Jianyuan Era, Year 2. The 1st Day of the 4th Month. Deep within the Steppe.
The wind blew from the end of the grassland, carrying the coldness left after the blood scent had dissipated. The column no longer marched in haste; the hoofbeats were steady and heavy, stepping on withered grass with a muffled sound, like drums beating in a far distance. The war banners hung low, no longer flaunting. In this battle, they had won. But no one spoke loudly of victory.
He rode at the very front, armor not removed, edges still bearing unwashed bloodstains, dried and dark brown, like rust. His face was cracked by the wind, lips covered in bloody sores, but he seemed not to notice. His gaze was fixed south. That was the direction of Chang'an. I was there.
They walked for three days before reaching the foot of the Yin Mountains. The mountain was still that mountain, gray and bare, with snow remaining on the peak. When they came, they crossed this mountain in two days. Going back, it took three days. Not because the road was longer, but because they couldn't walk anymore. Someone fell, was helped up by the person next to them, and continued. No one looked up at the road. Everyone was counting their own footsteps.
Along the way, wounded soldiers were carried over. Broken arms, severe injuries, silent ones. Those on stretchers had faces white as paper, lips bloodless, eyes closed, not knowing if asleep or fainted. He stopped, dismounted. Boots crunched on the gravel. He stood there, looking for a long time. The wind blew from the north, carrying the stench of blood and rotting flesh, seeping into the armor—cold. He said nothing, no comfort, no extra words. Just looking at those faces—young, old, smeared with blood, covered in dust. Each one different. Each one he couldn't remember.
"Record names," he said.
The accompanying general lowered his head. "Yes."
He mounted again, continuing on. He didn't look back. But he remembered that scene—those silent bodies on stretchers, and the bloody cloth strips floating in the wind. He thought of the bodyguard who blocked the arrow for him. Sixteen or seventeen, eyes very bright. He died. Didn't even leave a name. There won't be one anymore.
After several more days. The grassland gradually narrowed, mountains became more numerous. Grass changed from withered yellow to tender green, the air began to have the scent of earth. They were almost there. A rider came from the south, hooves urgent, splashing up a trail of dust. The scout dismounted, kneeling on the ground, hands holding a silk scroll.
"Your Majesty, urgent report from Chang'an."
He took it, unfolding. The scroll's edges were still stained with mud, left from the overnight journey. The handwriting was Qingxing's, not mine. But the content—it was mine.
"Chang'an not in chaos. Nine gates sealed. Court affairs managed by Zhonggong. Hundred officials all submissive. Do not worry."
He read it once. Then again. Then closed it, not opening it again. The wind blew from the south, carrying the scent of earth and green grass, with a faint floral aroma. He put the scroll into his sleeve, placing it against his body.
"She did it," he said. Voice very light, light like talking to himself. The wind whipped the cloak. He suddenly thought of the day of departure. I stood on the city wall, wearing the deep cyan Yudi, the pheasant patterns reflecting golden light in the morning glow. I said: "This Chang'an, I will guard for you." He thought I would cry. I didn't. I just stood there, like a tree planted in the wind. Turns out, I really guarded it.
Li Guang rode over, walking beside him. "Your Majesty, three more days, and we will reach Chang'an."
"Mm."
"Your Majesty's triumph, the world should celebrate. Your servant has ordered preparations—"
"Not yet." He interrupted Li Guang.
Li Guang paused. "Your Majesty?"
He looked into the distance. On the horizon, a faint gray line was visible. That was Chang'an's city wall. He looked for a long time. "I haven't returned to her side yet."
Li Guang said nothing. He lowered his head, looking at the saddle. Hooves stepped on the official road, da-da-da, like a heartbeat.
Further south. The outline of Chang'an City was already faintly visible. Gray-white city walls reflecting cold light in the morning glow. People stood on the walls, a dark mass, faces indistinguishable. City gates tightly closed, military formations orderly. No chaos, no panic. Nine gates sealed for three months, my one order, no one dared open. The corner of his mouth moved. Not a smile, but something softer.
