After Xiao Yuan left, Guichen Studio became unusually quiet.
It was not the kind of quiet where there were no human voices.
Changning Alley was naturally silent late at night, and Su Muchen had long since grown accustomed to it.
This was another kind of quiet, as though something were gently pressing down on the surface of the water. There were hidden currents underneath, yet no ripples could be seen.
Su Muchen did not immediately tidy the documents on the table. He simply sat behind the counter.
He stared at the door that had already closed and did not move for a long time.
It was not because he was tired, although he truly was exhausted—after several consecutive days of insufficient sleep, the bloodshot veins in his eyes had yet to fade completely.
But what occupied his heart at this moment was a more indistinct, indescribable feeling of daze.
He lowered his head and looked at his right hand.
When he had changed Xiao Yuan’s medicine just now, he had briefly held the other man’s wrist.
That person’s body heat had passed through his thin skin and reached his fingertips, carrying the chill left behind by the northern border’s wind and snow.
That warmth seemed to still linger in his palm, like an invisible mark that could not be wiped away.
He could almost still hear that low “Muan” beside his ear.
When Xiao Yuan called those two words, his tone had been different from usual.
It was like a kind of confirmation, confirming that this person was still here.
Su Muchen clenched his fist, his nails lightly pressing into his palm, forcing himself to push that inappropriate emotion back down.
It was nothing more than a form of address.
Nothing more than trust that had developed from a transaction…
There was nothing special about it.
That was what he told himself.
Spread out before him was a diagram of the Sheng clan’s debt connections, with an already-empty coffee cup sitting beside his hand.
The red and blue lines on the screen were clear and distinct, like some kind of order he could barely control.
But he knew his mind was not on it at this moment. It kept unconsciously drifting toward the back room.
The door to the back room was quietly closed. The wood grain appeared deep and ancient beneath the dim yellow light, with nothing unusual visible.
Xiao came out from the back kitchen, holding a pot of freshly brewed coffee.
Steam curled upward, condensing into a faint white mist in the cold air.
He filled Su Muchen’s cup again and placed it in front of him.
Then he took the other cup and leaned against the window, looking lazy and relaxed, though his gaze quietly swept over Su Muchen’s face.
“Still not sleeping?”
Su Muchen glanced at his phone screen.
Four in the morning.
Outside, Changning Alley was as black as a deep well, with only a small patch of dim yellow light cast by a streetlamp in the distance.
“I can’t sleep.”
He picked up the coffee and took a sip.
The heat brushed against his cheeks, and only then did he realize that his fingertips were somewhat cold.
Xiao did not urge him to sleep.
He knew Su Muchen’s problem. Until he sorted everything out, lying down would only leave him staring at the ceiling.
The clues, risks, and plans in his mind would keep spinning like a revolving lantern.
Rather than lying there suffering, he might as well sit and stare blankly.
Su Muchen took another sip of coffee.
The bitterness spread across his tongue, intense and direct, like a dull punch. It finally pulled him back to his senses a little from that voice calling him “Muan.”
He let out a breath, placed the cup on the table, and unconsciously rubbed the rim with his fingertips.
“Xiao.”
“Hmm?”
“…Will the Gate really suddenly close?”
Xiao turned to look at him.
Su Muchen did not raise his head. He merely stared at the Sheng clan investigation file on the laptop screen, as though he had only casually mentioned it.
But Xiao could hear what lay beneath his tone—an unease so faint it was almost invisible, like a hidden current beneath the surface of the water.
And there was also a trace of reluctance that even Su Muchen himself might not have noticed.
“Yes.”
Xiao did not hesitate, his tone unusually certain.
“The Gate isn’t always stable. Sometimes it closes. Sometimes it doesn’t open smoothly. Sometimes it will even refuse to let someone in.”
Su Muchen’s fingers stopped on the rim of the cup, applying slightly more force.
“Then if…it suddenly closes, what happens to Xiao Yuan?”
