The imperial edict lay sealed. The matter was settled. Duan Xu offered no further words to General Qin, taking his leave with a crisp bow. As the young man's silhouette receded beyond the camp gates, Qin Huanda felt time fold upon itself—a strange vertigo of memory and regret.
Had he once possessed that same fire? That sharp-edged arrogance, that fearless forward momentum?
Decades had dulled his blade. The comfort of border command, the seductive dance of court politics—these had eroded his ambition to reclaim lost territories. Now he found himself ensnared in factional webs of his own weaving, unable to recognize talent when it stood before him simply because it wore different colors.
When this young man reached his age, would he remember these burning aspirations? Or would he too find himself trapped, struggling against invisible threads, unable to move forward?
General Qin exhaled slowly, closing the edict with finality.
Outside the main tent, Duan Xu encountered a familiar attendant—one of Zheng An's men, he realized after a moment's consideration.
The attendant bowed low. "General Duan, Master Zheng requests your presence."
Duan Xu's smile came easily. "Thank you for your trouble."
He followed through the camp's organized chaos to where Zheng An's carriage waited. The attendant drew back the curtain with practiced efficiency.
"Please, General."
Duan Xu gathered his robes and ducked inside. Zheng An's eyes met his immediately, and the older man gestured to the seat beside him.
"Please, sit."
Duan Xu settled into position, inclining his head with that same easy smile. "Uncle Zheng."
The severity that typically marked Zheng An's features softened fractionally. He reached to clasp Duan Xu's shoulder in greeting, then froze—bloodstains were seeping through the fabric beneath his light armor, dark against the pale cloth.
Zheng An's hand hung suspended before dropping to his side. His sigh carried weight.
"You have suffered terribly. If Chengzhang could see you now, his heart would break. Your elder brothers died young—you are his only remaining son. If anything happened to you, what would become of your father?"
"Master Qingxuan predicted long ago that I would transform misfortune into fortune throughout my life." Duan Xu's tone remained light. "Uncle and Father need not worry."
"A corruption case in the Horse Administration was recently uncovered at court," Zheng An continued. "His Majesty's fury was absolute. When your memorial about the Northern Bank campaign arrived, it aligned perfectly with the Emperor's mood. He ordered me to rush here immediately with the edict." He leaned forward slightly. "Though your name wasn't mentioned explicitly in the decree, His Majesty holds you in high regard. Combined with your military achievements, you'll certainly receive an important position upon your return to court."
Duan Xu's smile brightened with what appeared to be genuine pleasure. "I am indebted to Prime Minister Du and all my uncles for their support."
"Your father and I were classmates. This is nothing."
Zheng An's expression shifted, growing grave. "Shunxi, let me ask you something. Do you have grievances with Fang Xianye?"
"What do you mean?"
"This time, he criticized you for submitting your memorial directly without going through General Qin—a protocol violation. Had His Majesty not been so pleased with your memorial's content, you might have found yourself in serious trouble." Zheng An studied him carefully. "Fang Xianye is Lord Pei's man, yet he targets you repeatedly, as though nursing a personal vendetta. I asked Chengzhang but received no answer. Have you offended him somehow? He's gaining considerable influence at court. Tell me, so we can help you navigate this."
Duan Xu's puzzlement appeared genuine. "I don't know either. I didn't know him before we passed the imperial examination in the same year. Father instructed me to avoid confrontation with him, but never explained why."
Zheng An fell silent, his thoughts clearly churning. Finally, another deep sigh escaped him.
They spoke a while longer before Duan Xu took his leave. As he descended from the carriage and watched it roll away from camp, his smile transformed—becoming hollow, a beautiful mask covering nothing.
This place was no better than Tianzhixiao, he thought. Merely escaping one hell to enter another fire pit. Even allies sought leverage, probing for weaknesses to exploit later.
Perhaps the world was nothing but an endless series of fire pits. Paradise was a children's tale.
He returned to his quarters alone, removing the light armor with methodical precision. Fresh blood had soaked through his bandages. He rewrapped the wounds carefully before changing into a soft round-collared robe and stepping out into the street.
Moving through the crowds, he stroked the sword at his side—drawing it slightly, then sliding it back. His body performed these actions from habit, from muscle memory so deep it bypassed conscious thought. He had knelt and bowed in the military camp just moments ago. Now he walked. All of it executed by bodily routine alone.
Only by watching his limbs perform their designated functions could he believe he was successfully controlling his body.
If he drew his sword now and dueled someone—relying solely on this instinctive muscle memory—what would his chances of victory be?
This loss of sensation felt like the pit he'd fallen into at age five. Pitch darkness, no purchase for climbing. His stern father had stood at the opening and declared: "I will not save you. You must climb out yourself."
He'd cried from daylight until nightfall. But in the end, he had climbed out alone.
From that moment forward, he never begged anyone for salvation. He understood the fundamental truth: no one would rescue him—not his father, not the gods. Only he could pull himself from the darkness.
That childish stubbornness had ultimately saved him at Tianzhixiao, because his father truly had not come. Whether this was fortune or misfortune, he still couldn't say.
Duan Xu raised his hand toward the sky. Sunlight filtered through his fingers, casting shadows across his eyes as he peered at the intense light through the gaps.
This was his hand. Yet he felt nothing.
This body he had always relied upon—his most agile and powerful means of survival—if it lost its strength, what else could he believe in?
"General!"
The familiar voice yanked him from his spiraling thoughts. He lowered his hand to find Meng Wan running toward him, distress clear on her face.
"Shunxi, what's going on with this friend of yours? She's been touching everything as she walks down the street and has damaged countless things." The implication hung heavy: This is too provincial.
