Winter days were short. When the last streak of crimson sunlight was devoured by night, the river sank into inky darkness—its surface calm, yet treacherous beneath.
Shen Yujiao was not a strong swimmer. She had learned briefly as a child—enough to stay afloat in shallow water, but not much more.
After choking on two mouthfuls of river water, she tried to steady her breath and swim upward, but beside her, Xie Wuling’s movements were growing weaker.
In the murky water, a bloom of bright red was spreading.
“Mmm—mmm!”
In the icy current, Shen Yujiao puffed her cheeks, trying to call out to him.
But the man seemed unable to hear her. His sharply defined face had gone pale, and the more he struggled, the faster the blood drained from his wound.
With the blood loss, his strength ebbed, his body temperature plummeting.
Sensing something was wrong, he forced his eyelids open, wanting one last look at the woman he loved.
All he saw was a strand of black hair drifting in the current.
The next moment, his eyelids grew heavy, and his tall frame sank straight down, like a stone to the riverbed.
So this was how he would die.
How unwilling he felt.
But at least—Jiaojiao was safe.
Perhaps, without him, she and Pei Shouzhen might truly live a better life.
Jiaojiao, if there is a next life…
In the blur of fading consciousness, it felt as though a soft hand seized his arm, pulling him upward.
Yet in the blink of an eye, a massive wave crashed down from the darkness without warning.
……
Cold moonlight bathed the boundless wilds.
“Cough, cough—”
Shen Yujiao abruptly coughed up two mouthfuls of water. Her chest burned as if on fire. When she opened her eyes again, all she saw was the pitch-black sky—and a bright, round moon.
Her mind was momentarily blank.
Where was she? Why was she here…
Right—Xie Wuling!
Memories before she fainted came rushing back.
She had been standing safely on the boat when Xie Wuling suddenly shouted and lunged toward her—
Then she had been knocked into the river, confused and startled.
It would be a lie to say she wasn’t upset. But in the water, she had clearly seen a haze of blood—
Recalling Xie Wuling’s warning, “Be careful,” her heart clenched tight.
Ignoring the sticky wetness of her clothes, she pushed herself up on trembling arms.
All around her was a desolate riverbank. A patch of reeds swayed gently under the pale moonlight, their shadows flickering.
There was no time to think about how she had been carried here by the current. Shen Yujiao dug her nails into her palm, trying to stay alert. She stood shakily and called into the darkness:
“Xie Wuling! Xie Wuling!”
The river stretched endlessly. She wasn’t sure if he had drifted to the same place, but clinging to hope, she stumbled along the shallows, calling again and again.
“Xie Wuling—!” she shouted with all her strength.
“Skree—skree—”
Her cries startled several night owls from the woods. Their shrill cries sent chills down her spine, her body trembling with dread.
At last, Heaven did not turn away from her desperation. By the time her throat was hoarse, she finally spotted a man lying unconscious amid the reeds.
“Xie Wuling!”
She rushed forward, knelt beside him, and lightly patted his icy cheek. “Xie Wuling, wake up! Can you hear me?”
Only silence answered her.
Panic surged through her chest. Forgetting all propriety, she bent down, hoisting his arm over her shoulder, trying to drag him ashore.
But he was far too tall—and unconscious—making him even heavier than usual.
She managed only a few staggering steps before tripping on river weeds, and both of them crashed hard into the mud.
She fell face-first into the dirt, with Xie Wuling’s stone-heavy body pressing on top of her.
It hurt. It was heavy. It was cold. It was filthy.
For a moment, Shen Yujiao wanted to cry.
But she knew—tears were useless now.
Better to save her strength and try again.
Lifting him was impossible; the size difference was too great. He was nearly twice her weight.
So she could only hook her arms under his armpits and drag him inch by inch upward.
As she turned him over, she saw the wound.
A small, sharp sleeve arrow was lodged three inches below his shoulder blade, leaving a dark, bloody hole.
Looking at the spot, Shen Yujiao realized—if Xie Wuling hadn’t shielded her, that arrow would have pierced straight through her heart. A single shot, fatal.
That person… truly had a vicious heart!
A surge of anger and hatred flared in her chest. She clenched her teeth and forced herself to calm down, continuing to drag him toward the dry bank.
