Traveling Together

They had been walking in the mountains for two days.

On the first day, the road was the toughest. Xiao Hanzheng's arrow wound showed signs of improvement after the second dressing—no more bleeding—but every stretch of mountain path caused fine beads of sweat to form on his forehead. Shen Qingyu walked ahead of him, pausing at steep slopes to wait for Xiao Hanzheng to catch up.

"You don't need to wait for me," Xiao Hanzheng said.

"I'm not waiting," Shen Qingyu replied. "I'm just not walking fast."

Xiao Hanzheng glanced at him but didn't expose the clumsy lie.

At noon, Shen Qingyu found a shady rock to sit on and pulled out a small piece of dry ration from his chest. It was the only thing he had managed to grab from the side room—breakfast brought by Lu Changfeng, which he hadn't had time to eat. The ration had been smoked by fire, its edges slightly charred, but still edible.

He broke off half and handed it to Xiao Hanzheng.

"You eat," Xiao Hanzheng said.

"I'm not hungry."

"You're lying."

Shen Qingyu fell silent. Xiao Hanzheng reached out, took the ration from his hand, broke it into two smaller pieces, and pressed the larger half back into Shen Qingyu's palm.

"In battle, provisions are more precious than life," he said, biting into his own small piece. "Learning to eat is more important than learning to wield a sword."

Shen Qingyu looked at the ration in his hand, then slowly began to eat. He remembered the three days when he was hungriest in the cell—he had thought he had already endured the worst of his cravings. But now he realized that hunger was not a momentary feeling but something that accumulated layer by layer. The first layer was the emptiness in the stomach, the second was the weakness in the limbs, and the third was the wavering of will. The most dangerous moment was when you were no longer hungry.

"How did you know I was lying?" Shen Qingyu asked.

"Your hands," Xiao Hanzheng said. "When you're hungry, your fingers keep rubbing together—as if you're touching a zither."

Shen Qingyu looked down at his hands. His thumb was indeed unconsciously rubbing the callus on his index finger. He had never noticed this habit—but Xiao Hanzheng had.

"The general observes very carefully," he said.

"On the battlefield, details mean life and death," Xiao Hanzheng said, then paused. "In the palace, too."

***

In the afternoon, they continued walking.

The terrain gradually leveled out. They passed through a dense forest where the leaves formed an emerald canopy overhead. Sunlight filtered through the gaps, painting countless shimmering spots on the ground. Suddenly, Shen Qingyu crouched down, picked up a dry twig from the ground, and began drawing on the earth.

"What are you doing?" Xiao Hanzheng approached.

"Drawing a map," Shen Qingyu said without looking up, using the twig to trace lines in the dirt—a winding river, two facing peaks, and a forest marked with symbols. "This is the military camp. Here is where last night's fire was. And here is where we are."

Xiao Hanzheng looked at the pattern on the ground, saying nothing.

"From here to the southeast," Shen Qingyu pointed to a broken line on the map, "about a day and a half's journey, there is a main road. That road leads north to Qingzhou City." He looked up at Xiao Hanzheng. "From Qingzhou to the frontier camp, following the main road, it takes two and a half days."

"How do you know?"

"Before the general interrogated me," Shen Qingyu said, "I interrogated your camp."

Xiao Hanzheng narrowed his eyes.

"In the three days I was in the cell, I heard more than the general told me during the interrogation," Shen Qingyu said calmly. "The supply camp is on the north side of the camp—because supply carts came in from the north every morning at the hour of the dragon. The cavalry camp is on the south side—horse hooves sounded from the south every morning at the hour of the rabbit. The patrol rotation route is fixed—you run a tight ship; every soldier walks with almost the same stride."

Xiao Hanzheng stared at him.

"You listened every day?"

"Every day," Shen Qingyu said, then his twig moved to another spot on the map. "Before the consorts return to their chambers from the imperial garden, palace maids come first to check if anyone is around. Pulling out the weeds from the crevices of the rockery is a signal that says, 'Do not linger nearby.'"

Xiao Hanzheng's brow twitched slightly.

"In the Yingdu court," Shen Qingyu's finger stopped at a small square drawn in the dirt—a rough outline of a palace made with the twig, "ears are more important than eyes. Because eyes can only see what others want you to see. But ears can catch—the weight of footsteps, the direction the curtain is lifted, the half-sentences that slip out when servants whisper."

Xiao Hanzheng crouched down in front of Shen Qingyu. He looked at the map drawn with twigs and dirt for a long time.

"So this is how you survived," he said.

"Mm."

"Hiding in corners where no one noticed you—listening."

Shen Qingyu did not answer, but his twig lightly traced across the dirt, leaving a shallow mark. It looked like the beginning of a musical note, but unfinished.

Xiao Hanzheng reached out and took the twig from Shen Qingyu's hand. His fingers were rough—so different from Shen Qingyu's fingers that played the zither—but his grip on the twig was still precise.

