“But Fuying is sharp and perceptive—how could she not understand your fears?”
“She is waiting to see where you stand.”
“You are already betrothed. Yet now your doubts make this engagement look like nothing more than a joke.”
At her words, Song Bo closed his eyes. A dull ache throbbed deep within his chest.
“And this male classmate—have you met him? What did Fuying say of him?”
Perhaps feeling his earlier impulse to “claim” Fuying had been childish, Song Bo simply said, “I met him. Fuying introduced me to him herself.”
“Then… do you believe Fuying holds any affection toward him?”
At the memory of Fuying slipping her arm through his, standing tall and graceful as she introduced him to Geng Xingjin, Song Bo’s face warmed.
“None, I believe.”
“Then—do you love Fuying?”
“I do.”
His mother’s temper flared instantly. She hefted a pillow and hurled it at him. His father reached out to restrain her, but she still struck Song Bo sharply with it, frustration in every motion.
“You utter fool.”
His father gently pulled her back. “Now—who speaks of their own son so?”
She brushed his hand away, snapping, “And you’re no better!”
Song Father: “……”
Song Mother lifted her teacup, took two sips, set it down, and let out a long, heavy breath.
“I had it all planned out. Today I meant to call at the Su residence and visit Fuying. And you—you go and ruin everything at the very threshold.”
“Tell me—must I go there tomorrow with thorns upon my head and beg for forgiveness in your stead?”
“That hardly seems necessary,” his father murmured quietly.
“You hush.”
Song Father: “……”
She fixed Song Bo with a sharp, piercing gaze, rose to leave, and tossed one final remark over her shoulder.
“Fuying is such a fine girl—if you let her slip away, you will never find another like her!”
“I am going to the Su household tomorrow—but I shall not apologize on your behalf. You had best think long and hard on how to win her back yourself.”
Song Mother returned to her chambers. She gazed out the window at the old tree and sighed again.
Though she had spent little time with Fuying, she knew beyond doubt that no other woman could ever be better suited for her son.
The Su family’s standing was already clear—they were easy to work with and held no real political power. Beyond that, Fuying was remarkably intelligent. Song Mother had known from the very day they walked the streets together that this was the daughter‑in‑law she wanted.
With Fuying at his side, her son would never face trouble from within or without. She had been counting the days until their marriage, full of hope—only to have her own son dash everything.
Foolish boy. Does he think Fuying does not know what it means to stand at such heights, exposed to wind and cold? Yet she chose him all the same.
Song Bo did not linger at the family home. He returned instead to the Governor’s Headquarters.
When he removed his tunic, his white undershirt was stained through with red. Yu Sui arrived with water and saw it at once.
“Young Marshal—what has happened?”
Song Bo stripped off the blood‑soaked shirt. His powerful torso was revealed—though any eye drawn to him would not linger on his strength, but upon the scars that mapped his skin. Yu Sui fetched the medical case, and Song Bo began to wipe away the blood.
The wound upon his arm had torn open again. It was the gunshot wound he had taken shielding Su Fuying during the ambush. Though the bullet had only grazed him, the flesh along its path had been torn away, and it had taken the surgeon hours to stitch it closed.
Song Bo had never told his parents the full truth of his injury. His mother had not struck him with great force earlier—the reopening came from his own guilt, his tensed muscles, and then carrying Fuying in his arms.
As he tended the wound, he gave orders to Yu Sui. “Tomorrow, have the administrative staff bring me the discharge records of the past several years.”
When Su Fuying opened her eyes, the sun had long since risen.
Her head throbbed dully—but the memories of the previous night remained vivid and clear. She sat up in bed, her gaze falling upon the little fox‑shaped fur cloak draped over the hat stand.
In her past life, Song Bo had died in battle at the end of the year. That day was now barely eight months away.
She did not yet know what events would unfold between now and then—but whatever took his life would be fraught with peril. And she had prepared herself. She had steeled her heart even before she confessed her feelings; how much more so now?
She understood his fears. But he would never truly understand her. All she wanted was to see him stand firm. She wanted him to face their problems and resolve them—not to turn away from the very start, as if to pretend danger did not exist.
The future shifts in an instant. Even with the knowledge of a past life, she could not say what the next second might bring. From the moment she returned, her path had diverged from the one she once knew. The aborted military review and the ambush were proof enough of that.
After a long while, she rose, chose her clothes from the wardrobe, and went to bathe. She was drying herself and preparing to wash when someone knocked upon her door.
“Miss—the wife of the Song Elder Master has arrived. She waits for you downstairs.”
Madam Song?
Su Fuying composed herself and descended the stairs. Madam Song sat in the reception room, drinking tea, with a great array of gift boxes arranged upon the table. At the sound of footsteps, she looked up.
Su Fuying’s complexion was still pale and drawn. Madam Song rose to meet her, brows knitting gently with concern even as she sighed inwardly. “You look terribly unwell.”
She took Su Fuying’s hand and guided her to the sofa. “I drank a little wine last night,” Su Fuying said softly. “And did not sleep well.”
“Wine?” Madam Song looked surprised.
“Only a little. But I have a poor tolerance for it—and so I feel quite drained.”
Madam Song nodded. “Well—your examinations are behind you at last. Rest is all you need.
I have been worried since I heard what happened between you two. I wished to come sooner—but feared disturbing you, or affecting your spirits, or your studies. So I waited until this morning. I came today knowing… that Bo has acted foolishly.”
She had said she would not apologize on his behalf. Yet he was her son—and Fuying was the girl he loved, the girl she herself had chosen. Kind words must be spoken.
“Years ago, when Bo first began to rise, our family suffered a terrible blow. He has never been able to put it from his mind.” Madam Song seemed to drift into memory, patting Su Fuying’s hand, her gaze distant. “He ought to have returned in triumph, a victorious general. Instead—he came home to find his entire family laid low.”
The Song family had once been one of the most distinguished in the Jiangnan region. Before the wars, they were wealthy merchants known far and wide. Then chaos spread across the land. The imperial court seized their estates. To preserve their lives, the family surrendered everything. They fled from place to place, until finally they reached this city—Shanghai—the place where opportunity seemed greatest.
There Song Bo saw the foreign concessions. He saw how the foreigners lived—prosperous, peaceful, safe. Why did they remain so secure while war raged all around? He turned the question over in his mind.
Because they possessed warships. They possessed cannons. And the Chinese did not. That was why they were bullied and preyed upon.
He burned to know how those great iron machines were made—but no one would teach him. So he stole the knowledge.
At that time they were not yet regular soldiers. They were a ragtag band of volunteers, thousands strong, who marched out knowing they would likely die. Barely twenty‑odd returned alive. Thousands of lives spent—buying generations of peace for the nation, turning back a tide of blood that would otherwise have swallowed the land. They won a single, precious chance to breathe.
In the years that followed, Song Bo rose steadily. His supporters grew in number, and his influence upon the warlords deepened. When he returned home after sweeping away the last of the enemy, the Song family that had sent him forth no longer existed.
Of the sixty‑odd souls who had journeyed from Jiangnan with them, more than forty were dead. A dozen more were maimed or broken. Ward after ward in the city’s largest hospital held members of his clan.
What bitter irony.