When Pei Zhaoye saw her for the first time, he knew she was a beauty.

He just hadn’t expected her to be this beautiful.

The world was already deep in autumn, yet she stood there like a blaze of spring colors, vivid and dazzling all the way into his eyes.

“Your aim is so poor. You should step closer before throwing. Want to try again?”

Pei Zhaoye picked up the cane from the ground and spun it lightly between his fingers. Holding the cane, the young bandit chief smiled as he walked toward them.

…Such a strong sense of pressure.

Chang Jun couldn’t help swallowing.

Both being trained fighters, he could tell that although this man’s posture was relaxed, his steps were steady, his back broad, his waist narrow, and his explosive power surely not weak.

A man like this—if he stayed still, fine; but once he moved, he would be like a fierce tiger or wolf, hard for ordinary people to withstand.

Chang Jun, as if facing a formidable enemy, stood protectively in front of Lizhu and couldn’t help turning his head, lowering his voice to ask:

“Madam, why did you suddenly get angry? Didn’t you say before that the bigger picture matters most? They have many people, I’m afraid I alone won’t be able to handle them!”

Just a moment ago, he had still been worried that the princess might be moved by this peasant’s small acts of kindness.

Who would have thought that the next moment, the princess would suddenly flare up in anger for no reason at all.

The key was—why?

Lizhu couldn’t answer him.

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t even a big matter.

In her past life, he had never said that he liked orchids; it was only her own assumption that he did… But he could have explained, couldn’t he?

Just like Lizhu had done in the past:

“Although I don’t often use these powders, since they’re from Yinzhi, I like them all. You’re so thoughtful.”

Then, when giving gifts later on, he would know to cater to her tastes—giving scholarly treasures, ancient books, famous paintings—so that both would be pleased.

——Were words like that really so hard to say?

If even such a small thing he would hide from her, how many other things had he hidden? She didn’t dare to think about it.

The sound of footsteps crunching on fallen leaves stopped in front of Chang Jun.

The man, a full head taller than Chang Jun, used the cane in his hand to nudge him aside, neither too lightly nor too heavily.

“Kind enough to save you, treat your wounds, even send a sedan chair to bring you up here—and in return, you don’t say a word before trying to hit me with my own cane. Little lady, you’ve got quite the temper.”

It seemed that within the stronghold, he didn’t wear that mask.

On his sharp, striking face was only a red headband. His skin was cool and pale, making that headband appear even brighter—red as if it had drunk in the color of the whole autumn.

Lizhu lowered her eyes and reached out to take the cane he handed over, only to realize that he had no intention of letting go at all.

Chang Jun’s breath caught in his throat; his hand tightened on the sword hilt.

Yet Lizhu’s expression remained calm.

“…I didn’t hold it steady. It wasn’t on purpose.” She spoke with confidence.

Pei Zhaoye looked at her for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Then suddenly, he smiled.

He lowered his eyes to the hand with which Lizhu was tightly gripping the cane and asked the subordinate behind him,

“Qiu Er, have I been in too good a temper lately? Even a delicate young lady raised behind deep boudoir walls isn’t afraid of me now?”

Qiu Er looked awkward and didn’t dare to respond.

“…The mountain lord is broad-minded and acts with his own code, not like those rough men of the wild who only know how to kill and plunder. Now that I share the same enemy as the mountain lord, we’re like grasshoppers tied to the same rope—why should I fear you?”

Lifting her gaze, Lizhu calmly met his eyes.

“The same enemy?” Pei Zhaoye’s tone was ambiguous, as though he didn’t understand what she meant.

Lizhu tilted her head to look at him. “Did the mountain lord investigate the ones who hunted me yesterday?”

“Why should I investigate them?” Pei Zhaoye smiled. “Those people wanted to kill you, not me. What does it have to do with me?”

Seeing his indifference, Lizhu’s tone grew firmer. She gripped the cane and pulled him toward her.

“Have you never thought about why they chose to strike here?”

Pei Zhaoye didn’t resist, letting her pull him.

“Yushan is surrounded by water on all sides, its waterways complex. Choosing a remote wilderness like this to act is reasonable, normal.”

“Can’t you see they’re trying to frame Hongye Stronghold?”

“I can’t see it,” he said nonchalantly. “And even if they are, so what? Killing a few rich young ladies is a small case. Do you really think the authorities would go through all the trouble to storm Yushan?”

“How could this be a small case, I—” Lizhu’s voice abruptly stopped.

The next moment, however, he suddenly moved like a snake climbing up the staff, his sharp gaze seeming to strip her bare.

“If it’s not a small case, then what is it? Little lady, could it be that you have some extraordinary identity—or some hidden secret behind you?”

…Despicable!

Lizhu then realized he had been retreating only to advance, waiting to trick her into revealing something.

In the past, she had thought her husband was clever and insightful—but only now did she see that this cleverness, when turned on her, was cunning and deceitful.

That she was the Princess of Qinghe was not something that could be casually revealed.

