Prisoner of War

Shen Qingyu lay among the dead for three days.

On the first day, the bodies around him were still warm. The routed soldiers of Southern Chu fell one after another, as the iron hooves of Great Liang's cavalry crushed their spines. He heard someone crying out for their mother, heard someone cursing the heavens in the dialect of Southern Chu, heard the dull thud of blades cutting into flesh and bone. He buried his face in the dirt and swallowed mouthfuls of air thick with blood.

On the second day, the warmth left the corpses. Flies began to gather on the wounds, their buzzing like the clamor of a grand feast. Shen Qingyu dared not move a muscle. His stomach cramped—three days without food, hunger like an invisible hand clamping tight around his abdomen. He stealthily reached for a water pouch on a nearby corpse and moistened his lips with the few drops lingering at its mouth.

On the third day, he could no longer tell the difference between himself and the dead.

The thirty-thousand-strong army of Southern Chu had been defeated. Defeated with no shred of suspense. Xiao Hanzheng, the General of the Northern Garrison—the War God of Great Liang—had charged head-on with eight thousand iron cavalry while his wings encircled from both sides. In half a day, he had torn the Southern Chu battle lines to shreds. Hidden among the fleeing soldiers, Shen Qingyu had watched with his own eyes how that black banner embroidered with the character "Xiao" advanced inch by inch, like a looming mass of dark clouds bearing down upon them.

He should not have been here. He was the Third Prince of Southern Chu, supposed to be in Yingdu, the capital a thousand li away—not wearing the ordinary soldier's armor stripped from a corpse, mingling with the routed troops.

But he had to come. He had to see with his own eyes how Southern Chu was defeated. Because his elder brothers needed a scapegoat—and nothing served better than "the Third Prince擅自 accompanying the army on campaign, disrupting military morale."

The dying sun began to sink westward.

Shen Qingyu heard new hoofbeats. Not the scattered riding of a routed force, but the steady, orderly rhythm of a formation. Great Liang's cleanup cavalry had arrived.

He closed his eyes, making his breathing shallower. Playing dead—this was the most practical skill he had learned in his twenty-two years. Playing dead in the court of Yingdu, playing dead under his brothers' fists, playing dead before those who sought to use him. If you played well enough, no one would notice you at all.

The hoofbeats drew closer.

"General, this sector is cleared," a rough voice sounded.

"Check again." Another voice—low, terse, carrying the authority of one who had long given orders. "Bring the living back. Bury the dead."

Shen Qingyu's heart sank. The General. The man who had come was Xiao Hanzheng himself.

The hoofbeats stopped right in front of him.

Shen Qingyu could feel a gaze upon him, like a dull blade slowly, slowly cutting through every layer of his disguise. He could hear the heavy breath of the horse, smell the mingled odor of rust and leather. He could even feel the cold radiating from the man's armor.

"There's still a live one here."

That voice spoke.

It was not a question, but a statement. Shen Qingyu did not know where he had slipped—his breathing, his posture, or his heartbeat?

Heavy footsteps crushed the withered grass beneath them. A hand grabbed the collar of his armor and yanked him up from the pile of corpses. Shen Qingyu's legs were numb; his whole body hung in the air like a marionette on strings.

"The General is asking you a question."

The man who had hauled him up was Lu Changfeng—Shen Qingyu would learn that name later. The deputy general's tiger-like eyes held no excess emotion, only scrutiny and vigilance. Shen Qingyu was forced to his knees; the pain of his kneecaps striking the gravel finally restored feeling to his legs.

He looked up.

Xiao Hanzheng sat astride a jet-black warhorse. His dark iron armor gleamed with a muted luster under the setting sun, and the shoulder plates bore pale scratches left by sword and blade. The man wore no helmet, revealing a face carved like a blade—high cheekbones, a jawline sharp as a knife's edge, and a faint old scar slanting across his left brow.

What unsettled Shen Qingyu the most were those eyes.

Black as ink, fathomless as an abyss. It was not like being looked at, but like being read—like an open book flipped through at leisure.

"Who are you?" Xiao Hanzheng asked.

Shen Qingyu did not speak at once. His mind raced through calculations—the risk of revealing his true name, the risk of fabricating one, the risk of silence. Every choice led to a different outcome, and he had only a few breaths to decide.

"Southern Chu—a collateral branch of the Shen Clan," he said, his voice hoarse, like sandpaper scraping stone. "Forcibly conscripted."

"A collateral branch of the Shen Clan?" Xiao Hanzheng narrowed his eyes slightly. The movement was subtle, but Shen Qingyu caught it. It was not a good sign. "The Shen Clan is the royal house of Southern Chu. Would a member of the royal family be forcibly conscripted?"

