On the fifteenth day of the eighth month, the third day since the market’s opening, Qingshui Camp was a scene of unparalleled excitement.
The horse market had expanded to over twice its original size, nearly covering the entire eastern city. The streets were packed with throngs of people.
Exotic camels, sheep, and horses from distant lands mingled with spices and jewels, while rice, salt, tea, porcelain, and silk from the central plains created a swirling vortex of trade.
Standing on a high turret of the city wall, Su Yan surveyed the scene below. Around the market were shops offering food, water, currency exchange, and gold authentication. The areas were neatly divided by flagstone roads, which were lined with shade trees and resting benches. Squads of soldiers patrolled diligently, ensuring that the massive trade fair ran smoothly.
Clearly, keeping Huo Dun and Yan Chengxue in place had been wise, Su Yan thought. At least they ensured that such a grand trading event proceeded without a hitch.
From his elevated position, his gaze swept across the bustling crowd. Suddenly, he spotted Aletan’s towering figure.
The horse market was teeming with foreigners, many dressed in the garb of northern tribes. But Aletan’s extraordinary height made him stand out like a crane among chickens. Draped in gold and jewels, his braids and golden ornaments glinted in the sunlight, making him impossible to miss.
Jinghong Zhui, following Su Yan’s gaze, scoffed lightly. “Flaunting wealth like that—he doesn’t even understand the basics of traveling incognito. Isn’t he afraid of being robbed?”
Su Yan chuckled. “To us, gold represents wealth, but to him, it might be no more than ordinary decoration, like a hairband or a sachet.”
Such a person, if not born with a silver spoon, must hold money in disdain, unaffected by material possessions. Jinghong Zhui considered Aletan the former, simply put, someone who walked a very different path than his own.
He asked Su Yan, “Why does the lord take such an interest in this Oirat man? Is it because he might hold an unusual identity?”
Su Yan thought for a moment and replied, “That’s one reason. Another is that I find him very pure.”
“Pure?”
“Yes, naturally pure and untainted, like a piece of red gold. Such a person, even if a bit fiery in temperament, expresses their emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, and delight—genuinely. It makes interacting with them rather straightforward and relaxing.”
Jinghong Zhui pressed his lips tightly, saying nothing.
Su Yan tilted his head, observing him with a grin. “What’s on your mind, Ah Zhui?”
“Nothing.”
“Actually, you’re also a very pure person.”
“… My lord must be joking. I’m just a killer born in poverty, with countless lives claimed by my blade. To say I’m pure would be an insult to the word.”
Su Yan studied his cold profile and asked, “Do you remember what I said you resembled the night we first met?”
Jinghong Zhui answered without hesitation, “You said I carried an inescapable murderous aura, like a sharp blade that could never return to its sheath.”
“Yet now, your murderous aura has receded. Though still sharp, there’s a sense of refinement, a return to the essence. When I say you’re pure, I mean you’ve never sought riches or glory, nor have you cared for fame or power. The way you look at nobles is no different than how you see commoners.”
“No, I kill for money.”
“Then where is your money?”
“…” Jinghong Zhui recalled the few scattered coins left in his pouch and felt a tinge of shame.
“You’ve spent years as a killer, earning bounties of thousands of taels per job, yet you remain penniless. Why is that?”
“Back then… whenever I had money, I spent it carelessly, helping the poor. When I ran out, I’d just take on another job…”
Su Yan chuckled. “Because to you, money is only a means to survive, never a source of indulgence. You treat wealth like dirt and power like weeds, drawing your sword solely for your own convictions. You are a truly free soul—something I both admire and envy.”
A faint blush crept over Jinghong Zhui’s ears, translucent under the sunlight like fine jade. He mumbled, “My lord’s words… seem exaggerated. I’m just a drifter living day by day. For a while… after my sister’s death, I felt like a walking corpse, devoid of humanity. Her cries haunted me every night, and my heart held nothing but ‘revenge.’ I didn’t even dare think about what I’d do after avenging her. Someone like me, even in death, would be a lonely wandering ghost…”
That was why he had relentlessly tried to assassinate Wei Jun, driven by a death wish, stubborn and resolute, refusing even Su Yan’s goodwill. To him, neither the life of the old traitor Wei nor his own drifting, worthless existence was worth implicating a young official with such a promising future.
—Lord Su and he were simply not of the same world.
And yet, as if by the whims of fate, he had ended up by Su Yan’s side, gradually growing attached to the place he now occupied.
Su Yan had given him a reason to draw his sword beyond vengeance and murder, as well as a purpose for sheathing it: to protect what he cherished in his heart. Su Yan made him realize he could live a life that was clear and full, with hope and value.
