The wind over the grasslands on the western outskirts of the capital was cold.
This cold was different from the city’s. There were no towering walls to block it; it came straight from distant mountains, rushing in unimpeded. It carried the raw, green scent of freshly sprouting grass mixed with the dry warmth of stables. When it struck the face, it felt rough, almost wild. The sky was a pale blue, clouds torn into thin strips by the wind, racing along the horizon. The grassland stretched wide and open. The newly turned grass was still light in color, glowing faintly under the sunlight.
Gu Jinzhao had not held a reins for nearly half a year.
After returning from Jiangnan to the capital, she had been traveling only by carriage. Even walking too quickly drew comments from others. Today, under the pretext of going to Fuguang Temple in the east of the city to offer incense, she had persuaded the coachman to detour west so she could come here and ride a couple of laps.
She wore a fitted jade-green short riding jacket with narrow sleeves and an apricot-colored mamian skirt. The skirt hem was tied above her knees with a silk cord, revealing a pair of deerskin boots. It was not formal riding attire, but it was practical enough not to restrict her movements.
Holding the reins loosely in one hand and resting the other on her thigh, she felt the rhythm of the chestnut mare’s trot. Each bounce transferred through the saddle into her waist—a long-lost sensation that loosened her bones.
The wind slipped into her sleeves, cool against her skin. She narrowed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her lungs filled with the earthy sweetness of soil being turned over, mixed with the warm, dry scent of freshly cut hay from the nearby stables.
Gu Jinzhao circled the edge of the field for half a round. Seeing Qing Pu waving from the shade pavilion, she reined in her horse and wiped the faint sweat from her temple.
It was late March; the sun was not yet harsh, but after a few laps, her cheeks still felt warm.
She took out a waterskin and drank. The water was cool, slightly bitter from the bamboo interior.
While drinking, her gaze drifted across the field. Not far away, several young noblemen in riding attire were resting after a ride. Farther off, someone was taming a wild horse, dust rising like golden mist in the sunlight.
But there was no trace of that pale blue figure she had expected.
She tightened the reins, idly looping them around her fingers.
Of course. It was not as if they would meet every time. The Flower Viewing Banquet had been coincidence. It was already unlikely enough.
She flicked the reins, about to take another lap, when a voice came from behind.
“Miss Gu?”
Clear, slightly uncertain, slightly surprised.
She turned.
A greenish-blue horse trotted toward her. The rider was a young man in russet riding clothes, belted at the waist, wearing black boots. A jade crown bound his hair, glowing faintly in the sun.
Gu Jinzhao recognized him.
The young man who had stood beside Ye Xian at the banquet in Jinyuan. Xu Jingting.
“Young Master Xu,” she said politely, reining in her horse and nodding.
“It really is Miss Gu,” Xu Jingting said with a smile as he rode closer. “No need for such formality—just call me Jingting. We didn’t get a chance to talk properly last time. What a coincidence meeting you here. Are you here to ride as well?”
“I just happened to pass by on the way to the temple and came in for a look,” she replied, glancing casually past him.
“Are you alone, Young Master Xu?”
Xu Jingting’s smile twitched slightly before he covered it quickly with a laugh. He dismounted, took a sip from his waterskin, and said, “I was originally supposed to come with Ye Xian. He likes riding and archery.”
“Oh? Why isn’t he here today?”
Xu Jingting sighed. “A servant came this morning saying he didn’t sleep well last night, so riding would be difficult. His health has never been good—he’s been taking medicine for years, but it hasn’t improved much. The imperial physicians have already told him not to overexert himself.”
He waved it off casually. “I even told him to come by carriage just to watch, but he refused. You know his temperament—he hates being seen when he’s unwell.”
“So he’s not a cooperative patient,” Gu Jinzhao said.
Xu Jingting laughed again. “Don’t say that in front of him. His tongue is vicious when he’s annoyed. Once, an Imperial Medical Bureau director came to check his pulse and advised him to drink less and sleep earlier. Guess what he said? He told him to write it into a memorial to His Majesty so the emperor could reduce his workload instead. Nearly angered the old physician into a beard-quivering rage.”
Gu Jinzhao smiled faintly, listening.
As she did, she began to piece something together in her mind.
