Chapter Text
The Empire of Yunqin was set between mountain and mist, its lands shaped as much by patience as by power. At dawn, light reached its valleys slowly, spilling over terraced hills carved by generations who believed endurance was a virtue. Bamboo groves lined the countryside, their stalks bending and whispering in the wind like witnesses conferring over old truths. In rural settlements, wood smoke rose from clay stoves, carrying the scents of steamed rice, crushed ginger, and drying medicinal herbs—markers of a people who lived close to the land and kept careful records of its gifts.
In Beifeng, Yunqin’s northern frontier. The land rose sharply into snowbound mountains, where winters were long and unforgiving. Survival in the north demanded adaptability—people born there learned early to make use of whatever the land allowed. The region’s high peaks and cavernous ridges offered refuge to outsiders, bringing in enemy forces, dissenters, and rebel factions who exploited the climate to seize smaller northern towns. Recruitment was often coerced, driven by scarcity and isolation rather than allegiance. In order to protect the northern borders, the imperial court established a standing frontier army, charged with reclaiming contested land and maintaining the emperor’s presence where authority thinned. Over time, many northerners migrated south toward the capital, yet those who remained governed the mountains with firm resolve. Chief among them was the Guo clan, leaders of the Northern faction, whose stewardship ensured that Beifeng endured not as a forgotten region, but as a recognized—if volatile—arm of the empire.
At the center of Yunqin lay Yunjing, the imperial capital. Encircled by high walls and regulated gates, the city controlled access with precision. Within, commerce, governance, and culture converged. Noble houses displayed their wealth openly, while merchants crowded the streets in constant competition. Brothels operated alongside academies and workshops, and festivals were observed as both celebration and political display. Yunjing’s architecture stood as testament to imperial authority—grand, deliberate, and built to be remembered for multiple dynasties to come.
East of the capital extended Dongcang, the empire’s primary agricultural region. Fed by a network of rivers and fertile lands, it supplied grain to sustain both the city and frontier. Farming defined daily life, and the land was long believed to be favored by divine providence. Yet in recent years, an unexplained drought disrupted this balance. Fields cracked, yields declined, and the consequences of Dongcang’s hardship spread steadily across Yunqin.
To the west lay Xiye, the desert province. Known for its sandstorms and caravan routes, it functioned as Yunqin’s principal trading hub. Goods from every region passed through its markets before reaching neighboring kingdoms. Xiye was distinct in its diversity; traders of many races and customs gathered there, exchanging not only wares but information. News and rumor alike found fertile ground in its crowded bazaars.
Threading through all regions were the rivers of Yunqin, believed to predate the earliest dynasties. Slow and broad, they carried the residue of history within their currents. It was said that at dusk, beneath ancient stone bridges, one could hear echoes of earlier ages in the water’s flow—reminders that empires, like rivers, endured through accumulation rather than moment.
And in Yunqin, stories were as common as the wind itself and as the rivers that flow through its lands.
They clung to peach trees heavy with blossoms, hid between tiles of ancient rooftops, and slipped into the marketplace alongside traders from distant provinces. Tales of fox spirits who charmed scholars, mountain gods who demanded offerings, ghosts who wandered lantern-lit streets at night—they were the threads that held Yunqin’s evenings together.
But none were as whispered—nor as chilling—as the tale of the Serpent Prince.
Three decades ago, a second son was born to a lowly concubine, just a year after the much-beloved Crown Prince Rhongsheng. The court celebrated at first, for another prince was a sign of Heaven’s blessing. Yet the joy faded the moment the Emperor took the newborn into his arms. The infant was cold—cold as winter stone, cold as moonlit water, cold as something that did not belong in human hands. Alarmed, the Emperor summoned the royal physician, who fussed over the babe—checked the little prince’s pulse and breath and limbs, but found no ailment his knowledge could explain.
So the Emperor turned to the astrologers, a highly respected faction in the empire.
A man cloaked in white stepped forward, the sigil of the Astrology Faction stitched over his chest. He spread the infant’s birth chart before him, the parchment trembling faintly between his fingers as he read the markings of stars, seasons, and omens.
When he finally spoke, his voice trembled like a reed in a stormwind.
“They say,” he murmured, “that a serpent born beneath broken stars brings calamity. This young prince’s fate… clashes with the Emperor’s own. His star carries thunder—upheaval, misfortune, and the fall of what stands above him.”
From that night on, no one in the palace dared speak of the second prince without lowering their voice, nor do they look at him in his piercing silver eyes. Court ladies whispered behind silk sleeves. Eunuchs walked more quietly. Even the Empress avoided the eastern wing where the concubine lived.
