During the days Xia Lanshi was recuperating, however, the main room of the East Courtyard was anything but peaceful.
There were already few officials in the Northern Border Administrative Office. Now that they were in a particularly eventful period, nearly everyone had to hold several positions at once.
Among them, Xia Lanshi, as the Chief Administrator, carried the heaviest burden.
Nominally, he was the Chief Administrator, but in reality, he handled almost all of the complicated administrative affairs under Xiao Yuan—coordinating affairs, handling government matters, reviewing official documents from the administrative office, managing external relations, overseeing subordinate officials, planning military and political affairs, and managing his staff.
Even matters concerning the people’s livelihood in the fief ultimately had to be brought to him for a final decision.
From early in the morning, officials and clerks continuously came carrying thick military reports, case files, and account books, hurrying to deliver them to his room.
In less than half a day, a small mountain of documents that made one’s jaw drop had already piled up on the broad rosewood desk.
At first, these officials still delivered documents requiring the Chief Administrator’s review directly into the East Courtyard room as usual.
After all, even when Xia Lanshi was ill in the past, he had always forced himself to continue handling official business this way.
But before long, they keenly noticed that something was different. They even began to develop a deep fear of stepping through that door.
Because every morning, there would be one person who arrived punctually at the Chief Administrator’s room.
He said nothing. He merely pulled over a rosewood chair, sat down not far from Xia Lanshi’s bed, and quietly watched.
Every official who entered carrying documents, from the moment they stepped across the threshold to the moment they put down the documents, saluted, and withdrew, had to endure a cold examination from those deep eyes like a frozen pool.
They did not know who this person was.
The man clearly said nothing, and even his sitting posture carried a hint of casual indifference.
Yet the oppressive feeling emanating from those eyes was chillingly heavy.
That gaze seemed to silently accuse them:
The Chief Administrator is still ill. How dare you bother him with this rubbish?
And it also seemed to be coldly warning them:
If you dare make him tired, you’re dead.
This almost tangible killing intent made officials who were normally perfectly at ease in official circles feel as though thorns were pricking their backs whenever they entered the room.
After putting down their documents, they were often drenched in cold sweat and would flee without even daring to breathe too loudly.
As yet another clerk backed out of the room stiffly, his face pale, the door was gently closed.
Xia Lanshi sat on the bed, his back supported by a thick, soft bolster. He was flipping through an account book sent from one of the prefectures and counties.
Watching the clerk’s retreating figure as though he were escaping a disaster, he finally could not help laughing softly. He raised his eyes toward the culprit sitting nearby.
“Stop frightening people. If you keep staring at them like that, they won’t dare come to the East Courtyard anymore.”
Hearing this, Xiao innocently blinked.
A pure, harmless smile instantly appeared on his face.
“I didn’t frighten anyone. Aren’t I just sitting here quietly without saying a word?”
Looking at how quickly he could change expressions, Xia Lanshi merely shook his head lightly, a helpless smile at the corners of his lips, and did not expose him.
He then lowered his head and continued battling the complicated account book in his hands.
However, as time passed, Xia Lanshi’s occasional suppressed coughs and the tired motion of rubbing his temples all fell into Xiao’s eyes.
Looking at that mountain of documents that seemed as though it could never be finished, Xiao finally could not stand watching anymore.
He rose from his seat, walked over to the desk, and pointed at the pile of official documents.
“If you don’t mind, I can help you look through these.”
Xia Lanshi raised his head. A hint of surprise flashed through his pale-red eyes before he smiled gently.
“I don’t mind. Of course I trust you. But… you understand all this?”
The Great Sheng administrative system was complicated, and the writing formats of various military reports and account books were even more obscure and difficult to understand. They were by no means something an ordinary person could easily comprehend.
“I know a little.”
Xiao pulled out a chair and sat down on the other side of the desk, his tone calm.
“Consider it compensation for making you catch a chill and fall ill. But I can only help you organize things, verify them, or offer suggestions. The final decisions still have to be made by you personally.”
Xia Lanshi put on his outer robe and got out of bed, taking the other chair beside the desk.
He also wanted to take this opportunity to learn more about Xiao’s abilities, so he nodded in agreement and pushed a stack of unfinished prefectural documents in front of him.
What happened next sent turbulent waves through Xia Lanshi’s heart.
He had assumed Xiao would need him to offer a few pointers from the side.
But after taking the documents, Xiao merely opened them casually, his gaze sweeping across the densely packed writing with the precision of a hawk.
