Chapter 60

Moonlight quietly bathed the earth, unchanged throughout time. In this silent, endless night, Xie Ci finally, more than ever, recognized the treacherous nature of the world and the cruel truth of reality. He stared at the small patch of silver light cast onto the ground outside the tent—so cold, so devoid of warmth. His emotions spilled out until nothing remained; he suppressed his sobs, turned to Gu Wan, and said, “Don’t worry about me. I’m all right.” Grief, at its deepest, transformed into a resolute determination. His voice was hoarse, but clear and calm in the cold, soundless darkness of the tent: “They’re gone, but I can’t die too.” The words, though not loud, rang out distinctly.

“Grand Preceptor Lin, Zheng Shoufang,” and even… He tightly rubbed the small black-and-yellow brass message tube in his palm, a flicker of bloodthirsty hatred rising in his heart, then vanishing as quickly as it came.

He declared, “Zhao Heng’s tragedy must not be repeated!”

No matter what, he had to preserve what his father and brother could not.

Gu Wan spoke of great loyalty and lesser loyalty—terms foreign yet comforting to him. But Xie Ci soon stopped thinking about them, for now, neither great nor small loyalty concerned him.

He knew with piercing clarity: he must not die.

His father and brother were gone; he could not follow.

He lifted his gaze to Gu Wan, who sat at the edge of the camp bed. In the pale moonlight, her russet armor was worn, her fair and gentle features edged with concern and a trace of fatigue.

Looking outside, scattered lanterns glimmered. Xie Yun, Zhang Qing, and many others loyally guarded the tent, while distant voices from other tents drifted in and out of clarity.

By now, he was no longer alone.

The Xie family guards, the Xie family army, Guiyi Prefecture, and countless ordinary soldiers who had fought and died or survived this bloody battle—all followed him.

After Qin Xian and Chen Yan were poisoned, neither fully recovered. Chen Yan, having drunk only half a cup, fared better; but Qin Xian, though his life was saved, lost movement in half his body and could no longer ride. The military physicians said his recovery would be long.

Yet Qin Xian was the Grand Protector of Lingshuo, overseeing the region’s military and civil affairs. With the looming threat of another northern invasion, defending the border was a top priority for all prefectures and passes.

If no one sheltered him, Qin Xian would surely be forced to step down.

Qin Xian’s loyalty to Xie Ci and his family was unwavering. For that, Xie Ci could not let him end this way. Nor could he fail the Xie family army, Lingyun, or the Hu soldiers and civilians of Guiyi Prefecture who had risked everything to follow him. If he could not protect them, death would be their fate. And then there was Gu Wan.

He had also made promises during the decisive battle—to care for wounded soldiers and their families. Xie Ci could not break his word.

So he could not die, nor did he wish to.

He had long understood the importance of power, but never had it felt so urgent as now.

He was acutely aware that he stood at the very edge of a precipice—seemingly in control, but perilously fragile. He must either harden his heart and plunge into the mire, abandoning all former ideals to pursue enough power to protect himself and all those behind him—or perish with them.

Xie Ci still lacked an official identity. Yet after this astonishing battle, many now knew him.

He had no retreat. One misstep, and he would be shattered, along with everyone who depended on him. But he neither wanted nor could afford to die. He closed his eyes.

For this, he would cast aside everything he once held dear.

The sorrow and pain, at last, gave way to a miraculous resilience.

After sharing supper with Gu Wan, he took his last bowl of medicine. They slept in separate tents: Gu Wan, not wanting to disturb others, took the cot outside, though Xie Ci urged her to sleep within. She refused, insisting he take the inner tent.

Whether Xie Ci slept that night was uncertain, but he rose early the next morning.

His demeanor had sunk into gravity; in just one night, he matured utterly. The pallor and illness vanished; his spine was straight, his presence deep as an abyss, his emotions unreadable. Piece by piece, he donned heavy armor and black military boots—silent, resolute as a mountain.

Helmet in hand, he left the inner tent, telling Gu Wan, “I need to step out.”

He walked into the pale daylight, but felt no warmth. He closed his eyes.

One night had stripped him to the bone.

He had confessed to his father and brother; from now on, he would walk a path he once despised—one of no return. Yet he felt no regret.

Li Yi had received his message and arrived on horseback nearby, waiting at the crossroads. Xie Ci opened his eyes, mounted his horse, and rode out.

Together, they headed for the northwest headquarters of the Grand Army Commander and Imperial Envoy.

The wind was brisk; recent rains had washed away much of the blood and tar. The northeast wind carried scents of grass and water over the mountains.

Li Yi observed Xie Ci’s transformation. Though he spoke little, he knew Xie Ci understood.

This young man in deep black armor, noble as sunlight, gazed at the distant blue mountains and mused calmly: so it was—traveling against the current never ends well.

