At night, the lights in the Shaohua Center were still brightly lit.
But Sheng Chengxiu noticed that recently, there was one fewer row of lights left on in the building for overtime work than there had been three months ago.
He stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows on the eighty-eighth floor, looking down at the lights of Yunjing City spreading out beneath his feet like a net slowly being drawn tight.
That net was made of reinforced concrete, data, and power.
Once, he had been able to clearly see the direction of every line, knowing that each one would ultimately converge in his hands.
But recently, those lines had begun shifting one by one.
Three reports lay spread across the desk.
He had already finished reading them, but he did not immediately put them away, as though waiting for those numbers to take complete shape in his mind.
The first concerned the supply chain—chip deliveries had been delayed, changing from “expected next month” to “in queue; delivery date cannot be confirmed.”
It was neither a sales ban nor a breach of contract. It was simply “in queue.”
The reason given by the other party was impeccable: production-line scheduling, capacity allocation, priority adjustments. Every word conformed to standard business practices, but taken together, the result was simple: he could no longer obtain that batch of chips.
The second was from human resources—the lead programmer of the AI team had submitted his resignation last week.
The reason was written in the standard fashion: “personal career planning.”
Sheng Chengxiu investigated where he was going. The man had accepted a new position with better terms, greater freedom, and a more complete team.
He had heard of the company. On the surface, it was an independent technology startup, but after having the finance department trace three layers of its ownership structure, Sheng Chengxiu found, in the name of an overseas holding company, a surname he had already seen many times.
—Su.
The third was recent feedback from his own team.
The equipment monitoring Guichen Medical Sect had been completely swept for countermeasures one night last month. Every backdoor had been found and removed. The technique was clean and had left no trace.
The technical director had said, “The other side is at least two generations ahead of us.”
It was the first time Sheng Chengxiu had heard such words from one of his own people.
He turned the three reports back to the first page and read them again.
Then he set them down, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes for a moment.
It was not because he was tired. He needed to make sure he had not overlooked anything.
The distribution of those incidents was too orderly, like pieces on a chessboard—not placed at random, but arranged one after another according to some particular sequence.
First came the supply chain—cutting off his resources.
Then the talent—dismantling his core.
Finally, the intelligence network—cutting off his eyes.
Every move was precise, restrained, and nonfatal.
It did not resemble a one-time strike. It was more like closing a net.
When Sheng Chengxiu opened his eyes, his gaze fell on the ancient book at the corner of the desk, which had already been completely scanned.
The pages were yellowed, the corners worn and broken.
The blue writing restored by AI was slowly piecing itself together in his mind into an image he had not yet fully seen.
He picked up his phone and made a call.
The phone rang three times before someone answered.
“President Sheng.”
“Have you found out?”
“We have. Chenghui Group’s overseas holding company established three new subsidiaries over the past two months. Two are registered in the Cayman Islands, and one in Luxembourg. The flow of funds is unclear, but we can confirm that one of the subsidiaries’ business scope covers the semiconductor supply chain.” The person paused, as though hesitating over whether to say the next sentence. “The third subsidiary is nominally an optical lens manufacturer.”
“Lenses?”
Sheng Chengxiu’s brows moved almost imperceptibly.
“Yes. They are specially customized photochromic optical lenses. The order volume isn’t large, but the materials and processing precision are extremely demanding. People in the industry say they are for a specific client and are not intended for mass production.”
Sheng Chengxiu fell silent for a moment.
Lenses.
In his mind, he drew one line connecting that word to Guichen Medical Sect, and another connecting it to the things he had recently been losing. Then he spoke, his voice calm.
“Keep following it.”
“Yes.”
After hanging up, he did not immediately put down his phone.
He was thinking about something.
Those attacks were precise, sequential, and ungreedy.
Once the supply chain was cut off, he still had contingency plans. If talent was poached, he still had a second tier. If the intelligence network was cleared out, he could rebuild it.
Every strike was nonfatal, but every strike consumed his time and resources.
And time was the one thing he least wanted to waste right now.
He turned around and walked back to the desk.
The scanned file of the ancient book was still open on the desk, and the restored text on the final page glowed quietly on the screen:
“The blood of the key belongs exclusively to the Su clan.”
His gaze remained on that line for a while before he turned off the screen.
What he had always intended to do was not wage an all-out war against Chenghui Group.
Because the other side had been established for hundreds of years and had deeper roots than he did.
There was only one thing he needed to do: obtain that key.
The supply chain, the talent, and the intelligence network could all be rebuilt.
But there was only one Su Muchen.
He pulled open a drawer and took out a file folder.
