Chasing Dreams - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Piercing winds howled down from the high altitudes, whipping through people's collars, sleeves, and past their ears, as if trying to carve agonizing scars into their cheeks. The setting sun half-floated and half-sank, its dazzling, shattered crimson swaying like a channel of dripping, molten iron poured across the Chuliao Sea.

The relentless gales blew eternally, eroding the coastal hills and causing their seaward faces to cave in deeply. From afar, they resembled undulating waves of golden gravel. Set against the crimson backdrop, the royal banners embroidered with golden coiled dragons on a vermilion field, along with the carriage canopies, were snipped into solitary silhouettes by the dying sunlight. The wind tore at them, leaving them tilting and swaying, looking as though they might fly away at any moment.

Framed by the rosy-hued sky, a massive procession stretched out along the ridge of those desolate hills. Seventy-five four-horse chariots were sandwiched within a long column of five hundred cavalrymen. Behind them marched a thousand cavalry and a thousand infantry, escorting a sixteen-bearer palanquin draped in vermilion brocade and gold tapestry, along with fifty more chariots. Trailing them were hundreds of tarpaulin-covered wagons and another five hundred cavalry, with two thousand infantry bringing up the rear. The soldiers were mostly very young, with slender frames; their brand-new uniforms and light armor hung loosely on them, jutting out sharply at their shoulders and waists. This procession, marching ten abreast in total silence toward the south, snaked outwards for over ten miles. Looking across the horizon, one could see neither its beginning nor its end.

Within the infantry formation, a youth in military attire was carefully maneuvering his horse through the ranks. He appeared frail and scholarly, about fifteen or sixteen years old. The ornament at his waist was merely the Xie-Eagle pendant of a Five-Thousand-Man Commander, yet the uniform he wore belonged to an orthodox fourth-rank military official—marking him instantly as an Imperial Guard commander of the Yulin Army. As he approached the large palanquin, a senior female official had already come forward to greet him with a curtsy. Cupping his hands on horseback to return the greeting, the youth said, "Please attend to His Highness Prince Chang immediately and prepare for him to mount a horse." Hearing this, the older female official raised her head. Though her posture remained respectful, her crisp, ringing voice carried a hint of anger: "His Highness is exhausted from the journey and has caught a chill; his fever is burning fiercely." The youth furrowed his elegant brows, but just as he was about to speak, the female official continued in one breath.

"This morning, His Highness rose merely half an hour late, and Lord Puyouma publicly reprimanded him. That was already highly disrespectful. And now, sending people time and again to urge His Highness to transfer to a horse—what exactly is the meaning of this? General Tang, as His Highness Prince Chang's escort general, you ought to give Lord Puyouma a stern warning. The prince possesses the noble bloodline of Great Zheng, and this journey to Zhunnian is meant to forge a bond of alliance between our two nations. As a Zhunnian envoy, for Lord Puyouma to slight His Highness in such a manner is to slight the entire Great Zheng empire that unified the Eastern Land. Please advise him to act with self-respect." She spoke unhurriedly, but by the end of her speech, her tone had grown decidedly severe.

The youth let out a barely audible sigh. Without trying to excuse himself, he explained, "Lord Puyouma heard that there are Biliao beasts roaming this area at night, so he used that as a pretext to make a fuss. However, I just asked the soldiers originally from Quanming, and according to them, Biliao are rarely seen in these barren hills. But when they do appear, they always travel in packs of hundreds and are incredibly swift and ferocious. Passing merchant caravans absolutely refuse to travel at night here unless forced to, and even if they risk rushing toward the city, they make sure to prepare first-rate steeds for escape. Otherwise... Having His Highness ride on my horse will ultimately be safer than leaving him inside the palanquin." The female officials were all taken aback. After a moment, a more composed woman hurried over from one of the chariots, carrying a small, vermilion cloak and an inner garment embroidered with coiled dragons, and passed them through the curtains of the palanquin. The youth steered his horse right up to the palanquin and waited for a good while before a female official inside lifted the curtain and passed out a thickly bundled child. Other attendants surrounded them, clumsily lifting the child onto the horse's back and settling him in front of the youth. Although the child's eyes were closed, their beautiful, uptilted phoenix shape was still apparent. Because he was in a feverish slumber, even his eyelids were flushed with a sickly red.

"General Tang, is His Highness to share a horse with you?" the older female official from before asked out of nowhere. Holding the reins with one hand and supporting the child with the other, the youth paused for a moment before answering, "My horse is, after all, slightly better than those of the common soldiers." The female official seemed like she wanted to say more, but swallowed her words, bowing silently before retreating.

The child opened his eyes a fraction. After a pause, he called out vaguely, like sleep-talking, "General Tang." The youth looked down and replied, "Yes, Your Highness." Expending some effort, the child managed to speak. "If we really... run into a lot of Biliao... General Tang, you don't need to worry too much about me." His soft, reedy voice was like torn fragments of paper; the moment the broken words tumbled from his lips, they were snatched away by the fierce sea breeze, rendering them indistinguishable.

"Your Highness, you are a prince of Great Zheng, and this subordinate is your escort general. There is absolutely no reason I would abandon you to flee for my own life." Having grown up in military camps since childhood, the youth was deeply accustomed to hearing such bold, dutiful platitudes, and the words flowed smoothly. But the moment they left his mouth, his heart couldn't help but tighten—much like a smooth piece of silk having a thread pulled from its middle, causing a narrow strip of it to completely pucker. This child's astute understanding of his situation was overly accommodating, as if he were constantly terrified of offending someone, reduced to a pitiable state of lowliness.

He had long heard that Prince Chang ranked fourth among the imperial princes, the absolute youngest, and that his mother, Consort Nie, had already fallen out of favor before he was even born. The biological mother of the second and third princes, Consort Song, possessed immense beauty and cunning; she had monopolized the Emperor's favor for years and was highly skilled at cultivating allies both in the imperial court and the inner palace. Furthermore, the second prince she bore, Chu Zhongxu, was not yet sixteen, but his natural talents, strategic mind, and temperament far surpassed those of the Crown Prince, Chu Boyao. Rumors of usurpation and deposition had long been rampant; she was someone no one could afford to offend. This time, the state of Zhunnian in Leizhou on the Western Land had dispatched envoys to escort a thirteen-year-old little princess named Zizan, intending to betroth her to a Zheng prince in a few years. By tradition, the Zheng Dynasty was required to send an imperial prince alongside the envoys back to Zhunnian, ostensibly to study Leizhou's customs and language, but in reality, to act as a hostage. Crown Prince Chu Boyao was Great Zheng's heir apparent and was naturally out of the question. The second prince, Zhongxu, was destined to be a pillar of the nation and could not be spared, while the third prince, Shuyun, possessed an exceedingly fragile constitution. Thus, when it came to selecting the hostage—aside from the youngest, Jichang—no one else was ever considered.