Li Yi had often entered the envoy’s headquarters; today he was bringing Xie Ci to meet Feng Kun. Entering the gate meant officially pledging service to the powerful eunuch Feng Kun.

Xie Ci lowered his eyes, then raised them—his dark gaze cold and unreadable. He said quietly, “I know everything you said.”

They strode quickly to the inner headquarters, dismounted, and approached the guards. Li Yi exchanged respectful salutes with the captain: “Xie Si and I are here to see Prime Minister Feng.” A blue-robed attendant soon came to lead them inside.

Thick crimson carpets muffled their steps; a gilded crane incense burner wafted fragrant smoke, dispelling the last traces of battlefield grime.

Feng Kun had slept late, now sat at the head chair in a half-doze. The attendant waited quietly, then softly announced their arrival.

Feng Kun, clad in a red qilin robe and black boots embroidered with gold, opened his phoenix eyes—sharp at the corners, his features pale and delicate. He raised his brow: “Oh, Xie Ci has come?”

Receiving a porcelain teacup, he curled his lips: “Let him in.”

The wind stirred, whistling through the tent—so familiar, yet so strange. The attendant soon returned and led the way.

Xie Ci raised his lashes, walked in step by step, his gaze falling on the crimson carpet. His blood surged uncontrollably.

He looked up, finally reaching the main tent. The curtain lifted, revealing a grand, bright interior, luxuriously furnished as in the capital. The fragrance drifted out from the entrance.

He should have recognized the scent—once, he knew such things well. But those idle, youthful days were now a lifetime away; he had no mind to distinguish it.

He stood quietly.

At the end of the peony-red carpet, beside two sandalwood chairs, sat Feng Kun in his fiery qilin robe, eyes sharp and appraising.

Xie Ci advanced step by step until he stood before Feng Kun.

In that instant, countless memories flashed by, but he hesitated not at all. He brushed aside his armor; with a resounding “pa,” he knelt on one knee, fist clasped, voice hoarse and resolute: “Xie Ci greets Prime Minister Feng!”

“Very good,” Feng Kun nodded.

He was satisfied—no hesitation, no pride or shame. He raised his brow: “You’re far more sensible than your father and brother.”

Xie Ci’s heart twisted, his fist clenched.

Feng Kun’s voice was hoarse, magnetic, with a trace of the eunuch’s sharpness—delicate yet keen, ambiguous in gender.

Leaning forward, Feng Kun lifted Xie Ci’s chin. It was a youthful, handsome face, resolute as an abyss. Feng Kun leaned closer, his sharp phoenix eyes nearly touching: “Whether you are Xie Ci or not does not matter.”

Whether a fugitive or not mattered little to Feng Kun—he only cared that Xie Ci served him well. Everything Xie Ci desired could be his.

What Xie Ci needed most now was a legitimate identity.

The man before him was the very power-broker his father and brother had loathed—Feng Kun, in his fiery robe, the scent he once despised filling his senses.

Reaching this point, kneeling here, every moment and word was harder than he’d imagined. But Xie Ci clenched his fists and spoke, voice hoarse: “I want the Xie family pardoned. I want to be Xie Ci again, to lead the army in my own name. I want the Northern Region!”

The Northern Region encompassed Lingyun, Ding Su, most of the Clearwater Plain, including Gu Tan Mountain and Guiyi Prefecture.

Once there was the Northern Protectorate, but as the land grew prosperous, Li Chun and Xie Xinzhong petitioned to divide it into smaller prefectures and protectorates.

With the Xie family guards returned, their covert holdings fell back into Xie Ci’s hands; Qin Xian and others followed his lead. But only last night did Xie Ci realize he had not even forged a proper new armor for Gu Wan.

Armor was not hard to come by; he had simply overlooked it, lacking a rightful territory of his own.

Casting everything aside, he resolved to protect himself and those he cared for. He needed enough power to claim the entire Northern Region as his domain.

Only then could he cover everything from Lingzhou to Guiyi.

His blood surged, his eyes reddening, but he spoke his demand hoarsely, word by word.

Feng Kun was momentarily surprised, raising a brow—Northern Grand Protector? Was Xie Ci overturning what his father had worked so hard to achieve?

Feng Kun laughed: “Good! Very good!”

He preferred men with ambition—those who wanted nothing were of no use. Desire meant drive; that was ideal.

Xie Ci was more satisfying than he’d expected. Feng Kun’s laughter ceased; his phoenix eyes were sharp and dangerous, dazzling. He said coldly, “You want to be Xie Ci again? No problem. You want the Northern Region? I can arrange it.

But first, Xie Ci, let me see your performance!”

He waved them to rise. “Let Qin Xian’s son stay as Black Armor Major. When the time is right, declare you his adopted son and reclaim the battle honors.”

