When Cui Xuan finally woke from a deep sleep, he slowly opened his eyes and found himself lying in his bed inside the central command tent.

Everything around him was familiar, yet the air around him was strangely, unusually quiet. Gone were the sounds of brutal battle, and gone too were the sounds of urgent dispatches or the bustle of troops being deployed outside the tent…

He even found the silence around him somewhat unsettling. After a brief moment of confusion, his consciousness was pulled back by a dull, persistent pain spreading through his body — the feeling of bones cracking inch by inch. With great effort, he turned his head.

A candle burned at the corner of the desk, and a familiar silhouette caught his eye.

The person sat quietly before the desk, brows lowered, eyes downcast, reading from a scroll held in his hands.

Cui Xuan recognized him at once. Li Xuandu.

But why would he be here?

He stared, gazing blankly for a moment, when suddenly the last memory before he lost consciousness came rushing back.

He remembered — he remembered everything.

Li Chengyu had cut off the supply lines; the northern frontier would inevitably fall. But he refused to retreat, partly to buy enough time for the civilians who had served as laborers and transported provisions on their behalf to flee. When the Dongdi people learned of this and seized the opportunity to launch another fierce assault, he and the soldiers willing to die defending alongside him fought a three-day bloody battle against the northern barbarians at the border river.

As he was preparing to meet his death, this man had arrived with reinforcements.

In the end, he had not died after all — he had been saved by him.

For a moment, his heart was filled with a tangle of conflicting emotions.

If there was one person in this world he least wished to owe a favor to, without a doubt, it was the man before him.

That autumn hunt — it was to repay the favor of Li Xuandu not pursuing the assassination against him that he had gone to warn her after learning of Li Chengyu’s conspiracy.

He had thought that in this lifetime, he and this man were finally even, with nothing further binding them together. If he became an enemy standing in his path, they would simply meet on the battlefield.

He had not expected that today he would owe him another favor — and not just any favor, but one of such enormous magnitude.

If this was the price of living, he would rather have died.

He stared at the figure across from him, still reading, and his expression gradually stiffened.

Li Xuandu seemed to sense something. His eyes shifted, and he lifted his gaze from the scroll. He glanced over, set the book down, and rose to pour water.

“Awake? You’ve been unconscious for several days. Your brothers-in-arms have been very worried — it’s past midnight and they were still outside asking about you just a moment ago.”

He handed the water over, his tone easy and casual, as though two old friends were chatting.

Cui Xuan seemed not to hear him and gave no response.

Li Xuandu withdrew the hand holding the water and studied him for a moment before suddenly saying: “You need not overthink this. I did not come specifically to save you — I came to hold the border river, to ensure that all acts of loyalty and righteousness would not be in vain. Your injuries are not light. Since you’re awake, I’ll go have the military physician summoned.”

He set the water down and turned to walk out. He had almost stepped through the tent entrance when a hoarse, strained voice came from behind him: “…How goes the battle? How many days have I been unconscious?”

Li Xuandu stopped and turned. He saw Cui Xuan struggling to sit up.

In the heat of battle that day, when it had come to hand-to-hand combat, he had charged at the very front. His body bore multiple slash wounds and arrow injuries, and now that he was disturbing them, the pain must have been excruciating — his complexion had abruptly drained of color.

Li Xuandu made no move to help him up, only watched as he slowly sat up on his own, then spoke: “You lost too much blood and have been unconscious for half a month. The battle is temporarily over — the Dongdi forces have withdrawn. Their casualties were heavy, and combined with the setback on the He Xi side, they should not launch another offensive on their own initiative in the near term. The area ahead of the border river is now guarded jointly by my maternal uncle and your troops. You need not worry.”

Cui Xuan finally sat upright, with an almost unnatural rigidity. At first he didn’t move, as though he hadn’t yet fully absorbed the news. Then, after a moment, he said abruptly: “Thank you. That is good.”

