Su Qing stayed perfectly still.
Not out of fear.
As someone reborn with top-tier medical skills, the moment she pressed against him, she had already pieced together plenty of information.
Rapid heart rate—at least 120 beats per minute.
Above normal body temperature—definitely over 38 degrees Celsius.
Breathing heavy yet rhythmic; this wasn’t an ordinary fever, but an acute flare-up of some long-standing condition.
Add to that the sallow complexion, bulging veins, and the pill bottle in the aide’s hand she’d noticed earlier…
Eight out of ten chances it was severe post-traumatic stress disorder.
How interesting.
Su Qing stopped struggling. She even relaxed slightly, letting herself lean more fully into his embrace.
Not for any romantic or sentimental reason.
Purely because the closer she was, the stronger the lingering scent of the spirit spring water on her would work—she wanted to see just how obvious the effect really was.
And sure enough.
The moment she let go of her tension, the arm wrapped around her loosened just a fraction too. Not enough to let go, but shifting from “crushing her to pieces” to “holding her firmly in place.”
His breathing steadied from ragged to deep, and his heartbeat slowed from a frantic drumbeat to something calm and regular.
Su Qing mentally noted the observation.
Good. My spirit spring water has a specific effect on this condition.
This information might come in handy later.
Very handy.
“Ahem.”
An awkward cough echoed from the corridor.
Xiao Zhao had woken up with the jolt of the emergency brake. He groped his way to the compartment door, and by the faint light at the end of the aisle, saw exactly what was happening inside—
His chief, the man so feared on the northwestern border that enemies fled at the mere mention of his name, the “living Yama” no one in the entire military region dared approach within three meters—
Was holding a girl tightly in his arms.
Not just holding her.
He was practically fitting her into his own body, his chin resting on the top of her head, the posture as familiar as if he’d practiced it ten thousand times.
Worse—he wasn’t pushing her away. In fact, he looked completely at peace.
Peaceful!
This was the man who hadn’t slept a wink and had been on the verge of snapping for three days straight—and now his brows were smooth, his breathing even, as if he’d found the best sleeping draught in the world.
Xiao Zhao rubbed his eyes hard.
He wasn’t dreaming.
Then he backed silently into the corridor, his heart hammering against his ribs.
I’m done for. I must be dreaming.
Dawn broke.
Outside the window, the gray city skyline gave way to endless stretches of farmland and low adobe houses.
Su Qing woke to the dull ache in her arm—she’d stayed in exactly the same position, curled in a man’s embrace, all night.
She shifted slightly.
The arm around her waist tightened at once.
“…”
Su Qing lifted her gaze. For the first time, she saw his face up close.
It hit her harder than it had in the dim light the night before.
His features were sharp as if carved from stone, his skin rough but every line clean and precise. In the morning sun, the old scar across his cheekbone gleamed like a pale silver centipede.
His eyes were open.
She had no idea how long he’d been watching her.
His gaze was cold as a blade sheathed in ice, fixed unblinkingly on her.
“Good morning,” Su Qing offered a sweet, docile smile, her voice still soft and thick with sleep. “Comrade, you can let go now.”
He didn’t.
Far from it—his thumb brushed unconsciously, gently, against her side.
“What is that scent on you?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.
Su Qing blinked. “Braised beef?”
“No.” His gaze deepened, as if trying to see right through her. “The other one.”
Su Qing knew he meant the spirit spring water—but naturally, she said nothing. She tilted her head, putting on a look of utter confusion, as innocent as a baby rabbit fresh from sleep. “I’m just an ordinary sent-down youth, Comrade. What else could I possibly smell like? Maybe… soap?”
He stared at her for three long seconds.
Then he let go—abruptly, as if her touch had suddenly burned him.
Su Qing slipped quickly from his berth, straightened her clothes on the carriage floor, and her mind raced.
His uniform bore no insignia—likely removed for security reasons on the train—but the fabric, cut, and the rank of his aide all made one thing clear: his rank was far from low.
Regiment commander, at the very least.
Possibly higher.
The train pulled into the station. A tiny stop.
Hardly anyone got off. The platform was nearly empty, and beyond it stretched endless yellow earth beneath a hazy sky.
