“Father, I have already taken men to Yuling Town to search together with the Huxiao Camp, and found nothing suspicious.”

The young man, dressed in a dark cyan brocade robe embroidered with crane patterns, stood beneath the lamplight. The wind and snow had both ceased this night, making his words all the clearer.

“In such a short time, they must still be within the borders of Nanzhou.”

He Zhongting sat upright at the desk, taking the cup of strong tea presented by the attendant at his side and drinking a few mouthfuls. Weariness filled his eyes, but seeing the young man before him seeming hesitant to speak, he asked, “Zijia, what do you wish to say?”

“Father, your son believes this matter is most likely not the doing of the Yunchuan aristocratic clans,” the young man was tall and slender, his shadow stretched long beneath the lamplight, his voice low and steady. “Although in these past two years His Majesty has pressed them rather tightly in order to obtain the Cheng clan’s supreme treasure of Qingshuang Prefecture in Yunchuan, this alone cannot mean they would rashly abduct Princess Mingyue. I have heard that the Cheng clan woman who now controls all of Yunchuan is no ordinary person—she should understand the stakes involved.”

Yunchuan has nine prefectures, six regions, and thirteen counties. Its people are fierce and peculiar, its terrain perilous, filled with high mountains and dense forests. The Cheng clan of Qingshuang Prefecture in Yunchuan is the foremost among the four great clans. Since the founding of Great Yan, those who have held power in Yunchuan have always been the Cheng clan.

After hearing this, He Zhongting nodded and sighed. “When I mentioned Yunchuan before His Majesty, I wished to make him waver in his resolve to continue toward Tingzhou, so that he might instead change course and return to Yujing. Zijia… the rebel forces have yet to be eliminated, the enemy is hidden while we stand exposed. His Majesty’s southern inspection was already fraught with danger from the beginning.”

He Zhongting had never approved of the Chunsheng Emperor’s southern tour, but after decades of rising and sinking in officialdom before attaining his position as Commander of the Lingxiao Guard, how could he not understand the current emperor’s temperament? Thus, he never openly opposed him like those censorial officials and pure scholars who voiced their objections plainly.

“To prevent His Majesty from lingering too long in Nanzhou because of the princess, I have already made a military pledge before him on your behalf—if you cannot find Princess Mingyue, you are not to return to Yujing,” He Zhongting set down his teacup and rose, his expression growing more solemn. “As of now, we still do not know who abducted the princess. Zijia, what concerns me is that if word spreads that the princess has fallen among the common folk, those in court with ulterior motives will surely seize the chance to fish in troubled waters, and bring harm to her.”

He did not state it plainly, but He Xingjin understood. “Father, rest assured. Your son will secretly search for the princess’s whereabouts and will not reveal even the slightest hint.”

He Zhongting had always been extremely satisfied with this only son of his. He reached out and patted He Xingjin’s shoulder, speaking slowly, “Early tomorrow morning, I will accompany the imperial procession back. If you encounter difficulties here, you must not endure them alone—write to me at once.”

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The inn provided hot water. Last night, after bathing, Shang Rong fell asleep before her hair had dried, unable to resist her drowsiness. When she awoke this morning, her head felt heavy and muddled. She slowly sat up, and only then belatedly noticed the bitter medicinal smell filling the entire room.

On the wooden stool beside the bed lay a neatly folded set of water-green garments, embroidered with bright-colored laurel and jade rabbit patterns in silk thread. Shang Rong lifted her head and discovered that the soft couch opposite was empty.

She silently took up the garments and slowly unfolded them. The inner layer was made of even finer fabric, smooth and lustrous. After putting them on, Shang Rong no longer felt the slightest discomfort, and the red rash at her neck, treated with medicine, no longer itched as badly.

After washing up, Shang Rong truly did not know how to arrange her hair, so she could only leave her long hair loose and walk out from the inner room. A stronger medicinal scent greeted her face. She saw the black-clad youth removing the vermilion tassel hanging from the hilt of his sword, which curved like a silver serpent.

Perhaps hearing her footsteps, the youth turned his face slightly, his pair of eyes fixed on her.

