Zhao Guibei was busy with Qing Yang and the others cleaning up the aftermath and interrogating the bandits, and had paid absolutely no attention to the antics of those three bosom friends.

When he heard the commotion and came over, he found Guo Yan and Lu Kang rolling on the ground in agony — their legs had… actually been fractured.

According to Han Linfeng, the mountain bandits had subjected them to brutal interrogation, demanding military intelligence, but the two young masters had refused to yield even unto death — and this was the punishment they had suffered for it.

With injuries this severe, there was naturally no question of them reporting to the military camp. At dawn, the two of them were loaded into a carriage and sent to the nearest prefecture for medical treatment.

As they departed, they did not forget to urge Han Linfeng to keep his mouth shut and never breathe a word of what had actually happened.

During wartime, deliberately wounding oneself to fake an injury was a charge that could be treated leniently or severely depending on circumstances — either way, it was no trifling matter.

The two of them naturally had no intention of telling anyone, and were even more terrified that Han Linfeng might let it slip and leave them to have endured their beating for nothing.

Han Linfeng, naturally, solemnly pledged his silence, declaring that the friendship of the three of them was of the variety expressed in the old verse: “Mountains shall lose their ridges before I shall part from you.” A bond forged through mortal peril needed no further words.

When they returned to the relay station, it was deep in the night. Han Linfeng saw from a distance that the lamp was still burning in the room.

Luoyun had trouble with her eyes — the lamp was clearly not lit for her own sake, but kept burning on purpose for his return.

Seeing that faint, warm glow, knowing she was still waiting, he felt an involuntary warmth rise in his chest.

When he returned to the room, Luoyun was indeed not asleep. She sat by the floor brazier with a coat draped over her shoulders, warming herself by the fire. A small clay pot steamed and bubbled on the brazier, while she felt her way through a bound anthology of poems on bamboo slats, reading as she kept warm.

Nanny Tian had prepared warming red date and ginger tea at her instruction, ready for the moment Han Linfeng returned, so he could drink it while it was still hot.

Over the ginger tea, Han Linfeng gave Su Luoyun a brief account of the encirclement battle that night.

When she heard him come to the part about “a friendship that endures forever,” Su Luoyun nearly spat her hot tea out — she managed to swallow it down only with great effort.

Those two poor fellows would probably go to their graves never knowing their own legs had been talked into fracturing.

But then, they only had their own overflowering literary ambitions to blame — the pair of them had never had anything better to do than write letters and compose poems for other men’s wives. The seeds of their downfall had been planted long ago.

That said, this episode gave Su Luoyun a renewed and vivid understanding of her husband — what a consummate grudge-keeper he was.

She even found herself thinking, involuntarily, of the chair he had kicked to splinters when he misunderstood her attempt to slip away. That moment had been the truest expression of his real nature, hadn’t it?

Those who crossed him — he kept the memory quietly, and he never let it go easily.

With this in mind, Luoyun could not help wondering: if she had actually left that day, would this man have devised some means of taking his revenge on her?

It seemed that if life ever became truly unendurable, and the day came when she genuinely had to leave — she would need to plan very carefully indeed, and leave no room for error…

Han Linfeng saw her drift away in thought and smiled, asking what was on her mind.

Luoyun naturally did not voice what was in her heart. She only smiled and asked: “Did your two dear friends not offer to have their legs broken as a favor to you as well?”

Han Linfeng raised an eyebrow. “They did, actually. But I told them — since I hadn’t been captured by mountain bandits myself, the excuse wouldn’t be convincing enough. I would have to wait for a better opportunity before anything could be done.”

With that, he swept Luoyun up and made to topple her onto the bed.

After all that trouble with those two wretches for most of the night, a single bowl of piping hot ginger tea was hardly sufficient consolation. Naturally, he intended to hold his fragrant wife close and enjoy a little comfort.

But Luoyun struggled in his arms and called out urgently for him to stop. She fumbled for her shoes, insisting on getting out of bed to check that the lamp had truly been extinguished.