Revenge could wait—survival came first.
The reeds were only half a meter from solid ground, yet it took all her strength. By the time she reached the dry patch, she was drenched in sweat and collapsed inelegantly, legs splayed, gasping for air.
After finally catching her breath, she looked down at Xie Wuling lying beside her—his eyes tightly shut, unconscious.
Shen Yujiao felt a sting in her eyes. “Please, do me a kindness—just don’t be hurt…”
She had no idea exactly where the current had carried them, but it was still dark; they couldn’t have drifted too far. If Pei Xia and the others moved quicker, perhaps they’d find them by dawn.
Thinking that eased her a little. Cautiously, she reached to feel around Xie Wuling’s waist.
Her hand really did find a dagger and a flint.
Seeing the flint steadied her even more. Fire would solve many problems.
Her greatest fear was spending a soaked night out in the late-autumn cold. She might only come down with a fever, but Xie Wuling—already weakened from blood loss—could freeze to death if they remained exposed much longer.
She could not bear to think further.
Since they were alone in the wild, she stripped off her wet clothes, and by moonlight nimbly cut a pile of reeds and gathered a good stack of kindling.
They say blessing and disaster lean on each other; last year’s hard journey of fleeing had indeed taught her many survival skills she hadn’t known before.
Shen Yujiao was not the sort to wallow. Suffering or toil—if it meant living on, she tried to see the positive.
Life and death—those were not small matters.
She quickly coaxed a fire into life and then examined Xie Wuling’s face by the flames: so pale, blood-drained.
“You’ll be fine. You will be fine,” she muttered, as she rigged a makeshift drying pole with branches and set their soaking garments by the fire.
At that moment she was down to a single goose-yellow smock and a thin undergarment.
So what—wet clothes all night can ruin even the strongest constitution.
Pushing aside notions of modesty, she reached to strip Xie Wuling’s robes. Layer after layer came off until his strong torso was revealed.
In the firelight his long neck and clear clavicle led down to solid pectorals; his lightly tanned abdominal muscles were well defined—lines of strength that seemed to contain explosive power.
Although she had seen him bare-chested back in Jinling, it was never like this—so exposed, so close, so striking.
She shook her head to dispel the inappropriate shame and told herself aloud, “Just treat him as Di Ge’er, treat him as someone to keep safe…”
In short, don’t think of him as a man, and don’t think of herself as a woman—only two people who wanted to survive.
That thought cooled the flush at her cheeks. She took a deep breath and continued removing his trousers.
The wet white cotton undergarments clung to his legs—long, straight, muscular.
And pressed beneath it was something unmistakable, a noticeable bulge like a hill rising from flat ground, which made Shen Yujiao avert her eyes in embarrassment.
Don’t look—don’t look!
But human nature is odd: the more you try not to look, the more you notice. In the end she grabbed a half-dried dark-blue outer shirt and threw it over his waist and abdomen, nervously saying, “Cover up the navel—don’t catch cold.”
She wasn’t lustful. Besides, she was a woman who had borne children—she’d seen that before. Still, covering him made her feel a lot more comfortable.
She didn’t linger any longer. She spread Xie Wuling’s robe to dry—only to have two small things tumble out.
A bright red double-lotus embroidered sachet and an autumn-scented osmanthus pouch.
The lotus sachet was the one Shen Yujiao had embroidered in Jinling; once vibrant, it had faded a little and the back showed crude mending—likely a skipped stitch he had fixed himself.
And the little osmanthus pouch—that was the exact one lost at the Mid-Autumn palace banquet.
She had assumed she’d dropped it in the struggle; she hadn’t expected Xie Wuling to have pocketed it.
That man…
Holding those two little keepsakes between her fingers, her lips pressed together—half-annoyed, half-amused—she was left finally with a quiet, hollow melancholy.
So the few things she’d given him, he had kept close to his chest all along.
She placed the sachets by the fire, then, with a bit of time, examined the wound on his back more carefully.
The steel sleeve-arrow had been forged hard and driven in deep, embedding into flesh—white bone visible faintly.
Staring at the gruesome wound made her scalp tingle; any thought of imitating Bian Que scraping bone to treat Guan Yu’s wound vanished instantly—she couldn’t do that.