Inside were several photographs, taken on different dates but showing the same scene.
The entrance to Guichen Medical Hall.
The streets of Changning Alley.
The old storefront, its address clearly visible.
His gaze lingered on one of the photographs.
In it, the door was half open, warm-colored light spilling out from inside.
And standing within the doorway was a person.
He closed the folder and returned it to its original place.
He did not get angry, smash anything, or lose control.
That had never been his way.
He simply sat back down at the desk and put the three reports back into their folder, as though organizing a set of data that had already been verified.
Then he picked up a pen and wrote several lines on a blank sheet of paper:
Shift the focus: Reorder priorities and concentrate resources on key projects.
Alternative supply chain: Activate the backup supplier plan and allow for higher procurement costs.
Second tier: Reactivate backup candidates and avoid dependence on a single talent.
New intelligence strategy: Reduce reliance on technical methods and increase the use of traditional channels.
After finishing, he did not read it again, as though these decisions no longer required repeated confirmation.
Then, at the very bottom of the paper, using heavier pressure than he had used above, he wrote a fifth line:
Shorten the timeline.
Because the longer time passed, the more arrangements the other side could make.
He did not need to win every battle at once. He only needed to ensure that, before that critical moment arrived, he would not be worn down.
When he put down the pen, a few more lights outside the window went dark.
The deep night of Yunjing City was slowly drawing inward.
He sat amid that field of lights, already folded toward the edges.
He had not lost.
He was merely rearranging the chessboard.
And the next piece, he would place faster than his opponent.
◆◇◆◇◆
After Jiang Zechen’s cavalry disappeared at the end of the snowy road, life in Linbei City did not slow down because of it.
If, while Jiang Zechen was there, the city had been like a sheet of paper carefully examined, every corner illuminated by light,
then after he left, that light moved away, and the city returned to its own rhythm.
A quieter, more pragmatic rhythm.
On days when there were no outsiders to guard against, the people in the city actually moved faster.
Three days after Jiang Zechen’s departure, Madam Tingxue’s caravan began operating in earnest.
In the council hall, Grain Officer Qian You’nian was checking a newly arrived shipment of supplies—medicinal herbs, cloth, ironware, and grain.
One number after another on the list was checked off, and each item was marked with its source: “Tingxue Pavilion.”
He no longer needed to ask, “Where did these things come from?”
Because over the past several days, he had repeatedly confirmed the answer countless times.
However, he did not know.
The true starting point of those supplies was not merely Tingxue Pavilion.
◆◇◆◇◆
That afternoon, in the rear courtyard of the administrative office.
Chi Banyue was sitting in a north-facing side room, several account books spread before her. Her fingertips moved across the pages, sometimes pausing, sometimes gliding over a line of figures. Her movements were extremely practiced.
At that moment, her eyes looked different.
The lazy amusement she usually carried had disappeared, replaced by a precise, almost emotionless concentration.
She looked as though she were reading a cipher with neither beginning nor end, or perhaps dismantling an invisible thread in her mind.
When the door was pushed open, she did not look up.
“Jiang Zechen has left?” she asked casually.
Xia Lanshi entered the room, still wearing his thick white fox-fur cloak. He paused briefly by the door, his gaze sweeping over the account books spread before her.
He did not sit down. He merely leaned against the doorframe, as though he did not intend to stay long.
“He left. This morning,” he said. “‘Your’ caravan should start moving too.”
Chi Banyue finally raised her head, the corners of her lips curving slightly.
The smile was no different from usual, but there was an additional layer of sharpness in her eyes that others would find difficult to notice, like a thin blade hidden beneath satin.
Usually, its edge remained concealed. At this moment, however, it reflected a faint glimmer in the light.
“I’ve been waiting for your word,” she said. “Whenever you say it’s time, I’ll move.”
“The first batch in three days. Don’t pass through Linzhou. Take the road west of the Northern Watchpost. That road has already been cleared, and the caravan won’t be stopped for inspection.”
Chi Banyue nodded slightly and lowered her head to draw a mark along the edge of the account book, as though confirming a route that had already been calculated.
Her fingertips rested on the paper for a moment before she continued.
“I’ve already spread the word. The Guichen Medical Sect’s medicine will travel through Tingxue Pavilion’s trade routes and be supplied exclusively to the northern frontier.”
Xia Lanshi did not respond.
He knew the weight behind those words.
Goods from the Guichen Medical Sect would enter the northern frontier only through Tingxue Pavilion’s trade routes.
Once that news spread among the people, Tingxue Pavilion would officially become the Guichen Medical Sect’s representative in Great Sheng.
