Year 12 of Yongle, September. The Northern Desert (Mobei).
I was woken up by the bouncing.
More accurately, I was woken when the carriage wheel hit a rock of indeterminate size, launching me from my seat so that my head slammed into the roof. I rubbed my head, spending three seconds trying to recall why I was in a rattling carriage in the middle of nowhere, being tossed around like a ragdoll.
Right. I came to see someone off. I saw them off, and somehow ended up on the battlefield myself. Ruolan had been left behind at the relay station; she said, "Miss, you can't go alone," and I replied, "If you go, we'll just be two people getting lost together." In the end, Eunuch Li had shoved a bundle into my hands—dried rations and a waterskin—with an expression as if he were bidding farewell to a heroic martyr.
Now, I sat alone in the carriage, clutching that medicine box, being bounced until I was dizzy.
I lifted the curtain to look outside. It was a desolation I had never seen before. The sky was vast, the earth was vast, and there was nothing in between. No trees, no houses, no people. Only yellow-brown earth and a gray, hazy sky. The wind blew with a howl, sand stinging my face like needles. I cursed silentlyeven the surface of the Moon has more life than this place.
"This is Mobei," I told myself. Actually, I was guessing. Before he left, Zhu Zhanji had said the Northern Expedition was heading to Mobei. I thought Mobei was just "a bit further north." I didn't expect it to bethis.
The carriage jolted again, and my teeth clacked against my tongue. It hurt. I closed my mouth and decided to stop talking.
After about twoshichen (four hours), the convoy finally stopped.
I lifted the curtain. Ahead lay a cluster of tents—gray, low, and densely packed on the yellow earth like mushrooms sprouting after rain. Except mushrooms are prettier. Mushrooms, at least, are white.
"We've arrived!" a soldier shouted outside.
I jumped down. When my feet hit the ground, I nearly lost my balance. The earth was soft, but not the kind of loose, yielding softness. It was the kind of softness born of being trampled countless times, crushed into powder. One step kicked up a cloud of dust.
"Cough, cough, cough—"
I covered my nose and mouth, squinting to look around. Tents, people, horses, flags, pots, crates, and smoke drifting everywhere. Some were lighting fires, some chopping wood, some feeding horses, some carrying loads. Everyone was covered in gray dust—gray clothes, gray faces, even the horses were gray.
I stood there, looking like a mung bean that had fallen into a pile of flour.
"Miss Song?" A soldier ran over. "His Highness is over there."
I followed his pointing finger. Zhu Zhanji stood in front of a large tent, speaking with several generals. He wore light armor covered by a heavy cloak, his hair bundled neatly. Compared to the dusty people around him, he looked unnaturally clean. But looking closely, there was a layer of dust on his cloak too; it was just too dark to show.
I walked toward him. I took three steps, and then the wind hit.
This wasn't the wind we usually talk about. This was the kind of wind that feels like the sky is pressing down and the earth is flipping up, kneading you into a ball in the middle. Sand struck my face like pebbles. My hair instantly flew up, plastering across my face.
"Pah, pah, pah—" I yanked the hair out of my mouth, squinting as I continued walking.
By the time I reached him, I had probably eaten half a jin of sand.
He looked down at me, the corner of his mouth tilting up slightly.
"You came?"
"Mm." I brushed the dust off my clothes, holding back the urge to say, "The air quality does not meet standards." "You fight wars in a place like this?"
"Mm."
"There's nothing here."
"There is wind," he said.
I glared at him. He was smiling.
I was about to settle the score with him—about why he didn't stop me when he saw me being pushed onto the cart, about why he let me eat sand in this godforsaken place—when a shout suddenly came from the distance.
"Stretchers! Stretchers!"
My body moved faster than my brain.
Before I could react, I was already squatting beside a soldier being carried down. His leg was covered in blood, his trousers torn open to reveal a deep wound where the bone was visible. The military doctor beside him was frantically rummaging through a medicine box.
"Where's the tourniquet?" I asked.
The military doctor looked up, stunned. "What?"
"Never mind." I snatched the strip of cloth from his hand, wrapped it twice around the soldier's thigh, tied a knot, inserted a wooden stick, and twisted it tight.