A serpent son had been born.
And one day, it was said, he would bring ruin to Yunqin.
Yet to the common folk far from the capital, such accounts became no more than another tale—recited to quiet unruly children or to occupy the long stillness of dusk. Farmers rose with the fields, merchants tended their ledgers, and laborers bore the weight of days that left little room for prophecies. Survival, not speculation, governed their lives.
This was especially true in the southern villages of Yunqin, the smallest and least regarded of the empire’s regions. Nanshui lay among wetlands and rice paddies, its settlements scattered along marshland and shallow rivers. The people there took whatever work could be found, bound less by trade than by necessity. Since the drought in Dongcang, regions as modest as Nanshui felt the strain most sharply, their resources thinning with each season and their dependence on uncertain harvests growing heavier. So for Wu Suowei, the so-called Serpent Prince belonged to that same category of distant myth—no more tangible than the legends beaten into an old storyteller’s drum, remembered for their rhythm rather than their truth
Suowei had more immediate concerns—like the stubbornness of late-summer corn after a week of heavy rain, the constant ache in his palms from weaving straw sandals too fast, and the embarrassing truth that he could manage to trip even while standing still. Fate, curses, royal omens? Those belonged in carved tablets and scholar scrolls, not that Suowei could read any of them anyway…
Heaven knew Suowei was just trying to survive each day with all ten fingers attached!
He had just finished tending to his family’s modest corn field, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his dirt-streaked hand. The summer heat clung to the air like a damp blanket, turning every movement into labor. He had spent the morning loosening compacted soil with a wooden hoe, pulling out weeds that seemed to sprout faster than he could blink, and checking each stalk for signs of worms. Afterward, he hauled bucket after bucket of water from the creek—nearly slipping twice on wet stones—and spent the remaining daylight repairing a bundle of straw sandals.
Only three turned out decent enough to sell. And even then, Suowei wasn’t confident they would last a week.
Still, he nodded to himself.
This was enough.
Clad in simple dirt-covered hemp clothing, he brushed bits of husk and dirt from his bandaged hands. His damp ebony hair was held back with a white piece of fabric he had ripped in order to make a make-shift band over his head. As Suowei didn't find it comfortable to have his fringe over his eyes as he worked tirelessly in his family's field. He stretched his back with a soft groan, gathered his tools, and was just about to head home when something pricked his ears—
A low, faint grumble coming from a few paces away.
Suowei froze.
His family didn’t own pigs, goats, or even a single chicken. His brows furrowed. Was something hurt? Or worse—was someone stealing their crops again? He approached cautiously, squinting between the tall stalks. The sound came again—faint, pained. Suowei followed it until he reached the edge of the field where a withered tree cast a stretch of shadow.
There, slumped against the trunk, was a man.
Clad in loose black clothing, a wide triangular hat drooping low over his hidden face.
Suowei’s breath caught. “Heavens! A drunkard in this time and day?” Suowei jests, his heart now calming after seeing that he would most probably not be dealing with a corn thief at this time. However, as few seconds came by with no reply to his small jest, Suowei began to feel anxious once more. “Wait, no…perhaps...is this a corpse?”
He crept closer, then accidentally stepped on a dried stalk—crack.
Suowei flinched at his own noise but the man didn’t move.
“Ah—he’s really dead, isn’t he…?” Suowei whispered as his nerves started prickling, he poked the stranger’s arm with one tentative finger.
The man groaned.
Suowei yelped so loudly he nearly fell backward. “Good heavens! He’s not dead! Good… Good sir? Sir? Hello?!”
Suowei knelt by the man's rugged body, tentatively touching the stranger's arm. The stranger slumped further but gave no reply beyond another weak breath. Suowei scanned the robed figure, seeing as the man had a broken arrow lodged on his left arm, panic flared, followed by immediate, thoughtless determination. Without a plan—Suowei rarely had one—he ducked down, hauled the man’s uninjured arm over his shoulder, and attempted to stand. The stranger was heavier than he looked, and Suowei staggered like a startled duck.
Suowei cursed as he tried his best to keep the man from falling. “Worry not,” Suowei grunted, wobbling. “My house… isn’t far… I think…”
It took him three times longer than it should have, and he tripped at least twice, but eventually he pushed open the crooked wooden door of the hut he shared with his mother. Inside, his mother looked up from sorting herbs. The smile on her face immediately faded as her eyes caught a glimpse of the body that her son was carrying on his back. She froze.
