Nan Rao clutched the hem of the man's robe with all her might.
Yan Zhan was startled by her sudden movement and instinctively stepped back, causing her to fall flat on the ground. Yet her fingers refused to let go, gripping so tightly that her knuckles turned pale—she would not let him leave.
It was the bitter end of winter, with snow falling like wisps of fluff. The moment the north wind swept through her garments, it cut through to the bone with piercing cold.
The onlookers were taken aback. No one had expected such a delicate woman to summon such tremendous strength out of nowhere.
No one knew what she had been through.
Her family destroyed, her husband torn from her.
She remembered that just a few months ago, Nan Rao had been an ordinary wife, living a contented life with her husband—deeply in love, trusting and devoted without reservation.
Until her husband, Duan Xun, received a letter from home.
The enemy kingdom to the west was pressing against their borders. Both of his elder brothers had fallen on the battlefield, and the frontier was in imminent peril.
Duan Xun grew silent for days on end. Nan Rao could see what weighed on his mind, so she said to him, "When the nation faces crisis, every person bears responsibility—and all the more so when your own blood fought on those battlefields. If you wish to go, I will go with you."
Since the late emperor's reign, the court had issued decrees allowing frontier soldiers who defended the passes for extended periods to bring their families along. The government even established special grain provisions for this purpose, so that soldiers would have no worries behind them.
Duan Xun stared at her in a daze, then suddenly strode forward and pulled her tightly into his arms, pressing his thin lips together. "I don't want to put you in danger, A-Rao. Wait for me to return."
"I promise—I will come back alive."
Nan Rao wanted to say she wasn't afraid, but she could feel Duan Xun's body was unusually tense, as if he were using every ounce of his strength.
The frontier was bitterly cold. He didn't want to take her there.
But he couldn't bear to leave her behind either.
So when they parted, he prepared many things for her—travel money, warm clothing, medicine for wounds, tonics, a dagger for self-defense, and even a token she could use to seek refuge with others if he fell in battle.
Before he left, he had discussed the battlefront situation with her in detail. There were many suspicious points in it, as if foreshadowing the grave dangers that lay ahead.
She still kept the military dispatches and letters Duan Xun had received back then, and she still remembered how devastated she was the day news of his defeat arrived.
He was dead.
His body had never been found.
When she learned that Duan Xun had died in battle and that the entire Duan clan had been accused of colluding with the enemy and betraying the country, Nan Rao sat alone through the night in silence. The next morning, she wiped away her tears, packed her belongings, and set out for Luoyang.
She would seek justice for him.
If he were alive, she would wait for his return; if he were dead, she would not let him die in vain.
To plead his case, Nan Rao journeyed over a thousand li, drifting from place to place in hardship. A woman traveling alone was an easy target for bandits—merely surviving had been difficult enough, and her travel money had long since been stolen. Had it not been for that single thread of conviction sustaining her, she might have died on the road.
After immense struggle, she finally made it to Luoyang, made it to the drum of justice—only to be treated as a troublemaker.
Justice in this world truly was not so easily obtained. Common folk had no avenue to appeal their grievances, let alone for a case that had shaken the entire realm.
Nan Rao had considered the worst possible outcome.
It was simply death.
She was someone who should have died long ago anyway.
Five years prior, Nan Rao had lain at the bottom of a cliff, gravely injured and having lost her memory. When she was found, her breath was already faint and beyond saving—all the physicians were helpless.
But that early spring had been bitterly cold, and it was the seventeen-year-old youth A-Xun who carried her on his back, seeking out famous doctors one by one, forcibly snatching her life back from the jaws of death.
For someone who had already died once, what was there to fear in dying again?
But she refused to die like this.
She refused to accept only the worst outcome.
Nan Rao gripped the hem of this unfamiliar official's robe with all her strength, clenching her jaw so hard it ached. Even if someone came to chop off her hands, she would never let go.
She lay sprawled on the ground in a sorry state, snowflakes choking her lungs with each ragged breath, yet her eyes remained fixed on him with unwavering determination.
"Your Honor… I beg Your Honor to seek justice…"
Even as she pleaded, she carefully studied the expression of the official before her, unsure whether he was a good man. She noticed, however, that he was staring intently at her face.
What… what was wrong with him?
Why did he keep staring at her…
Nan Rao felt unsettled and confused by his gaze, and instinctively tilted her head and lowered her eyes to avoid his look.
