The summer of Tianqi was scorching and oppressive, yet the Lingbo Pavilion within the Prince of Chang’s mansion in the western part of the city was renowned as a crystal grotto. With winding courtyards, lotus-filled breezes, and a vast, placid lake stretching for miles, the pavilion stood as a vision of moonlit elegance over the water, where songstresses sang softly and clearly.
An attendant came to report that the sellers of the gyrfalcons had arrived. Prince Chang dismissed the singers, and maids promptly lowered the fine bamboo blinds on all four sides of the pavilion before withdrawing in an orderly procession.
The three falcon merchants led into the hall by the attendant were wrapped in black shawls, even on such a sweltering night, concealing their heads, faces, necks, and bodies. The fabric was wound twice around their waists and hung down to their knees. The two merchants on either side bowed deeply, pressing a hand to their chests in salute to the Prince, while the one in the center remained standing upright. The Prince showed no surprise and lazily inquired, “Where are the falcons?” The lead merchant glanced briefly around but said nothing.
Prince Chang chuckled, “Let me see the goods.” The two kneeling merchants abruptly threw off their shawls. The Prince narrowed his eyes slightly and remarked, “...Well, their feathers are truly glossy.” No falcons were visible in their arms; instead, what caught the eye was their brilliant golden-red hair and icy blue, nearly colorless pupils.
“Are they first-class gyrfalcons?” “There are none better,” replied the lead merchant in Mandarin, tinged with a slight capital accent.
“If they aren’t worth the price, I won’t pay a single coin,” the Prince said, his expression still playful.
Suddenly, without any wind, the bamboo blinds on all sides rustled and swayed on their own. A dark shadow dropped straight down from the pavilion’s roof, and within it, a flash of cold light shot forth—a killing intent as sharp as a thunderbolt aimed directly at the lead merchant’s head. In the sudden chaos, the two golden-haired men on either side exchanged no words or glances, yet one of them leaped into action. Before anyone could discern his movements, the cold light was deflected with a metallic clang, embedding itself in the polished brick floor beside the other man, where it hummed incessantly—revealed to be a gleaming longsword. A fierce wind whistled through the air, pressing down so heavily that no one could look up. The bamboo blinds tied to the pavilion’s pillars billowed outward, dozens of silk ribbons snapping simultaneously as the heavy curtains flapped violently, sounding like a torrential downpour.
“Ah, a Wind-summoner,” Prince Chang murmured to himself, his eyes gleaming with deep, subdued delight.
These were the legendary mages who practiced the art of controlling the wind, figures nearly akin to immortals whether in the Eastern Continent or the northern frontiers, so rare that they appeared only once in a century. Amid this extraordinary phenomenon, all traces of the dark shadow that had descended moments ago vanished entirely. The Prince knew this was partly due to his own lack of martial prowess, but more so because the wind summoned by the golden-haired man was overwhelmingly vast and mighty. The earlier strike, though swift as lightning, was but a spark struck from flint in the face of such a powerful gale. Within moments, the two figures landed, standing seven or eight feet apart. The dark shadow was now trapped within a small cyclone, its ferocious winds seemingly laced with invisible blades, rendering him immobile. Meanwhile, the other golden-haired man, who had remained kneeling in salute, was as steady as a mountain. The sword had embedded itself right beside him, yet he hadn’t so much as flinched, his ice-blue eyes displaying an air of utter indifference. Upon closer inspection, a faint white mark could be seen on his face—the trace of a sword’s edge grazing past.The lead eagle trader spoke calmly, his voice low with a light laugh. "What a desperate, all-or-nothing strike—utterly focused, with intent honed to a single thread. Since Your Highness already has such talent in your household, your great endeavor should easily succeed. Why trouble to seek out gray falcons from a thousand miles away?"
"He tried," Prince Chang replied with his usual faint smile. "Ten years ago, in his prime, he joined forces with another whose skill matched his own—yet they failed."
"Oh? It seems I underestimated the imperial guards of the Zheng dynasty." The eagle trader’s gaze shifted, settling on the two men below the hall. Suddenly, he laughed softly. "So it’s you."
The dark-faced man trapped within the golden-haired man’s cage of wind lifted his head at these words, his expression still unreadable.
"Release him. That is General Fu Yi of the Eastern Continent—do not be reckless."
Hearing this, the golden-haired man immediately withdrew his hands to his chest. The small whirlwind gradually weakened, and Fu Yi freed his arms, fixing a piercing gaze on the lead eagle trader.
Prince Chang smiled faintly. "Excellent. Fine plumage, sharp talons and beak—may this endeavor succeed in one decisive stroke."
"If our great undertaking is accomplished, I trust Your Highness will grant the reward we agreed upon."
"If this matter is achieved, my kingdom will not interfere in any conflict or annexation between your nation and Jiaman—you have my word. However, since you refuse to reveal your true appearance, should payment be due in the future, I would not know to whom it should be made."
A low chuckle came from beneath the shawl. The lead eagle trader reached up and pulled it down to his waist, revealing a strikingly handsome and noble face.