Fumbling with the arrow might make the bleeding worse.
But to prevent infection, she cut a strip from her sleeve, dipped it in river water, and carefully wiped the mud from around the wound.
For a moment she felt transported back to the small courtyard in Jinling last year, when she had helped him apply medicine—then he’d laughed it off.
Now he lay pale as paper, unconscious.
“Xie Wuling, you said your life was tough—you said even the King of H*ll couldn’t take you.”
“You’ve taken so many blows before—blocking that cut for Sixth Master Chang was worse than this. If you survived that, this little wound won’t kill you either.”
“You have to hold on. Make it till dawn—Pei Xia should be here with people by then…”
After cleaning his wound and drying one side of her skirt by the fire, Shen Yujiao tore off a strip of fabric and wrapped it around Xie Wuling’s arm for a simple bandage.
Then she turned the man over, and her gaze involuntarily fell upon the crimson birthmark on his shoulder.
Under the flickering firelight, the kirin-shaped mark appeared even more vivid.
Before she realized it, her slender fingers had already brushed over that patch of red.
Beneath her fingertips, his skin was burning hot—like molten metal—so hot that her eyelashes trembled.
What… what was she doing?
Touching another man of her own accord?
A wave of shame and guilt surged through her chest. How could she—
She had already decided to live her life properly with Pei Xia, had promised him she would forget Xie Wuling.
And now—what was she doing!?
Shen Yujiao clenched her fingers tightly, struggling for a long while before calming her restless heart. She was just about to fashion a torch to see if there were any fruit trees or edible wild greens nearby, when a faint, low groan came from beside her.
She froze, thinking she might have imagined it.
But when she looked again, the man’s brows were furrowed, his throat moved twice, and he murmured unconsciously, “Hot…”
Hot?
In this chilly late autumn night, with the cold wind cutting through, she herself was covered in goosebumps—how could he be hot?
“Xie Wuling, wake up…”
Shen Yujiao knelt beside him, patting his face again. “Can you hear me?”
“Your face is burning up…”
Alarmed, her heart sank as she felt his forehead, cheeks, and chest.
All were burning hot—like fire.
“So hot…”
“Thirsty…”
Shen Yujiao frowned. She knew that whether it was from fever or blood loss, he needed water.
There was the great river before them, but no pot to boil it. Drinking it raw could bring on dysentery—disastrous in his condition.
“Water… water…”
Xie Wuling’s lips, pale and cracked, moved faintly.
Seeing the sweat gathering on his brow from pain, Shen Yujiao bit her lip, drew in a deep breath, and resorted to the old method.
She lifted Xie Wuling, resting his head in her lap, then picked up her dagger and held it over the fire for a moment.
Last year, when Ping’an had no milk to drink, she had fed him with her blood.
Now, fate repeated itself—this time, for Xie Wuling.
The blade cut into her palm, and the pain made her bite down hard on her lip.
But she knew—this little pain was nothing compared to the wound on his back.
This was what she owed him.
Blood welled quickly, and not wanting to waste a drop, she pressed her palm to his lips. “Here’s water… drink…”
Her blood moistened his lips, and under the slanting glow of the fire, they looked as if they had been painted with brilliant rouge.
A pale face, crimson lips—like some bewitching mountain spirit.
Shen Yujiao gazed at the man in her arms, lost in thought. Was his beauty inherited from his mother or his father?
If from his mother, then Lady Xie Xiangniang must have been a peerless beauty.
If from his father… a man so handsome was indeed rare.
Yes, most likely from his mother.
After all, in this world, young women bloomed like flowers in their own ways, while for men, simply being decent-looking was enough for people to call them “a fine gentleman.”
Her thoughts drifted—and then a hoarse voice rasped, “Jiaojiao.”
Shen Yujiao startled and looked down. The man in her arms had half-opened his eyes, gazing weakly at her.
“You’re awake!” Shen Yujiao couldn’t hide her joy, quickly asking, “How are you feeling? Is the wound hurting badly? I treated it a bit, but the arrow went too deep—I didn’t dare pull it out. You’ve got a high fever now; it must be terrible to bear, but hold on—it’ll be dawn soon…”
In her fluster, she spoke more and more.