To Yan Zhan, her gesture appeared utterly timid and fearful.
Yan Zhan fell silent for a long moment, saying nothing.
During that prolonged silence, only Wang Che noticed Yan Zhan's unusual expression. Fearing this woman might disrupt his affairs, he could no longer hold back and spoke up: "This lowly wretch has slandered this official and is now spouting nonsense here. Guards, why haven't you taken her—"
"Hold on."
Yan Zhan suddenly spoke, cutting Wang Che off.
Wang Che stared at him in astonishment, wondering what had gotten into the man.
Yan Zhan clenched his hand within his sleeve, steadied himself, then turned to Wang Che with a smile. "Why must Commandant Wang be so hasty? His Majesty has ordered the two of us to jointly investigate this case. From what this woman just mentioned about the Duan family, this matter may involve the Duan clan case. First, I have the authority to inquire; second, as an official under the Chancellor, my actions are sanctioned by him."
"If, as you say, this woman is merely causing trouble without cause, then keeping her here for a few more questions—what harm could that possibly do to you, Lord Wang?"
Wang Che, hearing him invoke the Chancellor, seethed inwardly but forced a thin smile. "Since Secretary Yan is so eager to ask, then ask away."
Yan Zhan turned his gaze to Nan Rao.
Nan Rao, sensing from this official's tone that he intended to look into her matter, was overjoyed and gazed back at him with even greater earnestness.
But the man stared at her for a long while, as if lost in thought. Then, slowly, he crouched down before her.
"You… don't recognize me?"
She looked at him with surprise and confusion, shaking her head slightly.
Was she… supposed to know him?
Yan Zhan had spent years navigating the official world and dealt with all manner of people. Seeing the genuine bewilderment in her clear, bright eyes, he knew she was not lying.
This was getting troublesome.
Either she was not the person he sought, and the resemblance was mere coincidence; or else…
Yan Zhan felt a pang of frustration and vexation. He asked again, "What is your name?"
"This humble woman is called Nan Rao."
"Where are you from?"
"From Qingzhou."
"…What grievance do you bring?"
She spoke softly, "My husband is Duan Xun, the third son of the Duan family. I have come to plead our case, to prove that the Duan family never committed treason—that they were falsely accused. I beg you, sir, to investigate thoroughly."
Only then did Yan Zhan notice she was dressed in plain white mourning clothes—the attire of a widow.
She was married?!
He drew in a sharp breath and rose abruptly, his mind churning. He went to pick up the scattered bamboo slips on the ground, and Yuan Jing hurried over to help.
Yan Zhan glanced roughly at the writing on them, then said to Wang Che, "This woman's case requires further investigation. Magistrate, perhaps you should detain her for now. I will report this to the Chancellor, and we can decide how to proceed afterward."
Wang Che, seeing his erratic behavior and his repeated insistence on reporting the matter to the Chancellor, thought to himself that he must be seeing ghosts today.
For the sake of some woman of unknown origin, this Yan Zhan was using the Chancellor's authority to treat him with such disrespect. Wang Che was displeased but could not vent his anger, so he waved for the attendants. "Someone, take her away."
The attendants lifted Nan Rao from the ground, this time with considerably less roughness.
Yan Zhan watched the scene, seeming to want to say something more, hesitating. After a long moment, as if still uneasy, he added, "This woman appears quite frail. I would ask the Magistrate not to make things difficult for her."
Wang Che gave a dry laugh and agreed.
Nan Rao was taken to the imperial prison.
If there was one place in Luoyang that everyone feared most, it was the Magistrate's prison. Since the founding of the dynasty, from princes and powerful ministers to sons of noble families—whether caught in court faction struggles or guilty of breaking the law—all who entered this place faced a slim chance of survival, and countless had perished within its walls.
For a commoner to enter the imperial prison was to be devoured until not even bones remained.
The moment she stepped inside, Nan Rao felt an intense dampness and suffocation. The surroundings were dark, and the stagnant air was thick with the stench of blood, faintly mingled with the odor of decay, enough to make one retch.
She suppressed her discomfort and followed the jailer deeper in, forcing herself not to look at the miserable prisoners held in the cells on either side.
The dim wall lamps faintly illuminated the depths of the prison, casting her shadow flickering and unsteady.
Nan Rao was placed alone in a cell.
