When the city gates of Linbei City finally came into view, the sky was already completely dark.
Jiang Zechen lifted the carriage curtain, and wind and snow came rushing straight at him, like an invisible hand pressing against his face.
He narrowed his eyes, his gaze passing over the coachman’s shoulder and landing on the plaque above the city gate.
The plaque was new. The wood was still light in color, its edges showing no signs of having been worn down by wind and snow.
The three characters had been carved deeply, the strokes neat and orderly, yet there was no inscription or signature.
“—Linbei City.”
He stared at those three characters without looking away.
He remembered the records in the court documents—the first military city of the Northern Frontier that had been abandoned for many years.
Now it had a new name, a new plaque, and a new flag.
And the person who had changed all of this had never sought permission from the imperial court.
He silently repeated the words “Linbei City” in his mind once.
Then he lowered the curtain without saying a word.
The carriage slowly passed through the city gates.
The wheels rolled over the snow, making faint, fragmented sounds, different from the dull crunch of repeatedly compacted snow on the streets of the capital.
Here, the snow was still loose, as though no one had properly cleared it in a very long time.
Before the carriage had even come to a complete stop, he lifted the curtain and bent down to step out.
When his feet touched the snow, he paused for a moment, surveying his surroundings as though he needed to see the city with his own eyes and confirm what it looked like.
The city walls had indeed been repaired.
Several gaps had been filled with stones of different colors. Some sections had been newly built, while others were merely propped up with wooden beams for the time being, like an old garment that had been patched over and over again.
The roofs of several houses near the city gate had been covered with new tiles, but farther inside, more houses remained collapsed.
Door panels hung crookedly from their frames. Withered grass grew in the courtyards, and snow had fallen over them, pressing them into strange shapes.
There were people moving through the streets, though not many.
Several people wrapped in padded coats stood beneath the eaves. When they saw the carriage, they did not approach. They merely watched in silence, their eyes the same as those of the refugees.
Jiang Zechen did not avoid their gazes. He knew what those eyes were looking at.
His carriage.
His clothes.
His identity.
They were watching to see whether he had come to save them.
Or whether he had merely come to remember what they looked like.
He had originally thought he would see a dying city.
But the city was not dead.
It was simply still in pain.
An official came from inside the city gates, dressed in a dark-blue official robe. He bowed toward Jiang Zechen.
“My lord, this subordinate was ordered to escort you to the administrative office to settle in.”
Jiang Zechen glanced at him and asked nothing, merely nodding.
He followed the official forward. As they passed several streets, he noticed the location of the administrative office—it was more intact than the surrounding buildings. The steps in front had already been swept clean, with no snow accumulated on them.
But the plaque above the entrance did not say “Prefectural Office,” nor did it say “Governor’s Residence.”
Instead, it read:
Northern Frontier Administrative Office.
He stood at the entrance and looked at it for a moment, his footsteps slowing slightly.
He did not ask, “Why isn’t it called the Prefectural Office?”
Because he had already read another meaning in those four characters.
A prefectural office belonged to the imperial court.
An administrative office belonged to themselves.
When he entered the administrative office, his footsteps did not stop.
Several side rooms in the front courtyard were undergoing repairs. The window frames were new, and the doors had not yet been painted.
As he crossed the courtyard, he could hear the steady rhythm of craftsmen hammering in the rear courtyard.
The official led him to the entrance of the council hall, stepped aside to let him pass, and said quietly,
“My lord, please.”
When Jiang Zechen stepped into the council hall, the first thing he saw was the charcoal fire.
Two braziers burned inside the hall. They were not particularly strong, but the temperature was still far higher than outside.
Warmth crept upward from the soles of his feet inch by inch, like some kind of test.
He did not hurry to look at the people inside. Instead, he first swept his gaze across the room.
There were signs of fresh plaster on the walls. Several patches of paint were different in color, as though they had been hastily repaired.
The desks had been wiped clean, and the wood grain along the edges had yet to be worn smooth.
New paper had been pasted over the windows. Light came through, but the edges still showed traces of the repairs.