People came out to greet him for miles. It was Chancellor Wei Wan, leading the hundred officials, kneeling by the roadside, heads磕 on the ground. "Respectfully welcoming Your Majesty's triumph—"
He didn't stop. He rode on horseback, looking at that distant city. The city gates were still closed. I was in the hall discussing politics. I didn't know he arrived today. He didn't report in advance. He wanted to see—what I had guarded this Chang'an into.
"Where is the Empress?" he asked.
Wei Wan lowered his head, voice steady. "Her Majesty the Empress... is in the hall discussing politics."
The wind went still for an instant. Flags stopped fluttering, horses stopped neighing, everyone's breathing lightened. He looked toward the distant palace. In the direction of Xuanshi Hall, nothing could be seen. Only gray-white walls, and the gray sky above the walls. He didn't ask again. Just raised his hand, gently waving.
"Enter the city."
Hoofbeats started again. This time, not a return. But going to see the one who stood side by side with him.
The gates of Chang'an City opened. Not slowly, but burst open, like a sleeping beast opening its eyes. Both sides of the streets were filled with common people, densely packed, extending from the city gate to the palace gate. Some held flowers, some held children, some knelt on the ground. He didn't look at them. He rode his horse, walking down the long street, passing Zhuque Gate, passing Chengtian Gate. Every step was like measuring—how many roads I had walked in these three months.
The doors of Xuanshi Hall were open. He dismounted. Boots stepped on stone slabs, one by one. Hundred officials followed behind, no one dared to surpass him. He walked in.
I sat beside the Dragon Throne. Not on it, but beside it. Memorials were piled on the desk, a roll I hadn't finished approving was by my hand, brush set aside, ink not yet dry. I heard footsteps, raised my head.
At that moment, the hall was as silent as an empty tomb. I looked at him. He looked at me.
I had lost weight. Cheekbones protruded, dark circles under eyes, marks of three months without sleep. My hands had new calluses—not from repairing artifacts, but from approving memorials. I wore the Empress's ceremonial robes, deep cyan Yudi, pheasant patterns reflecting dark gold light under candle flame. Hair combed neatly, a jade hairpin in the bun. No gold, no step-swaying ornaments, plain as a sheet of white paper. But I sat there, like a tree planted in the wind.
He stood in the center of the hall, wearing armor, edges still bearing unwashed bloodstains. New scars on his face, from cheekbone to ear root, pink, scabs not yet fallen. Boots covered in mud, leaving dark footprints on the stone slabs. He looked at me. I looked at him.
"Xingye." He called my name. Voice very hoarse, like stones grinding stones.
"You're back?" I asked. Voice very steady. But my fingers—fingers resting on the edge of the memorial, slightly tightened.
"I'm back."
He walked over. Boots stepped on stone slabs, every step heavy. Stopped in front of me. I looked up at him. His face had blood, dust, sweat. My face had tears, but not wiped.
"What did you do while I was gone?" he asked.
I said nothing. Just looked at him. The memorials on the desk, the undried ink by the desk, the thin calluses on my hands—had already answered for me.
"Guarded your empire," I said. The wind blew in, rustling the silk scrolls on the desk. "And changed your court."
He looked at me for a long time. Candle flame danced in his eyes, illuminating his face brightly. He thought of that night before departure, I stood by the window, saying "You must come back alive." He came back alive. I guarded Chang'an for him. He reached out, taking my hand. My hand was very hot, palm with thin calluses. Those calluses pressed against his palm—three months, ground out day by day.
"Xingye."
"Mm."
"I'm back."
I said nothing. I looked at him, tears falling, no sound, just flowing down the cheeks. I reached out, touching the scar on his face. Fingers very light, as if afraid to hurt him.
"Does it hurt?"
"No."
"Liar."
He smiled. Very low, very light, like wind blowing through candle flame. He pulled me into his arms. Armor very cold, digging painfully. But I didn't dodge. My hand on his back, very tight.
"I'm back." He said it again. Voice very low, low enough that only I could hear.
"I know." I said. "I knew you would come back."
Outside the hall, hundred officials knelt, no one dared enter. Inside the hall, candle flame danced, casting two people's shadows on the wall, overlapping. His hand was hot, holding my hand, very tight. Chang'an City, guarded. What he promised, he did. What I promised, I also did.
[End of Chapter 39]