It had started from a single offhand joke he had made — asking her how she could be certain the lamp was put out every night.

Ever since then, checking the lamp wick by touch had become a nightly ritual for the Shizi’s wife.

As they say: one reaps what one sows. Han Linfeng could only follow patiently behind Su Luoyun, watching the frail little figure with her hair loose and her wide robe trailing, as she felt her way with less-than-expert hands along the surfaces of this unfamiliar guest room.

He felt at once amused and exasperated, and could only guide her to hurry through her search.

But after she had checked the candles on the table, she still was not satisfied, and absolutely had to feel her way to the bedside table: “Let me see if there’s one placed here as well…”

Before she could finish feeling around, he swept her up in one arm: “Is that lamp your husband, then? That you must feel for it before anything else each night? By the time you’re done, I’m about to catch fire myself. Are you going to put me out, or not?”

Luoyun laughed as he pressed her down beneath him. She tried to get out some provoking retort, but his lips sealed hers before she could, and they were drawn together, lingering and close.

In the beginning she had steeled herself to give herself to him purely out of gratitude, unable to truly let go. But gradually, guided along by his unrestrained initiative, she had grown easier. By now she had come to know this particular pleasure well enough to have developed a genuine taste for it — once he made the first move, she would relax and sink into it willingly. That indescribable sense of closeness could find its savor even in the pitch dark of the night.

Because they were at a relay station, even after a night of lingering intimacy, she still woke early the next morning — the unfamiliar surroundings made deep sleep difficult.

Han Linfeng was still asleep. He had returned very late the previous night, and though he had not personally entered the fighting, the long journey by carriage and horseback had worn on him. He had also instructed his subordinates that their departure today would be delayed, to let the guards sleep in and recover.

Luoyun carefully moved aside the firm arm he had draped around her, pulled her robe over her shoulders, felt her way out of bed, and walked to the window. Just then, she heard voices drifting up from the courtyard below.

Han Yao had risen early and was walking about the courtyard with her maidservant. She happened to catch sight of Zhao Guibei, who was already up and stretching and practicing his martial forms.

Han Yao studied him sideways for a good long while and decided that the young man’s forms were actually quite presentable — though still not quite as good as her brother’s.

Zhao Guibei noticed her too, and was about to greet her politely when Han Yao hastily stopped him: “Don’t come over here… have you bathed?”

The previous night she had witnessed this young master’s arrival — reeking and soiled from head to foot — looking for help. Now that she saw him drawing near, her nose reacted before the rest of her.

Young Master Zhao not-entirely-confidently sniffed at himself and muttered: “I used three full pails of water and washed for most of the night… Why? Is there still a smell?”

Han Yao’s impression of him had not been good to begin with, and her tone was so thoroughly disdainful that any normal person would have caught it immediately. But this son of a general, it turned out, was utterly guileless — he had actually started sniffing himself.

Han Yao burst into laughter despite herself, covering her face with her sleeve, laughing freely and without reserve.

Zhao Guibei realized belatedly that he had made himself look ridiculous. Looking at the young girl before him, her eyes curved into crescents with her smile, he scratched the back of his head and laughed along with her.

Upstairs, Luoyun listened to the sound of the two young people joking and laughing below, and found herself smiling faintly in turn. Since leaving the capital, her young sister-in-law seemed to have had a millstone lifted from her — the whole of her was fresh and unburdened, as if she had been set free.

The only question was whether, once she was married, she would still be able to remain so innocently carefree.

Because of the injuries that had felled the two of them — the ill-starred pair who had so overestimated themselves — Zhao Guibei was now left on his own.

Han Linfeng was heading to the Qianxi Grain Supply Camp, stationed thirty li outside Liangzhou, to assume command as Superintendent of Transport. Zhao Guibei, meanwhile, was bound for the Qianbei Grand Camp not far from the Qianxi Supply Camp — the roads naturally coincided for much of the way.

