The wind grew even fiercer than before.
No, it wasn't the wind—it was the sound of hooves. Dense and packed, pressing in from the north, like a drum being beaten faster and faster, closer and closer. The ground trembled; the sand beneath my feet vibrated slightly. I looked down; sand grains were bouncing on the ground, tapping finely against my shoes. Then I looked up and saw the tent poles humming with vibration.
I suddenly thought:So earthquake and war feel the same underfoot.
No one answered me. People around me were running. Soldiers grabbed their weapons and surged northward; officers' shouts were torn to shreds by the wind, unintelligible. Someone bumped into me; I lost my balance, staggered two steps, and the mutton in my hand fell. I looked down at that piece of meat now covered in sand, thinking:It was scalding hot just a moment ago. Then I realized what I was thinking aboutin a time like this, I'm thinking about mutton.
No one looked at me. Everyone was looking forward.
On the northern horizon, a black line was surging toward us. Too fast. A moment ago, I had thought it was a mountain shadow or clouds before nightfall. But it wasn't. It was cavalry. Dense, packed cavalry, like a tide, like an ant swarm, like something I had seen in documentaries—covering the sky and earth, stretching from one end of the horizon to the other.
My hands began to go cold. Not from freezing, but from a chill spreading from my fingertips upward, blanking out my mind.
"Miss! Go back!" Someone yanked me—it was Eunuch Li, his face white as paper. "You can't stay here—"
"Where is His Highness?" I asked.
He didn't answer, just desperately dragged me backward. I was pulled along for a few steps, my feet dragging two trails in the sand.
Chaos erupted. Someone shouted to form ranks, someone shouted for archers, someone shouted military orders I didn't understand. Voices layered over voices, mixing into a buzzing noise. I was pushed backward by the crowd, straining to look forward over countless shoulders and helmets—
Zhu Zhanji was still in his original spot.
He hadn't moved. Standing beside a supply wagon at the north of the camp, surrounded by a few personal guards. He hadn't drawn his sword, hadn't charged forward, hadn't even shouted loudly. He just stood there, watching that black line approaching from the north.
A thought popped into my mind:Is he scared stiff? But the thought flashed only for an instant before I suppressed it. He wouldn't be. He wasn't that kind of person.
Then why wasn't he moving?
I broke free from Eunuch Li's grip and squeezed forward a few steps. Someone blocked me; I pushed them aside. Someone else blocked me; I pushed again. Someone shouted something; I didn't hear clearly. My shoe stepped into a sand pit; I twisted, my knee hit the ground, pain making me grimace. But I didn't stop.
By the time I finally squeezed into a position where I could see him clearly, he was no longer in his original spot. He had moved forward a bit, standing on a slightly higher patch of ground. Behind him were several messengers; beside him, only one guard.
He still hadn't drawn his sword.
The opposing cavalry was getting closer; I could already make out the contours of the horse heads. I could hear my own heartbeat, ridiculously fast, as if it wanted to jump out of my throat.
"Your Highness!" someone shouted, "Please retreat!"
He didn't move.
"Your Highness!"
"Wait a little longer," his voice was not loud, but steady. The messenger paused, stunned; the people around him also paused.
I clenched my fists in anxiety from behind.Wait for what? If we wait any longer, they'll be right in our faces! I saw the hands of the front-row soldiers gripping their spears trembling; I saw archers with their bowstrings drawn full but not knowing where to shoot. If we waited any longer, we wouldn't need to fight; we'd collapse from within.
But I could only wait.
The opposing cavalry had reached the edge of arrow range. I could see them drawing their bows, could see the cold glint of arrowheads. My breath stopped.
"Left flank," Zhu Zhanji suddenly spoke.
He pointed to a position slightly ahead on the left. In that direction, there was a gap in the cavalry formation. Very small, so small I hadn't noticed it before. But once he spoke, the messenger moved, flags waved, drums sounded. A squad of archers pushed up from the side wing, pulling their bows in unison—Release.
That volley of arrows wasn't dense, but every single one landed in that gap. The front row of cavalry fell; the horses behind were tripped, and the entire charging formation jerked as if stepped on, pausing for a moment.Just that moment.
"Right wing."
Another order. Another squad of soldiers flanked from the side, not engaging head-on, but slicing diagonally into that torn gap. Their movement wasn't fast, but every step landed precisely in that gap. The opposing cavalry tried to adjust direction, but their formation was already chaotic. The front wanted to stop; the back kept charging, crushing together.
Zhu Zhanji didn't look over there anymore. His gaze had shifted to a farther place, where another squad of cavalry was reorganizing.
I stood behind, my hands still cold. Only one thought remained in my mind:He wasn't hesitating just now. He was calculating.
Someone charged from the side. I didn't know where they came from—probably a small group of scattered cavalry from the front that had bypassed the defense line. Too fast; too fast for anyone around to react. The blade was already raised, reflecting firelight, chopping straight toward Zhu Zhanji.