Prince Chang let out a soft gasp.
"You… you are King Zuopudun!" Sparks seemed to flash in Fu Yi’s eyes.
"Our brief encounter at Piluo Mountain Pass—the General remembers well." The tall, golden-haired youth had clear, luminous blue eyes, bright and spirited.
"And this one—is he the guard who blocked an arrow for you bare-handed on the mountain path that day?" Fu Yi cast a cold glance at the quiet man still kneeling on one knee.
King Zuopudun smiled slightly, neither confirming nor denying.
"In my kingdom’s imperial guard, there is a commander of ten thousand cavalry who bears an uncanny resemblance to King Zuopudun. It gave me quite a start," Prince Chang remarked.
King Zuopudun raised his golden brows. "An uncanny resemblance? How old is this man?"
"About twenty-four or twenty-five," Fu Yi answered.
"In that case, I did have a younger brother, Duo Han, who went missing on the battlefield of the Red Medicine Plains. Duo Han’s features and build were strikingly similar to mine, almost like twins, though he inherited our mother, Princess Hongyao’s, black hair and black eyes. During the joint battle, he rode on the same horse as our uncle, King Poduona. After the Eastern Continent army retreated, we searched the battlefield for four days and nights, but only found our uncle’s body—his head had been taken by your Eastern Continent soldiers. Duo Han’s whereabouts remained unknown."
"That commander of ten thousand in the Imperial Guard is named Fang Zhuoying," Fu Yi said.
"Zhuoying…" The young King Zuopudun, though fluent in the Hua language, now spoke with a thick Huku accent, as if lost in deep remembrance. A complex undercurrent passed through his crystal-blue eyes. After a moment, he turned a smiling gaze to Prince Chang and said, "That must be Duo Han. He had just turned ten that year."
That year, Duo Han had just turned ten. Huku men shave their hair only twice in their lives—once at age ten, and once before death. The nomads of the grasslands follow water and pasture, and women often struggle to conceive, with many infants dying young. Thus, children are treasured deeply. Boys under ten are regarded as infants, retaining their fetal hair braids. On their tenth birthday, their families shave off this fetal hair and anoint them with blood wine, marking their transition into manhood and eligibility for battle. Among the Huku tribes, harming a child who still bears fetal hair during conflict is considered an inhuman atrocity, punishable by the annihilation of one’s entire clan."Back then, you were a little bald-headed boy, probably just a few days past your birthday." Fang Zhu gently fanned himself with a round fan, his white robes fluttering in the night breeze, exuding an air of serene elegance.
Zhuo Ying could no longer recall the details of his tenth birthday. Yet, he remembered the moment he first laid eyes on Fang Zhu.
As a child, he had been inexplicably abandoned alone on the Red Medicine Plains amidst the chaos of charging armies and had fainted. When he awoke, the clamor of battle had receded into the distance. Many Easterners had already withdrawn from the battlefield, passing by him one after another as they regrouped, paying no heed to the frail child. He sat up, clutching the small, toy-like dagger at his waist, unsure whether he should cry. Just then, a red horse halted beside him, and the Eastern youth in the saddle leaned down to gaze at him.
The Eastern youth had removed his armor, revealing a brocade robe beneath, now thoroughly stained with blood and dust. The vivid, intricate patterns of the robe emerged starkly from the crimson stains, creating a startling beauty. The Hoku people had always looked down upon the Easterners' silken garments—they were neither warm nor durable, easily torn, much like the Easterners themselves, delicate and weak. Yet, here was an Easterner like this one, smiling calmly, his face and body caked with dried blood, utterly fearless.
The child’s dark, beautiful pupils fixed intently on the youth, sharp and perceptive, revealing a young determination and will, much like a wild cub.
"I asked you your name, and you replied with something strange. It was then I realized you didn’t understand our language." Fang Zhu set aside the fan and reached out to refill Zhuo Ying’s tea.
Zhuo Ying smiled blankly. "What strange thing did I say? I hardly remember how to speak Hoku anymore." Fang Zhu also smiled. "A long string of words. The beginning sounded like 'Zhuo Ying,' so I took that as your name." Zhuo Ying fell silent, mesmerized by the fragmented reflection of the moon dancing in his teacup.
"Fifteen years have passed. Have you ever thought of returning to Hanzhou?" A sudden void seemed to open in Zhuo Ying’s chest. Hanzhou... a place he had thought he would never see again in his lifetime.
The plains beyond the frontier saw endless cycles of winter and summer, with sandstorms and swirling stones prevailing year-round. Only during the brief three or four months of summer did the pastures grow wildly, forcing the people of the grasslands to gallop on their horses—racing ahead of the wolves, ahead of time, ahead of the blizzards and harsh frosts, ahead of death, unable to stop. Heaven had bestowed upon the grassland people only such a harsh existence, yet even in such days, they retained their hearts for games and songs. They lived unreservedly, treating life as a game of archery and wrestling where one must accept losses without complaint—the slow perish, the hesitant perish, the weak perish, the unskilled perish, all without grievance.