"Ahhh—" The soldier screamed.
"Hold it," I said without looking up. "Your artery is severed. If we don't stop the bleeding, you'll be gone in less time than it takes for an incense stick to burn."
Silence fell for a moment. I didn't know if they didn't understand "artery" or "incense stick." I had no time to care. I examined the wound. No shattered bone, no foreign objects. Just a flesh wound—deep, but not fatal.
"Do you have suture needles and thread?" I asked.
The military doctor's expression was as if I had spoken an alien language.
"Forget it." I stood up, ran back to the carriage, and rummaged through my medicine box. Inside were the things I had prepared in the Eastern Palace—suture needles bent from embroidery needles, silk thread that had been boiled and dried, wound powder, and clean strips of cloth. I thought this was just being prepared for the worst. I didn't expect to actually use it.
I squatted down, pressing on the soldier's leg. "What's your name?"
"Zhao... Zhao Hu."
"Zhao Hu, listen to me. Your leg is fine. The bone isn't broken; it's just the flesh that's opened up. We'll stitch it up, and you'll be fine. Have you ever sewn clothes?"
"...Yes."
"Then it's the same. Basically."
Zhao Hu's mouth twitched, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
I took a deep breath. My hands were steady. This was the first thing my mentor taught meno matter what animal is in front of you, your hands must not shake. I looked down at the wound; blood was still seeping out. There was no time to think of anything else.
"Zhao Hu."
"Yes."
"Do you trust me?"
He looked at me, then at Zhu Zhanji standing nearby. Zhu Zhanji didn't speak; he just nodded slightly.
"I trust you," Zhao Hu said.
"Then don't move."
I began to sew. The wind was fierce, sand drilling into my eyes. I wiped my face with my sleeve and continued. One stitch, two stitches, three stitches. Each knot was tied tight; the silk thread shimmered with a fine white light in the dimness. Zhao Hu gritted his teeth, making no sound, his fists clenched until his knuckles turned white.
After about the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, I tied the final knot and cut the thread with scissors. Then I sprinkled on the wound powder and wrapped it tightly with clean cloth.
"Done," I said, clapping my hands. "Change the dressing in three days. Don't get it wet. Don't move around. You'll be healed in half a month."
Zhao Hu looked down at his neatly bandaged leg, then up at me, his eyes red. "Miss... you saved my life."
"Not really. Just a few stitches."
"But you—"
"Don't talk. Save your strength."
I stood up, but my knees went weak, and I nearly collapsed. A hand caught my arm.
I turned. Zhu Zhanji was beside me, his hand steadying my arm. He didn't speak, just looked at me. I suddenly remembered what my mentor said back in Australia:"A veterinarian's hands are not for killing; they are for saving lives." At the time, I thought that sentence was too sentimental. Now, thinking back, he was right.
"When did you learn this?" Zhu Zhanji asked.
"Learn what?"
"Sewing people."
"I didn't," I answered honestly. "I've sewn kangaroos."
He was silent for a moment. "What is a kangaroo?"
"An animal. It hops. It has a pouch on its belly to carry its babies."
His expression suggested he was judging whether I was making up a story.
"It's real," I said. "Maybe one day, if there's a chance, I'll draw it for you."
He didn't press further. He simply pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and handed it to me.
"Wipe your face."
I took it and wiped my face. The handkerchief came away covered in gray dust and blood. I probably looked like I'd just been dug out of the earth.
"Thank you," I said.
He didn't speak. He just took the handkerchief back, folded it neatly, and put it back in his sleeve.
That night, the wind grew stronger.
The tents howled as if something outside was wailing. I sat in Zhu Zhanji's tent, wrapped in an old cotton jacket someone had found for me, but I was still cold. The cold here was different from Beijing's. Beijing's cold seeps in slowly; here, it crashes down on you.
"Are you cold?" he asked, sitting opposite me, holding a map, not even looking up.
"No," I said, then immediately sneezed.
He put down the map, stood up, took a heavy cloak from the side, and threw it at me. "Put this on."