"The Shen Clan has many collateral branches," Shen Qingyu said, lowering his gaze to make himself appear more humble. "My family has fallen on hard times, and I hold no official rank—I am no different from a commoner. When the county conscripted soldiers, I had no means to buy my way out, so I was assigned to the logistics camp."

Xiao Hanzheng said nothing. He dismounted and stepped closer.

Shen Qingyu could smell the scent on him—not blood, but leather and a certain clean, herbal odor. This man had killed countless people on the battlefield, yet there was no smell of blood on him at all. That was more chilling than being drenched in gore.

"Raise his hands," Xiao Hanzheng said.

Lu Changfeng grabbed Shen Qingyu's right wrist and lifted his hand. Xiao Hanzheng did not look at his face—he looked at his hand. Long fingers, well-defined knuckles, a thin layer of calluses on the palm.

"This is not a hand that holds a blade," Xiao Hanzheng said. "Nor a hand that draws a bow. This is—" he paused, "a hand that plays the qin."

Shen Qingyu's heart clenched tight. But he let no emotion show on his face. In twenty-two years of surviving the Yingdu court, he had long learned how to press all fear, tension, and anger deep into his stomach in an instant, turning them into a faint, dull ache rather than letting them flicker across his brow.

"The General has keen eyes," he said, his tone flat. "I do have some knowledge of music. Before my family's fortunes declined, I studied the qin for a few years."

"Oh?" Xiao Hanzheng released his hand and turned away. "Take him back. Lock him up."

"General—" Lu Changfeng hesitated. "An ordinary captive—why not just—"

"He is no ordinary captive."

Xiao Hanzheng mounted his horse and glanced back at Shen Qingyu. There was no curiosity in that look, no pity—only a chillingly calm judgment, as if confirming the position of a tactical target on the battlefield.

"His armor was stripped from a corpse. The shoulder strap was fastened backward."

Shen Qingyu's breath stopped for an instant.

Impossible. He had spent three days among these corpses, checking every detail over and over. He thought he had—

"Take him away." Xiao Hanzheng's voice was flat, but it carried an unshakable authority.

Lu Changfeng asked no more questions. He escorted Shen Qingyu toward the military camp. Shen Qingyu did not resist, but his mind was in turmoil. Xiao Hanzheng had noticed the reversed strap. A man, sweeping the battlefield of remaining enemies, could still notice that a "corpse's" armor strap was fastened backward.

How did one deal with such a man?

***

The oil lamp in the military tent cast flickering shadows across the canvas.

Shen Qingyu was pressed down onto a wooden chair. Lu Changfeng did not bind his hands—perhaps because Xiao Hanzheng had said something, or perhaps because he simply did not look like a threat. What could a scrawny, bloodstained captive do?

The tent flap lifted, and Xiao Hanzheng entered.

He had removed his armor. A black brocade robe clung to his broad shoulders and back, and at his waist, the Water-Severing Sword had been replaced by a lighter blade. Without his armor, he carried less of the aura of slaughter, but his overwhelming presence had not diminished in the slightest. Shen Qingyu even felt that, without the buffer of armor, this man's oppressive force was more concentrated—like a drawn sword without a sheath, its edge thrusting straight at you.

"Give him a bowl of porridge." Xiao Hanzheng sat down across from Shen Qingyu.

Lu Changfeng brought the porridge. White porridge, thin, with a few grains of rice floating on top. Shen Qingyu's fingers trembled involuntarily as he took the bowl—he had not eaten anything hot in three days.

He did not drink immediately. He set the bowl on the table and looked at Xiao Hanzheng.

"Afraid it's poisoned?" Xiao Hanzheng raised an eyebrow.

"Just waiting for it to cool," Shen Qingyu said.

"This is a military camp. There is no poison," Xiao Hanzheng said flatly. "If I wanted to kill you, I'd use a blade, not poison."

Shen Qingyu picked up the bowl and began to drink, mouthful by mouthful. He did not wolf it down, though his stomach was cramping. In Yingdu, there had been a time when, after two days of starvation, he was summoned to a family banquet. His eldest brother, Shen Mingzhang, had deliberately set the table with a feast and then watched him—everyone watched him, waiting for an excuse of "bad manners" to humiliate his mother.

From that day on, he had learned to eat slowly, no matter how hungry he was.

"Tell me," Xiao Hanzheng leaned back in his chair, "who are you really?"

"A collateral branch of the Shen Clan—"

"Stop." Xiao Hanzheng raised his hand to cut him off. "You are an intelligent man. An intelligent man should not do foolish things. I have already checked. In the genealogy of the Shen Clan's collateral branches, there is no one named Shen Qingyu. No member of the Shen Clan whose family had fallen on hard times was ever conscripted. And no collateral member of the Shen Clan has ever played dead on a battlefield for three days."