“Da Qiong,” she said in a voice that could slice bamboo. “Pray tell, why is there a dying man on your back?”
Suowei dragged the stranger onto their sleeping mat. “He isn’t dead! I checked!”
“That is not the answer I wanted!”
Before she could scold him further, a familiar voice sounded from outside.
“Auntie? Da Wei? I brought the herbs for—” A pause. “…What in the nine heavens is that?”
Jiang Xiaoshuai, the village herbalist and Suowei’s long-suffering friend, stepped through the doorway holding a satchel of medicinal plants. He stopped mid-step, his expression flattening into pure resignation. The doctor’s brows furrowed, his eyes scanning the man on Suowei’s back.
“Da Wei,” he sighed, “why do you always bring home problems bigger than yourself?”
“It’s not a problem!” Suowei protested. “He was hurt! I couldn’t leave him!”
His mother exhaled a long, familiar sigh. Xiaoshuai did the same. But even so, they moved with practiced efficiency. Suowei’s mother fetched water and cloth while Xiaoshuai knelt beside the unconscious man, checking his pulse and peeling back blood-soaked fabric with careful fingers.
“These wounds are deep,” Xiaoshuai muttered. “He’s feverish. Who is this man?”
Suowei blinked. “Um… I don’t know. I found him in our corn fields…”
His mother pinched the bridge of her nose. “My silly son… golden heart, empty head…” she muttered, though her hands were already moving—swift, practiced, and steady despite her exasperation.
Xiaoshuai took command of the small space, his calm voice guiding them all. “Auntie, boil some hot water for me, please. And Suowei, more cloth—clean ones. And don’t trip on anything.”
“I won’t trip,” Suowei said confidently, before nearly bumping into the herb shelf on his way to fetch the cloth. His mother caught the jars just in time.
They worked by the dim glow of their oil lamp, its flickering light casting long shadows across the packed-earth floor. Xiaoshuai peeled away the man’s black outer robe, revealing more than a dozen wounds—some shallow, some dangerously deep—running across his arms and torso. The edges of the cuts were clean, almost too precise, like they’d been made by blades wielded by experts. Blood had dried in dark patches along the fabric, stiffening it, and the stranger’s breathing was faint and uneven, as though each inhale was wrestled from him.
Suowei swallowed hard. “Shifu…can we really fix all that?”
“We must,” the herbalist replied, voice firm. “Or he won’t last till morning. He’s already too hot.”
Xiaoshuai crushed fresh sanqi powder and mixed it with the herbs he’d brought for Suowei’s mother—angelica root, mugwort, and a few precious strands of golden thread herb, rare but potent. Their fragrant, earthy scent filled the hut. He soaked a cloth in the steaming water Auntie brought, wrung it out, and began cleaning each wound with careful, practiced strokes. The man flinched even in unconsciousness, jaw tightening at every touch. The doctor’s outer robes which were colored like the skies threatening to pour were now drenched in red. Yet the doctor kept on pushing at the injured man’s wound. Wrapping it up tightly as he crushed herbs to numb the man’s pain.
Auntie assisted, her hands surprisingly steady for someone who had been scolding moments before. She held the lamp closer when needed, dabbed away excess blood, and sorted through Xiaoshuai’s satchel for more bandages. “His body is burning,” she murmured, pressing a cool cloth to the man’s forehead. “That fever is no ordinary one.”
Suowei kneeled beside them, handing whatever was asked of him—sometimes the wrong thing, but always with earnest urgency. When he tried to help press a poultice onto a wound, his fingers brushed the stranger’s skin and recoiled. “He’s so cold,” he whispered. “Colder than creek water in winter.”
“That’s impossible,” Xiaoshuai said—until he touched the man’s arm himself and stiffened. His brows knit tightly, a shadow passing through his usually calm expression. “Cold body, high fever… this isn’t natural.”
But questions would have to wait. They worked through the man’s injuries one by one, layering poultices, tightening bandages, securing strips of cloth around his ribs. Sweat beaded on Xiaoshuai’s forehead from the effort; Auntie’s hands trembled slightly after binding the last wound; and Suowei hovered anxiously, as though watching over someone he somehow already felt responsible for, and he was.
When they finally finished, Xiaoshuai sat back with a long exhale.
“Hopefully he’ll live,” he said, though uncertainty flickered in his eyes. “Just needs a few weeks of rest…Once he wakes up, ask him how he got in the corn fields.”
