As Li Wu and the others who had been the first to storm Jinhua City pressed toward Beichun Garden, a crack force of nearly a thousand enemy soldiers barred their path.

The commanding general bellowed at the front:

“His Majesty has already retreated safely — you rebels, if you still refuse to surrender, then His Maj—”

Li Wu let out a cold laugh, clamped his legs against his horse’s flanks, and charged straight at them.

“His Majesty your father. I’m not listening to all this nonsense.”

The general’s words were cut short before he could finish, and he had no choice but to hurriedly raise his weapon and scramble to defend himself.

The two forces collided with a crash, and the din of battle instantly split the sky.

“AAAAAH!!”

Li Kun swung his twin battle-axes — each nearly half a man’s height — and hurled himself at the enemy, roaring and hacking as he went. Where he passed, blood and shattered flesh flew in every direction. Enemy soldiers fell back before him in droves, none daring to draw near, and just like that, a path through the carnage was opened wide.

“Ptuh, ptuh, ptuh!”

The path was cleared, yet Li Kun showed no sign of pressing the advantage. Instead, he lowered his axes and stood there scowling, spitting out mouthfuls of blood and flesh that had flown into his open mouth while he was bellowing.

A foot soldier seized the moment and raised his blade to hack at Li Kun’s unguarded back!

“Whoosh—”

An arrow slammed into the soldier’s chest. The man went down without so much as a sound.

Li Kun heard it and spun around, only then noticing the soldier sprawled behind him.

“Has Second Brother been away from the battlefield so long that he has grown this careless?” From horseback, Li Que lowered the longbow that was still trembling in his hands. “If Second Brother can’t manage to stay focused, then return the taro cakes that your little brother stood in line at the far end of town to buy for you.”

Li Kun immediately began shaking his head back and forth like a rattle drum: “Not returning them, not returning them… but if I get serious, I…”

To prove his seriousness, Li Kun let out a string of wild, garbled war cries and plunged himself into the thickest cluster of enemy soldiers. In no time at all, heads were flying.

“Big Brother, go on ahead — leave this to us!” Li Que called out to Li Wu not far away. “Bring Sister-in-law back safe!”

Li Wu didn’t waste a word in protest. He cut down the man in front of him with a single slash, then drove his heels hard against the horse’s flanks.

“Meet in Beichun Garden — not one of us is to be missing!”

His horse carried him like a gale wind out of the scattering enemy lines.

The wind howled. At Li Wu’s back, his two younger brothers shouted their reply, loud and bright.

“Done!”

Li Wu rode hard with a hundred personal soldiers behind him, not even sparing a glance for the few scattered enemies who occasionally charged out. He simply let them turn and flee the moment they caught sight of him.

The road grew wider. The buildings on either side grew fewer. Li Wu kept his gaze fixed straight ahead — the soaring eaves of Beichun Garden were already close enough to almost touch.

In some wordless way he could not name, he felt a pull.

It was the call of someone attuned to his very heart, speaking his name.

Li Wu spurred his horse again and again, wishing he could close the distance faster, and then faster still — that he could simply drop out of the sky into the very spot where Shen Zhuxi stood.

The heart buried in his chest had never beat this fast, not even in the thick of battle.

Outside Beichun Garden happened to be a three-way crossroads. Li Wu turned in from the eastern road — and came face to face with Fu Xuanmiao’s party.

By the look of them, they were heading for the western route out of the city. Fu Xuanmiao had roughly a hundred men at his side, a match in number for what Li Wu had brought.

Two forces met on a narrow road. Soldiers on both sides tightened their grip on their weapons, every one of them braced as though facing a mortal threat.

Only the two commanders stood motionless, separated by the long, deep overhang of Beichun Garden’s eaves, regarding each other across the distance. Boundless snowflakes drifted ceaselessly from the sky, settling onto the face of the woman in Fu Xuanmiao’s arms, where they rested without melting.

Li Wu’s gaze was fixed on the dagger buried deep in Fang Shi’s abdomen. With great effort, Fang Shi turned her head away from Fu Xuanmiao’s arms, and her dim, fading eyes settled on Li Wu, motionless and unblinking.

