her tears rolled down, then scattered and broke apart in the cold wind, dissolving without a trace.