In winter, fresh vegetables were scarce. Now in Qu Dou, even green vegetables sold at high prices. Thanks to Li Jianheng’s reward, tonight’s table included a dish of crisp cucumber shreds.
“A small side to refresh the palate and clear the heaviness,” Xiao Chiye said, ladling a bowl of hot soup toward Shen Zechuan. “You’ve been standing outside so long. Warm yourself, eat something light, then rest.”
“There’s an old saying,” Shen Zechuan said, wiping his hands as he sat, “if someone is overly attentive without cause, he is either villain or thief. Second Master, what are your orders?”
“There’s plenty to order,” Xiao Chiye replied. “Eat while I explain.”
They began eating together.
Alone in the room, the two bowls of rice were soon empty, and the cucumber shreds finished. They barely touched the meat dishes.
“The New Year is approaching. My master will enter the city,” Xiao Chiye said between sips. “If Master Ji Gang has time, the two elders could meet him.”
“New Year greetings or a Hongmen banquet? That must be clear first,” Shen Zechuan said, setting down his chopsticks. “My master does not take part in schemes.”
“New Year greetings,” Xiao Chiye said. “By this generation, only the two remain of the Ji family. They haven’t met in years.”
“All right,” Shen Zechuan said. “I’ll prepare a proper gift and ask my master to step out.” He rose after finishing.
Xiao Chiye told him, “You’ll still rest in my room tonight.”
Shen Zechuan glanced back and smiled. “Naturally I won’t run. Let’s stagger the baths. You eat slowly; I’ll go first.”
He lifted the curtain and went to wash.
Xiao Chiye had the table cleared, then stood by the window, watching the falling snow. Tilting his head, he glimpsed Shen Zechuan’s shadow through the hazy curtain.
Shen Zechuan had removed his outer coat, like peeling away a rough shell to reveal the tender flesh beneath. As he unfastened his belt, the curve at his nape caught the amber light, as if to restore a delicate touch to that smooth skin.
Through the curtain, it was like scratching through boots—desire magnified, scattered, roaming without purpose through every limb, stirring an uncontrollable, almost violent craving. A person of jade alone meant little; what Xiao Chiye cared most for was Shen Zechuan’s desire itself.
Those eyes, that smile—he seemed to deliberately, and yet carelessly, radiate lust.
“Come hold me.”
“Come touch me.”
“Come sweat freely with me.”
This desire fell like fine rain—nonaggressive, yet it penetrated unknowingly. Shen Zechuan himself seemed unaware, leaving a coldness opposite to the lust, tossing this extreme contradiction lightly aside for others to ponder.
Xiao Chiye didn’t want to think further. He sensed this “eagle” was not so easily tamed. Shen Zechuan could only be his own master; he could not endure repeatedly rousing such impulses in himself.
Xiao Chiye turned from the window, closed it, and went to the bath.
They slept on opposite sides of the stepping platform, back to back, breaths steady, seemingly asleep.
Xiao Chiye held the bone ring, recalling many things.
This ring was not originally his. It belonged to Feng Yisheng of Suotian Pass, who died in battle, leaving it to Zuo Qianqiu. Zuo Qianqiu wore it when he gained fame at Tianfei Que, shooting his own wife.
His hair turned white, his spirit broken. His hands, once instrumental in his great victory, could no longer draw a bow with ease. Fame came, but the man perished.
Xiao Chiye had asked Zuo Qianqiu as a child: “Why did you shoot your wife?”
Grinding the string, Zuo Qianqiu said: “Do you really want to become a general?”
Xiao Chiye nodded.
“Then don’t start a family. A general may die in countless battles; that is not so frightening. What is frightening is that one in command must face choices. What you desire and what you must bear are entirely different.”
Zuo Qianqiu looked at his bow, wind stirring his white hair, and said: “I hope you never face such a dilemma. At that point, no matter the choice, death comes.”
“You saved tens of thousands at Tianfei Que,” Xiao Chiye said, leaning on the railing, “why not take a title?”
Zuo Qianqiu smiled. “Because I died in action.”
Only in his teens did Xiao Chiye understand. During the battle of Tianfei Que, Zuo Qianqiu’s wife was captured. In choosing between surrender or desperate battle, he chose neither—he left the city alone, drawing his bow to kill his own wife.
Legend says that arrow was the most precise shot of his life, striking the vital point amid thousands. That night, heavy rain fell; no one knew if he wept aloud or when his hair turned white. By dawn, the soldiers retreated, and he collected his wife’s body.
Henceforth, “Lei Chen Yutai, Zuo Qianqiu” became renowned. Those who respected him secretly cursed him. A man so resolute seemed a force of nature—cold, ruthless.
Xiao Chiye treasured this ring, yet feared it. He feared the day he might face impossible choices, so he never spoke lightly of liking anything.
Even Chen Yang, after all these years, did not know his preferences: which wine, what dishes, what clothes—truth and falsehood intermingled beyond recognition.
Li Bei. Li Bei.
