Shen Zechuan suddenly mimicked Xiao Chiye’s earlier move, splashing water across his face and snatching his clothes while he was off guard.
Xiao Chiye, blinded by the water, reached out and yanked the dry handkerchief over Shen Zechuan’s head, rubbing it roughly. Shen Zechuan, still dressing, swayed under the onslaught and kicked at the chair with his bare foot in fury.
The chair beneath Xiao Chiye slid back. Instantly, he extended his leg, pinning Shen Zechuan close, and dragged him toward himself, kneading Shen Zechuan’s head like a squirming puppy.
“Then I’ll take my liberties!” Xiao Chiye growled.
“You… you… you—ba… er—” Shen Zechuan’s words stumbled as the handkerchief covered him.
Xiao Chiye tore off the cloth, grabbed Shen Zechuan’s chin with one hand, and ran the other from the back of his neck down to his waist and hips.
“Bastard,” Xiao Chiye said. “You called me a bastard?”
Shen Zechuan’s sash was undone; the loose clothes were Xiao Chiye’s old garments, slumping over him and revealing his collarbone. Water droplets clung to Xiao Chiye’s fingers as he moved, mingling with the slick warmth of the touch.
“I didn’t say it,” Shen Zechuan pressed back, trapping Xiao Chiye’s hand. “People say one should self-reflect thrice daily. Second Young Master, you reflect well.”
“You don’t get it.” Xiao Chiye’s nimble fingers reversed the grip on Shen Zechuan’s hand. “The first word I ever knew was ‘bastard.’ I’ve always said you’re a rogue, Second Young Master. No reflection needed. And your waist is ridiculously slender.”
“You just didn’t touch enough,” Shen Zechuan said coldly.
“Right,” Xiao Chiye feigned ignorance, teasing another meaning. “I haven’t exactly handled your waist much.”
Shen Zechuan no longer wanted to play games. He fastened his sash with one hand. “Since it’s been touched back, let’s drop it.”
Xiao Chiye loosened his grip on the legs; Shen Zechuan adjusted his sash. His face was flushed from the vigorous rubbing of the handkerchief.
Feeling warm, Xiao Chiye picked up the bead from the floor. Seeing Shen Zechuan’s bare legs, he froze, straightened quickly, stepped back, then leaned in again. “Sleep.”
Shen Zechuan drank a bowl of hot ginger soup, rinsed his mouth, and sneezed once more.
Xiao Chiye thought his sneeze looked amusing—like a little cat. He dipped a handkerchief in cold water and wiped his face.
“Don’t go over there,” Xiao Chiye said, disrobing and pointing to his bed. “Sleep in my bed.”
Shen Zechuan wiped his mouth. “Then I’ll follow orders rather than be polite.”
He sat on Xiao Chiye’s bed without ceremony.
Xiao Chiye moved the table and chair, dragged the small Sumeru couch into place, leaving just enough distance between them to step over. He lay down, propping his head on his arms. “Lanzhou, lights out.”
Shen Zechuan blew out the lamp and lay down, back to him.
Snow fell outside; inside, it was warm and quiet.
Xiao Chiye closed his eyes, seeming to sleep, but the sensation of Shen Zechuan’s touch lingered on his fingers, growing sharper in the dark. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, thinking of the northern sky.
No desire leads to enlightenment.
When his master taught him archery, it was the season of rich northern water grass. He perched on the edge of the riding grounds, staring at the deep blue sky.
Zuo Qianqiu asked, “What are you thinking?”
“I want an eagle, Master. I want to fly,” Xiao Chiye said, swinging his legs slightly.
Zuo Qianqiu patted the back of his head. “You’re full of desire, boy. But the world says no desire leads to enlightenment. Desire is a cage.”
Xiao Chiye couldn’t sit still. He grabbed the railing, flipped upside down, and fell into the grass, dust and dirt on his little robe. “Wanting is human nature.”
“Wanting is the start of pleasure and pain,” Zuo Qianqiu said, holding his longbow carefully, cleaning it. “If you admit you’re a mortal full of desire, you’ll always be caught between gain and loss. Want, and you must have it. That’s your wolfish nature. But, Aye, there will be many things you want but can never have. What will you do then?”
Xiao Chiye landed on the grass, held his robe, and caught a large grasshopper. Twisting it, he said, “Father says where there’s a will, there’s a way. Nothing is impossible.”
Zuo Qianqiu sighed; he was too young yet. Pointing to the sky, he said, “Fine. You want to fly. Will you truly fly?”
Xiao Chiye released the grasshopper, looked up, and said seriously, “I can learn falconry. If I tame an eagle, its wings belong to me. The sky it flies is the sky I fly. Master, people must adapt.”
Zuo Qianqiu stared for a long while. “You surpass me… I am the inflexible fool.”
Xiao Chiye spread his arms like wings and ran a few steps against the wind. “I also want to tame horses.”
“Eagles and horses are strong-willed creatures,” Zuo Qianqiu said, walking alongside. “Seems you like untamable beings, Aye.”
“Taming,” Xiao Chiye said, “I enjoy the process.”
He thought.
He didn’t enjoy the process—he was addicted, fascinated. Like enduring a hawk—seven days without sleep, four days without food, until it yielded to command, ready for hunting.
Now, lust was his new hawk.
Xiao Chiye slightly tilted his head, watching Shen Zechuan’s back. The clothes slanted, revealing the nape of his neck—dark, smooth, like an uncut jade in the dim light.
Xiao Chiye hardened.
He didn’t move, didn’t look away. He didn’t believe such shallow desire could control him, nor that he would succumb to such raw instinct.
Before dawn, they rose together, as if finally satiated.
