The Fuxian Peak was collapsing. Xiao Chiye’s soul nearly left his body the moment he looked up! With one arm hooked over the eaves, he didn’t even notice whose head he was stepping on as he climbed the layered roof, risking his life. When he leapt, he caught Shen Zechuan, the momentum carrying them both outward. He used his arms to shield Shen Zechuan tightly, his back smashing against the roof ridge, dislodging tiles as he skidded along.
Chen Yang reined in his horse and waved his whip, shouting toward the eaves, “Tiger, catch him!”
Xiao Chiye panted heavily, his arms numb and sore, sweat streaming down his neck. Amidst the falling debris, he shakily brushed Shen Zechuan’s hair aside with trembling fingers, confirming he was still breathing. He muttered a curse under his breath and tightened his hold, forcing Shen Zechuan to cough intermittently through the smoke and dust.
Dantai Hu had reached the front of the building, releasing Lang Taoxue’s reins and shouting, “Master!”
Xiao Chiye jumped down on the tiles, brushing off Gu Jin’s attempt to help; he refused to hand Shen Zechuan to anyone. Mounting his horse, he took Shen Zechuan’s cloak from Chen Yang and draped it over him.
Xiao Chiye’s profile was hard and cold. With his free hand, he tapped Dantai Hu’s back, straightening the younger man’s posture. In a chilling voice he said, “This is your elder brother’s battlefield.”
Dantai Hu silently wiped the blood from his face.
Xiao Chiye’s gaze remained stern. “Dantai Hu, let’s go home.”
The Jianxing Prince’s residence burned again, flames mingling with the sounds of battle until dawn. In the streets of Duzhou, blood flowed like rivulets, and ordinary citizens hid indoors, too afraid to peek. Around 7:45 a.m., the Cizhou garrison and the Imperial Guards began cleaning the battlefield, dragging the corpses to open ground for later processing.
Dantai Hu was eating, having just come down from the battlefield. His face was still unwashed as he squatted with the guards, shoveling food. Chen Yang had called the Yan family kitchen staff to prepare meals for the garrison and the Imperial Guards, who had marched and fought all night; the soldiers were famished.
“Street fighting’s fun,” Dantai Hu said, wiping his mouth. “Camp skirmishes are fun too, but this… this is the best.”
“Our master had foresight,” Gu Jin said, biting into a bun. “He didn’t let the Imperial Guards wear armor; otherwise, last night’s war hammer would’ve been deadly.”
They rested there while the main hall’s curtains remained drawn. Chen Yang, slightly worried, checked the roster and asked Ding Tao, “How did you let the young master climb that high building? Why didn’t you follow?”
Ding Tao lowered his head, remaining silent. Fei Sheng and others were injured, roughly bandaged, now kneeling in the courtyard awaiting their reprimand. Yet the Embroidered Guards had defended the stairs perfectly, preventing Lei Jingzhe from attacking—two had died, and as Fei Sheng said, they had earned their reputation overnight. No one could underestimate them now, standing proudly before the Libei guards.
Inside the hall, Kong Ling stood with sleeves folded, listening to the clinking of porcelain bowls from the inner room—he knew Xiao Chiye was feeding Shen Zechuan medicine. After a while, a maid emerged with a bowl, curtsied to Kong Ling, and left.
Xiao Chiye emerged from behind the curtain, dabbing his hands with a cloth. “It’s nothing… just a hand injury. Last time it was the left, now the right… they take turns, one day it’ll get me for sure.”
Kong Ling listened calmly, knowing these words weren’t meant for him. Sound traveled easily here, and Xiao Chiye spoke lightly, letting the person inside turn over silently.
Xiao Chiye set the cloth aside and moved to make way, signaling Kong Ling to enter. When Kong Ling lifted the curtain and stepped inside, Xiao Chiye remained at the doorway, signaling to the guards.
“Have Gu Jin dispose of the bodies tonight at the latest. Any vinegar or water needed, ask the Yan family.” He glanced at the weather. “Though it’s autumn and not too hot, the canals in Duzhou were clogged last night. If not cleared, disease spreads—keep an eye on it.”
Duzhou had no proper administration; the canals were clogged with makeshift buildings, worse than Qu Du. This morning’s blood pooling was a result. Autumn’s cooler air didn’t dry it as summer would have, but the fire burned so long because houses were close together, roof to roof.
While giving instructions outside, Shen Zechuan discussed matters with Kong Ling inside.
Kong Ling sat on a small chair by the bed. “We received a letter from the Lord at Cizhou, immediately inspecting the garrison. Yuan Zuo wanted the garrison to move east, waiting along the Bianbo southern line for the Imperial Guards. If they arrived, we’d push south together; if not, we’d stay put.” He smiled. “I initially disagreed, since the letter said not to act without orders, but Yuan Zuo insisted.”
Shen Zechuan, half-reclining on the pillow, looked at the letter. “Yuan Zuo understood its meaning.”
Shen Zechuan couldn’t write himself, so he dictated many things. Around the carriage were captured bandits, many former Six-Ears, who had been Lei Jingzhe’s pigeons. He distrusted them, so when giving orders for Cizhou, he said, “No action without orders,” but soon followed with instructions to march on Duzhou—a clever play of words, understood by Yao Wenyu immediately.
“The Lord plans well in advance,” Kong Ling said. “We discussed Duzhou before, thinking to wait until spring, yet the Lord had already made preparations.”