Meanwhile, Xie Wuling—normally the one who talked the most—felt, in his daze, that he must already be dead and in heaven.
Otherwise, how could he be in Jiaojiao’s arms, her body so soft, clothed in nothing but a thin shift, her scent surrounding him and flooding his senses?
Such a thing could only happen in a dream.
He must be dying.
“Jiaojiao, did you die too…”
His fevered mind muddled, Xie Wuling stared blankly at her luminous little face, his voice rasping, “You’ve really become an immortal fairy… and you brought me with you…”
Shen Yujiao: “…”
What kind of fairy looked this ragged?
“You’re burning up and talking nonsense.”
She sighed helplessly. “Are you still thirsty?”
Xie Wuling: “No.”
Shen Yujiao let out a quiet breath of relief, then tore another strip of fabric and wrapped her palm tightly with one hand, holding it in place with her teeth.
When she finished, she looked down again—he still had his eyes half open, staring right at her.
Shen Yujiao worried he might end up fever-addled, so she touched his forehead and frowned. “Still feeling bad?”
Whether he heard her or not, he didn’t answer.
Seeing that, Shen Yujiao decided she must find some fruit or wild greens soon. If not, even tree bark would do—he needed some strength back, somehow.
Just as she was about to set Xie Wuling down, he suddenly raised an arm and wrapped it around her waist. “Jiaojiao, don’t leave me…”
Shen Yujiao froze. “I’m just going to look around nearby, see if I can find something to eat.”
“I don’t want to eat.”
His strong arms held her tightly, his body burning hot against her. With his long black lashes drooping, he murmured faintly, “Don’t leave me again…”
Shen Yujiao: “…”
Looking at his fever-flushed face, she couldn’t tell whether he was conscious or delirious.
Either way, in this state, Xie Wuling seemed fragile and clingy—like a willful child.
A nine-foot-tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted child…
Shen Yujiao couldn’t help a soft laugh at her own ridiculous thought. She was just about to push him away and tell him to stop fooling around when, lowering her head, she saw that the man’s eyes had closed again. His fever-reddened but handsome face rested against her waist, brows relaxed, sleeping soundly.
For a moment, her heart felt as though something had brushed it lightly.
The hand she had meant to push him away with instead came to rest gently on his broad, solid back.
“Sleep,” she whispered, lowering her lashes, her voice soft. “Sleep, and when you wake up, everything will be better.”
Let tonight be a beautiful dream for him— and a moment of indulgence for her.
The night deepened, and all around grew quiet.
Holding the feverish man in her arms, Shen Yujiao gradually drifted off as well.
She had been utterly exhausted from the day’s turmoil.
She didn’t know how long she slept before the shrill cries of a night owl woke her.
“Jie-jie, jie-jie—”
In the dead of night, the sound was eerie and strange.
She opened her eyes. The fire had burned halfway down, and the cold wind from the river made her shiver uncontrollably; she sneezed.
Then she looked at the man in her arms—his brows were tightly furrowed, his face no longer flushed but pale as paper, fine beads of cold sweat gathering on his skin.
Guilt stabbed her chest. How could she have fallen asleep!
Luckily their clothes were already dry. She hurried to dress him, but the arms around her waist still held her tight.
“Xie Wuling, let go first—I need to dress you, or you’ll catch a chill.”
“…,” he remained silent, eyes still closed.
Shen Yujiao bit her lip. As she tried to pry his fingers off, a thought struck her.
Leaning close to his ear, she whispered softly, “Just for a moment, all right? I promise—I won’t leave you.”
Not tonight, she added silently in her heart.
Miraculously, at those words, the hands around her waist loosened.
Shen Yujiao: “…”
Even half-dead with fever, he was still this stubborn—what could she even say?
Suppressing a sigh, she quickly dressed herself first, then helped him into his robes.
“Cold…” he murmured again, voice hoarse.
“I’m putting your clothes on—you won’t be cold once they’re on.”
Shen Yujiao’s tone was gentle as she worked faster. When she was done, she noticed the red embroidered pouch and osmanthus sachet and, after a brief hesitation, tucked them back against his chest.
But even fully dressed, Xie Wuling kept whispering that he was cold. His face had turned bluish-white, his body trembling.