Xiao was silent for a moment and did not immediately answer.
His gaze shifted from Su Muchen’s face to the silent door in the back room.
“Are you worried about the supplies in the northern border, or are you worried about His Highness?”
Su Muchen did not answer.
He did not want to answer that question. He was even unwilling to think about it.
He turned the cup halfway around and stared at the brown liquid remaining inside, as though searching for an answer that did not exist.
Xiao did not press him, nor did he look at him again.
He put down his coffee, folded his arms across his chest, and spoke more seriously than usual.
“Muan, I can’t completely control the Gate. All I can do is maintain its stability as much as possible when it can open, and tell you in advance when it is about to close.”
“You can know in advance?”
“Sometimes.”
Xiao’s gaze drifted slightly into the distance, as though recalling something.
“The Gate has an echo. Like last time. Before it truly opened, it trembled for a long time. That was it telling you that it was still there.”
Su Muchen remembered that night.
He had stood in the back room, his palm pressed against the cold door panel, the chill slowly seeping out from within the wood.
It was like touching the snow of the northern border in the middle of the night through a thin barrier.
Sometimes, he could also hear sounds that did not belong to this world.
“What do you mean by the Gate having an echo?”
Xiao lifted his eyes from the documents and looked at him for a while.
His gaze was calm, as though he had long since guessed that sooner or later he would be asked this question.
“Before the Gate truly opens, it sometimes trembles first. Like a tightly stretched string being plucked. It’s low-frequency. A person can feel it, but may not necessarily hear it,” he said. “But if there isn’t even any vibration, that means the Gate’s condition isn’t very stable.”
“Unstable means…”
“It means it may open this time, but not necessarily next time.”
Xiao’s tone was very calm, as though he were simply describing the weather.
“Like a road. Sometimes it’s passable, sometimes it collapses.”
Su Muchen was silent for a moment.
He put down his cup, his fingertips lightly tapping against the rim.
“Then did you feel it today?”
Xiao did not answer immediately.
He tilted his head and glanced toward the back room, as though sensing something.
Only after a moment did he withdraw his gaze.
“No.”
Just one word, without any unnecessary explanation.
“Then what if it doesn’t even have an echo anymore?”
Xiao turned to look at him.
Those eyes that usually carried a trace of lazy amusement were now as still as a bottomless pool.
“Then it means it doesn’t want you to go over for the time being.”
The words were spoken like a fallen leaf brushing across the surface of the water.
Yet when they fell into Su Muchen’s chest, they were as heavy as a stone, pressing down on him until he could hardly breathe.
He wanted to ask, how long was “for the time being”?
A day?
A year?
Or several years?
But then he thought that even Xiao probably could not answer those questions, so he abandoned the thought.
He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the old wooden beams on the ceiling.
The light was glaring.
He simply stared quietly for a long time.
“…I understand.”
His voice was very low, as though he were only saying it to himself.
Xiao did not say anything else.
He picked up his coffee and slowly took a sip, his gaze moving toward the pitch-black alley outside.
The two of them remained silent for a while.
Only the steam from the coffee slowly dispersed into the cold air, like two wisps of smoke drifting away in different directions.
Su Muchen lowered his head, opened his laptop, and placed the projection of the half-open peony emblem from the Sheng clan beside Sheng Yuanli’s family crest.
The two images were almost identical, except that the projected image had several additional reflections of light from the glass.
“Xiao, if Sheng Chengxiu really knows the Gate exists, why doesn’t he just come and take it?”
“Because he isn’t certain,” Xiao said. “He knows there’s something in Guichen Studio, but he doesn’t know what it is. He knows the Su family has a secret, but isn’t certain where the secret is hidden. So he tests you first, starting with debts, the law, cultural associations, and your network of relationships, waiting for you to expose a weakness.”
Su Muchen nodded.
Then he looked at the half-open peony on the screen and said quietly,
“He’s waiting too.”