He read account books extremely quickly, yet could always spot discrepancies in the figures at a glance.
He was even more seasoned when reading military reports, to the point that he could pick up a brush and annotate the ratio of military provisions consumed by both sides.
This was absolutely not merely “knowing a little.”
It was clearly the terrifying intuition and skill that could only be developed after years immersed in government affairs and military strategy.
The logic and approach he used to handle these documents even had an indescribably high degree of compatibility with Xia Lanshi’s own thought process.
It was as though… he had done the exact same things countless times before.
Then Xiao reached over and took a disorderly stack of urgent reports from various prefectures and counties.
Xia Lanshi was just about to remind him that this stack of documents was somewhat complicated.
But he saw Xiao’s left hand reorganize and restack the reports as naturally as flowing clouds and running water.
It was not according to the conventional geographical positions of north and south, nor according to the dates on which they had been submitted.
Instead—
Hanzhou, Linzhou, Cangzhou.
It was a priority order known only to him.
The teacup in Xia Lanshi’s hand suddenly stopped, and even his breathing paused for half a beat.
That was a sorting habit he had devised privately.
It was arranged according to the true strategic value of the “secretly stored granaries” in each prefecture and county.
This system was extremely secretive. Aside from himself, not even his closest aides or clerks knew about it.
Yet what truly shocked Xia Lanshi was still to come.
After straightening out the stack of official documents, Xiao picked up his brush without hesitation and casually made a light mark in the lower-right corner of the most troublesome memorial from Cangzhou at the very top.
It was an extremely inconspicuous ink mark, shaped somewhat like a crescent moon.
It was Xia Lanshi’s private mark for indicating:
“Nothing appears wrong on the surface, but someone needs to be secretly sent to investigate.”
It was not even writing.
It was simply a habit he had developed over many years.
Xia Lanshi stared blankly at the scene before him, unable to calm the turmoil in his eyes.
No matter how intelligent or capable a person was, that was merely ability.
But these tiny details were habits.
Unless someone had sat beside him every day and worked with him for many years, to the point that their thoughts were completely in sync, it was impossible for them to unconsciously perform such actions with such exactness.
Xiao himself was completely unaware of it.
He naturally pushed the marked documents aside, his expression still focused and calm, as though he had merely done something utterly ordinary.
He had no idea that the muscle memory carved deeply into his soul across the long river of years had, at this very moment, exposed without reservation the deep devotion and steadfast longing he had kept hidden.
Just as Xia Lanshi was secretly shocked, Xiao casually took a wolf-hair brush from the brush stand, dipped it in ink, and prepared to write his proposed response on a document requiring an urgent reply.
Xia Lanshi’s gaze narrowed slightly.
The letters Xiao had previously written to him had all been written with a modern pen, the handwriting somewhat hurried and casual.
But now, because the injury to his right shoulder had not yet healed, Xiao naturally switched to holding the brush with his left hand and used the traditional brush of Great Sheng.
Xiao’s wrist hovered above the paper. The brush tip touched the page, flowing smoothly without the slightest hesitation.
Xia Lanshi leaned forward slightly, his gaze falling onto the sheet covered in ink characters, and his breathing involuntarily caught.
The handwriting was as firm and elegant as iron etching and silver hooks, the strokes restrained yet concealing a sharp edge.
Whether it was the curves of the strokes, the pauses and turns, or even the unique connected-stroke habits used for certain uncommon characters… they were astonishingly identical to Xia Lanshi’s own handwriting.
Had he not personally watched Xiao write it, Xia Lanshi might even have thought it was a manuscript he himself had written.
A person could perhaps imitate someone else’s handwriting.
But the habits and rhythm of wielding a brush that were deeply carved into one’s very bones could never be faked.
Xia Lanshi suppressed the thoughts surging through his heart, picked up the hot tea beside him, and took a sip, using the curling steam to conceal the turbulence in his eyes.
He deliberately smiled casually and teased, “Your handwriting does look somewhat similar to mine.”
Xiao’s hand holding the brush paused slightly.
The brush tip, saturated with ink, hovered above the paper for a moment, spreading a tiny halo of ink, like a ripple appearing across a calm lake.
He did not raise his head. He merely finished writing the final character, then gently placed the brush on the brush rest.
His eyes lowered quietly as he looked at the handwriting that was identical to Xia Lanshi’s. A trace of nostalgia and tenderness passed through his deep eyes.
After a long while, he finally spoke.
His deep voice carried a faint, almost imperceptible tenderness and desolation.