Guards who’d watched from the roof all night exhaled warm breaths as the maids passed. “Nothing happened tonight, eh?”
“Not quite,” said the one who drank.
The scribe eyed him suspiciously. “How do you know?”
The drinker nudged, watching Shen Zechuan leave the room. “See? He moves normally today, though his eyes are dark—clearly rested.”
They turned heads together, looking at Xiao Chiye leaving after him.
“…Second Young Master doesn’t look pleased,” the scribe noted.
“Desires unmet,” said the drinker.
Morning sun draped Xiao Chiye in his cloak. Seeing his serious expression, Chen Yang asked, “Governor, did he do something wrong?”
“Hmm… sort of,” Xiao Chiye said.
Chen Yang was shocked. “Last night he—”
“Played dead rather convincingly,” Xiao Chiye said, fastening his Wolf Fury Blade and stepping out into the snow. “Let’s go to the Fengshan drill grounds.”
Chen Yang hurried to catch up. “No duty today, and it’s still snowing—Governor—”
Xiao Chiye mounted his horse and said, “Check the new equipment. Have Gu Jin and Ding Tao keep an eye on him.”
Chen Yang nodded.
Xiao Chiye looked up, shouting at the two on the roof: “If he slips away again, you’re both gone too.”
The heads on the roof nodded and ducked back.
Ding Tao put pen and notebook back safely. “Good, from Second Young Master’s guard to his personal guard.”
Gu Jin swirled his last sip of liquor. “I think he can handle eight men alone. Just watch him.”
“Just watch him,” Ding Tao said, hands neatly on his knees. They looked around, then simultaneously stood. “Not good!”
Shen Zechuan ate buns and opened the back door of the Zhaozui Temple.
Ji Gang was practicing punches in the yard. Seeing him, he wiped sweat with a handkerchief and asked, “Why here now?”
Shen Zechuan said, “Busy in a few days; today’s convenient.”
Grand Tutor Qi slept amidst papers, snoring like thunder. Shen Zechuan and Ji Gang stayed outside, chatting under the eaves.
Ji Gang wiped his face. “You haven’t slacked off, I hope?”
Shen Zechuan rolled up his sleeve, revealing bruises from sparring with Xiao Chiye the other day. “Fought Xiao Er.”
Ji Gang froze, then flew into rage. “He dared strike you?!”
“I guessed he wanted to test my internal martial arts,” Shen Zechuan said. “Master, he’s gifted, his physique surpasses even the Northern Prince. Using Ji family boxing against him is like an ant shaking a tree—no effect.”
“Zuo Qianqiu went to Suotian Pass, met Feng Yisheng,” Ji Gang said. “Feng Yisheng took Zuo Qianqiu as an adopted son, passing on the Feng family blade techniques. By Xiao Er’s time, they’ve likely merged into something new, unlike ours. But the Ji family has its strengths too. Only by testing blade techniques against each other can you see differences.”
“The Wolf Fury Blade was forged by Master Qi’s top craftsman—cuts through iron like butter. Ordinary blades are useless against it,” Shen Zechuan pondered.
“Qi’s family makes ‘general blades,’ designed for the battlefield. Xiao Er’s Wolf Fury Blade, if on the field, could split bones—perfectly built for his arm strength,” Ji Gang said, shaking snow from his shoes. “Our blades might not suit us even if given a chance. But your blade need not rush; Master has chosen one for you.”
“My blade?” Shen Zechuan was surprised.
“The Jinyiwei is a good place,” Ji Gang smiled. “You’re new, but in time you’ll know it’s full of hidden talent. Qi Zhuyin is a master; our Jinyiwei has plenty. I’ve been thinking of Ji Lei’s blade. Once Master gets it for you, reforging it with old friends—it won’t be worse than Xiao Er’s Wolf Fury Blade!”
“Ji Lei’s blade isn’t the embroidered spring blade?”
“Usually he carries that, but he also hid my father’s blade,” Ji Gang said with a hum. “Why hasn’t he died yet? If the Judicial Court judged quickly, that blade could be stored. Once stored, Master can manage it.”
“Long punished,” Shen Zechuan said softly, “he won’t last much longer.”
“Did you find the person I asked you to before the autumn hunt?” Ji Gang hurried to ask.
“Found him,” Shen Zechuan smiled. “Just waiting for him to come out.”
Xiao Chiye didn’t return for dinner either. Shen Zechuan rested in his room. Late at night, hurried footsteps sounded outside, followed by a knock at his door.
Shen Zechuan feigned ignorance, but the window rattled. Xiao Chiye wedged it open with his scabbard and whistled at him.
He perched on the windowsill, tilting his head to peer inside.
“We agreed to sleep together,” Xiao Chiye said, displeased. “Why are you back?”
Shen Zechuan tossed a pillow out the window; Xiao Chiye caught it. Shen Zechuan had no choice but to rise, carrying his blanket to open the door.
Xiao Chiye sniffed the pillow. “Did you perfume yourself?”
“Ten jin of powder a day,” Shen Zechuan said.
“Is that so?” Xiao Chiye laughed.
Shen Zechuan walked ahead; the night wind didn’t even reach him. A chill on the nape made Xiao Chiye glance back.
He ran a finger along Shen Zechuan, sniffing his own finger, puzzled.
“What scent is that on you?” Xiao Chiye asked. “A… a—”
Shen Zechuan pulled the blanket over his head calmly. “That’s your own gunpowder scent.”
Xiao Chiye stood for a moment, then lifted the blanket with lightning speed, pulling Shen Zechuan inside.
Ding Tao, peeking from the eaves, quickly pulled out his notebook, excited. “Second Young Master! Got him!”