From then on, the name “Liu Tingxue” would be bound together with the Guichen Medical Sect, becoming, in the mouths of the northern frontier’s people, “that merchant who brings medicine.”
“Once this road is taken, there’s no turning back,” Xia Lanshi said.
Chi Banyue smiled, her tone light, as though discussing something unrelated to herself.
“I never intended to turn back.”
She closed the account book and stood, walking over to the window.
The afternoon sunlight fell across her face, making that layer of gentle, alluring disguise appear faintly transparent.
Xia Lanshi watched her back in silence for a moment, as though recalling something.
“When His Highness brought you back to the Prince’s Residence, you were only thirteen,” he said. “Back then, you weren’t called Chi Banyue.”
Chi Banyue did not turn around.
Her hand rested lightly on the windowsill, her gaze falling on the distant city wall.
As though she were looking at the road she had already traveled for so long and so far.
Xia Lanshi’s voice continued from behind her, calm yet carrying the weight of a memory being unfolded.
“At the time, His Highness could barely protect himself, and there were hardly any decent rooms in the residence. He rescued you, but didn’t know how to arrange a place for you. You were the one who came to find me first.” He paused, as though allowing the memory to settle. “You told me you wanted to learn how to survive on your own.”
Chi Banyue finally turned around.
Leaning against the windowsill, she folded her arms, a faint warmth entering her voice.
“You were sitting in the study back then, so thin that a gust of wind could have knocked you over. You looked at me once and said, ‘I can turn you into two people.’”
That year, he was twelve and she was thirteen. They were only a year apart, and one after the other, they came to Xiao Yuan’s side.
At the time, Xiao Yuan was seventeen, suffering attacks from the Crown Prince and the other princes, as well as the Emperor’s indifference.
It was also around then that Xiao Yuan had just returned from the northern frontier after being ordered there by the Emperor.
The corners of Xia Lanshi’s lips moved slightly.
It was not a smile, but more like the brief pause of someone hearing words he had spoken in his youth repeated back to him.
“Chi Banyue and Liu Tingxue began from that moment,” he said.
Chi Banyue was silent for a moment, as though allowing that memory to settle completely.
She remembered that year. Xia Lanshi had only just turned eleven, yet he already understood how to survive in this world better than any adult she had ever met.
He had chosen her name, designed her background, and planned Tingxue Pavilion’s future for her.
He had said, “You cannot remain only a secret guard of the Prince’s Residence. You also need an identity that can walk into the sunlight without being burned by it.”
And so, Chi Banyue became Liu Tingxue.
A secret guard and a merchant.
That was the future Xia Lanshi had planned for her, writing it down word by word.
One identity could provide Xiao Yuan with all kinds of cover and handle various miscellaneous affairs.
The other could move freely among merchants without ever allowing anyone to see her true self.
“The first money Tingxue Pavilion ever received came from His Highness,” Chi Banyue said, her tone calm and carrying a trace of remembrance. “But the first trade route of Tingxue Pavilion was drawn by you.”
Xia Lanshi did not deny it.
He lowered his eyes to his hands before speaking.
“I drew the road, and you made it through. His Highness provided the starting capital, and you doubled it. Tingxue Pavilion has never belonged to just one person.”
Chi Banyue returned to the table and lightly tapped the edge of the account book with her finger.
“The money in Tingxue Pavilion has always been His Highness’s money. I only manage it, move it, and use it to sustain that trade route for him.” She raised her eyes, her tone calm. “The Guichen Medical Sect’s goods are simply a new branch added to this route.”
Xia Lanshi nodded slightly.
What Chi Banyue did not say outright was another layer of meaning.
The money in Tingxue Pavilion was not merely Xiao Yuan’s money.
It was Xiao Yuan’s true foundation in this land.
The court could cut off his salary, the Crown Prince could intercept his military provisions, and the Emperor could reclaim his fief.
But as long as Tingxue Pavilion remained, Xiao Yuan would still have the strength to survive.
He said nothing more and turned to leave.
After the door closed, Chi Banyue sat down at the desk again.
She took a fresh sheet of paper from her sleeve and wrote several lines. Her handwriting was neat and brisk, showing no trace of weakness.
It was a secret order being sent to Tingxue Pavilion’s Linzhou branch.
Only a few short lines, yet they determined the flow of a shipment of supplies for the next half month.
Then she took another object from a hidden pocket—the rose-gold pocket watch.
When she flipped open the watch cover, the inner mirror reflected her face.
This was Chi Banyue’s face.
As clear as the layer of disguise she had just shed.