"I am a prince who will never be emperor... Even if you save me, I can't give you any benefits... Besides, General Tang, your martial arts are also..." The young prince suddenly cut himself off in panic, looking up at him. A film of moisture clearly clouded his eyes, yet he stubbornly fought to keep the tears from falling. Reflecting the evening's fiery clouds over the Chuliao Sea, a glimmer of golden light brimmed on his lower eyelashes. Though he knew the child meant no mockery, the youth's face flushed with sudden heat.

Consort Nie was already confined to the cold palace by illness, and the attendants and eunuchs by her side merely went through the motions of serving her, yet Consort Song remained unsatisfied. Seizing the opportunity of Prince Chang's exile to a foreign land, Consort Song instructed the Ministry of War to single out the recruit who had ranked dead last in the imperial guard military examinations that year. Almost as a practical joke, they promoted this fifteen-year-old youth, Tang Qianzi, to the position of a Five-Thousand-Man Commander, assigning him five thousand fresh recruits to escort Prince Chang to Zhunnian. Because a miasmic plague was currently sweeping through Wanzhou and the western parts of Zhongzhou, the massive retinue had no choice but to reroute, setting sail westward from Quanming. Nearly a month had passed since their departure from Tianqi. Tang Qianzi was decisive and astute, and the soldiers, being young and lacking slick insubordination, generally obeyed his commands. However, the fact that an Imperial Guard General was completely inept at martial arts inevitably made him the butt of their private jokes.

Thus, the fifteen-year-old general and the ten-year-old prince shared a single tall Hanzhou steed, marching silently amid the procession of fluttering banners, their forms reduced to thick, dark silhouettes in the twilight. Even through the heavy layers of brocade clothing and light armor, the youth could still feel the radiating heat from the child's body, as if a small charcoal brazier were warming his embrace.

That night, when Prince Chang and the Zhunnian envoy Puyouma's retinue of over six thousand people arrived at Quanming City, it was already midnight—nearly two hours later than originally planned. The procession rested in Quanming for three days before taking the sea route, sailing through the Yingge Strait toward Leizhou.

Half a month after the fleet departed Quanming, the results of this year's military strategy and literary exams for the Yulin Army arrived via fast horse from Tianqi, the bright red scroll posted high at the gates of Quanming City. Peddlers and laborers set down their burdens and crowded beneath the notice, tipping their faces up to read the densely packed black characters. Someone who knew a few words dragged out his syllables, reading aloud from top to bottom: "First Class—First Place—Qiuye of Lanzhou—Tang Qianbai." Another person beside him timidly piped up: "...Why does it look like Tang Qianmu to me?" Compared to the hundreds of magnolia longboats anchored outside the harbor, the sharply bowed little skiff the youth was currently sitting in could hardly be considered more than a soup spoon. The sides of the boat were extremely shallow, with white, frothy water dangerously lapping at the edges. It seemed as if stepping just one foot inside would invite the water to pour right in.

The youth, however, had long grown accustomed to riding such tiny boats. Wedging himself into the cramped bow, he casually unhooked his saber and laid it flat across his lap. The old boatman leisurely rowed the scull at the stern; if either of them simply stretched out a leg, they could easily kick the other into the water. The bustling streets were reflected on the water's surface, their multi-colored lights dissolving and scattering, steaming up against a person's face along with the sweltering, foul, and fishy vapor of the water. Even though he had lived here for the better part of a year, every time he rode a skiff through the depths of this city, the youth still experienced a faint sense of vertigo.

Among all the cities in Leizhou, the city of Bipoluo was truly the most bizarre.

It covered a vast expanse of land, yet its streets and alleys were extraordinarily cramped; its paint and decor were rich and vibrant, but its architecture was haphazard and slanted. The twisting gaps between the buildings served as dusty roads on sunny days, but during the rainy season, they transformed into a dense, spiderweb-like network of river branches, turning every house into its own little island. When people of any standing went out, they always started from their own rooftops; a few servants would carry broad wooden planks to pave the way ahead, laying down makeshift bridges wherever they went. Those who wanted to show off even more would parade through the markets sitting on the shoulders of half-blood Frost-Wind Kuafu giants. If the giant's bloodline was pure enough that their shoulders could even accommodate two additional dancing girls, then the master was undoubtedly a powerful dignitary no one could afford to cross. Further down, on the filthy water beside the tree-trunk-thick thighs of the giants, carefully weaving their way through, were the sharp-prowed little skiffs—the everyday transport of the commoners. With people sitting inside, they looked like two peas tightly squeezed into a shriveled pod. Yet they still managed to cram in various vegetables, melons, fruits, rolls of cloth, basins, buckets, and even two or three toddlers. If the boats were any wider, however, some of the waterways would simply become impassable. The inhabitants here were tall, dark-skinned, and languid in their expressions. In the early morning hours when the rain temporarily ceased, upon hearing the calls of vendors selling white lotus flowers, the women would push open their windows in droves, looking like countless tightly shut buds suddenly bursting forth with brightly colored stamens.

The flower-selling children sat in large wooden tubs, drifting back and forth through the streets. Their legs and toes were buried beneath frost-white floral hairpins. Though their faces were smudged with dirt, when they smiled, their teeth gleamed as dazzlingly as the seashells from Huijing Bay. During the rainy season, Bipoluo was precisely this sort of city, rocking and swaying on the water—and Leizhou's rainy season always lasted an infernally long time.

With a dull thwack, something struck the youth's boots. Glancing down, he saw it was a pristine, half-bloomed white lotus bud, its thick stem pinched off exceedingly short. It was likely plucked fresh from a woman's temples. Just as he raised his head, the soft shrieks of two or three young girls echoed from a window high above. A flash of purplish-red skirts embroidered with Wanlang flowers fluttered at the windowsill and disappeared.

The lotus bud was still tainted with the sweet, rich fragrance of the maiden's hair. Mingled with the fishy scent of the water, the aroma drifted up in graceful, swirling threads. He didn't pick it up, only offering a faint smile.

This city possessed both the most intensely fragrant spices and the most foully rotting gutters; both were equally world-renowned, and both were common metaphors used by third-rate poets in the Eastern Land.