Zhao Guibei had entirely shed his former dismissiveness toward Han Linfeng, and now hovered about like a younger brother, finding excuses large and small to chat with the Shizi.

In truth, he harbored some lingering doubt about the leg injuries suffered by Guo Yan and Lu Kang. At the time of the hostage exchange, the two of them had been standing perfectly upright — so how was it that once the bandits were all dead, those two had collapsed and could not rise?

When he raised this with Han Linfeng, Han Shizi only smiled faintly: “The fighting at the front is fierce and urgent. We ought each to do our utmost for the country. If Young Master Zhao is so unwilling to part with those two — does he perhaps feel that without their rare talent, victory at the front cannot be secured?”

Somehow, Zhao Guibei understood the implication beneath those words — those two bumbling incompetents were actually better absent than present. If they had been there, coasting on their family names to occupy positions neither too high nor too lowly, doing nothing of any worth all day, it truly would have been better not to have them at all.

Seeing the point, Zhao Guibei let the matter drop and asked nothing further.

Fortunately, the remainder of the journey passed without further incident, and they encountered no more bandits. Another two or three days of travel and they would enter the territory of Liangzhou.

Once they arrived in that region, the desolation of war became palpable. The official roads were almost entirely empty of traveling merchants.

That afternoon, they sought shelter at the relay station at the border between two prefectures. Hemmed in between two mountains, this station felt somewhat bleak and remote.

Were there no station here, most horses that had traveled this far would be too spent to carry on — rest was a necessity.

When the carriages entered the station courtyard, the ground was soaked with wet mud.

The moment Qing Yang dismounted, he stepped straight into a puddle of muck and muttered a curse under his breath.

A minor station official came out, gave the arriving carriages and horses a quick, sharp look up and down, his brow furrowing for just a moment before he turned and hurried back inside.

Shortly after, he came back out wreathed in apologetic smiles: “It rained a few days ago and we haven’t had the chance to lay dry sand in the yard yet — please forgive us the inconvenience, my lords…”

Su Luoyun was being helped down from the carriage by Xiangcao at that moment. As she stepped into the courtyard and felt the soft, wet ground beneath her feet, something drew her attention.

As was her habit, whenever she came to an unfamiliar place, she quickly took stock of her surroundings through her other senses.

Sound, smell, the ambient moisture and temperature — details that most sighted people would never notice were the very instruments by which she read her environment.

This time was no different. Without thinking, she lifted her nose and inhaled slowly and carefully, and a faint puzzlement stirred within her.

It had indeed rained a few times in the past couple of days, but the sun afterward had been mild enough to have dried out much of the ground by now.

This courtyard was far wetter than anywhere else they had stopped — as though it had only just been doused with water.

She raised her nose again, and through the pervading dampness, caught the faint, elusive trace of blood.

So she spoke up with a smile: “Might I ask whether the kitchen has any fresh meat?”

They had been traveling hard for days, and the food at several relay stations along the way had been dismal — they had been subsisting almost entirely on the cured pork they had brought themselves. Delicious as it was, eating nothing else day after day had started to exhaust even the most appreciative palate.

They were nearly at their destination now, and Old Cui’s supplies were running low.

Sensing that the courtyard had been washed down, and having caught the blood smell, Luoyun made a bold guess — perhaps this relay station had only just slaughtered some pigs or sheep. If so, they might be in luck and get to eat fresh meat for once.

But after she posed her question, the official’s face became full of regret: “Alas, as luck would have it, the kitchen has just run out of grain and flour, and there has been no poultry or meat here for some time. Distinguished guests will need to prepare their own food, I’m afraid.”

In general, relay stations outside the major cities offered only lodging for horses and travelers — the food supply was often unreliable, and typically amounted to nothing more than rough fare and plain tea. Most guests used the station’s hearth and firewood to prepare their own meals.

What the official said was not implausible. Yet if they had just slaughtered animals, there was no reason to conceal it — station food was far more expensive than anything outside, and had they had fresh meat, presenting it to distinguished guests would have earned them a handsome reward.