“If you go in now, you can still save the Princess.” Fu Xuanmiao spoke first.

Li Wu shifted his gaze from Fang Shi to Fu Xuanmiao’s face.

“What have you done to her?”

“Go in and see for yourself — then you’ll know.” Fu Xuanmiao faced Li Wu, his expression having settled back into the glacial calm of frost. “On the city wall, you made no choice. Now, there is no one left to make that choice for you.”

Fu Xuanmiao held Li Wu’s gaze and spoke slowly:

“Will you cut me down here and ascend the throne in righteous triumph — or will you surrender this power that lies within your grasp, and choose a woman who may not even need you to come to her rescue?”

The answer he received was a spit on the ground.

“Is there even a choice to be made?” Li Wu let out a cold laugh. “I can always find another chance to kill you — but if I lose my wife, there’s no way in this lifetime I’ll ever have another. “

“Besides—” Li Wu’s gaze shifted back to Fang Shi’s face. “I made a prior promise to someone.”

Fu Xuanmiao said nothing, and quietly tightened the arms holding Fang Shi.

Li Wu looked at him and said:

“I’ll give you one day. After that day — whether you’re at the edge of the sky or the corner of the sea — I will come and take your head myself.”

A long silence followed. Then came the sound of hooves pressing through the snow.

Fu Xuanmiao turned his horse and moved forward, Fang Shi cradled in his arms. Her weakening gaze remained fixed on Li Wu, who had not moved an inch.

That glance — so brief, yet so long.

Long enough that it seemed as though a great hollow had been carved out of Li Wu’s chest as well, and as Fang Shi receded into the distance, the howling wind and snow poured ceaselessly into the void.

The hundred or so enemy soldiers followed in Fu Xuanmiao’s wake, gradually disappearing at the far end of the road heading west.

Li Wu watched the nearly vanished figures for one last moment, then turned his head and without hesitation spurred his horse into Beichun Garden.

He was Li Wu. Born of heaven and earth. Or at worst, raised by a farmyard duck, Li Wu.

Who feared nothing in heaven or on earth. Who had grown wild and untamed to this day.

That was how it had always been, and that was how it would always be.

…

The river lapped softly against the hull of the boat. The wooden bunk swayed gently along with it. A country physician snatched up from a village along the way knelt before Fang Shi, whose face held not a drop of color, his own face drenched in cold sweat, trembling like a leaf shaken loose in the wind.

“Your— Your Majesty… this humble physician’s skills are lacking, and I dare not rashly attempt to remove the blade from the Empress Dowager, for fear that if one thing goes wrong… the bleeding cannot be stopped…”

Fu Xuanmiao sat at the edge of the bunk. His cool, quiet voice moved like a dragonfly skimming across water — barely grazing the surface, leaving no trace behind.

“…If it is not removed, can the bleeding be stopped?”

“If it is not removed…” The physician, trembling, stole a glance at Fu Xuanmiao’s expression — then, even more panicked, lowered his gaze back to the floor. Steeling himself with the resolve of a man severing his own wrist to save his life, he clenched his teeth and said: “Not removing it would at least… at least allow her to last until sunrise… but if it is removed…”

He did not finish the sentence — but there was no need to.

Fu Xuanmiao sat in the chair. For a long while, he did not move.

The physician was soaked in sweat, already convinced he would not survive the night — when Fu Xuanmiao finally spoke.

“…Go.”

At once, someone entered from outside the cabin and escorted the physician out of the room with something that still passed for courtesy.

Yan Hui stood to one side in attendance, taking in Fang Shi’s bloodless face. He knew she was beyond saving, her life hanging by the thinnest thread. After a long silence, he ventured carefully:

“Your Majesty, the good news is that we have made it safely onto the boat — the pursuers on shore cannot follow us across the water. Once this night has passed, we will be able to enter Taizhou. The prefect of Taizhou was a close friend of Your Majesty’s father, and he will surely offer Your Majesty his assistance. The Empress Dowager is a woman of strong will — she will certainly hold on until we reach Taizhou. Once we are ashore, I will find a physician of real skill to treat her… Your Majesty must not lose heart at a time like this.”

