BELOW A PITCH-BLACK SKY of lashing wind and rain, the forest was a mass of shadows. Men and horses were reduced to dark silhouettes among a frenzied swaying of branches, gale-whipped leaves slapping their faces. Rain hats were useless now, and icy droplets stung Xiahou Lian's skin, making it nearly impossible to keep his eyes open as he blindly followed the horse ahead.
The prince of Fu's carriage had sunk into a mud pit, forcing everyone to dismount and push it free. Bracing himself against the rear wheel, Xiahou Lian strained alongside the others as they shouted in unison through the downpour. The prince peeked his plump, pale face out from behind the carriage curtain, only for the rain to drive him back in immediately. The carriage's heavy frame barely budged at first, but Xiahou Lian gritted his teeth and shoved with all his might. With a final heave, the carriage lurched forward, splattering mud across his face as the vehicle finally came free.
There was no time to wipe himself clean. Xiahou Lian scrambled back onto his horse just as Situ Jin passed by and tossed him a handkerchief. The road was nearly impassable, but luckily, they soon reached a village. The prince of Fu ordered the forty-strong party to halt there, and Shen Jue raised no objections. They crowded into the settlement, where the wealthiest local landlord offered them shelter. Even his three-courtyard estate couldn't accommodate them all. Only Shen Jue and the prince received private rooms, so Xiahou Lian and the Eastern Depot agents bedded down in the ancestral hall.
The rain grew heavier. In the darkness, the mountains loomed like slumbering beasts. The roof tiles rattled violently, as if shattering under the storm's assault, and the entire hall seemed to tremble. Xiahou Lian couldn't sleep. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the others were tossing and turning restlessly as well. Unease gnawed at him. He rose and pushed open the door—the water outside had already risen ankle-deep. To wash his feet, he could simply have sat on the threshold.
"Shouldn't someone inform the supervisor that this might turn into a flood?" asked Xiahou Lian.
"That's doubtful," someone replied. "Landlord Chen said that the village weathers storms like this every year, and they've never had an outright flood yet. Maybe it'll calm down soon. Let's wait."
"What's the terrain like here?" Xiahou Lian pressed. "If a flood strikes, it could drown the whole village in an hour. We need to know where to run if that happens."
"No idea," another agent answered. "It's too dark to see."
The night was pitch black, as if the world were shrouded in a veil. Only the swaying shadows of trees were visible; the roaring rain swallowed everything else. Xiahou Lian hesitated for a moment, then decided to dress and find Shen Jue.
As he stepped outside the hall, he nearly collided with Situ Jin. Nodding curtly at Xiahou Lian's muttered apology, Situ Jin entered the hall and barked orders at a group of his subordinates.
"Our supervisor says the rain is too heavy, and this is a low-lying area at risk of flooding. He's ordered us to lead the horses east to higher ground and set up camp. Keep them safe." Once the agents he'd addressed had acknowledged his instructions, Situ Jin continued. "The rest of you, follow me. We'll escort His Highness up the mountain."
"Isn't the mountain path too narrow for his carriage?" Xiahou Lian asked, trailing behind.
Situ Jin frowned. "Well, a horse can't carry him either. We'll have to carry him ourselves."
Eight men hoisted a bamboo sedan chair bearing the prince of Fu as he clutched an umbrella. From a distance, they appeared to be carrying a small mountain. Shen Jue walked alongside them, draped in a rain cape, his expression grim. Cold droplets seeped through the cape's seams and chilled him to the bone. Irritation simmered in his chest. How he wished he could strip away the prince's excess flesh before hauling the man up the trail!
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Shen Jue's face paled. Doors were flung open across the village as panicked residents began to flee—some half-dressed, some barefoot, and all of them scrambling for higher ground. A gong clanged frantically, accompanied by hoarse shouts of "A flood's coming! Run!"
The agents pressed forward, but their substantial burden slowed their progress. The narrow path was now jammed with people.
In the distance, a white line appeared—a towering wall of water roaring toward them, swallowing everything in its path. Thatched roofs and earthen walls collapsed instantly; even Landlord Chen's grand estate succumbed. The rushing water toppled trees and swept away flailing livestock that crashed into the crowds. Shen Jue's agents were scattered, and even the prince of Fu vanished.
Shen Jue, too, was engulfed. Water gushed into his mouth, choking him. The current was a black abyss full of debris and shadowy figures. He flailed, grasping at nothing, and helplessly began to sink.
Suddenly, a hand seized him by the collar and yanked him upward. He broke through the water's surface, coughing violently and gasping for air.
"Shen Jue! Are you all right?"
Blinking water from his eyes, he saw who'd addressed him. This infuriating idiot! Wiping his face, Shen Jue immediately tried to dive back under. Xiahou Lian hauled him back by the collar. Enraged, Shen Jue jerked his head back. "What the hell are you doing?!"