"You missed a place," he said, adding a stroke to Shen Qingyu's map. "There is a hollow here. Surrounded by mountains on three sides, only one narrow path leads in. It's a natural ambush point."

Shen Qingyu looked at the stroke Xiao Hanzheng had added. In the palace, he had thought his observation skills were sharp enough. But now he realized there was someone whose eyes were even more penetrating than his—and that person held the lives of thirty thousand troops in his hands.

"General—"

"Call me Xiao Hanzheng."

Shen Qingyu was momentarily taken aback.

"We're not in the camp," Xiao Hanzheng said. "In these mountains, you're the one who pulled an arrow from me, not my captive. Call me by my name."

Shen Qingyu looked into those dark eyes. This time, what he saw in them was not scrutiny, not wariness—but a very faint, almost illusory fatigue. Like the kind that comes when the armor worn all day can finally be removed at night.

"Xiao... Hanzheng," he said.

Xiao Hanzheng nodded, as if confirming something.

"Let's go," he said. "Find a place to stay before dark."

***

At dusk, they found a dilapidated temple.

The temple was small, with three walls intact and one wall mostly collapsed, revealing the mountain scenery outside. The statue had weathered until its features were indistinct, and the altar was thick with dust. But the roof still held, enough to block the cold night wind.

Shen Qingyu gathered some dry grass and laid it in a corner, then lit a small fire. The firelight illuminated the entire temple, casting flickering shadows on the broken walls. Xiao Hanzheng sat down against the broken wall. After the wound had been redressed, it no longer bled, but both of them looked unwell—Shen Qingyu from exhaustion, Xiao Hanzheng from his injury.

"You just said," Xiao Hanzheng suddenly spoke, "in the palace, you survived by listening."

Shen Qingyu was adding dry twigs to the fire. His hands looked especially pale in the firelight, the calluses from playing the zither faintly visible in the curve of his wrists.

"Does the general want to ask me—"

"Call me Xiao Hanzheng."

"—Xiao Hanzheng." Shen Qingyu paused, as if getting used to the address. "What do you want to ask me?"

"I want to ask—in the palace, what did you hear?"

Shen Qingyu's hand, holding the twig, paused.

"A lot," he said.

"For example?"

"For example, when the imperial brothers discussed court affairs, if the Third Prince was outside, they would lower their voices. For example, the Empress said to the Emperor in the imperial garden—'That child born to the conquered princess cannot be kept.' For example, at the New Year's Eve family banquet every year, everyone toasted—but no one toasted my seat."

His tone was as calm as if he were telling someone else's story. This was what he was best at—wrapping wounds in a flat tone so that others couldn't see the bloody interior.

Xiao Hanzheng said nothing. The firelight danced in his eyes, making his usually hard gaze look softer.

"And—" Shen Qingyu said, but then paused.

"And what else?"

"And the day my mother died." Shen Qingyu's voice grew softer. "Her residence was called Lengcui Pavilion, in the most remote northeastern corner of the palace. That winter was very cold—a once-in-decades heavy snow for Southern Chu. I stood outside her pavilion and heard the imperial physician say—'Too late.'"

The dry twigs in the fire crackled.

"That day, I heard three sounds," Shen Qingyu continued. "The first was the physician's footsteps—he walked very fast because he didn't want to be implicated in the cold palace. The second was the eunuchs handling the burial—they used the cheapest coffin because the Imperial Household Department wouldn't allocate funds for a conquered princess. The third—"

He stopped.

"The third was your mother's?" Xiao Hanzheng said.

"It was my own," Shen Qingyu said. "I stood in the snow all night. At dawn, I heard my own teeth chattering. Clatter, clatter, clatter—like a broken string on a zither."

Xiao Hanzheng straightened up from the broken wall and looked at Shen Qingyu's face. The firelight danced across both their faces, casting shadows of every eyelash. Shen Qingyu's expression was still very calm—no tears, no trembling, no signs of losing control. But in those peach blossom eyes, Xiao Hanzheng saw something—not sadness, but a deliberately buried, very deep old wound.

"When did you learn the zither?" Xiao Hanzheng asked.

"At six," Shen Qingyu said. "My mother taught me. She said—in the palace, someone will stab you while smiling, but the zither won't. The zither only tells you—you're still alive."

Xiao Hanzheng looked away. He stared at the fire, his fingers lightly tapping on his knee—that rhythm Shen Qingyu had come to know.

After a long time.

"Shen Qingyu," Xiao Hanzheng said.

"Mm."

"Who are you, really?"

Shen Qingyu looked up. He had been waiting for this question since the first day of his capture. But this time, Xiao Hanzheng's tone was different from before. It wasn't an interrogation—it was giving the other person the right to choose.

"If I tell you," Shen Qingyu said, "will you kill me?"

"I remember saying—I don't kill those I save."

"Do I believe everything the general says?"

"You don't," Xiao Hanzheng said. "But you have no other choice."

Shen Qingyu looked at the fire. The flames leaped over the wood, tracing red veins like a language only he could understand.