Su Luoyun heard his words and said nothing. Taking Xiangcao’s arm, she walked a slow circuit around the courtyard.

The yard was not large, but by the time she completed her round, she was even more certain that the smell of blood was genuinely present — merely diluted by the wet air.

Because of her blindness, her nose was considerably more sensitive than most people’s. If the official was certain no animal had been slaughtered here, then what had bled in this courtyard — and bled in such quantity?

The more she thought about it, the more uneasy she became. Finally, she walked to Han Linfeng’s side, and under the pretense of straightening his cloak and brushing his hair, leaned close to his ear and murmured: “I feel as though there is a smell of blood in this relay station…”

Han Linfeng’s eyes sharpened at once. He knew very well what that nose of Luoyun’s was capable of.

The time he had been wounded and concealed himself on the Su family’s boat — it had been Su Luoyun’s extraordinary nose that had sniffed him out.

So though he himself could detect nothing amiss, he trusted Luoyun’s instincts completely.

Looking up and carefully examining the surroundings, Han Linfeng immediately noticed what was wrong — the door frame and the wooden rails of the stable bore numerous marks of blades and swords.

And the cuts were fresh, clearly made not long ago. Set against the soaking wet ground, the picture became clear: a fierce and bloody battle had taken place in this courtyard not so long ago, with blood flowing freely across the ground.

Seeing this, Han Linfeng took advantage of turning his body to signal to Qing Yang behind him with a quick gesture.

Qing Yang did not yet know what had happened, but the moment he saw the Shizi’s signal, he understood immediately. He took several guards and moved to surround and protect Su Luoyun and the other women.

Zhao Guibei, though equally in the dark, had witnessed enough of Han Linfeng’s subordinates during the scarecrow operation to have a healthy respect for their abilities. Without drawing any attention to himself, he quietly stepped up to stand in front of the Shizi’s household women as well.

The station official seemed to be growing impatient, eager to usher them inside. He kept pressing and gesturing for Han Linfeng to enter.

But Han Linfeng simply smiled: “There’s no hurry — after sitting in the saddle for so long, I need a moment in the open air to let my muscles recover… By the way, I heard from the station chief at the last relay that new orders have come down from the higher-ups about rebuilding the post roads. Do you know when work is set to start here?”

The man smiled along agreeably: “Soon enough — within this month or so, I should think… My lord Shizi, hot tea has already been prepared inside. Please do come in with your lady and rest.”

Han Linfeng nodded, and then in one sudden movement seized the man’s arm, wrenching it behind him, and said in a cold voice: “Given the strain on the imperial treasury, His Majesty issued an edict forbidding all relay stations from undertaking road repairs or drawing on funds reserved for horse maintenance for a full year. Yet you claim work is set to begin within the month? You are not the station chief here at all, are you.”

The man felt Han Linfeng’s grip lock around his arm and knew immediately he had been exposed. He instantly shouted at the top of his voice: “Move in — leave no one alive!”

At that, over a dozen men came streaming out of the station building, each armed with a blade flashing bright in the light, howling as they threw themselves at Han Linfeng and his party.

It was abundantly clear they had been lying in ambush inside all along. Had they entered the station without suspicion, they would have been caught completely off guard and badly overwhelmed.

But Qing Yang had already signaled the rest of the party with his hands moments before, and everyone was prepared.

When the dozen or so men came charging forward, the guards divided their tasks with practiced precision and set to work.

Luoyun was all right — she could see nothing regardless, and could only grip her young sister-in-law tightly, listening to the sounds of fierce fighting and Han Yao’s sharp screams.

Han Yao and Xiangcao did not even have time to scream properly — they could only stare, wide-eyed, as the Shizi household guards who had seemed perfectly ordinary in everyday life suddenly transformed into ravening wolves and tigers.

Most striking of all was Old Cui from the country estate — his eyes blazed with a fierce light as he seized the pair of iron spatulas he used to stir-fry large batches of vegetables, and with both hands brought them crashing down on the skulls of two men who lunged at him. The sound of craniums splitting was not unlike the sound of his daily work cleaving gourds and chopping greens.

