The Guichen Studio was still lit late into the night.
Su Muchen had just finished checking the last batch of supply lists against each other and was preparing to clear the desk when a familiar sound came from the back room.
When Xiao Yuan walked over, there was still a little residual snow on his shoulders.
His movements were the same as usual, but Su Muchen noticed one thing: he was too quiet.
“Here?”
“Mm.”
Xiao Yuan sat down in front of the counter, just as usual.
Su Muchen finished writing the last few numbers before raising his head. His gaze fell on Xiao Yuan’s face.
Under the light, the bloodshot veins in his eyes were heavier than they had been a few days ago. There was an indescribable weariness between his brows, as though he had not truly relaxed in a very long time.
That face was still cold, yet the coldness seemed somewhat hollow.
But more than these things, compared with before, Su Muchen felt that Xiao Yuan had been unusually quiet lately, although he had never been a man of many words to begin with.
This kind of silence was more like he had something weighing on his mind.
“How has your sleep been lately?” Su Muchen put down his pen, his tone relaxed and casual.
Xiao Yuan was silent for a moment, as though weighing how much he should say.
Then he spoke. “I sleep, but not much.” He paused, then added, “Jiang Zechen has been investigating constantly. Investigating the grain, the accounts, and the people. I have to confirm the route he is taking and make sure he does not come into contact with things he should not.”
Su Muchen fell silent after hearing this.
He knew that Jiang Zechen was quite troublesome to Xiao Yuan, because the current Xiao Yuan had too many secrets. If even one of them were discovered, it was very likely that he would die.
This man was one of the sources of Xiao Yuan’s mental pressure.
Xiao Yuan also had to face Linbei City’s predicament, as well as the invasion of the Northern Di.
Anyone would have trouble sleeping under such circumstances.
Su Muchen did not ask, “Do you need my help?”
He merely looked quietly at Xiao Yuan, then let out a soft sigh.
There was no sound in that sigh, but Xiao Yuan saw it.
“Come.” Su Muchen stood up.
Xiao Yuan raised his eyes to look at him. “Where?”
“Upstairs.” Su Muchen had already taken two steps toward the stairs, his tone as flat as usual. “Make up for some sleep. Two hours is better than nothing.”
Xiao Yuan froze for a moment.
He had not expected that merely answering casually would cause Su Muchen to immediately get up.
He looked at Su Muchen’s back. After a moment, he said, “I still have the supplies—”
“The supplies won’t run away.” Su Muchen did not turn around. “You will.”
Those two words fell into the quiet air of the Guichen Studio, like a feather gently drifting down.
Xiao Yuan stood where he was and did not immediately follow.
He stared blankly at Su Muchen’s back, as though confirming something—he had merely casually said, “I sleep, but not much,” and Su Muchen had already stood up.
He suddenly realized that whenever there was something wrong with his body, Su Muchen would pay attention to him.
He would not merely say, “You should rest.”
Instead, he would directly stand up and take him away.
He was silent for a while, then stood and followed.
The stairs of the Guichen Studio made their familiar creaking sounds beneath his feet.
When Xiao Yuan reached the second floor, Su Muchen had already pushed open the door to the rest room and was standing at the doorway waiting for him.
When he entered the room, Su Muchen was taking out a neatly folded set of pajamas from the cabinet.
The fabric was soft and dark gray, and the size looked somewhat larger than what Su Muchen usually wore.
“This one is new.” Su Muchen handed the pajamas to him, his tone as ordinary as though he were talking about something that required no explanation. “My clothes are too small for you. These are looser. They’ll be more comfortable to sleep in.”
Xiao Yuan lowered his head and looked at the set of pajamas.
The fabric was soft, and the edges had been folded neatly, as though they had already been prepared for some time.
He did not ask, because the answer was already clear enough.
“Go wash first.” Su Muchen walked two steps toward the door. “I’ve adjusted the water temperature. Lie down after you finish.” He paused at the doorway, turned his head slightly, and added, “I like people to get into bed clean.”
Xiao Yuan did not argue.
He merely held the set of pajamas, as though confirming its texture.