Ah, that homeland of indescribable joy and exhilaration. Yet, precisely because he was a son of Hoku, his word was his bond—unwavering and unchangeable.Zhuoying lowered his gaze to the delicate porcelain teacup in his hand. The rim, clear as a mirror, silently cracked with a web of fine lines like ice, while his obsidian-dark pupils shimmered with a faint golden light. "For you to say such things, Father, is truly rare. If I return now, would those three years you spent on me be wasted? Aren’t you the one in this world who despises futile efforts the most?" Fang Zhu’s smile deepened at the corners of his lips. "They say that thousands of years ago, on the northern grasslands, there was a man named Sijiu. To tame the dragon-descended heavenly steed, he spent twelve years circling it, until his body turned to stone and his hair grew like grass. Only then did he finally find the chance to mount the steed. The heavenly horse neighed and galloped across rainbows, clouds, and lightning for another twelve years, and Sijiu remained on its back for those twelve years. In the end, the dragon-descended steed willingly submitted, transforming into a woman and bearing Sijiu four children. These four children became the ancestors of the four tribes of Huku, the descendants of dragons." A trace of bitterness tinged Zhuoying’s smile. "What is this, a history lesson? I know these tales better than you do, Father."
"From the moment I first saw you, I knew you were a wild colt—unyielding, no matter the pressure, unless you were utterly and completely defeated. Three years was already a lenient timeframe." Fang Zhu turned his gaze toward Shuangping Lake. On the opposite shore, a lamp was lit in Haishi’s room.
"You are a man now. Starting today, there will be no guards outside my tent, and the weapons in the armory—blades, spears, bows, and crossbows—are yours to choose from. If within three years you can kill me, then you may return to Hanzhou, and no one shall stop you. But if you fail—" The young general leaned down from his horse, a scar visible beside his smiling lips. "You must call me Father and follow my commands." After hearing the soldier’s translation, the child’s pure, dark eyes, like those of a young beast, gleamed with golden light as he spat out a stream of words in Huku. The translator hesitated, looking uneasy. Fang Jianming said calmly, "Surely you’re not afraid of a child." Flustered and angry, the soldier broke into a fine sweat. "This little barbarian says... he says he won’t just kill you. He wants to roast... roast the Duke of Qinghai and eat him..." Fang Jianming laughed heartily, reached out lightly, and lifted the child onto his horse. Then, cracking his whip, he galloped off toward the main troop. At that time, it had been two years since the old Duke of Qinghai had died in battle. Fang Jianming, still in his youth, had inherited his father’s title. During the Battle of Hongyao Plain, he was only twenty-two.
Three years later, in the second year of the Tianxiang era, people began to notice the handsome young man by the side of the young Duke of Qinghai, addressing him as "Father."
Each lost in their own memories, they watched the lotus leaves swaying on the surface of Shuangping Lake, neither speaking.
"—But to keep such a fine steed penned among dogs and swine is a waste of heaven’s gifts. Sooner or later, you must return to Hanzhou. I raised you for fifteen years, taught you martial arts and strategy, so that one day I might see you gallop like the wind." Fang Zhu sighed softly.
"Father, the situation around you remains unclear. I wish to stay in Tianqi," Zhuoying said urgently."Lately, there have been stirrings in the Prince of Chang's residence. With turmoil on the horizon, I would prefer to keep you in the capital," Fang Zhu showed a flicker of emotion, then sighed softly. "But there are matters only you can handle. Since Haishi met your brother, she has inevitably begun to speculate about your origins, not to mention the many soldiers on the mountain path that day. You can no longer remain in the capital for long, and returning to Hanzhou will surely arouse suspicion among your own kin. At present, there is only one solution." He set down the round fan and stood up. "Spend these next few days catching up with your sister. It won't be easy for you to see each other again in the future."
Zhuo Ying watched Fang Zhu's retreating figure disappear around the corner of the corridor before sitting back down. She extended her right hand, still clutching the teacup, beyond the waterside railing. The teacup had long been crushed in her grip, held together only by the sheer force of her palm. With exquisite control, the fragile shards pressed against each other like knife blades, yet not a drop of tea leaked out. As her slender, beautifully veined hand gradually relaxed, the teacup split into six or seven pieces. The clear tea and delicate porcelain shimmered under the moonlight before scattering into the Shuangping Lake.
Father, the situation around you remains unclear. I wish to stay in Tianqi. The words seemed to echo from her own mouth years ago. Fang Zhu strolled along the winding waterside pavilion, closing his eyes as if in pain.
"Duo Han has been a wolf cub since childhood, never bound by anything," the golden-haired young man mused. "But hearing Your Highness say so—a wolf cub raised in a fox den for fifteen years—I truly wish to see it for myself." "If the timing aligns, these two fine gyrfalcons are sure to confront your younger brother," the Prince of Chang replied, the shimmering waterlight reflecting on his face.