He had said so much. The one who was listening gave no response.

“…All of you, leave.” Fu Xuanmiao said.

Yan Hui seemed on the verge of saying more, but in the end, he turned and walked out of the cabin.

Inside the cabin, only Fu Xuanmiao and Fang Shi remained.

The water still rippled. The boat still swayed. In that moment, something long buried in the depths of his memory stirred to the surface. A hand, gently rocking a cradle — and a soft voice, humming a familiar lullaby in tender, unhurried tones.

A snowflake drifted in from outside the window.

Night had fallen.

An impenetrable darkness descended over the land. The moon had retreated behind the clouds. Even as he strained to look into the distance, all he could see was endless, boundless black.

How long passed, he did not know — but the unconscious Fang Shi lying on the bunk stirred her fingers.

Fu Xuanmiao, who had not slept all night, noticed the movement at once. He leaned in immediately, and in the very instant Fang Shi opened her eyes, he made sure his face was there for her to see.

“…Mother.” His voice was low and hoarse.

Fang Shi’s gaze moved slowly around the narrow cabin. Her pale lips parted, releasing words dry and rough as sand: “It’s dark… why are there no lamps lit?”

Fu Xuanmiao was quiet for some time. Grief moved through those dark, deep eyes like a current.

“…Someone come — light the lamps.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Yan Hui, who had been standing watch outside the door, stepped in. He swept a startled glance across the already well-lit room, then looked again at Fang Shi, whom Fu Xuanmiao was carefully helping to sit up — and swallowed the question forming in his throat. Turning, he stepped back out and returned with several candles, which he lit one by one.

In no time at all, the entire cabin was as bright as midday.

“When sunrise comes… wake me again…” Fang Shi leaned against Fu Xuanmiao’s arm, her voice barely a breath. “I want to see it one more time… the way the sun rises in the east…”

“…It won’t be long.” Fu Xuanmiao said. “Dawn is not far off now… Mother had better not sleep — for fear that if you fall too deeply, you might miss the sunrise, and the next time… one cannot know when that would be.”

“I didn’t take the calming tonic today… I sleep lightly — it won’t happen.” Fang Shi lifted the corners of her lips in a faint, weary smile. “I haven’t taken the calming tonic in a very long time now. A very long time.”

“I know.”

Fu Xuanmiao lowered his head, concealing every ripple that crossed his face — all except the trembling he could not suppress in his voice, which broke as he repeated the words in a lower, more fractured breath:

“I know…”

“Have you ever…” Fang Shi said, “seen the moment when the morning sun breaks through the clouds?”

As though the memory of that moment’s beauty had come back to her, Fang Shi’s eyes drifted to somewhere very far away. A look of quiet longing crossed her bloodless face.

“On all the nights when Fu Ruzhi did not come home… every single day… I watched that kind of sunrise… Every day, your father… your true father… kept vigil with me outside the window, watching together for the breaking of the dawn…”

“Every time you received praise from your tutor at the Imperial Study Hall, your father would be happier about it than I was… You have always been particular, attached to the familiar — you would sooner eat less or not eat at all than touch an unfamiliar dish outside. He secretly sold off the family farmland behind my back and gave every last coin of the silver to the palace steward in charge of the imperial kitchens, all so that you could have food that tasted like home at every single meal…”

The memories swept through Fu Xuanmiao’s mind in a rushing tide.

The taste of rice cooked over a wood fire, with all its smoky warmth, came alive again on his tongue. It was nothing like the exquisite dishes of the palace, nothing like the carefully prepared meals of the Fu household — yet it was quite like the flavor of his mother’s private kitchen. For all the years he had spent as a companion student in the palace, that taste of his mother’s kitchen had accompanied him there throughout.

Close behind those memories came another — the memory of the coachman who, every time class ended and he walked out of the palace gates, rain or shine, would always be waiting at the entrance. The same ingratiating smile turned toward him, every single time.

