Shen Che slept poorly that night.
At the front lines in Beining, he had trained himself to fall asleep the moment his head touched the pillow. No matter how loud the artillery fire or how fierce the wind, once he closed his eyes, he could sink straight into sleep.
But that night, the imported spring mattress beneath him was almost too soft. He tossed and turned, always feeling as though something was missing from his pillow.
Around midnight, he got up and drank a glass of cold water, then stood by the window and smoked a cigarette.
He had quit smoking two years ago, but that night, he picked up the habit again.
The smoke curled slowly through the darkness as he stared out into the deep night, his mind returning again and again to the same image:
The way she had leaned against that man’s shoulder.
At some point, he finally drifted into a restless sleep. His dreams were a jumbled mess—her profile on the silver screen, the flush at the tips of her ears in the corridor, and that soft, almost coquettish little “Ziheng.”
He woke before dawn had fully broken.
Outside, the sky was a murky blue-gray, as though someone had lightly brushed diluted ink across a sheet of xuan paper.
A few birds called in the distance, their crisp cries especially clear in the stillness of early morning.
He threw off the covers and got out of bed, his bare feet touching the cold floor. The chill shot up from the soles of his feet, clearing his head somewhat.
The residence was built primarily around a symmetrical central axis, with three successive courtyards arranged one behind another. Gray brick, dark roof tiles, upturned eaves and sweeping corners—all of it conveyed an air of imposing grandeur.
Yet the interior blended Chinese and Western styles.
The front hall had Western patterned marble flooring and crystal chandeliers, while paintings by Zhang Daqian and Qi Baishi hung on the walls.
The living quarters in the rear courtyard were distinctly Chinese, furnished with rosewood pieces, zitan console tables, and huanghuali display shelves. A few Ru ware ceramics and Tianhuang stone carvings were arranged upon them.
Shen Che lived in a separate courtyard on the eastern side of the residence, known as Ting Song Studio.
The courtyard was not large, but it was exquisitely appointed. Two century-old pine trees stood by the entrance, their gnarled branches twisting overhead and blocking out the sky. Whenever the wind passed through them, their needles rustled like distant waves.
There was a small lotus pond in the courtyard, with a Taihu stone standing beside it. The words “Ting Song”—“Listening to the Pines”—were carved into the stone in the handwriting of a top scholar from the previous dynasty.
His bedroom was on the second floor, occupying a spacious suite that had been opened up into one large area.
The outer room was a study. A massive bookshelf stood against one wall, stretching from floor to ceiling and packed with books—military strategy, histories, Western novels, and several original editions in French and German.
A desk lamp with a green glass shade stood on the writing desk. Beside it lay a Duan inkstone and several Huzhou brushes, while a wolf-hair brush that had not yet been washed still hung from the brush rack.
The inner room was the bedroom, furnished much more simply—with a large rosewood bed.
Across from the bed stood a zitan wardrobe. Its doors were open, revealing a row of military uniforms and Western suits, all pressed to perfection.
Shen Che stood by the window and drew open the heavy velvet curtains.
Morning light flooded in, illuminating the entire room.
He narrowed his eyes for a moment as they adjusted to the brightness, then tugged the bell cord beside the bed.
The bell rang twice, its sound crisp and clear.
Less than five minutes later, three soft footsteps sounded outside the door, neither hurried nor heavy.
“Young Marshal, are you awake?” It was the respectful voice of Old Zhou, the butler, coming from the other side of the door.
“Mm.”
The door opened quietly, and Old Zhou entered with two young attendants.
Old Zhou was in his fifties. He wore a dark navy changshan, and his hair was combed with meticulous precision. He had served the Shen family for more than twenty years, and every movement he made reflected the decorum and restraint of an old-fashioned household steward.
The two attendants carried copper basins, towels, tooth powder, and rinsing cups. They filed into the room, their footsteps so light they were almost inaudible.
After washing up with the attendants’ help, Shen Che changed into an iron-gray morning robe, fastened the sash, and went downstairs toward the dining room.
The dining room was in the eastern wing of the first courtyard, a spacious and brightly lit hall.
An entire wall facing east consisted of glass windows. The morning sunlight streamed through the latticework, casting neat squares of light and shadow across the floor.
The dining room was decorated in the same blend of Chinese and Western styles. A massive rosewood dining table, large enough to seat sixteen, occupied the center of the room. A snow-white Western tablecloth covered it, with silver candlesticks and vases arranged on top.