"What a pity I cannot witness it in person," the Left Pudu King said with a sidelong smile. "I must hurry west through the Mohe Pass to assess the situation with Jiaman along the way." The Prince of Chang knew well that there had long been friction between the Left Pudu King, Duo Luo, and the Right Pudu King, Erji. Suspecting Duo Luo was eager to return to Huku without leaving traces, the Prince chuckled lightly. "Then, on the night of the new moon this month, we shall await good news together." The Left Pudu King concealed his golden hair and face beneath his shawl, gazing toward the imperial city over ten miles away. Perched atop the mountain peak, the imperial city was visible from anywhere in Tianqi, its palaces winding like a string of pearls.
Towers and pavilions veiled in layers of mist stretched for miles. Countless rooftops of blue-gold glazed tiles undulated under the moonlight like a silent emerald sea, with occasional glints of gold dust at the crests—the gilded eyes of the ridge-devouring beasts.
The third watch had just sounded. Six zhang above the ground, on the double-eaved hip-and-gable roof of the Ningtai Gate, Haishi sat comfortably in youthful attire, knees drawn to her chest, her chin resting on them. She watched the night watchmen and patrolling Imperial Guards pass below, none suspecting that someone was idly seated atop the gate's eaves. The Ningtai Gate was the central axis dividing the inner palace from the outer court. From there, the winding corridors and soaring eaves of the eastern and western six palaces were clearly visible.The sound of carriage wheels and hoofbeats echoed from outside the southwestern corner gate—the icekeepers responsible for the imperial ice reserves were transporting ice extracted from the glacier beneath the Darkmist Mountains into the palace, taking advantage of the cool night. Haishi moved lightly, leaping and darting along the ridge of the Ningtai Gate’s roof, then vaulting upward, soundlessly traversing the gaps between palace rooftops until she vanished into the layered eaves of the Weiyang Palace. From there, she looked down upon the road leading from the southwestern corner gate toward the imperial kitchens. The mule-drawn ice carts were escorted by several Imperial Guards, with the icekeepers following alongside. At a fork in the road, one of the icekeepers broke away from the group and headed northwest. Strangely, none of the guards seemed to notice, and the other icekeepers continued on toward the imperial kitchens without batting an eye.
Haishi’s ink-black eyes shifted, tracking the lone icekeeper’s path. That road led only to the Phoenix Roost Palace and the Peaceful Healing Palace. The Phoenix Roost Palace had stood empty ever since the incident involving Princess Yanling, while the Peaceful Healing Palace was the residence of the Consort of Graceful Endurance, Princess Tilan of Zhu Zhen.
The Peaceful Healing Palace was still lit, its crimson and purple gossamer curtains—styled in the fashion of Zhu Zhen—fluttering in the wind.
Haishi slipped out from beneath the eaves, leaped onto the roof of the Weiyang Palace, and sped toward the Peaceful Healing Palace.
The man dressed as an icekeeper reached a side gate of the palace, glanced briefly around, and reached out to push the door open. Just then, a night bird startled from the palace wall. He glanced sideways as an unidentified bird flapped noisily into the distance, leaving behind a cold, slender crescent moon hanging in the silent night. He let out a soft sigh of relief, pushed open the slightly ajar gate, closed it behind him, and without further hesitation, took a familiar path through the garden. He passed beneath the corridors of the Peaceful Healing Palace, skirted the side hall where the palace attendants took turns on duty, and headed straight for a small pavilion.
The palace maid at the pavilion’s entrance seemed unsurprised by the icekeeper’s late-night visit. After a brief curtsy, she stepped aside to let him in.
“Zhenchu!” a slightly husky woman’s voice called out his courtesy name. Before he could react, the sound of soft, bare feet pattering across dark ebony floors reached his ears, and in the next moment, a woman in resplendent robes flew into his arms like a butterfly.
“Tilan, you’re always so careless,” the man murmured with a slight frown, though his eyes held no reproach.
The Consort of Graceful Endurance smiled, her red lips and pearly teeth glowing with warmth. “The last time General Tang came to Tianqi… let me think,” she tilted her head, her raven-black hair cascading down, “that was the summer of the year before last. If I were any more cautious, I might grow old before I ever see you again.” Her playful tone gradually gave way to sorrow, and a shadow of melancholy crossed her face.
Tang Qianzhi smiled helplessly. “Look at you—nearly thirty, yet still as childish as ever. You haven’t matured a bit over the years.” The window was half-open, the layers of crimson and purple gossamer curtains billowing gently. Beneath the eaves, beside the ornate brackets, a slender figure hung upside down in the shadows. It was Haishi.