“This was a coincidence,” Shen Zechuan said clearly. “I seized those supplies, knowing only that Duzhou still had 400 Scorpions. I hinted Cizhou to act, originally to test Duzhou’s strength and capture Lei Jingzhe alive. Unexpectedly, he brought over ten thousand cavalry, walking right into my hands.”
Earlier in Cizhou, they had agreed to first secure Fan Zhou’s Wing King’s small court before targeting Duzhou, as the Wing King could block Qi Zhuyin from Qidong. Holding Cizhou and Chazhou, Shen Zechuan relied on trade routes, only a local power in Zhongbo. To take the east—Dun, Duan, Fan, and Dengzhou—he needed legitimate reason; otherwise, Qi Zhuyin would have grounds to attack.
Lei Jingzhe likely didn’t anticipate that he, sent to purge Hairigu, would become the perfect pretext for Shen Zechuan to take Duzhou. This also showed how accustomed Lei Jingzhe had become to Duanzhou, forgetting that Zhongbo remained under the Great Zhou. Leading 10,000 cavalry into Duzhou, he acted recklessly, ignoring the Wing Kings of Fan and Dengzhou, and underestimating Shen Zechuan in Cizhou.
Kong Ling had more to report but noticed the wind and light rain outside. He quickly stood, closing the window for Shen Zechuan. “This trip is dangerous. Some matters Yuan Zuo should report, but he cannot travel, so I take the liberty.”
Shen Zechuan seemed to know what Kong Ling would say, placing the letter on the bedside table, looking at him.
Kong Ling stepped forward. “A gentleman should not stand under a dangerous wall. The Lord repeatedly ventures into peril, which is inappropriate. Cizhou’s foundations are just forming; Chazhou’s registrations incomplete; Libei’s trade not yet started. You are the master here; such risks endanger the loyalty of those behind you.”
In other words, Shen Zechuan had become the “Lord” of Cizhou and Chazhou, with Libei as his hidden strength. His grand plan was just beginning; many decisions depended on him, and he could not afford an accident.
Shen Zechuan inclined slightly, replying with a calm tone, “You instruct well. I will sincerely reflect and not take risks lightly again.”
After Kong Ling left, Shen Zechuan folded the letter and returned it to the bedside table. His right hand was re-bandaged; the fingers remained deformed and painful, the sweat from earlier still drying on his head.
Outside, the rain seemed to wash Duzhou’s streets clean. Many tasks remained unfinished, but he rested on the pillow, wanting to see no one but Xiao Chiye. He waited half an hour; when Xiao Chiye hadn’t come, he fell asleep unknowingly.
Shen Zechuan awoke, flushed with heat, already moved into the bed. The night was pitch-dark, rain pattering hard. He turned his head to see Xiao Chiye sitting on the bed’s edge, reading by faint candlelight.
Shen Zechuan felt sore everywhere. Lazy from just waking, he slid a foot from under the blanket, lightly brushing Xiao Chiye’s calf.
Xiao Chiye ignored him.
Shen Zechuan propped himself up, reaching toward the letter, whispering hoarsely, “Yuan Zuo’s… we must reply later. Gao Zhongxiong should write a notice to Qidong, clarifying Cizhou’s troops were fighting the Biansha cavalry.”
Xiao Chiye glanced at him sideways, folded the letter, set it aside silently.
Shen Zechuan leaned over Xiao Chiye’s arm, burying his head. “Ce’an.”
“In a few days we’ll return to Cizhou,” Xiao Chiye looked down at him. “Another broken finger, another jump… Master Ji would’ve broken his whip by now.”
Shen Zechuan muttered, “Don’t hit.”
Xiao Chiye was silent for a moment.
Shen Zechuan nuzzled his arm. “Ah Ye.”
Xiao Chiye, finally resolute, refused to indulge him this time. Lifting his other hand, he grabbed Shen Zechuan by the collar, placing him aside. “Ah… Ye? No one like that here.”
Shen Zechuan said, “Second—”
Xiao Chiye covered him with the blanket, snuffed the candle, and lay down in his clothes, not holding him. He still remembered the sensation of running desperately earlier—racing through knife and fire, caring nothing for safety, almost stabbed to death by Shen Zechuan.
Shen Zechuan nudged against Xiao Chiye’s back, moving to his shoulder, pressing against his temple. “If you don’t hold me, I can’t sleep.”
Xiao Chiye lay flat, scooped Shen Zechuan onto himself. They looked at each other, but Xiao Chiye didn’t loosen his grip, securing him in place.
“Sleep,” Xiao Chiye said.
“This position is awkward,” Shen Zechuan gestured toward his chest. “Still… suspended.”
“Isn’t that fine?” Xiao Chiye half-smiled. “I’ve been holding you all along.”
Shen Zechuan covered Xiao Chiye’s chest with his hand, rubbing gently.
Xiao Chiye lifted him higher. “Don’t fidget, I’m angry.”
Shen Zechuan, like a drowning cat, was trapped in Xiao Chiye’s hold, pawing at his chest—light and ticklish, mischievous yet adorable. Xiao Chiye’s teeth itched from the scratching; Shen Zechuan’s affectionate gaze clearly a playful challenge, fearless.
Xiao Chiye was angry but couldn’t stay mad. Shen Zechuan’s behavior was rare, learned from being spoiled in Xiao Chiye’s embrace. He knew it but had no intention of letting Shen Zechuan get away easily.
“Bathing?” Xiao Chiye said coldly. “I haven’t washed in two days.”