Song Yuhua had fully expected Lu Qinian to return at any moment. She had dressed and made up with great care — she would never have let him see her looking like a drowned rat.
Aunt Liu, quick to defend her mistress, spoke up: “Comrade Song was feeling unwell. I feared she would catch a chill wearing damp clothing, so I urged her to change. The wet dress has only just been washed and hung out to dry.”
Jiang Yuan seized the contradiction instantly. “Lu Ze took exactly twenty minutes to travel here from the base. Are you asking me to believe that in half an hour — Song Yuhua bathed, dried and styled her hair, applied a full face of makeup, and also washed and hung out her clothes?”
Jiang Yuan recalled Lu Ze telling her once that his adoptive father was an odd, strict man. Though he employed household help to cook and clean shared spaces — everyone else, including Lu Ze and Song Yuhua, was required to keep their own rooms and wash their own clothing. No one was to be waited upon. At the time Jiang Yuan had thought the rule absurd — why pay for help and still do things yourself? Now she understood: it was a stroke of genius.
Realising she had blundered, Aunt Liu turned anxiously toward Song Yuhua. Song Yuhua, for her part, could not very well admit Aunt Liu had washed her dress — not when she was so careful to appear virtuous and self-sufficient in Lu Qinian’s eyes. Their silence spoke volumes.
Jiang Yuan looked back at Lu Qinian, whose face had grown cold. Her tone carried a hint of amused relish. “Division Commander Lu — if this were a battlefield, any enemy who chose even one single stratagem from the Thirty-Six Strategies would wipe your entire household out. Is this not wasting grain hard-earned and brought forth from the very teeth of the peasantry?”
Lu Qinian was angry — furious, in fact. Lu Ze felt the weight of his displeasure and hurried to excuse himself and the women.
“Yuan Yuan, I know you feel wronged,” Lu Ze said quickly. “Mother and Aunt Liu were at fault — I grant you that. But they are your elders. As the younger generation, you must show deference. I apologise to you on their behalf. I shall certainly speak to them and ensure nothing like this ever happens again.”
Jiang Yuan was about to say it is quite all right, please be mindful in future — when Lu Qinian’s voice cut through, cold and sharp as a blade.
“Get back to your drills. If you leave your post without permission again, you will be stripped of rank and placed under close confinement.”
He spoke to Lu Ze. Head bowed and chastened, Lu Ze hurried away. Lu Qinian then turned his gaze upon Jiang Yuan, dark with displeasure. “You — come with me.”
Whether drawn by the sheer formidable presence of the man, or simply curious what he might say, Jiang Yuan followed meekly into his study.
To her mild irritation, the moment they entered Lu Qinian slipped on a shirt over his undershirt. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, long powerful legs — still there, still undeniably impressive. Still radiating that overwhelming masculine strength. Even so, Jiang Yuan felt distinctly put out.
“You wished to see me?” she asked, losing patience and deciding not to wait for him to speak first.
Lu Qinian paused in the act of buttoning his shirt, then continued unhurriedly. He spoke as though making idle conversation. “Who sent you? And what is your true purpose?”
He suspected she was some kind of operative. Instead of answering, Jiang Yuan asked: “Why do you ask that?”
“From what I have gathered,” Lu Qinian said evenly, “you did not finish primary school. Your father served as production brigade leader — a man of some awareness, but little formal education. Your mother is entirely illiterate. Your two elder brothers completed junior high. Your relatives are few, and their political awareness is no greater than your family’s. The educated youth assigned to your village… none of them speak with your manner or your insight.”
To know the Thirty-Six Strategies was one thing. To stand her ground and silence Song Yuhua, Aunt Liu, and Lu Ze all at once — that was far from ordinary. Still less could anyone from her background speak of warfare, of strategy, of grain wrung from the peasants’ very teeth and wasted improperly. Such breadth of vision… even Lu Ze, whom he had personally raised and educated, did not possess it.
He had investigated her thoroughly. Jiang Yuan’s lips curved. “May I take that as a compliment?”
Lu Qinian answered plainly. “You may.”
Emboldened, Jiang Yuan stepped closer. She tilted her delicate face upward toward him, her bright almond eyes clear and unflinching. “Division Commander Lu — you have investigated me so thoroughly. Did your inquiries also uncover the origin of the child I carry?”
Lu Ze had told her often: his adoptive father was iron-faced, impartial, and cold — he favoured no one, regardless of standing. Before coming to the capital, Jiang Yuan had nursed a faint hope: that Lu Qinian, finding no explanation for her pregnancy, would follow his own principle of leaving no possibility unchecked — and investigate Song Yuhua as well, granting her justice.
Looking at him now — stern, guarded, convinced she hid some wicked purpose — she understood. Hopes were only hopes. They did not become reality. She would place her faith in no one but herself.
A bright, confident smile returned to her lips. “Everything I said just now… I learned them from the Quotations of Great Men.” To prove her claim, she pulled a hand-copied booklet from her bag. “If you do not believe me — see for yourself.”
She knew better than to provoke Lu Qinian. Being labelled a spy or secret agent was too dangerous a charge to bear lightly. The village had possessed only one copy of the book — one she could not bring away. So she had copied it all out by hand, page by page, carrying it with her precisely for a moment such as this.
In truth, Jiang Yuan was scarcely the same woman she had been in her past life. Lu Qinian was right: she had barely reached the fourth grade when schooling fell apart. In those uncertain times, the belief that education was useless had spread widely. It was nearly impossible not to be swept along with it. Few stayed in school through to graduation — to finish high school made one a veritable scholar. The result, as Lu Qinian had implied, was a collective lack of education and political understanding.
In her past life, Jiang Yuan had been just as ignorant and unthinking as the rest. But after she died, Lu Qinian had arranged for her to be buried in a fine cemetery. As time passed, more and more souls joined her there — scholars, historians, merchants, dancers, writers, musicians… With all eternity on their hands, they taught one another everything they knew. Jiang Yuan possessed no special skill of her own — yet she learned from them all.
The arguments she had deployed so skillfully? A historical novelist had taught her those. The foresight to prepare evidence and plan three steps ahead? That came from a master of the game of Go. And so she had copied the book, and carried it with her.
Lu Qinian stared at her — until the smouldering tip of his cigarette burned his fingers. He snapped back to attention and took the booklet from her hand. It was not old, yet the corners were worn and creased, as though read a thousand times. A yellowish stain marred the cover — water or something else, he could not tell — and he frowned slightly.
He opened it. Inside, page after page was filled with crooked, uneven handwriting — awkward, unformed, and difficult to read. His frown deepened.
Jiang Yuan looked faintly embarrassed. “My handwriting leaves something to be desired, I know. I beg your pardon — I did my best.” She had learned wisdom and knowledge easily enough in the afterlife — but neat handwriting was another matter entirely. This copy alone had taken three nights of grumbling and effort to complete.
Lu Qinian gave her a long, unreadable look. He held the booklet open before her, tapped a line with one finger, and said simply: “Read it.”
Jiang Yuan pressed her lips together, glanced up at him with a hint of pleading, then leaned forward. She tilted her head this way and that, squinting at the characters. “Rev-olution…” she began haltingly. And then, guessing and stumbling, she read the rest of the line aloud.