At that moment, part of Tan Rong’s men were searching ahead, while another group followed close behind them, waiting like the oriole behind the mantis stalking the cicada.

At the critical moment, Gu Bing’an stood at the fork in the path, hesitating only for a moment.

“Your Highness, be careful.”

“I will!”

Lizhu lifted her legs and ran straight toward the summit.

The back mountain of the Tan estate was connected to the same mountain range as Yanshan, situated at the highest point of Wan Commandery’s terrain.

The wind howled. Sharp, stinging branches lashed against Lizhu’s face, but she had no time to care. She only bowed her head and ran upward.

The deep blue of the sky shifted gradually from dark to pale.

A round morning sun rose in the east, and under its light the northern mountains and rivers grew clear.

All around was silence. Cold mountain wind brushed through her hair at the peak.

Pei Zhaoye leaned against a massive rock, gazing at the distant mountains and rivers, waiting either for his strength to return, or for death to draw near.

Death was not frightening to him.

In his short life of less than twenty years, he had always been dealing with death.

When he was young, it was hunger. The child born of a songstress should have been strangled at birth, yet he barely survived on the charity of those songstresses and dancers.

When he grew a little older, the Pei family discovered that he dared to steal and beat guests of the mansion to defend those women, and would often hang him from a tree and whip him.

He was thick-skinned and tough—he did not feel pain.

The real pain, it seemed, came only at fourteen, when he entered Luoyang.

Young and reckless, he accidentally learned from Pei Conglu’s records who his birth father was. With a heart full of desperate courage to save his mother, and a trace of childlike admiration for his father, he set off for Luoyang.

He lost half his life and his tongue, yet never once laid eyes on Tan Jing’s face.

He heard that Tan Jing had taken his legitimate son hunting in Mangshan, personally teaching him to ride and shoot.

While his real son’s blood had flowed between the cracks of the bricks—still barely breathing—he had been wrapped in a mat and thrown into a mass grave under the cover of night, left to live or die on his own.

He disliked Luoyang, and disliked the frivolous nobles of Luoyang even more.

The splendid gown was light, the sheer gauze like cicada wings—when the wind blew, it drifted like mist.

A person’s fate was just as light. With a single word from their mouths, they could sever his path to military service, make it so that all his life he could never openly and honorably realize his ideals.

…Then he might as well become a thief.

What was so bad about being a thief?

Law, order, rank, and status—all would vanish like smoke beneath the blade.

It didn’t matter if he could not walk in the light. It didn’t matter if others spat upon him. At least his life was his own to decide, not like a stray dog on the roadside, left for others to kick or kill at will.

Even death would carry a shred of dignity.

His eyelids grew heavy. It seemed he heard footsteps. Pei Zhaoye’s hand gripping the sword tightened slightly.

However—

Before the fate of death could find him,

“Pei Zhaoye!”

The one who held his heart found him first.

Pei Zhaoye was still holding his sword raised when he fell into a soft, sweet-scented embrace.

He froze abruptly.

“…I found you. I knew I would find you.”

The crimson sun burst forth; beneath the breaking dawn, Lizhu held him tightly.

Drip, drip—

Scalding tears splashed upon the back of his neck.

She knew he would be here.

No matter how well a person concealed themselves, before death they would always face their heart honestly.

She still remembered—the deputy general who had carried back his coffin in her past life had said to her:

When the Grand Marshal was at his last breath, he told us to carry him to the peak of the Divine Maiden Terrace. He said, there, one could see the mountains, and see the moon.

The mountains were those of the eleven northern provinces; the moon was the moon of Luoyang.

He died resting upon the mountain and the moon.

But in this life, he slowly returned her embrace, exhaling from his chest a long-suppressed breath.

Something inside him lightened, as if steeped in warm water.

“I thought that when the Princess saw me again, she’d give me a slap first.”

He laughed softly.

For a moment, Lizhu was dazed—uncertain whether it was he who said the words, or someone else.

A faint ache welled in her heart, and turned into more tears that poured forth.

No matter who he was—

He was her husband.

“…You wish.”

She sniffled. “One slap wouldn’t be enough.”

Pei Zhaoye released her and looked at the face streaked with tears and tiny scratches, wanting to wipe them away, but his hands were too unsightly to lift.

“Why are you alone?”

“I sent Chang Jun to call for people. They’ll be here soon.”