This council hall had clearly been repaired.
It was neither large nor particularly fine, but it was already the most intact building in the entire city.
And then, at last, he saw Xia Lanshi.
Xia Lanshi stood beside the desk, wrapped in a heavy cloak, a scroll of documents held in his hand.
His complexion remained pale, as white as the snow that had yet to melt from a plum branch, but his pale-red eyes reflected the firelight with crystalline clarity.
He was thinner than Jiang Zechen remembered, like a bamboo stalk that had stood in the wind and snow for far too long.
He looked delicate and fragile, as though he could not withstand even a single bend.
Yet somehow, he was impossibly difficult to break.
The two men stared at each other from opposite sides of half the council hall.
Xia Lanshi smiled first and set down the document in his hand.
His movements were slow and unhurried, as though waiting for Jiang Zechen to speak first, or perhaps as though he simply had no reason to hurry.
“It’s been a long time.”
His voice was exactly as it had been before—not light, not heavy, neither warm nor cold, so soft that it almost sounded like a completely sincere greeting.
Jiang Zechen did not immediately respond. He merely transferred the bamboo fan from his left hand to his right.
After a moment, he finally spoke, his voice calm and devoid of emotion.
“It has been a long time. Three years.”
Then he paused, as though waiting for those words to settle before adding,
“I thought you would die in the Northern Frontier.”
The hall fell silent for an instant.
“Three years.”
Xia Lanshi’s smile did not change, but the smile did not reach his eyes. He merely repeated the number.
He placed the document back on the desk, then raised his eyes. In the firelight, his pale-red irises resembled two pieces of cinnabar polished smooth, revealing nothing of his emotions.
“I thought you would die in the Eastern Palace.”
His tone was gentle, as though he were talking about something that had nothing to do with either of them.
The two sentences fell into the air of the council hall like two chess pieces landing simultaneously.
Both men understood.
The other was still the same person he had been before.
The hall fell briefly silent again.
Only then did Xia Lanshi turn slightly to the side and tilt his head, as though finally remembering something. In a casual tone, he added,
“His Highness is in the rear hall. Please.”
As Jiang Zechen crossed the council hall, his gaze swept over the furnishings as though confirming something.
He saw no screen, nor any unnecessary decoration.
Almost none at all.
Only a map of the Northern Frontier hung on the wall. Mountains, rivers, and cities were marked with ink lines, while place names and distances were written in tiny characters along the edges.
His gaze swept across the map, pausing for the briefest instant on the three characters “Linbei City,” before moving away.
Xiao Yuan sat in the seat of honor. He had changed into another outer robe, though a patch of unmelted snow still clung to his shoulder.
He did not stand.
He did not even shift his body.
When Jiang Zechen entered, he merely turned his head slightly, as though looking at a problem whose answer he already knew.
Jiang Zechen stopped and bowed.
“Your Highness, this subject Jiang Zechen pays his respects to the Prince of Su.”
Xiao Yuan did not respond immediately.
His gaze swept over the bamboo fan in Jiang Zechen’s hand before moving away.
“Lord Jiang, you have had a difficult journey,” he said. His tone was flat, neither welcoming nor hostile. “The Northern Frontier is different from the capital. The wind and snow are greater than you imagine.”
When Jiang Zechen raised his head, he happened to see a figure emerge from behind the screen beside Xiao Yuan.
Chi Banyue wore a thin, water-pink blouse with a translucent gauze robe draped over it. Her long hair fell over her shoulders.
Her steps were light and graceful. With every step, it seemed as though fragrance spread through the air, like a newly opened flower that someone had brushed with their hand, scattering pollen throughout the room.
She walked gracefully to Xiao Yuan’s side and tilted her head, giving Jiang Zechen a glance as though looking at something that was not particularly interesting, but still somewhat fresh.
Jiang Zechen’s brow ridge was slightly high, his eyes narrow and elongated at the corners, his irises dark. Whenever he looked at someone, there was always an understated quality of scrutiny in his gaze.
His face could not be called handsome, but it was exceedingly proper and dignified, like the portrait of a virtuous minister enshrined in a scholar’s shrine.
