Where before there had been an open and empty stretch of ground outside the city gates, simple tents and temporary structures now rose one after another.

The fragrance of plain rice porridge drifted in and out of the air.

The morning sun hung high in a cloudless sky. The city wall was bathed in the soft, newborn light of dawn.

The people who had just lost their homes still had grief and lingering shock on their faces, but they were already able to wipe away their tears and pick up their firewood and their water buckets, moving between the tents to carry on with their lives. Children who had not yet fully grasped what they had lost chased each other between the tents with small sticks, their innocent laughter floating above the sorrowful atmosphere of the refugee camp.

As long as people were still alive, life had to go on.

Whether through tears or through laughter — as long as one could still go on living, no one wanted to give up.

Li Wu dismounted and tied the bay horse to a nearby tree trunk, then walked into the gathering of refugees outside the gates with a surprised and puzzled heart.

The refugees carried only the sorrow of the displaced — none of the resentment of those who had been left to perish without help. A long-bearded old man leaning on a walking stick, his body bent and his clothes full of patches, noticed Li Wu looking around in bewilderment and kindly directed him to where he could register his identity.

Had he underestimated the officials in the Xiangyang Prefecture administration after all? They were drawing their government salaries — and they had actually managed to do something worthwhile?

Li Wu’s internal complaint came to an end when he reached the front of the main tent. He looked at the person there and found his footsteps stopping of their own accord.

Sunlight poured down over the trees, the city walls, and every tent top.

And over the slight, delicate figure in front of the tent flap, it draped a layer of bright and glorious radiance.

She was crouched in an open space beside the main tent, surrounded on all sides by a cluster of children. They were all scrambling over one another to describe their hometowns to her, and she listened with patient, earnest attention, tracing the landscapes they described into the sand with a stick in her hand.

She must have heard something — for she laughed alongside the children, and her clear almond-shaped eyes filled with sunlight.

A low-ranking official in government robes emerged from the main tent and bowed toward her to make a report.

The pure, unguarded smile on her face settled into composed attention. She listened, she considered, and after a moment gave her reply — now it was the official who leaned forward to listen.

Though she wore nothing but simple, plain cloth, she carried about her a true kind of nobility.

Not the nobility of wealth or status, but the nobility of virtue — something one was born with and then honed through hardship.

She had been born on the flourishing branches of a crabapple tree in full bloom, and had fallen onto the bare and dusty yellow earth. She had grasped at every drop of rain the sky let fall, and at last broken through the soil.

She was not a fragile flower. She was a flowering tree.

With only the smallest measure of care and patience, you could watch her bloom across every branch after every storm.

Year after year.

Always radiant.

He found himself gazing at her, unable to look away.

Li Wu set his feet in motion and walked toward her.

A low-ranking official rushing past with an armful of household registers recognized him and was just about to bow in a fluster. Li Wu gave a small shake of his head, signaling the man to stay quiet, and kept walking toward Shen Zhuxi.

When only three final steps remained between them, Li Wu stopped.

This oblivious woman was turned to the side and still had no idea. It was the officials facing her who noticed him first. They tugged at each other’s robes and gave silent bows before slipping away quickly, leaving space for the two young people whose eyes were fixed wholly on each other.

The children clustered around Shen Zhuxi scattered in a moment as well.

In the blink of an eye, it seemed as if only the two of them remained in this whole world.

Shen Zhuxi stared at the person who had appeared before her with no warning, wondering if exhaustion had made her start seeing things.

If it was a hallucination, then why were the dark circles under the eyes of the figure before her so vivid and real?

Without meaning to, Shen Zhuxi stepped toward him. Li Wu watched her, eyes unblinking, and the last distance between them disappeared.

She stood in front of him and reached out with careful, tentative fingers to touch his right hand.

It was warm. Not a hallucination.

In the next moment, that hand closed around hers — firm and careful, as though cradling something precious in his palm.

