Baiyun Temple stood on Baiyun Mountain in the outskirts of the capital, some twenty or thirty li from Jinling — the better part of a day’s travel by carriage and horse.

Cheng Chang had not rested well the night before. Sitting in the carriage, he was exhausted, yet sleep would not come.

Last night’s dream had left him unsettled, and in his hazy state a strange sense of urgency had taken root — as though if he didn’t reach Baiyun Temple, it would soon be too late for everything.

In recent years Emperor Zhaoyuan’s health had been in decline, and he did not personally attend this rite of heaven-worship. Leading the procession instead were Prince Cong, Prince Ling, and Prince Yun.

They arrived at Baiyun Temple right at noon. The imperial clansmen took a vegetarian meal, then spent an hour chanting scriptures in the prayer hall.

The formal blessing rite would not begin until the following day, running from the third quarter of the Yin hour all the way to the start of the Hai hour — elaborate in ceremony and heavy with regulation. So it was today, in fact, that everyone had a rare half-day of leisure.

Princess Ling’s health had long been poor, and once the scripture-chanting ended, Prince Ling accompanied her to rest. Seeing Prince Ling leave, Prince Cong likewise did not press the remaining clansmen to stay together, letting them go their own ways, and took Cheng Chang with him as he departed.

Cheng Chang accompanied Prince Cong to a meditation chamber and listened as he discussed Buddhist matters with the abbot for a while. Mindful of his own purpose in coming, he excused himself, saying he wished to walk through the mountain.

Baiyun Temple was a large complex, and the best place to request a talisman of safety was the Guanyin Shrine to the west — conveniently on the way to Qingfeng Court, where Cheng Chang needed to go.

The mountain had turned away visitors for the day, and it was very quiet. When Cheng Chang reached the Guanyin Shrine, he found someone had already arrived ahead of him, lighting incense before the altar — it was Cheng Ye.

Cheng Ye heard him too, and turning to see it was Cheng Chang, was mildly startled. He set down the incense in his hand and bowed first. “Third Young Master.”

Cheng Chang returned the greeting. “Young Prince.”

The two of them were not especially close. After the formalities, each took incense, knelt on the prayer cushions, and bowed three times before the statue of Guanyin.

A young monk waiting nearby handed each of them a slip of paper, instructing them to write the name of the person for whom they sought blessing, then to let the paper dry, fold it, and tuck it into the safety talisman. He said, “The devotion of you two noble guests is sincere — the one this talisman protects will surely find safety and fortune.”

Cheng Chang and Cheng Ye thanked him and left the shrine together.

It was nearly the end of the Wei hour, and the mountain air was cool. The two walked together for a while, and Cheng Ye said, “I hadn’t expected the third young master to come seeking a safety talisman today as well.”

Cheng Chang gave an “Mm” and said, “I heard the incense here is efficacious.”

Cheng Ye nodded, and thinking back on his earlier speculations about Cheng Chang and Yun Xi, a thought suddenly struck him, and he couldn’t help but ask, “Is the third young master’s talisman for himself?”

Cheng Chang said, “No. For a friend.” After a pause, he asked, “And you, Young Prince?”

“Not for myself either,” Cheng Ye said. “I came to seek one for Commandant Yun.”

He smiled. “I ran into her the other day at the Manjushri Shrine — she mentioned she hadn’t had time to visit somewhere with truly efficacious incense to pray for safety, so I came here to get one for her. This is her first time being ordered to suppress unrest, after all, and the bandits are fierce — it won’t be easy for her.” Then he asked, “And you, Third Young Master?”

But Cheng Chang did not answer.

He stopped walking and pointed to a fork in the path ahead. “I’m going to make a stop at Qingfeng Court to the west. I’ll part ways with you here for now.”

Cheng Ye was taken aback. Baiyun Mountain was vast and secluded, and today, with the clansmen performing rites to heaven, imperial guards were posted everywhere in the mountains. Yet Qingfeng Court was remote, with no particularly pleasant scenery, rarely visited by anyone — even its guard posting was noticeably sparser.