Against one wall stood a row of low bookshelves holding several cookbooks and floral magazines. Beside them was a gramophone, its horn-shaped sound box gleaming with a bronze sheen in the morning light.
Shen Che took the seat at the head of the table.
Old Zhou personally brought over a tray.
On it was a pot of freshly brewed coffee, a fried egg, two slices of toast, a small dish of butter, and a jar of homemade orange marmalade.
Shen Che favored Western-style food, a habit he had picked up during the two years he spent studying in France.
He poured himself a cup of coffee without sugar, adding only a little milk, and took a sip.
The beans were Brazilian, freshly ground and brewed. Their rich aroma filled his mouth, while the bitterness spread across his tongue, gradually clearing the fog from his mind.
He had just picked up a slice of toast when footsteps sounded at the door.
Steady. Rhythmic.
Anyone could tell at once that they belonged to a soldier.
Zhao Jiaming appeared in the doorway.
He was dressed in a crisp military uniform, his cap sitting perfectly straight. Fatigue from a sleepless night showed on his face, but his back remained ramrod straight.
He came to attention and saluted.
“Young Marshal.”
Shen Che glanced at him, put the toast back on his plate, and picked up his napkin to wipe his hands.
“Did you find out?” he asked.
His voice was casual, as though he were asking about something completely unimportant.
Zhao Jiaming took two steps forward and stopped beside the dining table. He pulled a kraft-paper envelope from inside his uniform and held it out with both hands.
“Yes. Lin Ziheng, twenty-eight years old, from Qingjiang County in Jiangbei Province. The year before last, he was transferred to the Civil Affairs Section of the municipal government, where he works as a clerk. He is a sixth-rank civil official and earns thirty-six silver dollars a month.”
Zhao Jiaming’s voice was steady and concise, like a routine report.
He had followed Shen Che for years and was long accustomed to this rhythm. When the Young Marshal wanted someone investigated, he turned that person’s background inside out and left nothing unchecked. No embellishment, no exaggeration—just the facts.
Shen Che did not take the envelope.
He simply lifted his coffee cup and took another sip.
“Go on.”
Zhao Jiaming withdrew the envelope and continued.
“Lin Ziheng isn’t particularly noticeable at the municipal government.
“The Civil Affairs Section is a fairly quiet office. They handle things like household registration, marriages, funerals, and the like. Nothing particularly significant happens there throughout the year.
“His colleagues have a good opinion of him. They say he’s diligent, doesn’t fight for recognition, treats people pleasantly, but he’s somewhat…”
Zhao Jiaming paused, considering his wording.
“Too honest. He doesn’t know how to ingratiate himself with people or curry favor. He’s been in the department for more than two years and hasn’t moved up at all.”
Shen Che listened without expression.
He set down his coffee cup, picked up a slice of toast, and slowly spread orange marmalade over it.
“What about his family?”
“Ordinary,” Zhao Jiaming replied. “His father ran a small general store in Qingjiang County when he was younger. He died the year before last, and the shop closed afterward. His mother is still living in their hometown in Qingjiang County. She relies on the money he sends home each month.
“He rents a room here in Linjiang City, in an alley behind Avenue Joffre. The rent is eight silver dollars a month. After sending money home, paying for food and transportation, there’s barely anything left.”
Shen Che took a bite of toast and chewed slowly.
The sweetness of the orange marmalade mingled with the bitterness of the coffee in his mouth, leaving him unable to decide what the taste reminded him of.
Zhao Jiaming glanced at him. Seeing that he had no intention of interrupting, he continued.
“I also found out about his relationship with Miss Yu.”
Shen Che’s chewing stopped for an instant.
Only an instant, so brief it was almost impossible to notice.
Then he resumed chewing and took another sip of coffee.
Zhao Jiaming cleared his throat.
“That was three years ago. Miss Yu wasn’t famous at the time. She had just graduated from drama school and was doing bit parts at Dahua Pictures. She couldn’t earn more than a few dollars a month and lived in a tiny attic room in the South District.
“One day, while she was on her way home, a petty thief snatched her purse. It contained her living expenses for the entire month, along with several important documents and vouchers.”
Zhao Jiaming lowered his voice slightly, as though recounting a story he did not particularly enjoy telling.
“She couldn’t catch him, so she ran through the street shouting, ‘Thief! Stop that thief!’ Lin Ziheng happened to be coming home from work that day. He was passing through the area, heard her cries, and chased after the thief. He ran for three blocks and finally cornered him in a dead-end alley.”
Zhao Jiaming paused.
“The thief pulled out a knife.”
