The room, once the lamp was extinguished, sank into pitch darkness.

Lying almost pressed against the wall, Fan Changyu half-opened her eyes to glance at the man beside her.

Mn, Xie Zheng was practically sleeping on the edge of the bed.

She shut her eyes again, too lazy to care whether he was comfortable or not. She had already stated repeatedly that she would not harbor any improper thoughts toward him, and had even left him ample space. Yet after getting into bed, he said nothing and still chose to sleep clinging to the very edge.

Such a posture of avoiding her as though she carried plague—wasn’t it as if he feared she might covet his beauty?

Fan Changyu turned her body toward the wall to sleep, thinking that with that rotten temper of his, even if he looked like an immortal man, she wouldn’t care for him!

The “immortal man,” Xie Zheng, was lying there with his eyes closed, feigning sleep. The person inside suddenly turned over, and the bit of quilt he had barely been holding onto was immediately swept away.

The chill of the night seeped through the thin layer of his clothing straight into his skin. Xie Zheng lifted his eyelids and glanced inward. Under the thick quilt, Fan Changyu’s figure formed a small raised outline—most of the blanket was spread across the middle of the bed.

If he wanted any of the quilt back, he would have to move closer, but that would surely wake Fan Changyu.

Her breathing was shallow; clearly, she was not yet asleep.

Xie Zheng withdrew his gaze and closed his eyes again.

Once, when he led troops beyond the frontier, he had been caught in an avalanche and survived buried beneath the snow for three days—such a trace of cold was nothing to him.

There were at least three feet of space between them, yet perhaps because what lay beneath them was a bed, a faint sense of unease lingered in his chest.

Even full-siblings, once grown, could not share the same room, let alone a man and a woman with no blood relation.

In this world, those who might lie upon the same pillow were only husband and wife.

And at this moment, the one sleeping beside his couch was this very woman.

Xie Zheng, his mind tangled by such disorderly thoughts, could not sleep at all. When he heard Fan Changyu’s breathing finally grow even and long, an unaccountable restlessness rose within him. He simply sat up halfway, leaning against the headboard to contemplate the current situation.

After a while, Fan Changyu, having slept long enough, shifted to lie flat on her back.

Hearing the movement, Xie Zheng cast her a faint glance.

She truly possessed a deceptively gentle face—when asleep, she looked entirely meek and harmless.

Yet when she was up to mischief, that same face wore the same honest, guileless expression.

Sui Yuanqing… he too must have been deceived by this look of hers, right?

At the thought of that man, Xie Zheng’s eyes darkened further.

He could not quite name the feeling—it was as though he had believed a wildflower blooming in the wasteland to be his alone, only to find that another had also set covetous eyes upon it.

A spark flared in his chest, not painful, yet burning and stifling.

He stared unblinkingly at the sleeping Fan Changyu, his gaze hidden in the dark night, growing ever harder to discern.

Perhaps sensing his stare in her dreams, Fan Changyu muttered with irritation, “Don’t care for it…”

Xie Zheng didn’t quite catch it, frowned slightly, and asked, “What?”

Fan Changyu mumbled a reply, the words so slurred that not even a single syllable could be discerned. Xie Zheng had no choice but to lean closer to listen carefully.

The chill from his body made Fan Changyu instinctively shrink away even in her sleep. As she turned over, her lips brushed faintly against the edge of his ear, and Xie Zheng froze in place.

Someone was too close—her unfamiliar breath brushed against him. Having been through so much, Fan Changyu was still somewhat vigilant. Her lashes trembled as she was about to wake, but Xie Zheng’s cool fingertips lightly pressed against the acupoint at her neck. Before her eyelids could lift, she sank back into deep slumber.

Xie Zheng rose. He didn’t light a candle; instead, using the faint reflection of snowlight filtering in from outside, he went to the table and poured two cups of cold tea, drinking them down one after another.

After finishing, he did not return to bed. He simply sat at the table, brows furrowed, his dark eyes fixed unblinkingly on the small, curved mound upon the bed, as though lost in thought.

Outside, faintly, the cry of an eagle seemed to echo in the night sky.

He lifted his eyelids and, making scarcely a sound, left the room. Climbing over the walls of the Wang family’s courtyard, he walked toward a more distant alleyway before bringing his knuckles to his lips and letting out a sharp whistle.

When a gyrfalcon delivering a message could not find its target, it would circle high in the sky, crying as it went. Only upon hearing the whistle would it follow the sound and dive downward.

In less than a moment, a pure-white gyrfalcon swept out of the night. Xie Zheng raised his right arm, and the bird’s iron-hook talons gripped his forearm steadily. After a few flaps to balance itself, it folded its wings.

Xie Zheng removed the message tied to its leg and read it under the moonlight. When he finished, the letter turned to powder between his fingertips.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · 

That same night, the prefectural office of Jizhou remained brightly lit.

Zheng Wenchang emerged from the prison, head lowered as he presented the confession from the interrogation to He Jingyuan.

“It is as my lord predicted—it was men of Prince Changxin who ambushed our troops, impersonated grain-collection officers, and went to Qingping County to levy grain. The slaughter at Ma Family Village was also the work of the rebels. I suspect that the incident in Taizhou, where the grain levy led to deaths, is likewise tied to the rebels from Chongzhou.”