Suowei, breathing hard from sheer worry, stared at the stranger’s now-peaceful face beneath the brim of the hat Xiaoshuai had removed. He nodded.
“Thank you, Shifu,” he murmured softly. “I hope you aren’t too mad at me. He needed help. So… I helped.”
And though neither his mother nor Xiaoshuai said it aloud, both knew this truth, that was exactly the kind of person Wu Suowei was—and exactly the kind of trouble fate liked to give him.
The man once clad in black woke slowly—like a blade pushing up from cold earth.
The first thing he felt was weight—the heaviness of his own limbs, bound by exhaustion. The second was pain—a deep throb beneath clean layers of bandage, muted but present. And then—coolness. A damp cloth brushing against his cheek in soft, clumsy taps.
His eyes snapped open.
A hand was hovering very close to his face.
Instinct surged before consciousness did. His fingers shot up, closing around the wrist hovering above him with surprising strength for someone barely recovered. The young man tending to him—round-eyed, startled, very much not intimidating—let out a squeak.
“Ah—! Hey—! G-good Sir—this—this is not—!”
The taller man’s grip tightened. His gaze sharpened, dark and cold, like steel pulled halfway from its sheath. He scanned the unfamiliar room—mud-brick walls, hanging bundles of drying herbs, a flickering oil lamp. The room was quite home-y with other non-herbal plants decorating the walls. There were a few novice paintings that hang around the room, adding a few rays of color in the room. It was not a prison, not a palace, but a hut—small, filled with woven furniture.
His glare returned to the boy.
Wu Suowei swallowed audibly, but to his credit, he did not yank his arm free. His voice trembled, but only halfway.
“C-can you not crush my hand? I—I was helping you, you know!”
The man said nothing. His expression remained that of a cornered beast—wary, assessing, ready to strike if needed.
Suowei puffed out his cheeks, mustering a courage that looked like something stitched from stubbornness and fear. “Look—I brought you here! You were half-dead in my field. I carried you all the way—all the way—and you’re heavy, by the way—so the least you can do is be respectful!”
There was a beat of silence. An awfully long one. Then the taller man’s fingers loosened, though not quite gently. He released Suowei’s wrist with a final, cold glance that suggested he was still deciding whether the boy was an ally, a threat, or an idiot.
“Good,” he said, rubbing his wrist. “Also—you shouldn’t glare like that. It makes you look like you want to eat me.”
The man raised a brow, unimpressed. He opened his mouth, the very first words that Suowei heard this man utter made his entire body shiver at the tone—dark and brooding. A resounding, “Should I not?” left the man’s lips.
“No!” Suowei yelped. “Definitely no!”
The corner of the man’s mouth twitched—though whether it was amusement or disdain, Suowei could not tell but the man stayed still.
And Heaven knows Suowei needed that.
Suowei had been terrified from the moment his newfound “problem” opened his eyes two nights ago.
He tried to hide it—tried to hold his chin high and speak like someone who wasn’t afraid of being crushed under a single glare—but it never worked. Not when the man watched him like a predator studying its prey. Not when every movement the man made felt sharp, deliberate, and strangely coiled—as though he were restraining something far more dangerous beneath the surface. Ever since waking, that tall man barely said a word. He simply sat or lay on the mat, eyes half-lidded but alert, tracking Suowei with the intensity of a hawk. And Suowei… did everything in his power to look anywhere else.
If he glared from the bed, Suowei would sweep the floor with greater enthusiasm.
If he stared while Suowei cooked, suddenly the pot needed stirring for a suspiciously long time.
If he shifted in the slightest way, Suowei would nearly jump out of his skin.
But today—today was worse.
The rain had begun to fall in a soft drizzle, tapping gently against the thatched roof. Suowei’s mother had left earlier to stay the night at a neighbor’s home, caring for an elderly friend whose husband had fallen ill. That left Suowei alone with the wounded stranger.
And for some reason, that man seemed more restless than usual.
Suowei tried to stay busy by mending baskets, sweeping, grinding herbs Jiang Xiaoshuai had left for them—but every time he glanced up, the man was staring at him as if peeling back the layers of his skin. It was unnerving…too unnerving.
“Um… you should drink your medicine,” Suowei said, holding out a bowl of bitter-smelling broth. “Xiaoshuai boiled the herbs special for you. It’s very effective! But it won’t taste good, though. I tried it, well, by accident—and my tongue went numb for an hour—”
Wu Suowei never finished the sentence as the bowl nearly slipped from his grasp as a hand shot out—far faster than a wounded man should have been able to move—and seized Suowei by the wrist.
