A sparse spring rain had fallen for three days, leaving Luoyang city cold and somber, while the dense forests beyond the walls were pierced by a bone-chilling dampness.
A silver streak flashed like a shooting star as a finely crafted arrow tore through the air, its sharp whistle cutting through the cold, wet atmosphere before coming to an abrupt halt.
Deep in the woods, a tawny-furred animal crashed to the ground.
A servant entered the forest to retrieve it, hoisted it by its two front hooves, slung it deftly over his shoulder, and strode out quickly, announcing in a loud voice: “Master Wen has struck down a river deer!”
The recording attendant, hearing this, noted it down one by one on sheets of gold-flecked paper and handed them to a messenger.
The messenger immediately sprinted toward a grand, imposing four-sided terrace directly across from the dense forest, climbed the layered steps, and presented the record with both hands.
A maidservant was about to take it, but a hand snatched it first, two fingers pinching the record and waving it wantonly before the crowd.
“Master Wen truly lives up to being the Minister of Education’s son—a hundred shots, a hundred hits! With such fine archery, are you trying to shame us soft-footed crabs?”
“Bah, stop showing off!” A handsome young man laughed and spat a playful curse, then drove his fist lightly into the other’s chest. “You, Wei Zhao, were raised under the Xie family’s influence—I refuse to believe you can’t outdo me!”
He snatched the paper from Wei Zhao’s hand, strode to the railing, slapped the paper flat against the board, and tapped his index finger along the vertical line beneath the name “Wen Shuo.”
“See here—I’ve only bagged two rabbits, one wild goose, and a river deer. If I’m conceding defeat already, aren’t you lot ashamed of yourselves?”
“Besides, Lingjia hasn’t even made his move yet. His archery is the finest under heaven—even the Second Son of the Wang family can’t match it. What would you do then?”
At Wen Shuo’s words, the seven or eight noble scions present all turned their gazes toward the figure at the center of the terrace, a mixture of deference and envy in their eyes.
That man leaned against a black-lacquered armrest carved with crimson patterns, gently waving a white jade horsetail whisk, a faint smile playing on his lips as if he cared little for the matter.
“Since today’s gathering is hosted by Young Master Xie, inviting all you noble gentlemen to this spring hunt, how is it that the host sits so steadily without a move?”
Wei Zhao asked with a smile, then ordered his attendants to bring forth a finely crafted longbow of ample weight.
“His Majesty himself has praised, ‘Xie Jilian’s archery—ancient times cannot fathom it, the present cannot match it; he is a being of heaven.’ Young Master Xie, do let us feast our eyes.”
Wen Shuo seized the moment to sidle over and sit at Xie Jilian’s left, nudging him with his elbow. “Lingjia, if you don’t make a move soon, I’ll be eaten alive by these bastards’ jealousy. How unjust would that be…”
The terrace full of richly dressed youths burst into clamorous laughter, all egging Xie Jilian on to step up to the shooting platform.
A spring breeze laced with chill swept across the terrace where banners fluttered, carrying a faint, quiet coolness.
Xie Jilian lowered his eyes and furrowed his brows, a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips—present yet absent—as he delayed taking the bow Wei Zhao offered.
All the sons of great houses possessed keen instincts. Sensing the shift in atmosphere, they fell silent one by one—some leaning against the railings, others gathered around the bow stand—but all their thoughts converged on Xie Jilian.
In this dynasty, emperors came and went like flowing water, but the great houses stood firm as iron. On the surface, the emperor bore the surname Sima, yet in truth, it was the Wang and Xie families who took turns calling the shots.
What trouble could possibly weigh on a scion of the Xie family, brooding silently in the spring sunshine?
The white jade horsetail whisk spun once between Xie Jilian’s fingers, a faint iridescent sheen flowing over its feathers. Suddenly, Wei Zhao gently pressed it still.
The Wei family of Boshan was no great house, but several of its prominent figures had been elevated by the Xie family, making them, in effect, the Xie family’s protégés. Wei Zhao had been sent to Luoyang as a child and raised within the Xie household—there was no one better suited to broach the matter lightly.
“Young Master Xie seems troubled—could it be concern over Princess Xincheng’s selection of a husband?”
Wen Shuo’s pupils widened. Ignoring the thin sheen of sweat on his brow, he dropped his great bow with a clatter and gripped Xie Jilian’s shoulder. “Have they chosen you?”
Xie Jilian shook his head as if he’d heard a joke that wasn’t funny. “Not yet.”
Wen Shuo let out a massive sigh of relief. “Then what are you afraid of? At worst, you do what the Wang family of Langya did—pack up and go home to pay respects to your ancestors.”
Princess Xincheng, Sima Yuzhen, was the current emperor’s elder sister by the same mother. Naturally, her marriage would be decided between the Wang and Xie families.
The tricky part was that the position of consort—which others saw as a cushy, worry-free prize—was, in the eyes of Wang and Xie scions, the most humiliating fate imaginable.
The moment word of the Wang family’s selection for the consort position leaked, the entire clan had returned to Langya under the pretext of ancestor worship. Three months had passed, and not a single young talent from the Wang family had appeared on the terrace today.
“Such an aloof and haughty style…” Wei Zhao frowned and clicked his tongue.
They’d blocked everyone else’s path completely.
One family “worshipping ancestors” was filial piety; if every family did it… was Princess Xincheng some kind of grim reaper?
Where was the dignity of the imperial house?