The tears she had pushed back behind her eyes again and again came surging forth all at once, unstoppable.

She lifted her gaze to the man before her. A thousand words crowded in her throat, and not a single one came out.

“You did very well.” Li Wu said. “Just as I would expect from the woman I am proud of.”

Shen Zhuxi broke through tears into a smile.

She used the back of her hand to wipe her eyes quickly, then, as though wanting to put his mind at ease, turned the full brightness of her smile on him.

“You don’t need to worry about things here at the rear. I’m here.”

“Yes,” Li Wu said, looking at her. “With you here, I’m not worried.”

A shy warmth rose in Shen Zhuxi’s heart. She shifted the subject. “How are things at the front? Has Li Qia been found?”

“…He likely won’t be found.” Li Wu took her hand and walked with her in no particular direction. “Li Qia never learned to swim. He hasn’t returned to camp, and the chances of his survival are slim.”

“With him gone, who will command the Zhenchuan Army?”

“…There’s not much left of the Zhenchuan Army. Whoever steps up will do.” Li Wu said with his characteristic economy of words.

Shen Zhuxi could see he was unwilling to elaborate, sensing something more lay beneath the surface. She deliberately moved to a lighter subject. “Where did you come from?”

“Shangzhou.”

“From Shangzhou to Xiangyang — you haven’t slept at all, have you?” Shen Zhuxi said in surprise, her gaze drifting over the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “There are tents to rest in here. Would you like to sleep for a little while?”

“Alright.” Li Wu nodded. “Lead the way.”

This time it was Shen Zhuxi leading him, walking ahead.

Once the two of them had stepped into an empty tent and she had let the flap fall behind them, she turned around — and found that Li Wu had already begun taking off his outer robe and trousers.

He was completely matter-of-fact about it. Shen Zhuxi could not treat it as if he were invisible. Her face flushed red, and she turned to head out of the tent.

“You rest. I’ll just—”

Before she finished speaking, she was pulled back.

Li Wu caught her hand, his gaze fixed on her, bright and direct. “I said sleep — where are you going?”

“The bed is right there, you can sleep—”

Shen Zhuxi’s protest was useless. Her struggling was useless.

Li Wu scooped her up in his arms and carried her toward the bed. Shen Zhuxi’s heart pounded so hard she thought it would leap out of her throat. “What are you trying to do…”

“Don’t worry. I’m not doing anything.” Li Wu set her down on the inner side of the bed and lay down himself on the outer edge. He turned on his side and looked at her, rigid with tension from head to toe. “How many nights haven’t you slept?”

“I…”

Li Wu reached out his hand toward her face.

His fingertips came to rest on the skin beneath her eyelids, moving in a slow, gentle stroke. His warmth and tenderness traveled through that light touch.

Shen Zhuxi’s taut body gradually eased.

After a moment, she swallowed back the deflective answer she had been about to give, and told the truth. “…Roughly as many nights as you haven’t slept.”

In the narrow space, they looked at each other. An unspoken understanding moved between them.

Li Wu suddenly smiled — bright as the morning sun.

Shen Zhuxi was still staring when he darted forward and pressed a fleeting kiss to her lips.

“That’s the fourth time,” he said with great satisfaction.

Shen Zhuxi came back to herself and buried her face wordlessly in the quilt.

This Li fellow would take advantage of her without warning — and his arithmetic was off besides. It was clearly the third time. What was he saying, fourth—

“…Shen oblivious, you’re not crying in there, are you?”

Li Wu reached with great uncertainty into the quilt to fish out the oblivious one, and what he pulled out was a face burning hot.

Shen Zhuxi’s face was a deep red. Her damp eyes, wide open, stared directly up at him.

…How on earth was he supposed to hold himself back from that!

Li Wu looked at her for a moment. “Can I have a fifth time?”

“…No.” Shen Zhuxi, utterly mortified and desperate to escape back into the quilt, tried to pull away. Li Wu kept hold of her and would not let go.