Beyond the window lattice, the sky was a pale blue-green. Her skirt hem rippled like clear water, her black hair unadorned. That face, untouched by worldly smoke and fire, still carried droplets of water not yet wiped dry—like a lotus touched with dew.

Zhezhu silently shifted his gaze away. With a casual flick, he tossed the tassel into the brazier before him. Who knew how much blood it had been stained with? Shang Rong stepped forward and heard it burning in the brazier with faint sizzling sounds, as though the old spirits long clinging to it were wailing and lamenting.

“Drink the medicine.” Zhezhu lifted his chin slightly.

Shang Rong followed his gaze to the bowl of medicine on the table. Steam curled upward. Beside it was a wooden box, inside which lay an extremely thin “face.”

So the bitter smell filling the room came from his making this mask and from decocting medicine for her.

Shang Rong gave a soft acknowledgment, then picked up the medicine bowl. From time to time, the spoon struck the side of the bowl with clear sounds.

She endured the bitterness and drank it all, turned back to set the empty bowl on the table, and when she turned her head again, she saw the youth hooking the sword hilt with two fingers, a bamboo-green tassel swaying in the air.

He had replaced it with a brand-new sword tassel.

The light streaming through the window lattice was not very clear. Half of the youth’s face was veiled in shadow, his expression distant and indifferent. “Today, we leave here.”

“Where to?” Shang Rong asked.

“Shuqing.”

Shang Rong did not know what kind of place Shuqing was. She remained silent for a moment, but soon raised her eyes again. “Why are you helping me?”

This was what Shang Rong had been thinking about from yesterday until she fell asleep.

She could not understand—he clearly did not seem like a benevolent person, so why was he willing to lend her his aid?

At the sound of her voice, Zhezhu paused in the motion of wiping his blade. A thin gleam rippled along the edge, reflecting his half-smiling expression. “Naturally, it is because I want you to help me with something.”

Help?

Shang Rong did not understand. “What could I possibly help you with?”

“In the present age, among the Daoists, there are three volumes of books that are the most difficult to obtain,” Zhezhu wound the soft sword back around his waist, the tassel swaying slightly. “One is Taiqing Collection by Master Xicao, second is the lone surviving copy of Qingni Book, containing the handwritten works of eleven renowned scholars from a hundred years ago, and third is Danshen Xuandu Scripture by Tianshu Shanren of the previous dynasty.”

“You want these three volumes?”

A trace of astonishment surfaced in Shang Rong’s eyes. Soon after, she lowered her lashes to avoid the boy’s gaze. “Do you think I can find these three volumes for you?”

“At the very least, you know where they are.”

Zhezhu’s gaze still rested upon her face, his voice faint. “You do not eat meat, and the inner lining of your garments is embroidered with silver-wound crane patterns. In Great Yan, crane patterns are not something ordinary people may use. And those who were chasing you in the town yesterday were not local garrison troops—they were soldiers from Yujing, correct?”

The boy’s words pressed in step by step, and Shang Rong’s thoughts grew unsettled.

So when he tore a strip from her sleeve in the mountain courtyard to bandage his wound, he had already noticed the silver-wound crane embroidery inside her sleeve.

“The day you appeared at Yuliang River was the very day the emperor, traveling incognito, was attacked on the official road.” Zhezhu showed no intention of stopping. His gaze drifted lightly to her faintly trembling lashes. “There are only three kinds of people who dare use silver-wound crane patterns. Are you a disciple under Great Zhenren Ling Shuang, or—”

Before he could finish the second half of his sentence, Shang Rong hurriedly cut him off. “I am a disciple under the Great Zhenren!”

“A female disciple of Xingluo Temple who followed the imperial procession on the southern tour?”

The smile in Zhezhu’s eyes deepened.

In this world, those who could use the silver-wound crane pattern, aside from Great Zhenren Ling Shuang—most favored by the Chunsheng Emperor—and the disciples of Xingluo Temple he established in Yujing, also included the emperor’s most trusted Lingxiao Guard, and those of high status within the palace.

She pressed her lips together without speaking, only nodding lightly.

The boy washed his hands in the basin, then with long, slender fingers picked up that thin mask, light as paper. His face showed little expression as he placed it over her own, pressing it down inch by inch with the pads of his fingers.