No matter how much she trusted the Pei Yinzhi she had once known, the man before her now bore the title of Yushan’s Hongye Stronghold Lord.

If he discovered that the woman he had captured was not a merchant’s daughter but a princess deeply favored by the Emperor—

Lizhu couldn’t predict what he might do, nor would she let herself fall into such a passive position.

“I’m not called ‘little lady.’”

Lizhu spoke with mild anger, fixing her gaze on him as she said each word clearly:

“My name is Shen Lizhu—Lizhu, as in ‘seeking the dragon to find the pearl.’”

Pei Zhaoye rubbed his chin, studying her expression.

“Real name or fake name?”

There were fewer than ten people in the world who knew the personal name of the Princess of Qinghe. “Shen” was a common surname, and even among Luoyang’s common folk, there were plenty of Shen families, so Lizhu wasn’t afraid he would connect it to anything.

She gave a cold, disdainful snort.

“I walk upright and act honestly, not one of those petty villains who need to hide behind false names.”

Pei Zhaoye raised an eyebrow.

Though he didn’t quite understand why she was speaking with such a strange, biting tone, that word “petty villain” seemed to carry some hidden meaning.

Just as he was about to say something, a long, lingering growl of hunger—clear and resonant—cut him off mid-thought.

The young girl who had moments ago stood toe-to-toe with him in momentum now had her snow-white face gradually turning pink under his gaze.

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Hungry?”

“……”

Why did her stomach have to growl now? How was she supposed to continue negotiating like this?

Before Lizhu could gather her composure and pretend nothing had happened, Pei Zhaoye had already released his hold on the cane.

He tilted his head and crook his finger toward the subordinate named Qiu Er.

“Tell the kitchen to send some food.”

Still holding the pot of orchids, Qiu Er glanced at Lizhu, then at his master, hesitating.

“That leek and egg stir-fry, shall I still fry—”

Pei Zhaoye turned his head with a smile.

“Fry it. Along with your stupid brain, how about that?”

Qiu Er quickly set down the flower pot and withdrew at once.

Not long after, the kitchen sent up dishes. Though they weren’t as refined as the food served in the palace, after tasting a bite, Lizhu found it much better than she had imagined.

She lifted her gaze slightly, glancing at Pei Zhaoye across the dining table.

That previous topic couldn’t be continued—if he caught even the slightest hint and pressed further, her identity would no longer be safe.

She had to throw him off balance first.

“…Earlier, why did you say Pei Yinzhi was a…bastard? Do you know him?”

The hand holding the bamboo chopsticks paused.

“You also have the surname Pei,” Lizhu blinked. “What’s your relation to him?”

Pei Zhaoye broke into a smile. “I’m his father.”

Lizhu: “……”

Chang Jun, furious, covered Lizhu’s ears.

“Vulgar words of the marketplace! How dare you sully Madam’s ears!”

She’d heard far coarser things from him yesterday; this hardly counted for anything.

“All right, all right, it’s fine,” Lizhu said, moving Chang Jun’s hand away.

Pei Zhaoye’s gaze drifted faintly over their joined hands.

Lizhu spoke to him: “Your nonsense is useless. It’s not hard to guess—since you share the same surname and bear enmity with him, you must be an unvalued collateral branch of the Pei clan, cast out by your kin and thus forced into banditry. Isn’t that right?”

Pei Zhaoye focused on picking up food, neither confirming nor denying.

“You’re still worried that when I go down the mountain and meet Pei Yinzhi, I’ll join hands with him to take revenge on your Hongye Stronghold, aren’t you?”

Lizhu felt that her reasoning made perfect sense.

Even if the Pei clan of Yiling had fallen into decline, rummaging through their family tree would still turn up a few relatives who held official posts.

No matter the rank, high or low, what bandit wasn’t afraid of officials?

Across from her, the young bandit chief held his chopsticks, his knuckles resting lightly against his cheek as he watched her analyze with amusement that was half a smile, half not.

“Indeed,” he drawled slowly, “I’m terrified.”

“Don’t worry,” she said sincerely, eyes darting slyly. “Even if I go down the mountain, I won’t report you to the authorities. You saved me, how could I repay kindness with betrayal?”

Seeing he didn’t respond, she went on, her tone softening: “If you really don’t trust me, I’m not in a hurry to leave. As long as you help me find my attendants, even if I have to stay here for one or two months, I don’t mind.”

Without even lifting his head, Pei Zhaoye picked food from the plate.

“So, you want to take refuge on my turf and even have me help you look for people. You’re quite good at calculating.”

Caught so bluntly, Lizhu didn’t bother pretending anymore.

“I’m just a weak woman. Along the road I got separated from my attendants, then nearly killed for my wealth. Now I have no one to rely on, and my life or death rests entirely on the mountain lord’s whim. What’s wrong with planning for myself?”

“If the mountain lord feels he’s at a loss, I can guarantee with my life—once I return home safely, I’ll pay the mountain lord a heavy reward.”

Pei Zhaoye said lazily, “Empty promises are boring. I prefer something more practical.”

