Chapter 2: Shen Qingwu’s Vigil

                      

Shen Qingwu first encountered Zhang Xingjian under a rare alignment of fate—when the Milky Way seemed to blow the sheng, and the Wutong tree gazed silently at the moon.

It was the nineteenth year of Tianlong, a time when the Great Zhou clashed fiercely with the Western Di.

The great hero Shen Jie and his wife had defended Ganzhou to the death. Their sacrifice left only one daughter alive, living in solitude in an old house in Jiangnan. The Shen family in Tokyo maintained support for Shen Jie's lineage through letters, while many of their kin rushed to the battlefield, honoring the family legacy.

In the summer, sixteen-year-old Shen Qingwu, urged by her elders, traveled to Jiangnan to escort Shen Qingye, a fragile orphan girl, back to Tokyo.

Together, they fled through Tibet, spending months crossing the Yellow River. Along the way, Shen Qingye learned that the DPRK had sent ministers to the border to ally with the Western Di, but the Great Zhou remained steadfast, and peace appeared to be returning.

When Shen Qingye heard this news, she wept at night—not only for relief that her country was at peace, but in sorrow for her parents who had perished, and for the uncertainty of her own future.

But for Shen Qingwu, one name echoed above all others: “Zhang Xingjian.”

She was young, yet already introspective. Listening to the name repeatedly, she felt nothing—yet it lingered in her mind.

Before and after meals, as her cousin wept quietly, Shen Qingwu calmly nibbled on steamed cakes, listening to the tea merchants and storytellers discuss “Zhang Xingjian.”

“The good son of the Zhang family is worthy of a weak crown, so he gets Tingkui. He fought the Confucian scholars and made the Xidi vomit blood at such a young age. This alliance—thanks to him!”

“The hero is still only a teenager. The Zhang family’s talents have nearly withered away, almost forgotten by the world. Zhang Xiaolangjun’s deeds—if spoken of, they would be legendary.”

“I hear the boy is gentle and kind, like a virtuous woman. If I had a daughter, I’d wish her into the Zhang family immediately.”

“Hahaha, the Zhang family’s vision is unmatched. How could I ever look down on them?”

The storyteller’s voice rose with excitement, and Shen Qingwu mingled with the crowd, thinking silently, They are mistaken. The previous storytellers were surely no weaklings, yet they exaggerate Zhang Xingjian’s prowess.

Just then, amid the crowd, a young hero appeared. His forehead was adorned with red embroidery, his shirt a striking white and gold, tied with two belts at the waist, and his sword pouch clanged with every step. His brows were cold as frost, his eyes like winding water, sharp and piercing—so meticulous they seemed almost feminine.

The storyteller gasped, leaning closer for a better view. Then, a carriage behind the young man lifted its curtain slightly, and a timid voice spoke:

“Cousin, haven’t you bought steamed cakes yet?”

The young man, clutching the oil paper bag, dashed into the carriage. The door slammed shut, and the storyteller laughed at his own astonishment. A girl? In this chaotic world just after war, how could a noble family let their daughter walk out like this?

Inside the carriage, Shen Qingwu knelt on the mat, carefully opening the oil paper bag so that the pale-faced companion could smell the aroma of the cakes and whet her appetite.

“This cake is freshly steamed. I watched the chef make it myself,” Shen Qingwu said flatly, her tone calm but serious. “It is as you requested, with the taste of southern cuisine. The knives were washed three times, and there is no peculiar smell. Eat.”

Shen Qingye, seated gracefully, wore a lotus-colored half-arm swirl skirt, a jade pendant at her waist, and ribbons trailing along the floor. She was delicate and thin, pale as jade, with eyes like apricots—the most beautiful and fragile girl Shen Qingwu had ever seen.

Though feeling unwell, Shen Qingye endured her dizziness and took a small piece of hot cake. She whispered, “Cousin, you don’t have to take care of me like this… You can eat some too. It’s almost time in Tokyo; you don’t have to pretend to be a man anymore. It’s me who implicated you, made you unable to wear women’s clothes…”

Shen Qingwu, surprised and confused, looked up. She could not understand why her cousin thought she had been overprotective, or why her own choices were blamed for another’s circumstance.

Her lips moved, but her reserved nature allowed no admonishment. Instead, she clenched her hand into a fist on her lap, lowered her eyes, and said softly,

“Don’t be tired.”

Pausing, she added with rare openness, “I’m very happy.”