"I could ask you the same!" Xiahou Lian yelled back. "We have to go east, so why the fuck are you swimming west?!"
"The prince of Fu is still in the water!"
Xiahou Lian nearly lost it. "That soft bastard's a lost cause! Did you soak yourself stupid?!"
"I have to save him!" Shen Jue roared, gritting his teeth.
He'd barely made it a few strokes before another wave knocked him off balance. This time, though, an arm locked around his waist, and a hand cradled his head, pressing him against a solid chest. Sound was muffled underwater, but he could've sworn he felt a strong, steady heartbeat against his ear.
As something struck Xiahou Lian's back, he gave a muffled grunt. Then they stopped drifting, and he pushed Shen Jue upward.
Wiping his face, Shen Jue squinted through the water and saw that Xiahou Lian's clothes had snagged on a protruding branch just in time to save them from being carried away.
The ancient tree Xiahou Lian had gotten caught on was leafless, but it was sturdy enough to withstand the flood. Xiahou Lian helped Shen Jue climb it first, then followed him. The tree's bark, slick with rain, gleamed in the dim light.
Perching on a branch, Xiahou Lian wrung out his soaked clothes. Below, the torrent now carried wreckage—splintering planks, extinguished lanterns, baskets, even corpses. The world was nothing but a watery grave; the relentless wind only battered a few tiled rooftops protruding from the floodwaters, resembling lonely boats.
Shen Jue crouched beside Xiahou Lian, his expression stormy. At least he seemed to have abandoned his suicidal plan to dive back in for the prince.
"There's the prince of Fu!" Xiahou Lian said suddenly.
Shen Jue followed his gaze downward, below the trees. A portly corpse was floating past. It had bloated to nearly twice its original size, its features swollen beyond recognition.
The prince of Fu was dead. The lynchpin of Shen Jue's plan was lost.
The scheme relied on his luring the prince to the capital with the forged edict. Entering without an imperial summons, the prince would be detained, and the fake decree would implicate both him and Wei De in treason. The old emperor had entrusted Shen Jue with the tiger tally to secure the second prince's succession, but could he truly abandon his eldest son? Either way, with the prince of Fu now dead, Wei De remained untouchable. The weak-willed emperor, dependent on his lifelong attendant, would never move against him without irrefutable proof of rebellion.
All Shen Jue's plotting had come to naught. His face darkened. Despite the summer heat, the air around him was frigid.
"Superintendent." Xiahou Lian was wringing out his clothes. "If you want to flee, I can help. I've got experience. I can get you out of Great Qi. We could head south to Nanyang or east to Dongying—your choice."
Shen Jue eyed him suspiciously. "Why would you help me? After how I've treated you, you should seize this opportunity and kill me. That'd ensure your freedom."
"I killed too many people in my youth. I'm afraid of going to hell, so I'm trying to do some good now. Saving someone is saving someone, and I wound up being able to save you." Xiahou Lian shrugged. "Count yourself lucky."
"There is no hell."
"If you believe in it, it exists." Xiahou Lian wrung his pant legs dry. "And if there's no hell, that means there's no underworld, which means that, once we're separated from our loved ones, it's forever. So it's better if there is a hell." He smiled faintly. "Right?"
Shen Jue studied him silently. "Your name is Shang-erlang, correct?"
Xiahou Lian nodded.
"Shang-erlang," Shen Jue said, leaning against the trunk, "these past years, when Xiahou Lian was alive…how was he?"
Xiahou Lian gazed at the dark water. "In pretty bad shape. His father killed his mother, so he killed his father, then he lost his brother and his master. All real tragedies."
Shen Jue's fists clenched. It was just as his intelligence had reported: Xiahou Lian had suffered endlessly, and Shen Jue had been powerless to help.
"Did he resent me?" Shen Jue asked. "For becoming chief of the Eastern Depot and failing to save him?"
Xiahou Lian looked at him in surprise. "Why would he? That wasn't your fault. If anything, he owed you an apology. He lied, he broke promises—everything you said about him was right."
He paused, then added quietly, "I'm sorry."
Shen Jue's heart skipped a beat. That apology sounded exactly like Xiahou Lian—the tone, the cadence. He and his friend were so alike that it hurt. He dug his fingers into the tree bark, not noticing when the action drew blood. His chest ached, and he felt suffocated. He stood abruptly, as if physical distance could dull the pain.
Looking down, he saw the wound on Xiahou Lian's back. The gash was still bleeding, yet the man had been joking and laughing as if unharmed.
"You're injured," Shen Jue said sharply.
"Barely. It doesn't matter."
"Take off your clothes. Wet fabric will aggravate it."
Xiahou Lian refused. Although Shen Jue was insistent, he wouldn't budge. Eventually, Shen Jue gave up; it wasn't like he could just rip the clothes off the other man. If the fool wanted to risk infection, so be it.