Li Xuandu saw that his gaze seemed to rest on his own face, yet also seemed to look straight through him, directed toward some distant, unknowable depth beyond.

He paid it no mind at first, gave a brief nod, said “Wait here, I’ll have someone come,” and walked out, instructing the guards outside to fetch the military physician.

After the guards departed, he did not immediately go back inside, but remained standing outside. In the interval of waiting for the physician to arrive, he gazed toward the stretch of pitch-black border river in the distance, and for reasons he could not explain, something felt wrong — though he couldn’t yet pinpoint what it was.

After thinking for a moment, he suddenly recalled the expression and tone in Cui Xuan’s voice when he had thanked him just now.

Almost at the very same instant, from inside the tent came the faint grating sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard.

Though the sound was extremely soft, it did not escape his ears.

He jolted in alarm. Without a moment’s hesitation, he spun around abruptly. Rushing back inside the tent, he found Cui Xuan standing before the desk, the blade raised to his own throat.

In that split second, Li Xuandu lunged forward, snatched the sword away with a fierce sweep of his hand, and shouted sharply: “Cui Xuan! I have heard it said that living in disgrace is worse than dying with honor. But do you truly believe that killing yourself like this today brings you honor?”

His expression was iron-grey. He grabbed the scabbard from the desk and with a sharp clang rammed the bloodied three-foot blade back into it.

Cui Xuan turned his already-bleeding neck stiffly and slowly raised his head.

His complexion was deathly pale. He clenched his jaw and, word by word, said: “This was the path I chose myself. Having reached a dead end, I accept my loss. Why does Your Highness need to interfere?”

Li Xuandu studied him for a moment, and his expression gradually eased. “Cui Xuan, I can make a fair guess at what you’ve done. Regicide came first, and now you’ve cut off your own path of retreat — calling this a dead end is not without grounds. But I have one more thing to say to you, whether you heed it or not is entirely up to you.”

“The barbarians have not yet been driven out, and the nation is in need of capable men. If you truly have a spine of iron, then make amends through your deeds and atone through your accomplishments. For a man standing in this world, he need not seek to carve his name into stone at the frontier — but to serve loyally at the border, to be wrapped in a horse’s hide in death, is still far nobler than slitting your own throat today!”

Cui Xuan remained rigid and expressionless, the blood from his neck flowing down and dripping onto the ground.

A gust of night wind swept in through the tent entrance. The candle flame swayed, flickering between bright and dark. His shadow, cast by the candlelight onto the wall behind him, wavered back and forth.

Li Xuandu continued: “Furthermore, Zhuzhu also has a message she asked me to pass on to you.”

Cui Xuan slowly raised his eyes and looked over.

Seeing that he had finally shown some response, Li Xuandu immediately recalled the moment earlier when Cui Xuan, still in his coma, had called her name.

Whatever he had been dreaming of — he didn’t know.

He suppressed the flicker of something strange that had stirred within him, and in a calm voice said: “She said your name, Xuan, means a tripod — the tripod, a vessel of state, a great instrument of the nation. She hopes that you will live up to your name, and one day truly become a great instrument of the nation.”

“And furthermore…”

He paused, then finally said: “She also asked me to tell you that she is proud of the young wandering swordsman she came to know back in He Xi.”

When he had finished, Li Xuandu set the sword back down on the desk and walked out of the tent again.

The military physician and several of Cui Xuan’s men, who had heard the news, came hurrying over. Li Xuandu gestured toward the tent and, once everyone had entered, turned and left.

Cui Xuan was awake now, and his life was not in danger. There shouldn’t be any major battle on this side for the time being, and with Que’s men and Cui Xuan’s own troops holding the position, he could rest easy.

As for the Emperor Li Chengyu — after this battle, not a single soldier on the northern frontier remained loyal to him. Even if another imperial edict were to arrive, it would be nothing but empty words, going nowhere. Besides, he was likely now preoccupied dealing with the rebel army at the Eastern Capital and would have no time to spare for this side.

This trip had taken, in the blink of an eye, nearly two more months.