“A wife follows her husband. Just listen to me this once.”

Li Wu, without further discussion, pressed a firm kiss to her forehead.

A kiss on the center of her brow.

A kiss on the tip of her nose.

And the most deliberate of all on her lips.

Shen Zhuxi had been kissed practically sideways, like a warm, round duck that had been nudged several times.

“H-how many times has that been now!” She opened half an eye and called out in helpless indignation.

The other half of her eye was instinctively shut, a reflex against the large duck nuzzling and rubbing warmly against her from right beside.

Whether ducks had a habit of marking territory, Shen Zhuxi had no idea.

But she now had a thorough understanding — Li Wu had a habit of marking territory.

After rubbing his stubbly chin against her face several times, he finally let out a long, contented sigh.

He truly must not have closed his eyes in two days. Even the time to shave had been impossible to spare. Shen Zhuxi felt her heart ache for him.

She had just parted her lips to say something when Li Wu’s voice sounded beside her ear.

He said: “I missed you so much.”

Shen Zhuxi’s chin sank into the quilt. The upper half of her face that remained visible looked to be growing even more scarlet.

“These past two days, every time I closed my eyes, I was thinking of you.” Li Wu said.

“…Why?” Shen Zhuxi’s voice came out muffled from inside the quilt.

“My eyes had seen too much that was filthy. They needed washing.”

“What filthy things did you see?”

“…Very filthy things.” Li Wu said quietly.

His voice carried a contempt and revulsion he could not quite conceal. Shen Zhuxi could not help but look up at him.

But he had covered her eyes with his hand.

“Fu Xuanmiao…” he said. “In your eyes, what kind of person is he?”

The name appeared without any warning. In an instant, the warm air in the tent was gone.

Shen Zhuxi was still in Li Wu’s arms, but her body went rigid again.

“…Why bring him up so suddenly?”

“I want to know—” Li Wu said. “What kind of person he is, in your eyes.”

He did not ask whether the number one gentleman under heaven had treated her better, or whether he himself had.

He had not even used a title — he had called Fu Xuanmiao by his full name.

And so Shen Zhuxi could not escape the question.

“He… he was born into a family of scholars and officials of high standing. He was renowned from childhood as a prodigy. At the age of sixteen he had already passed all three levels of the imperial examinations in first place — the youngest person in history to have done so. And because of his remarkable bearing and distinguished presence, the world gave him the title of ‘the number one gentleman under heaven.'”

Shen Zhuxi’s voice was flat and wooden, like someone reciting a text they had long since memorized by heart.

“I’m not asking for the world’s opinion.” Li Wu frowned.

“Though he was born into nobility, he was not arrogant or boastful. He was modest and gentle…”

“What does modest and gentle mean?” Li Wu’s frown deepened. “Shen Zhuxi — are you actually answering my question, or are you repeating back what other people told you?”

“Father Emperor said that when the Chancellor served as his companion in studies, he was already a celebrated prodigy, and his son had surpassed even him. He would be an invaluable minister to Elder Brother the Crown Prince when he took the throne.” Shen Zhuxi, pressed by his questions, grew more flustered. She spoke in a rush, as though emptying a bamboo tube of its beans, recounting everything that surfaced in her mind. “Imperial Mother also felt that he was a man of exceptional talent and outstanding virtue — a worthy man to entrust one’s future to. Elder Brother the Crown Prince, Elder Sister, Younger Sister, the palace attendants… everyone who knew him said—”

“Shen Zhuxi!”

Li Wu’s voice, carrying a thread of controlled anger, cut through Shen Zhuxi’s words — and stopped the fear and confusion that had been rising unbidden inside her.

He took his hand away from her eyes.

Those clear and candid eyes looked directly at her, breathing courage into her frightened heart.

“Why are you so afraid?” he asked, his voice low.