This was the royal capital of the state of Zhunnian, as well as one of the most prosperous ports in the Western Land.

The city of Bipoluo was exactly this devoid of order, resembling the deep, murky bowels of a giant beast. Even the frequently visiting Winged Tribe sailors and Eastern Land merchants were mostly only willing to linger near the harbor, too afraid to venture deeply into the city's underbelly. Therefore, in the eyes of the young Zhunnian women, a handsome youth like him wearing the military robes of the Eastern Land's Zheng Dynasty—whether in skin tone, appearance, attire, or demeanor—was a rarity, naturally far more precious than those pure-blonde Winged Tribe sailors.

All the labyrinthine waterways eventually converged into the Papar River. His skiff, too, was following the sluggish current, rowing toward the Papar.

Starting from the northeast port district, this city sprawled relentlessly toward the southwest for a good eleven or twelve tuo. Yet right before the Papar River, those densely packed, haphazardly stacked houses abruptly halted their momentum and stopped in their tracks, looking like a gang of idlers who had accidentally bumped into a nobleman's procession and hurriedly taken several steps back to watch from a distance. Across the river, a vast, flat, and open plateau naturally emerged, and the royal city of Zhunnian was situated precisely there.

Separated by a single river, they were distinctly two different worlds.

The royal city was a City of Gold. Even looking from this side of the river beneath the gloomy sky, one could still see a continuous stretch of dark gold. Because it was built on elevated ground, it had no need to struggle upward like the hovels of the poor. Only the nine golden sacrificial towers in the center were clustered in tiered succession, standing erect like the sharp, scallion-like fingernails of many young girls. On the very top of the tallest tower, a cluster of rouge tourmalines was assembled—one hundred and sixty-nine in total, the largest as big as a human head. Merchant ships coming from the north could spot that pale red glow from half a day's voyage away.

Except for merchant ships under royal protection bearing the Dragon Tail God's crest, common civilian vessels were strictly forbidden from navigating the Papar River. Before the skiff had even turned out of the narrow alley, it swayed unsteadily and bumped against the stone steps of a commoner's house. The youth stepped out, paid his boat fare of four copper zhu, and lightly bounded up a few stone stairs. Standing on the stone platform in front of the riverside house, he let out a sharp whistle toward the opposite bank.

A moment later, a speck of gold dust detached itself from the dark gold expanse on the opposite shore. Cutting across the thick, ochre water, it gradually made its way toward him. It was a copper-plated, flat-bottomed Light Feather boat. Its prow curled upward, and an elegant swan-neck extended from its stern, from which hung seven exquisite storm lanterns in a vertical line. From afar, it looked exactly like a gigantic crimson-gold feather floating on the water. The belly of the Light Feather boat was equipped with Heluo mechanical contraptions; its speed was not fast, but it was incredibly steady. It only required five boatmen to operate and could transport twenty heavily armored soldiers.

"Who goes there?" There were only seven or eight Zhunnian soldiers on the boat. The leader among them shouted through a yawn. In truth, they had long grown familiar with the youth's face.

The youth took off the waist pendant and waved it at them. It was a fine jade carved with a Xie-Eagle. "General Tang Qianzi of the Yulin Guard, under the command of His Highness the Prince of Great Zheng." Having been in Bipoluo City for nine months, he had picked up a few phrases of the Zhunnian language, and since he said this phrase the most, it was exceedingly practiced.

"Come aboard, come aboard." A Zhunnian soldier offered a hand, and Tang Qianzi leaped onto the Light Feather boat. There was a new recruit on board who had probably never seen him before; looking at him with great novelty, the recruit kept staring straight at the jade pendant on his waist.

"What are you looking at?" The leading Zhunnian soldier smacked the back of the recruit's head with the pommel of his saber. "He's the same age as you, but he's already a Five-Thousand-Man Commander from the Eastern Land, understand? He has five thousand subordinates; he's a general!" The recruit rubbed his head in indignation and muttered, "What's so great about a general... He's still just following around a dumped Eastern Land prince nobody wants." "You're rebelling, aren't you! Our princess was sent to the Eastern Land and enjoys the exact same treatment as their princesses. Their prince sent here is also treated just like our princes. Offending the Eastern Land prince is the same crime as clashing with His Highness Jielan. How many heads do you have—" The leader flipped his hand and struck the recruit again with his scabbard, while hastily turning his head to check. The Eastern Land youth was merely sitting quietly to the side, his expression peaceful. He didn't look like a military officer, but rather an even-tempered scholar. He is an Easternlander, after all; he probably only understands a limited amount of Zhunnian, right? Only then did the leader finally breathe a slight sigh of relief.

The Light Feather boat had barely left the shore for a few paces when two more whistles rang out. Three to five men wearing Zhunnian military uniforms and light armor arrived at the riverbank. Not waiting for the boat to turn around and dock properly, they scrambled aboard in a chaotic rush.

The new recruit was just wondering why none of his comrades stepped forward to interrogate these men. But having just taken two beatings, he had learned his lesson. He kept his mouth shut, only shooting stealthy glances with his two eyes.

"They are men from the Five Commanderies of Fengnan," the leader tugged at his ear, his voice so soft it was reduced to a hissing breath. The recruit shrank his shoulders, looking overwhelmingly terrified.

Tang Qianzi sat leaning against the side of the boat. The clothes and light armor of these newly boarded men were identical to those of the royal city guards, but the ends of their waist sashes were not embroidered with Dragon Tail scales; instead, they bore an indigo hound's-tooth crest. The hilts of their short sabers were also wrapped in thick indigo silk. Soldiers bearing this crest took orders exclusively from Grand Duke Yingjia. In the presence of the Zhunnian King, besides kneeling and kowtowing, they practically had no other obligations. Yingjia was the lord of the Five Commanderies of Fengnan in the northeast of Zhunnian, controlling nearly all the northern seaports except for Bipoluo, boasting wealth that could rival a nation. By bloodline, he was also the cousin of the current Zhunnian King, Junliang, and he even had a sister who had married into the palace as Junliang's secondary consort. The power in his hands was so blazing and prominent that even the monarch, Junliang, had to show him some deference. Anyone in the palace or the court with a shred of sense knew this well. The crests and saber hilts of these Five Commanderies soldiers before him were intricately wrapped with gold threads, indicating an even higher rank. They were likely Grand Duke Yingjia's personal bodyguards, people who naturally could not be offended.

