Turning through alleys, crossing long streets, running through a city that grew ever more unsettled.

All around lay scenes of war and chaos.

Two figures, one ahead of the other, slowed their pace, finally stopping before a courtyard beside a narrow alley.

The wooden gate outside was long gone; inside, the houses had collapsed, bearing traces of an owner who had fled in haste — and it looked as though beggars or thieves might already have passed through as well.

“No one’s here,” the wounded boy stated.

Beside him, the figure with mud smeared on her face, looking every bit like a beggar, helped support him as they went in.

They searched the courtyard and the collapsed houses for anything usable. The pots and pans were long gone; all that remained in the houses was a bit of firewood. The boy, covered in blood, moved slowly, but the little beggar girl was quick with her hands, and dug up half a broken clay jar from the mud in a corner.

There was still some water in a broken well in the courtyard, but only the rope remained — no bucket. The little beggar girl untied the cloth bundle she carried and fashioned it into a small net to hold the jar, then lowered it with the well rope to draw up some water, washing the jar clean to boil water. The boy built a fire under the collapsed house frame, explaining the steps needed to treat his wounds as he worked.

Since they’d come out to fight, they hadn’t brought much with them — only a few small knives and some wound medicine remained on him. The worse bleeding wounds from the fighting had already received emergency treatment; now came the relatively more careful finishing work. As for the internal injuries, those went without saying — they’d need time to heal. The boy and girl, whose relationship back in the Southwest had been rather odd, had no time now for catching up. The boy adopted a cold, aloof manner as he explained the steps of wound treatment; the little beggar girl kept her head down, doing as told. Whether she understood or not wasn’t clear, but she didn’t seem to make any mistakes.

The fire rose, boiling the water in the clay jar. The boy tried to tear open his blood-soaked clothing; the little beggar girl, at his instruction, went to wash her hands, then came to help. When he handed her the small blade, he paused for a moment, startled.

“Wh-what’s wrong…”

The little beggar girl, knowing she had mud on herself, had washed the black grime off her face along with her hands. Now, crouched before him, her delicate, melon-seed face looked plain and gentle, with a few drops of water clinging to the hair at her temple. For some reason, it made him think of a small flower in a spring meadow, or a dandelion drifting on the wind.

Ah, so this is what that little… little wretched dog looks like…

“It’s nothing…” He shook his head. “…If it won’t tear, cut it.”

“Mm.”

She nodded and began working carefully.

Outside the courtyard, the din of the city carried faintly in the distance, but perhaps because of the chaos of war, with everyone rushing to flee the city, this courtyard of collapsed houses seemed quiet in the afternoon sunlight. The girl tore open his blood-soaked clothing; in some places the wounds had already scabbed over, and inevitably fresh blood seeped out again. She glanced at him now and then, but his gaze stayed calm, unmoved.

It hurt, of course it hurt, but for some reason, looking at this face before him — strange yet familiar — he found he didn’t want to speak.

She picked out shattered bamboo splinters from some of the wounds; it looked rather gruesome, and her hands had become stained with a good deal of blood.

They worked through the wounds again — stopping the bleeding, applying medicine. For a few of the wounds, the boy heated the small blade red-hot and cauterized them, then dusted them with medicinal powder. The girl tore up the ragged clothes she carried in her bundle to use as bandages — during her time disguised as a beggar back in Jiangnan, she’d only had two worn-out beggar’s garments with her; she tore one apart now, preparing the other for the boy to wear.

“Weren’t you supposed to be headed toward Lake Tai? How did you end up in Jiangning?” he asked casually as the bandaging neared completion.

“Ah…” The girl paused, then lowered her head. “I… I got this far, and then I couldn’t go any further.”

“Mm.” The boy nodded.

Since leaving the Southwest, he’d thought of this girl he’d met in Chengdu a few times, but it was only her image that crossed his mind — he’d never actually tried to work out what might have become of her. After all, in a world thrown into chaos, even those trained in martial arts found it hard going; the “little wretched dog” of Chengdu was just an ordinary, weak girl. Once out of the Southwest, what were the odds she’d even still be alive? He hadn’t wanted to think too hard about it.

After all, the world was vast — whether she lived or died, the two of them would most likely never cross paths again in this life.

