The study’s only light was the lamp on the desk.
Sheng Chengxiu sat beneath the light, with six documents spread out before him.
He had already read every one of them, and was now rearranging them.
Not according to chronological order, but separately according to “the order Xiao wants him to see them in” and “what actually happened,” placing the two categories side by side.
He picked up a pen and wrote the first line on a blank sheet of paper:
—Tuesday. Fixed.
He lowered his head and looked at those two words.
Over the past month or so, all the observational data he had collected had pointed toward the same conclusion:
—Tuesday was Guichen Studio’s most vulnerable day.
After Guichen Studio changed its regular day off to Tuesday, the times when the snowflake signal appeared had also changed.
The snowflake signal that originally did not appear on Monday had appeared.
The snowflake signal that originally appeared on Tuesday had disappeared.
Sheng Chengxiu reached a conclusion: the opening of the Door was controllable by human means.
The deliberate adjustment to prevent it from opening on Tuesday was intentional.
In addition, Su Jinye’s schedule and routes, which originally had no fixed pattern whatsoever, had developed a regular business-trip schedule over the past two weeks.
He would participate in international video conferences at the Chenghui Group headquarters from midnight on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Through an informant within Chenghui Group, he had obtained part of the meeting’s contents.
The name of the meeting was: “Metropolitan Museum Cultural Heritage Digital Archiving Cooperation Project.”
It was a collaboration between Chenghui Group and the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, under the name of “Digitization of Asian Art Collections.”
Su Jinye attended the online video conference as a Senior Consultant of the Cultural Heritage Department.
After verification, all the meeting records were genuine. The login records and IP locations could also be traced, and the cooperation was indeed real.
Afterward, he had tested Su Muchen for information.
All he got was: “Xiao has been a little busy lately. He often switches shifts with me or takes leave.”
But Su Muchen did not reveal what Su Jinye was actually busy with.
Then there was the patrol manpower around Guichen Studio, which would drop to its lowest on Tuesdays.
The observable patrol personnel decreased from the original group of six to only two.
The routes remained unchanged; it was simply that the manpower had been replaced by drones for patrol.
All the lines pointed toward the same place—
Tuesday.
He put down the pen, his gaze still fixed on those words.
He knew that Su Jinye was not someone who would leave obvious openings.
At least, during their past confrontations, he had never managed to catch one.
And these openings were too neat.
Every line was clean, complete, and verifiable.
The meeting login records were real. The IP locations were real.
But precisely because everything was real, he became even more certain.
There was another discovery he had made recently—the surveillance inside Guichen Studio had developed a brief vulnerability.
All along, what his people had been able to see were only the surveillance feeds around the exterior of Guichen Studio.
As for the surveillance inside Guichen Studio, they had never been able to hack into it.
But over the past few days, there had been one mistake.
One of the surveillance feeds inside Guichen Studio had finally become accessible.
Although it had lasted for less than a second, the access privileges were immediately reclaimed, and they could never enter again.
But he had still seen it.
Sheng Chengxiu lowered his head and looked at the screenshot.
It was surveillance footage from behind the blast door. Through this screenshot, he could calculate the partial layout behind the blast door with greater precision.
He believed this was not a mistake on Su Jinye’s part, but one of the traps the other side had deliberately laid out.
Su Jinye wanted to lure him into the trap as quickly as possible, so he had handed him this thread.
He picked up his phone and dialed.
“President Sheng, what are your instructions?” came the question from the other end.
“How is the blast door?”
“After finding the vulnerability, we’ve continued cracking it. We’re currently at eighty-seven percent.”
After receiving the answer, Sheng Chengxiu ended the call.
Sheng Chengxiu suddenly let out a soft laugh.
It was not because he was pleased with himself, but because of a sense of confirmation.
He straightened his body and picked up the sheet of paper.
His deduction had been confirmed—
“Su Jinye, you want me to come on Tuesday.”
He put the paper back on the desk, pausing over the two words “Tuesday.”
Then, beside those two lines of words, in the blank space at the edge of the paper, he wrote another date:
—Monday.
He looked at those two words. They were like the landing point of a chess piece.
Then he put down the pen and added with a low laugh, “I’ll come on Monday instead.”
In this hunting game, he alone could be the hunter.