“H-Hey—?!”
In one fluid motion, the taller man pushed himself upright, ignoring the pull of his half-healed shoulder, and yanked Suowei forward. The smaller man stumbled, nearly falling into him, but as skillful as the man looked, he used the momentum to force him back, until Suowei’s spine collided with the wooden wall with a loud bang!
Before he could even gasp, cold metal kissed his throat.
Suowei froze.
The knife—one that the man had somehow hidden under his discarded black clothing—pressed lightly against the soft skin just beneath Suowei’s jaw. Not enough to cut. But enough to promise it could.
His voice was a low growl and dangerously steady.
“Who are you?”
Seen up close like this, the man was tall—far taller than anyone Suowei had ever met. His gaze trailed, almost against his will, over the beauty marks scattered across the stranger’s face—one resting beside the bridge of his nose, just below the brow, and another brushing the edge of his cheek near the eye. They were small, almost delicate details, yet on him they seemed to sharpen his presence rather than soften it. The man’s eyes, dark and heavy with quiet intensity, met Suowei’s without wavering. Suowei gasped at the bright color of silver that the man’s eyes brandished. Like a blade, able to cut through flesh with ease. A cold shiver ran down Suowei’s spine.
He quickly looked away.
Suowei’s legs trembled so violently he could barely stand. “W-Wu Suowei,” he squeaked. The name seemed to irk the man even more, pushing the blade further into the smaller man’s skin. “It's really just Suowei! Just a farmer—mostly—sometimes sandal maker—sometimes accidental healer—but mostly a farmer, I swear!”
The brooding man leaned closer, his shadow swallowing Suowei whole. “Who sent you? Who ordered you to drag me into your house?”
“No one!” Suowei squealed, hands raised in surrender. “I told you! I found you in my field! And you were dying! Probably—almost dying! Y-you made a noise and I thought you were a corpse but you weren’t and—Heavens—I can explain everything—just don’t kill me!”
Something flickered in the man’s eyes—doubt, confusion, suspicion.
He pressed the knife a fraction closer.
“Men do not help strangers without reason.”
“I do!” Suowei cried, voice cracking. His eyes stung with frustrated tears—fear, embarrassment, and indignation swirling together. “I mean—I don’t usually, because strangers usually don’t collapse in my corn fields—but if they did, I would! I swear I’m telling the truth!”
He shut his eyes tightly, blurting out the words before terror choked him completely.
“I didn’t take you in because someone told me to—I took you in because you would’ve died out there, and—and I didn’t want someone to die in front of me!”
There was a beat of silence, with only the rain filling the hut, falling in soft, steady sheets. Suowei felt a sense of peace thanks to the silence. Slowly—very slowly—the pressure of the blade eased. Suowei dared to open one eye. The man’s expression had shifted. Still wary, still cold, but no longer the lethal, icy wrath from moments ago. His brows furrowed, the faintest show of… consideration.
Or disbelief.
Or both.
He stepped back, withdrawing the knife and returning it to his sleeve with practiced precision. Suowei collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he sat on the floor, legs shaking uncontrollably.
“I… I thought I was going to die,” he whispered breathlessly.
“You talk too much to die so easily,” The taller man replied flatly.
“That’s not—! That’s not comforting at all!”
The man ignored him, standing firm despite the tension in his injured shoulder. “Your name. Wu Suowei.” He said it as though testing the sound. “I will remember it.”
Suowei gulped. “That’s good? I think?”
Finally—finally—the stranger lowered his gaze, allowing the icy edge of suspicion to thaw by a fraction.
“My name,” he said, “is Ling Zhan.”
Suowei didn’t question it, he just waved his hand, acknowledging Ling Zhan’s introduction. His mind was too busy replaying the moment the knife met his throat.
“I… I’m going to sit here,” he said faintly, “until my legs stop being noodles.”
Ling Zhan didn’t respond. But his posture eased, his stance no longer coiled like a man ready to kill.
Wu Suowei spent the rest of the night trying to calm his beating heart from almost experiencing being stabbed to death by the very man he had saved from dying himself. And Ling Zhan, slept peacefully throughout the night.
Life in the small hut settled into a peculiar rhythm. Ling Zhan, though still injured and prone to silent brooding, no longer lashed out in suspicion. He would sit or lie quietly on the straw mat, occasionally watching Suowei move around the hut—cooking corn porridge, scrubbing the floor, or carefully arranging the few bundles of herbs and corn stalks that filled the corners. Suowei, ever anxious but resolute, kept his tasks brisk and cheerful, speaking in a stream of words as if volume could drive away the tension between them.