Xiao said nothing, waiting for Su Muchen to continue.
“He’s waiting for me to open something myself,” Su Muchen said. “Waiting for the Gate, waiting for some movement, waiting for me to pull out the loose thread myself.”
He paused, closed the image, opened a new document, and typed a line:
—Sheng Clan Strategy: Known and Unknown.
“I’m going to make a risk assessment table,” he explained. “I’ll list everything we’re certain about, everything we’re uncertain about, and all the worst-case possibilities. If Sheng Chengxiu really makes a move, at least I’ll know which piece of ground I’m standing on.”
Xiao watched him rapidly construct the table and suddenly laughed.
“You really like making lists.”
“Because lists don’t lie.”
Su Muchen did not even raise his head.
Xiao did not argue.
He leaned back in his chair and turned to look out the window.
The night in Changning Alley was deep and heavy.
The headlights of the black commercial vehicle at the mouth of the alley had already gone out, as though it had temporarily retracted the eyes of a hunter.
But he knew the people inside had not left.
They had merely changed positions and continued waiting.
“We need to take turns standing watch.”
Su Muchen suddenly sat upright, his tone returning to its usual decisiveness.
Xiao raised an eyebrow.
“Stand watch?”
“We don’t know when Sheng Chengxiu will move against Guichen Studio. The Gate could open at any time, or it could suddenly stop opening.”
Su Muchen picked up his pen and rapidly wrote several lines in his notebook, his strokes heavier than usual.
“We have to guard it around the clock. If there’s any unusual movement, wake the other person immediately.”
Xiao leaned over and glanced at the crude duty roster.
The times, shifts, and precautions were all written out neatly, one item after another.
He was silent for a moment, then suddenly let out a low laugh.
“Muan, you’ve turned Guichen Studio into a frontline watchpost.”
Su Muchen looked up at him expressionlessly.
“It already is.”
From the moment the first seriously wounded ancient person walked out of the Gate, from the moment the first box of gold became medicine and grain, from the moment every contingency plan for Hanchuan, Qingshi Village, and Blackpine Ridge began—
this run-down shop was no longer merely a shop.
It was a forward outpost, a supply line, and the only road between two worlds.
Xiao did not argue.
He lowered his head and looked at the duty roster.
Suddenly, he felt that Su Muchen had prepared himself far earlier than he had thought.
Not to prepare for the Gate closing.
But to prepare for what he could still do after the Gate closed.
“Okay,” he said.
Su Muchen nodded, then added,
“If anything happens, no matter what time it is, wake me.”
Xiao looked at him.
He did not say, “You need to rest,” nor did he say, “Don’t push yourself.”
He merely gave a soft hum, like a silent promise.
Outside the window, the sky gradually brightened.
At some point, the rain had stopped.
A thin sheen of water glimmered across the stone-paved road of Changning Alley.
The black commercial vehicle at the mouth of the alley was still parked there. Its windows were pitch-black, making it impossible to see whether anyone was inside.
Like an eye that refused to close, it watched this shop without rest, day and night.
Su Muchen closed his notebook and got up to wash his face.
When he passed the back room, he stopped for a moment and looked at the door.
The door was quietly closed.
There was no white light, no vibration, no response of any kind.
He stood before it for a moment, then reached out and gently pressed his palm against the door panel.
The wood was cold and rough to the touch, no different from any other door in the shop.
No chill seeped through from the other side.
There was no sound of wind and snow, no echoes of hooves or clashing blades.
It was as though it had always been nothing more than an ordinary door.
As though those nights, those lights, and those people who had walked out of the light had all been merely a long dream he had experienced when utterly exhausted.
After a long while, Su Muchen withdrew his hand.
His fingers curled slightly.
He turned and walked toward the back courtyard.
Behind him, the door remained silent.
Like an echo that did not know when it would sound again.
◆◇◆◇◆
The wind and snow had stopped for the night, leaving a layer of white piled on the eaves of Qingshi Village.