He Jingyuan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing at the row of warm yellow lanterns under the eaves and the snow swirling through the night. Instead of answering directly, he said, “Wenchang, tell me—those two hundred thousand shi of grain, once handled by that merchant surnamed Zhao, where do you think they will be sent?”

Zheng Wenchang did not understand why his superior and mentor suddenly asked again about the grain, but he replied honestly: “At first, I thought it was mere merchant profiteering, but even after the levies in Tai and Ji prefectures, that merchant has not sold the two hundred thousand shi of grain at high prices. From how things stand now, it seems the rebels have a hand in it. I believe that if we raid the Zhao merchant’s household, we will surely uncover several rebel strongholds.”

He Jingyuan shook his head. “You are taking them too lightly. Tomorrow, take a look and see how much of Zhao’s business still remains within all of Jizhou Prefecture.”

Ashamed, Zheng Wenchang lowered his head. “Had I realized earlier and confiscated the Zhao merchant’s estate, such a grave incident in Qingping County would not have occurred.”

He Jingyuan said, “The fault is not yours. That the rebels could exploit this gap—this old man bears responsibility. Had I not fallen for the rebels’ ploy, intent on forcing out the buyer of that grain and allowing Wei Xuan to press the levies by force, then no matter how many spies the rebels planted in Jizhou, they could never have stirred such waves.”

Zheng Wenchang did not fully grasp his meaning and asked in confusion, “My lord, how can you bear all the blame yourself? From what I see, the initial grain purchase was the trap set by the rebels. Wei Xuan, puffed up with ambition and relying on his position as the Northwestern Military Governor, seized your official seal by force—this was never something you could have controlled.”

He Jingyuan let out a long sigh and said nothing.

This disciple of his was good in every regard—except that he was too upright, too rigid.

Whatever he saw, he believed.

There were many things that, in the end, could not be spoken too plainly.

Had that merchant surnamed Zhao not deliberately left a trace, allowing He Jingyuan to guess that the two hundred thousand shi of grain had been purchased by the Marquis of Wu’an, how could he have so mistakenly believed that the Marquis bought grain merely to trip up Wei Xuan?

In struggles among those in power, it is always the common people who suffer most.

He had allowed Wei Xuan to press for grain levies because he wanted the Marquis of Wu’an to see with his own eyes what the people of the lower ranks paid for his personal vendettas—and to know whether the Marquis was truly one of those who would stop at nothing to achieve his aims.

Yet it was precisely this act of granting freedom that had given the rebels the opening they needed.

When the people were forced into such desperation, it was the Marquis of Wu’an who had no choice but to “reveal himself,” having the old troops of Yanzhou send a military order transferring Wei Xuan away and halting the levies.

Whatever his hidden intentions, He Jingyuan had ultimately become an unwitting accomplice in the rebels’ scheme.

That day, upon going to Qingzhou and meeting the man wearing the azure ghost mask—the one who had turned the tide—He Jingyuan suddenly thought of one question.

If, from the very start, he had guessed wrong—if the Marquis of Wu’an had never intended to use the people of Tai and Ji prefectures as pawns to topple Wei Xuan—then for what purpose had he purchased those two hundred thousand shi of grain?

His eyes, long closed, snapped open.

“Jinzhou!”

Zheng Wenchang was bewildered. “My lord, what about Jinzhou?”

He Jingyuan strode swiftly back to his desk, unrolled the map of the northwest, and pointed at Jinzhou, his expression unusually grave.

“Prince Changxin has rebelled in Chongzhou, the northwest is in turmoil, and the Marquis of Wu’an is dead. Do you know what this means for the Beijue people beyond the border?”

When Zheng Wenchang grasped the implications, his scalp tingled as though it would burst.

“This is the perfect opportunity to invade the Great Yin Dynasty!”

He Jingyuan paced before the desk, hands clasped behind his back.

“Jinzhou is the gateway of Great Yin; behind it lie Huizhou and Yanzhou, forming a triangle that anchors the empire’s frontier. But all grain and provisions must be supplied by the court. Once Chongzhou rebelled, the supply lines were severed. Huizhou has no grain, how could Jinzhou have any? I was the fool! Those two hundred thousand shi of grain were never meant as a trap for Wei Xuan—they were preparation for Jinzhou’s time of need!”

At these words, Zheng Wenchang was equally astonished.

Piecing them together with what had been said before, he finally grasped the key.

“You mean… those two hundred thousand shi of grain were bought by the Marquis? When the Marquis suffered defeat on the Chongzhou battlefield, he was already anticipating the peril Jinzhou would one day face?”

He Jingyuan slowly nodded.

Zheng Wenchang said, “The Marquis had foresight beyond our reach. Now that the rebels’ schemes are undone, Huizhou is secure, and Jinzhou has grain—this should be a cause for celebration. Why then does my lord still look so troubled?”

He Jingyuan sighed. “If external threats and internal strife converge at once—how then is this game to be broken?”

Those words left Zheng Wenchang in the same bind.

There were still some things He Jingyuan did not speak aloud.

On Wei Yan’s side, there was no way they would tolerate the Marquis of Wu’an’s survival. The last time, he had meddled on the Chongzhou battlefield. If, this time, the Beijue forces and the rebels of Chongzhou were to attack the Marquis from both flanks, and the court deliberately withheld military provisions, He Jingyuan truly feared that the massacre of Jinzhou seventeen years ago would repeat itself.