The snow and frost of the third winter of Huai Wang’s reign fell heavily, yet within the tent, spring light leaked through.
That man’s broad palm rested upon her waist and belly, his jade thumb ring cold and chilling, provoking a slight shiver.
A-Pan did not know what that man was looking at or thinking during this silent pause.
The more unclear and incomprehensible it was, the more her heart beat anxiously like a striking bell or chime, even her deliberately suppressed breaths sounding so clear and piercing.
That man did not speak, nor was he impatient. He leisurely lifted her waist and laid her across the bronze long table, scattering a clatter of wooden slips and maps across its surface.
The shackles clinked against the cold table with a heart-stopping sound, the bronze cloud-thunder patterns pressing into her body, leaving uneven imprints.
A-Pan turned her face away, swallowing back the word “My Lord” that had lingered on her lips. Yet as she swallowed it, it transformed in her throat into a soft gasp.
This gasp mingled with the patrol sounds outside the tent, the iron hooves of scout horses, and the voices, footsteps, and clanking of iron armor from those who entered the tent repeatedly to report matters—like gongs and drums announcing a procession, loud and clamorous, and thus completely drowned out.
Previously, she had only known that the Wei Wuzu were invincible in battle with their iron horses and golden spears, but she had not known that the noble lords of Wei Guo were equally formidable in breaking through enemy lines, unmatched against ten thousand foes.
Previously, she had only known that the Zhongshan troops were retreating in defeat, their army collapsing, but now she also understood that she, like the Zhongshan troops, had abandoned her armor and dragged her weapons, surrendering in submission.
She did not know how much time had passed, only that the charcoal fire beside them gradually burned out, and she watched as the dark night outside the tent slowly receded, daylight brightening inch by inch.
This long, endless night had finally passed.
The Noble rose and, as usual, requested cold water for bathing. When in good spirits, he even asked gently, “How old are you?”
A-Pan roused herself to answer, “This slave is eighteen.”
The moment she spoke, her voice was soft and alluring, startling her.
Remembering the moans that had escaped through her teeth these past two nights, her cheeks and ears immediately burned as if touched by fire.
“Where are you from?”
“This slave is from Lingshou, Zhongshan.”
“What did your family do?”
“This slave’s parents died early. I grew up with my foster parents and older sister. My foster father was a teacher, and my foster mother tended a few thin acres of farmland at home.”
She was just about to seize the opportunity to beg him to save Yun Jiang when she heard him ask, “How many have you served?”
She kept her head deeply bowed and replied in a low voice, “Only you, My Lord.”
“I know.” The man laughed, whether in mockery or praise unclear. “This body of yours—it’s quite something.”
A-Pan’s heart thumped loudly, like war drums and horns sounding together.
Her face went pale, then red, then pale again. For a long while, she heard no further words from him. The tent was silent as if empty, with only the sound of his gradually calming breaths and the crackling of sparks bursting in the bronze tripod brazier.
That day, the Noble kept her in the main tent.
Though still bound in chains and with silk blindfolding her eyes, he permitted her to remain nearby, not ordering her out of the tent.
A-Pan was naturally obedient by nature. She knelt quietly behind the screen, making not a sound.
She listened as his generals, covered in wind and snow, hurried up to the three-zhang-high platform, mostly reporting on daily military intelligence or discussing plans for the next campaigns.
They spoke of matters of war.
For instance: “Hanguo’s army is pressing upon our borders, and fighting has already broken out in the south. The frontier is in dire straits. We await your command, My Lord.”
That man replied lightly, “Send word to the Wei Wuzu to launch a night raid on Guiling.”
A-Pan thought, ah, a man who strategizes and plans, who calculates and decides.
Sometimes they spoke of provisions.
For instance: “We have captured several hundred remnant bandits from Zhongshan who attempted to burn our army’s grain stores. How should they be dealt with? We await your command, My Lord.”
That man spoke calmly, without haste: “Slaughter them on the spot. Not one left alive.”
A-Pan thought, ah, a man who kills and decides, who carves up the world.
Sometimes they spoke of matters in the Wei Guo court, voices lowered, discussing things that could not be spoken openly.
For instance: “Lord Changping is still the same as ever. Relying on his status as the king’s father-in-law, he goes to the palace daily with several marquises, and who knows what they’re whispering in the king’s ear. You have been away from court for a long time, My Lord, and Daliang is left empty. I fear trouble may brew.”
That man laughed lowly, full of ridicule: “What’s there to panic about? Mere mediocrities who only know how to fight among themselves—they can’t stir up any real waves.”
The visitor lowered his voice in agreement: “Yes. Now they’ve joined forces to seize your military authority, My Lord. But even if they truly took it, they’d end up fighting each other bloody over it.”
At the end, they would always add the most crucial line: “Those in the Wei palace are mere children. For you to replace them, My Lord, would be as easy as picking up a blade of grass.”
The voices were low, but A-Pan still heard clearly.
She turned her face slightly, wanting to hear how that man would respond. She waited a long while, but only heard a drinking horn set down upon the table, and the visitor quietly took his leave.
Sometimes it was that general surnamed Guan who came to report: “Scout reports say that the grain and supplies you requested, My Lord, have all been intercepted by the Dasinong! In this bitter cold, the soldiers at the front can’t eat their fill or stay warm, and they nearly rioted… It’s all Lord Changping’s doing! He wants to use this opportunity to shake morale and force you to return to Daliang.”
The man let out a cold laugh at the words, snapping the wolf-hair brush in his hand in two, yet his voice remained flat and unhurried as he said, “Seize him at once, and bring him to the camp for questioning.”
Ah, a powerful minister.
A ruthless, calculating minister who handled court affairs and matters of state with effortless ease.
A-Pan listened carefully, discerning, and in her mind, the Noble of Wei Guo gradually came to life, piece by piece.
She also heard news of the King of Zhongshan. The messenger said, “Someone once spotted the King of Zhongshan in Yuancheng. Our people went to pursue him, but he had already vanished without a trace. That man appears and disappears like a ghost—truly cunning.”
A-Pan’s heart leaped. The person spoken of in the tent was none other than the sovereign of her own Zhongshan.
So he was still alive after all.
But with the state destroyed, the people annihilated, and the dynasty overthrown—what difference did it make whether such a sovereign lived or died?