In her previous life, she had known very little about Ye Xian. She knew he later became a powerful figure in court—feared, respected, and deeply guarded. But she had not known he enjoyed riding and archery in his youth, nor that he used cutting remarks to drive physicians mad, nor that his illness had been with him since birth.
So how had he endured those later years of relentless political strain?
“Miss Gu?” Xu Jingting waved a hand in front of her. “Surprised?”
She came back to herself. “A little. Heir Apparent Ye doesn’t seem like someone who is often ill.”
“He’s like that,” Xu Jingting said, mounting his horse again. “Even when he’s uncomfortable, he never lets it show. His body is weaker than most, but his presence is stronger than anyone’s. You saw it at the banquet—Zhao Jin provoked him, and he didn’t even bother responding properly. There’s no second person like him in the capital.”
Gu Jinzhao lightly urged her horse forward. “He should be like that.”
Xu Jingting glanced back at her with an unreadable expression, quickly masked again by a smile.
“Fair enough,” he said. “Shall we race a couple of laps? It’s rare to meet someone with decent riding skills.”
She gave a light kick. The chestnut mare surged forward.
They ran side by side across the field, wind cutting through their words.
“Miss Gu—your riding is quite good! Where did you learn?”
“In Jiangnan. My maternal grandmother had a stable.”
“No wonder! There are hardly any noble ladies in the capital who can ride, let alone ride well—”
The rest of his words were swallowed by the wind.
She did not try to hear them. She simply rode, feeling the rhythm of hooves striking grass, the steady vibration traveling through the saddle, and the wind rushing past her fingers. The world was wide and open. The sky felt high enough to stretch into forever.
Then, suddenly, commotion broke out on the far side of the field.
Hoofbeats—fast, chaotic, uncontrolled.
Then screams. Sharp, panicked female voices.
Gu Jinzhao reined in immediately.
A group of riders burst in from the southern entrance—seven or eight men, leading with a massive black warhorse. The rider was a towering man in dark armor, sitting like a half-iron tower in the saddle. His men followed, laughing loudly, weapons at their waists glinting in the sun.
They entered without restraint, cutting straight through the main gate and scattering several women riders. Mud splashed onto skirts. Gasps rose everywhere.
Someone whispered angrily, “Who are these people? No manners at all!”
But the murmurs died once they recognized the leader.
A newly transferred deputy general surnamed Sun, recently reassigned from the northwest. A man who had seen battle and earned merit, now sent to report to the Ministry of War. Not a figure of great rank in the capital, but not someone most nobles wanted to offend either.
Gu Jinzhao tightened her reins and prepared to avoid them. She disliked trouble, even if she did not fear it.
But General Sun noticed her.
His eyes landed on her chestnut mare and jade-green figure. The gaze was heavy, rough, and openly leering—like sandpaper dragged across skin.
She did not look up. Only her grip tightened slightly.
The black warhorse slowed deliberately as it approached.
“Little lady,” Sun said in a rough voice, “your riding skills are not bad.”
Gu Jinzhao lifted her eyes. Calm, steady.
“Thank you for your praise, General. I was merely riding casually.”
He clearly did not intend to leave.
After sizing her up, he grinned. “Casual riding? How about a race with me? If you win, there’s a reward—”
He did not finish the sentence. The implied meaning hung in the air, far more unpleasant than words.
His subordinates laughed.
Gu Jinzhao tilted her head slightly, glancing at Xu Jingting for a brief moment—silent instruction: don’t move.
Then she looked back at Sun.
“General flatters me,” she said lightly. “I don’t race. I only ride for leisure.”
She turned her horse to leave.
But the black warhorse stepped forward.
It loomed over her mare, snorting hot breath that carried a foul, sour animal stench. The mare panicked and stepped back.
Gu Jinzhao tightened her reins, steadying her mount.
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” Sun chuckled. “I just want to borrow your company for a ride.”
He raised his whip.
It came down.
The horse reacted instantly.
Her mare reared violently.
Everything tilted.
Gu Jinzhao fell.
Wind roared in her ears. The sky and earth flipped. Grass, sky, black horse—everything blurred together.
She did not scream. She only twisted slightly to protect her ribs.
Before she hit the ground, a hand caught her waist.
The force was precise—not pulling, but redirecting her fall. It absorbed most of the impact and lowered her gently to the ground.