Morning light fell across the snow, reflecting scattered glimmers that were slightly dazzling.
In the distance, smoke was already rising from the chimneys of several households. The pale blue-gray smoke slowly rose through the cold air, then was scattered by the wind and dissolved into the gray-white sky.
Chi Banyue was checking the final batch of supplies.
Today, she had changed into a neat set of martial attire, her long hair tied up, revealing a very faint old scar along the side of her neck.
It was a mark left behind by a mission many years ago. Here, unlike in the capital, she did not deliberately conceal it, nor did she go out of her way to mention it.
“Your Highness, all the grain carts from Hanchuan have been stored.” She handed over the inventory list. “Qin Feng is asking whether the troops stationed at Qingshi Village should withdraw.”
Xiao Yuan took the inventory and flipped through it.
“Do not withdraw. Leave one squad behind and have them coordinate with the able-bodied villagers for defense. Qingshi Village has only just stabilized. We cannot let anyone take advantage of the situation.”
Chi Banyue nodded and recorded the order.
“What about the northern watchpost?”
“Zhao Ping has taken over. Let him reorganize it himself. If he needs anything, send people over from Hanchuan.”
The two walked as they spoke, their footsteps crossing the thin snow and producing soft, crisp crunches.
In just a few sentences, they settled all the subsequent arrangements for Qingshi Village and the northern watchpost.
Chi Banyue suddenly slowed down and glanced sideways at Xiao Yuan.
“Your Highness, Chief Steward Xia doesn’t seem to be looking very well today.”
Xiao Yuan’s footsteps paused slightly, but he did not turn around.
“He went to bed late last night.”
Chi Banyue glanced at him but did not ask further.
She had already grown accustomed to the two of them having conversations she could not understand.
Whatever she ought to know, she would eventually know. Whatever she ought not to know, there was no point asking.
“We’ll depart before noon today,” Xiao Yuan said. “First to Hanchuan, then onward to the First Military City of the Northern Border.”
Chi Banyue acknowledged the order and turned to relay it.
Xiao Yuan stood alone outside the military tent, his gaze falling upon the wooden tablet at the village entrance.
The four words “Qingshi Has Not Perished” were especially clear in the morning light.
The strokes were rough, but every cut had been carved deeply.
Beneath the tablet, someone had placed a bundle of dried wild grass, tied together with hemp rope, quietly leaning against the wooden post.
There was none of the vividness of flowers, nor the solemnity of elaborate offerings, yet it was more sincere than any splendid tribute.
It was the simplest gratitude that poor families could offer.
He thought of Su Muchen.
He wondered what that person would do if he saw this wooden tablet.
He would probably frown first and say the characters were too ugly.
Then he would remain silent for a long time, so long that one might think he would not say anything else.
In the end, he would merely murmur,
“…Not bad.”
At this thought, a very faint smile appeared in Xiao Yuan’s eyes.
He turned and walked back into the tent, putting the final batch of documents into the wooden box.
Xia Lanshi was still sitting beside the desk, wrapped in a thick cloak.
He held a brush in his hand, while stacks upon stacks of military orders, secret reports, defense maps, and account books almost completely covered the entire desk.
In order to shorten the preparations for war and reformulate the plan, he had already been busy throughout the entire morning. On top of that, he still had to deal with various documents sent by the officials of Prince Su’s fiefdom. He could barely find time to breathe.
His complexion was even paler than usual, with faint dark shadows beneath his eyes, but the tip of his brush remained steady, each line of handwriting as neat as ever.
Xia Lanshi had already exceeded the working hours prescribed by Su Muchen.
Xiao Yuan stood by the tent entrance and looked at him.
“If you’re tired, rest.”
Xia Lanshi stopped writing and raised his eyes toward Xiao Yuan, the faintest curve appearing at the corners of his lips.
“Is Your Highness worried that Doctor Su will scold you for making me work overtime?”
“…”
Xiao Yuan said nothing.