Two of the attackers appeared to think of seizing a woman as a human shield to break through the encirclement.

Exchanging a glance, the two of them lunged forward — one of them straight at Han Yao.

Zhao Guibei reacted in an instant, throwing himself in front of Han Yao, blade raised in a block, kicking the attacker clean off his feet.

The other man had not even reached Su Luoyun before Han Linfeng’s blade swept once, and he was cut down where he stood.

By the time Xiangcao, a few beats slow to recover, finally found her voice and began to scream, the small courtyard was already strewn with bodies, blood everywhere.

Han Linfeng had the guards spare a few survivors, binding them securely and stuffing cloth into their mouths.

Then he had Su Luoyun take her sister-in-law and wait in the carriage, while he and Qing Yang went to search the rest of the station.

In the end, in the root cellar where the station stored its winter vegetables, they found two men stripped of their outer garments, gagged and bound.

Once freed, one of them spoke with the local accent and wept openly, saying that he was the true station chief of this relay station.

The previous night, a band of mountain bandits had broken in without warning. Not only had they slaughtered every one of the station’s guards and stablers, but they had also tied him up along with one of his clerks who handled documents.

As they lay on the ground, they had heard these people speaking in bursts of the Tiefu tongue. One of the clerks was from the northern regions and had understood a few phrases.

The intruders appeared to be waiting here for some important correspondence — an intelligence dispatch. And indeed, just moments ago, a relay horse had arrived, and the courier carrying the message had been cut down on the spot. The letters he carried had been seized.

At that moment, Han Linfeng searched one of the dead men and found two sealed letters, each bearing the official wax seal of the Ministry of War. One had been opened; the other remained tightly sealed.

Without drawing any attention to himself, amid the confusion of the others busy around him, Han Linfeng took the two sealed letters and slipped away to the back courtyard.

He examined the wax seal on one of the letters, then drew from his boot a blade so thin it was nearly transparent, and with it carefully peeled the wax seal away from the letter intact.

He then extracted both letters and read through them at a rapid pace.

Though Han Linfeng held no position in the Ministry of War, he was exceedingly well-versed in the details of official seals on such documents. For instance, the impression left by the Ministry of War’s official seal was always lighter at the top and heavier at the bottom, with the heaviest pressure falling at the lower-left corner.

This was because, during the forced abdication of the former Emperor Shengde, the Grand General of that era had raised the Ministry of War’s official seal — the seal authorizing the deployment of military forces — above his head in the great throne hall, and with all his strength had driven it toward one of the stone pillars.

The Grand General had been restrained by the Imperial Guards surrounding him, of course, and had not succeeded in dying.

But the lower section of the Ministry of War’s great seal had had a corner of jade broken off. Although it had later been repaired with gold inlay, after that, whenever the seal was pressed, there would be subtle differences in depth between the upper and lower portions of the impression. Over time, the distinctive texture of that repair inevitably showed through in the impression it left.

The story behind this particular corner of the Ministry of War’s seal was not something that just any veteran court official would know. But in the Beizhen Wang Manor, it had been passed down orally from generation to generation — the origin of that one corner committed to memory by every successive generation of the household.

So when Han Linfeng narrowed his eyes and compared the two seals closely, he found that the official seal on one of the letters was plainly wrong.

Recalling then the carved radish seal he had pulled from among the dead bodies of those mountain bandits earlier, Han Linfeng understood immediately — among these people was an expert forger of official correspondence, who had produced a counterfeit version to go alongside the Sixth Imperial Prince’s original letter.

Their scheme here in disguise had been to intercept the Sixth Prince’s genuine letter and substitute the forged one in its place — waiting for the afternoon courier pickup to Liangzhou.

Moments ago the station chief had told him: because of the wartime road closures at the front, all but the most urgently marked military dispatches were routed through this relay station. Every afternoon, a dedicated courier from the forward camp came to collect correspondence.

