The wind rose through the mountains, and the night was torn to shreds by burning fire and clashing weapons.

Ahead, Yun Xi had already led her troops into close combat with General Huaiji’s forces. Su Tai stepped forward and grabbed hold of Cheng Chang, urging him: “Your Highness, we must go, quickly…”

“Let go!” Cheng Chang wrenched his hand free and pushed desperately toward the battlefield.

But the road ahead was already blocked by raging fire, and the smoke and chaos of battle obscured his vision so badly he could no longer even tell where Yun Xi was.

“A’Ting, A’Ting…” He could only keep murmuring her childhood name, struggling to cross this mountain of fire and sea of flame.

He didn’t know what he could do once he got there, what help he could possibly offer her — but he simply wanted to be by her side. He felt he could not abandon her.

His heart burned with anxiety as though scorched by fire, and in the distance, still more enemy troops seemed to be gathering toward this place.

The instant he saw the silver armor surging toward Yun Xi like a tide, Cheng Chang suddenly felt regret — deep, overwhelming regret.

If he had known it would come to this, if he had known it would drag her into danger, he would not have clung so stubbornly to his cause.

Not clung to justice, not clung to revenge, not clung to making everyone who had wronged him pay in blood.

Even if he were trapped in this dead end, even if he faced death over and over again — what did it matter? Even if he could never be reborn, even if he sank into the underworld among vengeful ghosts — what did it matter?

As long as she could go on living well.

A’Ting did not know that he was not only alone in this world, but in truth utterly alone in the other world too.

His body was riddled with illness; his heart could only beat with the help of a machine, and he lived every day on the edge of life and death, with no one willing to stay by his side for long.

In that prosperous, beautiful, yet indifferent world of his origin, aside from blood kin, every act of giving came carefully calculated — no one would ever give up their life for another.

And so, across two lifetimes, he had finally met someone like her.

He could not lose her.

The sound of marching grew ever closer; on the far side of the mountain, a horn sounded for assembly, and the next moment, someone in Huaiji’s army blew their own horn in answer to the approaching reinforcements.

Prince Ling had seven generals in total stationed across Mount Pingnan. Aside from Xuanwu and Huaiji, who were already on the field, whoever else brought troops here now would spell certain doom for Yun Xi.

Hearing the horn, Su Tai hurried to pull Cheng Chang back: “Your Highness, we must go, now!”

Luo Fu also said: “Your Highness, if we don’t leave now it will be too late. General Mingwei has risked her life for you — if you stay, wouldn’t her sacrifice be for nothing?”

“Let go of me!” Cheng Chang snapped. Hearing the words “for nothing,” a red haze of blood seemed to rise in his eyes, and his voice turned hoarse. “If she dies, I die with her.”

With a thunderous crash, the Guanyin Pavilion before them, unable to withstand the raging fire any longer, finally collapsed.

The hall had already been engulfed in a sea of flame; now, as it caved in, its beams crashed down onto the ground, and the falling fire tangled with the fire already burning below, seeming almost to contend with itself, devouring and struggling against its own flames — and in that instant, the blaze actually receded somewhat.

Seizing this moment, Cheng Chang stumbled and scrambled over the ruined structure, running toward where Yun Xi was.

But though the fire had receded, it had not gone out; the tongues of flame slowly merged together in their struggle, and soon burned even fiercer than before.

Cheng Chang plunged into the sea of fire, unaware of how many people around him were trying to stop him, unaware even of whether his robes and sleeves had already caught flame. The pain covered his whole body, yet he seemed half mad, seeing nothing before him but that one flash of red amid the chaos of battle.

In a daze, he seemed to hear the roar of thunder, the wind howling and swirling through the mountains as though carrying the might of an ancient dragon — but the next instant, these heaven-like sounds were swallowed again by the roar of fire and the clash of weapons, dragging his mind back into this hellish reality.

But Cheng Chang thought: even if this place were hell itself, he would cross it to be with her.

How absurd — that he, a detached, indifferent man of the modern age, would one day risk his own life, heedless of death, for the sake of one person.

But he knew how deeply, how faithfully she cared for him.

This truth, refined through fire and chaos, distilled into something as vast and singular as heaven and earth itself — only by never abandoning her, in life or in death, could he ever be worthy of her devotion.

The sound of marching troops drew nearer; rows of soldiers clad in silver armor had already appeared at the ridge of the mountain. Yun Xi glanced up — those bearing bows alone numbered nearly ten thousand.

Not knowing that Cheng Chang had never left, and wanting only to buy him more time, she drew back her crimson-tasseled spear and shouted: “Change formation!”

Gathering what remained of her troops, she reformed them into a square.

There was nothing elegant about such a formation — it amounted to little more than a wall of flesh and blood, meant only to block the enemy’s advance.

In any case, trapped as they were amid this chaos of war, none of them had much hope of surviving regardless.