Steam billowed inside the bathroom.
When hot water poured down from above, Xiao Yuan closed his eyes.
He discovered that he had already begun getting used to this place.
Used to the lighting in this bathroom, the temperature of the hot water, and that clean soap scent belonging to Su Muchen.
He washed for a long time, as though letting the hot water slowly dissolve, layer by layer, the stiffness that even he himself had long since become accustomed to.
When he came out, he had changed into the dark-gray pajamas.
The clothes were looser than his own garments. The soft fabric rested against his body as though it had no weight.
He stood at the bathroom door, his wet long hair falling loosely around his shoulders. Those strands of white hair were especially noticeable under the light, like the ridgeline of a mountain covered with the first snow between ink-colored mountain ranges.
Su Muchen was sitting on a chair in the room, holding a large bath towel.
When he saw him come out, his gaze lingered on him for a moment, as though confirming whether the pajamas fit, then he patted the place beside him.
“Hair.”
Xiao Yuan already knew how to use that thing called a “hair dryer.”
As long as he wore the insulating gloves, there would be no problem.
“Sit.”
Su Muchen said it.
Xiao Yuan glanced at him and did not insist.
When he sat down, Su Muchen had already draped the bath towel over his head.
Xiao Yuan’s hair was too long and too thick. A small towel simply could not dry it.
He gently rubbed the places that were still dripping with water, neither too forcefully nor too lightly.
Then he turned on the hair dryer.
Warm air began blowing upward from the ends of his hair. His fingertips passed through the damp strands, gently separating the portions that had become tangled together.
Xiao Yuan closed his eyes and listened to the low hum of the hair dryer, like some kind of rhythm that did not belong to this era.
Su Muchen slowly dried his hair for him, little by little, until those strands of black and white were smooth again.
When he turned off the hair dryer, the room once again became quiet.
Then he took out a large comb and combed the hair smooth.
He had a feeling like he was grooming a large dog.
“All done.”
Xiao Yuan stood up and walked to the bed, sitting down beside it.
The bed was very soft. The bedding carried a faint soap scent, the same as the scent that often lingered on Su Muchen.
When he lay down, he felt his body slowly sinking into that softness, as though all his exhaustion had landed at the same time in this moment.
He did not immediately close his eyes. He simply lay quietly for a while, adapting to the softness and silence.
Su Muchen walked to the door, his hand pressing against the light switch.
“Muan.”
Su Muchen’s movements stopped. He turned his head to look at him.
Xiao Yuan’s voice was very low.
“Will you be here?”
Su Muchen’s fingers stopped on the light switch. He did not press it.
He stood at the doorway for a moment, then turned off the light and walked back to the bedside, sitting down on the chair.
“I will be here.”
Thinking Xiao Yuan was still worried about something, he said, “Here, temporarily forget everything about Dasheng. No one here will harm you. You only need to be yourself.”
The room was dim.
Only a sliver of faint light entered through the gap in the curtains, outlining the two blurry figures.
In the darkness, Xiao Yuan did not speak again.
He merely thought carefully about those words.
Ever since he was born, no one had cared about him.
His Imperial Father used him, sending him to the northern frontier to quell unrest, yet feared that his achievements would overshadow the emperor, making things difficult for him at every turn.
The Crown Prince was wary of him and constantly used all kinds of methods, wanting only for him to die.
The army needed him.
The common people depended on him.
Everyone demanded that he become the person they wanted him to be.
Never had there been a single person who told him:
You can be yourself.
The only exception was Su Muchen.
He remembered that day, the day he had accidentally opened the door.
He had thought he would die.
That everything would end just like that.
Yet he had never expected that someone would extend a helping hand to a complete stranger who had even threatened him with a sword.
From that day onward, everything gradually changed.
If he had never come to the Guichen Studio, then he would never have known what it felt like to have someone light a lamp in the distance, waiting for him to return.
He had originally been afraid that this softness and warmth would make him weaker.
However, in reality, that was not the case.
He discovered that, in order to obtain all of this, he could become even more cautious and even more willing to pay any price.
He had become greedier than before.
There was a familiar soap scent inside the quilt.
