Accident

Shen Qingyu had been living in the main tent's side chamber for five days.

During those five days, Xiao Hanzheng would come to see him every evening at dusk. No interrogation, no cross-examination—just standing at the doorway, silently watching for a while, then turning and leaving. As if checking that the bird in the cage was still alive.

Lu Changfeng brought him meals three times a day, punctually. Breakfast was congee and pickles, lunch was two dishes and soup, and dinner was simpler—but still much more than what he had eaten as a prisoner. The portions increased with each meal, as if someone were deliberately adjusting his food intake.

"The General says you need to regain your strength," Lu Changfeng said, setting the tray on the low table. "He says you're too thin."

"Does the General treat all prisoners so well?"

"You're not a prisoner anymore. You're a guest." Lu Changfeng's tone was flat. "And the General never treats prisoners well. You're the first."

Shen Qingyu didn't press further. Some questions were too dangerous if asked too deeply.

On the evening of the fifth day, Xiao Hanzheng stood at the doorway longer than usual when he came. Shen Qingyu sat before the low table, straightening his clothes—after several days of washing, his old garments no longer carried the smell of blood from the battlefield. He could feel Xiao Hanzheng's gaze settle on his shoulder, then shift away.

"The Ministry of Rites will send someone again tomorrow," Xiao Hanzheng said suddenly. "Not Zhou Cheng this time."

"Is the General trying to tell me—"

"I'm telling you, you need a better story."

Xiao Hanzheng finished speaking and left. Shen Qingyu listened to his footsteps fading away, realizing that the man was hinting—he did not want Shen Qingyu to be exposed by more astute officials from the Ministry of Rites.

Why?

***

The enemy night attack came late on the sixth day.

When Shen Qingyu was jolted awake, the first explosion had already detonated in the northwestern corner of the camp. He sat up abruptly in bed, hearing the clamor outside surging like a rising tide—not the shouts of drills, but real battle cries mixed with fear and rage.

He pushed aside the curtain of the side chamber and saw the main tent was already empty. Xiao Hanzheng's desk held a spread map, the ink still wet—he had left just moments ago.

The tent flap was roughly thrown open. Firelight outlined Xiao Hanzheng's silhouette behind him. He was wearing armor—the first time Shen Qingyu had seen him fully armed at close range. Dark iron plates reflected a dim red glow in the firelight, the leather straps between the plates crisscrossing at his shoulders and waist like some intricate binding system.

"Put this on." Xiao Hanzheng threw a dark cloak over Shen Qingyu. "Come with me."

"The enemy—"

"Remnants of Southern Chu, about a thousand men." Xiao Hanzheng's tone was rapid but not panicked. "They attacked the grain camp. The fire has now spread to the eastern tents." He grabbed Shen Qingyu's wrist and pulled him out of the side chamber. "Move."

Shen Qingyu didn't ask where. His bare feet trod on the cold ground as he followed Xiao Hanzheng out of the main tent.

Outside was hell.

The eastern side of the camp had already turned into a sea of fire. Black smoke thick with sparks rushed toward the sky. Soldiers ran amid the flames, some carrying buckets, others pulling frightened horses. The clash of blades came from the northwest—the enemy had breached the first line of defense.

"Lu Changfeng!" Xiao Hanzheng shouted.

"General!" Lu Changfeng burst out of the smoke, a fresh wound on his face still seeping blood. "The Southern Chu remnants bypassed the sentry post from the north—they used gunpowder! At least several hundred catties—"

"I know." Xiao Hanzheng cut him off. "Where are the men?"

"The first battalion is fighting the fire, the second is engaging the enemy at the northwest corner—" Lu Changfeng's gaze suddenly fell on Shen Qingyu. "Taking him along is too dangerous!"

"Leaving him in the main tent is more dangerous," Xiao Hanzheng said. Then he waved to the side—an attendant led over a black horse, the same one Shen Qingyu had seen on the day they first met. "Mount up."

Shen Qingyu looked at the tall warhorse. He had never ridden a horse—in Yingdu, princes traveled in palanquins. This horse's shoulder height almost reached his chest.