Huaiji had never expected that, with tens of thousands of men, he would still be locked in such prolonged combat with a mere two thousand troops. Seeing his reinforcements finally arrive, he immediately ordered the forward camp to form an assault line and charge straight at Yun Xi’s position.

Yun Xi closed her eyes. Though she felt no fear, she knew this was likely the end.

But as commander, if she flinched before her men now, would she not become a laughingstock among the soldiers? Calm and composed, she saw the enemy general charging toward her and rode out first, spear raised, to meet him.

At the same moment, the archers atop the ridge drew their bows as one, aiming at Yun Xi’s troops.

The sound of nearly ten thousand bowstrings drawing taut at once was like the deep, low roar of an ancient dragon from the ocean depths, accompanied by a faint, rumbling thunder of wrath, as though scraping against the very marrow of one’s bones. Cheng Chang, engulfed in flame, his body scorched who knew how many times over, felt blood nearly welling at the corners of his eyes as he screamed hoarsely: “A’Ting—!”

And in that very instant, everything changed.

The nearly ten thousand arrows, the moment they left the bowstrings, suddenly changed direction — flying instead straight into Huaiji’s own army.

The ancient dragon of the deep sea had finally awakened; the sound of the arrows loosed was like the roar of a great dragon. Huaiji’s army, utterly unprepared, saw the arrows raining down and had no time to scatter before being struck. The soldiers charging at the front, stunned by this sudden turn, whirled around in confusion, unable to tell in an instant whether to advance or retreat.

But on the battlefield, there was no room for even a moment’s hesitation. Though Yun Xi herself did not yet understand what had happened, her years of battle experience told her at once — seeing the enemy commanders falter, she immediately led her troops in a counterattack, and in no time had driven the enemy into full retreat.

The next instant, lightning flashed sharply across the sky, thunder rumbled, and fat raindrops began pelting down.

Cheng Chang looked up and only then realized that the thunder and howling wind from before had not been an illusion — the clouds had gathered thick across the heavens, not a single star visible, already heavy with the coming downpour.

But engulfed in flame, standing at the very edge of life and death, his eyes held nothing but her; everything else had become irrelevant.

The rain doused the fire on his body, doused the flames still clinging to the ruined pavilion. The battle ahead had eased somewhat, but Cheng Chang still did not stop — he kept walking toward the battlefield.

Seeing this, Su Tai and Luo Fu split up — one stayed behind with troops to protect Cheng Chang, the other joined the fighting, hoping to shield Yun Xi amid the chaos.

The archers atop the ridge lowered their bows, took up spears instead, and surged down the mountain like a tide, joining Yun Xi’s troops in the charge against Huaiji’s army.

Yun Xi had realized by now — these silver-armored soldiers were Pei Lan’s men.

He had not gone to Chuien Palace after all. He had brought his men back to help her.

Pei Lan still commanded twenty thousand troops of the Zhongyong forces; combined with his own men, that made fifty thousand in total. Though Huaiji and Xuanwu together also commanded fifty thousand, having just fallen for Pei Lan’s ruse and with morale already shattered by the sudden turn in the heavens, they were quickly beaten back.

With the tide of battle turned, Yun Xi caught her breath and immediately looked back.

She had meant only to check whether Cheng Chang had gotten far away — but turning around, she found him standing not far behind her.

He had never left at all.

There were burn marks along his neck and the backs of his hands; his right sleeve cuff was scorched black, and somewhere along his arm was a wound from which blood dripped, drop by drop, down his fingertips.

His face was pale, and along his cheek ran a winding streak of blood, tinged with ash-gray, not yet washed clean by the rain — like some strange pattern seared by fire, striking against his clear, gentle eyes with an unsettling intensity.

Yun Xi stood frozen. “Third Young Master…”

Cheng Chang did not answer.

He strode forward, seized her wrist, and pulled her into his arms.

He closed his eyes, buried his face in her hair, and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tighter and tighter, as though he never meant to let go for the rest of his life.

The rain had eased somewhat, falling gently from the night sky, drenching them both in its quiet fall. He said nothing, but she understood everything all the same.

Huaiji and Xuanwu, thrown into utter disarray by this sudden reversal, realized this was no longer the moment to press the attack and ordered an immediate retreat.

Footsteps approached from not far away. Cheng Chang released Yun Xi and saw it was Pei Lan, and thanked him earnestly.

Pei Lan said: “Your Highness need not thank me.”

He explained: “On my way to Chuien Palace, I ran into Xuan Zhi’s forces, already locked in battle with Zhang Yue’s army. Zhang Yue commanded twenty thousand troops, but they were no match at all for the Palace Front Command.”

Pei Lan had originally intended to lead his troops straight to Chuien Palace to protect the emperor, but seeing how confident and prepared Xuan Zhi appeared, he realized that Emperor Zhaoyuan likely had no need of his rescue at all.