It was very faint, yet unmistakable.
It was the scent from Su Muchen’s body.
Like a trace left behind after being washed over and over again, it now gently wrapped around him.
He closed his eyes within that scent, as though he had finally put down something he had been carrying for a very long time.
His breathing gradually slowed, steadily settling into the quiet air of the Guichen Studio.
Su Muchen sat in the darkness, simply sitting there quietly, listening to the man’s breathing as he fell asleep.
He lowered his head and looked at his own hand.
His fingertips still retained the sensation from earlier, when they had passed through those white strands of hair while drying it.
He sat there in the dim room, looking through the faint light at Xiao Yuan’s sleeping face.
His gaze softened somewhat.
Outside the window, Changning Alley was very quiet.
There was none of the noise of the city, none of the clamor of crowds, like a river that would not move.
Xiao Yuan’s breathing steadily settled into the darkness, like a ship that had finally found a place to dock.
Su Muchen simply sat there, listened to the sound of his own heartbeat for a while, then closed his eyes and let the night pass naturally.
◆◇◆◇◆
When Jiang Zechen received Xia Lanshi’s invitation, he initially thought it would be an ordinary inspection.
“If Magistrate Jiang has the time, leave the city with me tomorrow.” Xia Lanshi said it casually, as though it were something that did not require much explanation. “There is a village west of the city. There was an epidemic there the year before last. It is empty now, but some old records are still there.”
Jiang Zechen did not ask much and nodded.
He was already accustomed to Xia Lanshi’s habit of never saying everything outright.
But he had not expected that trip to change the way he viewed the things he had done in the past.
The village west of the city was about an hour outside Linbei City.
Their group would have to ride horses there.
Jiang Zechen sat on horseback and watched Xia Lanshi mount.
That blue-gray horse stood in the snow. Its gray-blue coat, mixed with white, almost blended into the winter sky, like a cloud that had been gathered together.
Its coat had tiny, round patches resembling chrysanthemum petals.
It was a unique horse.
Its build was smaller than that of an ordinary warhorse and it was extremely quiet.
The horse was named Qingyu.
Jiang Zechen thought, Xia Lanshi’s body was so weak. Could he really mount a horse?
Could he possibly fall off halfway there?
Back when they had taken riding and archery lessons, Xia Lanshi had not only ridden properly, his movements had also been beautiful.
But he had been physically weak. Every time he finished a riding and archery lesson, he would inevitably develop a fever that night, then force himself to come to class the next day despite his condition.
When Xia Lanshi approached, Qingyu had already slightly lowered its body.
Its front legs bent slightly, and its back slowly sank.
Only after Xia Lanshi held the side of the saddle and sat on its back did it steadily stand up.
Its movements were gentle and slow, without any jostling.
This was the first time Jiang Zechen had seen such an intelligent horse.
Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he had never seen a horse that knew how to take care of a person.
What surprised him even more came afterward.
When Qingyu began walking, its rhythm was different from that of an ordinary horse.
The hooves on the same side moved forward at the same time, and its steps were so steady that one could hardly feel any jolting.
Looking at the way the horse ran, he could not help frowning slightly, but he said nothing.
Before long, they arrived at the village.
The village was not large, with roughly several dozen households.
Now only broken rooftops and several earthen walls that had not yet collapsed remained.
Snow covered most of the village, as though it intended to erase, little by little, the traces of those who had once existed there.
Jiang Zechen stood at the entrance of the village for a while, his gaze sweeping over the roof beams crushed beneath the snow.
He fell silent.
The wind passed through the ruined houses, making a low, mournful whine, as though speaking on behalf of those who had left no names behind.
Xia Lanshi walked about two steps ahead of him and said, “An epidemic broke out in this village in the spring of the year before last. More than a hundred people died.”
Jiang Zechen’s footsteps stopped for a moment, as though confirming the number.
“More than a hundred?”
“Yes. There were originally more than two hundred people in the village. Less than half survived.”
Jiang Zechen looked at the collapsed houses, then at the door panels buried beneath the snow.
“Why was it not reported?”
