The night wind slipped through the window lattice, leaving only the faint rustling of the cold wind brushing against the branches in the eastern courtyard.
Outside, the night was as dark and fluid as water; inside, the lamplight burned like a tiny bean.
Xia Lanshi, wrapped in a thick cloak, sat before the long red sandalwood desk, diligently compiling the regulations concerning the “Light Network” by the dim, yellow lamplight.
The tip of his brush whispered across the paper. Just as he finished a passage, he suddenly stopped.
The surroundings were so quiet that only the sound of the wind remained. He keenly sensed that there seemed to be something unusual outside.
Yet neither the secret guards nor the sentries made any sound.
Xia Lanshi frowned slightly, set his brush on the brush rest, and rose to walk toward the door.
The moment he pushed it open, a gust of cold night wind rushed into his face.
At a glance, he saw Xiao standing beneath the clear light of the cold moon in the courtyard, staring straight toward his room.
“At this hour of the night, opening the door and finding someone standing silently in the courtyard is quite frightening.”
Xia Lanshi said it half-jokingly.
Xiao did not respond. He simply stood there, his eyes like deep pools fixed steadily on him, so heavy that they made one’s heart tremble.
The smile at the corners of Xia Lanshi’s lips gradually faded.
He sensed that something was wrong with Xiao’s expression.
That gaze was too hollow, like a person on the verge of drowning, staring at the only light on shore yet, for some reason, unable to reach out.
“It’s so cold outside. Your injuries haven’t healed yet, and your health hasn’t recovered either. What are you standing there for?”
Xia Lanshi sighed softly and opened the door wider.
“Come in.”
Xiao hesitated for a moment before finally moving his stiff legs and following Xia Lanshi inside.
The charcoal brazier in the room radiated a gentle warmth, completely different from the cold outside.
Xia Lanshi pulled over a chair for him to sit on, then turned and poured a cup of warm tea, pressing it into his hands before pulling over a stool and sitting opposite him.
“What happened?”
Xia Lanshi carefully examined his complexion.
“Can’t sleep?”
Xiao held the cup of hot tea, feeling the warmth against his palms, and slowly shook his head.
“Mm.”
Xia Lanshi frowned slightly.
“Did you take your medicine?”
He knew that Xiao suffered from severe insomnia and had to rely on the sleeping medication prescribed by Su Muchen to barely fall asleep.
It was an especially potent medicine, too.
“I did.”
Xiao lowered his eyes, watching the tiny ripples spreading across the surface of the tea.
“So I slept. But… I woke up again.”
He paused, his voice so low that it nearly dissolved into the night.
“…I don’t like taking medicine.”
Taking medicine made him lose his vigilance. It made him sink into an abyss he could no longer control.
He did not like it, but in order to survive, he had no choice but to take it.
Silence descended upon the room. Only the charcoal fire occasionally gave off a faint crackle.
Xiao suddenly raised his head, his bottomless eyes staring directly at Xia Lanshi.
He looked at him for a long while before abruptly asking,
“How do you address me?”
Xia Lanshi froze slightly.
The question seemed to come out of nowhere.
But when he saw the almost impossible-to-hide panic and uncertainty in Xiao’s eyes, he immediately understood.
Without the slightest hesitation, he looked at him with a gentle yet firm gaze and clearly called out,
“Xiao.”
Hearing that single-syllable name, Xiao’s shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly.
It was as though the heart hanging over the edge of a cliff had finally landed safely on the ground.
Seeing him like this, Xia Lanshi felt an inexplicable ache in his heart.
He softened his voice and asked patiently,
“What exactly happened?”
Xiao’s long lashes lowered. His fingers tightened unconsciously around the teacup, his knuckles turning faintly white.
He remained silent for a long time before finally saying hoarsely,
“I had a dream.”
“In the dream, Mu’an looked at me and asked me, ‘Who are you?’”
“His Highness looked at me with cold, wary eyes, as though he were looking at an assassin who might draw his blade at any moment.”
Xiao’s voice trembled faintly as he looked up at Xia Lanshi.
“And you… you were dressed in immaculate official robes. You courteously and distantly cupped your hands toward me and called me ‘Young Master Xiao.’”
“…Everyone had forgotten me.”
There was a deep fear in Xiao’s voice.
“Sometimes I can’t tell when or where I am anymore. What kind of person am ‘I’ in your eyes? How long can I hold on to everything I have now…?”