The Light Feather boat quietly carved an arc across the water, sailing westward. Looking into the distance, the royal city appeared to be a gentle stretch of land, but the riverbanks were all reinforced and raised with red clay and bluestone. Steel spikes were installed underwater to prevent ships from forcing a landing. Only on the western side did a low pier, nearly three miles long, descend to the water, meant for the palace and royal guards to enter, exit, and moor their boats.

The side of the boat bumped against a mooring post wrapped in wrought copper, issuing a muffled thud. Grand Duke Yingjia's bodyguards were the first to leap ashore, heading straight into the royal city through a side gate. Tang Qianzi, however, stood up unhurriedly, waiting for the routine inspection. Even though they were all familiar faces, the process of verifying his travel documents and waist pendant one by one still took quite a bit of time before he was allowed to pass.

Upon entering the royal city, palace attendants immediately guided him toward Prince Chang's residence.

Nine months ago, when Tang Qianzi was summoned into the royal city for the first time, he could barely distinguish the path ahead, feeling like an ant sealed inside a golden labyrinthine box. The states of Lei and Yun did not produce a single grain of gold sand, yet the Zhunnian people possessed a stubborn, deep-rooted nature for opulence. The ceilings, floors, and the insides and outsides of all four walls of the outer royal city were entirely covered in broad sheets of gold leaf purchased from the Eastern Land. Gold wire patterns were twisted onto the gold leaf, and gemstone dust mixed with colored glazes was filled in. It was so lustrously oily that it looked as if it were constantly on the verge of dripping. Aside from the variously colored inlays, mother-of-pearl, jewels, and mica were also lavishly embedded in clusters, regardless of the cost. The attire of the guiding palace maids was equally a tangle of intertwined floral patterns. Walking in the corridors, it was practically impossible to tell the people apart from the walls. He had to stare fixedly straight ahead; occasionally, those maids would turn back to smile, and catching sight of their faces, he would quickly recognize the path and follow. Even on those faces, a thick swipe of gold shimmered on their eyelids, and their lips were a rich, coagulated red, making them look as if they, too, were sculptures jutting out from the palace walls. Now that he had walked the route many times, he had grown quite familiar with it.

The inner royal city was likewise crisscrossed with waterways. Among the pavilions and terraces, there were naturally countless flat bridges, arch bridges, long and short ones scattered haphazardly, connecting at slanted angles. Tang Qianzi lifted his head and saw a line of lower-ranked palace maids walking across a suspended bridge three stories high in the air opposite him. Zhunnian's climate was warm, so the women wore snug, short vests across all four seasons, and their tube-style skirts only wrapped down to three-quarters of their calves, generously exposing half a shoulder, both arms, and ankles adorned with jingling bells. It was a procession entirely composed of young women, bearing large, gilded platters atop their heads. The platters were overflowing with plump fruits, resembling peculiar, large-brimmed bamboo hats. One arm steadied the load, while the other rested at their waist. As they moved, their gait was uniform and precise; a dozen slender, dark-skinned waists undulated side to side, supporting the heavy weight atop their heads. Yet, the motion was like waves churning in a honey jar, carrying an intensely thick, sultry allure. They were heading toward the banquet halls deep within the royal city. It seemed there would be another feast for distinguished guests tonight.

Past Crown Prince Jielan's bedchamber was Prince Chang's residence. Before marriage, Zhunnian princes all resided with their mothers; after marriage, they were granted manors and moved out of the royal city. Only the Crown Prince was permitted to select a separate bedchamber within the royal city. Prince Chang was a hostage prince from the Eastern Land. While the architectural layout of his residence was identical to the Crown Prince's bedchamber, it was one story lower and its decorations were relatively austere, signifying a slight distinction in status and expressing as much slighting as was permissible within the bounds of etiquette. Tang Qianzi actually felt this wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Prince Chang would ultimately have to return to Great Zheng; acquiring too many Zhunnian habits would only make him detestable and bring him no benefit. The Zhunnian people, however, harbored different intentions. Under the guise of familiarizing Prince Chang with Leizhou's customs, the palace servants and female officials had all been replaced with Zhunnian locals. Meanwhile, the five thousand Yulin Guards brought from the Eastern Land were all teenage recruits. Unable to be accommodated within the royal city and guarded against causing trouble, they were arranged to set up camp near the port, with only twenty allowed into the royal city each day for rotating guard duty. This was already the absolute limit of what Tang Qianzi could negotiate—he had to keep some people by Prince Chang's side to ensure the prince wouldn't forget his homeland's language.

"Where is His Highness?" Tang Qianzi asked the moment he walked through the door.

The Yulin Guards standing at attention on both sides bowed and replied, "On the Wind Terrace." The Wind Terrace was the topmost level of Zhunnian buildings. It had no walls, only several pillars supporting a rain-shielding roof. Since it did not block the wind, it was the venue where Zhunnian people hosted banquets, smoked hanging pipes, and engaged in idle chatter. When brightly lit at night, viewed from afar, it resembled the storytelling stages of the Eastern Land. The Wind Terraces within the royal city were more elaborate; if one did not wish to be seen, bamboo blinds or gauze curtains could be lowered on all four sides—naturally, these too were interwoven with gold threads, reflecting off the gold-plated carved pillars.

The Wind Terrace was as empty as if it had been washed clean. Prince Chang rarely had any visitors, so none of the usual low tables or small couches were set up. Only layers upon layers of piled-flower gauze curtains were lowered. On the west side stood a solitary target, with a few arrows sparsely stuck into its surface.

A boy of about ten years old stood at the far east end of the Wind Terrace, his footwork solid. He had already nocked an arrow to the bowstring, but he drew the bow without firing.

The child was dressed in a simple, everyday white silk tunic. Since it wasn't a military uniform, it was a bit tight, so he had slipped his left shoulder and sleeve down to his waist, in accordance with Eastern Land customs. He was wielding an ebony three-stone bow, which was truly overly heavy and tyrannical for a child. His arm's strength had been engaged in a stalemate with the bowstring for too long, causing it to tremble, making his thin, frail body look like a tautly drawn string as well. Yet he merely exerted his strength with unwavering focus, his gaze never leaving the bullseye for a second. His small face, cast in a yellow shadow by the daylight filtering through the gauze curtains, looked as if it were dusted with gold powder, resembling a tiny, gold-painted clay idol. His pupils were two dots of fully saturated ink.

The young general did not go to disturb him, merely crossing his arms and watching quietly.