He neither admitted nor denied it, merely turning his gaze slightly away.
Xia Lanshi found it amusing.
The Prince Su, who feared nothing on countless battlefields and was invincible wherever he went, would actually worry about being scolded.
If those officials in the court who spent all day thinking about how to impeach Xiao Yuan learned of this, they would probably think they had heard incorrectly.
As he continued writing, Xia Lanshi casually said,
“If Doctor Su is able to come to Great Sheng one day, how does Your Highness intend to arrange things?”
Xiao Yuan paused slightly.
He knew exactly what Xia Lanshi was talking about.
Over these past days, he had been paving the way for Su Muchen step by step—making the common people remember him, making the military respect him, making everyone acknowledge him, and even making his enemies wary of him.
If Su Muchen could not come over, at least his reputation could spread throughout Great Sheng.
If he could come over, then he would not be a stranger who had appeared out of nowhere, but Doctor Su, whose name had already taken root in the hearts of the people and who was supported by them.
He would not be a man without roots.
Yet Xiao Yuan had never thought about—or perhaps did not dare think about—whether Su Muchen himself was willing to come.
He had his own thoughts, but he did not know Su Muchen’s.
Xia Lanshi watched his silent profile and sighed faintly in his heart.
Xiao Yuan had yet to marry, nor had he received an arranged marriage, mainly because he was not favored.
Those officials feared the influence of the other princes and the Crown Prince and did not dare to choose Xiao Yuan’s side. Naturally, they also did not dare to marry their daughters to him.
But that was only the current situation.
Once the circumstances changed, everything would be different.
In the future, Xiao Yuan would inevitably need to use marriage alliances to consolidate his power—not only to establish a firm foothold, but also to possess sufficient leverage in the struggle for the throne.
And Su Muchen…
If he really came over, what identity would he use to establish himself?
“In my opinion,” Xia Lanshi said, putting down his brush, his tone gentle yet firm, “if Doctor Su can come to Great Sheng one day, the thing Your Highness must avoid most is tying him too closely to you.”
Xiao Yuan raised his eyes, a trace of coldness passing through them.
“What do you mean?”
Xia Lanshi lifted his eyes and looked directly at Xiao Yuan without retreating.
“Because the common people will be grateful to Doctor Su, but the court officials will not like him.”
He paused, his voice becoming slightly softer.
“Has Your Highness forgotten? The Crown Prince’s faction and the other princes all regard me as a thorn in their side, a thorn in their flesh.”
As Xiao Yuan’s chief strategist, he was in charge of the operations of Prince Su’s Residence and the affairs of the fiefdom, while also serving as a military advisor. He could be said to be the most indispensable person beside Xiao Yuan.
Because of this, those who wanted to eliminate Xiao Yuan would often target him first.
After all, directly moving against Prince Su was not easy, but dealing with a physically weak and frequently ill Chief Steward was much simpler.
Xiao Yuan said nothing, but he understood this clearly.
Xia Lanshi had been targeted repeatedly because of him, and on several occasions had nearly lost his life.
Although Xiao Yuan had sent people to protect him, there were still too many ways to guard against.
Su Muchen’s reputation was now gradually spreading, and he had already attracted the Crown Prince’s attention.
If he became too closely associated with Xiao Yuan, Xiao Yuan did not dare imagine how Su Muchen would be treated if he fell into the Crown Prince’s hands.
Not to mention that Su Muchen was also carrying the secret of the Gate’s key.
The tent was quiet for a moment, with only the charcoal fire occasionally making a faint popping sound.
“I understand your concern,” Xiao Yuan finally said.
His tone was calm, without the slightest hesitation.
“But what this prince wants, I will not yield.”
He raised his eyes, his gaze cold and deep, like the edge of a blade tempered in ice.
“Then this prince will remove every threat until no one dares lay a hand on him.”
His voice was not loud, yet it carried an unquestionable resolve.