Xiao Hanzheng didn't wait for his answer. Gripping the reins with one hand, he wrapped the other arm around Shen Qingyu's waist and hoisted him onto the horse's back. Before Shen Qingyu could react, Xiao Hanzheng had swung up behind him, one hand around his waist, the other holding the reins.

"Lu Changfeng!" Xiao Hanzheng's warhorse was already prancing in place. "Hold the southeast corner! Wait for my signal—three whistling arrows!"

"Yes, sir!" Lu Changfeng turned and charged into the flames, his voice swallowed by the uproar.

Xiao Hanzheng squeezed the horse's flanks with his legs, and the warhorse shot forward like an arrow from a bow.

***

During the breakout, Shen Qingyu truly saw what a "War God" looked like.

Xiao Hanzheng did not head toward safety—he charged straight into the densest part of the enemy. Before the Southern Chu remnants could react, Xiao Hanzheng's Water-Severing Sword traced a silver line through the darkness, cleaving the two enemy soldiers in front.

"Close your eyes," Xiao Hanzheng said in his ear.

Shen Qingyu closed his eyes. He felt the horse accelerate, the wind howling past his ears, and Xiao Hanzheng's arm tightening slightly. Then came the clash of metal—sword against blade, sword against spear, sword against armor—each collision with a different pitch, like a bloody symphony.

"Open."

Shen Qingyu opened his eyes. They had broken through the encirclement. Behind them, the camp had become an ocean of fire, twisted flames dancing wildly in the night wind, dyeing half the sky orange-red. But Xiao Hanzheng did not stop—

An arrow shot from behind.

The sound of an arrowhead piercing the gaps in armor was very distinctive—not a metallic "clang," but a "shiiip." Shen Qingyu heard Xiao Hanzheng grunt, the arm around his waist suddenly tightening, then loosening slightly.

"General—"

"Shut up." Xiao Hanzheng's voice was even more curt. "We're not there yet."

They continued galloping for nearly the time it takes to burn an incense stick. Shen Qingyu didn't know how far they had gone, only that every so often Xiao Hanzheng's breathing grew heavier. His back pressed against Xiao Hanzheng's chest, and he could feel the body beneath the armor tensed like a drawn bow.

Finally, the horse stopped.

Shen Qingyu rolled off the horse's back and turned—

Xiao Hanzheng still sat in the saddle, his face pale as paper in the moonlight. The knuckles of the hand holding the reins were white, and on his back, an arrow was lodged just below the right shoulder blade. The arrowhead had pierced through the leather straps and buried deep into the flesh.

"Dismount," Shen Qingyu said.

Xiao Hanzheng did not move.

"General." Shen Qingyu's voice turned sharper. "You're injured. Dismount."

Xiao Hanzheng looked at him. Perhaps it was Shen Qingyu's forceful tone, or perhaps he truly had no strength left—he released the reins and swung off the horse. When his feet touched the ground, he stumbled and caught himself with one hand.

Shen Qingyu caught him.

"Sit down. Lean against the tree." He said. "Don't move."

They were under a large tree at the edge of the forest. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the ground. Shen Qingyu made Xiao Hanzheng sit with his back to the trunk, then moved behind him.

The arrow was deeply embedded. The arrowhead had sunk into the flesh, leaving only half the shaft and the fletching visible. Shen Qingyu tore the fabric around the wound—the dark iron armor was too heavy, so he had to reach through the gaps in the straps to tear the underlying shirt.

Xiao Hanzheng made no sound, but the muscles of his shoulder tensed the moment Shen Qingyu touched the wound.

"Need to pull it out," Shen Qingyu said. "It will hurt."

"Pull."

Shen Qingyu tore a strip from the edge of his own cloak, wrapped it around his hand twice, then grasped the arrow shaft.

One, two—

He yanked it out.

The arrowhead came with a small piece of flesh. Blood gushed out almost instantly—bright red, glistening eerily in the moonlight. Shen Qingyu pressed the torn cloak cloth against the wound, his other hand holding Xiao Hanzheng's shoulder.