The mask could not block the warmth of his touch. Shang Rong’s back pressed against the window lattice, her body instinctively stiffening, yet there was nowhere to retreat. She could only let the cold wind from outside blow her ears red.

“What is so unbearable about Xingluo Temple that it forced you to risk fleeing?” His eyes were half-lowered as he carefully adhered the mask onto her bit by bit.

Shang Rong parted her lips, but at this moment, in this place, the pale bluish-gray daylight fell upon the boy’s face so close to hers. In his eyes glimmered a small bright speck, like starlight floating upon water.

She did not want to speak anymore—not for any other reason, only that suddenly, she felt somewhat ashamed to keep lying.

Her silence did not cause the boy the slightest displeasure. He took up a dark eyebrow brush and, with interest, began to draw upon the brow of this girl filled with worries and sorrow.

“Then now, tell me—are these three volumes in the hands of Great Zhenren Ling Shuang?”

His voice was so near, and with every breath Shang Rong took, she caught the faint scent of bamboo leaves from him. Because he continued tracing lines upon her face, she remained stiff and unmoving, saying only, “The first two volumes are in his hands. But Danshen Xuandu Scripture is in the palace. It is said His Majesty never sets it down and keeps it secretly hidden.”

Her brows itched slightly, but the boy’s hand had already stilled. Her lashes fluttered once as she looked at his face, yet she could not glimpse even a trace of what he was feeling.

Shang Rong watched as he straightened, tossed the eyebrow brush aside, and took a cloth to slowly wipe the marks from his fingers. After thinking for a moment, she still spoke softly, “Though I do not know what you want those three volumes for, this matter… I truly can help you.”

“How will you help? Don’t tell me you are willing to go back and steal the books for me?”

The boy laughed softly.

“There is no need to go back.”

She said seriously, “Zhezhu, I remember the first two volumes.”

At these words, Zhezhu suddenly raised his eyes.

Shang Rong sat upright, brushing aside the light strands of hair by her ear. “Since childhood, I have copied Daoist hymns and scriptures. I have often copied these two volumes as well. If you want them, I can write them out for you from memory.”

For a moment, only the faint crackling of the charcoal fire sounded in the room. Zhezhu looked at her face now, the traces beneath her eyes slightly deeper. “Very well.”

With a new mask, they could no longer leave through the front door of the inn. Shang Rong was lifted into the boy’s arms, and with a leap from the window lattice, they landed in the snow-covered back alley.

“Don’t you need to stick this on?”

After landing and steadying herself, Shang Rong touched the mask on her face and found it smooth and even, without a single crease. It was no longer like the one from yesterday that had been deliberately shaped to look weathered.

“Those I needed to avoid are already all dead.”

Zhezhu led over the horse that had been tied beneath the grass shed the night before. He lifted his eyes indifferently and extended a hand toward her.

Snowflakes slipped through the gaps between his fingers, a few melting into the bracer that bound his sleeve. Shang Rong stared at his knuckles, and after a moment, took his cold hand. He helped her onto the horse.

The horse’s hooves were wrapped in snow, so the sound was not distinct. The boy led the horse slowly out of the long alley. The sky had not yet fully brightened, and there were few pedestrians on the street, but vendors busy with their livelihood had already set up their stalls along the roadside.

Shang Rong, draped in a cloak trimmed with rabbit fur, sat on the horse tugging at her precariously slipping hood. Soon the horse stopped. She turned her face slightly and lifted her eyes, just in time to see a food stall with steam rising from its bamboo steamers.

Within the warm mist, the black-clad boy’s profile was hazy. He casually tossed a small piece of silver to the vendor, took the oiled paper bag, then turned back and swung neatly onto the horse.

Shang Rong only heard the rustle of the paper bag behind her. Immediately after, a small piece of hot rice cake was stuffed into her mouth. Turning her head, she saw his eyes shimmering like rippling clear water as he also put a piece of rice cake into his own mouth.

The reins were tugged, hooves sounding in succession.

In the misty early morning, through streets with few passersby, Shang Rong rode swiftly with him, unaware of the vast snow-covered road ahead.