Xia Lanshi turned back to look at him.
“It was reported.”
Jiang Zechen frowned.
“The Ministry of Revenue has no record. I checked the reports concerning the northern frontier from the past few years in the capital. There is no record of the disaster in this village.”
Xia Lanshi did not rush to explain.
He took an old official document from his sleeve and handed it over.
The paper had yellowed, and the corners were already worn. The folds were almost torn through.
Jiang Zechen took it, unfolded it, and lowered his head to look—
It was a formal disaster report.
The date was the second month of the year before last. The contents briefly described the epidemic in this village and the number of deaths, requesting that the granaries be opened for relief and physicians be dispatched.
The person who submitted the report was the Prefect of Linzhou at the time.
Below it were comments from officials of the Ministry of Revenue, the Ministry of Rites, the Secretariat, and various levels of officials.
Every seal had been stamped neatly, like a procedure that had been completed in full.
And the final comment, at the very end of the page, had neat handwriting, as though it were merely routine:
—Disaster victims shall save themselves.
Jiang Zechen stared at those four characters and remained silent for a long time.
He recognized that handwriting.
It belonged to an official from the Ministry of Revenue. He had seen the same handwriting in the capital.
During all the years he had served at court, he had seen similar comments.
Those rejected requests.
Those suppressed disaster reports.
Those instructions to “resolve it themselves.”
He had once thought they were unavoidable gaps in the operation of the system, limitations of the institution, compromises that had to be tolerated.
But at this moment, standing in this empty village covered by snow, he suddenly discovered that those characters had weight.
“This was suppressed.”
He said it.
Xia Lanshi did not answer.
He merely put the official document back into his sleeve, as though putting away something that no longer needed further explanation.
Jiang Zechen stood there without moving.
He remembered when he had searched through the Ministry of Revenue’s archives in the capital.
He had once flipped through the disaster summary from that year.
There had been no name of this village on it.
No record of the deaths of those more than one hundred people.
It was as though they had never existed.
And at the time, he had merely turned that page and continued reading the next document.
He had never questioned whether those figures were accurate.
After all, those figures had been submitted from below and reviewed and stamped by the various levels of government offices.
How could they possibly be wrong?
He remained silent for a long time before speaking.
“You had me look at this to tell me that the northern frontier did not fail to follow the rules.”
“It was the imperial court that first abandoned the rules.”
Xia Lanshi finished the sentence for him, his tone calm, as though stating a fact that had already been verified.
Jiang Zechen did not refute him.
Nor did he have anything with which to refute him.
Xia Lanshi looked at his silent expression and suddenly spoke.
“Magistrate Jiang, I wonder if you still remember the matter at Yunlu Academy.”
Jiang Zechen raised his head and looked at him, not knowing what he was referring to.
Seeing that he seemed confused, Xia Lanshi smiled faintly.
“Back at the academy, some people called me inauspicious. Some hid my books. Some poured ink over my xuan paper.”
The moment Jiang Zechen heard this, he knew what Xia Lanshi wanted to say.
Yet he could say nothing.
He could only listen.
Xia Lanshi’s warm yet calm voice continued.
“I have no intention of blaming Magistrate Jiang. You merely watched and let it happen.” He paused, then the smile on his face deepened slightly. “But you knew in your heart exactly what the water of Severe Winter was like.”
The scene from that day appeared in Jiang Zechen’s mind.
He had stood beneath the corridor and watched a group of young students gradually force Xia Lanshi toward the pond.
Then he had watched them push him into the pond.
He had seen everything.
He had merely watched.
But he had done nothing and said nothing.
Because at that time, he believed Xia Lanshi was an erroneous existence, someone who deserved to be punished.
And at that time, the only person who had extended a helping hand to Xia Lanshi was Xiao Yuan.
He had disregarded everything and jumped into the pond, embracing Xia Lanshi.
The water was not deep, but both of them had been soaked through.
When Xia Lanshi became ill, it was Xiao Yuan who found an imperial physician to treat him.
When Xia Lanshi’s hidden books were taken away, it was Xiao Yuan who found them and brought them back.
