The day Jiang Zechen left, the wind and snow happened to stop.
The northern frontier rarely gave people weather like this in winter.
After the snow stopped, the sky was pale blue, very pale, with a few faint gray traces of clouds remaining along the edges.
The snowy road outside the city gate had been cleared, revealing the gravel road beneath. When the wheels rolled over it, they made a faint, crisp sound that was especially clear in the silent early morning.
The convoy was already waiting outside the city gate.
Three carriages and more than a dozen accompanying soldiers. They carried little luggage, just as lightly equipped as when they had arrived.
Jiang Zechen stood at the city gate and looked back at Linbei City one last time.
The snow accumulated on the city walls was still there. The plaque above the city gate remained the color of fresh wood, with the three characters “Linbei City” carved into it, still without a signature.
When he withdrew his gaze, he saw Xia Lanshi walking out from the inner side of the city gate.
Xia Lanshi was not carrying an umbrella today.
He wore that thick white fox-fur cloak, his steps slightly slower than usual, as though he was in no hurry to reach anywhere.
The snowlight reflected off his face, making that unhealthy pallor appear even more pronounced.
When he reached the edge of the city gate, he stopped and did not move forward, as if he had already decided that this was as far as he would escort him.
The two stood several steps apart for a while.
The wind blew in from outside the city gate, gently lifting a few strands of white hair at Xia Lanshi’s temples. He did not raise his hand to brush them aside, merely standing there quietly, like a shadow that would never take the initiative to approach.
It was still Jiang Zechen who spoke first.
“Lord Xia, the Director of the Chief Secretariat.” His voice was lower than usual, the wind cutting away its final notes. “Did you come to see me off, or to see whether I would look back?”
Xia Lanshi turned his head slightly, as though considering how to answer the question.
After a moment, he smiled.
The smile was faint, so faint that it could almost only be discerned from the curve of his lips, yet there was no trace of perfunctoriness in it.
“Neither,” he said. “I merely came to see off an old acquaintance.”
The words “old acquaintance” fell into the wind, and Jiang Zechen’s movements stopped for an instant.
The hand he had been about to extend for the reins hovered in midair, as if those words had gently blocked him.
An old acquaintance.
Not a friend.
Not an enemy.
Not a colleague.
Simply an old acquaintance.
That person who had once studied at the same academy, written poetry on snowy nights, and received different gifts before the Grand Tutor.
He did not respond to those two words. Instead, he withdrew his hand slightly and turned to look toward the distant point where the snowline met the horizon.
After a period of silence, he asked about something he had been thinking about for a long time.
“You knew from the beginning that I would alter the memorial?”
Xia Lanshi neither confirmed nor denied it.
He thought for a moment. “I did not know.”
Jiang Zechen frowned slightly and turned to look at him. “Then why did you let me keep investigating?”
Xia Lanshi raised his eyes. His pale red irises appeared even lighter in the snowlight, like two pieces of cinnabar polished until they were almost translucent, hazy yet clear.
When he answered, his tone was calm, as though stating a principle that required no proof.
“Because if Lord Jiang does not see it with his own eyes, no matter how many words anyone else says, they will be useless.”
Jiang Zechen did not argue.
That was indeed the case.
Silence spread between them like a thin layer of snow falling soundlessly.
The wind came from deep within the wilderness, causing the silver wolf banner above the city gate to flutter slightly with a low, muffled snapping sound.
The bamboo fan in Jiang Zechen’s hand slowly turned half a circle, the fan ribs making an almost inaudible click between his fingers.
“You… used me.”
He said it.
There was no anger or accusation in those words, more like a conclusion that had already been confirmed and was finally being spoken aloud.
Xia Lanshi was silent for a moment.
Then he spoke, his voice slightly softer, as though admitting something he could have chosen not to admit.
“Yes. I used you to investigate Madam Tingxue. To investigate the Guichen Medical Sect. I used you to restore the northern frontier’s reputation.”
He raised his eyes to look at Jiang Zechen without evasion.
“If Lord Jiang resents me for this, then I will bear it.”
Jiang Zechen looked at him and fell silent.
He had not expected Xia Lanshi to admit it.
Not because the matter could not be hidden, but because Xia Lanshi had never been someone who willingly confessed anything.
He was more accustomed to placing every word in a calculated position. Even his silences carried weight.
But at this moment, he admitted it.
Without embellishment, without leaving a way out that would allow both sides to retreat with dignity.
