I jolted awake from a deep slumber.
Darkness enveloped me; it seemed the third watch had not yet passed.
I couldn't tell if a dream had pulled me back or if some stray noise had startled me. Straining my ears, I heard only the rhythmic breathing of my brothers-in-arms and the faint, steady tread of the sentries patrolling outside the tent. Beyond that, there was only the monotonous wailing of the wind—a sobbing, mournful sound, like a chorus of weeping ghosts.
At first, such a wind would leave one feeling restless and unsettled, but slowly, I had grown used to it. Here, there were far too many things one had to adapt to quickly: exhaustion, the biting cold, and the ever-present shadow of death.
Once the army bound for the front lines passed Bingzhou, the landscape dissolved into a singular, endless vista of desolate wilderness. In another month, the snows would begin. In this place, the long winter claimed more than half the year.
Qizhou was a city where green was a rare sight, yet I had lived there since I was six years old. I could navigate every inch of its soil with my eyes closed. I loved its boundless openness, the way the sky turned as blue as the sea on clear days, and even the savage fury of its storms.
My uncle once said that a true man would come to love this place, for every inch of the earth beneath our feet had been soaked through with the hot blood of the Yantian Kingdom’s finest sons. Among all the men I had ever known, my uncle stood foremost.
He rarely smiled. I remember when I was twelve, I stole his command token to sneak out with some local children to swim in the Boundary River. When he caught us and brought me back, he had me tied to a flagpole and whipped me mercilessly before the entire army. Even so, I still believed him to be a man of true character. To me, he was closer than my own parents.
Every few years, I would accompany him back to Zhongjing to report on our duties. Having grown accustomed to Qizhou, I always found it difficult to adjust to life in the capital. There were too many people; no matter when you went out, the streets were choked with crowds. They walked with a loose, languid gait, their expressions far too leisurely. In Qizhou, the streets saw only soldiers hurrying to their posts. Even in the Rear City, the civilians moved with haste; few would ever waste an entire afternoon idling in a teahouse or tavern.
Perhaps they were simply used to racing against time to stockpile supplies in the brief intervals between conflicts, or perhaps it was because Qizhou lacked the mild, sun-drenched weather of Zhongjing.
I once thought I would never be able to adapt to such a relaxed life. But at this moment, I found myself missing Zhongjing deeply.
In the darkness, my hand found the flying dagger tucked against my chest. Even with my eyes shut, I could trace every detail of it in my mind with perfect clarity. It had a brass crossguard and a blade that was both exquisite and razor-sharp. For ease of carry, I had fitted it with a bronze sheath. Because I kept it close to my body, it felt warm—a warmth that made me think of her stubborn, spirited eyes.
I couldn't help but recall the expressions on Ming Rui and Ming Yi’s faces when they ran to me with this very dagger, looking as though they were waiting for a grand show to begin. In truth, before they had even arrived that day, Qing Ping had already told me everything that had happened on Mount Chan. I don't quite remember how I reacted then; I suppose I was merely a bit surprised.
After all, at that time, I hadn't yet connected the name Xi Xia with Ji Wuchao.
The Linxi Grasslands were the most beautiful place I had ever seen. I had traveled there once years ago with my master. At the time, the tribal chief had requested his help to purchase a batch of fine breeding horses from the Tielong Tribe—a people of the saddle whose love for horses far exceeded our imagination. That transaction involved not only horses but weapons as well.
It was hard to imagine my master taking such trivial matters so seriously, but he claimed that his actions had earned the friendship of two nations, and thus, it was worth it. I never quite understood his reasoning, though it sounded plausible enough.
I met him the first year I arrived in Qizhou. I still remember how he shook his head upon seeing me for the first time, saying, "This child is clever, but his constitution is frail. Learning martial arts might be..."
My uncle had countered, "If he truly fails to learn anything, people will say it's because his master lacks real skill."
My master’s weakness was his inability to resist a provocation. And so, he took me in. My training was neither more grueling nor more effortless than anyone else's, but it came with one great benefit: for a month or two every year, I got to travel the world with him. The direct result of this wandering—or "traveling," as he called it—was that I met many friends through him, including the chiefs of the Linxi and Tielong tribes.
However, meeting Xi Xia was the greatest surprise of all.
Gulita was the youngest daughter of the Linxi chief, and she possessed a bit of a temper—much like Qing Hong. With Qing Hong, I only had to ignore her; eventually, she would find some clever excuse to retreat and leave me in peace.
But that day, Gulita seemed to have had a bit to drink, and my usual tactic failed. I watched her bright red lips move incessantly while I racked my brain for a way to send her away. It wasn't until the jarring sound of fabric tearing caught my attention that I realized what a mess my silence had landed me in.
That was when Xi Xia appeared.
Her grinning, cynical demeanor at that moment was a genuine relief. Listening to her talk nonsense to Gulita with such mock-seriousness, I had to suppress the urge to laugh; I thought she was a truly fascinating youth.