Those words alone seemed his vulnerable point. He had already felt the pain of being enslaved by desire—how could he seek more trouble for himself?
Silently, Xiao Chiye sat up, looking at Shen Zechuan. With a small motion, he could suppress this lust entirely.
Shen Zechuan seemed plunged into a nightmare, brow furrowed, temples wet with cold sweat, back dampened.
Xiao Chiye leaned over, seeing a Shen Zechuan he had never seen before.
Shen Zechuan sank into a tide of blood, soaked to the skin. He touched himself—it was blood. Every night, the dream repeated, driving him near madness.
Shen Zechuan twitched slightly; his tightly pressed lips slowly relaxed, mumbling incoherently through cold sweat.
He was utterly helpless.
Xiao Chiye, awakened, sensed something else within that profound fear. He studied Shen Zechuan like a great beast observing prey.
Shen Zechuan was not invincible. Beyond the unspeakable tests and caution, they shared a deeper kinship of suffering.
Shen Zechuan was exhausted. He no longer wept in dreams, no longer clawed at corpses. He accepted the nightmare; he knew Ji Mu was dead.
Hurry.
Shen Zechuan seemed a detached observer.
Hurry and end it.
He urged violently, darkly, wishing the blood to pour more, the snow to fall harder. How else to display this nightmare? He feared nothing—the flesh and bone had rotted! A wild dog gnawing at carrion, the filth and hatred were proof of survival.
Shen Zechuan suddenly opened his eyes, pressing a hand against Xiao Chiye’s chest. In moments, sweating cold, he said, “Can’t sleep?”
Xiao Chiye’s chest burned beneath thin fabric; he felt Shen Zechuan’s icy hand. “Ate too much,” he said.
Shen Zechuan said, “Seeing someone at midnight—cowards should be scared to death.”
“I heard you calling me,” Xiao Chiye said calmly. “Must know if you were cursing me.”
“I don’t curse you in dreams.” Shen Zechuan tried to withdraw his hand, scorched to his fingertips.
Xiao Chiye pressed it back. “Cold?”
Still wet at the temples, Shen Zechuan smiled faintly. “Yes, I’m cold.”
He returned to the seductive Shen Lanzhou, indifferent to whether Xiao Chiye was tempted. It was a natural gift, a bad man’s skill.
Xiao Chiye held his hand, pressing him to the headboard, inhaling his scent in the dim light. “You sleep on my bed, knowing what I think every night. You say I am formidable—Shen Lanzhou, the formidable one is you.”
“Ah… what to do?” Shen Zechuan murmured hoarsely, indifferent. “I did nothing.”
“I want to,” Xiao Chiye said, lowering his head. “I want to.”
“Find another way for me to die,” Shen Zechuan allowed him to grasp his hands. “Dying in bed is too tame.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” Xiao Chiye’s free hand brushed through Shen Zechuan’s damp hair like appraising treasure. “I don’t want you to die.”
“Better not bite this neck,” Shen Zechuan warned.
“Lanzhou,” Xiao Chiye sighed, teasing, “if I don’t bite, will you forgive me?”
Shen Zechuan looked at him.
“Does teasing me delight you?” Xiao Chiye asked.
“Delight,” Shen Zechuan said, sensing Xiao Chiye approaching. “Seeing a little wolf helplessly at a loss—it pleases me.”
“Then we can delight further,” Xiao Chiye said. “The Empress Dowager endured silently. What did she promise you? Throw that aside, Lanzhou, I’ll give more.”
“Mm…” Shen Zechuan smiled. “I guess freedom isn’t part of your gift. Xiao Er, you never notice that everything you want is in your eyes. You want to lock me up now, don’t you?”
“I want a golden chain,” Xiao Chiye said. “Too bad this neck wears nothing.”
“Dog chains were made for wolves,” Shen Zechuan whispered nose to nose. “I also want a gold chain, around your neck, tugging once for every word.”
“No,” Xiao Chiye raised a brow. “Your salary wouldn’t cover it.”
Their noses nearly touched. Xiao Chiye’s ring pressed against Shen Zechuan’s wrist, reddening the skin.
“Since it’s already—”
Shen Zechuan lifted his head and pressed a kiss to his lips. Soft, cool, mocking.
“Do you want to go mad?” Shen Zechuan murmured with wild eyes. “Do you dare? Tear me apart, Xiao Er! I don’t care.”
The taut string in Xiao Chiye snapped. The pent-up tide burst forth. He pressed down amidst the teasing, kissing as if biting Shen Zechuan.
Lust mingled with killing intent, hatred entwined with pity. Who was more detestable, who more pitiable?
Moist lips met in tangled tongues. Xiao Chiye kissed; Shen Zechuan responded with all his might. There were suggestive licks and touches; desire consumed two broken people.
Xiao Chiye suddenly released his grip on Shen Zechuan’s wrist, lifting him fully to press together.
Mutual hatred.
Smearing each other with their filth, letting hatred become an inseparable thread. Life was too painful otherwise. In the black night, only one could hear the roaring—better to bite together, bloody, as reliance.
This life was already rotten enough.