…He had always assumed that smile was fawning.

“Mother… say no more.”

Fu Xuanmiao said. His fingers curled inward against his knees. In the bright candlelight, the dried blood on his hands had nowhere left to hide.

“Save your strength. Wait until we reach Taizhou, and we can speak then.”

“Without realizing it… you have grown so tall…” Fang Shi murmured. “…This grown already.”

The river and the night sky bled into one another, dissolving the heavy darkness.

Outside the window, at the edge of the sky, a faint glimmer of pale light had crept in without his noticing.

Fu Xuanmiao gathered Fang Shi into his arms and walked slowly to the prow of the boat. With great care he set her down, supporting her weak and powerless back with a gentle hand, and said softly: “Mother… dawn is nearly here.”

Fang Shi stirred from her haze and opened her unfocused eyes, straining to look toward the sky — clean and clear as washed glass now that the snow had stopped.

“Chan Yu…” Her fading voice was like mist, dissolving effortlessly into the river wind. “I’m afraid… I may not be able to wait for the dawn after all…”

“Mother, hold on just a little longer — it’s almost here, just a moment more—”

Fu Xuanmiao’s voice stopped dead in his throat.

He lowered his head, staring blankly at the dagger — the one that had moments ago been buried in Fang Shi’s abdomen, and was now plunged into his own chest.

Her blood and his blood mingled together, falling drop by drop.

“…It was I… who brought you into this world…” Fang Shi smiled with great effort as she wept, tears streaming from her dimming eyes. “Naturally… only I have the right… to take you from it…”

Fang Shi pressed her strength into the blade, pushing it deeper.

The blood-soaked dagger did not move. Fu Xuanmiao’s other hand had closed tightly around hers.

“Chan Yu…”

Fang Shi called out her son’s childhood name in a trembling voice. Through her tears, she said:

“Today… is your birthday…”

A soft hue of purple lilac gradually washed over the place where water met sky at the horizon. Within the white luminescence, a thread of crimson was already leaping among the clouds and the rippling water below. The mysterious half-light of early dawn spread across the river’s surface, swaying with the currents — and like fire, the morning glow bit through the dark uncertainty of night, unfurling across the sky in brilliant, blazing splendor.

Dawn had come.

The tears glistening on her face in the light of the rising sun added a touch of sacred radiance to her chalk-white cheeks.

“Sleep now…”

Through her tears, she smiled as though coaxing a child to rest. Her voice trembled, yet her face was full of quiet contentment:

“When you wake… Mother and Father… will both be here…”

“We will… both be here…”

The hand that had been clasped over Fang Shi’s slowly loosened.

Fang Shi clenched her teeth. With the last of her strength, she drove the dagger in her hand completely into the chest of the one before her.

Blood traced its way down from the corner of Fu Xuanmiao’s lips.

“Sleep…” Beneath the blazing morning sun, Fang Shi’s tear-streaked face broke into a smile of quiet, complete fulfillment. “When you wake… we will all… be here…”

Fang Shi’s blood-stained hand fell, limp and exhausted.

It landed against the deck without a sound, and did not move again.

The rising sun wove a brilliant net of light across the sky. Its rays played freely across the wings of passing birds and the planks of the boat’s deck, and they glimmered in the silvering strands of hair woven into Fang Shi’s bun.

All of heaven and earth lay wrapped in the tender embrace of the breaking dawn.

Fu Xuanmiao slid his arms beneath Fang Shi and cradled her across his chest, rising unsteadily to his feet.

“…Your Majesty?” Yan Hui’s voice came dimly from somewhere behind him.

Fu Xuanmiao did not turn back.

He held Fang Shi in his arms and walked, without a moment’s hesitation, toward that great red sun — the sun that seemed as though it could purify all wickedness from the world.

The mirage had already dissolved in the light of the rising dawn.

From the forests lining both banks, birds suddenly launched themselves from the trees, soaring on outstretched wings into the wide, open sky above.

Sunlight pierced through the glittering surface of the river, casting the flickering scales of gold light across the turning waves.

Slowly, without anyone quite noticing—

The day had come.