She seemed still lost in what had just happened, and only when she sat down in the corner did she look up as if waking from a dream, cautiously surveying her surroundings.
Though her heart remained uneasy, she vaguely sensed that things might be taking a turn for the better.
Even if she couldn't understand why that official had suddenly appeared and taken an interest in her case.
He had looked at her with such a strange gaze, asking if she recognized him.
Nan Rao truly did not recognize him.
All the memories she had—these five years—were of living with her husband in Qingzhou, far from Luoyang.
As for the people and events of five years ago, Nan Rao had long since forgotten them completely.
She didn't even know who she was or where she had come from.
At this thought, she suddenly raised a hand to cover her lips, lowering her head to cough painfully a couple of times. Her throat was parched, and her lungs felt as if stuffed with cotton—each cough seemed to wrench her internal organs with pain.
She had once suffered a severe illness, and even after recovering, it had left lasting damage, making her constitution weaker than most.
She had caught a chill on the road to Luoyang and had only been pushing through it. Combined with being roughly dragged about earlier, now that the shock was wearing off, she felt a wave of intense weakness and dizziness.
After night fell, intermittent footsteps echoed from the surrounding area, punctuated by the chilling screams and cries of those being interrogated and tortured.
Nan Rao's long hair hung loosely down her back. Her face was pale, her eyes tightly shut. She forced herself not to listen or look, curling up silently with her chin resting on her knees, rubbing her arms with her hands, hoping it would warm her slightly.
The iron shackles on her wrists were cold and heavy; after barely half a day, they had already left red marks.
Her body trembled involuntarily—not just from fear, but mostly from the cold.
She hated the cold.
It was so cold.
An icy chill seeped from every direction. When one is pushed to the limit, hallucinations come easily. Nan Rao was so cold she felt as if she were back in that heavy snow five years ago, her consciousness slipping beyond her control.
She had been rescued by a hunter.
The hunter said she was found at the bottom of a cliff, nearly buried alive by the snow. Had he not dug her out in time, she would have frozen solid into an ice statue.
She was covered in wounds and slept for three full days. When she finally stirred awake, she was dressed in clean cloth clothes, her memory completely gone, with nothing on her to prove her identity.
She ran a high fever and was gravely ill.
The hunter's family was poor, struggling just to make ends meet. Taking her in was already an act of kindness; they couldn't afford a doctor for her.
Nan Rao knew her time was short. Unwilling to burden her benefactor or die in their home, she forced herself up and walked alone into the snowy outskirts.
Snow drifted heavily; the north wind howled.
Perhaps it was a final burst of energy before death, but she felt neither cold nor pain. Using a tree branch as a cane, she limped to a tree, sat down, and quietly closed her eyes to wait for death.
Suddenly, the sound of horse hooves came from afar.
She opened her eyes and saw a young man riding out of the city on horseback.
Under the fierce wind and driving snow, the youth rode a white horse, his dark robes and black hair whipping freely in the wind. His cinched waist and upright posture were like a gleaming blade splitting through the mist—sharp yet restrained.
He spotted her from a distance, reined in his horse, and halted, hooves kicking up a cloud of snow.
Dismounting, he walked to her side.
"You… what's wrong?"
The wind rushing past her ears carried a youthful voice like a clear spring. She opened her eyes, her lashes trembling slightly, and saw a stranger leaning in curiously to look at her, brows raised.
Snowflakes clung to her lashes, melting under her scorching breath into water, blurring the young man's handsome features.
On the brink of death, she met a pair of strikingly beautiful eyes.
She had lost all will to live. She stared at him blankly for a moment, then closed her eyes to wait for death. The youth seemed to realize she was dying. After a moment's thought, his eyes curved into a smile. "Fine, consider yourself lucky to have run into yours truly. I'm in a good mood today, so I'll save your life along the way."
Warmth suddenly enveloped her.
The youth removed his cloak and draped it over her.
Then the world spun, and she found herself on his back—slim but strong. Through hazy eyes, she caught a glimpse of the back of his head, hair tied in a high ponytail.
"You…" she tried to speak, her voice hoarse.
She wanted to say, don't save me.
She was too sick; she wouldn't make it.
"Don't talk." The stranger carrying her didn't look back. The north wind scattered his voice, carrying it to her ears, brushing gently against her surging heart. "Don't be afraid. I'll save you."