Hearing the words “lonely wandering ghost,” Su Yan thought of Jinghong Zhui’s desolate tone and his death-welcoming demeanor that night in the Southern Courtyard. A pang of sadness surged within him, and he clasped Jinghong Zhui’s calloused hand in his own, saying, “Don’t belittle yourself. I’ve told you before—I understand your worth. How could you say no one cares? Am I not someone?”
Jinghong Zhui felt the warmth of Su Yan’s hands enclosing his, a tender heat that seeped into his core. Stirred by this warmth, he felt like a long-dormant volcano ready to erupt, magma desperate to break through the hardened crust and burn everything in its path, binding him and Su Yan as one.
Gripping Su Yan’s hands tighter, he blurted, “My lord, I—”
A gust of autumn wind swept in, carrying a few fallen leaves and a speck of dust into Su Yan’s eye. Reflexively, Su Yan withdrew his hand to rub his eye.
“Something’s in my eye, maybe sand or a small bug,” Su Yan muttered, tears welling as he blinked forcefully. “Could you take a look…”
Jinghong Zhui, still holding Su Yan’s left hand, leaned closer, gently parting his eyelid. “There’s a small black speck stuck to your inner eyelid,” he whispered, carefully blowing on it a few times.
The foreign object in Su Yan’s eye refused to budge, and tears kept streaming down his face. “It’s still there—blow again.”
Their proximity was too close—so close that their breaths mingled, their scents entangled. A wild, uncontrollable thought surged in Jinghong Zhui’s mind, screaming that restraint was futile, that he could no longer hold back.
Letting go of Su Yan’s hand, Jinghong Zhui cupped the back of his neck and gently licked his eyelid with the tip of his tongue.
Soft and damp, with a faint salty taste, like the tender flesh of an exposed clam—vulnerable and delectable, entirely at the mercy of the one who discovered it.
Su Yan was momentarily stunned by the unexpected gesture. The slippery, ticklish sensation in his eye faded quickly, but the warmth of Jinghong Zhui’s breath lingered on his cheek. Su Yan blinked several times, his voice tinged with embarrassment. “It’s better now… Thank you.”
Pausing, he added awkwardly, “Next time, don’t lick it. I’ll just rinse it with water.”
“…Yes, my lord,” Jinghong Zhui replied in a hoarse voice.
His voice was usually cold and sharp, piercing through the air with a metallic quality, reminiscent of a blade dipped in ice water, shimmering under the moonlight.
But now, it was as if he were being scorched by furnace flames, hammered and forged, turning into molten iron—thick, silent, and flowing into the mold to be reshaped anew.
Reformed into a sword that could return to its sheath, accepted and embraced by it, wrapped tightly and seamlessly, becoming one. Whether drawn for a precise strike or soaring across vast distances like a flying arc of light, it would always have a place to return to.
He wanted a sheath named “Su Yan” and wished to become the sword that belonged solely to this sheath.
For that, he was willing to sacrifice all his loyalty, passion, and even his life in exchange for the right to be a sword and sheath bound together for a lifetime.
Su Yan detected a faintly familiar aura, and a vague sense of unease crept over him. The Ah Zhui before him was still the same Ah Zhui he knew, but the look in the other’s eyes made his back prickle, sending a slight shiver through him. It wasn’t due to disgust, cold, or fear—it was a sensation he couldn’t quite put into words.
To mask this peculiar tremor in his heart, Su Yan turned away and once again looked down at the horse market below. Amidst the crowd, he spotted Aletan’s figure again.
Aletan was standing to the side, looking up at the city wall where Su Yan stood.
The distance was too great; Su Yan couldn’t make out the expression on Aletan’s face or tell whether he could actually see him up on the tower.
Su Yan tentatively raised his right hand and waved at him.
Aletan turned and strode away in long, confident steps.
…Didn’t see me, huh. Su Yan glanced at his raised arm, then, on a whim, curved his five fingers into the beckoning gesture of a lucky cat.
“The Lord has noticed it too,” Jinghong Zhui said.
“Noticed what?”
“There are five people tailing Aletan, hiding in various corners. At first, I thought they were his subordinates, but after taking a closer look at their physiques and outlines, they don’t match any of the horse traders.”
Su Yan carefully scanned Aletan’s surroundings for a long moment but didn’t spot anyone trailing him. Raising an eyebrow, he chuckled awkwardly, “You’ve got an eagle eye, while I wouldn’t even be able to take on Black Widow’s little finger.”