Originally, back in the Eastern Land, it wasn't that the palace lacked military instructors to accompany the princes in martial arts training. It was just that most of them were highly snobbish. Since Prince Chang's influence was weak, naturally, none of them came to curry favor. Among the royal youths, the most outstanding were the Third Prince, Zhongxu, and Fang Jianming, the eldest heir of the Duke of Qinghai. Wherever those two went within the imperial park of the Forbidden City, the martial arts instructors would constantly follow them like stars orbiting the moon. Chu Jichang was only half a year younger than Fang Jianming and had begun his martial training in the same year, yet without the guidance of a good master, he had never shown any improvement.

Not long after arriving in Zhunnian, Prince Chang expressed a desire to learn some horseback archery and saber techniques. Hearing this, Tang Qianzi felt quite surprised. How could such a shy child think of practicing martial arts? Yet, on this matter alone, Chu Jichang was extremely insistent.

Bipoluo was a city crisscrossed by waterways; all transport relied on boats, and there wasn't even a patch of land inside the royal city to ride a horse. Tang Qianzi ordered men to hang light, dense draperies on all four sides of the Wind Terrace and set up archery targets, spears, sabers, and straw dummies. He also stationed six Yulin Guard soldiers to guard downstairs and forbade anyone else from coming up, converting the Wind Terrace into Prince Chang's daily martial arts training ground.

Chu Jichang was, after all, still a child. When he first saw those items, he was delighted. He ran over to inspect them all, then turned around and asked, "So, who will teach me?" Tang Qianzi seemed entirely unprepared for such a question and didn't know how to respond for a moment, forcing out two awkward, dry coughs. Jichang looked around; on this Wind Terrace, besides Tang Qianzi and himself, there was no one else.

"Could it actually be you, General Tang?" Jichang widened his eyes and blurted out. As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he had spoken wrongly, and even the tips of his ears burned red.

Tang Qianzi was also extremely uncomfortable. He turned sideways, picked up the longbow, and meticulously smoothed the leopard-sinew bowstring once with his right index finger before reaching into the quiver to fish out three arrows, sandwiching them between his fingers. The three arrows were nocked onto the string one after another and fired toward the target. In archery, there is a technique known as "Linked Rings"; its opening stance is roughly like this, emphasizing fluid speed. But Tang Qianzi didn't shoot quickly; however, the momentum of his arrows was incredibly heavy and solid. The first arrow strayed slightly, but the latter two were clustered right on the copper-zhu-sized bullseye. They were grouped so closely together that the birchwood arrow shafts vibrated sharply against each other, striking out dull, muffled thuds.

Jichang was so astonished he couldn't speak.

"Would Your Highness like to try?" The young general smiled, bending over to hand the longbow to him.

Jichang took it. Looking up at him with a beaming face, his eyes sparkling, he said, "You teach me." "But, Your Highness," Tang Qianzi's smile gradually receded. Staring intensely at the child, he said, "You are practicing martial arts in secret. If you shoot and miss, and a feathered arrow actually falls off this Wind Terrace, it will inevitably provoke gossip if outsiders find out." Jichang also stopped smiling. He thought for a moment, then lifted his head again. "Then I won't miss a single arrow."

He indeed accomplished it.

In two months of archery practice, the total number of feathered arrows he had loosed was still less than a hundred. Once he drew the bow, he would hold it for a quarter of an hour, only to quietly set the bow and arrow down in the end, rest for a while, and then draw the bow again, aiming at the bullseye. He would repeat this for one or two hours. Later, as his arm strength gradually built up and his posture became proper, it was still the same—nine times out of ten, he still refused to release the arrow. However, every single shot fired hit the mark; even if it skewed slightly, it never missed the target entirely. In just two months, his right thumb, used to draw the bow, was deeply scarred by the archer's thumb ring. Such enduring patience and perseverance were simply heartbreaking.

And right now, there were already three or four arrows on the target, which meant that Prince Chang had been on the Wind Terrace for nearly half an hour. Whenever this happened, Tang Qianzi would wonder what kind of man this Chu Jichang would become when he reached adulthood. But more often than not, he would let out a short sigh and give up on imagining—after all, he himself was only a fifteen-year-old youth.

The bowstring vibrated with a clear, resonant twang, and the arrowhead sank deeply into the red bullseye. The child lowered his arms, holding the longbow as he turned to look at him and smiled.

He merely sighed. "Your Highness, have your meals been docked again?" The child was still smiling, but he nodded, looking somewhat bashful.

"Why? Did you write a character incorrectly? Or recite a book wrong?" Tang Qianzi squatted in front of him and draped an outer coat over his shoulders.

The child shook his head and curled his lips, saying, "The old geezer was testing me on what is most crucial for a monarch governing the world. You know them, these fishermen only know about seafaring and trade, trade and seafaring. I was zoning out and casually said martial arts and military strategy. The old geezer was so furious he couldn't even speak in complete sentences. You weren't there, and no one dared to shield me from his temper. Of course, my meals were docked again—lunch and dinner taken away together." Tang Qianzi began to laugh. The so-called "old geezer" was the tutor assigned to Prince Chang by the palace, coming to the door every day to teach courses on governing the state, caring for the people, economics, and land taxation. Since he started practicing martial arts, Jichang's temperament had gradually grown a bit wilder.

"For a monarch governing the world, abundant granaries are indeed the most crucial thing. If you are starving and have no rations or fodder, all the martial arts and strategy in the world are just nonsense. You're hungry, aren't you? —The merchant ship from the Fengyuan Company returned to port today." Tang Qianzi fished an oil-paper parcel out of his robe and unwrapped it layer by layer.

Jichang's eyes lit up. He sniffed, catching the scorched, sweet scent of rice, and cheered, "It's oil-tea cake!" Grabbing the paper parcel, he buried his entire face in it like a starving wolf.

Oil-tea cake was a common household pastry in Lanzhou. It smelled sweet, but its texture was coarse. When Tang Qianzi was little, he used to buy it often—one large piece for a single copper zhu. Eating it made one's mouth completely parched, with crumbs constantly tumbling from the corners of the lips. Prince Chang's mother, Consort Nie, hailed from Lanzhou; in her earlier years, before she fell ill, she must have often made it for him by hand. After all, the lives of disgraced consorts were mostly dreary and dull. Aside from pouring all their heart and energy into their children, there was simply no other way to pass the days. Because it was such a cheap and humble snack, it held no trade value whatsoever. As for those Eastern Land merchants originally from Lanzhou, when they felt homesick, they would rather just buy a Lanzhou girl. Therefore, in the thriving Bipoluo port, brimming with rare exotics, something as trivial as oil-tea cake simply couldn't be found. One had to specifically ask familiar merchant ships to bring it over from the Eastern Land. Over a journey tossing and turning for one or two months, the originally crumbly, sticky rice pastry would develop an oily smell, becoming dry, hard, and chewy. The child ate it until he started hiccuping continuously.