"It will stop," he said, his voice steadier than he expected. "The wound isn't large, just deep. No bone damage. Your armor absorbed most of the arrow's force."

Xiao Hanzheng let out a very light breath—not a groan, more like a release.

"You studied medicine?" he asked.

"A little," Shen Qingyu said, pressing down on the wound, feeling the blood under his palm go from warm to hot. "In the palace, no one would call a physician for me. I had to treat minor injuries myself."

Xiao Hanzheng said nothing. Shen Qingyu could feel his shoulder trembling slightly—not from cold, but from the natural reaction to blood loss.

After nearly the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, the bleeding gradually stopped.

Shen Qingyu replaced the blood-soaked cloth with a clean one—there wasn't much left of the cloak. A large patch of skin was now exposed on Xiao Hanzheng's back. Even injured, the contours of the muscles were still defined—years of martial training and warfare had forged this body like a finely crafted weapon.

Shen Qingyu wrapped the cloth strip around Xiao Hanzheng's shoulder and tied a firm knot over the wound.

"Done," he said. "It won't bleed anymore for now."

Xiao Hanzheng slowly turned his head to look at him.

In the moonlight, those dark eyes were not as sharp as on the battlefield. Perhaps it was weakness from blood loss, or something else—Shen Qingyu saw an expression in that gaze he had never seen before.

Not scrutiny.

It was a kind of restrained, tentative surprise.

"Why didn't you run?" Xiao Hanzheng asked.

Shen Qingyu didn't answer immediately. He looked down at his own hands, covered in bloodstains—Xiao Hanzheng's blood, slowly drying between his fingers.

"If I ran," he said, "who would have pulled the arrow for you?"

"Haven't you always wanted to escape?" Xiao Hanzheng's voice dropped very low. "From the day you were captured, you've been looking for a chance to flee. Now is the best opportunity—I'm wounded, I can't chase you. The camp is in chaos, no one will notice you."

Shen Qingyu was silent.

He had indeed thought of escaping. On the second day of capture, the third day locked in the cell, the third night in the main tent's side chamber—every time he had calculated the possibilities. Routes, timing, guard shift patterns—his mind was full of these data.

But when he watched Xiao Hanzheng's blood on his palm go from warm to dry—

"I'm not leaving," he said.

"Why?"

Shen Qingyu lifted his head and looked into Xiao Hanzheng's eyes.

"Because you saved me," he said. "On the battlefield. In the sea of fire. When you pulled me onto the horse—you could have left me."

Xiao Hanzheng's Adam's apple moved, but he said nothing.

"I owe you a life," Shen Qingyu said.

"How much do you think a life is worth?" Xiao Hanzheng's voice was a little hoarse.

"To some people," Shen Qingyu said, "a life isn't worth much. But to me—a life is everything."

Xiao Hanzheng stared at him for a long time. So long that Shen Qingyu felt he saw something crack in those dark eyes—a shell he had guarded for who knows how many years.

"You're very foolish," Xiao Hanzheng said.

"Perhaps."

Xiao Hanzheng leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. The moonlight wandered through the gaps in the leaves, casting shifting shadows on his face. Shen Qingyu sat down beside him, leaning against another tree.

He did not sleep.

He listened to the wind passing through the trees, to the occasional neigh of a horse in the distance, to Xiao Hanzheng's breathing slowing from rapid to steady. His hands were still trembling slightly—not from cold, but from the lingering strain of pulling the arrow.

He didn't know why he had chosen to stay.

Perhaps it was to repay a debt of a life—the only rule he had learned in Yingdu's court. Owe and repay, or it would become an unending burden.

Perhaps it was because—he still wanted to know the answers to some questions.

Why did Xiao Hanzheng care about a prisoner? Why did he save him on the battlefield? Why did he bring him along in the sea of fire?

And—what he had said: "You remind me of someone"—who was that person?

The answers to these questions were weightier than he had imagined.