She landed on her knees and one hand. Her boots dragged through the soil, leaving shallow grooves.
The smell of earth and crushed grass filled the air.
Qing Pu released her and checked her ankle quickly. A sprain—no broken bone.
“Don’t move,” Qing Pu said tightly, hand already sliding toward her sleeve.
Gu Jinzhao stopped her wrist.
“No,” she said softly.
Her face was pale, lipstick slightly smudged, but her eyes were sharp—bright like steel being sharpened.
Before anything else could happen, Xu Jingting rushed over. “Miss Gu! Are you hurt? Your foot? Your hand? I’ll go call—”
“No need,” she said, pushing herself up steadily.
Then she looked at General Sun.
He had not left. Still mounted, still watching.
His expression was complicated—surprise, embarrassment, and lingering unwillingness. He had not intended for her to fall; it had been a careless escalation. But pride kept him from fully apologizing.
He dismounted.
“Apologies,” he said awkwardly, offering a wine pouch. “I was careless. This is medicinal wine from the south—use it for bruises.”
But before he could finish—
A voice cut in.
“General Sun.”
It came from the entrance of the field.
Not loud. Almost lazy.
But it landed like a blade slicing through paper.
Everyone turned.
A dark blue carriage had appeared without anyone noticing when. Unmarked, simple, ordinary. The coachman sat quietly as if uninterested in everything.
The bamboo curtain lifted.
A pale hand appeared—long fingers, jade bracelet, smooth and refined.
Then Ye Xian emerged.
He sat inside the carriage, leaning against embroidered cushions, a thin blanket over his knees. Dressed in a moon-white robe, composed, precise.
His gaze swept the field.
Finally, it stopped on Gu Jinzhao.
Her skirt was stained with mud. Her boot was marked with grass juice. Her hair was slightly disheveled.
Yet she stood straight. Calm. Unshaken.
He looked away.
Then he addressed Sun.
“General Sun is quite loud,” he said lightly. “The entire western field knows your presence. Are you putting on a performance for me?”
Sun’s expression shifted.
Not anger—but calculation.
He quickly understood the identity of the person in the carriage.
“Your Highness,” he said immediately, bowing. “I did not know you were here. I apologize for disturbing your peace. It was just a misunderstanding involving this young lady—”
Ye Xian did not respond.
He looked at Gu Jinzhao instead.
“Miss Gu,” he said lazily, “what do you think?”
It was not a command. Not a rescue. It was a choice.
All eyes turned to her.
She met his gaze.
Then she spoke.
“The General has already apologized,” she said calmly. “Let it end here.”
Sun exhaled in relief, though his face remained stiff.
Ye Xian studied her for a moment longer.
Then he said, “Xu Jingting.”
“Here!” Xu Jingting hurried over.
“Take Miss Gu to the shade pavilion. Bring her tea.”
Then he added, glancing briefly at her ankle:
“And make sure she sits.”
Only after that did he turn back to Sun.
“Now,” he said lazily, “let’s talk about how a western battlefield turns a man into someone who forgets basic discipline.”
Gu Jinzhao was escorted away.
As she passed, she glanced once at the carriage.
The curtain was half-lowered.
Inside, Ye Xian leaned back, eyes closed.
As if nothing had happened.
Later, as the sun dipped and the crowd dispersed, Xu Jingting returned briefly.
“So,” he asked cautiously, “you’re not angry that he interfered?”
“Why would I be?” she replied.
“He usually doesn’t interfere.”
She set down her teacup. “He’s just… difficult.”
Xu Jingting laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”
When she left the field, the carriage had already moved into the shade.
As she passed, a voice came from behind the curtain.
“Miss Gu.”
She stopped but did not turn.
“Next time,” Ye Xian said lazily, “choose a day without troublemakers.”
She paused.
Then smiled slightly.
“Then I’ll have to decline that advice.”
A faint laugh came from inside the carriage.
“Suit yourself.”
The carriage rolled toward the city.
Inside, Gu Jinzhao leaned back, her ankle throbbing faintly under Qing Pu’s medicinal massage.
She closed her eyes.
Then she smiled again—slowly, faintly, like someone remembering something that had not yet fully arrived.
And somewhere behind her thoughts, a voice lingered.
Next time…
Next time what?
She did not know.
But she had time.
And she intended to find out.