In Dingbian City, Chu Yuan was still bent over his desk, drafting a secret memorial to the emperor. Meanwhile, the pigeon released by Gao Shuo was already soaring into the vast sky, carrying a note addressed to Shen Qi.
The pigeon flew over the city walls, climbing higher and higher. Below, two horses stood still on the official road, reduced to tiny black dots against the landscape.
On horseback, Su Yan suddenly looked up, shading his eyes with the brim of his bamboo hat as he squinted at the sky. “A bird,” he remarked. “Ah Zhui, look—is that a pigeon?”
Jinghong Zhui lifted his head, but all he could see was a faint gray speck against the horizon. “Too high up to tell. Maybe.”
Su Yan turned to glance at the city gates of Dingbian one last time, sensing vaguely that he had overlooked something. Yet, the thought had no real foundation, just a fleeting intuition. Shaking his head, he said, “Let’s go. To Lingzhou.”
Meanwhile, after using the covert intelligence network’s homing pigeons to send their messages, Chu Yuan and Gao Shuo gathered their remaining Embroidered Uniform Guards and returned to the riverbank near Hengliangzi Town.
Sheng Qianxing was still searching—fruitlessly—for the missing Censor Su.
“It’s been days now. Even if he’s alive, he’s likely left the area already.” With a faint hope, Chu Yuan turned to his subordinates and asked, “Where do you think Censor Su might have gone?”
An Embroidered Uniform Guard thought for a moment before replying, “Could he have traveled south to Yanan City? Since Censor Su lost all his seals and documents, only Prefect Zhou in Yanan would recognize him. If he went to another city, proving his identity would be difficult.”
Gao Shuo interjected, “You’re all forgetting—Censor Su was determined to go to Qingshui Camp in Lingzhou. He’s a persistent man. Maybe he’s still heading north.”
Chu Yuan felt that both suggestions made sense. After discussing with Sheng Qianxing, they decided to split into two groups.
Sheng Qianxing led half the team back to Yanan City to inquire about Su Yan’s situation from Prefect Zhou Zhidao. The other half, led by Chu Yuan, headed toward the Qingshui Camp in Lingzhou, searching for Su Yan’s traces along the way. Su Xiaobei and Su Xiaojing, being more familiar with the Embroidered Uniform Guard, decided to accompany Chu Yuan’s group.
The two sides parted ways in the river valley, agreeing to inform each other immediately should either side find any news of Su Yan.
Meanwhile, Su Yan was by a creek, undoing his trousers near a rock. Across the stream, the foreign man on horseback cast an amused gaze in his direction.
—
Despite agreeing to travel together, Su Yan and Jinghong Zhui kept a cautious distance of several dozen meters from the Oirat horse traders during their journey. They also camped separately, with a small forest dividing their groups during rest stops.
When night fell, it started to rain. The slippery roads made nighttime travel unwise, forcing both groups to seek shelter in an abandoned temple in a desolate village they passed along the way.
More than a hundred horses were herded into a courtyard overgrown with wild grass, its walls mostly collapsed. The horse traders took turns watching over them, while others gathered in the still-standing main hall, where they lit a bonfire to dry their clothes and warm their provisions.
The ruined temple was crumbling, its roof full of holes like a sieve, leaving only a few dry spots to settle down. The Oirat men sat around the fire, eating meat and drinking wine as they chatted loudly in their rough language. Su Yan and Jinghong Zhui guarded another fire, with a stretch of rain-leaking ground left vacant between them—an unspoken boundary, like an invisible Chu-Han border.
Jinghong Zhui toasted a flatbread wrapped around cured meat over the fire until it softened, then handed it to Su Yan.
Su Yan listlessly took a few bites before drinking some water.
Suddenly, Aletan stood up and walked over. His robe was hanging by the fire to dry, leaving his well-built upper body bare. Under the flickering glow, his skin gleamed like dark silk in motion, while the beaded rings in his braided hair and the gold chains around his neck and chest glittered.
He handed Su Yan an open leather waterskin. “Horse milk alcohol. Try it.”
Su Yan hesitated for a moment, recalling a past-life trip to the grasslands, where the tour guide had specifically instructed them: when the locals offer alcohol, you must accept it immediately. If you can drink, drink; if not, at least take a sip before returning it. Refusing outright would be seen as disrespectful, a sign of insincerity. If they considered you arrogant or fake, earning their friendship would become nearly impossible.