"I'll go pour some water for Your Highness." The youth stood up and was about to leave, but Jichang freed a hand and tugged at the hem of his clothes. He frantically shook his head and said, "No, no, if I drink water, it-it won't taste as good anymore." As he spoke, another loud hiccup erupted, jolting his frail body.

Tang Qianzi had no choice but to sit down beside him again, reaching out to pat and rub his back to soothe his breath. It wasn't necessarily that he loved the child so dearly; it was just that if the child unfortunately choked to death, Tang Qianzi himself, along with those five thousand Yulin Guards, would probably have to return to the Eastern Land to face execution. Even though this child's mother had long fallen out of favor, and he was the furthest from the Crown Prince's throne among Great Zheng's four princes; even though he had been sent tens of thousands of miles away as a hostage at such a young age, not even daring to talk back when reprimanded by a Zhunnian envoy—even being such a frail child, he was, after all, Chu Jichang, the biological offspring of the Great Zheng Emperor. No matter how much people despised him, they still had to address him as "Your Highness Prince Chang."

This entire affair was a joke. In those years, Tang Qianzi constantly wondered whether, many years later, on the storytelling stages during the intermission, some Heluo entertainer singing comedic tunes would come out and perform their story. An eleven-year-old prince, a fifteen-year-old Yulin Guard general, and his five thousand soldiers who hadn't even grown lip-hair yet. Just these characters alone, once narrated, would be nothing less than an excellent joke.

In truth, many years later, when Chu Jichang's older half-sister, Princess Yanling, asked her younger brother about the events of the night of the Coiled Owl Rebellion, the tall young man clad in a vermilion satin robe with three-clawed golden coiled dragons answered lazily, "Ah, that night when the fires started burning, I had eaten too much oil-tea cake and was having dry hiccups."

Returning to his bedchamber, Jichang gulped down a huge mouthful of water and began coughing violently. A Zhunnian maid gently patted his back to help him breathe easier. It took a good while before the child felt the lodged ball of flour finally slide down his throat and stomach, eventually dropping into his belly with a thump, as if a solid little fist had delivered a fierce punch. The dry hiccups got a bit better, but they still couldn't be completely stopped right away.

After all this tossing and turning, the sky had grown completely dark, and a heavy, gloomy rain began to fall once more.

"Zhenchu." Once the child caught his breath, he raised his voice and called out Tang Qianzi's courtesy name.

The pensive young general's shoulders jolted, and he immediately looked up to reply, "Your Highness, are you feeling better?" "Zhenchu, what are you doing?" Tang Qianzi didn't answer. Instead, he strode over quickly and asked the maid in Zhunnian, "Among your banquet song and dance routines, is there a Formation-Breaking Dance or a Sword Dance?" "In reply to the General, Eastern Land music and dances have never been performed in the palace," the maid answered.

Tang Qianzi pondered for a moment, then suddenly ordered: "Put an outer robe and cloak on His Highness." The maid looked to be only seventeen or eighteen years old, but her response was highly seasoned. "General, without Our King's imperial permission, you and His Highness are not allowed to wander out at night without authorization. Please do not make things difficult for this servant." She was the same height as Tang Qianzi, yet she raised her chin arrogantly, casting a sidelong glance at the youth with a pair of deep black eyes unique to the Zhunnian people.

Prince Chang leaped barefoot off the yellow rosewood couch. "Zhenchu?" The child looked at his escort general, his eyes full of bewilderment.

With a loud clang, the youth's saber left its sheath. It wasn't some famous blade, just the standard military-issue saber of the Zheng Dynasty army. It was evidently quite old; the spine of the blade was dark, smooth, and steady, like black soil that had drunk its fill of blood. There wasn't a trace of the superficial gleam of newly quenched steel, but the edge had been meticulously honed, looking like a sliver of the dark moon under the candlelight.

A handful of thick, dark hair was swept through by the fierce horizontal stroke of the blade. It was severed along with the beaded hair ornament, dropping straight down onto the maid's bare foot, which had been painted with floral patterns using Wanlang flower juice.

The maid had barely let out a sharp, brief shriek before the tip of the saber was pressed against her throat.

The youth's face was cold and rigid. His hand holding the saber exerted unnecessary force, his knuckles turning white, but his eyes shone with a steady and piercing light. His gaze never left the tip of his own blade as he switched back to the Eastern Land language: "Your Highness, please change your clothes immediately."

The night rain fell densely, as if heavy, murky curtains were dropping down. The exquisitely crafted golden royal city lost its outlines; all that remained was that ember-like speck of red at the top of the sacrificial tower, along with countless domes and eaves, reflecting faint light on their own in the night. From the distant, dark surface of the sea, to the harbor strung with pearl-like lights, through the gloomy, filthy, and sprawling waterways, right down to the broken bowls set out by the peasantry to catch leaks—every surface of water was rippling with overlapping rings and the bleak, rustling sounds of the rain. Amidst this vast sound of rain, the clashing ringing of metal slowly grew louder.

Jichang's small hands, which had been frantically fastening his buttons, came to a halt. "Zhenchu! What is that soun..." Then, he swallowed the last word back down.

The sound gradually became distinct. Even a child like him, raised deep in the palace and ignorant of worldly affairs, could tell what it was. It wasn't a military drill, nor was it a Formation-Breaking Dance or a Sword Dance. It was the fierce, grating sound of swords and sabers hacking, thrusting, and slashing against one another. Less than a mile away from here, within this very royal city, two hundred—no, perhaps three hundred sabers and swords, along with their masters, were fiercely intertwined in a fight to the death.

Tang Qianzi shot a rapid, sideways glance out the half-open window.

In the eastern corner of the royal city, the Wind Terrace of a towering pavilion was brightly lit. Curtains were lowered on all four sides, but two sides were already burning fiercely, scattering countless sparks in the wind. In the pitch-black night, it looked like a gigantic pine torch, illuminating the royal city as if it were broad daylight. The silhouettes of people and sharp weapons rapidly wove and shifted against the soft, light silk like a chaotic dream that passed too swiftly to see clearly. However, the splattering, thick streaks of blood were lit by the flames into a viscous black slurry, stubbornly and sluggishly flowing down. That was the so-called banquet hall, the place where the Zhunnian King hosted feasts for distinguished guests.