◆◇◆◇◆
At the same time, the lights inside Guichen Studio were still on.
Xiao sat behind the counter. After completing the final arrangement, he gently closed the tablet.
Su Muchen walked over from the back courtyard and asked only one thing:
“Are you sure?”
“Mm,” Xiao said.
Su Muchen walked back to the counter.
He looked at Xiao’s expression, trying to read something from that face.
But Xiao’s emotions were kept even cleaner than usual. There was nothing to read.
“He should choose Monday,” Xiao said.
Su Muchen froze for a moment.
“Not Tuesday?”
At present, all the arrangements pointed to Tuesday being the best opportunity. That was something Xiao had deliberately arranged.
“Right,” Xiao said. “So he’ll choose Monday.”
Su Muchen looked at him, as though digesting the logic behind those words.
A moment later, he suddenly understood.
“Because he knows Tuesday is the trap you’ve set.”
Xiao did not deny it.
He unplugged the tablet’s charging cable.
“If Sheng Chengxiu chose Tuesday, then he wouldn’t be Sheng Chengxiu.”
The sentence did not sound like an explanation. It sounded more like confirmation of something he had already calculated countless times.
Su Muchen stood beside the counter, thinking about all of this.
He knew that feeling.
The feeling of thinking that you had made your own decision, only to realize much later that someone else had already laid out the path for you.
“You even calculated how he would choose.”
Su Muchen felt that Xiao understood Sheng Chengxiu almost too well.
Xiao raised his head. The look behind his lenses was no different from usual.
“I just know that he won’t walk down a path someone else has laid out for him.” He organized the tablet’s charging cable before standing up. “As long as he thinks that way, he’ll walk into the path I’ve laid out.”
As for whether Sheng Chengxiu would choose to come on Monday, that actually wasn’t important. It was merely a probability calculated from the available information.
What mattered was that “he would decide to come.”
And that Sheng Chengxiu would believe everything was still under his control.
He put away the tablet. All the chess pieces had been positioned. What remained was simply to wait.
Su Muchen stood beside the counter, watching his movements, feeling somewhat uneasy.
Xiao had never told him what “the Gatekeeper’s way” was.
Su Muchen had asked, but Xiao had not answered.
This made him feel that it was not a method that could be openly spoken of.
Although Xiao had said that he would not directly take Sheng Chengxiu’s life, Su Muchen was still worried about this operation.
That feeling was like the unease that suddenly came before something major was about to happen.
By now, the entire plan could no longer be stopped.
Sheng Chengxiu would come, and he would not come alone.
Although Xiao had reassured him that conflicts between the Gatekeepers and the Sheng family had happened before, and this was not the first time—
the moment he thought about people getting hurt, with most of them being members of the Su family’s collateral branches, including Xiao himself, Su Muchen would occasionally think:
Could there really be… no other way?
“Mu’an,” Xiao said to him, “starting Monday, stay in the room at my old apartment for those few nights. Qianqian will be there too.”
Su Muchen opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but after the words went around in his heart, only one sentence ultimately came out:
“Okay…”
He wanted to say that he wanted to help too. He didn’t want to simply be protected by others.
But what could he do?
He had no combat ability, and he didn’t even dare to use a gun. If he went, he would only hold Xiao back.
Seeing the uneasiness on his face, Xiao revealed his usual relaxed smile.
“Don’t make that face. Don’t worry. I’ve calculated it many times and rehearsed it countless times. Our advantages outweigh Sheng Chengxiu’s.”
Those words only comforted him a little. They still couldn’t make Su Muchen truly relax.
As before, Xiao reached out and rubbed his head.
“You just need to stay put and not run around. After everything is over, we’ll throw a party to celebrate and invite Ningning and Qianqian over too.”
This time, Su Muchen did not swat his hand away.
He merely smiled bitterly.
“Don’t say that anymore. It sounds a lot like you’re setting a death flag. It’s ominous.”
“All right, then. I take back what I just said. We’ll discuss everything after it’s all over.”
Xiao merely smiled and said that.
Su Muchen did not respond.
He didn’t know what to say.
He didn’t ask about the details again either.
Because he knew Xiao had already calculated everything that needed to be calculated.
Now, all he could do was choose to trust him.
And while trusting him, hope that this path would not take Xiao away with it.