So, just as he reached out to take it, Jinghong Zhui intercepted him. “Young Master, allow me to test it first.”
Aletan’s expression did not change, but a sharp glint of displeasure flashed beneath his thick brows. He stared at Jinghong Zhui and asked, “Testing for poison?” Then, as if in provocation, he took a sip himself.
Su Yan gently pressed down on Jinghong Zhui’s hand, smoothing things over. “He’s my personal guard—cautious by habit. No offense intended, Sir.”
“Aletan.”
“What?”
“My name is Aletan, not ‘sir’.’”
Su Yan chuckled. “Alright, Aletan. Thank you for the drink.” He accepted the waterskin and took a sip. The taste was smooth, with a mellow dairy fragrance and a refreshing alcoholic kick—rich, velvety, slightly sour, and sweet.
In his past life, the horse milk alcohol he had tried was thick, milky white, with only about 3% alcohol. It didn’t cause intoxication, but it had a strong dairy aftertaste he hadn’t liked much.
But this one was clear as jade, with no trace of gaminess—likely refined through multiple fermentations, removing impurities and making it stronger. It went down surprisingly well.
“‘Its taste is like sweet dew melting, its aroma like fine liquor brewing; new wine collides with thick cream, an absolute delicacy of purest refinement.’ Seems the poets of old didn’t exaggerate.” Su Yan took another sip and smiled as he returned the waterskin. “This is excellent horse milk alcohol.”
Aletan visibly brightened. “If you like it, the whole bag is yours.”
Su Yan hesitated. “It’s impolite to accept without giving in return. You’ve already gifted me leg wraps and now horse milk alcohol, yet I have nothing suitable to give back. Traveling light, I didn’t bring anything of value…”
Jinghong Zhui interjected, “My lord, nothing is more practical than silver.”
Su Yan nodded and reached for his money pouch.
But Aletan’s gaze landed on a pale blue hair ribbon in Su Yan’s hair. Pointing at it, he said, “Forget silver. Give me that instead.”
Su Yan was slightly taken aback and reached up to touch the ribbon. The soft satin bore subtle bamboo-patterned embroidery, with two small, translucent jade leaf pendants at the ends. He had spotted it at a tailor’s shop in Dingbian City and liked it immediately, using it to tie back his temple locks. The jade ornaments dangled as he moved, lightly clinking like trickling spring water over stone.
“This is delicately made, but not worth much,” Su Yan said, feeling a bit awkward as he untied it and handed it over.
Aletan accepted it with evident satisfaction. The slender ribbon coiled around his large, tanned hand like ivy climbing an ancient tree—like a dragon draping a jade sash over its scales, starkly contrasting in tone.
Jinghong Zhui, observing coldly, felt deeply irritated. If they were exchanging silver, it would be a simple transaction. But demanding something Su Yan had worn personally? That was nothing short of frivolous. Did his lord really think these northerners were just straightforward people, not noticing the hidden intentions behind the request?
But since the ribbon had already been given, he couldn’t forcibly take it back without undermining Su Yan’s dignity. Yet, the resentment still burned in his chest, making his expression even frostier.
Aletan toyed with the ribbon, pulling up a thin braid and holding it to his forehead, seeming to consider where to wear it. Watching him, Su Yan suddenly thought of the autumn sun stretching over the open plains and smiled. “Do men in the north also wear forehead bands?”
Aletan replied, “We call them meile. In winter, we use broad strips of animal hide to block the wind. Some are made of leather, covered with gold, silver, agate, and turquoise.”
“This ribbon is too thin for a meile. How about widening it, adding gold and jade, and turning it into a belt instead?” Su Yan suggested. He genuinely felt that the hair ribbon suited a scholarly noble, but on someone like Aletan, it seemed out of place.
Aletan didn’t argue but also showed no intention of modifying the ribbon. Instead, he wrapped it around his left wrist, tying a loose knot. At a glance, it looked like a bandage covering an injury.
Su Yan’s gaze shifted from Aletan’s wrist to his abdomen, where a tree-shaped tattoo stood out under the firelight. The blue-green ink shimmered faintly with golden flecks, as if an entire layer of gold dust had seeped into his skin.
