Fortunately, he did not ask such a question.
He was a man of propriety, and he likely did not care whether she had served as a Weijun. What he asked was, “How many Weiren have seen you?”
A-Pan bowed her head deeply and answered in a low voice, “Only one noble lord, and one general.”
That general was surnamed Guan, and he had once selected her to attend him in his tent.
Perhaps there were others—for instance, the one who took her away on the third day to serve the troops—but that Weiren was probably dead by now.
The man followed her words and asked, “What noble lord?”
A-Pan answered honestly, “I do not know. Because my eyes were covered, I never saw the noble lord’s face.”
“What did others call him?”
“They all called him Zhujun.”
The man nodded slightly, lost in thought, and after a long moment murmured, “Zhujun.”
Yes, Zhujun—such a title, had Zhongshan Guo ever had one?
A-Pan did not know.
The carriage that had been galloping moments ago had slowed at some point without her noticing.
There was no sound of whips striking horses; the wheels moved softly over the snow. The driver and the man holding the bow seemed to be listening intently to the conversation within the carriage.
The man asked again, “Who was that general?”
A-Pan said, “I only know his surname was Guan, and that he had a terrible temper. I know nothing else.”
The man’s gaze flickered almost imperceptibly, and A-Pan asked, “Does my master know that noble lord?”
Before the man could answer, the driver reported from outside the carriage door, “Master, we are about to pass Wancheng.”
Ah, once past Wancheng, they would reach Zhongshan Gudi.
Before, she had been driven here as a captive; now, riding in a carriage, she was returning openly.
No, no—not openly.
Because this journey had been fraught with terror, passing through countless checkpoints.
You see, the border passes of Weidi were all set up at strategic points in mountain valleys and ravines, not to mention the city gates, mountain passes, and bridges.
Because of the wars between the states and the tense situation, to prevent spies from slipping through, every place passable by foot had patrols and mounted scouts carefully inspecting travelers, checking their Tongguan Wendie.
Anyone who appeared suspicious was arrested without hearing their pleas or asking for reasons.
A-Pan had personally witnessed people without documents being seized on the spot by the city guards.
Some were stopped at the checkpoints; others were killed on the spot for resisting arrest.
Thus, every checkpoint they passed felt like passing through the gates of hell.
She could only curl up trembling in a corner of the Cheyu, motionless, not daring to make a sound.
If the Weiren discovered she was an escaped Yingji, they would surely capture her—either sending her back to Wei Ying or executing her on the spot.
The man lifted his eyes and raised his arm toward her, his voice calm and gentle, courteous and composed. “Come attend to me. Do not be afraid.”
A-Pan knew that the three people in this carriage possessed extraordinary abilities, and she was certain they could bring her safely back to Zhongshan Gudi.
Though she did not know where this confidence came from, their master sat serenely in the carriage with eyes closed, and that alone gave her an inexplicable sense of security.
A-Pan quickly moved to the man’s side, supporting his arm, and asked softly, “Will A-Pan be a burden to my master?”
The man smiled—a rare occurrence—and on his pale face she could read a sorrowful expression she understood.
They were both Zhongshan Yimin, and so she could understand.
Fortunately, the driver had a Tongguan Wendie and could speak fluent Weiren dialect.
When stopped by Weiren soldiers for inspection, he would only say, “My master is a Daliangren, currently ill, and we are heading north to seek medical treatment. Please, officers, be lenient.”
If someone opened the carriage door to look and asked about A-Pan, the driver would explain, “Oh, this is my master’s household slave. She is mute and cannot speak.”
Yes, she could only speak the Zhongshan language; the moment she opened her mouth, she would give away their entire party.
After passing Wancheng, the sky was growing dark.
The man pushed open the carriage window, and a face full of wind and snow rushed in.
The further north they traveled, the more snow fell in the twelfth month. The man coughed because of the wind and snow—coughed violently.
Meng Yafu outside reminded him in a low voice, “Master should take his medicine now.”
A-Pan acknowledged and quickly served the man his medicinal broth.
She wanted to close the window, but the man seized her wrist. His expression was grave as he asked her, “Do you recognize this land?”
A-Pan murmured softly, “It is Zhongshan.”
She recognized this road.
It was on this road that she and Yun Jiang had fled for their lives, watching with their own eyes as the Weiren iron cavalry breached passes and seized strongholds, and watching Zhongshan’s troops collapse in defeat, dead and wounded to the last.
There had been corpses and bloodshed here, and the roads had been lined with the bodies of the starving.
In a daze, she heard the man ask again, “Do you know what lies beneath that snow?”
A-Pan followed the man’s gaze outside and knew in her heart what he was asking.
Bleached bones. Corpses. Unburied ghosts and lonely souls.
She spoke softly, not wanting to stir up their painful memories, but she could not suppress a low sigh herself. “Zhongshan’s soldiers and people.”
Suddenly her neck tightened as the man leaned forward and gripped the back of her neck, asking solemnly, “Zhongshan person, tell me—are you willing to be a Wangguonu?”
The man called her “Zhongshan person.”
A-Pan raised her eyes and saw his brows furrowed tightly, his gaze clear and resolute even under the dim light of the darkening sky.
The scar on her palm was still rough and uneven, and that roughness was now pressed entirely against the back of her neck—one could hardly imagine what kind of torn and gaping flesh had once been there.
The biting wind and piercing cold seeped in inch by inch through the window, and in that frozen wasteland, the man’s expression seemed especially sorrowful.
A-Pan could not help but wonder—what kind of person had the one before her once been?
That hand unconsciously tightened, then suddenly bore down with force, pressing her head so low she could not lift it. She strained to meet the man’s eyes, recalling the words of the Noble of Wei Guo: “You don’t seem like a Yingji.”
Who was born a Yingji? And who was born willing to be a Wangguonu?
A slave of a fallen nation is like a stray dog—hounded by all, with nowhere to flee.
A-Pan replied, “I am not willing.”
Not willing.
If the skin is gone, where can the hair cling?
Beneath a toppled nest, how could any egg remain whole?
The man let out a long sigh, and the force in his palm slackened. “Then I will take you to a place.”
A-Pan asked, “What place?”
The man’s gaze deepened slightly, and he answered steadily, “A place where the people of Zhongshan can stand tall and live with dignity.”
What kind of place that was, A-Pan did not ask further.
She only vaguely recalled the man’s earlier words: “Once you step onto that carriage, your life is no longer your own. Do you still dare to come?”