One morning, before Suowei would leave his hut to tend to the cornfields, he sees Ling Zhan sitting with his back on one of the hut’s posts and holding a corn on his hand.
“Ling Zhan!” Suowei called out. “Don’t just stare! The floor won’t scrub itself!” Suowei huffs as he sweeps furiously with a worn broom. It was ridiculous, how he was blabbering and nagging an injured man to help him with housework. But that was just how Suowei was. A blabbermouth. The larger man lifted his head slowly, eyes dark and calculating, and inclined it only slightly—a gesture that could have been a nod or a warning. Suowei ignored the subtle intimidation, muttering, “Good. You’re learning the rhythm of life, at least.”
By the end of the day, Suowei would gather his hat and simple satchel and head to the southern market to sell what little his fields produced. Ling Zhan remained behind, taking those hours to rest, stretch, and regain the strength that would soon allow him to walk without Suowei’s help. Occasionally, Suowei’s mother, who lived in the adjacent hut, would peek in, bringing hot tea or soft rice porridge for the injured man. At first, Ling Zhan regarded her with quiet suspicion, but the warmth in her voice and the gentle diligence in her hands gradually eroded the barriers he had set around himself.
Evenings were the hardest for Suowei, who bore both the weight of daily labor and the anxiety of keeping Ling Zhan fed, safe, and unpoisoned—at least in the larger man’s eyes. Suowei would return with food purchased from the bustling market stalls—steamed buns, pickled vegetables, small fried fish wrapped in paper. Ling Zhan’s gaze, sharp and untrusting, always lingered a moment too long on each offering.
“I’m not trying to poison you, you brute,” Suowei rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, before tearing off a piece and popping it into his mouth first, exaggerating the motion to make it clear that the food was safe.
Only then would he place a portion before Ling Zhan, who would accept it with a wary nod, nibbling cautiously while keeping those piercing eyes on Suowei.
It was a slow, silent exchange, part ritual-part reassurance, and somehow it worked.
The days blended into one another, and with each morning, Ling Zhan grew a little steadier on his feet. When he could finally rise without assistance, he accompanied Suowei to the cornfields where the larger man had first collapsed. Suowei sang mindlessly as he worked, he would stop at odd times, telling Ling Zhan about the village, the market, and the peculiar habits of the townsfolk.
“I actually grew up in this part of Yunqin. I’ve never been inside the Capital.” Suowei confessed, although a bit embarrassed as Ling Zhan looked like he came from the Capital himself. “It’s not like I want to go too, you know? I’m just curious what the Capital is like! Xiaoshuai’s been there before. He told me the capital never sleeps, there were lanterns everywhere! And street vendors were selling way more than those here.” Suowei rambled on. “If it were up to me, I’d sell my shoes there! Would people from the capital buy them?”
Ling Zhan said little, nodding or humming in agreement, but there was a quiet satisfaction in being walked through the world again, one stalk and one step at a time.
Ling Zhan’s strength returned faster than Suowei had ever dared hope, or even expected. Within days, he could lift the heavy sacks of corn that usually required Suowei to brace his entire body weight to move an inch. And he did it with a quiet, effortless grace—shoulders steady, steps firm, breath unbroken—that both awed and flustered the young farmer. Suowei’s usual flustered chatter gained a new edge of pride each time he caught Ling Zhan carrying burdens that would make seasoned laborers groan. By the time they reached the marketplace, the vendors had already begun whispering. A silent giant trailing behind the clumsy village boy was not something one saw every day.
More than once, startled merchants paused mid-negotiation, staring at Ling Zhan as he wordlessly hoisted crates twice the size anyone else could handle. Suowei, ever quick to seize opportunity, puffed out his chest and took full advantage.
When the stall owner attempted to undervalue Suowei’s produce, he did so with the ease of a man accustomed to getting away with it. He turned the bundle over once in his hands, sniffed as though offended by the very sight of it, and clicked his tongue.
“Two coppers,” the merchant said. “That’s generous, considering the quality.”
Suowei’s eyes widened—not with fear, but with disbelief. “Two?” he echoed, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. “Ah, shushu, you wound me. These were pulled from the soil before sunrise. You can still smell the land on them.” He leaned forward eagerly, pushing the bundle closer. “Four coppers would be fair—five, even, if you’re feeling kind today.”
The merchant scoffed. “You southern folk always talk too much.”