So that’s how it is, Haishi thought, her dark brows lifting slightly. Tang Qianzhi was a general stationed at the border. Whenever he returned to the capital, he was inevitably caught up in a whirl of banquets and social engagements. Meeting officials at court would hardly be difficult for him. For him to take such risks to deliver a message in the court assembly—if it wasn’t to meet with court officials, then it must be to rendezvous with someone inside the inner palace.Hai Shi had heard of it before. In earlier years, following the old customs between the two kingdoms, the people of Zhuan had sent Princess Zizan, demanding a prince in exchange to be taken back to Zhuan as a hostage. At that time, it so happened that Prince Chang’s mother, Consort Nie, had lost her struggle for favor to Prince Yun’s mother, Consort Song. Thus, the eleven-year-old Prince Chang, Ji Chang, was sent to Zhuan, accompanied only by elderly or very young palace attendants. According to protocol, a prince’s departure required an escort of five thousand Imperial Forest Cavalry and five thousand soldiers. However, the Ministry of War, under Consort Song’s direction, selected the lowest-ranked candidate from that year’s Imperial Guard examinations—a fifteen-year-old youth—and mockingly appointed him to the position of five thousand cavalry commander, assigning him five thousand raw recruits to escort Prince Chang to Zhuan. The prince’s entourage was so pitiful that it resembled exile, and even the Zhuan envoys dared to berate the prince. A month after Prince Chang’s departure, the Imperial Guard’s military strategy examination papers were unsealed, revealing that the youth who had been mockingly appointed as the five thousand cavalry commander, Tang Qianzi, had actually achieved the highest score in the written examination. By then, it was too late to recall him.
Three years later, Prince Yi rebelled, and the Prince of Fenyang, who was Prince Chang’s maternal uncle and Consort Nie’s brother, joined the rebellion. Ji Chang immediately sent a letter from Zhuan to Zhong Xu, earnestly declaring his unwavering loyalty. Over the next eight years, a steady stream of provisions and intelligence was sent from Zhuan through the Yingge Strait to Hanzhou, providing significant assistance. After Emperor Xu ascended the throne, Prince Chang returned from Zhuan, accompanied by the princess Ti Lan, whom Zhuan had offered as tribute, and the five thousand cavalry commander Tang Qianzi. Even though his rank had not been promoted in ten years, a twenty-five-year-old five thousand cavalry commander was still considered young. The twenty-one-year-old Prince Chang was almost still a youth, spending his days indulging in frivolous pleasures. The court officials who had once held high hopes for Ji Chang were quickly disappointed. During the eight years of turmoil, it was said that the provisions and secret reports that had alleviated urgent crises were all managed single-handedly by Tang Qianzi.
Inside the room, murmuring voices could be heard. Hai Shi shifted slightly, peering through the gap in the gauze curtains.
Tang Qianzi was invited to sit on the low couch, but Ti Lan, as if unable to bear the heat, sat barefoot on the floor, resting her head on his knees. "Zhen Chu, you must be careful these days. That person… he has become increasingly bizarre. If you stand out too much, he might…" "You need not trouble yourself with these matters. Just live your life well, so I can be at ease," Tang Qianzi said, stroking Ti Lan’s thick, dark, and cool hair.
Ti Lan lifted her head urgently, her eyes fixed on him. "You don’t understand, Zhen Chu. That person is no longer human. I—" Her lips trembled, and she could not finish her sentence. Instead, she lifted the sleeve of her cyan and crimson Zhuan silk robe, revealing pale arms covered in dark bruises.
"You…" Tang Qianzi’s fists clenched abruptly at his sides.
"I'm afraid, Zhenchu," Tilan finally sobbed aloud. "I'm afraid of dying. I'm afraid I'll die while you're still alive, or that you'll die while I'm still living. I'm afraid that after enduring for fourteen years, we still won't end up together." She suddenly clung to Tang Qianzi's shoulder and, weeping, bit down hard—not in a playful or angry manner, but with a fierce determination, the kind of bite meant to leave a scar.
He was not a robust military man; though he had served in the army for years, he had never wielded a sword. His slender shoulders were like those of a young scholar. Yet he gritted his teeth and endured, letting her bite as she wished.
"Day and night, I pray to the Dragon-Tail God, fearing she won't grant me that blessing." Tilan released her bite, her tear-streaked, delicate face buried in his shoulder, her dark hair covering half her body as she spoke in broken fragments: "I hate you. I hate that you handed me over to that man with your own hands." "Do you regret it? Regret coming to the Eastern Continent with me?" Tang Qianzi grasped Tilan's shoulders, turning her face to his.
"I regret it." Tilan's lips, stained with tears, were crimson and glistening. "I should have cut off your legs and kept you in Zhuni." "It's almost time, Tilan. Almost. The goshawk should have been delivered to Prince Chang's residence tonight. Once that man is dead, I will never owe you anything again." A fierce flame ignited in Tilan's eyes, mingling sorrow and joy. "Zhenchu, that man... will he really die?" "He will," he assured her.
—The "that man" in Tilan's words—Haishi suddenly realized with a shock that the "that man" Tilan spoke of was Emperor Xu.
Haishi stealthily returned to Jifeng Hall and saw that the lamp in Fang Zhu's room was still lit. As she raised her hand to knock, she hesitated. While she wavered, the calm voice from inside asked, "What is it?" She steeled herself and pushed the door open, only to find Zhuoying there as well, which eased her embarrassment slightly.