Until she lazily rested her arm on my shoulder.
A faint scent of herbs drifted from her—subtle, yet possessing a certain sweetness. Such a scent would never be found on a man. I had never met a woman disguised as a man before; perhaps out of curiosity, I began to observe her in earnest.
Her face lacked the delicate thinness of a traditional beauty; instead, it was full, with graceful contours. Her eyes were unlike any I had ever seen—large, round, and incredibly expressive, always sparkling with a vibrant spirit. By the standards I had been raised with, she wouldn't have been considered a "beauty."
I must admit, this question troubled me for a long time. I had always believed that a woman should be like my mother: dignified and elegant in every situation, with perfectly styled hair and impeccable dress.
Xi Xia completely upended my concept of beauty because she was always in motion. She was never still, never "refined," and she had no idea how to restrain her emotions. When she was in high spirits, she was as energetic as that black horse she prized; when her mood soured, she became listless and lazy.
Yet, no matter which face she showed, it seemed entirely natural. And it made those around her feel it was natural, too. I suspect that anyone who saw her would instinctively categorize her with things like the wind, the clouds, or a rainbow—elements of nature itself. As Ming De once remarked with great feeling, "That woman gives off a strange vibe, like a sudden gust of wind blowing past you. You can feel it, yet you can't quite see it clearly."
When I saw Xi Xia decisively leap onto that maddened wild horse, I truly began to see her in a new light. I hadn't known a woman could be so brave, so... gallantly heroic.
That day, when we emerged from the freezing waters of Lotus Lake, the first thing I saw was her face inches from mine. Seeing the fleeting trace of vulnerability in her eyes, I felt a sudden, sharp impulse to pull her into my arms.
On the night before our departure, she got drunk again. I have always detested drunkenness, but Xi Xia was different. When she was drunk, what she revealed wasn't frivolity, but a sense of world-weariness. It was a sorrow that didn't belong to someone of her years, as if she were a lonely traveler who had trekked a vast distance and had inadvertently stumbled upon the memory of an old pain.
Under the moonlight that was as clear and cold as water, she sang many strange songs. Some were in a language I didn't even recognize, but they sounded so lingering and pathetic that they stirred a groundless melancholy in my heart.
I still remember the one she called "Chrysanthemum Terrace," though it seemed to have nothing to do with flowers. On the road away from the Linxi Grasslands, two lines of those lyrics played over and over in my mind: *...Dreams in the distance dissolve into a wisp of fragrance, as the wind scatters the memory of your face...*
I had thought that my acquaintance with Xi Xia would eventually fade into the years like a dream.
So, when I was leaning against the railing of Fuyan Tower and saw that mischievous face again amidst the bustling crowds of Zhongjing, I was momentarily dazed.
Was it really her?
The news that Xi Xia wanted to become a constable came as a bit of a surprise. I had thought she was better suited to being a wandering hero, roaming the world with a sword at her side.
However, compared to what my parents told me next, her career choice seemed almost mundane. I remember the night they called me into the study. Both of them looked weighed down by heavy thoughts.
"We once spoke to you of a betrothal," my mother said, exchanging a worried glance with my father before speaking with forced resolve. "However, this young lady... she has now requested to break the engagement."
I looked at them in shock.
My father added, "This girl intends to take the Ministry of Justice examinations under the name Xi Xia. Your mother and I also feel that such a woman is perhaps unsuited to be the mistress of the Prince Jing Manor..."
Once the initial shock passed, I quickly turned my back to them. I didn't want them to see the irrepressible joy in my eyes. I believe I said something like, "I should be the one to decide this matter."
Ming Di was waiting at the study door. When he saw my expression, a knowing smile touched his lips. I knew I couldn't hide it from him; though he was detached by nature, he possessed a razor-sharp intuition.
The day of the martial arts examination was the first time I sparred with Xi Xia. Her blade was fierce and left no room for error. I knew then she would be an excellent constable because her reflexes were extraordinary.
Suddenly, I felt that this was the kind of woman I had been searching for—a partner who could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with me, someone whose blood burned with the same fire as mine, much like the comrades and brothers lying beside me now.
I decided to help her.
My opening had to be subtle enough that others wouldn't notice, yet clear enough for her to see. The moment she dove down the flagpole to shatter my scimitar, I felt the chilling wind of her blade. Then, she forcibly retracted her inner power and flipped over my head.
When I told her she owed me a drink, her reaction was strange—a mix of surprise and what seemed like happiness. In short, there was something in the way she looked at me that was different from before.
I felt it clearly.
I never expected our next meeting to happen under such circumstances. In that regard, one had to admire her talent for creating surprises.
In that quiet, beautiful meadow, bathed in the faint light of dawn, she was covered in blood. She fainted almost the moment she saw me. In her brief moment of lucidity after waking, she seemed unable to believe I was there, reaching out with cold fingers to touch my cheek before
