The wind was still blowing outside the tent.
I stood outside the flap, clutching the fabric edge, hesitating to go in. The sensations from that split second were still stuck in my throat—the sound of the blade slicing through the air, the torchlight dancing on its edge, the feeling of my own heartbeat drowning out everything else. I couldn't swallow them down, nor could I spit them out.
I took a deep breath. Then another.
Then I yanked the flap open.
"Have you lost your mind?!"
Everyone inside the tent fell silent. Several generals standing by the table, tea bowls still in their hands, froze at my shout. Zhu Zhanji stood before the map, his light armor still on, though the damaged plate on his left shoulder had been replaced with a new one. He looked up at me.
"You're back," he said. His tone was flat, as if he were in a side room of the Eastern Palace asking, "How is the Great General?"
I marched straight over. My footsteps hammered against the ground,thud, thud, so loud even I felt startled. "What do you mean, 'I'm back'? What were you just doing?!"
He didn't speak. The generals exchanged glances; some stepped back, others pretended to study the map intently.
"You are the commander! What were you doing running over there? Do you have any idea—"
My voice caught. I had wanted to say, "Do you have any idea you nearly got yourself killed?" But those words stuck in my throat; I didn't let them out. Saying them would change the flavor of this. It wouldn't be anger anymore; it would be worry. I wasn't here to worry. I was here to scold him.
I switched tactics. "You could have died!"
The tent grew even quieter. One could hear the sound of the map fluttering in the wind. Zhu Zhanji looked at me, his voice level. "I won't."
I nearly laughed in anger. "You won't? You didn't even leave yourself a way out!" I had seen it with my own eyes—he had come down from that high ground, crossed the entire camp, with only one person beside him. Scattered cavalry hadn't fully retreated to the north, and the defensive lines on both flanks weren't secure yet. In that position, if a second attacker had charged—
"I calculated it," he said.
My hand trembled. "Calculated?! Calculated with what? With your life?!"
He didn't refute me. He just looked at me. It wasn't the coldness of the battlefield, nor the gentleness he showed in the Eastern Palace. It was something in between—very quiet, very heavy. Suddenly, I remembered what he had once said:When you are afraid, you must see more clearly. That was how he was, regardless of whether the opponent was cavalry or me.
My voice dropped slightly. "Do you think... nothing will happen to you?"
He looked at me. He didn't answer.
In that instant, I suddenly realized—he didn't think nothing would happen to him. He had accepted the possibility. He had calculated it; he had calculated that he might get injured, might die, but he still came. It wasn't because that gap needed him; he didn't need to go there personally. He could have stayed on the high ground and sent anyone else. But he didn't.
An indescribable feeling blocked my chest, as if someone had grabbed it tightly, and even after they let go, it still hurt.
I looked down and saw the bloodstains on his hands. They had dried, leaving dark red traces in the crevices of his fingers. I reached out directly, grabbed his wrist, and pulled it in front of me. The armor was ice-cold, digging into my palm.
"Sit down," I said.
He didn't move.
I looked up and glared at him, lowering my voice, speaking word by word: "If Your Highness makes any more noise, I won't treat you."
Someone in the tent softly gasped. He looked at me, then sat down. No struggle, no asking what I was going to do; he just placed that hand on the table.
I turned to find the medicine chest. My hands were still shaking; I fumbled several times before opening the lid. Gauze, golden wound powder, scissors—I laid them out one by one. My fingers touched the medicine bottle, making it clink.
"You all leave first," Zhu Zhanji spoke, not addressing me.
The generals looked immensely relieved. The tent flap was lifted and dropped; a gust of wind rushed in, causing the flame to flicker.
I pulled his hand over and began undoing the armor straps. My fingers trembled; it took several tries to untie them. Once the armor plate was removed, the sleeve of his inner shirt was stuck to his skin with blood. I used the scissors to slowly cut along the edge. The wound wasn't long, but it was deep, with clean edges—a slash from a blade. He didn't make a single sound of pain.
"Do you all share the same flaw, thinking life can be spent recklessly?" I sprinkled the golden wound powder onto the wound. I tried to be gentle, but my hand pressed a bit too hard. His brow twitched slightly, but he remained silent. "Do you know that this position—"
I stopped halfway through my sentence.
The medicinal powder spilled from the bottle mouth, landing on his sleeve, a layer of white. I couldn't control my hand anymore—it wasn't that slight, ignorable tremor; my knuckles were shaking. I stared at that layer of powder, stunned for a moment.
He looked down at my hand. He asked softly, "Are you scared?"
"No," I replied instinctively.
He hummed an acknowledgment, not exposing my lie.
I lowered my head and continued, wrapping the gauze around his arm circle by circle, slowing my movements. It wasn't because the wound was difficult to treat; it was because I didn't want him to see my hands still shaking.
"You shouldn't have come over just now," I said.
I had originally wanted to say something else—"You are the commander, you can't do this," or "If something happens to you, what will become of the entire camp?" But those words, when they reached my lips, felt like excuses.
He said, "You were over there."
My hand paused. The gauze hung in mid-air above his arm. I didn't look up. I dared not look up. I was afraid that if I did, he would see the things in my eyes that I hadn't yet suppressed.
I continued wrapping, secured the gauze, cut it with the scissors, and tucked the end into the last loop.
"I could have handled it myself," I said, my voice so soft it barely sounded like me.
He looked at me. "I know." He paused. "But I didn't want to gamble."
My whole body stiffened. The sound of the blade slicing through the air, the torchlight dancing on its edge, the silhouette of him blocking me—it all crowded into my chest, choking me until I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't help but look up. "Are you—"
I didn't finish the sentence. I stopped first.
I didn't know how to say it. I couldn't exactly say:Do you care about me? Do you think I am more important than your position? Is it because of me that you put the safety of the entire camp secondary?
These words stuck in my throat; not a single one could come out.
I lowered my head and pressed the final loop of cloth flat with force. My fingers lingered on his arm for a moment, confirming the bandage was neither too loose nor too tight.
"Done." I stood up and took a step back. My voice returned to its usual tone. "If you do this again, I really won't bother treating you."
He looked at me but didn't respond.
The wind was still blowing outside the tent. I stood before him; my hands were no longer shaking. But I knew that starting today, something had changed. I couldn't quite define what it was.
I just felt—
When he said, "I didn't want to gamble," his voice was very light. So light it almost scattered in the wind.
But I heard it.
(End of Chapter Seventeen)