The early summer wind carried a dry heat, rustling the poplar leaves by the training ground as if countless hands were stirring in the dark. Shen Yanci sat astride Snowtread; the black mare pawed restlessly, her iron hooves grinding into the newly laid fine sand, leaving deep prints. He gripped the reins tightly, his knuckles whitening, stretching the mare's mane taut.
At the end of the track, Shen Xiaoshan lowered his brass telescope, the sunlight glinting off its lens stabbing painfully at the eyes. "Thirty wooden stakes for the obstacle course, twelve feet apart." His voice was ice-cold. "Fall off once within half an hour, and you add fifty laps. If you can't even tame a horse, you don't deserve the Shen surname."
"Yes, Father." Shen Yanci's reply was unwavering, as if the "fifty laps" his father spoke of were nothing out of the ordinary. He glanced down at the stakes lining the track—thick, white-painted logs like a row of grim fangs, the last few deliberately tilted to one side, a clear provocation.
He dug his heels sharply into the horse's flanks. Snowtread let out an angry whinny and bolted forward, hooves flying. Wind rushed into his collar; Shen Yanci leaned low, his back tensed like a drawn bow, gaze locked firmly on the first stake. In the instant the mare leaped, he could hear his heartbeat clearly, merging with the rhythm of her hooves, steady as a hammer striking iron.
The first jump landed cleanly. The mare's forehooves grazed the top of the second stake, sending splinters flying onto his hand. Shen Yanci did not flinch; he only jerked the reins hard upon landing. Snowtread winced and surged with greater force, clearing three more stakes in a single powerful bound.
Shen Xiaoshan stood rooted to the spot, his fingers unconsciously brushing the holster at his waist. The boy's ruthlessness mirrored his own, yet he had a better grasp of restraint—he had pushed the mare to her limit without harming her at all.
Before the final tilted stake, Snowtread hesitated, her forehooves hovering over the sand. Shen Yanci's eyes turned sharp. He lashed the mare's rump with his whip. With a wild cry of pain, she leaped sideways, hooves skimming the edge of the crooked log. The momentum nearly threw him off, but he clung to the reins, his palms raw from the strain, not even furrowing his brow.
"Passable." Shen Xiaoshan's voice drifted on the wind, unreadable. "Take ten jin of fine feed to the stables for Snowtread."
Shen Yanci did not look back. He led the horse toward the stables. Passing the garden, he caught sight of Su Wan crouching beneath the crabapple tree, tucking freshly picked roses into a bamboo basket. Her pale green dress fluttered in the breeze, like a fragile blade of grass swaying in the wind.
"Shen Yanci!" She looked up and saw him, her eyes lighting up. She held out a fully bloomed pink rose. "For you. It'll look nice in your study."
Shen Yanci kept walking, his gaze flicking over the rose as if it were a trivial object. "No need." His voice was cold as forged steel. "I have no use for such things."
Su Wan's hand froze mid-air, her smile fading. Yet she placed the rose back in the basket and said softly, "The kitchen made mung bean soup, chilled. I'll bring some to you later."
Shen Yanci did not answer. He led Snowtread straight past, the mare's hooves thudding against the stone slabs, as if shattering something fragile. He could feel her gaze on his back, tinged with grievance, but he did not turn. He was the heir of the Shen family. His heart should hold guns and military strategy, not roses and cold soup.
Gunfire tore through the night in the Military Governor's Mansion.
Shen Yanci jolted awake to the shots, having fallen asleep over his desk while copying The Art of Wuzi. The ink was still wet, glistening in the candlelight. He grabbed the pistol by his pillow, moving like a shadow. Throwing open the door, he found two guards lying in the corridor, blood still gushing from bullet wounds in their chests.
"Young Master! Bandits from outside the city have broken in—their target is…" Another guard ran toward him, clutching his arm, but was cut down by a stray bullet through the throat before he could finish. Blood splattered across Shen Yanci's military boots, warm and sticky.
Shen Yanci's gaze turned instantly frigid, like a lake frozen over. He crouched behind a pillar and made out the attackers in the moonlight—black-cloaked, with wolf heads embroidered on their cuffs. They were the assassins raised by Brigade Commander Feng. He had dared to strike at the heart of power.
"Hold the main hall! Protect the governor's seal!" he growled. His voice was low, yet commanding. The guards rallied, quickly forming a defensive line as gunfire weaved a dense net across the courtyard.
Shen Yanci's shooting was deadlier than it had been on the training ground. Every bullet struck the forehead or throat, leaving no one alive. He moved like a ghost between pillars, the pistol's recoil numbing his palms, yet setting his blood ablaze. This was where he belonged—fighting in a hail of bullets, speaking with gunfire.
Amid the chaos, he spotted two men creeping toward the east wing, furtive, carrying bundles of explosives. Shen Yanci's pupils constricted. That was where Su Wan lived.
Acting on instinct, he lunged forward like an arrow loosed from a bow, twisting mid-air to dodge two stray bullets. He rolled upon landing and pressed his pistol to the temple of the first man, firing without hesitation. A dull crack echoed. Blood splattered across his face, warm liquid sliding down his jaw. He did not even blink.
The second man raised the explosives to hurl them into the wing. Shen Yanci kicked his wrist aside. As the bomb flew loose, he grabbed the man as a human shield and hurled himself behind a rockery. A deafening boom shook the air, the blast searing his eardrums, gravel slashing his back like whip strikes.
