The Gun Not Yet Cold, The Heart Already in Disarray
The morning light was crystal clear; after the snowfall, even the northern wind seemed filtered to a purer cold. Outside the hut, pine needles dripped melted snow; icicles beneath the eaves trembled, as if gently applauding the dawn.
Chu Hongying stood at the doorway, her cloak half-draped, her gaze drifting past Shen Yuzhu's seemingly frail figure toward the snowfield gleaming in the distance. Her breathing was steady, her hand habitually gripping the shaft of the Lie Feng Spear —that spear was like an extension of her spine, connected to her as one.
Shen Yuzhu handed the medicine bowl back to her, his fingertips steady, his tone gentle, everything as usual. Yet in that smile lay something beyond mortal warmth—a rusted calm, tempered in storm and thunder, bringing reassurance laced with unease.
"Did you dream of the northern frontier's wind?" she asked casually, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, a gesture that made her appear uncharacteristically soft.
Shen Yuzhu smiled faintly, his long lashes casting shadows. "Yes. And also... a mist I couldn't seem to escape." His words were brief, yet his tone stirred the air subtly.
He did not lie, but he did not speak the whole truth. At the end of that mist were roaring wolf spirits and words carved into his bloodline by shackles. Chu Hongying asked no more, only turned to tend the stove fire. A new log cracked with a 'pop' in the flames, the sound like a beat striking both their hearts.
Just as she turned her back to him, Shen Yuzhu's right hand, hanging at his side, curled slightly, his fingertips almost imperceptibly brushing the back of his neck—where the gradually fading wolf mark suddenly sent a wave of searing pain. The firelight played across his profile, reflecting two hues: the softness of humanity and the shadow of bestiality.
A layer of silent probing existed between them: she felt he was more distant than before, he felt she was more real than in his dreams. Drawn together by fate, yet afraid to touch—this tension was thin ice, fragile and fatal.
Zhao Dashan's gruff voice came from outside the tent, rough with the northern wind: "General, there are rumors in the army. They say you abandoned the troops for seven days because of a strategist, shaking morale." He spoke bluntly, but his tone was full of trepidation. "Most of the brothers don't believe it, but there are always a few flies buzzing in soft ears."
Chu Hongying was silent for a moment, her eyes cold as steel, uttering a single word: "Investigate."
She donned her armor and went down to the camp, her steps like wind cutting through snow—clean and sharp. Orders to redeploy the Wolf Fang defense line came one after another, concise and unquestionable. The soldiers moved to her rhythm, the camp's order tightening once more under her command. The wind and snow outside seemed to bow their heads, gathering some dignity.
During the inspection, she looked at Shen Yuzhu, who had been silently standing nearby, her voice cool: "If anyone spreads that talk again, I'll personally pull out their tongue."
Shen Yuzhu lowered his brows with a smile, his voice like medicine: "For the General to say that sounds almost like you're protecting me."
She snorted. "Don't flatter yourself." But that night, back in the main tent, she personally pushed the freshly decocted medicine toward him. The action was simple and unadorned, yet heavier than any vow—as if through this warmth, she had rubbed a crack in his hardened defenses, allowing each other a glimpse of the vulnerability within.
Late at night, the candlelight in the tent flickered unsteadily. Shen Yuzhu sat alone, his robes half-open, a wolf-head token placed on the table, several golden needles arranged in a line. His fingers traced the edge of the token, as if searching for some answer.
He loosened his sash and inserted the golden needles one by one along his meridians. A faint blue light seeped from the needle tips, traveling along his pathways like a living thing trying to embrace his muscles and blood. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, his breathing rising and falling with the chant. The incantation left by the Medicine Elder was low and ancient; he recited each word carefully, as if he could use language to grasp the tail of that thing.
In his auditory hallucination, a low wolf howl came from afar, like a threat rising from the depths: "Those who defy me, die." The voice was hollow, chilling to the bone.
Shen Yuzhu's expression changed sharply, a glint of a blade in his eyes. He picked up the longest golden needle and without hesitation drove it toward a vital point on his chest. A muffled grunt was forced from his chest, as if pierced by an ice needle. The veins on the back of his right hand bulged, the blue light writhing under his skin like frenzied snakes. The spell tightened, the light forced back deep inside, the gnawing restlessness temporarily suppressed.
This was his dialogue with fate, and also his struggle with the desires deep within himself. That power had once granted him life amid despair—and whispered to him in the dark, tempting him to wield it for his own gain.
