The spring of the eighth year of the Republic of China arrived late.
The snow on the training ground had just melted, leaving damp marks on the bluestone slabs. Shen Yanci had already begun his new training. Shen Xiaoshan had given him a heavier rifle; its cold, newly manufactured frame weighed his shoulder slightly downward, yet he still stood perfectly straight.
"Prone firing, fifty rounds," Shen Xiaoshan's voice spread through the morning mist, carrying its usual authority. "All must hit the bullseye by noon."
"Yes." Shen Yanci's reply was crisp and unhesitating. He dropped to the ground in a standard, folded-ruler motion, elbows pressing into the cool stone, soon leaving faint red marks.
The rifle's recoil was far stronger than the pistol's. When the first shot fired, the stock slammed hard into his shoulder, making his vision blur with pain. He said nothing, only adjusted his breathing, pressed his finger firmly on the trigger again. Bang — the second bullet pierced the bullseye precisely.
The morning mist gradually lifted. Sunlight filtered through thin clouds onto him, yet brought little warmth. Fine sweat beaded on his forehead, slid along his jaw, and dropped onto the stone, leaving small dark dots. Fifty rounds, fired fast and steady; the paper target was dotted with bullet holes, all clustered around the red center.
Shen Xiaoshan stood not far away, twirling a Browning pistol, his gaze resting on Shen Yanci's tense profile. The boy's neckline had grown sharper, his Adam's apple rolling slightly as he swallowed — like a restrained young beast. He suddenly remembered Wanqing used to say a boy should be "both firm and gentle," yet the son he had raised possessed only firmness, no softness.
He pushed the thought away at once. A son of the Shen family needed no gentleness. In troubled times, only a hard, unyielding gun could protect oneself and the family legacy.
"Not bad." With that, Shen Xiaoshan turned toward the main hall, military boots splashing through wet marks, leaving clear footprints.
Only when the figure vanished completely did Shen Yanci slowly rise from the ground. His shoulder had gone numb. He raised a hand to rub it, and his fingers touched warm dampness — blood, seeping from skin raw from the gunstock, staining his uniform shoulder board.
He wiped it carelessly with his sleeve, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and headed for the armory. Passing the garden, he heard light, cheerful laughter, like wind chimes stirred by the spring breeze.
It was Su Wan.
She was crouching under a crabapple tree, a small trowel in hand, digging carefully. Her pale white jacket had been replaced with a light green blouse; her braids undone, hair loosely pinned with a wooden hairpin, a few strands falling by her cheeks, gilded brown by the sun.
Shen Yanci paused, instinctively wanting to turn away. He was unused to such vivid scenes — too bright a picture, making his own cold rigidity impossible to hide.
But Su Wan had already seen him. She lifted her head and smiled. "Shen Yanci, look what I found!"
In her palms was something round, wrapped in moist soil, like a dull gray stone. Shen Yanci said nothing, only looked at her mud-stained fingertips — unlike the delicate hands of other ladies in the mansion, hers bore faint calluses, clearly from frequent digging and planting.
"It's a winter bamboo shoot!" Su Wan held it up proudly, eyes sparkling. "My aunt said there are shoots hidden under the crabapple trees. I dug forever to find one. I'll ask the kitchen to make bamboo shoot stir-fry with pork for you tonight. It's delicious."
Her tone was natural, as if speaking of the most ordinary thing — as if they were not a governor's son and a guest girl of different stations, just two neighboring teens meeting by chance.
Shen Yanci's gaze fell on her muddy nose tip, where a tiny pinkish-white crabapple petal stuck, like applied rouge. He suddenly recalled that in his study the previous day, a celadon vase had appeared on the windowsill without warning, holding two fresh crabapple branches, petals still dewy.
"No need." He looked away, his voice still cool, yet lacking the old distance. "The mansion has rules."
"Rules can be broken once in a while." Su Wan waved it off casually and placed the shoot in her bamboo basket. "My father used to say, 'One may eat with refinement, but nothing beats a warm, homely meal.' You train and study all day — you need more meat to keep your strength up."
She pulled an oil-paper package from the basket and held it out. Inside were diamond-shaped rice cakes sprinkled with sesame seeds, still faintly steaming. "I made these with the kitchen this morning. Want a try?"