Chi Banyue smiled brightly and asked softly,
“So this is the lord who came from the capital?”
Xiao Yuan said, “Mm.”
“He doesn’t look nearly as frightening as the rumors say.”
Her voice was not loud, but the end of her sentence rose slightly.
“Your Highness, it’s cold in here. When are we going back?”
Xiao Yuan did not look at her.
“Don’t make a fuss.”
“But I’m cold.”
She did not move away. Instead, she leaned closer to Xiao Yuan’s side, her fingertips lightly resting against the edge of his sleeve.
The movement was not forceful, yet it happened to cover the hook of the sword at his waist, preventing outsiders from seeing where the weapon was positioned.
The gesture was so natural that it looked like nothing more than coquettish affection.
Ordinary.
Yet it was precise enough to resemble a move in a game of chess.
Jiang Zechen shifted his gaze away.
He did not dare look directly at Chi Banyue.
While in the capital, he had heard the rumors about the Prince of Su—dissolute, lustful, spoiled, constantly surrounded by beautiful women, neglecting his proper duties.
Originally, he had believed only half of them.
But after seeing this with his own eyes, he suddenly felt that the rumors might be closer to the truth than he had imagined.
For this man to have managed matters to this point, it was probably Xia Lanshi who had been carrying the burden for him.
But Jiang Zechen did not dare lower his guard.
They had been classmates.
In Jiang Zechen’s memory, Xiao Yuan was not merely this.
Xiao Yuan was absolutely not incompetent.
“There is one matter I would like to ask about,” he said. “The plaque above the city gate bears the words ‘Linbei City.’”
Xia Lanshi stood beside the desk. Hearing this, he did not respond immediately.
Jiang Zechen continued,
“As far as this subject knows, according to the court documents, this city is still officially called the ‘First Military City of the Northern Frontier.’ The court has received no memorial concerning any renaming.”
His tone was calm. There was no questioning in it.
He was merely stating a fact.
But the words “the court has received no memorial” were already clear enough.
Xiao Yuan had not submitted a memorial.
Nor had he sought permission.
Xia Lanshi was silent for a very brief moment.
So brief that it was almost like he had merely taken another breath.
Then he spoke, his tone as gentle as though he were explaining something exceedingly simple.
“Lord Jiang refers to the ‘First Military City of the Northern Frontier.’ That city indeed still exists.”
He paused.
“But on your journey north, you should have seen the conditions along the way. Twenty years ago, the First Military City of the Northern Frontier was breached. Seventy percent of its walls collapsed, nearly all of the buildings inside the city were destroyed, the people scattered, the household registers were lost, and the government treasury was empty.”
He turned slightly, as though inviting Jiang Zechen to look carefully at the council hall around him.
“The city you see now was not rebuilt as that same city—it was newly constructed upon its ruins. The new city has not yet been officially named. In the past, ordinary people called it the Ghost City of the Northern Frontier. Nowadays, the people who live here have grown accustomed to calling it Linbei City. Over time, it simply became the common name.”
Jiang Zechen did not immediately respond.
He knew Xia Lanshi was talking around the issue.
He also knew that Xiao Yuan had not submitted a memorial, while Xia Lanshi had turned “renaming” into “the gradual formation of a new city.”
Rebuilding an abandoned city indeed did not require a request for permission from the imperial court.
And once a new city had formed, it was only natural for a common name to circulate among the people.
He could not refute it.
That city had indeed been abandoned for many years. The court had provided no funds for its reconstruction and had not even sent anyone to inspect it.
Now someone had rebuilt it and given it a new name.
That was simply a fact.
There was no denying it.
“If the new city has been established, is there a document formally establishing the city?”
“Not yet. We are preparing the memorial.”
“……”
Xia Lanshi said gently,
“The memorial has already been drafted. Although the city has not yet been completely constructed, since my lord has brought it up, and the people have already grown accustomed to using the name Linbei City, we may as well use that name in the memorial.”