“Mm… yes. There was someone who taught me stroke by stroke for a very long time. I studied for a very long time. I finally became somewhat similar.”
Xia Lanshi fell silent for a moment.
Looking at Xiao’s calm yet lonely profile, he understood without needing further explanation.
Those were the memories Xiao had lost—the years that had disappeared into endless time and could never return.
For some inexplicable reason, a faint pain pricked Xia Lanshi’s heart.
He gathered his scattered thoughts and chuckled softly, his tone carrying a hint of comfort.
“What are we going to do now? If that’s the case, what could I possibly still teach you?”
Xiao turned to look at him and thought seriously for a moment.
“There are still many things. For example, the qin or painting.”
Xia Lanshi met his deep gaze and replied warmly, “All right. I’ll teach you slowly another day.”
As soon as he finished speaking, a cold draft slipped through the gap in the window. He could not help turning his head and coughing softly.
Seeing this, Xiao immediately stood up and walked over quickly. Without allowing him to refuse, he supported his arm and guided him toward the bed.
“All the official business is finished. All that’s left is to apply the seal. You should rest now.”
This time, Xia Lanshi did not force himself. He obediently lay down and let Xiao pull the blanket securely around him.
Just as Xia Lanshi placed his hand back at his side, the sleeve of his inner garment slipped slightly, revealing a red braided bracelet around his left wrist. Tied to it was a lustrous white jade peace buckle.
That was something Xiao had personally given him ten years ago.
Xiao’s gaze settled on the bracelet.
For these ten years, no matter what kind of political intrigue, struggles, or life-and-death crises Xia Lanshi had experienced, that red cord had always remained quietly around his wrist.
Only, the red cord had darkened with age.
It was no longer the deep crimson it had been at the beginning, but an ocher-red color, like something that had deepened after years of accumulation.
Although the cord itself remained intact, it carried a faint sheen that seemed to say it had been worn for a very, very long time.
It was the mark left behind by the combined nurturing of Xia Lanshi’s body heat and the passage of time.
Xiao knew that it was no ordinary silk thread, but a special fiber from another world that ordinary blades and swords could hardly damage.
But precisely because of that, he understood even more clearly.
The reason Xia Lanshi had “never replaced it” was obvious—
It was not because he could not bear to part with a piece of cord.
It was because it was something Xiao had given him, and he did not want to replace it.
The fading color itself had become a mark of their companionship.
The deeper its color became, the more it resembled proof of the loyalty and steadfastness that time had carved into his wrist.
Xiao’s heart warmed. Unable to resist, he took that hand, which was slightly hotter than usual from the fever, and gently rubbed the warm white jade peace buckle with his fingertip.
“The cord is getting old.” His voice was very soft, carrying a hint of hoarseness. “I’ll braid you a new one another day.”
Xia Lanshi looked at the bracelet.
He had carefully removed it countless times to wash it, and every time he put it back on, he would be especially careful to make sure the knot remained secure.
He had never considered “replacing it with a new one,” because even if the material were exactly the same, it would no longer be that original one.
But if Xiao wanted to replace it, he would let him.
Xia Lanshi gently closed his fingers around Xiao’s hand in return. Looking at the ocher-red cord around his wrist, he smiled.
“All right. But… wait until your right shoulder is completely healed before making it.”
“Mm. I’ll make it after the injury heals.”
Xiao gazed at him, then slowly lowered his head and pressed his lips to the white jade peace buckle.
The kiss was extremely light, yet incomparably reverent.
He was kissing the jade.
Yet it was as though he were kissing that person’s unchanging heart of ten years.
Expressing a depth of affection that could not be spoken aloud.
Xia Lanshi’s ears grew warm at the gesture, and his heartbeat suddenly skipped.
Unable to help himself, he withdrew his hand, curled his finger, and lightly poked Xiao on the forehead with some annoyance.
That gentle poke seemed like a reprimand, yet it also carried a hint of indulgent affection.
Just as the room was filled with a tender and intimate atmosphere, hurried footsteps suddenly sounded outside.
Then, with a loud “bang,” the door was pushed open without warning.
“Xia Lanshi, the military physician just finished brewing your medicine. I happened to be bringing it over for—”
Chi Banyue strode through the doorway. But before she could finish, her entire body froze in place as though someone had cast a binding spell on her.
The scene inside the room made her eyes widen instantly.
On the bed, the gentle, lingering smile on Xia Lanshi’s lips had not yet disappeared.
And beside the bed, the usually cold and indifferent “Gatekeeper” was looking at Xia Lanshi with an unmistakably tender gaze.