Shen Che’s hand holding the coffee cup paused slightly.
The surface of the coffee trembled, sending a tiny ripple outward.
He stared at that ripple as it traveled from the edge of the cup toward the center, then back again, slowly fading away.
“Was Lin Ziheng injured?” he asked.
His voice was lower than before.
“Yes,” Zhao Jiaming said. “The thief stabbed him in the left arm. The wound wasn’t deep, but he lost quite a bit of blood. Fortunately, the patrolmen from the police station arrived quickly and arrested the thief. Lin Ziheng was taken to the hospital, where he received several stitches. He spent half a month recovering.”
Shen Che set down his coffee cup.
The bottom of the cup made a faint, delicate sound against the saucer.
“Miss Yu was very poor at the time,” Zhao Jiaming continued. “There wasn’t much she could do to repay him, so she went to the hospital every day to bring him meals and help change his dressings.
“Lin Ziheng had no family or relatives in this city, and there was no one around to look after him. Before long, the two of them grew close.”
“Later, Miss Yu’s acting kept improving. She went from bit parts to supporting roles, then from supporting roles to leading roles. Dahua Pictures promoted her, and she lived up to their expectations. In just two years, she became famous.
“But her relationship with Lin Ziheng never ended.”
Zhao Jiaming paused.
“Their engagement was arranged last autumn. That was according to one of Lin Ziheng’s colleagues. He said Lin took half a day off work to handle the engagement ceremony.”
Zhao Jiaming finished his report and stood straight, waiting for Shen Che’s response.
The dining room was utterly silent.
Sunlight streamed through the eastern windows, falling across the rosewood table, the silver candlesticks, and Shen Che’s cold, unreadable face.
Beside the gramophone, the grandfather clock ticked slowly onward.
One second at a time.
Unhurried.
Shen Che sat there without moving.
His mind was churning with too many thoughts.
He remembered her face on the silver screen, serene as a distant mountain.
He remembered her standing beside the window in the banquet hall, showing no interest in flattering anyone.
He remembered the calm voice with which she had helped the young waiter to his feet.
“Get up.”
He had thought she was an orchid raised in a greenhouse, carefully cherished, protected, and tended by others.
But she had actually grown from a crack in the stone.
A tiny attic room in the South District.
Barely a few dollars earned each month.
Her entire livelihood stuffed inside her purse.
Someone had robbed her. She hadn’t been able to catch him. She had run through the street shouting, “Thief!”
He tried to picture it in his mind, but he simply couldn’t.
He had seen her on the silver screen.
He had seen her standing in the doorway of that suite in her goose-yellow qipao.
But he couldn’t imagine her in patched clothing, running through the streets after a petty thief.
The thought made his heart ache.
Not a sharp, violent pain, but a dull, heavy ache, as though a stone had been pressed against his chest, making it difficult to breathe.
How much hardship had she endured?
How many cold and lonely nights had she spent in that tiny attic in the South District?
Had anyone ever bullied her?
Had she cried?
Had she ever stared at the neon lights outside her window in the dead of night and wondered whether she should give up?
And then that man had appeared.
An ordinary, poor man, even somewhat ineffectual by comparison—
He hadn’t been able to outrun a petty thief.
He had been stabbed and spent half a month in the hospital.
But he had been the first one to rush forward.
He had appeared when she was at her most helpless.
He had recovered her purse.
He had taken a knife meant for her.
Shen Che lowered his head and looked at the coffee cup before him.
The coffee had already gone cold. A thin film of milk floated on its surface, like a broken mirror.
An indescribable feeling rose in his heart.
There was heartache—she had suffered so much, and he hadn’t met her sooner. He hadn’t been there to shield her from those storms.
There was envy—that man was unbelievably fortunate to have appeared at her side when she needed someone most.
And jealousy—
A jealousy so fierce it bordered on madness.
And beneath all of that was something deeper, like a dull blade cutting into flesh, slowly and steadily, hurting so badly that he could barely breathe.
Too late.
He told himself.
Shen Che, you came too late.
When she was struggling through the mud, you were in the artillery fire at Beining.
When she was eating cold steamed buns in that tiny attic, you were drinking coffee in cafés in France.
When that thief stole her purse and she stood helplessly in the street shouting, “Thief!”—
Where were you?
Thousands of miles away.
And that man was right beside her.
Shen Che lightly tapped his fingers against the tabletop twice.
The rhythm was slow, as though he were thinking something through.
If he had been there that day—
He shook his head and forced the thought away.
