Early spring crept over the Northern Border by March. The snow that had blanketed the plains for months finally began to melt, revealing tender shoots of grass pushing through the frozen earth. Lu City, silent since the Clear Snow Festival, slowly awoke from its long hibernation.
During the bitter winter, Western Rong had launched more than ten attacks on Lu City. Yet fortune favored Great Jin—after losing two generals in the early battles, the enemy’s morale shattered. Weakened by frost and dwindling supplies, they could only retreat in frustration. By spring, their army withdrew entirely to their capital, leaving the frontier momentarily at peace.
Among all the northern territories, only Lu City remained unshaken. The soldiers of Long Feng Camp, hardened by war, had ensured that for the next three years, no neighboring power would dare test Great Jin’s borders again.
Inside her command tent, Li Shuang removed her helmet, brushing away a few damp strands of hair clinging to her temple. Just then, a courier arrived breathless, clutching a sealed letter marked with the imperial seal.
Li Shuang broke the wax seal and scanned its contents. After a long moment, she exhaled softly. “The capital’s situation has stabilized,” she said. “The Eastern Palace now holds power.”
That meant the new emperor had already ascended the throne—Sima Yang. The boy who once bled from her punch had vanished into history, replaced by a sovereign of icy dignity. It was better this way.
Qin Lan stepped forward, bowing. “Congratulations, General.”
But Li Shuang’s gaze was calm. “There’s joy, yes—but also complications.” She spread a blank scroll before her. “My father reports that the frontier is stable. He orders me to return to the capital to pay respects to the new emperor.”
Qin Lan frowned. The old general rarely summoned his daughter home. For him to do so now could only mean one thing—the emperor himself had asked.
And that, perhaps, was more perilous than any battlefield.
Qin Lan remembered vividly the way Sima Yang had looked at Li Shuang when she lay unconscious in that stone cave months ago—an expression too deep to be imperial restraint. Before he departed for the capital, his final words had been a command: Protect Li Shuang. No matter what.
Now that same emperor summoned her to the capital. History had taught men like Qin Lan to be wary—emperors admired loyalty only until they feared it. Li Shuang’s command of the north, her loyal Long Feng Camp… all of it could be seen as a threat once her usefulness waned.
Before Qin Lan could voice his concern, Li Shuang handed him her written reply. “Tell them I’m unwell and unable to travel. Deliver this letter to the emperor yourself, and pay respects on my behalf.”
Qin Lan blinked. “General—”
She smiled faintly. “Don’t worry. I’ve arranged everything in the letter. I’m not unwilling to relinquish authority—I simply don’t wish to return to the cage that is the capital.”
Qin Lan bowed deeply, emotion tightening his chest. He knew she was right—once she set foot in the capital again, she might never be free.
He left to prepare for his departure at dawn.
As twilight settled, another disturbance rippled through the camp. A rider stumbled in through the gates—a lone figure slumped over his horse. Blood dripped from his hand, black as ink, each drop sizzling against the cold ground.
Li Shuang strode out just as the soldiers caught the reins. The rider collapsed into the snow. When his matted hair fell aside, she recognized his face.
“Chang Wanshan!”
It had been three months since she sent him south to investigate the man in black armor. She had long assumed him lost.
Now he lay before her—barely breathing, veins blackened.
“Medical officer!” someone cried.
Chang Wanshan stirred weakly, forcing out a single rasp. His trembling hand extended a bloodstained letter toward Li Shuang. No one dared touch it—until she stepped forward and took it herself.
She unfolded the paper. Eight bold characters glared back at her—
South Changshan Mountain, Wu Ling Sect, Gu Clan.
Her pulse quickened. News of the mysterious man.
Wu Ling Sect. A name half-forgotten in the empire’s records—reclusive, secretive, dwelling deep in the southern mountains. Few had seen their faces. Yet now, they had dared move against the Crown Prince and abduct that man…
Three months of silence, and at last, a whisper of truth.
A thousand memories rushed back—the kiss under falling snow, his warmth beside the hot spring, his unwavering gaze in the chaos of battle. She had thought herself long past such thoughts, but the ache returned, sharp as the northern wind.
She crouched beside Chang Wanshan, pressing her fingers to his wrist. “You’ve been poisoned?”
He shook his head weakly. “Gu… General… don’t… touch…”
But where her fingertips brushed his skin, the blackness beneath his veins retreated, writhing backward like smoke fleeing fire. The color drained from his arm, returning to a faint, human pallor.
Li Shuang’s eyes narrowed. She pressed again, higher along his arm—the black energy recoiled once more.
“Where is your worst pain?” she asked softly.
“Heart… chest…” he gasped.
“This may hurt.”
Her palm pressed against his chest. His body convulsed violently, veins bulging as something writhed beneath his skin. With a strangled groan, Chang Wanshan turned aside and vomited a mass of thick, black fluid. Within it, something moved—tiny, wriggling shapes that burrowed into the dirt and vanished.
The soldiers fell back in horror.
Moments later, the medical officer arrived, checking Chang Wanshan’s pulse. “Qi deficiency, no internal injuries. He’ll live with rest.”
“No injuries?” the soldiers murmured, stunned.
Luo Teng scratched his head. “General, did you… cure him? What inner force could drive such things out?”
Li Shuang said nothing. Her gaze fell to her hand.
She hadn’t used inner force at all.
If those creatures truly were gu, and they feared her touch…
Then something inside her had changed—something beyond her understanding.
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