Jiang Zechen remained silent for a long time.
Long enough for the wind to blow his cloak several times, and for the horses outside the city gate to impatiently stamp their forehooves.
“I was indeed used by you.” Jiang Zechen revealed a faint, bitter smile. “But those things also truly existed.”
When those words fell, neither of them spoke.
Those things truly existed: the Guichen Medical Sect truly existed; the medicinal herbs had truly been delivered to the northern frontier; the infected refugees had truly been settled; and the grain had truly entered Linbei City’s warehouses.
He had not written that memorial because he had been deceived. He had merely been guided to a position where he believed he could see the whole picture, and then chosen to write those words himself.
Xia Lanshi had not forced him. He had willingly written that memorial.
What formidable methods.
He said nothing more, merely tightening his grip slightly around the bamboo fan in his hand.
Xia Lanshi did not respond either, simply standing quietly where he was.
The wind blew again, shifting the remaining snow inside and outside the city gate slightly.
When Jiang Zechen took hold of the reins, his movements were steadier than before.
He did not immediately mount his horse. Instead, he turned to look at Xia Lanshi, his tone returning to its usual composure.
“Lord Xia, Director of the Chief Secretariat, can we consider things between us even?”
Xia Lanshi tilted his head slightly, as though seriously considering the question.
Then he answered gently, “Neither of us has ever owed the other anything. How could there be anything to settle?”
“But if we insist on putting it that way?”
The corners of Xia Lanshi’s lips lifted slightly, and there was a warmth in his tone that he rarely revealed.
“If we insist on putting it that way, Lord Jiang came here without knowing what the northern frontier truly was, and leaves having seen its people. That is more worthwhile than settling accounts.”
Jiang Zechen did not continue the topic.
Because he already knew that Xia Lanshi held no resentment toward him at all, and yet this somehow left a trace of melancholy in his heart.
To Xia Lanshi, he was merely an old acquaintance.
Nothing more.
He mounted his horse, his movements swift and neat.
Xia Lanshi’s voice came from behind him.
“Lord Jiang, I hope you will continue to write the truth in the future.”
Jiang Zechen’s movements paused. He did not turn back, but neither did he urge his horse forward.
“Only…” Xia Lanshi continued, as though adding a reminder, or perhaps sending him something he believed Jiang Zechen ought to take with him. “Next time, go and see for yourself first.”
Jiang Zechen remained silent, repeatedly turning those words over in his mind.
Go and see for yourself first.
In the past, he had written first and investigated afterward.
He believed in rules. He believed in documents. He believed in words that had already been written on paper.
He thought that whatever was written on paper was the truth.
Until he stood in that empty village and finally understood that the things not written on paper were the real truth.
“Lord Xia, do you trust me?” His voice was so low that it was almost drowned out by the wind.
As the wind passed through the city gate, it lifted the hem of Xia Lanshi’s robes.
“Before, I did not. But now, I trust that Lord Jiang will not write about things he does not know.”
A faint smile hung on his face, illusory, like a phantom formed by the reflection of snowlight. Very faint.
It reminded Jiang Zechen of the first time he had met Xia Lanshi.
During the first snowfall at the academy.
That child had been so white that he was almost indistinguishable from the snow.
As though he were an immortal spirit born of winter.
Like an untimely snowfall, leaving an unforgettable impression.
Only many years later did Jiang Zechen realize that his gaze had long been following Xia Lanshi without him even noticing.
Jiang Zechen did not respond to those words.
But his thumb gently pressed against the edge of the bamboo fan, committing those words to the depths of his heart.
He tightened the reins, and the horse began moving forward.
The sound of hooves and wheels rolling over the snowy road resembled a distance slowly being drawn open.
He did not look back, but on horseback, he sat a little straighter than when he had arrived.
Xia Lanshi stood at the city gate, watching the convoy slowly travel south along the snowy road, gradually shrinking in the thin morning light.
He saw Jiang Zechen’s figure on horseback. Within the outline of his cloak, he appeared somewhat steadier than when he had arrived, like someone who had been recalibrated.
Just as Jiang Zechen’s horse was about to pass the first bend outside the city gate, Xia Lanshi’s voice came from behind.
The wind had blurred it slightly, but it remained clear.
“Lord Jiang.”
Jiang Zechen pulled on the reins and turned his head.
Xia Lanshi stood beneath the city gate.
“Your younger sister will be safe.”
Jiang Zechen froze completely.