Jinghong Zhui looked somewhat puzzled. “How does the lord know of ‘Black Widow,’ that rogue of the martial world? That woman hails from a brothel and practices… uh, certain improper martial arts techniques that absorb male vitality. Speaking of her dirties your ears. She’s mostly active in the Jiangnan region and wouldn’t possibly cross paths with you. Even if she did, I would’ve handled it cleanly so you wouldn’t have to see such filth.”
Su Yan froze, then burst out laughing. He threw an arm around Jinghong Zhui’s shoulders. “Talking past each other has its fun moments too, huh, Ah Zhui, hey, Ah Zhui.”
Those two calls of “Ah Zhui” carried a playful fondness that made Jinghong Zhui’s ears burn. The hand resting on his shoulder seemed to stir up something inside him.
He knew that Lord Su had no romantic feelings for him, but even so, this bit of physical closeness made his blood surge. Afraid of embarrassing himself, he kept a cold face and pushed Su Yan’s arm back. “My lord is a proper scholar. Where did you pick up such worldly habits, casually draping arms over people and calling them brothers?”
Su Yan withdrew his arm with a smile. “I don’t do that with just anyone—only you and Aletan. He’s a new friend of mine, straightforward in nature, so I figure he’d appreciate it. But you…”
Jinghong Zhui, outwardly impassive but inwardly keen, listened closely.
“You’re my comrade, my confidant, my soul-bound companion. If I could, I’d tie you, this martial arts expert to my belt for life, ensuring my safety and peace of mind forever, hahaha.”
Jinghong Zhui gritted his teeth, his heart roiling with emotions he couldn’t distinguish—whether joy or sorrow, he couldn’t tell.
Su Yan sobered slightly, leaning closer to Jinghong Zhui’s ear to whisper, “Help me keep an eye on someone, and lend a hand if necessary.”
“…Aletan?”
“Yes. Something about this feels off. Who exactly were those cavalrymen that attacked us? Their tattoos seemed fake; they might not even be Tatars. But the ‘Wuhalang’ they served is supposed to be the son of the Tatar Grand Chancellor. Then there’s what you just mentioned—those five strangers trailing him. Who are they?”
Jinghong Zhui pondered for a moment before replying, “I can’t pinpoint their identities either, but I’m certain they’re from the northern desert. Although they wear Central Plains clothing, the dark red patches on their cheekbones and their slightly bow-legged posture suggest they’ve spent a long time on horseback.”
Su Yan nodded slightly. “I’m worried they’re from another northern tribe, perhaps Oirat’s rival, another Tatar group, and they might be targeting Aletan. Even if they’re not after him, their covert infiltration into such a critical border town is no good sign. Ah Zhui, investigate this for me.”
Jinghong Zhui frowned. “But I need to ensure your safety, my lord.”
Su Yan laughed. “Do you think Chu Yuan and the others are just for show? Be careful, or they’ll challenge you to a fight. Besides, there are 500 elite soldiers under the Commander’s Office. I’m practically encased in iron. It’s those five termites I’m worried about. A tiny breach could bring down a mighty wall, and this is Qingshui Camp—Great Ming’s ‘Northern Gate Key.'”
Jinghong Zhui had to admit that Su Yan’s reasoning was sound. He nodded but asked, “If those people are only after Aletan and it doesn’t concern Qingshui Camp, what should I do?”
Su Yan thought, I already said lend a hand if necessary. Why ask when you already know the answer? Well, well, Ah Zhui, trying to be sly, are you?
He smirked and countered, “What do you think?”
Feigning ignorance, Jinghong Zhui replied, “If it doesn’t involve our country and is merely internal tribal strife, I naturally wouldn’t intervene.”
Su Yan frowned. “No. I want you to act. If Aletan is in danger, you must save him, even at the cost of…” He deliberately paused.
“Even at the cost of… my life?” Jinghong Zhui, caught in the moment, misinterpreted, his face stiffening and his tone turning bitter. “You’ve only known that barbarian for a few days, yet you would—”
“Even at the cost of your three-tael sword, alright? You vinegar jar!” Su Yan’s eyes glinted with a smile.
“Listen to me, Ah Zhui,” Su Yan said solemnly. “I would never sacrifice you for anyone, not even myself. If—and I mean if—it really comes to that, where you can’t save Aletan without losing your life, then prioritize your own safety! I can’t claim to love all equally, and if I have to choose, then I’m sorry for him.”
Jinghong Zhui pursed his lips, saying nothing. His eyes held a faint trace of warmth and emotion. After a moment, he said, “You’re like a white crane among the clouds, noble and pure, never letting anyone down.”