That chess piece, which had yet to settle into place, was suspended above the chessboard, waiting to be put down, waiting for the moment that belonged to it.
And that moment was already very close.
◇◆◇◆◇
At midnight, Xiao Yuan pushed open the door of Guichen Studio right on time.
When he entered, he noticed Su Muchen sitting behind the counter, with several documents spread out before him. But the pen rested at the edge of the pages, as though he had stopped halfway through writing and had not continued.
“Where’s Xiao?” Xiao Yuan asked.
“He went upstairs to rest,” Su Muchen said, pushing the documents to the side as if making room for them to have a proper conversation.
“I’m on duty tonight.”
Xiao Yuan walked to the counter but did not sit down.
He first looked at Su Muchen, confirming his complexion and condition, before asking, “How’s the progress?”
Su Muchen was silent for a moment.
He picked up the pen and turned it twice in his hand.
“Xiao said… Sheng Chengxiu might choose Monday.”
Xiao Yuan nodded.
Monday corresponded to Yueyao-ri, Monday, on the Dasheng side.
Today was Tuchao-ri, Saturday. In other words, Sheng Chengxiu would begin his operation in two days.
This was consistent with what he had thought.
“What are you worried about?” Xiao Yuan asked.
Su Muchen had looked distracted all along, his brows tightly furrowed.
“…I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t know how far this plan will actually go. Xiao told me a lot, but there are some things he didn’t tell me. I know he doesn’t want me to worry, but…”
He stopped and did not continue.
Xiao Yuan looked at him without rushing to give him an answer.
He sat down across from the counter, shortening the distance between them somewhat.
“What do you think he’ll do?”
Su Muchen fell silent for a moment.
He had repeatedly thought about this question countless times during this period.
What kind of method could both keep Sheng Chengxiu alive and prevent him from ever being able to act again?
Since Xiao was willing to go to such lengths to arrange for Sheng Chengxiu to step into Guichen Studio, that meant this location was necessary.
More precisely, one of the truly necessary conditions was the Door.
But Xiao could not drag Sheng Chengxiu into Dasheng, because Sheng Chengxiu would be torn apart by space the moment he entered the Door.
If that were the case, it would be less troublesome to simply shoot Sheng Chengxiu dead.
…That Door might possess some power he didn’t know about.
He remembered something Xiao had once said:
“—The Door is neither evil nor good.”
Those words seemed to contain another meaning.
“Xiao prepared several contingency plans. From the looks of it, they’re foolproof. He told me to wait at his place until everything is over.”
Su Muchen’s voice grew softer and softer.
Clearly, everything seemed reasonable, and every possible situation had been taken into consideration, but he always worried that something might have been overlooked.
Perhaps he was simply overthinking it.
Now that the arrow was already on the bowstring, what else could he do?
Xiao Yuan knew Xiao’s entire plan, except that the most crucial final step had only been briefly mentioned.
He also knew that Xiao had not told Su Muchen the entire truth.
He and Xia Lanshi both suspected that the so-called Gatekeeper’s method of resolving the matter touched upon the deepest secret of the ancient Door.
And that secret was something even the direct line of the Su family had never known.
But that was not the only reason Xiao did not want Su Muchen to know.
Xiao had placed himself at the very outermost edge of the plan, like a chess piece that could be sacrificed at any moment.
In that person’s way of thinking, there was no place for “himself.”
Yet there were two people he cared about.
One was Su Muchen.
The other was Xia Lanshi.
“Mu’an,” Xiao Yuan said slowly, “you can listen to what he says, but don’t believe everything. You must judge for yourself and make your own choice.”
Su Muchen raised his head and looked at him.
Xiao Yuan continued, “If you simply wait for someone else to tell you what to do, you’ll only passively accept the result. If you’ve seen it yourself, thought about it yourself, and chosen for yourself, then no matter what the result is, you won’t regret it.”
Su Muchen quietly listened to Xiao Yuan’s words.
He remembered that for a very long time in the past, he really had always been waiting.
Waiting for notifications, waiting for judgments, waiting for other people to tell him which direction to take next.
He thought he had changed, but this time, he had once again become passive, accepting Xiao’s arrangements.
“You’re right.”
A light appeared in Su Muchen’s eyes.
Even if there wasn’t much he could do, at the very least, he had to think for himself and then take action.