The wind outside cut like a knife. A soft knock brushed the tent flap. Chu Hongying stood silently at the entrance, holding a cup of warm medicine. She didn't step in too far, standing at the doorway watching him for a moment, as if weighing his importance against that of the entire camp.
"The medicine's getting cold," she said quietly, stepping inside as the candlelight carved her silhouette into sharp relief. Shen Yuzhu hurriedly pulled his clothes together, hiding the needle marks, but a smear of blood on his sleeve remained not fully wiped away. She didn't ask, simply handed him the medicine. That warmth felt more real than any incantation.
Watching him take the medicine, his brow slightly furrowed, she finally said: "Shen Yuzhu, if you lose control—I will stop you."
He looked up, his eyes holding a complexity she hadn't seen before: "What if I don't wish to be stopped?"
Her eyes were like winter stars: "Then I'll knock you awake first." Her tone was even, but it held an unchallengeable resolve. They looked at each other, the scene a silence before blazing fire—tenderness laced with blades.
The night wind whispered outside, as if carrying certain words far away. She wiped the cold sweat from his forehead; he didn't avoid it, instead closed his eyes and let out a sigh that sounded almost relieved. This moment of tenderness was harder for him to resist than his earlier struggle with the wolf spirit.
A thousand miles away in the capital, under a night candle, a spy knelt to receive a wax-sealed secret order. The words on it were few but vicious: "The Northern Frontier General is colluding with the enemy, using the Wolf Fang as proof." The characters were carved like knives, the command like ice water poured over the heart.
At the same time, the connection between Helian Sha's covert agents in the northern plains and the capital grew tighter: a shadow with a capital accent handed over forged evidence to Helian Sha's subordinate, piecing together records of Chu Hongying's contact with the Wolf Fang camp and a few fabricated objects that could serve as proof.
That night, a pitch-black raven feather pierced through the wind and snow, landing precisely in Shen Yuzhu's hand. By candlelight, he unfolded the letter, the Seventh Prince's personal seal stamped at the end. The script was cold and hard, the content succinct: if evidence could be obtained, he could strike to seize power in one move. Layer by layer, Shen Yuzhu's mask cooled beneath the wavering flame. He read the letter, remained silent for a long time, and finally held it to the flame, letting the fire greedily consume it. The flames danced in his pupils, reflecting both determination and hesitation.
"He is setting the board, and also being set upon," he thought, but the words were left only for the night.
In the darkest hour before dawn, a mournful wolf howl came from outside the camp. A sentry came running back to report: on the snow slope, they had found a massive wolf's head, cleanly severed, and beside it lay a broken mechanism lock, its surface mottled but clearly engraved with the character "Lu."
When Chu Hongying rushed to the scene, her pupils contracted sharply. The pattern on that mechanism lock sent a tremor through a long-sealed place in her chest—an old Lu family artifact, something only found in the old family storehouse, chests her father had used, and memories from childhood. She reached out to touch the broken lock, her fingertips feeling the cold, hard metal and the sticky weight of time.
Shen Yuzhu stood behind her at some point, his fingers lightly pressing her suddenly tense shoulder. "He is forcing your hand, unsettling your mind," his voice was soft, like a slip of paper in the wind.
She pressed her lips together, the fire in her eyes ignited by the dawn mist: "Then let him have his wish." With that, she abruptly raised the Lie Feng Spear; the sound of its shaft hitting the ground was like thunder. The spear tip pointed toward the northern snowfields, slicing through the pre-dawn darkness, reflecting a line of dark red.
At this moment, she no longer stood only for military morale, nor solely guarded for the sake of that ailing strategist. For that name, for the Lu family's wrongful accusation, and for herself, she had drawn her blade. Her resolve carried a furious flame, burning away doubt and fear, and igniting a greater game.
Shen Yuzhu watched her retreating figure, murmuring to himself: "You are, after all, a prairie fire, and I... perhaps will ultimately become the ashes within the fire." His tone held self-mockery, and a trace of resigned softness.
She looked back through the wind and snow, her gaze like a spear tip thrust toward him: "Shen Yuzhu—in this game, I will not retreat." As her words fell, the north wind seemed torn by her voice, whipping the camp flag, producing a sound like tearing silk.
The scene pulled back. The snow still fell, the camp's shadows lengthened. Shen Yuzhu stood behind her, a wisp of uncontrollable blue light flickering at his fingertips within his sleeve. His gaze was resolute, as if casting his will into a blade's edge.
"If she won't retreat, I'll carve the path for her." That voice held a promise, and also a warning.
The undercurrents had not ceased; beneath the snow, the cracks kept widening. The threads of their fates had been woven by an invisible hand into an even more complex web.