Being able to leave Tokyo, leave Shen’s house, and step outside for even a brief walk… Shen Qingwu felt an uncommon happiness.

She turned her head to glance at the car wall after speaking. Shen Qingye watched her cousin suspiciously for a long moment, realizing that Shen Qingwu did not intend to pay her any more attention. With a quiet sigh, she let it go.

This cousin was unlike ordinary ladies, yet it was precisely because of her martial skill that they had made it safely this far. Shen Qingye, always frail and weak, felt a deep fondness for her courageous cousin.

That night, they did not stay outside.

The wind was bleak, the sky stretched like a hanging mirror. Shen Qingwu guided the carriage along forest paths, easing her pace to minimize bumps for her resting cousin.

The wheels crunched over fallen leaves, lifting reds from the maples and yellows from the paulownias into the night air.

In the darkness, the sudden sound of galloping hooves caught her attention. Sitting rigidly at the yoke, her expression unreadable, her hand lightly rested on the knife at her waist.

Traveling north with her cousin, encountering rogue bandits was not uncommon. Shen’s parents had once said: if her cousin could not return safely to Tokyo, she need not return either.

But if she did not go back, where could Shen Qingwu find herself? Though the sky and earth were vast, she had nowhere to belong.

The wind swept sycamore leaves across her face. Shen Qingwu lifted her eyelids and met the eyes of several knights galloping from the forest.

They wore black cloaks, their sharp eyes scanning for threats, yet seeing only a thin, harmless young man driving the carriage, their hands relaxed on the hilts of their weapons.

The two parties passed, backs straight, posture disciplined.

When they brushed shoulders, a snow-like glint reflected from the cloaked knight, momentarily catching Shen Qingwu’s gaze. She remained calm, but her pulse quickened.

Two breaths later, she stopped the carriage and closed her eyes. That glint—she knew it well. The light of the sword. The other party had not sheathed it. They had just killed.

Shen Qingwu pursed her lips, glancing toward the forest left behind by the knights. Her grip on the knife tightened, then loosened, over and over.

From the carriage came a weak, trembling voice: “Cousin… what happened? I smell blood.”

Shen Qingye, delicate as she was, could sense danger even in the faintest winds. Shen Qingwu hesitated, then whispered softly:

“Someone… seems to be in danger.”

She wanted to investigate but could not leave her cousin alone. Her voice barely rose above a whisper, yet Shen Qingye understood immediately and replied:

“Cousin, don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Let’s go and see.”

Shen Qingwu exhaled softly. Where Shen Qingye could not see, her brows lifted slightly, like butterfly wings, and her eyes gleamed. She felt a silent reassurance—someone was with her, yet unseen.

Turning the horse’s head, she guided the carriage toward the cloaked figures. The sycamore leaves danced as the forest deepened, the galaxy overhead meandered across the sky, and red dust swirled like a song.

The cloaked men halted suddenly. Their leader closed his eyes, studying the driver he had just encountered. Calm and measured, sitting cross-legged in front of the carriage, the young driver betrayed the practiced posture of a martial artist.

In this world, those who drove safely at night were rarely ordinary. One mistake could be fatal.

The leader murmured to his men, “Something is wrong… Let’s check.”

The quaint carriage stopped amid yellowing leaves. Shen Qingwu leapt lightly to the ground, stepping on leaves like whispers, moving cautiously through the forest.

Unusual depressions in the leaf-covered ground caught her attention. Her suspicion deepened.

Hand on her knife, she whispered back to the carriage: “Don’t get out.”

Shen Qingye nodded from inside. Shen Qingwu crouched over a slight mound of leaves. Hidden beneath layers of fallen foliage, she heard faint breaths.

She brushed aside the leaves carefully, until finally, lifting the last layer, she saw a face—pale but strikingly beautiful—eyes closed as if in slumber. Like a moon rising slowly from the depths of the sea.

Shen Qingye, uneasy inside the carriage, lifted the curtain to look out. The forest was alive with motion, leaves swirling like a tide. She saw her cousin kneeling, hair swept by the wind, the moonlight highlighting her careful movements.

Shen Qingye’s voice rose in concern: “Cousin, be careful!”

More than a dozen cloaked men emerged from the darkness, knives drawn. Shen Qingwu’s body rose instinctively, knife in hand. The silver blade flashed as she intercepted their strikes.

“Bang!”

The night exploded with action.

Shen Qingwu had saved Zhang Xingjian once again.

It was a night when the galaxy blew the sheng, and the sycamores silently gazed at the moon.

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