Each day slips by silently in this seemingly monotonous and repetitive rhythm, like fine sand constantly pouring from an hourglass.
Its passing is imperceptible, yet at some moment you realize it has piled up into a mound.
Each subsequent day is almost a precise replica of the previous one, yet in the most subtle places, there are undercurrents of unspoken ripples that only those involved can appreciate.
Every morning, as the charcoal fire blazed in the commander’s tent, dispelling the bone-chilling cold of the north, Gu Anqi would always appear on time in that corner that seemed to have been reserved just for him.
The light there was not very bright, but it was just enough to avoid the most frequent crowds and the most direct stares near the main seat.
He skillfully lit the small and exquisite red clay stove, and from the medicine bag he carried with him, which was meticulously categorized and arranged, he would select the medicinal herbs needed for the day with his fingertips and put them into the decoction pot.
As time went by, the slightly bitter and spicy aroma of the herbs gradually filled the air, becoming a unique scent in the commander’s tent.
This scent, along with the cool pine smoke from the grinding of ink sticks, the slightly rancid smell of the sheepskin map over the years, the faint smell of rust and leather from the soldiers’ armor, and the dry warmth of the charcoal fire itself, is strangely intertwined and blended together.
When he was decocting the medicine, he was extremely focused.
His long eyelashes were slightly lowered, and his gaze was calm as he watched the medicine in the pottery jar churn and every bubble burst and form.
It was as if only this pot of knowledge about “heat” and “timing” existed in the world.
However, upon closer inspection, one would find that Gu Anqi never missed any of the slightest movements in the tent, whether it was the red cheeks of the generals due to their arguments or the unconscious fingers of the clerks twisting the paper during their reports.
Ah Chen remained a silent yet undeniable shadow, standing in a fixed position about three steps away from Feng Qinghe’s seat.
This position wasn’t chosen randomly but rather calculated instinctively.
It allowed him to respond to any sudden attack from the tent door, walls, or even the roof in the shortest possible straight path, while ensuring he could perceive everyone inside, including Gu Anqi in the corner—their expressions, body language, and even the subtle fluctuations in their breath.
He usually stood with his arms crossed, his posture as straight as a spear, his eyelids habitually lowered, thick eyelashes casting small shadows in his deep-set eyes, seemingly resting.
But everyone who lifted the curtain to enter the command tent, regardless of rank, felt an invisible, chilling pressure creep down their spine the moment they stepped in, as if each step was entering the territory of a lurking beast.
He neither spoke nor moved, yet his very presence drew an invisible boundary for the core area of the command tent.
Sometimes Gu Anqi and Achen would exchange glances unconsciously, communicating silently about the people and affairs in the tent, whether they agreed or found it ridiculous.
In either case, neither of them would express their own opinions, adhering to their roles as physician and guard.
The only constant change is the influx of people and events into the command tent every day; these constitute the true lifeblood flowing beneath the surface of this “replication.” Sometimes it was seasoned and fierce generals from all walks of life who would gather around the huge central sand table, their armor clashing and their voices booming, arguing heatedly over an attack route, a weak point in the defense, or the timing of the deployment of reinforcements.
More often than not, Feng Qinghe would simply listen, occasionally interjecting at a crucial moment, which would either settle the matter or ignite an even more intense debate.
Sometimes it was the civil officials, such as the purchasing officials, the finance officials, and the tax officials, who would bow and report on the trade between the cities, tax collection, grain reserves, and equipment wear and tear, carrying thick stacks of account books and documents.
The figures were as complicated as astronomical figures, and the interests were intertwined like a tangled mess.
The intensity of their arguments was no less than that of military generals, only more subtle and more veiled.
The purchasing officials and tax officials of each city were vying for a share of the profits and more funding for their respective cities.
Feng Qinghe handled such administrative affairs with equal ease.
Her judgments were concise and powerful, combining kindness and severity and clearly distinguishing between rewards and punishments.
Often, with just a few words, she would leave both sides sweating profusely and retreating with a mixture of respect and fear.
Sometimes, after dealing with a wave of urgent military affairs or lengthy reports, there would be a rare, brief moment of leisure in the tent.
Feng Qinghe would slowly sip her tea, her gaze seemingly casually sweeping over Gu Anqi and Achen in the corner.
That gaze was different from the sharp and decisive one she used when handling military affairs; it carried a calm observation, as if she were assessing these two “chess pieces” who had unexpectedly fallen onto the chessboard.
However, deep within that observation, a faint respect would occasionally flash.
It was not directed at the “Gu Anqi” and “Achen,” who were deliberately concealing themselves at the moment, but rather at the rumored wise and unconventional “Gu Xunfeng” and the martial arts master “Yan Jingchen,” who was as silent as a mountain.
But this trace was always fleeting, so fast that one thought it was an illusion, and then it returned to the calm gaze of a commander towards his subordinates.
However, regardless of whether the atmosphere inside the tent was tense and fraught with tension or quiet after a brief relaxation, Feng Qinghe was always the undisputed center of attention.
When reviewing documents, her red brushstrokes were as swift and precise as military formations.
When discussing matters in secret with generals, her words were sharp and to the point, without any redundancy.
When dealing with disputes in the camp or those who violated military discipline, she was even more decisive and ruthless, issuing orders without question or delay.
Day after day, she seemed to have completely grown accustomed to the two extra figures in the command tent, to the unique, bitter medicinal scent in the air, and to the silent gaze on her back.
Sometimes, she would naturally turn her head slightly and give orders to A-Chen, who seemed to blend into the shadows, in a casual tone as if she were ordering a trusted personal guard: “A-Chen, hand me the sheepskin map in the northwest corner.
” Or, when the medicine stove made a soft sound, she would ask Gu Anqi without looking up, as if he were the doctor she had specially invited: “Mr.
Gu, how much longer should this medicine simmer?” Everything seemed so ordinary, so natural, as if they were really just doctors and guards she had “hired,” gradually blending into the rhythm of the commander’s tent.
However, the bitter medicinal fragrance that permeated the tent, Feng Qinghe’s subtle glances at the two of them, and the unspoken memory of the two boxes with their old names on them that day in the study of the commander’s mansion, constantly reminded Gu Anqi and Achen that beneath this seemingly calm and ordinary coexistence, undercurrents had never ceased to surge.