I opened my mouth to shout, but the sound stuck in my throat.
He didn't dodge. He didn't even turn his head. Just when the attacker was within three steps, he sidestepped slightly. The blade grazed his shoulder, shaving off a piece of armor scale. Then he raised his hand—
The blade flashed. Clean, sharp, without any superfluous movement. The man fell from his horse; when he hit the ground, there was no more sound.
He didn't spare that man another glance. Sheathing his sword, his gaze returned to the battlefield.
"North side, three squads encircle them."
Only then did the messenger react, hurriedly waving the flag.
I stood there, my breathing ragged. That slash of his just now—it wasn't about speed, it was about precision. Not about strength, but about beingjust enough. These four words spun in my mind several times. I suddenly remembered how he cut apples back in the Eastern Palace. Alsojust enough. Uniform thickness, consistent size, every slice the same. I had thought then that he had practiced. Now I knew—he wasn't practicing knife skills. He was practicingthis. Every movement just enough, neither too much nor too little.
He wasn't fighting a war. He wasdismantling it. Dismantling the entire battlefield into small problems, then solving them one by one. While others ran, shouted, and fought desperately, he waswatching. Watching the formation, watching for flaws, watching for timing. Then moving exactly when he needed to.
The wind still blew, but it seemed less chaotic. The opposing cavalry was split into several pieces, fighting individually, losing the advantage of the charge. Soldiers in the camp began to push back, no longer passively defending, but pressing inward through the gaps Zhu Zhanji had just torn open.
Zhu Zhanji walked down from that high ground. His pace was neither fast nor slow, the same speed he used walking in the corridors of the Eastern Palace. Dust stained his armor scales; a corner of the scale on his left shoulder was missing—shaved off by that slash just now. But he seemed not to notice, walking straight back to the supply wagon, speaking a few words to the messenger. His voice was low; I couldn't hear clearly, but the messenger ran off immediately after listening.
I stood there, watching his back.
The wind made his heavy cloak snap loudly. Around him were running crowds, fallen horses, distant battle cries. Everyone was moving; only he was still.
He turned around and saw me. His gaze paused on my face for an instant, his brows furrowing. Then he walked over, his pace still neither fast nor slow.
"What are you doing here?"
"I..." I opened my mouth, finding my throat a bit dry. "I came to watch."
"Watch what?"
"Watch how you fight wars."
He looked at me. There was no pride in those eyes, no youthful arrogance, not even the calmness from the battlefield just now. Just a very ordinary look, like when he watched me feed "The Great General" in the side room of the Eastern Palace.
"Stand further back," he said. "Don't block the way."
Then he walked past me. After a few steps, he suddenly stopped and said without turning around: "Don't eat the mutton if it's gone cold."
I paused. I looked down at that piece of mutton on the ground, now covered in sand, then looked up at his back. He was already talking to another messenger.
Standing in the wind, I suddenly felt like laughing. Not because it was funny. But because... how to describe it? It was like seeing something familiar in the middle of chaos. Back in the Eastern Palace, he came to the side room every day, always bringing a plate of cut fruit. Sometimes pears, sometimes apples, sometimes a few kumquats. Put it down, sit for a while, say a few words, then leave. I had thought then that this was just his habit. Now, standing in the wind and sand of Mobei, my body cold, my hands empty, my mind chaotic. But as he walked past me, he said, "Don't eat the mutton if it's gone cold."
It was the same tone as "Apples aren't good to eat when they're cold."
I stepped back a few steps, standing behind a supply wagon. The wind was still strong, but I didn't feel so cold anymore.
In the distance, the battle cries gradually faded. The opposing cavalry began to retreat—first one or two, then a small group, finally whole sections withdrawing northward. The soldiers in the camp didn't pursue; they just held the line, watching them disappear into the night.
Zhu Zhanji stood at the north of the camp, looking in that direction, motionless. The wind blew his cloak up; his silhouette looked very quiet in the twilight.
After a long time, he turned around and walked back. His pace was neither fast nor slow, the same as when he came.
He paused when passing me. "Let's go."
"Where?"
"To eat. There's still hot mutton."
I followed him back. The wind pushed me from behind; I stepped on his shadow, walking step by step.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Mm?"
"Just now... weren't you afraid?"
He didn't answer. After walking a few steps, he said: "Yes."
"Then you—"
"When you're afraid, you must see even more clearly," his voice was very light, scattered somewhat by the wind. "My grandfather taught me that."
I didn't ask further. I followed him into the tent; inside, the charcoal fire burned fiercely, heat rushing to meet us. On the table sat a plate of freshly roasted mutton, steaming, glistening with oil.
He sat down opposite me and poured me a bowl of tea. "Drink something hot."
I took it, holding it in my palms. Hot. Just as hot as the tea he poured for me in the side room of the Eastern Palace.
I lowered my head and took a sip. Bitter. But very warm.
(End of Chapter 15)