Su Qing stepped down with her cloth bag, breathing deep the sharp, earthy air.
This was it. The starting point of her new life.
Heavy, steady footsteps sounded behind her. She didn’t turn around, but caught sight of a tall shadow leaping from the train door in her peripheral vision—his boots hitting the ground with a crisp, solid thud.
Xiao Zhao hurried after him, footsteps quick and nervous.
All three headed in the same direction: the station exit.
Outside, an army-green jeep waited. A soldier in driver’s uniform leaned against the door, straightening and saluting the moment he saw Lu Zhanye. “Chief!”
Su Qing slowed as she passed the jeep—not because of the title, but because as she walked alongside Lu Zhanye, her elbow “accidentally” brushed something clipped to his belt: a rectangular metal case, an ID holder.
The clasp gave way with perfect timing. It slipped from his belt and clattered to the ground.
Su Qing bent to pick it up. In the split second she straightened, her eyes darted quickly across the open page inside.
Name: Lu Zhanye.
Rank: Regiment Commander.
Affiliation: A Division of the Northwestern Military Region.
The man in the photo looked a few years younger, but those cold, unyielding eyes were exactly the same.
Su Qing handed it back without a flicker of expression. As she did, her fingertips grazed lightly across his palm—seeming like an accident, yet feeling deliberate.
Lu Zhanye glanced down at his hand, then back up at her.
Su Qing beamed at him. “You dropped something, Comrade.”
She turned and walked away, her pace steady and unhurried, her slender figure soon vanishing into the crowd beyond the station gates.
Lu Zhanye stood rooted to the spot, his thumb rubbing slowly over his palm—where her skin had brushed him, it felt as if a flame had licked across it, itching and burning.
Xiao Zhao stepped closer. “Chief, that girl—”
“Find out everything about her.” Lu Zhanye’s voice was calm, but Xiao Zhao had served him long enough to hear the undercurrent beneath the words. “Name, hometown, family background, purpose here, which train she took, what documents she used to buy the ticket…”
He paused for a beat.
“Dig until you reach the bone.”
Miles away, back at the Su family home.
Zhao Jinhua finally came round from her faint. The first thing she did was wail. “My furniture! My rice! My money! My gold bars—wait, those were Lao Su’s—he hid gold bars from me all this time!”
Her sobs turned into accusations, and the couple fell into a shouting match in the empty house.
Su Zhiruo huddled in the corner, her face draining of color then flushing pale again. She wasn’t grieving the lost belongings—she was thinking: Since when did that sickly Su Qing get so sharp?
Why had her eyes been so cold when they swept over her before she left? Cold enough to send shivers down her spine.
Su Zhiruo bit her lip. It doesn’t matter, she told herself. She’s gone to some godforsaken countryside commune now. She’ll never climb out of this hole.
But she had no idea—what she thought was the end of Su Qing’s prospects was merely the first step up the ladder of her new life.
Hongqi Commune, Xiangyang Production Brigade.
Su Qing rode a creaking ox cart for over an hour before the youth settlement came into view: three crumbling adobe houses, several missing roof tiles, a well in the yard, and a handful of gaunt chickens pecking at the dirt.
The cart stopped. As Su Qing jumped down, four or five people were already waiting at the door, sizing her up.
At the front stood a woman in her early thirties, with short hair, a square face, and skin darkened by the sun. She planted her hands on her hips, radiating unspoken authority.
“New arrival?” She scanned Su Qing from head to toe, lingering for a second on her unnaturally pale face, her voice booming like a gong. “Name?”
“Su Qing.”
“Right.” The woman—Su Qing later learned her name was Ma Hongmei—nodded toward the far corner of the room. “That berth is yours.”
Su Qing glanced over. It was right next to the door, where a finger-wide crack in the frame would let the winter wind howl straight through. The bedding was a moldy old cotton quilt, stained black and unrecognizable.
The worst spot in the entire room—standard treatment for new arrivals, a clear show of dominance.
Su Qing smiled gently. “Thank you, Sister Ma.”
She walked over obediently and set her bag down. Ma Hongmei arched an eyebrow, clearly surprised—she’d expected the pale, soft-looking city girl to burst into tears or throw a tantrum.