Xiao Yuan looked at his expression and knew that he had taken the words to heart.
He added, “Even if, by some chance, the plan fails, you’ll still have me.”
When those words fell into Su Muchen’s heart, they gradually illuminated his unease.
His eyes met Xiao Yuan’s.
He knew that this was not a comforting remark, but a promise that had already been confirmed and that he was willing to shoulder.
He wasn’t certain whether the plan would succeed, nor was he certain whether Xiao would truly come through it unharmed.
But now, he knew one thing—
No matter what the result was, Xiao Yuan would be there.
“…Haven’t you always been here?” Su Muchen said softly.
Xiao Yuan paused when he heard that.
Then the corners of his lips curved slightly.
“Yes. I’ve always been here.”
The words were spoken so naturally that Su Muchen couldn’t help but curve his lips slightly as well.
Xiao Yuan was moved by that smile too.
His gaze shifted away by an inch, landing on Su Muchen’s hand holding the pen on the counter.
Under the warm lamplight, that hand glowed with a faint halo.
The fingers were long and slender, the joints distinct, yet they did not look rough or hard, like the hands of someone who rarely did heavy manual labor.
His nails were neatly trimmed and clean.
They were beautiful hands.
And they were the hands that had once saved him.
He was turning the pen, the movement unintentional, merely a habitual fidget when thinking.
But at this moment, that unconscious movement seemed more captivating than any deliberate pose could have been.
Xiao Yuan’s gaze lingered on that hand for one beat, then two.
Then he reached out and gently covered the back of Su Muchen’s hand with his own.
The movement was extremely light.
Su Muchen’s pen stopped.
The pen slipped from between his fingers, rolled halfway across the tabletop, and stopped at the edge of the counter.
The warmth from Xiao Yuan’s hand passed directly through.
Although this wasn’t the first time they had touched, at this moment it was frighteningly hot.
He did not immediately pull his hand away, but Xiao Yuan could feel Su Muchen’s fingertips tighten slightly beneath his palm.
The tips of Su Muchen’s ears instantly flushed faint red.
His expression was somewhat at a loss.
“…Jingyuan.” His voice was low.
Xiao Yuan did not let go.
“There are sur-surveillance cameras.” Su Muchen’s voice struggled to remain calm. “Xiao and the others will see!”
Xiao Yuan’s fingers moved slightly.
But he still did not withdraw his hand.
Only after maintaining that position for a few seconds did he slowly pull his hand back.
Silence filled Guichen Studio.
Su Muchen lowered his head and stared at the pen that had already rolled to the edge of the counter, not daring to look up.
But even without looking up, he knew exactly what kind of gaze Xiao Yuan was giving him now.
Xiao Yuan’s voice came from across from him:
“Remember what I told you.”
Su Muchen’s gaze remained on the pen.
His mind was a complete mess.
Xiao Yuan had said so many things. Which one was he talking about now?
Was it “I’m here”?
Or “I’ll come again”?
Or “I’ll wait for you”?
Seeing Su Muchen’s flustered appearance, Xiao Yuan couldn’t help finding it somewhat amusing.
In the end, he only said, “All of them. No matter what happens, I will always be your strongest support. I won’t let you face it alone.”
Su Muchen merely responded softly.
Like a small boat floating in the middle of the sea that had finally found its direction.
◇◆◇◆◇
On the second floor of Guichen Studio, Xiao sat at the desk.
He had just finished his final confirmation of the defenses, and the tablet screen had already gone dark.
He sat there, his gaze falling on the letter at the corner of the desk.
An ivory-colored envelope, sealed with a dark-red wax seal.
He pulled out the letter and unfolded it.
The letter carried an extremely faint scent of ink orchids and snow—that was the scent Xia Lanshi habitually used.
The handwriting was slender and upright, with a composed rhythm between the strokes.
—————————
Dear Young Master Xiao,
Linbei City has entered early spring.
The snow is gradually melting. In places facing the sun, most of the accumulated snow has already melted; in shaded places, remnants of snow still remain. The wind is gentler than in deep winter, yet still carries a chill. Even walking through the alleys, one can still feel the cold seeping in through the collar.