Her fingertips brushed lightly across the mirror. She did not linger long before putting the pocket watch back against her chest.
She remembered something Xia Lanshi had said to her many years ago:
“You need an identity that can walk into the sunlight without being burned by it.”
She had remembered those words for a very long time.
She had not become someone who needed protection.
She had become the person who held up half the sky for Xiao Yuan.
In the name of Liu Tingxue, through Tingxue Pavilion’s trade routes, and through the hidden currents flowing between account books and caravans.
The light outside had already begun to slant, stretching the shadow of the desk a little longer.
She folded the secret order carefully, placed it inside an envelope, and pressed sealing wax over the opening. It left behind an extremely small, flower-shaped pattern—the emblem of Liu Tingxue’s business.
The pattern looked like a six-pointed snowflake.
But upon close inspection, one would discover that its lines came from the same hand as the snow pattern on Xiao Yuan’s silver wolf banner.
◆◇◆◇◆
That evening.
A new shipment of supplies departed from Tingxue Pavilion’s branch in Linbei City, quietly making its way out of the city along the snowy road west of the Northern Watchpost.
The caravan was small, consisting of only four flatbed carts. The packages were tightly wrapped, and no torches were lit. It looked like a group that had no intention of attracting attention.
The sound of the wheels rolling over the snow was extremely faint.
The caravan did not leave through the main gate. Instead, it departed through a side gate on the western side, outside of which lay a newly cleared road leading toward a stretch of wasteland that was being resurveyed.
The road had no name and no markers, but Tingxue Pavilion’s caravans had traveled it many times already.
Chi Banyue stood atop the city wall, wearing a dark cloak. She wore neither Liu Tingxue’s white fox-fur cloak nor Chi Banyue’s pinkish powder-colored dress.
She simply stood there quietly, watching the caravan slowly disappear into the distance until the last cart was swallowed by the dusk.
Before nightfall, she returned to the rear courtyard of the administrative office.
Xiao Yuan was standing in the courtyard, holding a newly delivered military report.
He raised his eyes and glanced at her.
As Chi Banyue walked past him, her footsteps slowed slightly for a moment.
As though by accident, or perhaps deliberately.
“The first batch has left.”
When she said those three words, her tone was ordinary, as though reporting a mundane daily matter.
But her gaze did not turn toward Xiao Yuan. Instead, it fell on a certain character near the edge of the military report, waiting for an answer.
Xiao Yuan was silent for a moment before answering with a single word.
“Mm.”
Nothing more.
As though nothing more was needed.
Chi Banyue continued walking toward her room, then suddenly stopped and slightly turned her head, her voice carrying a certainty even she might not have noticed.
“Your Highness.”
Xiao Yuan raised his eyes and looked at her.
“The winter of the northern frontier will pass,” she said.
Xiao Yuan did not answer.
But he lowered his eyes to the military report in his hand and turned to the next page.
His fingertips lingered along the edge of the paper a moment longer than usual.
As though he had placed those words in his heart, somewhere that did not need to be spoken aloud.
Chi Banyue turned and left.
When the door closed behind her, the candlelight inside flickered once.
She walked to the desk and spread open the account books again.
That account book had two layers—the surface layer was Tingxue Pavilion’s commercial accounts, while the inner layer was a hidden ledger that only she and Xiao Yuan could understand.
There were no numbers in the hidden ledger, only marks.
Those marks indicated one trade route after another and one flow of funds after another, like an invisible map.
On the first page of that hidden ledger was a line written many years ago, the ink already somewhat faded:
“Prince Su’s Residence · Reserve.”
Now that line had been crossed out, with another line of fresh ink added beside it:
“Northern Frontier · Foundation.”
She carefully put away the hidden ledger and placed it inside a secret compartment in the room.
Turning around, she looked at the sky outside, now completely dark.
She remembered many years ago, in that cramped study in Prince Su’s Residence, when Xia Lanshi had planned the identity of Liu Tingxue for her. On the page, he had written a line she had never forgotten:
“—Tingxue Pavilion, with trade routes as its sheath and hidden currents as its blade. Do not enter the imperial court, do not compete for fame or rank. Only become that invisible blade in His Highness’s hand.”
Those words had been written on an old sheet of paper. Xia Lanshi’s handwriting was slender and upright, and the edges of the page had already become frayed from being turned so many times.
She had not kept that sheet of paper until now, but she remembered those words by heart.
Outside the window, the wind murmured softly, as though the northern frontier were slowly breathing.
Chi Banyue blew out the lamp. The account books and hidden ledger were both put away in the secret compartment, leaving only the rose-gold pocket watch reflecting the warm, moonlike light.