“Afraid?” Shen Zhuxi repeated it blankly, and spoke words that meant the opposite of what her face showed. “I’m not afraid…”

Li Wu cut straight to the truth. “If you’re not afraid, why can’t you even say what you yourself think?”

Shen Zhuxi was stunned. She had no answer.

After a long silence, she chose her words carefully and tried again. “My view isn’t accurate. Better to listen to what others…”

“Why would you think your own view isn’t accurate?” Li Wu’s sharp gaze remained fixed on her.

One incisive question after another, aimed directly at the deepest part of Shen Zhuxi’s heart, giving her no time to pause or shield herself. Without her realizing it, he had pressed her into a corner.

“I… I don’t know!”

Under a scrutiny that left no room for evasion, Shen Zhuxi collapsed.

Like a wound that had formed a scab but never truly healed, suddenly torn open by another’s hand, a familiar helplessness surged up and submerged her.

She seemed to be back in that palace of before.

Feted and at the center of everything — yet still utterly alone. Alive — and yet it felt like being dead. A palace where she could only walk the path that others had chosen for her, and one wrong step would bring denial and indifference.

In that gilded cage, only the osmanthus tree in the imperial garden had been willing to listen to her troubles.

None of this had anything to do with Fu Xuanmiao.

The colorful garments that had vanished without explanation. The palace attendants’ distant and unquestionable management. The guqin scores delivered to her chambers without fail every second day from which she was not permitted to rest. The fate that ensured whoever grew close to her would come to a bad end.

None of it had anything to do with Fu Xuanmiao.

Yet in the shadows, it felt as though a great invisible hand was controlling her life.

That hand lay squarely between her and Fu Xuanmiao — but she could not explain it, could not prove it, could not say what connection that hand had to Fu Xuanmiao.

Because he was the flawless and perfect number one gentleman under heaven.

Any suspicion without evidence would be groundless slander.

No one would listen to her words. No one would believe them. If she tried carefully to test the waters, what she would receive was only the strange looks of those around her.

Even without anyone saying a word, she could see the answer in their eyes.

Fu Xuanmiao was perfect in every way. How many girls from noble families wished to marry him but could not. That he was willing to wed a princess who had fallen from grace was purely a reflection of his noble character. And she, as the lucky fallen princess, could not even manage gratitude, let alone appreciation. How could she be so ungrateful?

Was she truly so ungrateful?

Was she truly so lacking in grace that she could not feel Fu Xuanmiao’s goodness toward her?

Was she truly so suspicious, measuring a gentleman’s heart by the standards of a petty mind?

Was she truly unstable of mind, her thoughts so different from everyone else’s?

Her preferences, her feelings, her thoughts — in that palace, they had been completely and utterly denied.

Once. Again. And again.

She could not see the sky. She could not feel the ground beneath her feet. She hung suspended in the darkness, pulled this way and that by a few thin threads.

That sense of helplessness and loss of control had always filled her heart. She was like a blind person, unable to see the world, with no choice but to depend on those threads above her head to reach for it.

Because only he was willing to step into that icy Cuiwei Palace. Only he would listen when she spoke. Only he would look at her for a long, long time.

Even in his presence, she had been so afraid.

Tears rose in her eyes. She forced them back, and through blurred vision searched for Li Wu’s face.

“I don’t know…” she said, on the verge of crying.

The darkness Li Wu’s palm created, and the warmth that came with it — they held the same contradiction as what Fu Xuanmiao had always made her feel. An opposition of two things that should not exist together.

He had always appeared before her wearing a gentle smile. And yet all she had ever felt was the coldness of the mask.

“It doesn’t matter that you don’t know. Since you have already gone your separate ways, you naturally have no need to know anything about a person who has nothing to do with you.”

She was pulled into Li Wu’s embrace.

His warmth flowed toward her, steadily, without pause, warming her cold body.

“From now on, every one of your days will have me—”

Li Wu spoke each word with deliberate care:

“Shen Zhuxi, I will never let you be afraid again.”