Every day when he closed his eyes, he wondered: when he woke again, would everything still be as it was?
Every day when he opened his eyes, what he feared was that everything would once again be gone.
Those ordinary days would slip through his fingers while he slept.
And then never be found again.
No matter how painstakingly he built everything up, it would all be reshuffled by the merciless rules of the Gate.
He did not know whether this meeting with Xia Lanshi would be the last.
He knew nothing.
The only thing he knew was that he no longer dared to lose anything again.
Xia Lanshi listened quietly, his heart seemingly clenched tightly by an invisible hand.
He knew that Xiao’s fear was not unfounded.
The situation they were in, Xiao’s origins and identity—everything was filled with variables.
Even Xia Lanshi himself could not offer an absolute guarantee.
Perhaps a month. Perhaps a year. Or perhaps… the very next second.
Once the situation collapsed, everything Xiao possessed now, including Xiao himself, could suddenly disappear.
Xiao could only survive on the edge of that abyss of extreme insecurity, walking on thin ice.
Xia Lanshi did not offer any empty words of comfort.
He put down what he was holding, then suddenly raised a hand and pulled down the collar of his tightly wrapped clothing slightly.
Just above his collarbone, near the carotid artery—
the bite mark, though already faded, was still faintly visible.
“Do you remember this?”
Xia Lanshi pointed at the mark, looking at him with an amused yet knowing expression.
Xiao froze for a moment, his gaze falling upon that ambiguous trace.
The cold and fear that had been lingering around him were scattered considerably by the sudden gesture.
That was a mark belonging to him.
He nodded, unable to stop the faint, bitter smile from curling at the corners of his lips.
“I remember. Someone always likes testing my limits.”
Xia Lanshi simply pretended not to hear the blame hidden in the latter half of that sentence. He leisurely pulled his collar back into place, covering that patch of spring.
“Since the world is unpredictable and no one can say what tomorrow will bring, then let’s come up with a way to confirm each other from now on.”
Xiao’s gaze was still lingering over the spot where Xia Lanshi had just pulled open his collar, as though seriously considering the feasibility of this proposal.
Seeing this, Xia Lanshi immediately gave him a sidelong warning glance.
“That doesn’t count.”
Then he complained in a low voice,
“Do you know how much trouble I’ve been having lately? Every day at the administrative office, I have to face all those officials. I can’t let them notice the bite mark on my neck, and I also have to find ways to hide the bruises on my wrists. I’m living in constant fear.”
Xiao merely gave him a mischievous smile, like a child who had successfully gotten away with a prank.
Then his gaze actually followed Xia Lanshi’s neck and slowly moved a little lower.
There was a dangerous glint in his eyes.
“Lower doesn’t work either.”
Xia Lanshi said irritably.
“It would be too troublesome to confirm every day.”
Was he supposed to take off his clothes for him to check every single day?
Xiao let out a quiet laugh, and the tension that had been wound tightly through his back finally disappeared completely.
“How about this?”
Xia Lanshi looked at him, his expression becoming exceptionally serious and gentle.
“Whenever we meet, let our first words be the password.”
Xiao’s smile faded as he looked at him attentively.
“What words?”
Xia Lanshi thought for a moment before saying softly,
“If we meet in the morning, I’ll ask you, ‘Xiao, did you sleep well last night?’ And you can answer according to how you actually slept.”
He paused, his gaze tracing Xiao’s deep-set features.
“That way, as long as you hear those words, you’ll know that I’m still me. No one has forgotten you.”
Xiao quietly looked at him. In those cold, desolate eyes, the dancing firelight and Xia Lanshi’s gentle face were reflected.
“Okay.”
He agreed in a low voice.
A faint smile appeared at the corners of his lips.
These days, Xia Lanshi was always accommodating him in every way, forgiving him in every way.
And he was willing to lose himself in this web of tenderness, even if it might ultimately lead to destruction.
But at least at this very moment, that trace of warmth was still resting in his palm.
“Now that we’ve agreed, go get some rest. Doctor Su said that everyone must sleep at least three and a half shichen each day. Even under exceptional circumstances, we must guarantee a minimum of two shichen.”
The strict schedule Su Muchen had once established for Xiao Yuan had now quietly become an unspoken rule throughout the entire administrative office.
Hearing this, Xiao merely shook his head.
“Tonight has already been enough. I’m not sleepy at all.”
His gaze fell upon the papers stacked on the long desk.