Even though the tip of the saber was resting steadily against the skin of the maid's neck, Tang Qianzi still felt his own hand trembling.

They could all hear it—many soft yet dense rustling sounds, like a nest of snakes slithering through the grass, stealthily encircling them. Jichang padded barefoot to the window, swept his gaze slightly downward, and withdrew it in terror.

"There are so many people, they've surrounded Jielan's bedchamber. And there are people coming toward us..." He tried with all his might to steady his childish voice, but it was so hoarse he could hardly form the words. There was no need for him to relay what came next, either—the agonizing wails of the palace servants had already torn through the curtain of rain.

The banquet hall could not be used unless the Zhunnian King, Junliang, was present. And at this very moment, hundreds of warriors were fighting to the death in and around the banquet hall, while the Crown Prince's bedchamber was also being subjected to a bloodbath. Bipoluo was such a crowded city; although the royal city was more spacious, the year-round guards numbered barely a thousand. This armed clash involving hundreds of people was undoubtedly a rebellion. And that vortex of swords and fire was slowly expanding before their very eyes, gradually threatening to swallow the entire royal city.

"I fear the rebel army wants to take Your Highness hostage. Where are your seals and documents?" Tang Qianzi said in a deep voice.

Without waiting for his reminder, the child had already climbed onto the bed, rummaged out a small silk pouch pieced together from vermilion and bright yellow from the small bedside drawer, and frantically hung it around his neck.

The maid's bright, glamorous red lips had long lost their color. The half-puff of severed hair spread out to cover her face, and along with the rest of her body, she couldn't stop shivering.

Tang Qianzi bit his lip tightly, flipped his hand, and dragged the blade across the maid's neck. He used so much force that the blade was practically lodged in the flesh and bone. He gave a violent yank and pulled the saber back, but the blood followed, spraying all over his face. Disregarding it without a wipe, he scooped Jichang up with one arm, gripping the saber as he strode outward. Just at that moment, the twenty Great Zheng Yulin Guards stationed upstairs and downstairs heard the commotion outside and barged in, every one of them resting a hand on their saber hilt. Tang Qianzi nodded to them and said tersely, "Let's go." Most of the maids had fled; they only ran into two on their way downstairs. The blood on the tip of Tang Qianzi's saber had not yet dripped clean before it was stained anew. Jichang watched with wide eyes as they collapsed to the floor; air rushed into their shattered, caved-in windpipes, spraying out mixed with blood as they reached out their hands toward him, as if pleading. But he did not linger, nor did he cry. The child's heart plummeted heavily and coldly, sinking into a bottomless fear, yet something boiling hot surged up from within it.

The small building was built over the water, its ground floor constructed from bluestone, solely to borrow the damp, cool air to store new wine. Only upon reaching the second and third floors were there several uniquely designed bridges connecting to other buildings and pavilions. Tang Qianzi led his twenty subordinates straight down to the wine cellar on the bottom floor. Inside the wine cellar, there was a low door used daily for rolling wine barrels in from small boats. They squeezed out through it one by one. The bluestone foundation of the building was narrow at the bottom and wide at the top, shaped like a teacup saucer, blooming outward from the water like flower petals. Naturally, there were no boats waiting outside. The twenty-plus men all sheathed their sabers, slipped into the water, and lurked in the shadows of the bluestone base. Up in the air above their heads, on the crisscrossing suspended corridors and small bridges, about a hundred Zhunnian-garbed soldiers carrying weapons and holding bright torches shouted, swarming into the small building from all directions.

Tang Qianzi made a hand signal to his men, and they silently crowded together, wrapping him and Jichang in the center. The water reached exactly to Tang Qianzi's chin; Jichang clung tightly to his neck, leaving only his head exposed. They waded through the water cautiously, moving toward the northern palace gates. The crimson sky and gold-dust-like floating sparks were reflected on the water's surface. When illuminated by the firelight, the overwhelming gold of the royal city looked as if it had all caught fire. The flames then reflected onto the water, making it seem as though the entire royal city had melted and flowed into the dense network of river bends. The drizzling rain fell endlessly.

Before long, the river branch came to an end. Ahead lay a waterside pavilion. There were no human voices inside, nor any lights. Tang Qianzi recognized it as the painting studio for the Zhunnian princes. Not far to the north from there would be the Chilan Bridge, which connected the inner and outer royal cities.

"Zhenchu." In the darkness, the child suddenly whispered.

"Yes, Your Highness." He answered immediately.

"Just now... was that your first time killing someone?" Tang Qianzi swung over the pavilion's railing with one hand and replied, "To answer Your Highness, yes."

"Are you afraid?" Tang Qianzi stayed silent for a moment, yet he didn't stop moving. After walking another thirty or fifty paces, he finally answered, "I am afraid."

Jichang seemed to have gotten the answer he wanted, and so he fell silent as well.

"Why does Your Highness ask?" Tang Qianzi sensed a heavy burden in Jichang's words and faintly felt something was amiss.

Jichang snuggled into the crook of his neck and said in a low voice, "I didn't know exactly how terrifying it is to kill someone for the first time—I'm afraid that sooner or later, I will eventually have to face such a day, too." The young general suddenly felt that his soaked military uniform had grown exceptionally cold and heavy, clinging entirely to his body, chilling him straight to the bone—whether it was because of the child's words, or because of a slight, strange noise his ears had just caught at this moment. With no time to think further, he raised a hand, signaling his subordinates behind him to halt.

The waterside pavilion immediately fell as silent as death. High in the air, the long wind carried over the fierce crackling of the burning banquet hall's Wind Terrace and the heaven-shaking sounds of slaughter, making them seem as if they were extremely far away. After another moment, everyone heard that small, strange noise. Just behind a row of thirty-two screen panels inlaid with mother-of-pearl, carved gold, and pomegranate garnets, a pattering of light footsteps was heading in their direction. It was the sound of soft bare feet hurriedly slapping against the cold, hard ground. Mixed in between was a muffled rattling sound, like washing beans; they couldn't tell what was making the noise.

He set Jichang down and slipped sideways behind the folding screen alone. With a soft swoosh, he drew his saber an inch from its sheath, gathering his strength. The back of the screen faced a winding corridor directly opposite the river separating the inner and outer royal cities. The folding screen was as heavy as a wall; thumbnail-sized flakes of mother-of-pearl were sparsely attached to its surface, faintly letting through the swaying firelight from the river. That flickering red glow would sometimes be obscured by something, only to seep back through in the next instant. One could tell that a person was walking hurriedly along the screen, and the distant firelight cast a massive human silhouette onto it.