After listening to Haishi's account, Fang Zhu's expression remained unchanged as he said calmly, "Tang Qianzi is wasted as a military general. Prince Chang harbors rebellious intentions, and Tang Qianzi has served him for eleven years as a key supporter. Without him, their rebellion would be impossible. That's why I earlier instructed you to keep an eye on him. Now that the situation has changed, even if I send you a message from the capital after you return to Huangquan Pass, there's no need to take action against him. Even if he doesn't die, their plan will fail. You may leave now; Zhuoying and I have matters to discuss." Haishi, prideful and holding back tears, bowed without a word and left. Her footsteps grew increasingly hurried, unable to contain her agitation, until she was almost running out of Fang Zhu's courtyard.
Zhuoying heard everything clearly and felt a pang of sympathy. "Foster Father, if we don't tell Haishi about this, what if..." Fang Zhu interrupted him. "Haishi is too straightforward; if she shows any signs, it could be disastrous. You are returning to Hanzhou—this is a rare opportunity, and you must not mishandle it. Your elder brother, the Left Pudu King, and your uncle, the Right Pudu King Erji, have always been at odds. Your return could tip the scales, and I will send people to assist you." "...Understood," Zhuoying replied, though he seemed to have more to say but held back.Fang Zhu smiled faintly and patted Zhuo Ying’s shoulder. “As for Zheliu, I will take care of her and ensure she is not wronged.” Zhuo Ying nodded deeply and said, “I swear to fulfill my duty without fail.” Fang Zhu smiled again, his refined face as youthful as a boy’s. “This is also your own path to tread. Remember, on the first day of this month, you and I will be on duty at the Golden City Palace.” “Foster Father—” Zhuo Ying hesitated before stepping out the door and suddenly said, “Hai Shi, she… she to you…” The dignified and gentle man in white robes did not let him continue, shaking his head with a bitter smile. “Zhuo Ying, I am already like this. Why drag a child into it?” Zhuo Ying was stunned for a moment, then hastily bowed and hurried out the door to search for Hai Shi.
When he found Hai Shi, she was lying on the rooftop. Hearing him approach, she kept her eyes closed. She couldn’t possibly be asleep—just sulking. The uneven, cold, and hard glazed tiles were difficult to lie on comfortably, let alone sleep on, unless one was a martial artist like them.
Zhuo Ying wasted no words. He untied a silver flask from his side and shook it in front of Hai Shi’s face. Without opening her eyes, Hai Shi reached out, grabbed the flask, unscrewed it, and took a long, hearty drink. After exhaling contentedly, she squinted at Zhuo Ying and gave him a radiant smile.
Zhuo Ying lay down beside her and asked, “What’s wrong?” “It’s nothing,” Hai Shi replied softly. “It’s just that I overheard Consort Shu Rong say something earlier, and it suddenly made me feel stifled.” Zhuo Ying took the flask and drained it in one go. “What did she say?” “Consort Shu Rong told General Tang that she hated him for personally handing her over to someone else. I can’t help but feel that Foster Father will eventually do the same to me—hand me over to someone else.” Zhuo Ying turned to look at her, but Hai Shi closed her eyes again as if overwhelmed by the alcohol. He watched as the moon gradually sank westward, now a slender hook faintly visible among the trees—the new moon was approaching.
The next day, Zhuo Ying went to the Weaving Workshop to visit Zheliu. The flowering season was nearing its end, and the trees were ablaze with fiery blooms. The small courtyard had not been swept for days, and layers of fallen petals piled up like brocade outside the tightly closed door. Zheliu had been taken to Prince Chang’s residence several days earlier to teach embroidery and had not yet returned.
Another day passed, and for some reason, Fang Zhu suddenly felt like drinking. He sent Zhuo Ying to the Tihu Tower in the western part of the city to buy a jar of Thousand-Year Emerald. Before Zhuo Ying left, Fang Zhu reminded him, “Uncle Shi is sending someone to Prince Chang’s residence today to bring Zheliu back to the palace. Go quickly and return soon. If you don’t see her today, it may be even harder in the future.” Zhuo Ying acknowledged the instruction and hurriedly left. He saddled his favorite horse, Wind Steed, from the stables and galloped straight toward the nearest Chui Hua Gate.
The twelve imperial guards stationed at Chui Hua Gate heard the thunderous sound of hooves approaching from the palace and turned to see what was happening. Before they could react, the rider was already upon them, sweeping past like a gust of wind and lightning, narrowly missing a small blue-cloth mule cart at the gate.Hearing the commotion of shouts and horses from outside, the carriage occupant lifted the curtain. An elderly palace attendant hurried forward to support her hand, asking, "Embroidery Master, were you startled?" Pomegranate shook her head with a light laugh. "It's nothing. What just happened?" "Oh, this old servant doesn’t understand either. These young imperial guards nowadays are becoming more and more unruly." A guard interjected, "Madam, it’s not that we neglect our duties. That was Commander Wanqi Fang of the Feather Forest Guard, permitted by imperial decree to ride within the palace grounds." Pomegranate smiled faintly. "Aunt Su, let it be. He likely has urgent matters to attend to. Let’s go." The elderly palace attendant steadied Pomegranate’s hands. "Come, Embroidery Master, we’ve reached Chuihua Gate. Non-imperial carriages cannot enter the palace. Allow me to escort you inside."