“Weren’t you still drafting the Light Network regulations? I’ll grind the ink for you. Consider me your reader.”
“Very well.”
Xia Lanshi sat back down before the red sandalwood desk.
The residual ink in the old She inkstone on the desk had long since dried.
Xiao picked up the ancient bronze water dropper beside it, poured in some water, rolled up his sleeves, and slowly began grinding the pine-soot ink.
Amid the swaying lamplight, Xia Lanshi picked up his brush again. He organized the thoughts he had left unfinished earlier, then casually pushed the draft he had just written in front of Xiao.
“Since you said you’d be my reader, why don’t you take a look first?”
Xiao lowered his eyes and scanned it once, his brows drawing together slightly.
“This version won’t do.”
Xia Lanshi laughed helplessly, but was not offended.
“You really don’t leave me any room to save face.”
Xiao’s tone was flat, striking straight at the heart of the matter.
“Too long.”
Xia Lanshi:
“…”
“On the battlefield, everything changes in an instant. No one has time to read all this flowery nonsense you’ve written.”
As he spoke, he extended his long fingers and drew a heavy line through one of the passages on the paper.
“The only three things that truly need to be conveyed at the moment of life and death are—where the enemy is, how many there are, and whether they need rescuing.”
He paused, then added coldly,
“Everything else is redundant words.”
Xia Lanshi was silent for a long moment before finally laughing and shaking his head.
“Judging by this, your expertise in military affairs is actually greater than Doctor Su’s.”
Xiao answered as though it were only natural.
“Of course.”
“He studies how to save people. I studied how to fight.”
He paused, his gaze reflecting the flickering candlelight.
“It just so happens that he chose his own path. I didn’t.”
His words were exceedingly light, containing neither self-pity nor resentment.
Only, after being tempered by the passage of countless years, they carried a clarity that was almost fated.
Xia Lanshi froze slightly. Then he put away his teasing mood and brought the conversation back to the matter at hand.
“Fine. Then let’s not talk about the past. You say I write too much, so in your opinion, how should the Light Network’s signals actually be defined?”
When Xia Lanshi first conceived of the system, what came to mind was the long-and-short light logic Su Muchen had described.
As he spoke, he raised his brush.
“If a long light represents one, and a short light represents—”
Before he could finish, Xiao interrupted him coldly.
“No.”
“Why?”
Xiao set down the ink stick and casually picked up a brush, sketching a snow-covered mountain and an observation post on the paper.
“In winter, the Northern Frontier is battered by wind and snow. Long and short lights can easily be mistaken for one another. Besides, the soldiers stationed at the border have never received complicated modern education. Asking them to memorize a string of light signals of varying lengths would be less pleasant than simply giving them a knife.”
He looked at Xia Lanshi.
“We can’t impose our standards on them.”
Xia Lanshi could not help laughing, suddenly remembering the dejected expressions on Pei Yi and Qin Feng’s faces when they heard that they would be tested.
“Then, according to Mr. Liuchu, what should we do?”
Xiao pondered for a moment.
“Use the method the military knows best and can understand most instinctively.”
He wrote the following on the paper, stroke by stroke:
One light — All clear.
Two lights — Received.
Three lights — Urgent.
Four lights — Enemy.
Five lights — Reinforcements.
Xia Lanshi raised his brows slightly.
“Not numbers?”
“No.”
Xiao answered calmly.
“On the battlefield, everything changes in an instant. Send the meaning first, then the details. For example, if you flash four, four, five consecutively, everyone will know at a glance: ‘Enemy attack, enemy attack, request reinforcements.’ There’s no need to waste time deciphering sentences.”
The method looked simple, yet it instantly made the complicated signals much more intuitive.
Xia Lanshi’s eyes brightened.
“What about city administration?”
He followed the idea further.
“For example, grain distribution, merchant caravans entering and leaving, even epidemic alerts. Surely we can’t use the same military code for all of those?”
Without even thinking, Xiao coldly uttered two words.
“Separate register.”
“Military orders cannot be mixed with administrative orders. Once an enemy spy cracks one of them, the entire system will be useless.”
He raised his eyes toward Xia Lanshi.
“I understand.”
Xia Lanshi immediately grasped his meaning and wrote it down.
“Separate registers. Military, civil administration, medicine, engineering, commerce—each follows its own system. The same three lights mean ‘urgent’ in the military register, but ‘medicine shortage’ in the medical register.”
Xia Lanshi stared at the words on the paper, deeply shaken.