Simple enough. When the time came, Xie Ci could become Northern Grand Protector easily, assuming his performance met expectations.

Feng Kun already understood everything clearly.

He turned to Xie Ci and Li Yi: “Prepare to transfer to the capital. What Xie Ci gets, you won’t lack.”

Both knelt: “We pledge to serve Prime Minister Feng with utmost devotion!”

By noon, leaving the command tent, the sky had turned gray, winds howling and stirring sand and stones.

Xie Ci rode swiftly, his armor cold and hard as forged iron, his black glass-like eyes gleaming. Surrounded silently by Xie Yun and others, he galloped into the east camp.

Qin Xian, Chen Yan, Su Zhen, and the rest had heard, waiting in the main parade ground, tears in their eyes.

Qin Xian, especially, now frailer than before, beat his chest and wailed: “It’s all my fault! All my fault!” He blamed himself for holding them back.

Everyone was grief-stricken and indignant. They had all witnessed what Lu Xinyi said that day; Qin Xian had even asked to see the brass message tube.

Years beside Xie Xinzhong, serving as Grand Protector of Lingzhou, he had seen countless imperial decrees. A tall, burly man in his forties, his tears fell silently, large drops hitting his armor and the muddy ground. Even the rational Chen Yan was moved to tears.

Before the grand tent, Xie Ci stood tall and unyielding. He looked over the tearful crowd and said slowly, “I won’t let you repeat Zhao Heng’s fate.

We must find a new way.”

They knew—hence their sorrow. Under the boundless gray-blue sky, across the vast plains, was there truly not a single inch left for them in this world?

Qin Xian and the others knelt, gripping Xie Ci’s armor, sobbing. In one night, Xie Ci seemed to have traversed years, his shoulders bearing a heavy burden, matured and leaner.

“Enough, get up. You’re still wounded—go tend your injuries first.” Xie Ci helped them up, then entered the main tent to issue orders for the next steps. No more words—they had to survive.

At last, wiping their tears, they bowed and departed. Xie Ci sat alone at the head desk.

The afternoon was dim, the tent shadowed. He sat in silence a long time before rising.

Lifting the tent flap, daylight flooded in, and he saw Gu Wan standing nearby. For the first time, warmth stirred in his heart.

In a single day, he had passed through dust and ordeal, enduring the world’s cruelty. After his visit to the command tent, he realized the process was even harder than he’d imagined. He had no right to complain; the weight was heavy, but he softened his tone to comfort Qin Xian and the others.

It was his duty.

Otherwise, he could not ask them to follow him unto death.

But all the tension and pressure, wound to the limit, suddenly loosened at the sight of Gu Wan. Her presence was like a warm current in this June winter, bringing him endless solace. He had thought it through last night—everything was worth it, everything necessary. Seeing her now, he was certain: it was truly worth it.

Gu Wan sighed lightly: “The poplar flowers are blooming. Let’s go for a walk.”

In May, poplar flowers bloom, their silky tufts blowing along the cool riverbanks, the east wind sweeping the slender branches into dance, white fluff drifting everywhere.

Gu Wan led Xie Ci along the eastern camp, down to the cool river, then up to a high knoll. She pulled him to the summit, where they sat.

From here, they could see the river and the floating tufts, the entire valley spread before them, endless plains behind, mountains rising at the river’s end.

The vantage was high, the view vast, wind rushing past. The walk and the perch finally brought him some comfort.

Unconsciously, his jawline had grown sharper—the harsh world forced him to mature. Xie Ci said, “I know what I must do. I have to protect what matters to me.” He smiled at Gu Wan.

The smile softened the heaviness and hardness in his eyes.

Now, he no longer spoke of his father or brother. They had died for principle; he was walking a path of compromise.

But he wanted to live.

There was nothing more to say.

At this point, Xie Ci focused solely on survival—gaining the means to live, above all.

He turned to Gu Wan, poplar fluff swirling, drifting up to the knoll, brushing her cheeks and nose, the daylight lighting her face—her skin flawless as jade, almost luminous.

He had grown, and so had Gu Wan—her brows delicate, eyes almond-shaped, features exquisitely beautiful, gentle as water, with a spirited air, her beauty and presence shining together, unmatched.

But Xie Ci saw more than her beauty; regardless of age or appearance, she would always be beautiful to him, irreplaceable in his heart and eyes.

He gently leaned, burying his face in her shoulder.

He felt warmth flooding him, filling him with strength.

After a while, he straightened and whispered, “I’m sorry, Ah Wan. I don’t want to give you the divorce papers anymore.” Nearly kneeling before her, he pleaded, “Will you give me another chance?”

Through hardship, he finally understood just how precious this shoulder was. Xie Ci could not wait another moment, casting aside all pride, caring for nothing else, kneeling and looking up at her, begging.