“…Didn’t you already rob all the cargo from my boat? Isn’t that practical enough!”

Lizhu slammed her chopsticks down in anger.

“That doesn’t count. What I took by skill can only be considered the price of saving your life. Our Hongye Stronghold may covet wealth but not women—but since you’re penniless and still asking favors of us, then there’s only…”

“Wait, wait.” Lizhu straightened, her tone firm. “Who said I’m penniless?”

About half an hour later.

The second-in-command Gu Bing’an, the third-in-command Danzhu, and a group of curious bandits had all gathered outside the mountain lord’s small building.

They’d heard that the young lady rescued yesterday was going to conjure up fifty taels of gold for the mountain lord, and everyone wanted to see how she planned to do it.

But when they arrived, there was no altar or ritual—only an unexpectedly grand sight.

In the courtyard, a calamus mat was laid out, with a lacquered wooden writing desk placed atop it. On the desk, a Boshan censer sent fragrant smoke curling through the air. The delicate young lady sat before it, while her thin, small attendant sat properly at her side, grinding ink for her with great care.

“We agreed,” Lizhu said, “that if I can produce fifty gold taels, you’ll help me search for my attendants.”

Pei Zhaoye nodded slightly.

“Show me first, then we’ll talk.”

Lizhu lifted her gaze and glanced at Gu Bing’an.

She had heard that no one wanted the crate of scholarly goods taken from the river barge, and that they’d ended up in his hands. It seemed he was the only one in the stronghold who could appreciate such things.

Thank goodness there was at least one person here who could.

Taking a deep breath, Lizhu shut out the noise around her and focused her mind, her brush descending calmly upon the silk scroll.

Gu Bing’an had originally only come to deliver the writing set and watch the commotion.

But the moment Lizhu wrote the first character, he thought to himself: Though this young lady is a cloistered woman, her brushwork holds both strength and restraint—more composure than many seasoned scholars.

When she finished the first column, Gu Bing’an realized what she was writing: an fu, a rhapsody—and not just any piece, but the famous “Rhapsody on the Capital of Yan” (燕都赋).

This rhapsody had been written in youth by Xie Run, father of the great scholar Xie Ji of their time.

Within it were written the sufferings of the people of Nanyong, displaced and fleeing south, their sorrow as they looked north toward the eleven lost provinces, and the youthful fervor burning to reclaim the northern lands.

Not only was the prose grand and stirring, its cadence powerful and moving, but the calligraphy itself was exquisite—every stroke and dot perfectly balanced, flowing with natural grace.

Danzhu nudged Gu Bing’an with his elbow.

“You know the art, what do you think of her writing?”

Gu Bing’an only glanced briefly before saying, “This piece is one that every student of calligraphy practices. Countless copies exist across the land. If she plans to earn fifty gold with this, I fear she won’t even recover the cost of the silk.”

But Pei Zhaoye wasn’t looking at the words.

The young girl held her brush suspended in the air, writing with unwavering concentration. A faint sheen of sweat formed at her temples, yet her posture—trained since childhood—did not waver in the slightest.

The curve of her neck was gently lowered, her slender wrist moving in elegant rhythm.

From her brush flowed graceful characters; her calm and composed manner seemed almost unearthly—like an immortal born of ink fragrance, untouched by the dust of the mortal world.

Lizhu set down her brush.

“Second Commander Gu,” she said with a small smile, “I’ll leave it to you to judge whether this piece is worth anything.”

Gu Bing’an stepped forward from the crowd.

He studied the work intently for a few breaths, then lifted his head.

“Are you Xie Run himself?”

Lizhu blinked. “Do I look that old?”

Yet this version clearly carried more of Master Xie’s spirit than any copy circulated in the bookshops!

Gu Bing’an looked it over from left to right and shook his head.

“If I hadn’t seen you write it with my own eyes, I would’ve sworn it was Master Xie’s original. Take it to any bookshop, and not just fifty gold—someone would pay a hundred for it.”

Naturally, Master Xie’s original Rhapsody on the Capital of Yan hung in her own palace. In her past life, she had copied it countless times.

Perhaps even Master Xie himself could no longer reproduce such a perfect copy, but she could.

Straightening her sleeves, Lizhu sat a little taller and turned to Pei Zhaoye with a bright smile.

“Your Second Commander already said this piece is valuable. You can’t go back on your word now…”

Halfway through her words, a man’s presence pressed close beside her.

He was near enough that the thin braid falling from his shoulder brushed against her sleeve, the golden clasp at its end swaying lightly and carrying with it a faint cool scent of mint.

Yet his body heat was searing—

So hot that even her breathing unconsciously quickened.

Holding the silk scroll, he gazed at it for a long moment before finally shifting his eyes downward, fixing them on Lizhu’s face.

“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “I never break my word.”

Lizhu’s smile froze.

She couldn’t relax.

That look in his eyes—

From her hands, sweeping up to her face—

She knew then, there was no longer any danger of him wanting to kill her, because—

What he wanted was her.