Shen Qingyu's hand tightened slightly around the bowl.

"So," Xiao Hanzheng continued, "you have two choices. First, keep making up stories, and I will keep exposing them. Second, tell the truth—at least part of it."

"Why does the General assume," Shen Qingyu set down the bowl and looked up, "that if I tell the truth, you will spare my life?"

Xiao Hanzheng stared at him for a long time.

"You are very calm," he said. "This kind of calm is not something an ordinary person possesses. An ordinary person, when captured—they beg for mercy, they weep, they try to trade every bargaining chip they have for their life. But you are different. You sit there, looking at me, like an envoy come to negotiate."

Shen Qingyu said nothing.

"Only two kinds of people can do that," Xiao Hanzheng said. "One is the dead. The other is those who have seen too much of life and death. You are not dead, so you are the second kind." He paused. "Where did you see so much of life and death?"

"General—"

"In the court."

Xiao Hanzheng stood up. He walked over to Shen Qingyu and looked down at him.

"Your hands bear the marks of playing the qin. You know a member of the royal collateral branch should not be on a battlefield. You have seen enough of life and death to remain expressionless as a captive. Shen Qingyu—the Third Prince of Southern Chu is also called Shen Qingyu."

Shen Qingyu's heart stopped in that instant.

He did not move. Did not blink. Did not swallow. He pressed all reactions beneath his skin, letting them surge like undercurrents in his blood without leaving a trace on his face.

"The General knows more than I imagined," he said at last, his voice as calm as if discussing the weather.

"So you do not deny it?"

"I have not admitted it," Shen Qingyu said. "I am merely saying—the General's speculation is very imaginative."

Xiao Hanzheng stared at him for a long while. Then he smiled—so faintly it was barely a curve of the lips, but Shen Qingyu saw it.

"Interesting." Xiao Hanzheng took a step back. "You are very good with words, Shen Qingyu. But I told you—I will not believe a single word you say. At least not for now."

He raised his voice.

"Lu Changfeng."

Lu Changfeng pushed aside the tent flap and entered.

"Lock him in the holding cell. No one is to visit him without my permission."

"General—"

"I do not repeat myself."

Lu Changfeng said no more. He escorted Shen Qingyu out of the tent.

***

The holding cell was a square cage built of rough timber.

The floor was covered with a layer of straw, and a wooden bucket sat in the corner. There were no windows—only a sliver of moonlight filtering through the gaps in the bars. Shen Qingyu sat down against the corner and closed his eyes.

Xiao Hanzheng was already suspicious.

No—he had already confirmed it. He was only waiting for proof, waiting for Shen Qingyu to speak of his own accord. This man's patience was deeper than Shen Qingyu had imagined.

Shen Qingyu rubbed his own fingers. The calluses on his fingertips were thin, the result of years of playing the qin. In the past, in Yingdu—when the entire court despised him—only the qin had kept him company. When the seven strings vibrated beneath his fingers, the scars left by the whip did not hurt as much.

Footsteps.Shen Qingyu opened his eyes. Moonlight outlined the tall figure beyond the fence. His dark brocade robe melted into the night, leaving only half of his face carved into deep shadows by the moonlight. The scar above his left brow was exceptionally clear under the moon.

Xiao Hanzheng. Here again.

"Can't sleep?" Shen Qingyu asked.

Xiao Hanzheng did not answer. He stood outside the fence, still as a stone statue. After a long while, he finally spoke.

"Your hands bear the marks of a zither player. You lay among the dead for three days without weeping or crying out." His voice was soft, yet every word was distinct in the quiet night. "Shen Qingyu, who are you really?"

"A prisoner who knows how to play the zither," Shen Qingyu said.

Xiao Hanzheng pressed no further. He stood for a moment longer—long enough that Shen Qingyu thought he would say nothing more—then turned and left. His footsteps gradually faded into the night.

Shen Qingyu leaned against the rough wooden wall, his fingers unconsciously tracing a musical note through the dry straw on the ground.

This man—

He filed away a thought in his mind: Xiao Hanzheng had come back in the dead of night not to interrogate him, but to confirm the calluses on his fingers from playing the zither. He wanted to see with his own eyes whether Shen Qingyu would slip once the daylight facade was gone.

And Shen Qingyu knew—he had already slipped.

His mistake had not come when he was captured, nor when he spoke. It was the moment Xiao Hanzheng first said, "Your hands bear the marks of a zither player"—he had instinctively curled his fingers inward.

Xiao Hanzheng had seen that gesture.

***

What Shen Qingyu did not know was that after returning to his military tent, Xiao Hanzheng spread a scroll of the Southern Chu royal family's genealogy across his desk. His finger traced a series of names, finally stopping at the third row, where it lingered for a long time without moving away.