There were no ifs.
He picked up his coffee cup, only to find that it had gone completely cold, and set it back down.
“Young Marshal?” Zhao Jiaming called tentatively.
Shen Che did not answer.
He leaned back in his chair, one hand supporting his forehead, and closed his eyes.
Morning light streamed through the window, softening his stern features somewhat, but the vertical crease between his brows had deepened.
His thoughts were a tangled mess.
Like a ball of thread hopelessly knotted together, with no end to grasp.
He knew what he should do.
He should throw the pearl earring into the river.
He should erase the woman named Yu Shuang from his mind completely.
He should continue being the Young Marshal he was meant to be, marry a well-bred young lady from a family of equal standing, have several children, succeed his father, and leave behind a distinguished name in the history of Jiangbei’s nine provinces.
But he knew he couldn’t.
He couldn’t let her go.
The thought was like a thorn lodged in the softest part of his heart, impossible to pull free.
He couldn’t forget her.
He would never be able to forget her.
Yet he also knew that if he used the power in his hands to tear her and that man apart—
Would she hate him?
She certainly would.
He remembered the soft, lingering note in her voice when she called, “Ziheng.”
He remembered the effortless trust with which she had leaned against his shoulder.
What existed between those two could not be shattered by wealth or power.
If he insisted on destroying it—
He would not be the one who broke their relationship.
He would only destroy the image she had of him.
More importantly, the way she looked at him would change.
She would no longer look at him with that clear, open gaze, tinged with a trace of curiosity.
It would become fear.
Disgust.
Hatred.
She would look at him the way she had looked at those men with ulterior motives at the banquet—coldly, like the freezing waters of the river in the twelfth lunar month.
He couldn’t bear that.
He couldn’t bear for her to look at him that way.
Shen Che opened his eyes.
His gaze fell on the pine trees outside the window.
The two century-old pines swayed gently in the morning breeze, their needles rustling like waves—or like a sigh.
“Jiaming.”
His voice was deep and steady.
“Yes.”
Shen Che was silent for several seconds.
During those few seconds, it was as though he were making a difficult decision. The crease between his brows deepened, and his Adam’s apple moved slightly.
“Have someone keep an eye on them,” he said. “Miss Yu and Lin… Lin Ziheng. Don’t disturb them. Don’t interfere. Just keep track of what they’re doing.”
Zhao Jiaming froze.
After following Shen Che for so many years, this was the first time he had ever heard the Young Marshal give an order like this.
Not “monitor.”
Not “keep watch.”
But “keep an eye on them.”
Zhao Jiaming understood the difference perfectly.
What he understood even more clearly was the unfamiliar emotion in the Young Marshal’s voice.
It wasn’t an order.
It wasn’t an instruction.
It was something restrained, suppressed, something that had nearly spilled over but was being forced back down with all his strength—
Concern.
“Understood.”
Zhao Jiaming saluted sharply, turned, and walked toward the door.
Shen Che picked up the cup of completely cold coffee and drained it in one go.
The bitterness spread from the tip of his tongue all the way down his throat, leaving a harsh, astringent taste.
The dining room was now empty except for Shen Che.
He rose and walked to the window, then pushed it open.
The morning breeze swept inside, carrying the fresh scent of pine needles and the dampness of the earth.
The sky in the distance had already brightened completely. The sun rose from behind the eastern mountains, bathing the entire city of Linjiang in golden light.
Steamships moved across the river, white smoke rising from their funnels before the wind scattered it into wisps of pale mist.
He leaned against the window frame, both hands tucked into the pockets of his morning robe, and gazed into the distance.
The pearl earring was still inside the drawer of his study, lying there quietly like a drop of frozen moonlight.
He remembered what she had said—
“If I have the chance another day, I’ll certainly come to your home to thank you properly.”
Another day.
He didn’t know whether that “another day” would truly come.
He simply stood there, gazing into the distance, his heart filled with emotions he could neither name nor sort through—
Heartache.
Regret.
Jealousy.
Resentment.
And a deep, deep sense of helplessness.
It wasn’t as though Shen Che had never fought a war.
He had fought countless battles.
He had won countless times.
But this time, his opponent wasn’t enemy guns and artillery, nor the schemes of the government, nor his father’s authority—
It was time.
He had come too late.
Three years too late.
“Another day.”
He murmured the words softly, almost to himself.
Then he turned, walked back to the dining table, and poured himself another cup of coffee.
This time, he added two cubes of sugar.
The bitterness was too strong.
He needed a little sweetness.