Their hands were even still overlapping, seemingly touching yet not quite.
The air froze in that instant.
Chi Banyue could not help covering her forehead.
Why did she always manage to arrive at the wrong time?
With extremely stiff movements, she placed the steaming bowl of medicinal soup in her hand onto the nearest tea table with a soft clack.
Without looking at them, she gave two awkward coughs.
“Ahem… well, next time I’ll remember to knock first.”
After saying that, she retreated like a gust of wind and even considerately shut the door firmly behind her.
Silence filled the room for several seconds.
Xia Lanshi looked at the closed door and sighed helplessly.
Xiao, however, remained completely composed. There was even a faint, satisfied smile in the depths of his eyes.
He stood up, walked to the tea table, and picked up the bowl of medicinal soup, which was now at just the right temperature.
He returned to the bedside and gently stirred the dark-brown medicinal liquid with a spoon.
Xiao scooped up a spoonful of medicine, blew on it softly, and brought it to Xia Lanshi’s lips.
His tone carried a hint of unquestionable dominance mixed with gentleness.
“Drink your medicine. Go to sleep early after you’re done.”
“All right.”
Xia Lanshi lowered his pale-red lashes slightly and obediently swallowed the medicine from his hand.
Normally, the prescriptions prepared by the northern border military physicians were so bitter that they made one’s brows furrow. He had long since grown accustomed to that astringent taste.
But for some reason, with this person feeding him today, the bitterness of the medicinal soup seemed to be dissolved by that faint, almost imperceptible tenderness, and he could even taste a trace of sweetness afterward.
After finishing the last mouthful, Xia Lanshi accepted the plain handkerchief Xiao offered and elegantly wiped the corner of his lips.
He slightly put away his previous languid, sickly appearance, his expression becoming serious as he looked at Xiao.
“From now on, you’ll be staying in the administrative office for a long time. You’ll need a suitable official identity so that it will be convenient for you to move around and handle matters in various places.”
At the words “official identity,” Xiao’s deep eyes shifted slightly.
He raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips curving into a half-smile as he leaned forward.
“What? Is the Chief Administrator about to give me an identity?”
Xia Lanshi immediately understood the improper implication in his words and helplessly curved his lips.
He raised his hand, curled his slender finger, and accurately poked Xiao lightly on the forehead.
“Not that kind of identity.”
Xia Lanshi lightly scolded him, though the tips of his ears were slightly warm.
Knowing when to stop, Xiao finally restrained his teasing expression and became serious.
“I can serve as your personal guard, and I can also offer you some guidance in certain areas. But I’m bound by the rules of the ‘Gate’ and my own responsibilities. I cannot interfere too much with the course of Great Sheng’s history, much less directly decide your military or political policies.”
Xia Lanshi nodded, indicating that he understood.
“I understand. The reason I made this proposal is also because I want you to have a formal and aboveboard identity in Great Sheng that won’t arouse suspicion. After all, you can’t exactly conduct yourself everywhere under the title of ‘Gatekeeper.'”
Xia Lanshi analyzed the situation calmly.
At present, Xiao appeared under the identity of “Doctor Su’s cousin,” which was not false.
But Xia Lanshi did not want him to remain tied to that identity forever.
If he became too closely connected to the name “Doctor Su,” it would only increase the chances of exposing both of them and create unknown dangers.
“So I plan to propose to His Highness that you formally enter the Northern Border Administrative Office as a ‘guest advisor.'”
Xia Lanshi laid out his plan in an orderly fashion.
“You’ll be supported by the office. Normally, you won’t receive a fixed salary; you’ll be rewarded according to your contributions. The administrative office will provide food, lodging, clothing, horses, and attendants. You won’t have to be bound by military regulations in your daily life, and you can continue staying in the guest room in the South Courtyard.”
Xiao looked at him and slowly said, “I could also stay in the west side room of the East Courtyard. It would be closer.”
Xia Lanshi gave him a light glare and said irritably, “If you occupy that room, my attendants will have to sleep in the courtyard tonight. Don’t make trouble.”
A trace of amusement flashed through Xiao’s eyes, and he did not insist.
“I’ll instruct the servants to take better care of the guest room in the South Courtyard. If there’s anything you need, just ask me at any time.”
Xia Lanshi continued.
“More important than those material arrangements, if you want to enter the administrative office as a guest advisor, it wouldn’t be appropriate to continue using your current name.”
Xiao raised his eyes and looked at him calmly.
