One could only wonder what hardships the owner of this hand had once endured.
Before A-Pan could even grasp it, the bow-holder beside them grew anxious and reached out to block her—her hand was struck away by the horizontally swung great bow. “The master is noble, how could you—”
The person inside the carriage gave a faint, dark look and lightly scolded, “Yafu.”
The one called Yafu sullenly lowered his great bow and turned his head away, daring not to speak another word.
The person inside the carriage took A-Pan’s hand directly. The hand was not particularly warm, but after being frozen for so long in the icy wilderness, A-Pan still felt it to be a very warm hand.
The person pulled with effort, drawing her into the carriage (that is, the ancient vehicle’s cabin). A-Pan was slender and light as a feather, carrying little weight, yet it still caused the young man to cough.
The one called Yafu hurriedly turned back and leaned into the carriage, pounding the young man’s back. Such a burly figure, yet he spoke in soft, hushed tones: “Master, do take care of your health.”
The carriage was not cold, but the smell of medicine was strong.
A-Pan guessed that if there were fresh scars on his hands, then there were likely no shortage of wounds on the rest of his body.
The two men in bamboo hats outside the carriage were roughly thirty or forty years of age, each agile and imposing in bearing. Even men like these were willing to submit to him—from that, one could infer that the young man was no ordinary person.
A-Pan gathered her courage and moved forward, gently stroking the young man’s back.
A-Pan had been fostered in Yun Jiang’s household for many years. Having lived under another’s roof for so long, she knew how to care for people.
What a thin and gaunt person he was.
She could feel the distinct ridges of his spine through his back.
The one called Yafu opened his mouth to stop her, but remembering the young man’s earlier rebuke, he swallowed the words just as they were about to leave his lips.
Though he allowed A-Pan to attend to him for the moment, his leopard-like eyes remained fixed on her without wavering, afraid she might attempt some act of assassination.
But what could she possibly do?
All she wanted was to repay the young man’s kindness—for saving her life, for letting her board the carriage, and for the great cloak now draped over her shoulders. Any one of these was a debt of immense gratitude.
Her heart held nothing but thankfulness toward the young man.
Besides, her entire body was frozen stiff.
If not for this carriage, she would not have lasted until noon—she would have joined the bones buried beneath the snow. When the spring thaw came and the snow melted, who would even know whose corpse it had been?
If he could give her a good way out, take her home, and perhaps find her a stable place to settle—well, that would be even better.
The chill had not yet left her body, but A-Pan continued to serve him diligently, and at last the coughing eased. She asked softly, “Is the lord feeling better?”
The one called Yafu reminded her, “Now that you’re on the carriage, you should call him ‘Master.'”
A-Pan was an obedient soul. Whatever her benefactor said, she listened.
Just as in the past, when her foster mother wanted to give half of the jade her mother had left her to Yun Jiang, she would not have objected.
She sat obediently to the side, drawing her cloak tight, and with lowered eyes called out softly, “Master.”
Lord, Master—to her, in the end, it made no difference.
He had saved her life, so she would acknowledge him as her master. It was only right and proper, and she accepted it with an easy conscience.
She was still lost in her thoughts when suddenly her chin tightened slightly—that pale, thin hand had lifted her chin on its own, examining her from side to side with lowered eyes.
There was a small bronze brazier set into the carriage body, with medicinal broth warming over it. The sturdy, thick carriage shut out all the ice and snow beyond, though her cloak had slipped from her shoulders just now, leaving the uncovered places still cold.
A-Pan’s heart fluttered with unease under his scrutiny. Her body, which had only just begun to warm, trembled all the more along with her long lashes. After being examined for so long, she could not help but blurt out, “What is the master looking at?”
It was a long while before he released her. His hand followed the line of her jaw downward, and as it went, he gathered her cloak closed around her.
No one knew what thoughts had passed through his mind in that brief moment.
After a moment, he commanded, “Give her a drink of wine.”
A-Pan remembered that just the night before, the noble of Wei Guo had also asked her to drink a cup of wine.