They held their breath and waited.

Reaching the end of the folding screen, the dark silhouette wrapped around to this side. The first thing to poke out was a hand.

Tang Qianzi grabbed that hand in one swift motion, using the momentum to tightly lock the newcomer's shoulder. The saber also leaped from its sheath in his hand, slicing horizontally through the air with a swish, and was pressed against the person's neck. He lowered his voice and barked in Zhunnian, "Don't make a sound!" They all only felt a flash before their eyes. The blade's gleam was like a rainbow, like lightning, so piercingly bright that it seemed as if it would carve an eternal mark onto the depths of their eyes. But it was as if that flash wasn't meant for that strike alone.

A ringing of bells, flowing like water, abruptly echoed out.

It was as if an entire table of glazed bowls and cups had been swept to the floor, chiseling snow and shattering jade, tumbling, bouncing, breaking into thousands of thin, sharp, and sweet shards of rock candy, then crashing into chunks, crashing into crystalline powder. For a long, long time, even after the ringing finally ceased, an unending, lingering resonance still seemed to murmur in everyone's ears, like a silver coin bouncing around inside the cavity of a paper-thin celadon vase.

The youths of the Yulin Guards were all stunned.

It was only a little girl, so small, looking to be merely five or six years old. She hugged a brocade bundle tightly in her arms. Her two wrists were piled high with bracelets strung with silver wire and bells. Most likely afraid the silver bells would ring as she walked, she had bound her left and right wrists with a silk shawl, leaving only that muffled sound like washing beans. Yanked by Tang Qianzi, the shawl fell away, and the handful of silver bells rang out wantonly and loud. She had a richly delicate, slightly dark, pointed little face and wore brilliantly colored clothing, looking like a child from a noble aristocratic family in the palace. However, her head full of curly black hair hung loose and disheveled, and her clothes were tied askew. Looking utterly panicked and helpless, her almond-shaped eyes were wide open with terror as she looked all around. Those pupils, darker than the deepest abyss, devoured all light, yet her gaze never managed to land on a person—it turned out she was blind.

Tang Qianzi could clearly feel the blind little girl he held in his grip trembling uncontrollably. One of her hands was being pulled by him, but she didn't hit out to resist, nor did she scream. She merely forcefully planted her legs and feet, trying to steady her body, while her other hand securely hugged the bundle to her chest. Perhaps she squeezed too hard, for a loud infant's cry burst out from inside the bundle. The little girl jumped in fright. Her only free hand was occupied holding the swaddle, so she clumsily pressed her own face against the infant's face, murmuring and coaxing, while she herself began to cry out of fear.

"Who are you? Who are you people?" The little girl's voice was thin and frail as she spoke in Zhunnian between sobs.

"Your Highness." Tang Qianzi clenched his jaw and turned his head to cast a glance at Jichang. "We cannot spare her life." His expression was stern, looking as though he were bracing for an argument.

Jichang retorted immediately, "I understand." They were speaking the language of the Eastern Land's Hua people, which the Zhunnian girl couldn't understand. Yet Jichang still turned his face away, as if afraid to meet her gaze. In truth, it was absurd; how could this girl have any gaze at all? "Our whereabouts cannot be exposed, not even at the slightest risk. If I fall into the hands of the rebel army, they will surely use me as a bargaining chip to threaten the Zhunnian King and my Royal Father... But once they realize I'm not worth that price..." Jichang's words stopped here, biting the second half back into his lips. Thin, stubbornly unyielding tears welled up in his eyes.

"And we would all die, too," one of the Yulin Guard soldiers interjected quietly.

Another youth gritted his teeth and said, "All five thousand of us would die." The fire outside was still burning fiercely; the sounds of wood and stone collapsing and pavilions toppling could be heard. The situation had likely deteriorated to the point of no return.

The little girl didn't know what they were saying, nor could she see their expressions. She only knew that these people had not yet harmed her, so perhaps they were not evil men. She grabbed onto Tang Qianzi's arm, pulling on it as she cried and pleaded, "Go save my mother and my brother, please save them! I'll reward you with lots and lots of money, and land..."

Tang Qianzi tightened his grip on the saber in his hand. This girl was indeed of noble birth. However, as things stood now, no matter how illustrious her family background or how abundant her wealth, in the face of life and death, it was all useless. He had lost his father in his youth; if he lost his life here today, let alone who his widowed mother would rely on in her old age, if Jichang died as well, his entire family clan—being his escort general—would likely be condemned for his crimes.

These five thousand Yulin Guard soldiers were all still young, with parents and siblings, looking forward to long days ahead. Perhaps they would snag a minor official post and marry the second daughter of the Yu family on the next street. Not a single one of them had prepared to die. He was the one who had brought five thousand lively youths to this foreign land, and he had to bring them back as safely and completely as possible.

With the situation so critical, fleeing with this girl would just mean taking on a useless burden, leaving them absolutely no path to survival. But if they abandoned her here, their whereabouts would inevitably be exposed.

They had to survive.

Clenching his teeth tight, he gripped the girl's slender little shoulder. The girl opened her lusterless eyes wide, blankly clutching the infant to her chest, the majority of her fragile neck exposed. Her two eyes could not see, nor did she know anything of the words these people spoke. She understood even less that the blade of a military saber was hovering right by her neck. All it would take was a slight pressure inward, followed by a violent yank to the right—just one single yank.

That split second felt as short as a spark struck from a flint, yet as agonizingly long as the never-ending night in the extreme north of Shangzhou.

Right in that instant, the light of pine torches flashed past the corner of Tang Qianzi's eye. Outside the pavilion, a hoarse, exhausted voice shouted at the top of its lungs: "Over here! Over here!" A chaotic chorus of Zhunnian men's voices roared in response behind it: "Over here! By His Majesty's decree, leave no one alive! Bring their heads to claim the reward!" The brightly burning torches connected into a line, winding over from the arch bridge opposite them like a slithering fire snake. Illuminated by the flames, the clothing and armor of those men were clearly discernible.

Tang Qianzi started in shock, pushed the girl aside, and lunged toward Jichang, pulling the child behind him.

It turned out that the ones intercepting and slaughtering them were none other than the royal city guards who served the Zhunnian King, Junliang.