Duan Xu looked up. He Simu stood by a street vendor's stall, dressed in a fashionable light pink silk robe popular among young ladies, clutching a pinwheel. As he watched, she reached out and directly pinched the face of a freshly made dough figurine. The still-soft sculpture collapsed instantly under her fingers.
She continued pinching until the figurine was completely disfigured, her eyes bright with curiosity.
The vendor cried out in dismay.
He Simu's expression remained unchanged as she turned to shout: "Officer Meng, pay up!"
Meng Wan stamped her foot in frustration.
He Simu ran her hand casually across the tables of various stalls, smiling as she walked toward them.
The pinwheel in her left hand spun rapidly. Sunlight poured down. The gentle spring breeze traveled from the south, sweeping across the turbulent river, passing through pavilions and towers, crossing this wide street to brush past the tips of her hair and set the colorful little pinwheel spinning with a soft whirring sound.
He Simu spread her arms wide, tilting her face toward the sun, eyes closing. Brilliant light bathed her. The wind from behind made her clothes flutter and dance.
Duan Xu stared, transfixed.
Suddenly he remembered killing Fifteen. The curse—that he would forever remain a monster—had echoed through his exhausted, frenzied, desolate mind. Evil excitement and despair had climbed his throat, choking him.
Then this girl had walked toward him, patted his face, and said simply: "Wake up."
In all these years, besides himself, she was the first and only person who had ever told him to wake up.
Now she was being carried toward him on this bright spring day, as though she had attained supreme happiness in this world.
Duan Xu stared at He Simu, and suddenly laughter burst from him—his chest trembling, his eyes curving with genuine mirth. "Is this world really so lovely? Meng Wan, look at her. Why is she smiling so foolishly?"
Meng Wan stared at him in surprise.
The wind lifted his hair ribbon. He smiled brilliantly, like the sea of crabapple blossoms that flooded the southern capital every spring.
Duan Xu smiled often—at good things, at bad things. Most times, Meng Wan had no idea what he was thinking or whether his happiness was real.
But searching through all her memories, she could not recall a single instance of him wearing such a genuinely joyful expression.
"Shunxi... you..."
Before she could form the question, He Simu had reached them, speaking casually to Meng Wan: "Officer Meng, why are you still standing here? The shopkeeper wants payment."
Before Meng Wan could react, Duan Xu extracted his money pouch and handed it to her, instructing that all damages for the day would be paid from his funds.
"Shunxi... who is this lady?"
Before he could answer, He Simu spoke for him: "Didn't I say? My name is Seventeen. Just call me Seventeen."
Duan Xu was silent for a moment, then smiled. "Seventeen?"
"Yes."
Meng Wan looked between them, sighed, and turned to settle the bill.
He Simu felt no guilt about owing money. She twirled in place with her pinwheel, laughing. "So this is the wind!"
She hadn't yet adapted to this body that could feel like an ordinary mortal. After just a couple of turns, she stumbled over stones on the path.
Duan Xu caught her instantly, steadying her by the hand. He Simu's reddened fingers tightened in the spaces between his—finger by finger intertwining until their hands locked together completely.
She seemed to possess a vibrant body now. Perhaps her hand was warm, no longer cold as winter wind. Her warmth came from his body.
He Simu studied their interlocked fingers and chuckled softly. "I've heard that fingers are connected to the heart."
"Hmm?"
"Does that mean I'm holding your heart?"
Does that mean I'm holding your heart?
She said it so casually. Duan Xu knew she was merely curious, exploring this new sensation.
Their fingers interlaced perfectly. Though he clearly couldn't feel anything, somehow he could.
His hand felt nothing. His heart trembled.
The ice shard that had pierced his chest when she said "pain" finally melted, flowing into his blood, becoming part of his ongoing life.
Duan Xu lowered his gaze briefly, then looked up with a smile, his bright eyes catching the light. "Yes."
Who knows since when you have held my heart.
He Simu was too absorbed in her joy to notice the intensity of the young man's gaze. She released his hand and looked around at this bustling world.
Four hundred years flowed before her eyes like the tide. She spoke softly: "So you didn't lie to me. This world is so beautiful. It was worth... these hundreds of years..."
For hundreds of years, she had painstakingly protected this world.
Father. Mother. Aunt. Uncle.
He Simu called their names silently. She wanted to tell them this was the first time she had felt the wind and sunlight, just as gentle and blissful as they had described.
She had not failed them. They had not deceived her.
But where were they now?
Her gaze trembled. Extreme joy suddenly seemed covered with mist, becoming hazy and indistinct.
The cloudless blue sky appeared impossibly high, as though it could never be reached. A line of wild geese flew in orderly V-formation from afar, gradually disappearing into the azure expanse. He Simu gazed at the clear sky, then dropped her eyes to the bustling street, and suddenly laughed softly.
The vastness of heaven and earth. The multitude of living beings. Yet she walked alone.
Life's joys and sorrows—with no one to share them.
That night, the evil spirit He Simu dreamed for the first time in four hundred years. Since she was an inexperienced spirit who had never been human, naturally she had never dreamed before. At first, she thought it was real.
In the dream, her young mother held her hand. Her father played the flute for them in the glow of the setting sun, everything bathed in bright, endless white.
She asked her mother what was so good about the flute music—she couldn't make out the melody at all.
Her mother said that actually, her father couldn't hear it either. He merely knew the technique.
So she asked what the point was of her father playing the flute.
Her mother just smiled. She patted her head and said: "But I can hear it. Your father plays the flute for me because he loves me. He knows I can hear his love in it. That's why living people cherish music—because it contains emotion."
Her mother also said: "Simu, the living people in this world are fragile and sensitive, passionate and vibrant. Your power is too strong. You must learn to understand them and then be gentle with them. One day, like your father, you will maintain the balance between ghosts and humans to protect this world."
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