Dawn fell like a blade, slicing through the clouds—cleaving the boundary between night and dream. Inside the thatched hut, dust motes danced within the golden rays.
When Shen Yuzhu opened his eyes, the first sensation was the warmth transmitted through his fingertips. Looking down, he saw Chu Hongying slumped beside the bed, one hand still tightly gripping the shaft of the Dawn-Cleaver Spear standing at the headboard, the other unconsciously intertwined with his fingers.
She had let go of neither her spear nor his hand.
His gaze lingered on her tightly pressed lips and the faint shadows under her eyes for a moment before he gently moved the fingers she held.
Chu Hongying jolted awake immediately, the weariness and bloodshot veins in her eyes not yet concealed, but the sharpness belonging to a general softened the moment they met his gaze. "Awake? How do you feel?" She asked not of life or death, only his condition—a general's habit, concealing a tenderness she could scarcely bear to face.
Shen Yuzhu allowed her actions, a familiar, gentle, and frail smile spreading across his lips. "It's nothing. I've troubled the General again." He even compliantly let her help him sit up, leaning against the soft cushions, accepting the warm water she handed him. As he drank, his long lashes lowered, veiling the sharp, calculating glint in his eyes that was utterly unlike a sickly strategist.
Chu Hongying's focus stayed fixed on his pallid face and the faint crease between his brows. She failed to see the sharp flick of his gaze toward the window—precise as an eagle's strike.
After feeding him the medicine and settling him back down, she walked to the window, seemingly gazing at the snow-blanketed wilderness under the clearing sky, but actually striving to suppress the unfamiliar, scalding warmth churning inside her since his awakening. Just then, Deputy General Zhao Dashan's gruff yet hesitant voice sounded outside the door:
"General, the brothers... have some questions they wish to ask you directly."
A sharp glint flashed in Chu Hongying's eyes. What was coming, would come. She took a deep breath, cast one last look at Shen Yuzhu, who seemed to have fallen asleep again on the bed, and turned to push the door open.
Outside, it wasn't just Zhao Dashan; several other key officers were present. Their complex gazes converged on her—concern, loyalty, and a trace of barely perceptible scrutiny and wavering.
She walked silently through them, stopping beneath the snow-laden lone pine in the courtyard, at the focal point of all their stares.
"General," a seasoned captain couldn't help speaking up, "You abandoned the entire army for seven days for one strategist. The troops' morale..."
Chu Hongying didn't answer immediately. Her eyes swept over each familiar face. Then, she did something that shocked everyone present—
She raised her hand, slowly and resolutely, and untied the white bandage that had wrapped her neck for ten years, concealing the old scar.
The jagged scar was exposed to the frigid air of the Northern Frontier. The wind and snow seemed frozen in time; everyone held their breath. That scar was not hers alone—it bore witness to the Lu family's fall, the North's shame, and the silent faith of her soldiers.
"Look at me." Her voice was calm, yet it carried undeniable force, reaching every corner clearly. "Remember this scar. Remember who I am. I am Chu Hongying, daughter of Lu Heng, last survivor of the Lu family."
She reached back and grasped the Dawn-Cleaver Spear standing beside her, its tip striking the ground with a metallic clang.
"From this day forward, I will guard the Northern Frontier with this body, this name, this spear. The Dawn-Cleaver is here. The Northern Frontier is here—and I, am here." Her gaze swept over them like the tip of a drawn spear. "If anyone objects, let them test whether the spear in my hand is still sharp enough!"
The camp fell utterly silent. Moments later, led by Zhao Dashan, all the officers knelt on one knee in unison, the clatter of their armor resonating like thunder: "We pledge to follow the General!"
Night fell deeply, candlelight flickering within the command tent.
Chu Hongying meticulously cleaned the Dawn-Cleaver Spear, the silver-white spearhead reflecting a cold luster in the candlelight. Shen Yuzhu stood by the window, his back to her, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing a small token engraved with a wolf's head.
"The General's actions today," he began suddenly, his voice as gentle as ever but tinged with an elusive note, "will likely cause... considerable unease in the capital."
"What does their unease matter to me?" Chu Hongying didn't look up, her voice icy. "I am no one's pawn anymore, nor do I belong to anyone."
Shen Yuzhu gave a low laugh, his tone almost too light to carry on the wind. "Good." He turned, the candlelight casting shifting shadows across his refined features. "Then... the board is truly set."
In this game of fates, who moved the pieces, and who was moved? Either way, the line of return had long been crossed.
As he turned, Chu Hongying's sharp eyes caught a faint, fleeting glimmer of eerie blue light at his fingertips, concealed within his sleeve—utterly different from the scorching red of the Wolf Soul Covenant.
Her heart lurched violently. A terrifying thought flashed through her mind: Perhaps he wasn't merely suppressing the covenant... but attempting to invert its control?
At the same time, far beyond the snowstorm, the child-like Medicine Elder stood atop a cliff peak, gazing towards the direction of the Northern Army camp, her youthful face bearing an expression of profound depth and antiquity mismatching her appearance.
"Fates entangled, karmic fire self-invoked," she murmured to herself, like a prophecy. "Two souls who defy their fates, daring to wrestle with heaven itself. Let us see whether this thread will bind the eagle's wings—or burn through the web of destiny."
The scene pulled back to the periphery of the camp, to that lone pine.
The wolf-headed arrow shot by Helian Sha during the day remained embedded in the trunk, its fletching trembling in the night wind. The night wind tore at the pine needles; the wolf arrow's fletching quivered, like the lingering soul of a beast holding onto its last breath.
A hand clad in a capital-issued leather glove withdrew soundlessly from the tree trunk, fingertips still faintly holding the warmth left on the arrow's shaft.
The hand slowly retreated into the darkness, closing into a fist—a new hunt had already begun.
That day, her spear became the blade, her name the vow.
She anchored the North with her truth; he masked deceit in frailty.
From that moment on, their fates were bound—irrevocably.