The clamor of the camp gradually faded, swallowed by the slumber of night.
Inside the commander’s tent, a purple-robed military officer recited the lyrics that had been sung outside the camp. This was Zhou Fengxiang, the Northwest Imperial Inspector appointed by the emperor himself.
“Were they singing for those deserters?” he asked.
An attendant confirmed it.
Outside, the deserters had been surrounded all evening, bombarded with questions and endless admiration. But such vulgar excitement was beneath the dignity of Master Zhou.
“Go and ask,” Master Zhou.
His attendant didn’t even need to step outside—he answered immediately.
“…They were sent off with seven horses,” he replied.
This wasn’t about their origins. Others might not know, but Master Zhou did—and so did his attendant, of course.
They were the hidden deserters caught by General Liu Kui—the owners of Tai Ping Residence.
Deserters were common, but only these seven had left such an impression on Master Zhou.
If not for them, he might not be stuck in this prestigious but hollow role of Imperial Inspector. He might not have secured the post of Military Commissioner, but at the very least, he could have been Deputy Commander of the Army.
Now, thanks to this delay, who knew how much more time and effort it would take to achieve his ambitions?
Not that he could blame the deserters entirely—that would be giving them too much credit and demeaning himself.
No, this was simply bad luck—being thwarted by that meddler Zhang Chun.
Zhou Fengxiang let out a breath.
“…They carried Qing-zhou’s heavy bows. I wonder what prized steeds these Tai Ping Residence owners will be riding this time?” he remarked idly.
“My lord, just ordinary military horses from the Group Pasturage Office,” the attendant replied.
Zhou Fengxiang frowned.
“Ordinary?” he asked.
“Yes, I examined them carefully—utterly unremarkable,” the attendant confirmed.
Zhou Fengxiang tapped his fingers against the desk.
“Then it’s a case of ‘gold for a horsewhip’—the gift may be humble, but the sentiment weighs heavy,” he said, shaking his head. “How tirelessly they perform. But no amount of posturing will make earning titles in the northwest any easier.”
“My lord, shall we investigate further?” the attendant asked.
“No need.” Zhou Fengxiang waved a dismissive hand, his tone laced with scorn. “Pay them no mind. Keep your distance—they’re an ill-omened lot.”
The attendant bowed in acknowledgment.
Meanwhile, in another tent, another purple-robed official—Jiang Wenyuan—was also inquiring about those horses. Compared to Zhou Fengxiang’s attitude, this man’s demeanor was far more hostile. Though he should have succeeded Wang Butang as Military Commissioner, he now found himself relegated to Deputy Commander of the Army.
“Go tell them to behave themselves! This is a military camp, not their damned Tai Ping Residence!”
The aging Jiang Wenyuan made no effort to conceal his disgust.
And his disgust was justified. Though he had initially inherited his official position through his father’s influence, his career had flourished—rising to the rank of Commandant of the Palace Command and Prefect of Wei-zhou. With the backing of his fellow townsman Gao Lingjun, he had been on the verge of assuming the prestigious role of Northwest Military Commissioner. Achieving that would have secured him a place in the annals of history—the ultimate fulfillment for any military man.
But all of it had been ruined!
Of course, the ones who had truly destroyed his brilliant future were Zhang Chun and that Chen Shao. But those deserters were no better than a curse!
If they hadn’t been arrested in the capital, none of this would have happened!
“If they dare make a spectacle of themselves here, don’t blame me for enforcing military discipline without mercy!” he spat. Then, as if unable to let it go, he demanded again, “And those horses—are they really not prized steeds? If they are, confiscate them! What kind of soldiers are they, flaunting privately-owned weapons and horses in camp? Are they here to humiliate the imperial court? Outrageous!”
“Sir, they truly aren’t prized steeds,” the attendant replied. “Just ordinary horses.”
“Utterly ridiculous!” Jiang Wenyuan rapped his knuckles against the desk. “Then recall the army-issued horses given to them. Since they have their own, let them ride those!”
The attendant hastily assented, then hesitated.
“Should… should we inform Master Zhou about this?” he asked in a low voice.
“Since when do I need his permission to manage my own troops?” Jiang Wenyuan snapped, eyes flashing with irritation.
The attendant bowed and turned to leave, but was called back just as he reached the entrance.
“Forget it. They’re just horses—let them keep the damned things,” Jiang Wenyuan said with a dismissive wave. “Leave them be. We’ve enough trouble on this journey—we’ll deal with them properly once we’re settled in the northwest.”
The attendant exhaled in quiet relief and murmured his compliance before withdrawing.