But deep down, some vague, unspoken longing had lingered — one that, years later, he would recognize as a young man’s wistful attachment to his own youth, the seemingly hazy yet deeply etched trace left behind by the first stirring of something in his heart…

“…So then how did you end up here, right at the edge of the battlefield?”

He asked this.

The girl lowered her head.

“I… these past few days I saw your name in the newspapers. I knew you were in the city…”

“Newspapers… hm…”

The boy’s expression shifted, and a moment later, colors of red and white rushed across his face in turns. After a moment, he let out a “wah” and spat up blood. The girl’s expression turned instantly panicked, and she fumbled: “You… you, you, you… what’s wrong with you…”

“Pfft… in-internal injury… it’s fine… it’s fine…”

He spat the blood onto the ground, breathing heavily, trying to calm himself. Outside the courtyard, it seemed a crowd was hurrying past in a panic. He pressed down on the girl’s hand, his expression serious.

“It’s fine… don’t panic… don’t panic…”

After a while, the people outside the courtyard passed by. The girl helped him into the tattered clothes, and the two of them sat together beneath the collapsed house. Looking around, the sun on the horizon gave off a faint warmth; withered autumn grass grew here and there among the mounds of earth and bluestone in the courtyard, gently stirred by the autumn wind. The two sat beneath the ruined house, and the girl began chattering on about everything that had happened to her since leaving the Southwest.

From Aunt Gu’s arrangements, to learning while following the Huaxia Army’s merchant caravan, to gradually breaking away from the group and traveling alone, running into bandits, learning to disguise herself as a beggar, later meeting a “benefactor” — an older woman named Huo Qinghua who took her in — becoming a “little scholar” who read newspapers aloud in the “White Rakshasa” courtyard, surviving through it all with such stubborn resilience up to now.

She rambled on to herself, recounting to her little benefactor from the Southwest, whom she’d finally reunited with against all odds, the hardships and struggles of her journey. Back during that time in Chengdu, it might not have been so obvious, but only after leaving Chengdu did the girl come to clearly realize that this “little benefactor” from the Southwest, though he seemed rather cold in temperament, had actually been very good to her. He’d given her that book, “Women Hold Up Half the Sky” — perhaps because he couldn’t stand seeing her so delicate and helpless — but out of the Huaxia Army’s tolerance, he’d casually saved her all the same, the way one might save a stray cat or dog.

Even now, she still felt a certain awe toward this “Little Benefactor Long.” Though his features weren’t frightening — occasionally even rather endearing — in front of her, he remained without question a Huaxia Army soldier through and through, one who could bleed so much and cauterize his own wounds with a hot iron without so much as a change of expression. Beneath that endearing exterior, he was truly far more formidable than she was.

By the time she’d arrived in Jiangning, the silver she carried was essentially gone, leaving only a few land deeds she’d brought from the Southwest — and in the current chaos, she already understood there was no chance of cashing those in. Even so, at this moment, recounting her progress to him as though he were both a peer and an elder, she felt a calm within her that she hadn’t experienced in months.

She spoke of Huo Qinghua, of the little courtyard, of the lives and deaths within the “White Rakshasa” — and by the end, the little courtyard was gone too, and Madam Huo had died in the Fairness Party’s infighting. There was no order here, no good people or bad people. The girl hugged her knees, and by the end of her account, she didn’t even know where to go next — she’d only heard that the Huaxia Army had arrived in Jiangning and wanted to come see for herself…

“…But, you… how did you end up out here. Why didn’t you… go join up with them…” By the end, she asked in a low voice.

Ning Ji fell silent for a moment. “I still have some things to take care of. I can’t go back.”

“Oh.” The girl nodded.

“…If you don’t know where to go, let’s stick together from now on.” After another pause, Ning Ji finally set his face like stone and said this as calmly as he could manage.

“Okay.”

“…I mean, if you’re not… if you want to go join them… hm, never mind.”

“…Mm.”

“…Newspapers are all full of lies anyway.”

“Yeah, I already knew that.”

“Good.”

The boy pressed his lips together and nodded.

I’ll change my name after this…

He made up his mind about it.