Seeing that something was wrong, Shen Yujiao gathered him back into her arms. “Xie Wuling, don’t scare me…”
“Cold… cold…”
His eyelids fluttered, his expression slack and eerie, as if possessed by some wandering spirit.
And at that moment, the night owl’s cries came again—
“Jie-jie, jie-jie—”
Each call sharper, more mournful than the last.
Suddenly, Shen Yujiao remembered a ghost story her grandfather had told her as a child:
“The night owl is the messenger of the King of H*ll. When someone’s life is about to end, the night owl begins to count their eyebrows. Once it finishes counting, the ox-headed and horse-faced demons come to take the soul.”
The cold wind howled through the dark forest. Shen Yujiao’s scalp prickled with terror. “Xie Wuling… Xie Wuling…”
“Jie-jie, jie-jie—”
“Don’t count! You’re not allowed to count!”
She was still a young woman—when she saw the life fading from the man in her arms, panic overtook her completely. “Xie Wuling, don’t scare me!”
Her slender fingers trembled as she brushed through his thick eyebrows, shouting toward the dark forest, “Go! Go away! Stop calling!”
But the night owls paid her no mind, crying ceaselessly.
“You can’t count them… I won’t let you count his eyebrows,” she whispered, her palm covering his brow as she hugged him tighter.
Bowing her head, her voice broke into tears, pleading, “Xie Wuling, don’t sleep… talk to me, please.”
It was her fault.
She shouldn’t have fallen asleep. No—she never should have dragged Xie Wuling into any of this from the start.
Being kidnapped, ambushed—none of that had anything to do with him.
She was Pei Xia’s wife, not his.
Even those other abducted young women—it was her own reckless will that made her try to save them. It had nothing to do with him. She had no right to ask for his help.
He had helped her so many times before, and still she had been heartless enough to betray him.
If he lost his life this time—how could she ever live in peace again?
“Xie Wuling, don’t die…”
She wept, tears silently soaking his face. “The one who should die is me—what does this have to do with you? I told you before it wasn’t worth it, so why didn’t you listen?”
The more she thought about it, the sadder she became, and her tears wouldn’t stop. “If you die, what am I supposed to do? I owe you so much—I’ll never get the chance to repay it…”
“Xie Wuling, please, I’m begging you—just hold on a little longer. They’ll come for us soon, I promise…”
She sobbed as she spoke, and the thought that there might be no more Xie Wuling in this world made her grief surge like a tide, impossible to contain.
Then, a faint, hoarse voice broke through the sound of her crying: “Jiaojiao…”
Shen Yujiao’s sobs stopped abruptly.
The man in her arms had half-opened his eyes, his face wet—whether from his own cold sweat or her tears, she couldn’t tell.
“Why are you crying so hard?”
He forced a weak curve to his lips, his breath still shallow. “I’m dying anyway… cough… and there’s still Pei Shouzhen. He won’t let you be a widow…”
“Even now, you still have to talk nonsense just to anger me.”
Shen Yujiao’s heart ached, her eyes blurry with tears. “Anyway—you’re not allowed to die.”
“Life and death aren’t things one can decide…”
Xie Wuling smiled faintly, his gaze already losing focus, his voice growing weaker. “If I really can’t make it… don’t be sad. Live well with Pei Shouzhen.”
“If I live, I’ll just be a step behind him; if I die… then I’ll be a step ahead, waiting for you by the Bridge of Helplessness.”
A self-mocking smile ghosted across his lips as he stared blankly up at the desolate sky. “Next life… it should be my turn, shouldn’t it?”
“Don’t say things like that,” Shen Yujiao cried. “There’s no next life—and even if there is, it doesn’t count.”
“Xie Wuling, please… just hold on a little longer…”
“Jiaojiao.”
“I’m here. I’m right here.”
“Jiaojiao…”
His eyelids grew heavier, his voice fading to a whisper. “It hurts.”
His body hurt, but his heart hurt more.
Still, if he could die in her arms—perhaps that was a good death.
Just before losing consciousness completely, he thought he heard that sorrowful voice beside his ear: “Xie Wuling, I promise you—as long as you live, I’ll separate from Pei Xia.”
“Not in the next life—in this one.”
“Xie Wuling, I’ll marry you.”