But this was, after all, the third young master’s private business, and Cheng Ye did not think it his place to press further. Seeing that four palace guards followed behind Cheng Chang, he simply nodded. “Very well. I’ll see you at tomorrow’s grand ceremony, then.”

Most of the attendants in Cheng Chang’s household were rather unruly, unsuited to accompany him on an occasion like this rite of heaven-worship. Though Prince Cong had assigned four trusted guards to protect him, Cheng Chang did not entirely trust them. Upon reaching Qingfeng Court, he instructed them to wait at the courtyard gate and went in alone.

Two days earlier, Zhang Dahu had gone to investigate the case of the Marquis of Loyalty and Valor, and had already made contact with a guard stationed at Qingfeng Court. The moment this guard saw Cheng Chang, he bowed and murmured, “Third Young Master,” and led him into a hidden chamber.

Two men waited in the chamber, one tall, one thin, both looking somewhat unwell, though clearly of military background — the pads of their fingers and the webbing of their hands were thick with calluses.

The guard said, “This is a censor from the Censorate. He’s come today to ask about the injustice surrounding the Marquis of Loyalty and Valor’s campaign on the frontier years ago. Whatever he asks, you answer truthfully. The censor sees clearly through all matters — if you hold nothing back, he can surely clear the Marquis’s name, and yours as well.”

“Yes, yes,” the tall man and the thin man both agreed, saying they had been officers under Yun Shuguang’s command back then. They first recounted the general course of the frontier campaign, then said, “Those barbarians on the steppe usually attacked the border only when they had nothing to eat or drink. When we first clashed with them, they fought ferociously, but since they lacked provisions, the fighting never lasted long — they’d strike, then retreat. That’s why the Marquis of Loyalty and Valor, guarding the frontier for so many years, almost never suffered a defeat.”

Cheng Chang had heard as much before.

It was precisely because Yun Shuguang had guarded the frontier for so many years, with such great merit, that the Emperor had recalled him to Jinling, thinking he was getting on in years and deserved a few peaceful years back home, planning to send a younger general to the frontier in a year or two.

No one had expected that, just a year after the Marquis left, the barbarians would launch a massive invasion.

“That year, though the barbarians came on fiercely, it was really only somewhat more troops and horses than usual. His Majesty had always regarded them as paper tigers and didn’t take it seriously at first — not until a city was lost did he begin to pay attention. The crown prince, worried for the safety of the people, recommended, as a precaution, that the Marquis of Loyalty and Valor be sent to lead the campaign.”

“But who could have known — the moment the Marquis reached the frontier, he realized something was off about the situation this time.”

“Off how?” Cheng Chang asked.

“When we fought the barbarians on the frontier, each campaign lasted at most half a year, and sometimes it wasn’t even because they couldn’t win — it was because they ran out of food and couldn’t sustain the fight. But this time, by the time the Marquis reached the frontier, they had already been fighting us for months. And in the engagements that followed, they didn’t press forward as fiercely as before — instead they began maneuvering, as if preparing for a protracted war.”

“The Marquis sensed something was wrong and sent an urgent dispatch to the Privy Council, requesting the Privy Councilor urgently send reinforcements and supplies.”

“The urgent dispatch went out, and three months passed before the Privy Council finally sent back a slow reply, saying the troops and supplies were on their way.”

“But by the time that letter arrived, it was already too late for everything.”

“The barbarians suddenly regrouped and struck again. The Marquis had no choice but to lead his seventy thousand men to meet them. At first they won, chasing the enemy all the way out past Shanyue Pass — only then did they realize they’d fallen into a trap. The forces that had engaged us at first were merely bait to lure us deep in; the real barbarian main force, numbering a hundred thousand, was arrayed beyond the border. By then our men were already exhausted from fighting — how could we possibly face a hundred thousand men?”

“But retreat was no longer possible either. The Marquis led us into a desperate final battle. Though we won in the end, our men were nearly wiped out, and the Marquis himself died defending against the enemy.”

Cheng Chang listened to the thin man and the tall man finish, deep in thought.

In truth, what they had described matched closely with what was recorded in the court’s official files — that the Marquis had advanced rashly, pursuing the enemy beyond the border, and fallen into the barbarians’ trap, pitting a small, exhausted force against a hundred thousand.