She was still in He Xi. Ten months of pregnancy — she must be close to giving birth now.

He wanted to get back as soon as possible.

The next day, Li Xuandu went to the front-line encampment to bid farewell to his maternal uncle Li Sidao. On the way back, he figured Cui Xuan would not want to see him again — and truthfully, he wasn’t particularly eager to see Cui Xuan either.

The thought alone — that if he hadn’t been lucky last night, if he hadn’t seized the sword in time, and he had returned home to her — well, he didn’t dare imagine what she would have said to him. A cold sweat ran down his back at the very idea.

Better to send someone to pass on a word on his behalf.

He stepped out of the tent and paused, his footsteps halting.

Cui Xuan was standing right outside. Seeing him emerge, he slowly lowered himself to one knee, as though preparing to pay his respects.

Li Xuandu quickly stepped forward to stop him, unwilling to accept the gesture.

Yet Cui Xuan was unyielding, and though his body was wounded, his strength had not diminished.

Seeing that he was set on performing the salute, Li Xuandu released his grip and stepped back, somewhat puzzled. He watched as Cui Xuan bowed to the ground and said: “This first bow is for Your Highness saving my life.”

A second bow: “This second bow is for Your Highness saving my comrades and brothers.”

A third bow: “This third bow is for my disrespect toward Your Highness.”

When he had finished the three bows and risen from the ground, his eyes were red. “In the past I thought too highly of myself and was blinded by my own stubbornness. That day, when Li Chengyu committed regicide at the Jisan Palace during the Empress Dowager’s funeral procession, he sent men to ambush and kill Your Highness. I believed I could use the chaos to take her away — but she went to find the Prince Consort Han to rescue you instead. I forcibly blocked her path. To break free, she seized my sword and cut her own wrist, willing to die rather than yield. It was at that moment I knew what place Your Highness held in her heart — yet I still refused to accept it.”

“Now at last I understand that my own heart is far narrower than that of Your Highness. I am nothing but a brash and brutal man — fierce and ruthless — who not only offended Your Highness repeatedly, but also showed disrespect toward the Princess Consort. Now that Your Highness has pardoned me of my great crimes, and the Princess Consort has spoken words I am too ashamed to deserve, henceforth, as long as Your Highness and the Princess Consort have need of me, you need only command it. Cui Xuan, even with this broken body that remains, is willing to die in atonement for his sins!”

Li Xuandu was escorted out of the main camp and set off on the road back to He Xi. He turned over Cui Xuan’s parting words in his mind, and each time he did, his heart ached.

He remembered it with perfect clarity. That day, when he had brought her to Penglai Palace for refuge, he had inadvertently noticed her injured wrist in the carriage.

A deep, ugly scar across that jade-white wrist. Raw and bloody, striking to the eye.

He recognized it as a wound from a sharp blade and asked her about it. She told him she had accidentally cut herself while defending herself.

She explained it in a flat, matter-of-fact tone, and he believed her.

Only now did he know she had lied to him.

And only now did he understand — that she had cared for him so deeply even then. That to save him, she had been willing to risk her own life.

He ought to feel glad.

But he did not. Not even a little.

He only felt heartache and remorse. Remorse for his carelessness, and even more for the way he had treated her in those days. Even though he had been deeply, helplessly smitten with her, hopelessly ensnared — he had still always faced her with the air of one who was bestowing charity.

If not for that damned, insufferable arrogance he couldn’t let go of, why would she have been so humble before him — to the point where she cared for him, was willing to die for him, and still didn’t dare let him know?

A perfect opportunity to come to him and claim credit — and yet she chose to hide it, to withhold the truth from him.

In that moment, when she had told him she had accidentally cut herself — what kind of grievance and unease had she been carrying inside?

Li Xuandu’s heart surged and churned violently. At first he let the horse walk at its own pace, but gradually faster and faster, faster still, until at last he gave it his heels and broke into a full gallop, racing toward He Xi.