Hours later, the water receded. Figures rowed toward them on makeshift rafts, and distant shouts carried on the wind—"Superintendent! Where are you?"
Xiahou Lian waved and yelled back. When the "rafts" neared, he saw that they were just planks, the oars long pieces of scavenged wooden debris. Still, they'd at last been rescued.
Situ Jin paid for shelter in a hunters' hut on the mountainside. The village below had transformed into a vast lake, its surface incongruently luminous under the dull gray sky. Only a few feeble lanterns flickered on the slopes. The surviving villagers sobbed and wailed—many had lost family members overnight.
As soon as he and Xiahou Lian reached solid ground, Shen Jue's mask slipped back into place. He ordered Xiahou Lian to disguise one of his agents as the prince of Fu.
"Impersonating royalty is treason!" Xiahou Lian argued. "And how long can a disguise last? Your agent's too skinny, anyway—the prince was fat. One slip at night, and the padding will show. Consider this carefully—it isn't a game!"
Shen Jue sipped his tea, unfazed. "I'm well aware, but there's no need for you to worry. Put that energy into his disguise."
"No."
Shen Jue smirked. "What? Now that we've survived the flood, you're no longer afraid of torture?"
Xiahou Lian was angry enough to laugh. "I saved your life, Lord Superintendent."
"Oh?" Shen Jue glanced at him. "I've had quite a shock. I can't even recall what happened yesterday."
Xiahou Lian just stared at him.
In the end, Shen Jue had to threaten to kill Zhu Shunzi to force Xiahou Lian to cooperate.
What's his plan now? Xiahou Lian fumed. Pass some agent off as the prince and march into the capital? Shen Jue, you asshole! You really have a death wish!
But Shen Jue had always been this way—when it came to pushing himself, to achieving his goals, nothing could stand in his way. Xiahou Lian remembered the freezing boy who studied through frigid nights, who trained relentlessly at the palace. Time changed people, but some traits were bone-deep, impossible to alter.
His frail health hadn't changed either. Despite downing gallons of hot tea, Shen Jue fell ill, burning with fever. Situ Jin and Shen Jue's other agents foraged for herbs to brew into bitter medicines. Peering through the window, Xiahou Lian saw Shen Jue curled beneath a pile of blankets so thick it resembled a burial mound.
Underneath slept Shen Jue, his face flushed with fever. Even swaddled in blankets during the height of summer, he was still freezing. The hunters' hut reeked of hay, and the tiny room overflowed with clutter. There were storage chests pressed against the wall, and a worm-eaten wooden table stood near his feet. Lying there, Shen Jue felt like another discarded object. The bedding had been used, and it carried an indescribable stench. He was miserable.
Night dragged on. Pale light filtered through the paper window; beyond it were the dark shadows of trees. From time to time, the villagers' sobs drifted in, echoing like the wails of spirits.
Shen Jue was thirsty, but he had no servants here—Situ Jin and the others were his subordinates, not his attendants, and they weren't there around the clock to serve him. They'd administered his medicine and left, awaiting dawn and new orders from a freshly awakened Shen Jue.
Thus, Shen Jue's only choice was to endure. Time crawled by, bit by bit, the night seeming to drag, extending boundlessly onward. Then, he felt someone lift him and hold water to his lips—cold, sweet well water. A fresh, damp cloth replaced the dried one on his forehead, soothing his fever, and his blazing cheeks cooled.
Blinking groggily, Shen Jue glimpsed a figure sitting against the bed frame at the head of the bed.
A-Lian? he thought. His brain felt like mud—he'd seemingly slipped into the past, back to his days at the Xie residence. He was Xie Jinglan, and Xiahou Lian was his book-boy, dozing at the foot of his bed and fetching water when asked.
Two days later, the flood retreated, revealing the ravaged village. A few houses remained, but most had collapsed. Dead pigs choked the roads, their dark carcasses stiff and cold. Fallen trees lay strewn across the ground, their withered branches concealing pale, drowned corpses beneath.
Shen Jue ordered his forces to depart. Although his fever had eased, it hadn't broken; his skin was still slightly warm to the touch. Still, they had no time to wait—he had to reach the capital before the emperor died. He commanded the agents to feed and ready the horses and to pack the tents and supplies. They were to leave within two hours.
Xiahou Lian frowned. "You plan to ride in the wind? You're still sick. Do you want to die on the road?"
Shen Jue ignored that question. "Was it you last night?"
Xiahou Lian paused. "Yes, but don't thank me. I just fetched you water since nobody else did."
Shen Jue's grip on the water jug tightened. "Come near me again, and I'll kill you. Stay out of my affairs."
Xiahou Lian gaped at him—there was definitely something wrong in that brat's head. Ignoring Shen Jue, he confirmed their departure time with Situ Jin, then walked away, dragging Zhu Shunzi after him.