He didn’t know how many men Xuan Zhi had stationed in ambush across Mount Pingnan, but the Palace Front Command alone commanded three hundred thousand troops — even half that number would already surpass Prince Ling’s entire army.

Pei Lan had come here originally at Prince Ling’s summons, planning to betray him at the critical moment — but if Xuan Zhi had already eliminated the very enemy he meant to destroy, where was he to go to prove his loyalty to the emperor? When the old emperor settled accounts afterward, how could he possibly prove with mere words that he hadn’t helped Prince Ling rebel?

After much deliberation, he had decided to turn back midway, to save Yun Xi from her desperate situation and, in doing so, fight Huaiji and Xuanwu’s forces to the death.

In truth, even after the thought of turning back occurred to him, Pei Lan had not decided at once.

For one thing, he had no idea how the battle was going for Yun Xi, whether she was even still alive. More importantly, Huaiji and Xuanwu commanded fifty thousand troops plus reinforcements, while of his own forces, only twenty thousand were truly his own — the other twenty thousand belonged to Yun Xi’s Zhongyong forces, who already resented him; whether they would even follow his orders in battle was another question entirely.

Going back to save Yun Xi might cost him his life; doing nothing and simply proceeding to Chuien Palace, even if it meant facing the emperor’s harsh punishment later, might at least let him survive.

Pei Lan had wavered, undecided — but at the critical moment, he suddenly recalled the Old Matriarch’s repeated warning before he set out that day: “Since you are allies bound by life and death, you must be willing to give your life for it.” At that, his resolve hardened, and he led his troops back.

Whatever else could be said of Pei Lan, when it came to leading troops in battle, he did have genuine skill.

Fortune favored him — on his way back, he encountered five thousand Zhaowu cavalry officers rushing to join Huaiji’s forces. Seeing that his own soldiers wore the same silver armor as the enemy’s, he suddenly thought of a scheme: in a lightning strike, he cut down over four thousand of them, keeping just over a hundred alive, and marched them up to the ridge, ordering them to sound their horns and send word to Huaiji.

Though Huaiji, Xuanwu, and the others had already received word that Pei Lan might betray them, since they had never actually encountered him, and fearing this might be a false rumor spread by the Household Guard to unsettle morale, they weren’t entirely certain — and since the scouts ahead reported the approaching troops were under the Zhaowu cavalry command, they lowered their guard and fell straight into Pei Lan’s trap, suffering a crushing, chaotic defeat in no time.

Seeing Huaiji and Xuanwu retreat, Pei Lan did not send men to pursue their advantage. He explained to Cheng Chang: “Earlier, Prince Ling received word that Zhang Yue had been crushed by the Palace Front Command, and has already led his troops toward Chuien Palace. Huaiji and Xuanwu are likely now taking another route to rejoin him. Since we can’t be certain of their true strength, it’s best we not pursue rashly — Prince Ling always keeps a hidden card in reserve. Earlier, a cache of gunpowder in the southwest of Mount Pingnan already went off; there’s no telling where else more might be buried. Your Highness should hurry with me and General Mingwei to Chuien Palace.”

Luo Fu asked: “If Prince Ling has buried gunpowder in the mountains, might we run into more of these traps on our way to Chuien Palace?”

“That won’t happen,” Yun Xi said. “Since His Majesty anticipated Prince Ling’s rebellion ahead of time, he’s already stationed troops to guard both Mingyin Temple and Chuien Palace. As long as we don’t take a detour, the mountain road through the temple should be safe.”

The fire in the temple had already been beaten down to smoldering ruin by the heavy rain. Having just escaped that sea of flame at death’s very gate, the group now walked through the rain, feeling it as a kind of blessing — no one raised a hand to shield themselves from it.

Cheng Chang, holding Yun Xi’s hand, suddenly stopped halfway and looked out at the misty, rain-soaked mountains in the night.

Yun Xi asked: “Third Young Master, what are you looking at?”

Cheng Chang smiled at her: “Nothing.”

It was a steep cliff behind Chuien Palace. Before coming to Mingyin Temple, he had studied the map of Mount Pingnan carefully, and the terrain there was etched clearly in his memory.

With Pei Lan’s betrayal, Xuanwu and Zhang Yue defeated, and Xuan Zhi commanding two hundred thousand troops, it seemed Prince Ling’s defeat today was already sealed.

But if that were so, why was he still leading troops toward Chuien Palace?

Given his temperament, he would surely rather die than admit defeat.

Pei Lan had said Prince Ling always kept something in reserve.

Perhaps that cliff behind Chuien Palace was his true last resort.

Well, so be it, Cheng Chang thought — cause and effect always find their way back around. Back at Baiyun Temple’s Qingfeng Court, it was Prince Ling who had forced him to fall from that great height. Now, in a different place, it seemed it was his turn to taste that same fate.