After seeing Pomegranate to the detached courtyard, the elderly attendant began to grumble again. "These flowers scattered all over the ground are simply disgraceful." Insisting on settling Pomegranate on a stone bench in the courtyard, she took up a fine broom and began sweeping the grounds, leaving Pomegranate no choice but to comply. The weather was clear that day, with bees and butterflies flitting about. Occasionally, tiny petals found their way into the collar of Pomegranate’s dress. She would lower her delicate, lotus-petal-like face, gently stroking the back of her neck as if tickled by the sensation.
Hearing footsteps approaching, she turned her head in surprise. After a moment’s thought, a puzzled expression crossed her face. "You are...?" "In a few days, this pomegranate tree will likely begin to bear fruit, won’t it?" The visitor’s voice was warm and mellow, as soothing as a spring breeze. Pomegranate felt the voice was familiar but couldn’t quite place it.
"This pomegranate tree is of the Thousand-Petal Red variety. Pomegranates with many petals seldom bear fruit, and even if they do, the fruit will have no seeds," Pomegranate replied respectfully. Suddenly, she covered her mouth lightly and hurriedly stood up to bow. "Steward Fang, I apologize for my rudeness." "There’s no need for formality," Fang Zhu replied with a soft laugh, followed by a gentle sigh. "So, these countless red blossoms will have bloomed in vain all summer." Unsure how to respond, Pomegranate lowered her head.
"Miss Pomegranate." "Yes," she replied, lifting her head in confusion.
"Zhuoying’s life is in imminent danger," he said, his voice calm and elegant, betraying no emotion.
Pomegranate’s delicate hands, resting on her skirt, tightened silently.
"As the youngest son of the Crane Treasury King and Princess Hongyao, his striking resemblance to the Crane Treasury King alone qualifies him to inherit the throne. Now, Prince Chang has conspired with Zhuoying’s own brother, the Left Pudu King of Crane Treasury, to expose his identity and use the Emperor’s hand to eliminate him." Pomegranate’s light tea-colored pupils remained fixed on Fang Zhu, as if her blind eyes could still discern something from his face.
"I want Zhuoying to return to Hanzhou and seek refuge with his uncle. But he is a sentimental fool—he says he won’t go without you. However, the road ahead is perilous. Even with his exceptional martial skills, he may barely protect himself. I fear this child has resolved to throw his life away." He spoke unhurriedly, as if not expecting a reply, and then fell silent for a long while.
A scorching wind swept through, carrying withered red petals and broken greenery, weaving a tapestry of desolation. The accumulated carnelian-like double petals swirled and danced in the low whirlwind, like a silent red wave lapping at her skirt. Pomegranate turned calmly toward Fang Zhu, who noticed a resolute smile gracing the blind girl’s lips.
"Steward Fang, I know what to do." "You know?" He raised an eyebrow."Please just convey this message to him from me—if he does not value his own life, then Zheliu's death will have been in vain." Fang Zhu did not reply, only nodded as if she could truly see him, then turned and left.
Zheliu waited until his footsteps faded into the distance before calling out, "Aunt Su?" A clattering sound echoed, like a broom falling to the ground, and the elderly palace maid emerged trembling from behind the house, empty-handed. For a long moment, she could not speak, merely kneeling before Zheliu.
"Don't worry, Aunt Su. I will not drag you into this. While no one is around, please leave quickly." Zheliu smiled, her expression full of apology.
The old palace maid hesitated briefly before rushing out the door, stumbling along the way and causing the door to slam shut with a metallic clang.
Zheliu groped her way to close the courtyard gate and walked back toward the house. Behind her, the scorching wind stirred the lonely, fiery red blossoms in the yard.
The tavern at Tihu Tower was staffed entirely by foreign women, and the wines bore poetic names like "Green Waist," "War Drum," and "Barbarian Spin." Fang Zhu had specifically requested "Thousand-Year Emerald," though it was not listed among the wines on the tavern's signboard. Inside, a red-haired foreign woman was bent over her accounts. When Zhuoying asked for a jar of Thousand-Year Emerald, she lazily glanced up, the golden hairpin in her Huiku-style bun swaying gracefully, adorned with strings of garnet and peridot that shimmered brilliantly. The woman turned to call for a server to select a good jar, then returned to her accounts, the clinking of gold pieces filling the air as she whispered, "Duohan Ersa." Zhuoying's heart jolted. Duohan was his Huiku name, and Ersa was the respectful title the Huiku people used for their young master. It had been fifteen years since anyone had addressed him this way. He spoke, but the Huiku words that came out felt foreign and hesitant even to himself. "Are you from Duoluo's side?" The woman lifted her striking green eyes, then quickly lowered them again. "Left Pudun King would sooner avoid Duohan Ersa than send someone to find you. It is Right Pudun King who ordered us to await your arrival here." "Uncle Erji..." Zhuoying was overwhelmed with emotion. If even his own brother lacked familial affection, what could he expect from an uncle? At best, he was nothing more than a hunting dog or a pawn.