Shen Yanci stared at the rice cakes, recalling the date cake she had left on the stone table the previous winter. The same warm, earthly comfort, tightening his chest.
He did not take it at once, only looked into her eyes — clear as spring streams, free of calculation or fear, only pure kindness. Suddenly, his line "the mansion has rules" felt unnecessary.
"Take it." Su Wan pressed the package into his hand. Her fingertips accidentally brushed his, as if burned by a spark; she quickly pulled back, her cheeks flushing softly. "I… I'll head to the kitchen now."
She picked up her basket and hurried off. The hem of her light green blouse swept over the grass, lifting fallen crabapple petals, like a startled butterfly.
Shen Yanci held the oil-paper package. Warmth seeped through the paper, soothing his cold fingertips. The sweet scent of rice cakes mixed with the light fragrance of crabapple blossoms. He looked down, hesitated for a moment, then finally picked one up and put it in his mouth.
The soft rice cake carried the nutty aroma of sesame, sweet just enough, not cloying like the delicate pastries in the mansion. He suddenly understood what Su Wan meant by "homely food" — a clumsy, imperfect kind of warmth.
Shen Xiaoshan seemed to have noticed something.
At dinner that day, he looked at the plate of bamboo shoot stir-fry and suddenly asked, "Who ordered this dish?"
The maid serving them paled. Before she could reply, Su Wan spoke up first. "I did, Uncle Shen. I dug a winter bamboo shoot in the garden this morning and thought to add a dish for everyone." Her tone was natural as she placed a shoot tip into his bowl. "Try it — it's very tender."
Shen Xiaoshan glanced at her, said nothing, and ate it. His gaze swept over Shen Yanci, who was eating quietly, chopsticks only touching the vegetables in front of him, not glancing at the meat dish once.
"Yanci," Shen Xiaoshan said suddenly. "Eat more meat."
Shen Yanci's hand holding chopsticks paused. He looked up at his father; seeing no change in his expression, he took a piece of meat and ate it slowly, silently.
Su Wan watched his tight profile and quietly sighed in relief. She knew Shen Yanci was always restrained around his father, like a drawn bow, afraid of the slightest mistake. She had spoken up first to keep the maid from saying the wrong thing and getting him into trouble.
After dinner, Shen Yanci went to the study to copy books as usual. He had just opened The Art of War by Wu Qi when there was a soft tap on the window lattice.
He looked up to see Su Wan standing outside, holding a small cloth pouch. "For you." She pushed it through the window gap. "My mother made this shoulder pad for me before. It's stuffed with cotton — put it under the gun when you train, it'll hurt less."
The pouch was light blue, with slightly uneven stitches, clearly hand-sewn. Shen Yanci opened it to find thick cotton padding, with a tiny plum blossom clumsily embroidered on the edge — not neat, but clearly made with care.
"No need." He refused instinctively, yet his fingers touched the soft cotton as if scalded.
"Just take it." Su Wan's voice held quiet stubbornness. "I saw your shoulder was red. It'll get infected if you keep rubbing it. This doesn't break any rules. Consider it… a thank-you for getting my kite down yesterday."
Shen Yanci froze. He did not remember helping her with a kite.
Seeing his confusion, Su Wan blushed deeper. "The afternoon before yesterday. My kite got stuck in the crabapple tree. You quietly took it down, didn't you? I saw you."
Shen Yanci then recalled passing the garden after training. A pink kite had been tangled in the branches, swaying in the wind. Without thinking, he had used his rifle to lift it down and left it on the stone table, leaving no trace. He had not expected her to see.
He neither admitted nor denied it, only wrapped the shoulder pad again and placed it in his drawer.
"Thank you," he whispered softly, as if afraid of being overheard.
Su Wan smiled, a shallow dimple at her eye corner. "You're welcome. I won't disturb your studying. Good night."
"Good night."
The words surprised even Shen Yanci. He never spoke like this. In the mansion, evening farewells were only "I take my leave" or simple silence. Yet facing those bright eyes outside the window, he had spoken almost without thinking.
Su Wan clearly had not expected it either. Her eyes lit up like two stars, then she turned and ran.
Shen Yanci sat at his desk, his heart beating faster as he looked at the cloth pouch in the drawer. He took out the shoulder pad and pressed it to his cheek; he could smell faint soap and sunlight. Not as strong as the incense in the mansion, yet strangely calming.