Wine could drive away the cold of the deep winter, but it could also stir lust.
She remembered drinking the noble’s wine—it had made her cough repeatedly, and after drinking it, her face had flushed red, and her heart had grown hot along with it.
The man beside them seemed reluctant. “That is the master’s wine. How could the master share it with a—”
A-Pan’s eyelids suddenly twitched. Instinctively she clutched her cloak tight, thinking to herself that he was about to say, “How could the master share a flask of wine with a Yingji?”
But the young man’s cold, stern face and furrowed brow cut him off before he could finish. His already pale face grew even more bloodless, and in his anger he fell into another fit of coughing.
The driver hurriedly pulled the bow-holder out. “Brother Meng! Say no more!”
So the bow-holder was called Meng Yafu.
The person in the carriage carried the natural authority of one in power—a silent majesty that needed no words. Without saying a thing, he silenced Meng Yafu, who lowered his head and handed her the wineskin, and never entered the carriage again for the rest of the journey.
A-Pan held the wineskin, new to this place and not daring to speak, only murmuring softly, “Master.”
Then, as instructed, she tilted her head back and drank.
The wine of Zhongshan was not as strong as that of the Weiren.
The liquor slid down his throat, setting his organs ablaze with a fiery heat that soon warmed him through.
The young man coughed a few more times, then closed his eyes wearily and ordered the driver, “Let’s go.”
The man outside acknowledged softly and urged the horses forward.
The wheels crunched over the snow, the carriage horses snorted as they trotted along the narrow path, occasionally startling birds and beasts into scattering. Inside the carriage, however, there was only silence—a heavy, oppressive stillness that was almost frightening.
Wrapped in the fur cloak and warmed by the wine, his frozen, stiff body soon grew numb, then relaxed.
A-Pan knew that riding in this carriage was not without cost, so she kept her wits about her, tending to the charcoal and serving medicine with more skill than anyone else.
She had been a person of few desires since childhood, never hoping for wealth or glory. All she longed for now was a safe place to call home.
The carriage sped on with a rumbling of wheels. A-Pan lifted the curtain and looked out—three feet of pristine snow stretched across a vast, magnificent landscape. For miles around, there was no sign of human habitation. She had no idea where they were headed.
Along the way, aside from occasionally taking a sip of strong liquor to ward off the cold, she kept her head lowered and stayed quietly in her corner, careful not to disturb the man beside her.
Her heart was heavy with thoughts, and she couldn’t help but wonder—why was this winter of Huai Wang’s third year so bitterly cold?
She and Yun Jiang had fled from Lingshou, running for an entire winter. When they reached Wei Ying, they spent three days and nights without rest. Today, they had been driven along mountain paths for half a day, fleeing who knew how far.
This desperate flight had worn them to the bone, leaving them disheveled and living in constant fear.
It was truly miserable.
By now, she was utterly exhausted, with no strength left.
But the jolting of the carriage made sleep impossible.
Just as she was about to drift off, she started awake.
She saw the young man had opened his eyes—he had woken at some point and was gazing thoughtfully at her exposed feet.
Her bare feet, warmed by the small bronze brazier, had regained their color, now tinged with a faint, delicate pink.
A-Pan blushed and quickly tucked her feet back under the fur cloak.
She heard him ask, “When did you enter Wei Ying?”
A-Pan answered honestly, “Three days ago.”
Three days ago, Zhongshan had fallen.
She kept her head lowered, afraid he might ask about the Yingji.
But there was really no need to ask—everyone in the world knew that women of Zhongshan who entered Wei Ying had no other path.
And so, a woman who had been an Yingji found herself diminished in the presence of this distinguished master.
Her heart trembled with unease as she clutched the fur cloak tightly.
She prayed he would not ask further, and that he would never utter words like those of The Noble—such as, “How many men have you served?”
Her heart pounded wildly, thumping with anxiety.
Yet her face remained pale, pale as a half-dead ghost.