But thinking it over carefully, the truth was not quite so simple.

The court’s official files had only briefly mentioned the frontier fighting before the Marquis’s campaign.

But these two officers had just said that the barbarians usually couldn’t sustain a fight for long — yet this time they had deliberately drawn out the campaign, which was clearly suspicious. Yun Shuguang had recognized this and sent an urgent dispatch requesting troops and supplies from the Privy Council. Why had the Privy Council taken three months to respond?

If the Privy Council had sent troops and supplies in time, Yun Shuguang wouldn’t have had to face overwhelming numbers with too few men.

And with troops and supplies not yet arrived, knowing full well something was amiss, Yun Shuguang had still led seventy thousand men to meet the enemy and pursued them beyond the border — didn’t that suggest he’d had no other choice?

The thought occurred to Cheng Chang, and he couldn’t help but press further.

But the tall man and thin man said that once the Marquis led his troops in pursuit of the enemy, the two of them had remained behind within the border with the remaining forces as support, and had no direct knowledge of what happened afterward.

The thin man added, “Actually, Third Young Master, these very questions were asked of the two of us at the start of this year by Official Luo of the Privy Council. After questioning us, he said the Marquis was likely wronged. If the third young master has further doubts, perhaps you should go ask Official Luo again — he’s with the Privy Council and may have evidence in hand.”

Cheng Chang nodded.

Right — Luo Fuyou was in charge of the Privy Council’s military and administrative documents. Luo Shu had said it was precisely because he’d noticed gaps in the documents that he had come to Baiyun Temple to look into the Marquis’s case.

The hidden chamber fell silent for a moment as Cheng Chang organized his thoughts. Seeing the hour growing late, he rose to leave.

Seeing him about to depart, the thin man and tall man walked him to the door and both bowed. “We beg the third young master to clear the injustice for the Marquis of Loyalty and Valor, and for the two of us as well.”

Cheng Chang was just about to nod when he suddenly sensed something was wrong.

What had these two just called him?

Third Young Master?

But when he’d arrived, he hadn’t revealed his identity — even the guard who’d led him in had only referred to him as a censor of the Censorate.

Could it be that these two had met him before?

Cheng Chang asked, unruffled, “When His Majesty recalled the Marquis of Loyalty and Valor to Jinling that year, did the two of you return with him?”

“No,” the thin man said. “When the Marquis returned to the capital that year, he brought back only a small portion of his troops. The two of us remained stationed on the frontier.”

So they had remained on the frontier the entire time, right up until they were secretly brought back to Jinling for questioning?

In other words, these two had never had any opportunity to have met him before?

If they’d never met him, how did they know he was the third young master of Prince Cong’s household?

Cheng Chang nodded and left the hidden chamber without a word.

In his previous life he had been an ordinary man, not particularly attuned to politics, but he was far from foolish — in fact, he was quite sharp.

When he’d first entered the chamber, the two officers had addressed him as a censor. How, after only a short conversation, had they switched to calling him “third young master”?

Had someone told them beforehand? Or had they deliberately changed how they addressed him, trying to warn him of something?

But then — what would they be trying to warn him about?

The four guards waiting outside Qingfeng Court were still there, and seeing Cheng Chang emerge, they bowed. “Third Young Master.”

Cheng Chang answered with an “Mm” and set off directly toward the main temple up the mountain, his pace quickening with every step.

Sometimes when a matter can’t be untangled, it’s because one has never tried looking at it from another angle. Once the angle shifts, everything falls into place like a stone dropping into water, ripples spreading outward, each ring clearer than the last.

How had he not thought of it before?

The Marquis of Loyalty and Valor’s case had remained unresolved for so long. Even if Luo Fuyou had discovered irregularities at the start of the year, why had the clue landed in his own hands so conveniently?

He had been investigating the identity of that “noble one” — how could that “noble one” possibly not know? And knowing, wouldn’t they seize precisely this opportunity to move against him?

