The rain tapped against the eaves, echoing Shen Zechuan’s thoughts. He could lay bare every shade of his desire before Xiao Chiye without restraint, yet he found it impossible to speak of this honesty itself. He was the most eloquent man in the world—and also the most inarticulate.
“I once gave this life to my teacher because there was no place for me in this world. A’Ye, the first time I stood before the halls of Wenduo, I saw the gate to this life. Once I stepped through it, Duanzhou would never again be my home. I knew my elder brother would vanish from my dreams, and that no one in this world would forgive me.”
Shen Zechuan had never ridden into battle nor presided from lofty halls. He was just an ordinary man facing curved blades. And precisely because he was ordinary, the cries of the six prefectures rang in his ears night after night, and the sea of blood in the sinkhole floated corpses before his eyes. He had knelt in the blizzard at the sinkhole, endured partings of life and death, and in a single night became the enemy of the realm.
He had done nothing.
And yet he was guilty—his crime was being Shen Zechuan.
He watched the cavalry slaughter Duanzhou, forty thousand lives pressing down on his back. Because he lived, he was forever imprisoned there. His struggle meant nothing; the grief before those forty thousand corpses crushed it utterly.
He could not go on living.
He was an ant in that grand game. His pain was nothing more than dust stirred up when the players coughed. When he understood this, the meaning of “living” vanished. Ji Mu made him live, but heroes and villains still tore at each other. If he continued living, he would one day be reduced to a pawn again. A few more years of survival was only waiting for another cycle.
Qi Huilian had raved in the abandoned Temple of Atonement, raising his arms and calling out to the crown prince—but there was no crown prince left in this world. Could only those of noble blood shape the fate of the realm? Could only those born exalted command the storm? Then the countless ordinary people beneath heaven were nothing but dry bones under the steps—trampled, feeling no pain, offering no resistance!
“What did we do wrong?”
Qi Huilian cried out in anguish.
What did we do wrong?
Once, Shen Zechuan had grabbed Xiao Chiye by the collar in a filthy alley, tearing off his mask of restraint and shouting the same question.
You and I—what did we do wrong?
If being born was itself a crime, then heaven had forced his head down into the dust to remain an ant. But Shen Zechuan met Qi Huilian. He watched the man’s madness, heard the crows’ mournful cries, and was driven to the brink. If he could not muster the resolve to break everything, he would follow the path heaven laid out and destroy himself again.
“I am Qi Huilian of Yuzhou. I taught the crown prince. I will teach you everything I know—will you accept?”
What Shen Zechuan saw then was a path to life—not merely a way to kneel and breathe, but a way to stand. Were the nobles destined to win? The moment Qi Huilian knelt was a decisive turning point. He shattered that barrier earlier than anyone—even earlier than Shen Zechuan.
Qi Huilian was an imperial tutor; he only taught those destined for that position. When he extended his hand to Shen Zechuan, it was not only out of desperation, but also the most mad and ambitious calculation of his life.
“You teach me poetry and books; I will kill your mortal enemy.”
Shen Zechuan’s hatred had once been scattered across Qudu, vague and countless like flickering lights. Qi Huilian gathered it together with the words “mortal enemy.” He forged Shen Lanzhou—sheathing the sharp edge of Shen Zechuan, suppressing the self-loathing that had sustained him. He sought to guide Shen Zechuan onto the right path, so he could truly see himself.
Xue Xiuzhuo had not gone the wrong way—he had only been too late. Qi Huilian already had his chosen successor.
Rain washed over the eaves. After speaking, Shen Zechuan fell silent, burying his face into Xiao Chiye’s back, just as Xiao Chiye had buried his face into the pillow.
Shen Zechuan did not cherish his life; death was not frightening. In this contest of warlords, no one was spared. Any peaceful haven in the world was built upon the sharpest blades. If he died, it would only mean he had lost. He did not care.
Would a cut hand hurt?
For Shen Zechuan, he would only know once it was cut. Qi Huilian had not been able to bind him. He was a blade without a hilt—whoever grasped him would bleed. No one in the world could wield him but himself. He stepped away from everything to reach “freedom.”
When he killed Ji Lei, that was freedom.
It was then Qi Huilian realized that though he had sharpened Shen Zechuan, he had never fully sheathed him. Shen Zechuan had simply learned to strike without a sound. At that time, he had just tasted intimacy, and his wounded body discovered the pleasure of being alive. He did not yet realize that this was the beginning of the blade returning to its sheath.
The wild wind from Libei swept through Shen Zechuan’s nightmares. Xiao Chiye occupied his chest with an invading force, his strong arms pushing away all noise, entering uninvited into the mire to seek out the fragrance of something precious.
A greedy wolf.
“My teacher has returned this life to me, A’Ye,” Shen Zechuan melted into the familiar scent, rubbing his cheek against Xiao Chiye’s back like a young beast following a trail. “A’Ye…”
Xiao Chiye raised a hand to press him down, half turning to look into his eyes.
Shen Zechuan’s eyes were open, utterly serious. With his fingertips, he lightly brushed Xiao Chiye’s cheek. “I belong to you. Even in death, you belong to me.” At last, that sharp and ruthless part of him surfaced as he continued, “Whoever tries to take you from me—I will kill them.”
Not even the King of Hell would be spared.
At first, Shen Zechuan thought what he treasured was not life, but Xiao Chiye. Gradually, he learned that a cut finger could hurt—and that pain was not in the finger, but in Xiao Chiye. Living was difficult, but in that struggle, he found more reasons to continue. He lived for Ji Mu, for Qi Huilian, for Zhongbo, and for all the ants caught in the storm of change.
“I want us to live to a hundred together,” Shen Zechuan murmured, pressing a kiss to Xiao Chiye’s temple, “in a place no one can reach.”
Xiao Chiye caught his hand again, turned, and pulled him into his arms, holding his face as he leaned in close to look at him.
“Tired from running?” Shen Zechuan asked softly.
“Not tired,” Xiao Chiye stroked his cheek. “I survived by thinking of you.”