"Third Prince of Southern Chu—Shen Qingyu," he said. "Birth mother, née Murong, title—none. She was a conquered princess, married off to Southern Chu as spoils of war. Father gave her a cold palace as her residence and a posthumous title as her burial gift. The year she died, I was eight."

The air in the temple became very still.

No roar, no drawn sword, no harsh interrogation.

Xiao Hanzheng just sat there looking at him, as if he had finally received an answer he knew would come.

"They made you a hostage?" he asked.

"Mm," Shen Qingyu said. "Hostage is just a nice name. In essence—it was an abandonment. My brothers needed someone to bear the blame for losing the war. They chose me—the most suitable. I had no title, no mansion, no support from my mother's clan. Sending me as a hostage to Great Liang was like erasing me from the history of Southern Chu."

"But you never made it to Great Liang."

"Because someone tried to kill me along the way," Shen Qingyu said, his voice still calm. "Not Great Liang people—Southern Chu people. My very existence was a problem. As long as I lived, I could become a pawn for someone contending for the throne. My brothers would rather I died than fall into someone else's hands."

"So you infiltrated the army?"

"Dying on the battlefield is at least better than dying at an assassin's hands," Shen Qingyu's lips twitched slightly—not a smile, but a bitter curve. "At least on the battlefield, you can play dead. Assassins cut off your head to claim the reward."

Xiao Hanzheng was silent for a long time. So long that two dry twigs added to the fire burned out, so long that beyond the collapsed half-wall, the mountain wind rustled the leaves.

"So the Shen collateral branch you mentioned," he finally said, "was made up."

"Yes."

"The declining family experience—"

"Also made up."

"The Shen family of Yancheng—"

"That place doesn't exist." Shen Qingyu's voice was very soft. "I just needed a lie that sounded real enough that no one would bother to verify it. But I wasn't sure—I wasn't sure if General Xiao would check."Xiao Hanzheng said nothing. He reached out, picked up a half-burned twig from the fire, and tossed it back into the center of the blaze.

"That story you just told—the cold palace, the fallen princess, the snow outside the hall, the cheapest coffin—"

"It's true." Shen Qingyu interrupted him. "A lie can be told many times, but wounds cannot lie." He paused. "Because every scar has a shape, while lies—have none."

Xiao Hanzheng watched the twig in the fire burn down to white ash.

"You, the Third Prince," he said, "are different from your brothers."

"Because I am different," Shen Qingyu said. "That's why they want me dead."

Xiao Hanzheng stood up from the broken wall. He walked over to Shen Qingyu and looked down at him—just like when they first met.

But this time, his actions were different.

He crouched in front of Shen Qingyu, meeting his eyes.

"I don't kill the people I save," he said, his voice soft but every word heavy. "You told me the truth—you made the right bet."

Shen Qingyu looked into those eyes. Firelight danced in the dark pupils, like two ignited candle wicks.

"General—"

"Call me Xiao Hanzheng."

"—Xiao Hanzheng." Shen Qingyu's voice was a little hoarse. "The first person you saved on the battlefield—what happened to him later?"

"He died."

Shen Qingyu didn't respond.

"Many years ago," Xiao Hanzheng said. "I've already forgotten his face."

"But you haven't forgotten him."

Xiao Hanzheng didn't answer. He stood up, walked back to the broken wall, sat down, and leaned against it with his eyes closed. The mountain wind at night poured in through the collapsed half-wall, blowing the flames of the fire askew.

Shen Qingyu watched his profile—the old scar on his left brow bone looked particularly deep in the firelight.

He has a story.

One he doesn't want to tell.

***

Late at night, everything was silent.

Shen Qingyu leaned against the other corner of the wall, not sleeping. He watched the last sparks in the fire slowly dim into a pile of charcoal glowing faintly red.

He had just confessed everything.

His identity, his mother, the reason he was sent as a hostage, the experience of being hunted on the road—the secrets wrapped in layers for twenty-two years, all told before a campfire in one night.

He was betting. He bet that Xiao Hanzheng was not the kind of person he imagined—someone who could notice a reversed armor strap on the battlefield could not be without feeling. Someone who could pull a prisoner onto a horse in a sea of fire could not be truly cold-blooded.

He won the bet.

But at the same time—he was also afraid.

Afraid that he had opened a door he shouldn't have.

Shen Qingyu closed his eyes, his hand resting on the front of his chest. Through the fabric, he could feel the scars on his skin—the whips from his brothers, the tongs from the maids, the chilblains after soaking in cold winter water—those scars accumulated year after year, writing a biography that only he could read.

He didn't tell Xiao Hanzheng about this.

Not yet.

***

When Xiao Hanzheng woke up, the fire had gone out. He watched Shen Qingyu's sleeping silhouette leaning against the opposite corner, and thought of another person—another figure crouched on the ground drawing a map. It was a long time ago, long enough that he thought he had forgotten. But he hadn't forgotten. And he had never truly forgotten.