“Smart enough to know her place,” she muttered, turning away.
Once the footsteps had faded, Su Qing smiled slowly. A faint, cold smile. Anyone who’d seen her eyes then would have felt a chill run down their spine. There was no grievance there—only precise, unflinching calculation.
From her bag, she pulled out a plain paper packet and unfolded it. Inside was a fine white powder—odorless, tasteless, and starting to work ten minutes after touching skin, causing six hours of unbearable itching that only got worse the more you scratched.
Su Qing bent and sprinkled it evenly between the layers of Ma Hongmei’s mattress. Then she brushed her hands clean and walked calmly to the yard well to wash her face.
That night, she pulled a thick, soft new quilt from her space and spread it over her berth—nine-tenths new fine cotton, fluffy as cloud, smelling faintly of sun-dried warmth. Next, she took a can of malted milk from her bag (transferred there from her space earlier), scooped two spoonfuls into an enamel mug, and poured in hot water.
The rich, creamy scent filled the whole room instantly. Every youth turned their heads at once, swallowing hard.
Su Qing sipped slowly, her expression as calm as if she were drinking plain water—though she caught every flicker of envy in their eyes, especially Ma Hongmei’s. In this remote village where milk was almost unheard of, malted milk was the ultimate luxury.
When she finished, she washed her mug and stowed the can away—making sure everyone saw it was still more than half full—then slipped under her covers. “Good night.”
In the dead of night, the silence was shattered by a scream.
“AAAHHH—IT ITCHES! IT ITCHES SO BAD!”
It was Ma Hongmei. She thrashed wildly on her berth, clawing frantically at her arms and back, leaving bright red welts across her skin.
“What’s wrong? What’s happening?” The others woke in a panic.
“I don’t know! It just started! Everywhere!”
The torment lasted all night.
By dawn, Ma Hongmei had dark circles under her eyes and scratches all over her limbs, looking completely drained.
Su Qing sat up from her crisp new quilt, her hair smooth, her cheeks glowing, and let out a tiny, delicate yawn. “Sister Ma? Are you alright?” She tilted her head, voice soft as spring breeze. “Would you like me to take a look? I know a little about herbal medicine.”
Ma Hongmei stared at her—at her glowing skin, her pristine bedding, her utterly sincere expression—and suddenly felt something was off. But the itching was driving her mad, so she blurted, “You… you really can stop it?”
Su Qing pulled a small cloth pouch from her bag and tipped out a handful of dried leaves. “These are honeysuckle and mint I picked on the way. Wipe your skin with an infusion and it’ll calm the itch.”
Ten minutes later, the itching vanished completely—like a switch had been flipped.
Ma Hongmei stared at her arms, then at Su Qing’s retreating figure. The girl looked frail, as if a strong wind might blow her over—but Ma Hongmei had a sinking feeling: this newcomer was far more dangerous than she seemed.
Around ten that morning, Su Qing was hanging her quilt out to dry—an old, worn one she’d picked from her space specifically for public view—when hurried footsteps approached.
Village Chief Liu came running, breathless. “Gather round! Everyone, gather now!”
The youths trickled out of the house.
“Officials are here!” He lowered his voice, equal parts excited and nervous. “From the military region—here to inspect how we’ve settled the sent-down youth!”
“Put your best foot forward! Don’t shame our Xiangyang Brigade!”
Outside, the rumble of an engine grew louder. The jeep stopped. The door opened. A pair of black military boots stepped onto the yellow earth.
Every spine straightened instinctively—this was no ordinary authority; it was the weight of someone who had walked through fire and blood, commanding respect without effort.
Su Qing stood at the back of the group, glancing lazily up.
In that instant, their eyes met.
Cold. Sharp. His gaze swept over the youths, utterly impassive—until it locked on hers.
For barely a second, Su Qing saw it clearly: something deep within those icy eyes flared bright, like movement beneath a frozen lake.
Lu Zhanye. The man who had held her all night on the train. The chief from the Northwestern Military Region.
He stood in the doorway, uniform crisp, shoulders broad and unyielding like a drawn blade. And his gaze—since the moment it found her—had not moved away.