Su Yan thought of Shen Qi’s scarred back, Yun Xi’s leap from the city wall, and the seven heads that rolled at the Yanan execution ground, and he smiled bitterly at himself.
When they descended the wall, Chu Yuan and the others were already waiting at its base.
Seeing the two finally return from their “let’s go enjoy the view” excursion, Gao Shuo scrutinized Jinghong Zhui with a dissatisfied look, ensuring his clothes were in order and his hair unruffled before his expression finally eased.
Previously, Jinghong Zhui had learned from Su Yan that Gao Shuo was a subordinate of Shen Qi. This revelation immediately explained Gao Shuo’s consistently hostile attitude toward him throughout the journey—clearly, he was acting as a guard dog to protect his superior from perceived threats.
Jinghong Zhui privately scoffed at this: “Your precious commander is the real thief here! Besides, if I truly intended to do something inappropriate, do you think you could stop me?”
That “inappropriate” thought flickered in his mind intermittently—surfacing due to uncontrollable emotions, only to submerge again beneath waves of guilt and a sense of unworthiness. Just how inappropriate? Only Jinghong Zhui himself knew.
After entrusting Su Yan to the Embroidered Uniform Guard guards, Jinghong Zhui employed his light-footed martial arts technique and swiftly caught up with Aletan.
His movement was ghostlike, agile, and nearly imperceptible, making him a master of stealth. Even in broad daylight amidst a bustling market, neither Aletan nor the shadowy pursuers noticed his presence.
He observed as Aletan entered a dead-end alleyway. Upon reaching its end, Aletan abruptly turned and shouted something in his native tongue.
The pursuers, realizing they had been exposed, were forced to reveal themselves. They drew their weapons and charged at Aletan.
Jinghong Zhui didn’t intervene, instead remaining hidden atop the roof, watching the scene unfold from above. It wasn’t out of malice or indifference—he had already assessed the situation and determined that these five attackers together were no match for Aletan.
Sure enough, within two short moments, the pursuers were sprawled on the ground, groaning in pain, their limbs either broken or dislocated. They could no longer stand, let alone fight. Aletan exchanged a string of unintelligible words with them, speaking in his native tongue, but unfortunately, Jinghong Zhui couldn’t understand a single syllable.
Jinghong Zhui debated whether to don a mask and capture one of the pursuers to interrogate later with Huang Liji, who knew the northern dialects. Suddenly, a faint but sharp sound sliced through the air.
It was barely audible, like the hiss of a venomous snake—a fleeting, crimson shadow of death that vanished in an instant.
Jinghong Zhui instantly recognized the sound: a projectile weapon. But this wasn’t a throwing knife or dart—it was a needle! The projectile shot from a crack in the brick wall at the far end of the alley, aiming for Aletan’s vital point at his back.
From such a precise and cunning angle, paired with an expertly calculated force, it was likely tipped with poison—lethal upon contact.
Jinghong Zhui flicked a shard of tile with his fingers, aiming to intercept the needle. At the same time, he drew his sword and leapt toward Aletan.
Just as he moved, an indescribable chill brushed against his back. For a fleeting instant, all his muscles seized up, and his energy flow was abruptly cut off.
Jinghong Zhui was shocked. Someone managed to strike at me? And I couldn’t even discern the method they used!
He heard a voice—hoarse, as if scorched by molten copper, grating and sinister. It was low and growling, yet somehow also whispered like a ghostly murmur. The voice spoke in heavily accented imperial Chinese: “Those who obstruct the will of the gods will be reduced to ashes by divine wrath…”
Jinghong Zhui mustered all his internal energy and broke free of the invisible restraints with a fierce burst of power.
His body shot forward with his sword, gliding a dozen meters before abruptly reversing direction. A chilling light erupted from his blade, hurtling toward a cloaked figure that had silently appeared on the rooftop.
The figure was draped from head to toe in a tattered black cloak, with countless dangling strips of cloth. Only the hooked tip of a sharp nose jutted out from the shadowy hood, resembling a bird of prey ready to strike. Their hands, gnarled like dead branches, were raised with palms facing upward, motionless. Within the shadows of the hood, two faint points of eerie light glimmered.
In all his years as an assassin, Jinghong Zhui had never experienced anything like this. It felt as though he were not facing a living, breathing opponent, but rather a murky swamp—a bleak mire that threatened to engulf not only his sword and its aura but his very being.
At the instant their gazes met, he instinctively invoked the art of Yanmei to resist the suffocating pressure that threatened to overwhelm him.
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