Situ Jin watched him go. "You don't want to have them tailed?"
Shen Jue closed his eyes. "No need. We'll be galloping back to the capital at top speed, so it would be impossible for him to outpace us. He's harmless. Leave him be."
Xiahou Lian and Zhu Shunzi returned hauling an assortment of salvaged debris, including the chassis of the prince of Fu's carriage. Its ornate panels and canopy had long since been washed away in the floodwaters, but the wooden undercarriage and its four wheels were still intact. The Eastern Depot agents watched curiously as Xiahou Lian and Zhu Shunzi began whittling wooden shafts to reconnect the carriage tongue to the frame. Catching on, a few agents joined them to assist.
Next, Xiahou Lian scavenged four bamboo poles and a large oilcloth tarp, fashioning a crude flat-roofed canopy over the chassis. As agents wiped down the still-waterlogged wood, Xiahou Lian purchased two quilts from hunters' families to line the interior. Once he'd hitched a pair of horses to its makeshift yoke, their primitive-yet-functional carriage was complete.
Shen Jue didn't so much as glance at it. When the appointed hour of departure arrived, he stubbornly attempted to mount his horse. Still weakened by illness, his limbs kept on buckling. Only after a laborious struggle did he climb into the saddle. Xiahou Lian ordered him down, telling him to get into the carriage.
Shen Jue turned to look at the ramshackle "carriage" with its oilcloth canopy and gaudy bridal quilts, their surfaces embroidered with bright red peonies. The vulgarity was enough to make anyone cringe. His expression full of undisguised disdain, he insisted, "We depart immediately. All mount!"
The agents glanced uncertainly at Xiahou Lian but ultimately obeyed Shen Jue, climbing onto their horses. Xiahou Lian took several deep breaths, refusing to argue with a fever-addled idiot. Once he calmed a bit, he strode forward, lifted Shen Jue from his saddle, and swept him into a bridal carry before the agents' astonished eyes.
One broad-shouldered, long-limbed man was cradling another, himself tall and full-grown—yet there was an unsettling harmoniousness to the sight.
"Unhand me!" Shen Jue spat through clenched teeth.
"Sure—if you want me to drop you on your ass," Xiahou Lian retorted, looking down at him.
Shen Jue was so furious he laughed. "I see that you have a death wish."
Xiahou Lian barked his own a humorless laugh. "I stopped caring about my survival years ago. Flay me and disembowel me if you like. As if I'd be afraid—I've gone through the fires of hell already. If worse comes to worst, I'll just bite off my own tongue before your torturers can get started. So what's it going to be? Will you take the carriage?"
"I refuse!" Shen Jue roared, then called out to his men. "Are you all statues?! Seize this madman!"
Just who the fuck is the madman here?! Shen Jue's obstinance was enough to make Xiahou Lian's temples throb. He almost wanted to slam the guy's head right into the dirt. "Think beyond yourself for once, Shen Jue!" he snapped. "Think about your brothers! If you collapse and die here, that's your choice, but what about these men who followed you through deadly battles? What becomes of them?"
As he lectured Shen Jue, the agents dismounted in unison, dropping to their knees to the ground. "We beg you, Superintendent—please take care of yourself!" they chorused.
When even Situ Jin disregarded his command, Shen Jue finally went silent. He turned his face away in defeat, leaving Xiahou Lian to look at his cold, pale profile. Xiahou Lian settled him among the blankets in the carriage. Nestled in the red fabric, Shen Jue's pale face looked like porcelain, robbed of moonlight.
The storm had passed, leaving a sky the pristine blue of Hangzhou silk embroidered with subtle wisps of cloud. Morning light glinted off the water droplets beading the oilcloth canopy, making them sparkle like jewels. The carriage jolted forward; lulled by the motion, Shen Jue's eyes grew heavy. Xiahou Lian sat and guided the carriage's horses, his shadow falling over Shen Jue's face.
That man had the same eyes as Xiahou Lian, Shen Jue mused, and a personality just as rough and unyielding.
Ten years had passed. Xiahou Lian was no longer the fourteen-year-old of Shen Jue's memory. The last time he'd seen Xiahou Lian was in Liuzhou three years prior; he'd become a peerless assassin—a weapon that could cut down gods and Buddhas alike without hesitation. An unstoppable force.
Yet the man before him made it seem as though the Xiahou Lian of a decade past had weathered the storms, crossed the river of time itself, and returned to Shen Jue's side.
Was that true or an illusion? Shen Jue could no longer tell. It occurred to him that Qian Zhengde had been right. Even the moon reflected in water became real if one refused to stir the water's surface. Beneath the blankets, Shen Jue's lips curled into a smile both mocking and desolate. Sleep, he told himself. Just sleep. In dreams, everything is real.