I caught it and wrapped myself in it. The cloak was huge, enveloping me completely. It smelled of him—ink, pine soot, and a hint of rust. And another smell: sand. The wind here blew sand into every corner, even inside clothes.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm?"
"Why didn't you stop me?"
He looked up at me.
"This afternoon. When I was pushed onto the cart. You saw it, didn't you?"
He was silent for a moment. "I saw it."
"Then why didn't you stop it?"
"Would you have gotten off?"
I opened my mouth. No. Not because I didn't want to, but because in that scene, I couldn't have. People everywhere, things everywhere, the carriage was already moving. Even if he had stopped it, it would likely just mean one more person standing by the road watching me get pushed on.
"Then you at least..." I paused, "you could have warned me."
"Warned you about what? 'Be careful not to get pushed onto the cart'?"
"Yes!"
"Then I probably would have had to start warning you since yesterday." He looked at me, the corner of his mouth tilting up. "In a scene like today's, no one could avoid it."
I glared at him. He looked back at me. We stared at each other for a while until I couldn't hold it in anymore and laughed.
"You really are—"
"What am I?"
"You really knew this would happen, didn't you?"
He didn't answer. He lowered his head and continued looking at the map. But I saw the corner of his mouth curling up, unable to be suppressed.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm?"
"There are too many problems with this camp of yours."
He looked up. "What problems?"
"From start to finish, it's all problems." I counted on my fingers. "Your military doctors—when a wounded soldier is brought down, they don't even know how to stop bleeding; they just sprinkle powder. Your wound powder is good, but if the wound isn't cleaned first, what's the use of sprinkling it in? And where are the needles and thread? You don't have sutures?"
His brush paused, then continued writing.
"Anything else?" he asked.
"And do you know what disinfection is? Before treating a wound, you must sterilize the tools. Use burning alcohol, or heat them over a fire. You did nothing, just applied things directly. It's a miracle infections aren't rampant."
He frowned, didn't ask, but wrote those words down.
"And the tents," I said.
"What about the tents?"
"They're facing the wind. The wind blows straight in. It's freezing at night. They should be set up with their backs to the wind, or blocked by other tents."
He put down the map and looked at me. "You know how to judge this too?"
"No. But when I went camping in Australia, our tour guide taught me." I paused. "The guide was a New Zealander; his accent was so thick I had to listen three times to understand."
He didn't ask what "New Zealand" was. He just looked at me, for a long time. Then he lowered his head and continued writing.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Writing down what you said."
I was stunned. "You're serious?"
"Mm." He didn't look up. "Tomorrow, I'll have the military doctors come listen to you. The things you mentioned—disinfection, sutures, tourniquets—they need to learn them."
I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, but swallowed it back. I suddenly felt my throat tighten. Not because he said "you are right," but because he waslistening. Not listening perfunctorily, but truly listening. He was fighting in this godforsaken place, having to read maps, manage soldiers, guard against Mongols, and yet he was listening to me complain about how the tents were pitched. Not only did he listen, he wrote it down.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm?"
"The wind here is too strong."
He looked up. "So what if the wind is strong?"
"Strong wind is bad for wounds. Sand blowing in causes infection. You should build a shed specifically for treating the wounded, something to block the wind."
He looked at me, and suddenly smiled. It wasn't his usual warm, subtle smile, nor his mischievous, wicked grin. It was a smile I couldn't describe.
"Do you know," he said, "what you are doing?"
"What?"
"You are scolding me."
I paused. "I'm not."
"You are. From the moment you got off the cart until now, you've been scolding me. Air quality—" he paused, "no, you didn't say that one. But you said the rest. No emergency procedures, tents pitched wrong, wind too strong. You've scolded me three times."
I opened my mouth. It seemed I had.
"But while you scold, you fix," his voice suddenly softened. "You scolded the lack of emergency procedures, but you taught the doctors how to stop bleeding. You scolded the tents, but after you spoke, you knew how to fix them. You scolded the wind—"
He paused.
"The wind you can't fix. But you took out your own medicine box, took out your own needles and thread, and used the things you brought from that faraway place, one by one, right here."