Once the wound treatment was finished, Qu Longjun began preparing to boil the bit of dry rations she carried into a small pot of porridge, busying herself with the task. The autumn wind swept through the courtyard; even amid the withered autumn grass, small yellow flowers swayed here and there. Ning Ji watched the girl’s figure and gradually, finally, let his thoughts drift back to the scene of Xue Jin dying on the road.

He had no idea how the fighting had turned out, or whether Uncle Chen Fan and the others had managed to suppress Lin Zongwu. This broken city of Jiangning would probably grow even more broken still, but it hardly mattered now — the Su family estate of the past had long since become a heap of ruined walls, and after another round of cleansing, probably not even a trace of it would remain. And those people his parents had once known — perhaps, like Xue Jin, they too had scattered and vanished amid these chaotic years.

When he went back one day and told his father, his aunt, his mother about all this, they’d probably feel sad too. Maybe… it would mean fewer beatings for him?

And then there was the little bald monk — who could have guessed he’d turn out to be Fat Lin’s disciple. What a twist of fate. The kid wasn’t a bad sort at heart; he’d probably cry over it for a while, but who knew — maybe that fat monk would end up turning him into a bad person down the line. When they met again someday, he wasn’t sure what to say. A beating was certainly in order, but he wasn’t afraid of him either — he’d give him a good thrashing, spare his life once, and call it even.

Then there was the real matter concerning Uncle Chen Fan and the others — Uncle Qian the Eighth, Seventh Aunt, Hei Niu, Xiao Hei, Yuwen Feidu, and now Uncle Chen Fan on top of it all… they’d all come, all of them… Thinking about it, he almost couldn’t bear to continue the thought.

Going back was simply out of the question — his reputation would be thoroughly wrecked by them this time. He’d originally fled the Southwest because of that shameful slander, and now with no word at all on that wretch Yu Xiaoer, once Uncle Qian and the others got back they’d surely bring news of his “heroic exploits” in Jiangning:

“They call him the Five-Foot Lecher.”

“Five feet, as in one-two-three-four-five feet…”

“The moment he got outside, he ruined another girl right away…”

“Chen Fan saw it with his own eyes…”

“Is your son actually into that sort of thing…”

…

Just thinking about it, he felt like the Southwest was about to become a living hell.

Until he’d made a name for himself as the greatest under heaven, there was probably no going back for real.

Of course, maybe he should have Uncle Qian and the others bring word back that he was safe, at least…

The sunset shifted colors as he mulled over these thoughts, watching the figure busy by the clay jar beside him. As for the decision not to go back, he didn’t feel much confusion about it after all.

Read ten thousand books, travel ten thousand miles — wandering the martial world wasn’t such a bad thing either. Maybe by the time his father marched his troops south to save the realm, he himself would be strong and sturdy, unrivaled under heaven, and could truly help his father and elder brother accomplish something great.

That was how he thought of it, at that moment.

Of course, not long after, as night fell over a courtyard in the northern part of the city, Chen Fan, Qian Luoning, Xiao Qi, Hei Niu and the others were, just as he’d predicted, discussing the matter of the great name he’d made for himself on this journey.

In another place on the west side of the city, the massive-bodied monk sat before a bonfire, quietly listening as his disciple recounted the story of his time wandering the martial world alongside the young Huaxia Army boy, Long Aotian. Not far ahead of them, the followers of the Great Brightness Cult stood before Wang Nantuo’s memorial altar, chanting solemn scripture.

Amid the noisy, sweeping clamor, the little monk’s choked voice was like a single ripple in the surging currents of a vast ocean. Lin Zongwu listened to it all in silence…

In this world, every life was like an insignificant droplet in this vast ocean. At this moment, the cloud-covered sea churned violently, and a storm was about to break amid the hurricane — who would ever notice such a tiny droplet within it?

Just as Senior Sister Sikong Nan and Junior Brother Wang Nantuo, after their brief moment of flight, had finally descended into the forgotten abyss.

In the blink of an eye, a life once so full of future had scattered without a trace in this world’s downpour.

Thinking of this, he was overcome with grief beyond bearing.

“Amitabha.”

The massive figure patted the small bald head of his disciple, sighing softly.

“This is the course of a life.”

He said.