She quickly told him about the matter of the refugee army.

Then shoved the imperial decree she had hidden in her bosom into his arms.

“The refugee army doesn’t count as the court’s official troops. You need not attend court before the emperor, nor take part in those power struggles at the center. If the northern lands invade, you can fight the north; if Nanyong breeds rebels, you kill rebels. Other than that, you’ll have autonomy here.”

“You don’t have to take orders from my imperial father—you need only obey me, as the General Who Pacifies the North. Will you?”

Pei Zhaoye held the imperial decree stained with blood.

He didn’t know how much thought and suffering she must have endured to devise such a plan that could satisfy both sides.

“All right.”

He said, “I will only obey the Princess.”

Lizhu lowered her eyes, glanced at the wounds on his body, pursed her lips, and the tears fell faster.

“Pei Zhaoye, does it hurt?”

The robe he had taken from Tan Xun was long since soaked through again with blood.

His lips were pale as paper, without a trace of color.

Pei Zhaoye gazed at the tear-streaked face before him—he should have felt pain for her, yet shamefully, he felt his heart move because of her tears.

He hated Luoyang. He hated the nobles of Luoyang.

Yet he liked her—so very, very much.

She worried for him, wept for him, crossed mountains and rivers without hesitation, risking everything to love him.

“…It hurts so much.”

He was much larger than her, yet he buried his head in the hollow of her neck, his body covered in wounds.

All the ferocity and resentment in him were soothed by that gentle sweetness.

“Princess, it hurts so much.”

Lizhu’s heart felt as though a piece had been gouged out, blood flowing endlessly.

Daylight shone upon the world’s mountains and rivers. The waning moon dissolved; the moon was no longer in the sky—it was in his arms.

Tan Rong soon received word that Pei Zhaoye had been rescued.

She had actually managed to get there first!

How had she found him? Their men had clearly been shadowing those mountain bandits the entire time!

“The matter is already settled. Husband, your wounds have not yet healed—don’t be angry. Victory and defeat are both common to soldiers; this is not the end.”

Madam Guo’s voice was gentle with comfort.

Tan Rong said, “How can I not be angry! If they had just found the man and left, that would be fine—but they even had someone send word, saying they came in haste and that we should prepare a carriage for them. Isn’t that deliberately provoking me?”

This Princess Qinghe—how had he never noticed before that she could be so sly and underhanded?

Yet no matter how unwilling Tan Rong was, Madam Guo would still preserve appearances on his behalf.

Not only did she have carriages and horses prepared at the foot of the mountain, she even pulled along the dark-faced Tan Rong to personally see them off. Tan Xun was also present.

At the end of the mountain path, a man covered in blood walked slowly toward them.

At his side, Princess Qinghe met Tan Rong’s gaze; her expression turned cold, her lips moved slightly as though she wished to speak, but in the end she held back.

Madam Guo’s face remained serene as she said politely, “General Pei is gravely injured. Why not stay in our residence to recuperate for a few days before moving again?”

Before Lizhu could reply, Pei Zhaoye’s faint voice sounded first.

“Madam Guo is too kind. Your honored residence must already be running short these few days, I won’t add frost to snow.”

Tan Rong’s face darkened as he stepped forward half a pace, but Tan Xun stopped him.

Lizhu looked at Pei Zhaoye in puzzlement.

Short of what?

He rubbed his nose lightly and whispered by her ear with a smile:

“I wandered around the place for a whole day before and couldn’t get out. Keeping things hidden was boring anyway, so I took a few things, packed them in a large chest, and threw it into the stream behind the mountain. Once we’ve left, send someone to fetch it quietly.”

Lizhu drew a sharp breath in silence, eyes wide.

He was this badly injured, and still had the energy to steal from others!

Tan Xun looked at him.

“With the Tan family’s wealth, losing a bit of money won’t make us short of funds. But since General Pei doesn’t wish to stay, we cannot force him. I only hope General Pei recovers soon. If you’re captured again on the battlefield in the future, you may not have a chance to survive.”

Pei Zhaoye gazed down at this younger half-brother of his with disdain.

“Hard to say.”

“Perhaps by then I’ll also have a wife with foresight divine enough to carve out a path for me, even when there’s no hope of life left. What do you think, General Tan, Madam Guo?”

Pei Zhaoye smiled brightly as he watched Tan Rong, furious, flick his sleeves and storm off.