The military settlements outside the city have already begun being cleared and prepared. General Pei tried plowing a sunny patch the day before yesterday. The agricultural methods sent by Physician Su have also begun to be tested. The first batch of crops being tested sprouted in the greenhouse, and their growth is fair.
Something happened this morning.
While Your Highness was inspecting the city yesterday, he discovered a nest of snow owl chicks in an abandoned hunting shelter outside the city. For some unknown reason, they had been abandoned. There were three in total, and by the time he arrived, one had already stopped breathing. Of the remaining two, one was large and one was small. His Highness entrusted the larger one to someone to care for, while the smaller one was kept in the greenhouse in the eastern courtyard. The little one kept shivering. Its feathers were gray-white, like a ball of snow about to scatter, and it urgently needed someone to care for it.
I spread dry grass for the little owl and fed it bit by bit with a cloth dampened with warm water. At first, it refused to eat. Later, it gradually learned to peck, as though it were learning how to live.
Watching it curled up among the grass, I suddenly remembered my childhood. I too was once like this, carried out of a cold place by someone and placed somewhere warm, fed one mouthful at a time, waited for one little moment at a time. Back then, I did not yet know why I was living. There was simply someone who never let go, and so I continued to hold on.
Looking back now, perhaps living does not require any reason at all. It only requires someone willing to wait.
As I write this, the little owl is curled up among the grass, and its feathers are no longer trembling.
If one day you become tired, Young Master, perhaps you can stop and rest for a while. Take a look at the scenery and people beside you, or at these adorable little things. Though they are small, they live with extraordinary earnestness in their own way.
Handwritten by Huaiyu
—————————
Xiao’s gaze lingered for a long time on the final few lines.
Xia Lanshi said that he had chosen the smaller snow owl chick to care for.
The weak one, gray-white, requiring special care, like a ball of fur that could be blown apart by the wind at any moment.
Perhaps Xiao Yuan had told Xia Lanshi about their conversation.
Xia Lanshi had not asked directly or probed him. He had merely written about a nest of snow owls in his letter, written about a chick that was learning to survive, and then said:
“If one day you become tired, Young Master, perhaps you can stop and rest for a while.”
That person was on the other side of the Door.
He had heard about what was happening to him, and then sent a letter carrying his concern.
Xiao’s fingertips traced the words on the letter.
He wondered what Xia Lanshi had been thinking when he wrote this letter.
Suddenly, he felt an impulse to open the Door.
He wanted to cross through it, go to Dasheng, go to Linbei City, and enter the greenhouse in the eastern courtyard.
He wanted to see that little snow owl curled up in the pile of dry grass, and see Xia Lanshi sitting beside it.
He wanted to see the melting snow, the fields being prepared, and the test crops beginning to sprout, all the things Xia Lanshi had described.
He wanted to see those scenes with his own eyes, to touch that little snow owl.
And also… that person.
His hand was already resting on the edge of the desk, his body leaning slightly forward, like someone preparing to stand.
But in the end, he did not rise.
His hand withdrew from the edge of the desk.
It fell to his chest, gently pressing against the handkerchief tucked inside his pocket.
He took out the handkerchief and spread it open.
On it were the silver-throated long-tailed tit with its head tilted to one side, and the lazy owl.
He looked at them for a long time.
Then he folded the handkerchief back up and put it into his pocket.
He did not open the Door.
He could not open the Door.
His plan had reached its final step. Every chess piece had already been placed.
Sheng Chengxiu, the Gatekeeper, the defenses, the Door ritual—every part had been calculated countless times. No variables were allowed.
He could not create any variables.
If he opened that Door now, he did not know whether he would still be able to carry the plan through to the end.
If he saw Xia Lanshi at this moment, that forbidden emotion would surge forth.
It might bring variables to the plan.
That momentary impulse was forcibly suppressed and pushed back into the place where it belonged.
He lowered his head and looked at the letter on the desk, reading that final line once more.
He picked up the tablet again, opened the defense map, and confirmed the final details.
But his thoughts had already drifted far away.
His fingertips paused at the edge of the screen for a moment before he put down the tablet.
He took out the letter paper and wrote a line:
“Has the little snow owl been given a name? If—”
He looked at those words.
Then he stopped writing.
He put down the pen.
He remained silent for a while.
For a long time.
He decided to leave this question for later.
He would wait until after this operation before asking.
If… there was still a chance.