He thought back further — why had Luo Shu told him about the Marquis’s injustice that day in the first place? Why had Zhang Dahu, in just two days, managed to find the relevant witnesses from back then, right here at Baiyun Temple’s Qingfeng Court? Why had all of this happened, so conveniently, just before he came to Baiyun Temple — so quickly he hadn’t even had time to inform Yun Xi?

He had moved too hastily, failing to think things through carefully, and had walked himself straight into danger.

But he had come from a peaceful, twenty-first-century society where people’s sense of personal safety was generally low. He had assumed that traveling up the mountain with so many imperial clansmen would be safe, especially with guards at his side.

He had forgotten to think the opposite way — that the places which seemed safest were often the most dangerous.

The more one let one’s guard down, the easier it was to grow careless.

The mountain was thick with imperial guards, yet Qingfeng Court’s guards were sparse, and the surrounding area was dense forest — the easiest place to hide people, especially… assassins.

Cheng Chang, with his four guards, hurried back the way he’d come. Before he even reached the earlier fork in the path, he felt a faint rush of wind graze past his ear, and a guard beside him shouted, “Young Prince, watch out!” and shoved him sharply to the left, narrowly avoiding a thrown blade.

The flash of steel appeared, and instantly more than a dozen figures in black leapt out from the dense forest. It wasn’t that there were no guards nearby — a few scattered figures stood in the woods, and though they clearly saw what was happening, they turned a blind eye.

Likely also men under the “noble one’s” command.

The way back was blocked, and there was no returning to the main temple. Cheng Chang had no choice but to flee toward Qingfeng Court, escorted by his guards.

But there were too many assassins behind them. Two of the guards, left with no other option, said, “You protect the young prince and go ahead!” and stayed behind to hold the line.

Unbeknownst to them, the “noble one” had gone all in, setting up such an elaborate trap — this time, they were determined to kill Cheng Chang once and for all. No sooner had they reached Qingfeng Court than seven or eight more assassins leapt out from the bamboo grove outside.

These assassins struck ruthlessly, every move aimed to kill.

One of the guards pulled Cheng Chang behind him and raised his sword to block an incoming strike, saying hurriedly, “Third Young Master, this won’t do — there’s no telling how many more of them are hidden in this mountain!”

Cheng Chang understood this too, but the net had already been cast — how could he possibly break free?

A sudden sharp pain shot through his right arm — an assassin had found an opening and slashed his arm.

Blood gushed out, soaking his sleeve in an instant. Cheng Chang pressed a hand to the wound, with no time to spare for the pain, and said only, “Forget it, we—”

We split up and run. Whoever survives, survives.

He had lived in the twenty-first century, where everyone was equal — there was no reason for anyone to die in another’s place.

Besides, these assassins were clearly here for him alone. He was probably not going to make it out alive — no point dragging these few guards down with him.

In his previous life he’d died young and ill-fated; he hadn’t expected that in this life, he still couldn’t escape a fate of misfortune.

But before the words left his mouth, a voice suddenly rang urgently in his ear: “Brother Cheng-San…”

Cheng Chang froze instantly.

That faint, distant voice — he couldn’t tell where it came from, as though from the edge of the sky, or from the depths of his heart. In an instant, it came again: “Brother Cheng-San…”

Seeing Cheng Chang go still, the guard assumed he’d been struck with terror, and shoved him toward the one narrow path available, saying to the other guard, “I’ll hold them off — you get the third young master away! Find somewhere to hide, and wait for nightfall. When the prince can’t find the third young master, he’s sure to send people searching!”

The other guard nodded, gritted his teeth, and pulled Cheng Chang with him, running desperately down the narrow path.

The path was lined with overgrown weeds and towering trees, but because it was narrow, the trees were sparse along it, with no place to hide anyone.

Gradually, the end of the path opened into a wider space — and what came into view struck a chill straight to the heart. A cliff.

The assassins caught up again, and the guard beside him, with no other choice, raised his sword and stepped forward to meet them.

Behind him, flashing blades; before him, a sheer precipice. Cheng Chang had nowhere left to run. Turning back, he saw the last remaining guard exchange only a few blows with the assassins before a blade drove straight through his chest.

Blood sprayed out, along with the sharp ring of steel and torn flesh.