The sacred tree called “Tokhtilak,” though only visible in tattoo form, still vividly revealed its shape: gnarled and powerful branches, a trunk with countless vines, a crown lush as clouds, and a vigorous root system that extended deep down… vanishing below the waistband just under the navel.
For no apparent reason, Su Yan felt a sudden warmth in his chest. He quickly inhaled the damp night air to dispel the inexplicable heat and said, a little sheepishly, “I have an awkward request… Could I touch your tattoo?”
Aletan froze. Around the campfire, the other Oirat men had been laughing and chatting over food and drink, but someone overheard Su Yan’s question and began whispering in astonishment to their companions. This soon led to everyone turning their heads to look at the pair.
Wide eyes met smaller, shifty glances, and the atmosphere grew awkward.
Su Yan couldn’t help but suspect he had said something inappropriate and offended some taboo. Knowing the “fight-first, talk-later” tendencies of such warrior tribes, he instinctively shrank his neck and stammered, “No, no, I was just joking—don’t take it seriously—”
Aletan furrowed his brows, his face stern. As Jinghong Zhui instinctively placed a hand on his sword, Aletan suddenly grabbed Su Yan’s hand and solemnly pressed it to his abdominal muscles. “You may touch it.”
A tense atmosphere spread through the ruined temple. Su Yan swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly as he rubbed his fingers over the tattoo and then rubbed them together again after pulling them away.
There was no black smudging, nor any powdery or sticky residue.
The pigment used for the tattoo had clearly penetrated the skin deeply, impervious to surface friction.
“What do you use for the tattoo pigments?”
“Ground mica mixed with plant juices,” Aletan replied.
“Is that the same for other tribes in the northern desert?”
Aletan couldn’t fathom what Su Yan wanted to know but answered patiently nonetheless. “Yes, the formulas for tattoo pigments are mostly the same. My tribe admires gold, so we add more mica powder. It gleams faintly like gold in the sunlight.”
Su Yan’s thoughts turned rapidly. The Tatar cavalryman who had abducted him earlier had a fading wolf tattoo on his chest—it must have been painted, not inked. This raised suspicions about their identity. Were they really from the Tatar tribe? If not, which tribe were they? And why did they disguise themselves as Tatars to raid Ming territory? Was it to provoke war or frame someone else?
Considering further, if the forces invading the border weren’t all Tatar but included soldiers from other tribes, and their leaders outwardly expressed allegiance to Emperor Jinglong while harboring hidden motives, what schemes might be at play?
Lost in thought, Su Yan propped his chin on a curled finger. Aletan, meanwhile, gazed down at Su Yan’s hair swirl with a complicated expression, unconsciously fingering the ribbon tied around his left wrist.
“…What are you thinking about?” Aletan asked.
At this point, Su Yan was even suspicious of the Oirat tribe, so he chose not to reveal his thoughts and deflected casually. “I was thinking you’re pretty clean.”
He laughed lightly at himself after saying this. Earlier, the stench from the northern cavalryman had nearly made him faint, though he understood that in arid regions where water was scarce, nomadic herders and warriors often couldn’t prioritize hygiene. Still, he wouldn’t willingly subject himself to such an odor again.
When Su Yan first met Aletan, he had instinctively held his breath. But later, he noticed that the man didn’t carry any unpleasant smell. Observing his well-kept braids and gold ornaments, Su Yan speculated that Aletan might be a Oirat noble. Perhaps leading a horse trade caravan to Great Ming was part of his tribe’s tradition or a cover for other purposes.
Yet despite Aletan’s outward warmth and enthusiasm, Su Yan remained slightly wary of him.
Still… he smelled rather nice.
“You have a unique scent—faint, like flowers and herbs, but not any kind I’ve smelled before.”
Aletan wanted to tell him that it was from Zamengmeng flowers, native to the grasslands. The dried petals were steeped in sacred tree resin to make an oil that Oirat nobles applied to their bodies as an offering of devotion to the divine.
But before he could speak, he noticed his companions around the fire, who had been dumbfounded by Su Yan’s earlier remark, now grinning and making faces at him.
Aletan shot them a sharp, disapproving glare. The Oirat men immediately turned away like bees scattering, burying their faces in their food and drink, though coughing fits broke out in their haste.