Cheng Jiao-niang remained unaware that the few horses she had sent had provoked such irritation in the two high-ranking officials. Even had she known, it was unlikely she would have reacted.
The singing had ceased. Qin Shi’san-lang now held the small leather drum, tapping it idly, the sporadic beats startling night birds into flight through the darkness.
“What other talents do you possess?” he inquired.
“I do not know,” Cheng Jiao-niang replied.
“To think you can play the drum—what of the qin? Or flutes and xiao?” Qin Shi’san pressed, then sighed regretfully. “Had I known, I would have brought my qin.”
As he spoke, his fingers danced across the drumhead, producing a ripple of fluid, melodic beats.
“Young Master, please stop drumming. It’s the middle of the night—you’ll frighten any travelers on the road,” the maid couldn’t help but say, lifting the carriage curtain.
Qin Shi’san-lang chuckled and ceased his drumming, turning his gaze ahead.
“Shall we proceed straight into the city or find lodgings for the night?” he asked.
“As you prefer,” Cheng Jiao-niang replied. “I’m perfectly comfortable in the carriage.”
After all, she could recline or sleep at any time, anywhere.
Qin Shi’san-lang smiled at her.
“Then let us make the most of this splendid night and continue our journey,” he declared.
The maid blinked in surprise—she had assumed he would suggest resting.
Traveling through the night… Wouldn’t that be exhausting?
“Is this song one passed down through generations, or newly composed?” Qin Shi’san-lang asked again.
Does he intend to keep talking all night?
The maid pursed her lips and retreated into the carriage.
“Passed down, I suppose,” Cheng Jiao-niang replied, then added with certainty, “Yes, passed down.”
The verses surfaced in her mind:
A man in this world should aspire to nobility,
A true man’s destiny is to achieve glory
Suddenly, rhythmic drumbeats rose, as if echoing the song she had silently recited.
Peering through the raised carriage curtain, she saw Qin Shi’san-lang riding alongside, lightly tapping his drum and humming.
“I like it very much,” he said, turning to her with a smile.
“I like it very much too,” Cheng Jiao-niang responded.
Under the roaring night wind and flickering torchlight, the young man’s smile burned brilliantly.
Dawn’s first light found the party at the city gates.
The gates stood already open, sparing Qin Shi’san-lang the need to use his specially obtained entry permit.
“Your efforts are much appreciated,” said Cheng Jiao-niang, offering a seated bow from her carriage.
Qin Shi’san pushed back his hood, his face bearing the weariness of a sleepless night and the lingering chill of darkness, yet his eyes sparkled with undimmed vitality.
“So… does this mean you owe me a favor now?” he asked with playful grin.
“Indeed. What would you ask of me?” Cheng Jiao-niang replied.
Qin Shi’san exhaled a laugh of disbelief.
“This… this is unexpectedly delightful,” he stammered. “I shall have to consider carefully.”
A faint smile touched Cheng Jiao-niang’s lips as she let the carriage curtain fall closed.
The carriage swayed along until it reached the Yudai Bridge.
“I’ve thought of something,” Qin Shi’san-lang announced, watching as Cheng Jiao-niang alighted from the carriage.
She turned to look at him.
“On the Mid-Autumn Festival, would you join me for lantern viewing?” he asked with a smile.
Such a request could hardly be called calling in a favor—it was lighthearted and effortlessly charming.
Cheng Jiao-niang shook her head.
“That won’t be possible,” she replied. “I already have prior arrangements.”
Qin Shi’san looked genuinely surprised.
“Prior arrangements?” he echoed, then chuckled. “With the Chens? Or perhaps the Zhous?”
Cheng Jiao-niang shook her head again.
“No,” she said plainly. “My betrothed has already asked me.”
Betrothed!
Qin Shi’san-lang froze.
How strange those three words sounded—especially coming from this girl’s lips.
Betrothed!
“Truly?” The question escaped him before he could stop it.
Cheng Jiao-niang had already turned to leave, but at his words she paused and glanced back.
“Why would I lie?” she replied.
And why would she? All young men and women must eventually marry, each destined to have their own spouse.
Everyone would.
Qin Shi’san nodded, forcing a smile as he watched the girl disappear through the gates, which then closed behind her.
Betrothed…
Of course it was true—that young master of the Wang family. He’d even seen the man before. There was no deception here.
Qin Shi’san stood motionless for a long moment before finally turning away.
“Ten thousand hearts united as one… Sharing vengeance as their own…” He exhaled sharply, urging his horse forward as he softly sang, “Loyalty and righteous fury… Soaring up to the stars…” His voice trailed after him as he galloped down the dawn-lit streets.