He shoved aside the mangled corpse and leaped up, aiming his gun at another figure emerging from the smoke. The man raised his weapon, only to be shot through the wrist, screaming as he fell.
"Who sent you?" Shen Yanci pressed the barrel to his temple, his voice icy as a tomb.
The man trembled in agony but clamped his jaw shut. Shen Yanci's eyes hardened. He lowered the gun and shot him in the knee. A shrill scream split the night. The man finally broke, sobbing, "Brigade Commander Feng! He said… he said to burn the mansion… kill the Shen family…"
Before he finished speaking, Shen Yanci pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced his forehead, silencing him forever.
He stood, his boots crunching over debris, and walked to the wing. The door was ajar. Inside, muffled sobs escaped. Shen Yanci pushed it open and saw Su Wan huddled in the corner, clinging to her trembling aunt, her face as pale as paper, eyes wide and fixed on the blood on his face.
"Don't be afraid." His voice was still sharp, but softer now. "It's over."
Su Wan said nothing, only staring at his bloodstained hands—slender, knuckled hands that had held a gun, now stained with the fire of hell. Suddenly she stood, hurried to the table, and picked up a handkerchief. She rose on tiptoe to wipe his face.
Shen Yanci jerked his head away. The cloth grazed his cheek, smearing a streak of blood. "Don't." He stepped back, putting distance between them. "I'll clean myself."
Su Wan's hand froze, the light in her eyes dimming. Yet she held out the handkerchief. "There's medicated oil on it. It'll help."
Shen Yanci did not take it. He turned to leave. At the door, Shen Xiaoshan's authoritative voice boomed through the courtyard: "Yanci, come here."
He walked to his father, blood still crusted on his face, darkening on his boots. Shen Xiaoshan studied him as if inspecting a newly forged weapon. After a long moment, he spoke: "Your shooting is good. Ruthless enough."
"I learned from Father." Shen Yanci's tone was flat, neither flattery nor complaint.
Shen Xiaoshan actually smiled, the laugh tinged with complexity. "Since Feng dared to move against us, he will pay. Tomorrow, take the guard to his outpost outside the city and wipe out his pack of wolves."
"Yes, Father." Shen Yanci did not hesitate.
Just then, Su Wan approached with a basin of hot water, setting it carefully on the stone table. "Governor Shen, Shen Yanci… wash up."
Shen Xiaoshan glanced at her, unusually unirritated. "Thoughtful." He turned to Shen Yanci. "Clean your hands and face. Looking like a bloodied ghost is unbecoming."
Only then did Shen Yanci take the handkerchief, dampen it, and wipe his face. Blood mixed with warm water slid off, revealing his sharp, handsome features. Su Wan stood nearby, watching his crisp movements, and whispered quietly, "You were… amazing back there."
Shen Yanci paused. He did not reply. Amazing? In this chaotic world, greatness was built on blood and corpses. There was nothing to praise.
He finished cleaning, tossed the cloth back into the basin, and walked toward the stables. Snowtread still pawed nervously, startled by the gunfire. Shen Yanci stroked her neck. The mare nuzzled his palm, as if comforting him.
"Tomorrow, I'll take you to blood," he murmured, a faint, unrecognized anticipation in his voice.
Beneath the distant crabapple tree, Su Wan watched his back, still clutching the un-given rose. Its petals were crumpled in her grip, like her heart, tangled and messy. She suddenly realized that this perpetually cold young man hid an abyss she could not understand—one filled with gunfire, blood, and a cold hardness she would never reach.
Yet somehow, the moment he had charged through the bullets to protect them, that figure weaving through the crossfire had shone brighter than ever.
The next morning, Shen Yanci led the guard out of the city.
He wore a crisp military uniform, two guns at his waist—a Browning given by Shen Xiaoshan, and a pistol seized from the assassins. The soldiers looked at him with awe. The previous night's battle had given the barely sixteen-year-old young master a new weight in their eyes.
The outpost lay hidden in an abandoned kiln, where Feng's men were trapped and fighting desperately. Shen Yanci wasted no words. He ordered explosives to blow open the gate, then led the charge inside.
Gunshots, screams, and explosions merged into a chaotic symphony. Shen Yanci's aim remained precise and brutal, each bullet claiming a life. Blood spattered more heavily onto his face as his boots stepped over broken bricks and bodies, yet his eyes blazed bright, like a wolf that had found its prey.
When the last resistance fell, he stood in the center of the kiln, staring at the wreckage, and felt a tight string inside him loosen. This, perhaps, was the responsibility his father spoke of—holding fast to what must be protected with a gun, cleansing the world of evil with blood.
On the way back, they passed the southern market. Shen Yanci told the guard to wait outside and stepped into a rice cake shop. The owner knew him and greeted him warmly. "How many, young master? Still with sesame seeds?"
"Two jin." His voice was hoarse. "Wrap them in oil paper."
He walked out with the parcel, sunlight glinting softly off the paper. Shen Yanci paused for a moment, recalling Su Wan holding out the rose, like a blade of grass that never should have grown in a world of war.
He squeezed the package tightly and turned back toward the mansion. His boots struck the stone slabs in steady, firm steps, as if proclaiming something.
Some things, perhaps, did not need to be rejected outright. As his father had said, only those who combine hardness with softness are true strongmen. And that grass-like warmth might keep him from becoming a completely unfeeling weapon in this cold, chaotic age.
At least, for now.