When someone insulted Xia Lanshi, it was Xiao Yuan who protected him behind his back.
Clearly, Xiao Yuan himself was already barely able to protect himself, yet he still protected Xia Lanshi.
Just as the northern frontier now was also under the protection of that Prince of Su who had been exiled there.
And Xia Lanshi willingly became his blade.
Jiang Zechen opened his mouth, wanting to explain something, but he could not utter a single word.
In the end, he could only remain silent.
Xia Lanshi turned and walked back toward the entrance of the village, waiting for Jiang Zechen to follow on his own.
Jiang Zechen did not immediately follow.
He stood there for a while longer.
He looked at the village covered in snow, as though relearning how to read the true words behind those official documents.
He remembered that scene from that day, when he had watched from a distance as the students pushed Xia Lanshi into the water.
On the journey back, Xia Lanshi did not mention that matter again.
He merely coughed softly several times.
But Jiang Zechen knew that this would not be the end.
Because Xia Lanshi would never bring him to an empty village for no reason.
That night, Xia Lanshi placed a wooden box in Jiang Zechen’s room.
There was no accompanying letter and no explanation.
There was only a dossier inside.
Jiang Zechen sat beneath the light.
When he opened the wooden box, what he saw was a dossier he had not thought about for a very long time.
The pages had already yellowed, and the corners were worn, as though someone had looked through it many times, and also as though someone had deliberately preserved it for a long time.
He lowered his head and opened it.
It was a document he had handled when he had first become an editor at the Hanlin Academy.
He remembered that matter.
At that time, he had been serving at the Hanlin Academy when a flood occurred in Qizhou.
The local officials had sent a document requesting that the granaries be opened for relief first, with the paperwork to be completed afterward.
That document had passed through layer after layer before finally reaching the Hanlin Academy.
According to the rules, although the Hanlin Academy did not directly administer disaster relief, it was required to assist with responding to and verifying official documents.
He remembered that dossier.
It had been one of the first major cases he had handled in his career.
It had also been the first time he had understood the weight of rules.
He had written his opinion on that document.
The meaning was:
According to the laws of the imperial court, relief grain could only be used with an approval document from the Ministry of Revenue. Local officials were not permitted to open the granaries on their own.
He had signed it.
Because that was the procedure.
And he had indeed followed the procedure.
He remembered that when he had written those few characters at the time, his handwriting had been extremely neat, just like every document he had reviewed.
He had merely followed the rules.
He had not broken the law.
He had not embezzled anything.
There was nothing for which he could be accused.
He had even received commendation from the imperial court because of it, praised for “administering according to the law.”
He turned to the final page of the dossier.
Attached there was a death register from that year.
The names of tens of thousands of people were densely arranged across the page, like a river compressed into a narrow space.
He looked at those names.
He thought of the snow and the collapsed roof beams he had seen at the village entrance earlier.
He knew that among those names there might have been elderly people, children, and people who had once waited for an approval document that would never arrive.
His finger stopped at the edge of the paper.
He did not know what he was thinking.
He did not even know how he should define the person he had been back then.
He had acted according to the rules, yet had also watched those people die.
His finger remained on the page, beside the name he himself had signed three years ago.
It was as though he were once again measuring the distance of that ink stroke, and the weight it had brought with it.
Xia Lanshi walked over and stood at the doorway.
He did not come any closer.
He only said one sentence:
“Magistrate Jiang, rules are meant to save people. If they begin to harm people, then they are merely paper—and even more, they are a blade.”
His voice was calm, stating a fact.
Yet the weight of those words was heavier than any dossier.
Jiang Zechen did not answer.
He sat beneath the light without turning the page, simply looking at those names.
He finally discovered that the things he had believed in for so many years and the things he had witnessed with his own eyes were slowly separating, moving toward two different directions.
And he was still not certain where he should stand.
For some reason, at that moment, he remembered the poem Xia Lanshi had once written:
“Snow falls upon the border city, yet the bones remain unchilled;
The starving people gaze toward the palace gates, their tears already dry.
If Your Lord does not know the affairs of the world,
Why sit high behind the Ninefold Gates?”