The server brought the wine and securely tied it to Zhuoying's horse.
The foreign woman weighed a pinch of gold dust on a scale and whispered, "Inside the jar's clay seal is a map of rendezvous points where you can exchange horses. Please ensure you reach beyond Mohe Pass by mid-August. Once you cross the pass, someone will escort you through the Jian Kingdom back to Huiku." Zhuoying nodded, then frowned slightly as he weighed the change in gold pieces. "Eight qian of gold for a jar of wine?" The woman covered her mouth and laughed, switching to the official language and raising her voice. "Young master, you must come from a wealthy family and seldom venture out. In the past, gold ingots were rare, but since the treasury began distributing relief funds, gold has flooded the streets like water and is no longer scarce. Nowadays, one ingot of gold only exchanges for forty-two silver ingots, and even at this rate, who knows how long it will last?" Zhuoying did not argue with her. He mounted his horse outside and, seeing the sun high in the sky, realized Zheliu must have already returned to the palace from Prince Chang's residence. He urged his horse forward and swiftly disappeared down the street. The server was still marveling at the scene when he suddenly heard the neighing of a horse. Zhuoying galloped back, casually tossing the packet of gold dust and two additional gold ingots onto the counter from outside the tavern. His figure flashed in and out again, and he remounted his horse and sped away. The foreign woman raised her hand absently to tidy her disheveled hair, only to realize her hairpin was gone, and the sound of hoofbeats had already faded into the distance.The summer flowers had reached the peak of their splendor, now lingering at the edge of decline. As Zhuoying rode past, a trail of falling petals danced against the clear blue sky. He urged his horse on, lash after lash, thinking only of returning to the palace as soon as possible—Zheliu, Zheliu.
As he passed through the Chuihua Gate, a wooden cart suddenly emerged from within. By then, his steed was already galloping at a breathtaking speed, making it impossible to avoid a collision. The guards at the gate and the cart-pusher scattered in panic, shouting in alarm. Frowning, Zhuoying released the reins, allowing the horse to find its own path. With a powerful leap, it cleared the wooden cart, dashed through the gate, and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
“That was close, too close,” gasped one of the guards who had fallen to the ground. He propped himself up against the cart and suddenly cried out, “Heavens! What is this?!” The white cloth covering the cart had been pulled aside, revealing a corpse—a small, emaciated figure with withered skin, dressed in palace attire.
“Isn’t this the old woman who served the embroidery master? She entered the palace perfectly fine this morning—how could she be dead by noon?” The eunuch pushing the cart replied with a mournful expression, “Who knows? She fell on the dozen or so steps beneath the Changqi Pavilion and broke her neck. Not a sound was heard. By the time we found her, she was long gone.” Zhuoying stabled his horse, broke the clay seal on a jar, retrieved a map, and tucked it into his robes before sprinting toward the Weaving Workshop. Haishi called out to him, but he had no time to respond—Zheliu.
Years had passed since their last meeting, and there was no certainty they would ever meet again in this lifetime. He knew her temperament—upright, transparent, and not one to cause others worry. There was no need for him to remind her to dress warmly, eat well, or fret less. Zheliu could take care of herself perfectly well. Yet, he needed to hear her promise him in person, to make this farewell complete. Even if he had to wait, he would cling to the memory of this one last admonition.
The courtyard gate was locked from the inside. After several knocks went unanswered, Zhuoying pressed one hand against the wall and, with a slight exertion, vaulted over it as lightly as a swallow. Haishi arrived moments later, halting before the courtyard wall, her hands on her knees as she gasped for breath. Her face, tilted upward, bore an expression of profound anguish, yet she remained motionless for a long while. Before her stood nothing but a plain white wall, from behind which a pomegranate tree extended its branches. This flower tree, unique to the Eastern Continent, stood silently beneath the deep blue sky, holding aloft a blaze of fiery red blossoms, indifferent to the wind that swept past. It was serene and beautiful, to the point of being startling.
Haishi let out a long breath, as if trying to expel the heavy burden weighing on her heart.
The small courtyard was deathly still. Fallen petals drifted about in chaotic disarray, as though aware that from now on, no one would care for them.
From noon until dusk, the sky transformed layer by layer, deepening into indigo, brushed with vibrant orange, and tinged with fading crimson and purple, until finally, it turned completely black.
At last, the sound of the door bolt sliding echoed. Haishi, who had been sitting with her back against the door, sprang to her feet and turned around as the door swung open before her. Zhuoying stood there, his military attire still impeccably neat, without a single crease. Only his dark, gold-flecked eyes seemed clouded with dust. Haishi handed him the sword she had been holding and said, “The night watch bell has tolled. It’s time for your duty.” Zhuoying took the sword in silence, gently pushing the blade an inch out of its scabbard with his thumb. He raised it before his eyes, as if seeking to glimpse his own reflection in the watery steel.
The stars scattered across the sky like a tray full of silver sand, yet there was no moon—tonight was the night of the new moon.
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