He suddenly understood the greatest difference between himself and Xiao.
Xiao’s way of thinking was fundamentally not the practical statecraft of an ordinary scholar.
It was a life-and-death instinct forged through countless trials during his years as a “Gatekeeper.”
His first thought was how to write it.
Xiao’s first thought was—
If the Northern Di attacked the city today, could this thing save lives?
Inspired by the moment, Xia Lanshi wrote several pages of detailed classification rules in a long, flowing hand.
Xiao took the paper, glanced at it, then casually picked up his brush and mercilessly crossed out eighty percent of it.
Xia Lanshi stared at him in utter disbelief.
Before he could react, the second page was gone too.
He did not even have time to feel heartbroken.
Xiao’s brush descended again.
He laughed helplessly.
“This is the work of half a night’s effort. How did you delete it all again?”
Xiao did not even raise his eyes. He calmly said,
“Real rules are remembered by more people when they are shorter.”
Xia Lanshi helplessly put down his brush. Looking at the draft that had been revised beyond recognition yet had every word hitting the essential points, he suddenly laughed.
He raised his head and looked at the man opposite him with a complicated expression.
“Looks like, although my name will ultimately be written on this copy of the Light Network Regulations…”
The corners of Xia Lanshi’s lips curved upward.
“…the true teacher is you.”
Xiao’s hand grinding the ink paused slightly. He did not respond, merely setting the ink stick aside.
Then he said indifferently,
“I’m only a Gatekeeper.”
Xia Lanshi quietly looked at him.
“If someone brings something over from the other side of the Gate, someone still has to turn it into something usable on this side.”
The candle gave a soft crackle, and the flame flickered.
The night grew deeper and darker, yet the two people inside seemed to be quietly laying down, at this little desk, the framework for the next several decades of the storm-tossed Northern Frontier.
And many years later, when the Light Network had spread throughout the Northern Frontier and countless watch posts called to one another through the darkness, no one would remember that this system had first been born in nothing more than a small room lit by a single lonely lamp.
◇◆◇◆◇
With the guidance of “Mr. Liuchu,” Xia Lanshi now had a much clearer direction for drafting the regulations.
Once he became absorbed in writing, he almost forgot the passage of time.
Xiao glanced at the pocket watch placed beside the long desk.
It was something he had specifically chosen for Xia Lanshi, and Xia Lanshi almost never went anywhere without it.
Seeing that the hands had already reached deep into the night, he spoke bluntly.
“That is enough for tonight. Go to sleep.”
Xia Lanshi glanced at the time on the pocket watch, then at the regulations he had only written halfway.
There were still many thoughts stirred up earlier that he had not yet fully put down on paper, and he hesitated.
Seeing that he still wanted to continue, Xiao said nothing more. He simply began gathering the brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones from the desk, using his actions to cut off Xia Lanshi’s hopes of continuing.
Xia Lanshi had no choice but to reluctantly put down his brush and watch as Xiao efficiently put everything away.
Once everything was tidied, he raised his eyes toward Xiao and casually asked,
“What about you? Aren’t you going back to rest?”
Xiao’s movements paused.
He glanced around the room, then his gaze landed on a daybed in the corner.
“Here.”
Xia Lanshi froze slightly.
Looking at the daybed normally used only for resting, he remembered how, some time ago, Xiao had half-jokingly and half-seriously mentioned moving into the western side room of the eastern courtyard, saying at the time, “It’s closer.”
Only now did he belatedly understand.
That had never been a joke.
He genuinely wanted to be a little closer to him.
Even being separated by only a single wall could not soothe the displacement and insecurity carved into his very bones.
Xiao had come silently here in the middle of the night carrying such a deep, nowhere-to-place attachment.
Something seemed to strike gently against Xia Lanshi’s heart, filling it with a dense ache and tenderness.
After finishing tidying the desk, Xiao turned around and naturally began to “serve” Xia Lanshi as he prepared for bed.
He helped Xia Lanshi remove his outer robe. His movements were not as meticulous as a servant’s, yet they carried a kind of focused tenderness.
Then he reached up and removed the jade hairpin.
His snow-white hair cascaded down like a waterfall, catching tiny glimmers of light beneath the dim yellow lamp.
Xia Lanshi let him fuss over him, feeling both helpless and amused.
Just as he was about to tease him, he raised his eyes and met Xiao’s deep gaze.
Those eyes were not looking at his face.
They had fallen upon his slightly open collar.