“The reputation of Doctor Su and the Guichen Medical Sect has already been established and cannot be withdrawn. We can only try to conceal it under the protection of Listening Snow Pavilion. As for me, I absolutely cannot use either ‘Xiao’ or ‘Su Jinye’ here. We must prevent Sheng Chengxiu from obtaining more information and gaining the initiative.”
Xia Lanshi nodded in agreement.
When playing against an enormous force like the Sheng clan, naturally the deeper one’s hidden cards were and the more cards one held, the better.
He rested his chin on one hand and thought for a moment. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.
“Then let’s call you ‘Sir Liuchu.'”
Xiao tilted his head slightly, waiting for him to continue.
Xia Lanshi softly recited:
“The hidden fragrance has just broken through the white,
while the six-petaled snow has already formed a flower.”
His gaze swept casually over Xiao’s collar as he smiled.
“The late-blooming plum has only just broken through its snow-white bud, while the six-petaled snowflakes in midair have already condensed into flowers.”
And the “hidden fragrance” referred both to the newly blossoming winter plum and to the unique scent of cold plum and burning wood that belonged to Xiao.
“Six-petaled is snow.”
He looked at Xiao, profound meaning in his eyes.
“It is also you.”
This was not merely an elegant alias. It also concealed that small, secret, lingering affection in Xia Lanshi’s heart.
“Good name. Then we’ll call me that from now on.”
Xiao was clearly very pleased with the name, but then he suddenly changed the subject.
“However, besides being a guest advisor, I need another identity.”
“What identity?”
“Business consultant for Listening Snow Pavilion.”
Xia Lanshi raised an eyebrow, a trace of interest flashing through his eyes.
“I’d like to hear more.”
Xia Lanshi was no longer surprised by how thoroughly Xiao understood the situation in Great Sheng or the details of Listening Snow Pavilion. What he wanted to hear was this man’s plan.
“Sheng Chengxiu is fundamentally an extremely greedy capitalist, as well as a shrewd businessman. If he comes to this world, he will certainly start with the field he knows best—that is, business and economics—in an attempt to control Great Sheng’s lifeline.”
Xiao coldly analyzed his old enemy’s methods.
“And as it happens, I’m also very good at operating in this area.”
Xia Lanshi was extremely perceptive and immediately understood.
“You’re planning to use commercial models from another world to seize the market advantage before he does, while simultaneously using commercial warfare to force him to reveal himself?”
“Yes. He has no foundation in Great Sheng, while you already have Listening Snow Pavilion as a strong card in your hands, along with the support of Guichen Studio. But a person like him will absolutely not obediently build himself up from nothing. So the sooner we lay out this commercial network, the better.”
Xia Lanshi pondered.
“If that’s the case, your identity within Listening Snow Pavilion naturally cannot be ‘Sir Liuchu,’ lest we expose the hidden connection between the administrative office and Listening Snow Pavilion. We need to fabricate another layer of identity.”
He thought for a moment and soon came up with an idea.
“Then call yourself ‘Nangong Heng.’ Nangong Vermilion Bird, the star Yuheng. ‘Heng’ also means weighing the balance of the world. It sounds like the name of a gentle and refined scholar from a cultured family who is actually firm-handed and not someone to be trifled with. It would be very suitable for the person behind the scenes directing Listening Snow Pavilion in the business world.”
“Everything you say is fine. I’ll go with whatever you decide.”
Xiao readily accepted the two new identities, then said helplessly, “It’s just that all my personal assets are still in the other world, and it isn’t convenient to bring them over. Looks like I’ll have to make some money here as soon as possible.”
Seeing this rare look of “worrying about money” on him, Xia Lanshi could not help laughing softly.
“No money? I can support you.”
Xiao looked deeply at him, unrestrained dark fire surging in his pitch-black eyes, yet his tone remained completely serious.
“My expenses are quite high. If I let you support me… how am I supposed to save up my betrothal gifts?”
Xia Lanshi froze for a moment before realizing what he meant. The warmth in his ears instantly spread to his cheeks.
He met Xiao’s gaze, slightly raising his chin as he replied with a half-smile:
“Then you’d better save up more. The Chief Administrator’s betrothal gifts aren’t something an ordinary person can afford.”
“Then I’ll just have to work even harder.”
Xiao said it half-jokingly.
Then he put away his teasing expression and urged him, “All right. The official business is finished, and we’ve discussed everything that needed discussing. Hurry up and rest.”
“All right.”
This time, Xia Lanshi finally behaved himself and peacefully sank into a deep sleep.