Suowei straightened, hands on his hips. “Talk too much? I’m only explaining. If I wanted to talk too much, I’d tell you about the leeches I had to pull off my ankles this morning.”
The stall owner waved him off with an unimpressed huff, already turning toward another customer. “Two coppers. Take it or—”
“No,” Suowei said quickly, smile strained but stubborn. The merchant huffed, waving a hand, dismissing the pathetic display in front of him. The merchant turned around and Wu Suowei would not let this kind of disrespect go. Not only was this man disrespecting him, but also his family’s hardwork! “You can’t just—hey, wait, at least look at them properly—”
That was when Ling Zhan stepped forward.
He placed one gloved hand on the edge of the stall. It made a soft, deliberate sound—wood meeting leather. The merchant turned back, irritation already on his face, and froze.
Ling Zhan did not raise his voice. He did not smile.
“That price,” he said flatly, “is incorrect.”
The words were calm, almost bored, but his gaze was anything but. Sharp and cold, it settled on the stall owner like frost creeping over glass. It was the kind of look that curdled milk and froze summer rivers mid-flow.
The merchant swallowed, the tall man’s silver eyes shocked his entire being. “I—I only meant—”
Ling Zhan tilted his head, just slightly. “You weighed it wrong.”
Silence stretched. The merchant glanced at the produce again, then at Ling Zhan’s expression, and thought better of arguing. He cleared his throat hastily.
“Ah. Of course. My mistake.” His fingers moved quickly this time, recalculating. “Four coppers. No—five.”
Suowei blinked, then beamed. “See?” he said cheerfully. “I told you five felt right.”
Ling Zhan shot him a look.
Suowei coughed, hastily softening his grin. “—Thank you for your business,” he added, far more politely.
The merchant slid the coins across the stall without meeting Ling Zhan’s eyes.
Ling Zhan took them, weighed them once in his palm, then turned away. “Let’s go,” he said.
Suowei fell into step beside him, practically bouncing. “You didn’t even glare that hard,” he whispered, clearly impressed. “Do you practice that face, or does it just happen naturally?”
Ling Zhan did not slow. “Stop talking.”
Suowei grinned wider—and talked anyway.
By the time the sun had dipped behind the roofs of Yunqin’s busy market streets, the two of them left with double Suowei’s usual earnings. Suowei beamed so brightly that even the setting sun seemed dim beside him.
“You really helped me back there, Ling Zhan!” he chirped, struggling to carry two heavy bags filled with steamed buns, dried jerky, and a bundle of rice cakes. “With that amount of money, we were able to bring home a whole bag of buns and jerky! Usually I only get half!”
Ling Zhan nodded, hands clasped behind his back in his usual calm posture. “Auntie Wu is going to be happy.”
“She’d be even happier once I tell her our mighty Ling Zhan finally called her ‘Auntie’.” Suowei teased, nudging him with an elbow he promptly regretted, because it was like nudging a wall. He blinked up. “Hold on—actually, how old are you?”
Ling Zhan looked down at him, expression unreadable. “Older than you.”
Suowei let out a nervous laugh. “Well, that doesn’t help! I can’t exactly call you ‘brother,’ can I? That’d be weird—though you do act like an older brother sometimes. A scary one. Who could throw me into a river if he wanted.”
Ling Zhan raised a brow. “Should I test that theory?”
“No! Absolutely not! Forget I said anything!” Suowei yelped, clutching the bags tighter.
Ling Zhan’s lips almost—almost—curved upward. Suowei missed it entirely.
They continued down the dusty road, Suowei rambling about the day’s events, occasionally stumbling on loose stones, while Ling Zhan silently ensured the boy didn’t fall flat on his face. He would catch Suowei by the back of the collar every time he lurched forward too quickly, guiding him along wordlessly. Suowei never noticed the subtle nudges, believing wholeheartedly that he had “excellent balance today.”
Even as they bickered, even as Ling Zhan remained imposing and domineering in presence, something gentle took root between them. Not quite friendship, not yet trust—but a strange, steady companionship.
Suowei had never grown used to someone walking behind him, someone strong and silent, someone whose presence felt like a protective shadow rather than a threatening one. And Ling Zhan, though sparing with his words, found a quiet comfort in the boy’s clumsy warmth—his chatter, his stubborn resolve, his inexplicable kindness.
Ling Zhan’s rare nods of acknowledgment, the low hums of approval when Suowei managed not to trip, and the way he stood guard in the shade of the cornfields spoke more than any conversation could.