“……But the prefectural office has become the ‘Northern Frontier Administrative Office,’” Jiang Zechen said. “That should not be a name the common people simply became accustomed to using.”
Xia Lanshi smiled faintly, his tone still gentle.
“The prefectural office was completely destroyed in the war long ago. Even its foundations were leveled. The beams of this administrative office were rebuilt using a batch of timber left over from the Northern Frontier Army.”
“This place was indeed once the prefectural office, but it is no longer the same building. You could call it a prefectural office, but it does not have the beams and pillars of a prefectural office. You could call it an administrative office, but it does not meet the formal specifications of one either.”
“It is merely a temporary place for conducting official business. What it is called does not actually affect what it carries out.”
He paused, his tone unchanged.
“The laws of the imperial court do not stipulate that a governor’s place of residence must be called a prefectural office. If Lord Jiang considers it inappropriate, we can immediately rename it the ‘Office of Affairs,’ or perhaps the ‘Temporary Administrative Hall.’”
Jiang Zechen said nothing.
He knew Xia Lanshi was arguing sophistically, exploiting loopholes in the law.
This was not an accidental misnomer.
It was a calculated decision.
But he could not find anything wrong with it, because the laws indeed did not stipulate that a governor’s residence had to be called a prefectural office.
He was silent for a moment before looking toward Xiao Yuan.
“I thought Your Highness would explain this personally.”
Xiao Yuan answered indifferently,
“I am not good at this.”
Then he raised his eyes slightly.
“Huaiyu is better at talking than I am.”
Jiang Zechen did not press further.
He had already received an answer.
It was not the answer he wanted, but it was enough to confirm one thing:
Everything in this city was within Xia Lanshi’s calculations.
He tightened his grip on the bamboo fan and brought the subject to a close.
“My thanks, Lord Xia, Chief Administrator.”
He said nothing more.
He merely recorded that plaque in his mind, along with the words:
“If Lord Jiang considers it inappropriate, we can immediately rename it.”
He knew exactly what those words meant.
You may impeach me, but you cannot win.
“This subject has been ordered to inspect the relief efforts in the Northern Frontier and will be temporarily stationed in Linbei City.” Jiang Zechen withdrew his gaze. “I ask that Your Highness arrange a place for me to stay.”
Xiao Yuan did not answer immediately.
But Jiang Zechen noticed that his gaze shifted less than an inch toward Xia Lanshi.
Xiao Yuan spoke, his tone still flat.
“Huaiyu, you arrange it.”
Xia Lanshi said gently from the side,
“The administrative office has not yet been fully repaired. The southern courtyard is still under construction and cannot be occupied for the time being. His Highness and I are also temporarily staying in military tents.”
He paused, as though considering something.
“There is a courtyard outside the city that has already been cleaned up. It is simple, but it can keep out the wind and snow. If Lord Jiang does not mind, you may stay there temporarily.”
Jiang Zechen looked at him without immediately answering.
He was not certain whether what Xia Lanshi said was true, but at least half of it was a lie.
There was one thing he could be certain of.
Xia Lanshi did not want him staying in the administrative office.
“That would be excellent. My thanks, Lord Xia, Chief Administrator,” Jiang Zechen said, his tone so calm that it was as though he had not noticed the lie.
Xia Lanshi smiled and nodded, as though he had received a satisfactory answer.
That smile was just as gentle as it had been three years ago.
So gentle that it was impossible to tell what he was calculating.
A personal guard led Jiang Zechen toward the entrance of the administrative office.
When he left the council hall, his footsteps slowed slightly.
The wind beneath the corridor was colder than before, as though the city itself were testing the limits of his endurance.
He held the bamboo fan in his hand.
He did not look back.
Nor did he quicken his pace.
He knew Xia Lanshi was watching the direction in which he left.
And he also knew that Chi Banyue—the woman who had still been acting coy moments ago—had most likely already put away that delicate, coquettish expression.
She was probably looking at his back with an entirely different gaze now.
But he did not turn around.
Those were all things they wanted him to see.
What he wanted to see was hidden in the places they did not want him to see.
That city.
That flag.
There would be answers to all of it.