The traces were still there.
They were from not long ago, pale in color, almost impossible to distinguish without looking closely, yet clearly visible beneath the firelight.
They were marks Xiao had left behind, in a certain morning when he had lost a little of his restraint.
Xia Lanshi felt that gaze slowly settle upon his skin.
Before Xiao even touched him, it had already burned.
The temperature in the air seemed to rise several degrees all at once.
“I’ve been your adviser and reader all night.”
Xiao spoke in a low voice, his tone carrying a slight rasp.
“I want payment.”
His long fingers lifted, gently brushing past Xia Lanshi’s ear before slipping into his snow-colored hair and lightly cradling it.
His slightly cool fingertips sent a fine tingling sensation from the base of Xia Lanshi’s ear along the side of his neck.
Xia Lanshi instinctively tilted his head slightly, as though trying to evade him, yet did not truly pull away.
Xiao waited for him, his gaze calm yet hiding fire.
Xia Lanshi gently closed his eyes.
Xiao leaned down over him.
The kiss carried the coolness of the night, yet the instant their lips met, it became scorching.
He did not rush to claim him, merely pressing against him slowly, teasing the kiss open.
His touch was so gentle it seemed he was afraid of breaking him.
Xia Lanshi could feel what was suppressed beneath that gentleness.
Like a tightly drawn string, constantly restraining itself, constantly holding itself back.
Yet with every mingled breath, it became so lingering and intimate that his soul seemed to tremble.
As though Xiao feared breaking him, yet at the same time harbored a primal desire to shatter him completely.
At some point, Xia Lanshi’s hand had already lightly caught hold of Xiao’s sleeve.
Xiao’s lips and tongue lingered around his breath, kneading all his attachment and deeply buried fear into this kiss of the night.
It was so thick and intense that it seemed even the air in the room had changed.
In the silent depths of night, there was only the sound of their disordered breathing.
Xia Lanshi let Xiao guide him, stepping into a realm that was still somewhat unfamiliar to him.
With his mind almost completely stalled, he vaguely realized—
In those nights no one could ever know about anymore, Xiao had probably kissed “Xia Lanshi” in the same way…
Xiao’s fingertips slid along the line of Xia Lanshi’s neck, reaching toward his collar. His long fingers tugged lightly, pulling open the barrier between them.
Xia Lanshi suddenly startled. The last thread of reason remaining in his mind instantly returned, and he instinctively raised a hand to hold his collar closed.
“…No!”
Xiao’s movements stopped.
A trace of surprise flashed through his eyes before his expression darkened, as though a shadow that had only just been pressed flat was beginning to stir again.
He slowly pulled back half an inch, as if preparing to withdraw everything he had just allowed himself to loosen.
Feeling his movement, Xia Lanshi’s ears quietly flushed red. He lowered his voice and explained,
“…Not there.”
“Where?”
Xia Lanshi glared at him, slightly embarrassed and annoyed, his voice almost too soft to hear.
“I still have to meet the other officials and colleagues first thing tomorrow morning, and I have to go out for an inspection. If it’s visible, how am I supposed to leave the house?”
He paused slightly.
“At least… it has to be somewhere no one can see.”
The instant those words fell, the shadow in Xiao’s eyes finally dispersed.
In its place was an intense, burning darkness.
He let out a low laugh.
Then he lowered his head and obediently followed Xia Lanshi’s wishes, placing the kiss upon the skin below his collarbone.
With utmost care, he branded a mark there that belonged solely to him.
He felt Xia Lanshi’s body tremble for an instant.
Only after confirming that the mark was truly there did he slowly raise his head.
A look of satisfaction appeared in his eyes.
He considerately pulled Xia Lanshi’s inner collar back into place and smoothed it carefully.
He even reached out and gently straightened his slightly disheveled hair.
His gaze remained fixed upon Xia Lanshi’s faintly reddened eyes.
Once he had finished, he stepped back half a pace.
The faintest smile curled at his lips, utterly mischievous, yet carrying an innocence that made him impossible to blame.
“During the day, we confirm each other verbally,” he said with perfect seriousness.
“At night… we directly confirm the mark.”
Xia Lanshi was simultaneously amused and exasperated by him, yet could do nothing about it.
There was clearly something so deep hidden in those eyes of his, yet he insisted on putting on this lighthearted, carefree act.
The indulgence in Xia Lanshi’s heart had long since overflowed.
So, in the end, he simply let him have his way.