Having mentally noted the oddities and clues, Su Yan kept his conclusions to himself and returned to his own fire, satisfied.
Jinghong Zhui sat with a cold face, spreading out a mat and laying a thin blanket over it.
Su Yan teased, “Is Ah Zhui upset?”
Jinghong Zhui didn’t reply, instead handing him a cup of water and a damp cloth.
After brushing his teeth and washing up, Su Yan, towel in hand, peeked at Jinghong Zhui’s expression. Noticing the man’s genuine displeasure, Su Yan plopped onto the mat and patted the space beside him. “Come on, lie down here.”
Jinghong Zhui knelt to remove Su Yan’s shoes and said flatly, “I’ll sleep on the offering table over there.”
“That table only has three legs and is covered in dust and cobwebs. If you lie on it, it might collapse under you.” Su Yan coaxed, tugging at his sleeve with a hint of pleading. “Sleep here beside me. I don’t mind being a little cramped.”
Jinghong Zhui frowned at his master and thought to himself, Why is he so good at attracting attention?
And then, What kind of question is that? He had witnessed it from the moment they met under the old peach tree in Su Manor—how moths to a flame were drawn to Su Yan.
Yu Wang, Shen Qi… every one of them is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. His lord was simply too naive and guileless. If it were up to Jinghong Zhui, he’d have chopped them into pieces and gone on the run. Now, finally free of the capital and those predatory nobles, Su Yan had still managed to draw the attention of this not-so-innocent Oirat man. Couldn’t he just—
Sigh… It wasn’t Su Yan’s fault. It was his own inadequacy, his failure to shield his master properly. Jinghong Zhui felt a wave of self-reproach, sighed silently, and finally gave in to Su Yan’s imploring gaze, sitting down beside him with reluctant resignation.
Su Yan happily lay down, shifting over to give Jinghong Zhui more space, and yawned. “I’m so tired. My thighs ache, and my calves are sore.”
Jinghong Zhui took Su Yan’s legs and placed them on his lap, massaging the acupoints and smoothing the muscles. Before long, deep, even breaths signaled that Su Yan had fallen fast asleep—in a ruined temple, surrounded by strangers.
Lord Su was either remarkably broad-minded or had absolute faith in his “Ah Zhui”—in his skill and unwavering loyalty—believing that no matter the circumstances, he would do everything in his power to protect him and never abandon him.
…Lord Su truly was a clever man. He had thought it through perfectly.
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Jinghong Zhui’s lips. He gently lifted Su Yan’s head and neck, resting them on his lap to make his sleep more comfortable.
Leaning against a pillar, he sat still with the sleeping Su Yan in his lap, prepared to stay that way the entire night.
Across the flickering firelight, Aletan sat against the wall, one leg folded, the other bent with his foot on the ground. His right hand rested on his knee as he openly stared at them, his gaze filled with scrutiny, contemplation, and an indescribable depth.
With his left hand—the one wrapped in Su Yan’s ribbon—he lightly touched the tattoo on his abdomen, as if the sensation of Su Yan’s fingertips still lingered on his skin.
That sacred tree tattoo had been etched onto him by the tribe’s shaman on the day he came of age. Other than his parents, no one had ever been allowed to touch it.
The old shaman had said that the ink was mixed with the crushed essence of the sacred tree’s fruit, and that the ancestors in the unseen world would bless him, protecting him from wicked blades and vile diseases. Except for blood relatives and a lifelong partner, no one else should touch it, lest the spirit’s aura be disturbed, offending the gods and inviting misfortune.
He had taken that warning seriously, never allowing servants or attendants to serve him too closely. Even during wrestling matches, he would wrap his abdomen with a cloth band. Once, a reckless young tribesman, unwilling to accept his defeat, had tried to pull at his binding—Aletan had promptly broken the boy’s arm. Over time, the entire tribe came to know of his taboo, and no one dared touch his untouchable scale again.
And yet, just now, he had, for the first time, allowed Su Yan to touch his tattoo—no wonder his companions had been so surprised, unable to hold back their curiosity and teasing speculations.
Even Aletan himself didn’t quite understand why he had made an exception for a young traveler from the Central Plains whom he had only just met.
But one thing was certain—this boy was no ordinary wayfarer.
Their journey to Lingzhou’s Qingshui Camp might just stir up tempests, turning still waters into surging waves worth watching.
