Lang Tao Xuejin galloped away from the camp but didn’t go far. It stopped on a snowy slope at the northern edge of Chashi Sinkhole. The snow mist was damp, and Shen Zechuan felt as though he were standing upon a vast, hazy lake—everywhere he looked was white.
Xiao Chiye swung down from his horse and removed his helmet. Sweat clung to his temples, his breath slightly uneven, his brows brimming with youthful vigor. “Can you see Duanzhou?”
Holding the reins of Lang Tao Xuejin, Shen Zechuan passed him a blue handkerchief from his sleeve. Through the white vapor of their breath, he could barely make out the watchtower of an abandoned relay station in the distance. But he understood Xiao Chiye’s exhilaration. “Right now, looking at Duanzhou feels like looking into my own pocket.”
Xiao Chiye lifted his chin slightly. Sweat trickled down as he smiled. Shen Zechuan looked at him and realized that he still carried the same untamed arrogance he had in Qudu—an air that made Shen Zechuan want to claim him.
Shen Zechuan leaned in, his breath brushing against Xiao Chiye’s cheek. Their noses nearly touched as he moved along Xiao Chiye’s temple, finally getting what he wanted—he licked the sweat from Xiao Chiye’s skin. The bitter, salty moisture melted between his teeth. As his throat bobbed, he said, “From now on, this place is your racetrack, Xiao Ce’an.”
Xiao Chiye raised a hand and covered the back of Shen Zechuan’s neck. His iron finger guards, not yet removed, were cold and hard against the soft, pale skin, leaving a blade-like sensation.
“I don’t want a racetrack.” Xiao Chiye’s straight nose brushed lightly along the path Shen Zechuan had just traced. He stared into Shen Zechuan’s half-lidded, affectionate eyes and said dangerously, “I want Shen Lanzhou.”
Shen Zechuan blew a warm breath across the space between them. Xiao Chiye thought he was about to be kissed—but instead, Shen Lanzhou seized the moment to snatch the blue handkerchief back from Xiao Chiye’s hand. He sat upright again and wrapped his cloak tightly around himself. The cold-sensitive Prefect revealed only his eyes; even the tips of his ears were red. In a muffled voice, he said, “Shen Lanzhou is freezing to death.”
Xiao Chiye was left empty-handed, still not quite reacting.
Seeing his expression shift several times, Shen Zechuan sensed he might make a grab for him. He immediately flicked the reins, urging Lang Tao Xuejin to head back. Xiao Chiye held his helmet, the damp warmth where he’d been licked still lingering at his temple. He touched it, feeling like a respectable young man who had just been taken advantage of, and slowly grew annoyed.
“Shen Lanzhou…” Xiao Chiye watched him ride off, then strode after him, sliding down the snowy slope. “Heartless bastard!”
Late at night, the courtyard lay silent.
Xiao Chiye had just finished washing and was sorting through the jewelry in a box by candlelight. Shen Zechuan’s folding fan rested on the table; he himself was still soaking in the bath.
“In a few days, the horses will reach Luoshan,” Xiao Chiye said, picking up an agate bead he had placed there the day before. “Do you want to come with me to take a look?”
Shen Zechuan had been exhausted these past few days. Though he hadn’t fallen ill again, he hadn’t touched Yangshan Snow either. Submerged in the water, he replied, “Luoshan is worth going to. From there, it’ll also be convenient for you to head back to Libei.”
Time had passed quickly—after just a few discussions, it was already late February. Shen Zechuan leaned back with his head tilted, eyes closed in thought. The line of his neck was elegant, glowing softly through the dim light behind the screen.
“Have you chosen someone to oversee Duanzhou?” Xiao Chiye asked casually, rolling the agate bead between his fingers.
“Yes,” Shen Zechuan replied. “I’ve picked a capable person.”
Xiao Chiye looked over. “Kong Chengfeng?”
Shen Zechuan raised a wet hand to prop his head, glancing sideways at Xiao Chiye’s silhouette. “No. Guess again.”
“Yuan Zhuo isn’t mobile enough—he’s not suitable,” Xiao Chiye said after thinking. “Then who?”
Shen Zechuan stood up, drying himself with a cloth. Xiao Chiye didn’t look over. Shen Zechuan lifted the freshly washed blue handkerchief to his nose and lightly inhaled its scent before saying, “Shen Lanzhou.”
Duanzhou needed to become the strongest wall of Zhongbo. With Luoshan connecting to Libei, Shen Zechuan didn’t trust anyone else with it—he had to stay here himself and build that wall with his own hands. From Duanzhou, one could bypass Tianfei Que to reach the frontier commanderies. The location was excellent. Establishing a supply hub here comparable to Cizhou would allow him to support both northern and southern battlefronts in the future.
“Do you remember ‘Steel Needle’?” Shen Zechuan set the cloth aside, his fingers lingering a moment. “Qiao Tianya would be the best commander, but he still needs to care for Yuan Zhuo and can’t leave Cizhou. If I put Fei Sheng here instead… this place is far from central authority, and without anyone to keep him in check, I don’t trust it.”
“Steel Needle” was light cavalry—positioned by the Chashi River as eyes and ears, stationed in Duanzhou, a strategic hub between two regions. Whoever commanded here would oversee both military and civil affairs. After spring, when the Yan family’s trade expanded into the area, silver would flow through their hands—and Yan He’ru was no honest man.
Shen Zechuan had no particular complaints about Fei Sheng, but how long that loyalty would last was something he had to weigh. He couldn’t stake everything on shared life-and-death bonds. A year or two might be fine—but if Fei Sheng stayed long enough to taste the benefits of this crossroads, holding Steel Needle in his hand, with Yan He’ru constantly currying favor, then how much of that original loyalty would remain? By then, Shen Zechuan would no longer be Fei Sheng’s only support. Even the slightest ambition would become dangerous.
Power was not something that could be given wholly to one person. Qi Huilian had warned him long ago in Zhaozui Temple: the foundation of strategy lay in balance. To command many was like overseeing a game—you could never allow personal bias to tip the scales.
Shen Zechuan draped on a robe and stepped out from behind the screen.
Xiao Chiye sat at the edge of the table, legs stretched out. Hearing his footsteps, he closed his hand around the agate bead and hid it away. Looking at Shen Zechuan, he said, “I have something to discuss with you.”
Shen Zechuan’s belt hung loosely. As he stepped onto the carpet, the sensation tickled his feet slightly. His collarbone exposed, he sipped his tea and nodded for Xiao Chiye to continue.
Xiao Chiye said, “The steppe ponies we captured will also be sent to Luoshan. If you want light cavalry, try these—they’re faster than Libei warhorses and have great endurance on the Gobi.”
Shen Zechuan held his teacup, thinking for a moment.
“Libei can’t use these horses,” Xiao Chiye continued. “Our warhorses are bred beneath Hongyan Mountain, made for heavy cavalry. Generations of breeding made them capable of bearing armor.”
“For now, let Fei Sheng oversee the steppe horses here,” Shen Zechuan said. “We’ll use the horse grounds A’chi left behind.”
“That’s my racetrack.” Xiao Chiye reached out and pinched Shen Zechuan’s chin. “When are you going to give me Shen Lanzhou?”
Under that grip, Shen Zechuan recalled the feel of Xiao Chiye’s iron fingers against the back of his neck—the hard, unyielding touch. His breathing faltered. He tried to avert his gaze, but Xiao Chiye held him fast. The room was warm, and after his bath, faint beads of sweat appeared at his temples.
Xiao Chiye stared at him, leaning closer. “When I touched you that day,” he said softly, “you were excited, weren’t you, Prefect?”