The fingers gripping the reins tightened for an instant, as though those words had gently pierced a place he himself did not dare touch.
He had never told anyone about his sister being controlled by the Crown Prince.
He had never mentioned it before anyone.
Yet Xia Lanshi knew.
He remained silent for a long time, so long that even the soldiers beside him lowered their heads, as though afraid to interrupt the silence.
Then he dismounted and turned to face Xia Lanshi.
He said nothing, merely raising both hands and bowing slightly.
That bow was deeper than any he had ever made before.
It was not an official courtesy, but a genuine expression of respect from one person to another.
Xia Lanshi did not avoid his gaze, nor did he return the bow. He simply stood where he was.
When Jiang Zechen mounted his horse again, he did not look back.
The convoy traveled south along the snowy road, its wheel tracks leaving two parallel lines in the snow. They gradually narrowed, eventually disappearing at the boundary between the morning light and the snowline.
Xia Lanshi stood at the city gate, waiting until the convoy had completely vanished before withdrawing his gaze.
The wind blew past, disheveling a few strands of white hair at his temples.
A guard beside him approached and asked quietly, “Lord Chief Secretary, are you truly at ease with him?”
Xia Lanshi gazed at the empty snowy road and remained silent for a moment before answering.
“It is more dangerous for him to return to the capital than to remain in the northern frontier.”
He paused, as though adding something even he was not entirely certain of.
“But in the end, he still went back.”
The guard did not ask further, bowing and stepping aside.
Xia Lanshi turned and walked back inside the city gate, his steps slightly slower than before, as though allowing that snowy road to remain behind him a little longer.
◆◇◆◇◆
When Xia Lanshi returned to the administrative office, Xiao Yuan was standing in the courtyard.
Most of the northern frontier administrative office had already been completed. They no longer needed to continue living in tents.
He had not entered the room or reviewed any documents. He merely stood beneath the corridor, gazing toward the northern sky.
The snow had stopped, but the clouds still hung low.
Xiao Yuan heard the approaching footsteps and did not turn around.
“He’s gone?”
Xia Lanshi stopped beside him. “He’s gone.”
Xiao Yuan remained silent for a moment.
The wind passed beneath the corridor, lifting the edge of his black cloak slightly, but the small amount of cold was something he had long grown accustomed to.
When he spoke, his voice carried the calmness of an observer.
“Can he make it back to the capital alive?”
Xia Lanshi did not answer immediately.
Standing beside Xiao Yuan, his gaze rested on the distant horizon, as though measuring a distance he could not completely predict.
There were too many variables along that road.
Eastern Palace spies, checkpoints along the route, accusations that could fall upon him at any moment in the capital.
Every step required enough luck not to be crushed beneath it.
And Jiang Zechen himself understood this clearly.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “But if he survives, the Great Sheng court will have one more person who has truly seen the northern frontier.”
Xiao Yuan did not ask anything further.
He gazed at the low-hanging clouds in the distance.
“That is enough.”
Those words fell into the courtyard and were not carried away by the wind.
Xia Lanshi stood beside him, and neither spoke again.
The snow in the corner of the courtyard was slowly melting, seeping into the soil through the cracks between the bricks and leaving behind dark trails of water.
The sky was brighter than it had been at dawn. Gaps had begun appearing in the clouds, revealing several extremely faint patches of blue.
The wind and snow would return, but at least today’s weather was just right for someone to leave.
◇◆◇◆◇
There was no light on in the study.
The streetlights outside seeped through a gap in the curtains that had never been fully drawn, cutting a narrow strip of light across the wooden floor.
The edge of that strip stopped in front of the desk leg without touching the desktop, as though deliberately leaving a certain distance.
The entire room was shrouded in a gray-blue darkness. Only the eyeglasses case on the desk revealed a vague outline in the dim light.
From the sound system came a melodious and gentle song, an old folk song.
He listened to it often.
Listening helped calm his mind.
Xiao sat at the desk, having already stared at that box for a long time.
He did not open it.
He simply sat there.
The box was dark gray, with no markings on its surface. When held in the hand, it had a warm, smooth texture that did not belong to plastic or metal.
He reached out and touched the edge of the lid.
When the lid opened, it made an extremely faint scraping sound.
He lowered his head and saw the pair of glasses.
The frames were a pale platinum color, reflecting a faint sheen in the dim light, almost not a color at all.
Neither the coldness of silver nor the warmth of gold.