But the assassins weren’t done — moments later they drove several more blades into the guard’s body, each strike finding a vital point, dull thuds sounding one after another.

Cheng Chang had never witnessed such a bloody scene. For a moment he could barely stand, stumbling backward step by step.

Knowing he had nowhere left to go, the assassins were in no hurry. They lowered their blades and advanced on him slowly.

Dusk had settled, the sky at the horizon blood-red with the dying sun. Cheng Chang retreated to the edge of the cliff, steadying himself against a gnarled old elm tree growing there.

The wound on his arm still bled. His sleeve pouch had been slashed open in the struggle earlier, and unnoticed, something slipped out from it. Cheng Chang glanced down — it was the safety talisman Yun Xi had requested for him at the Manjushri Shrine.

A talisman for safety.

In his previous life he hadn’t much believed in such things. In this life, it seemed, he still couldn’t.

But he had, after all, come into this world for a time, and now, on the verge of leaving it, he found himself empty-handed once more, just as he had been when he first arrived, with nothing at all.

The talisman before him suddenly felt precious beyond measure.

It was, after all, a token of someone’s care.

Cheng Chang thought — he had come into this world detached and estranged, separated from everyone and everything by a lifetime that came before. Only this girl had ever drawn close to him at all — close enough to sense that he might not truly belong to this world.

Cheng Chang reached to pick up the talisman, meaning to keep it with him, but before he could even bend down, his heart suddenly lurched.

That lurch struck like someone driving a mallet straight into his chest, deafening, almost.

The wind between heaven and earth suddenly roared, his vision blurring, and that voice from before rose again in his ears.

“Brother Cheng-San!”

“Cheng Chang!”

“Mr. Cheng.”

“Is he waking up? Can he wake up?”

“Wake up, quickly…”

His college dorm had housed four roommates, and they’d all called each other “brother” — no younger brothers among them. He was the third, so they’d called him “Brother Cheng-San.”

This was Great Sui. “Cheng” was the imperial surname, and in all of Jinling, almost no one called him by his full name, Cheng Chang.

As for “Mr. Cheng” — that was what his colleagues called him at the company.

These… only people from the twenty-first century would call him that.

Cheng Chang followed the sound, looking behind him. The evening glow had grown even thicker than before, splashed like ink across the sky in a swath of tragic blood-red.

Cheng Chang couldn’t recall which book he’d once read that mentioned it — in the present world, some people called dusk the “hour of demons.”

The transition between day and night, when yin and yang, light and dark, blur together, when spirits and demons all take form, when monsters roam freely, and all manner of strange things happen.

His heart lurched again, pounding like a war drum.

This time it was even more deafening than before, accompanied by a dull, breath-seizing ache, the world before his eyes swaying as if about to collapse.

Cheng Chang could bear it no longer. Facing the cliff, he sank to one knee, pressing a hand to his chest — just as he had during his heart attacks in his previous life.

The cliff was very high, and below, he had seen earlier, lay a rippling emerald lake.

But now, looking down again, the gathering dusk over the lake’s surface seemed to slowly transform into a thick fog, rising upward — just as he had seen in his dream.

And the voice calling out to him, again and again, seemed to come from within that very fog.

Cheng Chang couldn’t tell whether he was hallucinating on the brink of death, or whether everything before him was exactly as it appeared.

His vision was already half obscured by mist. One hand pressed to his chest, the other — as if grasping for the one thing that felt real — still searched the ground for the safety talisman Yun Xi had given him.

But he could find nothing.

The world before him turned upside down, the heavens and earth spinning, the bottomless chasm dissolving into a mirage. As the wind died down, the sound of an assassin drawing his blade rang out almost directly behind him.

At that same moment, a butterfly broke through the vast fog rising from below the mountain and fluttered past before his eyes.

As if leading him toward the one path to survival.

Cheng Chang’s heart gave one final, violent lurch. Unable to hold on any longer, he closed his eyes, pitched forward, lost his balance entirely, and plunged over the edge of the cliff.

The howling wind tore past his ears, the tragic, blood-red glow of the setting sun rimming his falling body in gold like blood.

Just before the sensation of his body shattering to pieces arrived, the world abruptly went dark.