That night, he copied books much faster. Moonlight fell on the rice paper outside the window, casting his shadow — no longer as lonely as before.
After spring arrived, Shen Xiaoshan added horse riding to Shen Yanci's training.
The racecourse beside the training ground had just been renovated, covered in fresh soft sand. Shen Xiaoshan chose a fierce black stallion with a coat like satin, save for a white patch on its forehead, like a small snowflake.
"This horse is called 'Treading Snow.' I won him from a Mongolian prince," Shen Xiaoshan said, patting the horse's neck. The stallion snorted and scraped the sand with its front hoof. "Tame him, and he will be your mount."
Shen Yanci looked into Treading Snow's wild eyes and understood. His father wanted him to learn that a strong man must not only wield a gun but also tame a fierce steed — just as one must tame this chaotic world.
He mounted smoothly. Treading Snow clearly disliked his young rider, rearing suddenly, trying to throw him off. Shen Yanci gripped the reins tightly, pressed his body close, letting the black horse thunder around the track like a bolt of black lightning.
Wind howled in his ears. His heart raced, yet he remained calm. He felt the horse's rage and its running power, like a beast ready to pounce. Instead of forcing control, he shifted gently with its movements, as if merging with it.
After countless laps, Treading Snow slowed, breathing heavily. Shen Yanci patted its neck softly, voice low. "Alright. Stop."
The horse seemed to understand. It snorted and stood obediently, even nuzzling his knee, as if acting coquettishly.
Shen Xiaoshan stood by the track, watching the scene. The corner of his mouth twitched upward almost imperceptibly, then quickly hardened again. "Not bad," he said. "Fifty laps every day starting tomorrow."
"Yes." Shen Yanci dismounted steadily. As soon as he landed, dizziness washed over him; his knees went weak, and he nearly fell. The wild ride had drained his strength, and the wound on his shoulder throbbed painfully.
He steadied himself against the horse's neck, hiding his discomfort from everyone.
Just then, a light green figure ran over, holding a water flask and a clean cloth.
"Shen Yanci, are you alright?" Su Wan hurried to him, worry in her eyes as she held out the flask. "Drink some water. I watched you run for so long."
Shen Yanci took the flask. His fingers touched hers, cool and slightly damp — she must have just washed the cloth. He drank deeply; the water flowed down his throat, sweet like mountain spring.
"I'm fine." He handed the flask back, his voice a little hoarse.
Su Wan lifted the cloth without waiting for permission, rising on her toes to wipe his sweat. Shen Yanci leaned back slightly, and the cloth brushed his cheek, leaving a cool, damp trail like spring wind over a lake.
"You're covered in sweat." Su Wan's movements were gentle, her gaze focused as if on something important. "My mother says you catch cold easily if wind blows on sweat."
Her fingertips occasionally brushed his skin, light as a feather, ticklish. Shen Yanci's heart beat uncontrollably faster. He smelled the crabapple scent in her hair, saw the fan-like shadow of her long lashes on her lids, felt her warm breath brush his neck.
"Done." Su Wan lowered the cloth, smiled at his clean face. "Oh, I brought you something."
She pulled a small oil-paper package from her pocket, holding hawthorn balls strung on red thread, red as agate. "These help with your appetite. You must be hungry after training so long."
Shen Yanci looked at the hawthorn strings and suddenly felt that this spring was much warmer than before. The wind on the training ground was no longer cold, the sand on the track no longer hard. Even his father's "not bad" seemed to carry faint warmth.
He took the hawthorns. This time, when his fingers brushed hers, he did not pull away.
"Thank you," he said, with a softness he himself did not notice.
Su Wan's eyes lit up, as if filled with starlight.
In the distance, Shen Xiaoshan watched the scene, tapping his palm gently with a horse whip, saying nothing. Sunlight stretched his long shadow over the sand, like a silent exclamation mark.
He knew some things could not be stopped. Just as ice and snow always melted, seeds always sprouted, so the boy hard as cold iron would eventually let a ray of light into his heart.
And that light, carried on the spring wind, was seeping in little by little — with warmth, with sweetness, with all the gentle care he had never given, yet secretly longed for.