“You healed up remarkably quickly,” Xiaoshuai said as he cleaned the last of the dried blood from Ling Zhan’s side, his fingers steady but his voice betraying his curiosity. “It’s almost as if you’re used to battle scars… isn’t that right, General Ling?”
Ling Zhan lifted his gaze, dark eyes narrowing—not in threat, but in subtle acknowledgment. Xiaoshuai swallowed; even seated, the man radiated a quiet authority that made one straighten instinctively.
“I didn’t recognize you earlier,” Xiaoshuai continued, a little softer now. “You were covered in blood when Suowei brought you in—cuts everywhere, fever burning off your skin. But the crest sewn inside your inner robe…” He exhaled. “That was enough to confirm my suspicion.”
The young doctor bowed deeply, his hands pressed respectfully to the floor.
“Forgive my behavior before. I did not mean to offend a high-ranking general of the frontier army.”
Ling Zhan’s answer came calm, unhurried.
“It’s no trouble. You saved my life. For that alone, you owe me no apology.”
“Even so,” Xiaoshuai murmured, rising. “Suowei doesn’t know who you are. It’s best to keep it that way. He’s… not good with danger. Or secrets. Or anything remotely sharp.” The doctor grimaced. “If he panics, he blabs.”
Ling Zhan nodded once. “I’ve noticed.”
Xiaoshuai huffed a laugh despite himself.
Suowei had left earlier that morning, insisting—quite stubbornly—that Ling Zhan stay behind and rest. “You just learned how to walk a week ago! You’re not following me to the market!” he’d shouted before marching out.
The hut had been quiet since, the kind of quiet that made the wind outside seem louder.
But then—
The door slammed open with such force that Xiaoshuai nearly dropped the bandages. A tall figure stepped inside, clad entirely in black—the uniform of the frontier army. One sword hung at his hip, wrapped tightly in black cloth; the other, resting in his right hand, bore golden markings along its sheath. His hat cast a deep shadow over his concealed face, the cloth mask hiding everything except a pair of sharp, assessing eyes.
Xiaoshuai instinctively straightened, glare rising. “Who—”
“Took you long enough,” Ling Zhan interrupted, his tone flat but unmistakably familiar.
The masked man scoffed. “I had to flee because someone—” he jabbed a finger toward Ling Zhan “—thought taking on fifteen assassins with only two people was a reasonable strategy.”
For the first time since Xiaoshuai had met him, Ling Zhan’s lips curved—not fully into a smile, but into something playful, something almost mischievous. It softened him strangely, made him look a touch younger.
“It was reasonable,” Ling Zhan said. “I just didn’t expect someone to actually shoot me with a poisoned arrow.”
Xiaoshuai stiffened. “Poisoned?!”
Ling Zhan looked unfazed. “Barely worth mentioning.”
Barely worth mentioning?
Xiaoshuai nearly choked. The poison had been subtle enough to mask itself beneath his usual antidotes—and potent enough to kill most men within hours. Whoever targeted him knew their craft frighteningly well. The masked man exhaled sharply and tossed the gold-marked sword toward Ling Zhan.
The general caught it effortlessly with one hand.
Then the masked man’s gaze slowly slid toward Xiaoshuai—too slowly.
Xiaoshuai, realizing he was being stared at, felt heat creep up his neck. “Wh—what?”
“Are you the one who treated him?” the man asked, voice smooth but muffled by the mask. “You have my thanks. But we must take our general back. The palace is waiting—quite eagerly—for his return.”
Ling Zhan snorted, rising to his feet with a fluidity that shocked Xiaoshuai. “Eager, hm? I’m sure they are.”
Xiaoshuai instinctively reached out. “Wait, you shouldn’t be standing—!”
Ling Zhan brushed him off—the touch so light yet firm that Xiaoshuai stumbled a step. It was as if the general had never been injured at all.
Chengyu—the masked man—helped him fasten the new black robes he had brought, adjusting the collar and the sword belt with practiced familiarity. The air in the hut shifted; the moment Ling Zhan donned the uniform, he no longer looked like a wounded stranger in a farmer’s home.
He looked every bit the general whispered about in war reports—sharp, commanding, a blade sheathed in silence.
As Ling Zhan stepped toward the door, he paused and turned to Xiaoshuai.
“As for Wu Suowei…” he said, voice low but steady.
Xiaoshuai straightened.
“I will repay him for his kindness.” Ling Zhan’s expression softened, but only slightly. “Tell him this: if he ever needs anything, seek out Chi Cheng.”
The name hung in the air like an oath.
“The man owes him his life,” Ling Zhan finished, “and will always have his back.”