The genuine letter’s seal had already been broken open — these people had clearly read it.

This letter was a confidential dispatch from the Sixth Imperial Prince to Wang Yun, the Commander-General stationed in the north.

Even back in the capital, Han Linfeng had known that Wang Yun had been under orders to suppress the rebel army of Cao Sheng.

Recently, Wang Yun had just fought a hard battle of attack and defense against Cao Sheng’s fierce general Qiu Zhen at Julong Pass. The outcome had been devastating — yet Wang Yun had managed, by a stroke of luck, to seize two of the rebel army’s grain stores.

But it was precisely because of that seizure that Qiu Zhen, if he hoped to survive the winter, had no choice but to stake everything on capturing Jiayong Prefecture.

As the two sides deadlocked and traded several siege engagements, Wang Yun gradually found himself straining under the pressure. He began to feel that holding Jiayong Prefecture would require sacrificing too much of his core forces — a poor trade in his estimation.

In the calculus of war, a strategic withdrawal was sometimes an unavoidable necessity and no crime of the gravest kind. But the Wang clan of Changxi was currently embroiled in conflict with the Consort Qiong faction, and they feared greatly that any setback in the field would become a weapon in Consort Qiong’s hands.

For it was well known that Consort Qiong’s own elder brother had been executed on Wang Yun’s direct orders.

From the contents of this correspondence, Han Linfeng could piece together a fairly clear picture: Wang Yun had previously reported to the Sixth Prince, asking to discuss with him a suitable justification for abandoning the city.

And the Sixth Prince’s reply naturally included a reasonable arrangement — he instructed Wang Yun to act within his means and on no account to sacrifice the greater for the lesser.

Although Qiu Zhen’s rebel army was advancing like a breaking wave, once spring came and Great Wei’s forces from other regions converged, combined with the successful negotiation of a peace treaty with the Tiefu, the two-pronged squeeze would make short work of a mere rebel force.

To push for a winter resolution — with no reinforcements and fighting in isolation — would cost Wang Yun’s main forces far too dearly. This was equally unacceptable to the Wang clan of Changxi and to the Sixth Prince.

So a suitable reason to justify a tactical delay was needed.

For instance: a grain transport official might commit an error in the field, losing a great quantity of supplies during transit, thereby forcing General Wang Yun into an unavoidable strategic withdrawal.

With that cover in place, if anyone at court moved to impeach, the officials of the grain supply camp could be produced as scapegoats to appease public indignation.

Han Linfeng read through it all at speed, and could not help but let out a sardonic smile. What virtue or ability did he — a man of leisure in the capital — possess, to merit appearing in this confidential dispatch?

It seemed the Sixth Prince thought rather highly of him. He had apparently already been selected and prepared for the role of the hapless grain transport official whose negligence would see Jiayong Prefecture fall.

As for the people who had seized the relay station — they were unconnected to this particular scheme. Because these people were almost certainly Tiefu.

The food shortage in the north was not unique to Cao Sheng’s forces — the Tiefu themselves were suffering a severe grain shortage this year as well. Watching Great Wei’s troops crack open Cao Sheng’s grain stores, the Tiefu had decided to play the part of the mantis stalker, waiting for the moment to swoop in as the oriole.

They had seized this station and slaughtered everyone else, but kept the two most critical individuals alive. Using the genuine letter as a model for the handwriting, they had forged the Sixth Prince’s dispatch, instructing Wang Yun to order the Qianxi Supply Camp’s grain transport officials to move the supplies to the location named in the forged letter — whereupon the Tiefu would stage a raid and take the grain for themselves.

The quantity of grain in question was enormous. Whoever obtained it could rest easy and see the winter through without difficulty.

So the group had simply taken over the station, intercepted the correspondence, forged the letter to match the handwriting, and prepared the substitution — waiting for the afternoon courier to come and collect.

But before they could complete the exchange and send the forged letter on to Liangzhou, Han Linfeng’s party had arrived instead.