Xia Lanshi looked at him in silence for a moment.
In the end, he merely nodded lightly and said nothing more.
Some things only needed to be said to the point.
As for what Xiao Yuan would do, he knew better than anyone.
This Prince Su had never been someone who would retreat because of concerns.
He stood up and placed the organized documents into the wooden box, his movements unhurried and composed.
“Your Highness, it is time to prepare for departure.”
Xiao Yuan nodded and stepped outside the tent.
Sunlight fell across the snow, making people instinctively squint.
In the distance, Chi Banyue had already prepared the carriage, while the personal guards were dismantling the tents.
Several villagers from Qingshi Village stood at the entrance, holding cloth bags in their hands, seemingly there to see them off, yet not daring to come too close.
Xiao Yuan glanced at them but said nothing.
He simply mounted his horse.
The horse’s hooves shattered the thin snow, and the group officially departed Qingshi Village.
Behind them, the wooden tablet swayed slightly in the wind, like a silent farewell.
◇◆◇◆◇
The group arrived at Hanchuan in the afternoon.
Qin Feng personally came out of the city to welcome them.
His armor was stained with wind and snow, and his expression was filled with a confidence he had never possessed before. He was already beginning to display the bearing expected of a defending general.
Several Hanchuan generals followed behind him, each standing straight. Their eyes contained something that had not been there when Prince Su first entered the city.
Not merely awe.
Trust.
“Your Highness.”
Qin Feng cupped his fists in salute.
Xiao Yuan dismounted and swept his gaze over the area inside and outside the city gates.
Pedestrians were already walking through the streets, and several shops had opened their doors.
It could not be called lively, but it was no longer as lifeless as before.
The porridge station was still there, but far fewer people were lining up.
The neighborhood rationing system had already gotten on track. The people no longer needed to crowd around the city gate waiting for a bowl of porridge.
“You’ve done well,” Xiao Yuan said.
Qin Feng’s eyes grew slightly hot, but he merely lowered his head.
“It is this subordinate’s duty.”
Xiao Yuan did not praise him further. He simply handed him several documents.
“The subsequent arrangements for Qingshi Village and the northern watchpost are written inside. Keep Hanchuan’s grain routes stable, and keep a close eye on the trial planting as well. If there are any problems, send someone to report.”
Qin Feng accepted them and carefully put them away.
“When will Your Highness depart?”
“Tomorrow.”
Qin Feng was silent for a moment, seemingly wanting to say something.
In the end, he restrained himself and merely said,
“Take care, Your Highness.”
Xiao Yuan nodded without saying anything more.
Some things did not need to be said too explicitly.
Qin Feng understood.
So did he.
Inside Hanchuan, Xia Lanshi sat in the carriage and checked the final few entries in the accounts.
Chi Banyue lifted the curtain and handed in a packet of medicine.
“Doctor Su said to take it on the road.”
Xia Lanshi accepted it and glanced at the writing on the package.
—“Twice daily, warm after meals. Do not skip.”
“He certainly remembers everything clearly,” Xia Lanshi said softly.
Chi Banyue raised an eyebrow.
“Doctor Su even insists on managing His Highness’s medicine changes, let alone yours.”
Xia Lanshi did not argue. He simply put the medicine packet away.
He lowered the carriage curtain, shutting out the wind and snow outside.
After this period of recuperation, he felt that his physical condition was gradually improving. He was no longer falling mildly ill every three days and seriously ill every five.
His coughing had also improved considerably. Along with it, he had become more energetic, and his body felt much lighter.
He thought that he should find some time another day to write a letter to Su Muchen to express his thanks.
Thinking of the letter, he naturally thought of Xiao.
Once they reached the First Military City of the Northern Border, it would also be time to write him a letter.
Even if it was eventually proven that Xiao was not the person who had saved him when he was young, he had never intended to sever this connection.
Aside from his curiosity about him, he also wanted to know more about that world and about Xiao’s affairs.