***

Near dawn, Xiao Hanzheng woke.

His face was still pale, but his breathing had steadied. Shen Qingyu helped him rebandage the wound—the cloth from last night was already soaked through with blood."Your wound needs dressing," Shen Qingyu said. "Find a stream—wash the wound. Then find some herbs."

"Do you know which herbs?"

"Hemostatic ones." Shen Qingyu stood up. "Agrimony, Panax notoginseng—they should be around in these mountains. I'll go look."

"Stop."

Xiao Hanzheng grabbed his wrist. The force was much lighter than last night, but still not something he could shake off.

"We go together," Xiao Hanzheng said.

"General, your wound—"

"Won't kill me."

Xiao Hanzheng stood up, supporting himself against the tree trunk. His movements were slow, each step seemed calculated in weight—but he stood on his own. Shen Qingyu did not help him. He knew that for the man in front of him, being supported was harder to bear than being struck by an arrow.

They made their way down the mountain path. The morning forest was filled with the fragrance of grass and trees, birdsong echoing from the canopy above—a world away from the sea of fire last night. Shen Qingyu led the way, occasionally glancing back at Xiao Hanzheng.

After about the time it takes to burn an incense stick, they found a stream. Shen Qingyu helped Xiao Hanzheng remove his armor—this time more carefully than the night before, because the blood around the arrow wound had dried, and the cloth stuck to the wound; tearing it off would make it bleed again.

"Bear with it," Shen Qingyu said.

"Mm."

Shen Qingyu soaked a cloth band in the stream water and slowly softened the dried blood around the wound. Xiao Hanzheng remained silent, but Shen Qingyu could feel his shoulder muscles tense momentarily at each touch.

"You've always wanted to escape, haven't you?" Xiao Hanzheng suddenly said. "This is a good chance."

Shen Qingyu's hand paused. He thought this topic would be dropped after dawn.

"I already answered last night," he said.

"I want to hear it again."

Shen Qingyu continued cleaning the wound. "I'm not leaving. Because you saved my life."

Xiao Hanzheng was silent for a long time. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

"I've saved many people. On the battlefield," he said. "But no one ever said they owed me a life. They just thought it was my duty—because I'm a general."

Shen Qingyu crushed the herbs and applied them to the wound.

"Maybe they think a general doesn't need that," he said.

"Doesn't need what?"

"Doesn't need repayment."

Xiao Hanzheng did not answer. He looked down at his reflection in the stream. His face bore bloodstains, dust, and an unhealed arrow wound—but no fatigue. Or at least, Shen Qingyu could not see any.

Not because he wasn't tired, but because he had grown accustomed to hiding his fatigue.

Shen Qingyu suddenly recalled the first time he had seen Xiao Hanzheng—the man on his tall horse, his gaze as cold as the northern frontier's ice and snow. Back then, he thought Xiao Hanzheng's harshness was innate, a numbness from killing countless men on the battlefield.

But he no longer thought that way.

Xiao Hanzheng was not cold-hearted. He had locked away all his softness, locked it for so long that even he forgot where he had put the key.

"You said just now," Xiao Hanzheng began, "that I saved you, so you owe me a life."

"Yes."

"Then from today, you owe no one."

Shen Qingyu's hand stopped.

"I saved you on the battlefield—that was my choice," Xiao Hanzheng said. "You don't need to repay me with a life. The people I save—don't need to repay."

Shen Qingyu lowered his head, looking at his fingers stained with herbal juice. The calluses from playing the zither stood out starkly against the green.

"The general says I don't need to repay," he said, his voice soft. "Then I won't. But let me stay with you—until your wound heals."

Xiao Hanzheng turned to look at him. In those dark eyes, Shen Qingyu saw something he couldn't understand—as if something had touched a place long untouched.

"Alright," he said.

***

In the distance, Lu Changfeng's personal soldiers searched the mountains for an entire night. At dawn, they found bloodstains and torn cloth strips under a large tree—but no one. Lu Changfeng looked at the blood left by the arrow wounds, his fists slowly clenching.