At this point, the most vexing problem was how to extricate the Xie family without offending His Majesty or the Princess.
Wen Shuo listened as Wei Zhao laid out the stakes in detail, his charming lips pressing together again and again. The tongue that usually sprang like a coiled spring before his concubines and the courtesans of the wine houses had gone flat.
He, for one, would be more than happy to become the consort.
He had no grand ambitions anyway—if he could become the emperor’s brother-in-law, he’d gladly divorce all his wives and concubines! But his father had risen through military merit, and their family standing ultimately couldn’t compare to the Xie or Wang houses.
“Tell you what, Lingjia, just go along with it! Isn’t it said the Princess has long been smitten with you? I think even if the Wang family hadn’t fled, she’d still have wanted to choose you.”
“Bei Yuan!”
“Alright, alright, I’ll keep my mouth shut, I’ll keep my mouth shut…” Wen Shuo picked up his bow and arrows, drawing out his words in a lazy, dragging tone: “I’ll go shoot some rabbits.”
Wei Zhao gave his retreating figure a light scolding glance, then turned to Xie Jilian: “Beiyuan’s getting more and more nonsense by the day… A man of brilliance like Xie Lang is bound for great things in the future—becoming an imperial consort would be nothing short of bad luck.”
Xie Jilian made no comment, lightly tapping his shoulder with his horsetail whisk. “Didn’t you want to see me shoot? Bring me my arm bands.”
He paid no mind to Wen Shuo’s rambling words, instead winding the arm bands around his wide sleeves and arms, tying them off securely, revealing a pair of pale arms with well-defined, handsome muscles and prominent blue veins.
Xie Jilian was tall and strikingly handsome, his skin so fair it seemed to glow with a misty, ethereal light under the sun like an immortal. His gorgeous features held a hint of allure, yet when he held a sword or drew a bow, his killing intent spread like a black crow spreading its wings—quiet, but radiating danger.
Exactly as at this moment.
An arrowhead stamped with the Xie clan crest was nocked onto a precious purple-lacquered longbow. Xie Jilian stood on the shooting platform, holding his breath as he aimed at the animals moving through the forest.
His gaze locked on, his body slowly leaning forward, the silk tassels on his robes fluttering in the breeze like wild butterflies about to fall.
The morning sun gradually brightened, spring light blazing like glass.
At the critical moment, a commotion arose on the shooting platform.
“Is that black thing a bear?”
“Bears aren’t that short… It’s a person!”
“It really is a person! Is it a barbarian? Why are they dressed so strangely?”
“Wrapped in bulky narrow-sleeved clothes, no skirt or trousers—must be a barbarian.”
“Why would there be barbarians outside Luoyang?! Haven’t those brutes already taken enough of the northern lands?”
The noise grew louder, restlessness filling the air.
The enmity between the barbarians and the Central Plains Han ran deep, and the noble families regarded them as no better than pigs and dogs—the moment they spotted one, they’d want to shoot them on the spot, lest they sully their eyes.
Xie Jilian’s eyes narrowed slightly. His right index finger and thumb released in an instant, and a resonant force split through the air from the arrowhead, shooting straight toward the rustling spot in the forest.
“Ah—”
As the dull thud of a heavy body hitting the ground sounded, a sharp, panicked cry startled the birds in the woods.
The crowd on the shooting platform could no longer hold back, surging toward Xie Jilian’s central position to peer into the dense forest.
Blood pooled across the ground in the distance, and breaths rose and fell on the platform.
No one could make sense of it.
What had fallen was a deer from the forest.
Xie Jilian’s arrow had pierced its throat in a single shot, its four hooves kicking helplessly.
Meanwhile, the “barbarian” in the “black robe that reached past the knees” stared at the wild deer collapsed at their feet, screaming in panic, stumbling backward until they slammed into a large tree, nearly toppling over before staggering away.
“Help! Help!”
Wen Shuo, accustomed to being among women, heard from afar and raised an eyebrow in surprise: “It’s a young lady!”
He let out a baffled laugh: “He didn’t even wound her—why is she screaming for help?”
The servants stationed outside the woods swarmed forward to block the unexpected woman, but the lead servant found his wrist grabbed as she pulled him toward the forest.
The woman’s strength was minimal, her hands soft and limp, her palms burning hot and sweaty. She couldn’t hold on firmly, slipping several times, but she kept trying to grab.
“Hurry! Help!”
The woman was gasping for breath, as if she might burst into tears at any moment. She flung out a hand, pointing at the fallen deer: “Save it! It! It! It’s dying!”
The servants exchanged bewildered looks.
A deer killed by their master—it was meant to die. Save it from what? Were they so bored they’d rescue a hunting trophy meant for sport?
The deer’s breathing was rough and sharp by turns, scraping against every leaf in the forest. The fresh, bloody smell spread on its own, mingling with the bitter, hot stench of fur, tangling with the damp cold of the woods.
Receiving no response from anyone, the woman stamped her feet in desperation, seemingly truly crying now.
“It’s still moving! It’s not dead!”
The people before her remained unmoved, and she was powerless to help on her own. When she happened to meet the pair of glistening, wet deer eyes, the woman let out a shout and slapped both hands over her face. No one could understand her half-sobbing, half-shrieking, utterly broken words:
“This is it, this is straight out of a zombie movie!”
“How did I run from my eight-hundred-meter fitness test into a mountain forest?”
“Can you please save it? I’m really begging you, thank you… Why won’t any of you move? It’s a wild animal, for crying out loud!”