The tent fell silent for a moment. The wind howled outside, the tent fabric snapping loudly. I sat there, wrapped in his cloak, and suddenly realized—he was right. I had been scolding. But I had also been doing. I didn't know when it started. Probably from the moment Zhao Hu was carried down; my hands moved faster than my brain. My body remembered what to do better than my mind did.
"This isn't scolding," I said.
"Then what is it?"
"It's... complaining." Tucao)
"Complaining?"
"It means... speaking out about what you're dissatisfied with." I paused. "Where I come from, we call this 'feedback'."
"Feedback." He repeated the word, as if savoring it. "Then give me more feedback in the future."
I glanced at him. "Won't you find it annoying?"
"No." He lowered his head and continued writing. "The things you said are matters I hadn't thought of. The things you learned in that faraway place don't exist here. You brought them, so now they exist here."
I didn't speak. I lowered my head, looking at my hands. Zhao Hu's blood was still on them, now dried to a dark brown, embedded in my nail beds.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm?"
"Are your hands cold?"
He paused, looking down at his hands. "No."
"Liar." I stood up, walked to him, and took his hand. It was indeed cold. His fingers were long, his knuckles distinct, his nails trimmed neatly. There were a few shallow scars on the back of his hand from gripping a sword. On his knuckles were several small cuts, not deep but seeping blood. Probably caused by the wind.
The wind here could crack a person's hands.
I pulled the tube of lip balm from my sleeve pocket.
He glanced at it. "What is this?"
"Lip balm. Where I come from, we use it in winter. Apply it to lips to prevent cracking." I unscrewed the cap, squeezed a bit onto my fingertip.
"Then why apply it to hands?"
"Because your hands are cracked." I took his hand and applied the balm to his knuckles. The balm was transparent, with a faint scent of mint. In Australia, I used this every winter. Now, in this place where there was nothing, this small tube of lip balm was probably the only thing within hundreds of miles that wasn't gray and dusty.
He didn't speak. He just watched me apply it, watching me cover every cut on his hand. His fingers twitched slightly, as if he wanted to pull back, but he held still.
"Done." I screwed the cap back on and stuffed the tube back into my sleeve.
He looked down at his hand, silent for a moment. "It feels cool."
"It's mint. Refreshing."
"Mint?"
"A plant. You probably don't have it here." I paused. "We don't have it there either. This comes from even further away."
He nodded, not pressing further. He just looked at his hand for a long time. Then he looked up at me.
"Song Yu'an."
"Mm?"
"Your hands are cracked too."
I looked down at my hands. Indeed, they were cracked. Several cuts on the knuckles, one still seeping blood. I hadn't noticed while stitching, but now that I saw it, it hurt.
He took the tube of lip balm from my hand. I paused, and before I could react, he had unscrewed the cap and squeezed some onto his fingertip.
"Let me."
His voice was light. He took my hand, lowered his head, and applied the balm to my knuckles. His movements were slow, gentle, as if doing something extremely delicate. The candlelight in the tent flickered, casting a small shadow of his eyelashes on his face.
I sat there, my heart suddenly beating faster. Not from nervousness, but because—I didn't know why. Perhaps because, in this place where there was nothing, in this world of only wind, sand, and blood, someone was applying lip balm to my hands. It seemed like such a small thing. So insignificant. But in this moment, I felt this small thing was bigger than anything else.
"Done." He released my hand and handed the balm back to me.
I took it, clenching it in my palm. The plastic case was warm, holding the temperature of his palm.
"Thank you," I said.
"No need." He lowered his head and continued looking at the map.
I returned to my spot, wrapped myself in his cloak, and stuffed the lip balm back into my sleeve. The wind still howled outside, the tent fabric still snapped. But suddenly, I didn't feel so cold anymore.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm?"
"Tomorrow, have the military doctors come find me. I'll teach them how to suture."
"Good."
"And this camp of yours—"
"Needs rectification," he finished, his tone flat. "I know."
I paused, then laughed. "Good that you know."
He didn't look up, but I saw the corner of his mouth curl up.
I curled up inside the cloak and closed my eyes. The wind howled all night. But I didn't feel cold anymore.
(End of Chapter 13)