Like moonlight falling upon snow, possessing a brightness that was neither glaring nor dim.
The frame lines were extremely thin. From the front, they almost appeared frameless, with only the turns subtly outlining an oval shape.
He did not pick them up, merely lowering his head to look at them.
His gaze slowly traced along the edges of the frames, as though outlining a path he was very familiar with.
The slightly upward curve of the upper edge, the narrowing lines at the ends of the temples, and the specially calculated bend near the back of the ears.
He extended his hand, his long fingers lightly gliding across the left side of the frame.
The bamboo-joint pattern was carved very shallowly, almost impossible to see from a distance. Only when touched by a fingertip could one feel that extremely fine, slightly raised line.
The pad of his finger slowly followed the pattern, moving from the upper edge of the frame to the lower edge, as though reading a story without words.
Then it stopped.
His fingertip remained resting on the edge of the frame and did not withdraw.
His gaze fell upon the inside of the temple.
There were no words engraved there.
When Su Muchen had asked whether he wanted a line engraved on it, he had said, “No need.”
At the time, he had not revealed the real reason.
Not engraving anything was not because he did not want to leave words for the other person to remember.
It was because he was still uncertain whether he had the right to leave anything at all on those glasses.
These glasses would rest upon Xia Lanshi’s face, touching the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones.
They would slide down slightly when he lowered his head to read, only to be gently pushed back into place by that pale hand.
They would bear fingerprints, retain warmth, and accumulate the traces of everyday life.
And he could only sit thousands of miles away, in a room without lights, imagining the outlines of those scenes through the frames he himself had chosen, separated by a distance that could not be measured.
His fingertips still rested on the edge of the frame, as though tracing a distance he did not dare touch.
He gently withdrew his hand.
“Live. That’s enough.”
That was the sentence he had engraved on his pocket watch.
When he had it engraved, he had been thinking of Xia Lanshi.
Thinking of the way he leaned close to the paper when checking accounts at night.
Thinking of his habit of avoiding bright light.
Thinking of all the inconveniences he endured without ever complaining.
He wanted him to know that being alive itself was enough.
But when he engraved those words, there was actually another thought in his heart that he had never spoken aloud.
Those words were also meant for himself.
──Being alive is enough.
He had never asked himself what he truly wanted, because a Gatekeeper did not need wishes.
But he still could not help it. He could never help it. He always paid attention to that person’s news.
From Xiao Yuan, he learned whenever Xia Lanshi fell ill again.
From his handwriting, he judged the condition of his health.
From the intervals between letters, he calculated whether he had been busy lately.
He told himself it was his duty.
Because Xia Lanshi was Xiao Yuan’s Chief Secretary and military strategist, and Xiao Yuan’s success or failure was connected to the stability of the Gate.
But that boundary… had long since become blurred.
He gently closed the eyeglasses case, his movements light, as though touching something he was not allowed to touch for too long.
Then he pushed the box toward the corner of the desk, turning his gaze away from it and letting it fall upon the screen.
The screen had already been lit for some time. Sheng Corporation’s stock price curve drew a downward arc against the dark background.
The line had been declining steadily for several consecutive days, with no obvious rebound in between, like a thread slowly being pulled out.
It had neither knotted nor broken, merely continuing downward steadily and consistently.
He did not smile or relax. He simply watched the line, confirming that something already calculated was unfolding exactly as intended.
The trend on the screen was not a miracle. It was the result of a series of steps he had arranged to begin several days earlier: loss of talent, supply chain delays, market uncertainty, and pressure on capital allocation.
None of them was fatal, but each made Sheng Corporation’s next move more difficult.
He picked up his phone and made a call.
It rang twice before being answered.
When he spoke, his tone was calm, as though reporting something already decided.
“Next step.”
There was no feeling of “success,” because this had never been a one-time action.
Sheng Chengxiu would not be defeated so easily. He still had resources and power in his hands.
He would not stop moving forward simply because a line on a chart was declining.
The next chess piece was already on its way.
He ended the call and sat in the darkness for a moment.
His gaze unintentionally swept toward the eyeglasses case at the corner of the desk.
He did not open it again. Instead, he gently pushed the box farther inward toward the corner, as though placing it somewhere it would not easily be seen, as if doing so could somehow create greater distance.
The box sat beside a row of medications.
Then he turned his gaze back to the screen.
The streetlights outside remained on.
The darkness of the study retained its original contours.
Only the glow of the screen reflected across his face, like a layer of light that could not speak.