Chapter 22

Perhaps impatient with the slow pace of the group, the leader in black paused in thought for a moment, then flickered and vanished from sight.

In less than an hour, a shadow, swift as a shooting star, descended into the cluster of tents hidden within the vast night.

The main tent was still lit. The gale wind whipped the thick canvas walls, causing them to flap loudly and casting a robust, upright silhouette against the fabric.

The shimmering iron armor of the expeditionary force accentuated his sturdy, powerful physique, yet he lacked the crude, barbaric air of a common soldier. His long hair was neatly tied atop his head; his nose was bridge-straight, his lips thin, and his features possessed a fluid, clean-cut sharpness.

"General, the mission failed." The man in black removed his face mask, clasped his hands in a salute before his chest, and stood with a look of apprehension.

The man inside the tent did not even lift his head, as if he had long anticipated this outcome. He remained silent, leaving the man in black trapped in an awkward dilemma—unable to advance or retreat.

The four corners of the thick canvas were stretched tight and pegged to the ground. A sheepskin felt covered the only square entrance, and glaring light spilled from the gaps along the frame.

The man finished sketching his desired pattern in a few swift strokes and hung his brush on the rack atop the table several times. When the thin cord at the end failed to catch the hook, he resignedly rested the brush tip against the edge of an inkstone. His voice sounded as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper.

"How many men are left?"

He switched to a more suitable brush, carefully lifting his wrist to color the robes of the small figure in the drawing.

"Most were lost. Less than a third remain." The man in black had split his forces into three groups, and all had suffered heavy losses.

At the end of his report, the man gave a soft "tsk."

Standing outside the tent, the man in black bowed, his legs suddenly clamping tight. A jolt of electricity surged straight to his scalp, exploding in a prickly sensation.

The man inside, however, seemed oblivious to the report, focusing intently on blending the colors in the inkstone.

The pure white produced by plant-based dyes was too monotonous. What he wanted was a bluish-white, subtly stained with indigo, as if viewed under moonlight—a shade that matched the indifferent, stubborn backbone of that person. Having spent his life dancing with blades on the battlefield, performing such delicate work was inevitably a struggle.

"I underestimated him." He had assumed the poison his mother planted would be enough to destroy the boy's health; he hadn't expected him to escape the hunt led by Old Nine and the others. "Still, wiping out the Thousand-Household Office serves as a warning to that old Emperor."

Thinking of how the Emperor had dared to refuse his proposal for a marriage alliance, a bloodthirsty cruelty curled at the corners of his mouth. These people were always the same—refusing a toast only to be forced to drink a forfeit, challenging his patience time and again.

"In that case," he raised his voice, a grimace appearing on his face that clashed with his refined appearance, making his shadow on the tent wall look even more distorted, "take another hundred of my personal guard and redeem yourselves."

The man in black, called Old Nine, seemed terrified of him. As if his mouth were full of water, he mumbled, "A woman with exceptional skills saved the Second Young Master. They ran off outside the city."

He lowered his head in shame, at a loss for how to account for this to the General. A plot with such a heavy price had been ruined by a single woman. Judging by the few moves she had revealed, she was an expert with a solid foundation. If they rushed in recklessly, they might lose even more men, and he would have no face left to see the General.

"No matter. He won't get far." The man lifted the curtain to let the man in black enter, his gaze meeting a pair of trembling eyes.

He picked up an earthenware wine jar with one hand, poured two large bowls to the brim with a splash, and pushed them toward Old Nine.

The wine in the army was of high proof; in emergencies, it was used directly to disinfect and stop bleeding from wounds.

The two bowls clinked. The fiery liquor rolled down their throats, leaving Old Nine too choked to speak. He watched as the man generously tipped his bowl back with two fingers, saying sincerely, "The General has a fine capacity for drink!"

The man, looking heroic and distinguished, merely smiled.

Deep in the night, the man had long ago removed the silver mask he wore on his face, revealing a truly handsome visage.

In the military, that mask was synonymous with authority and an unbreakable record of victory; few soldiers had ever seen the General's true face. Only those closest to him knew that the two brothers looked remarkably alike, though the General was a hundred times stronger than that cowardly wretch who spent his life in hiding.

A surge of pride rose in Old Nine’s heart. Once the sting of the wine faded from his throat, he knelt on one leg and clasped his hands, preparing to take a military oath.

The man set his bowl on the table; the green juice clinging to the bottom of the cup dripped onto the painting, blurring the thick ink.

Without a care, he wiped the spill with his sleeve and commanded, "Old Nine, never mind him for now. Bring that woman back."

Given that little beast's temperament, he actually had someone protecting him? The man felt a faint anticipation—what would this woman, whom Old Nine was to capture, look like?

He lifted the scroll into mid-air with one hand, his polished pauldrons casting the candlelight onto the tent ceiling. He spoke to the air, "Does it resemble him?"

A gaunt young man stepped out from the shadows. His cheeks were deeply sunken, his cheekbones protruding level with his temples. His loose, baggy clothes hung on his emaciated frame like a lonely ghost wandering near a tomb.

"General, he poses no threat to you." Old Seven inspected the painting, his two eyeballs particularly prominent and jarring, as if they had been jammed in from the outside.

He took the scroll from the man, his fingertips brushing the still-damp ink. When he reached the small figures, he paused. The General had not painted a realistic portrait; instead, each section contained small, various figures in different poses, connected like a play with dynamic narrative development.

The strange thing was that these figures had no faces, and their bodies were bent into all sorts of unimaginable, humiliating positions.

"Look here." The man pointed to the center. The painting showed a crude prison cell with a tiny iron window high on the wall. In it, a small figure had its hands bound above its head, suspended by a hook hanging from the window, feet dangling off the ground. The figure had no facial features, its neck hanging limp and lifeless.

Yet, the man remembered clearly that the person had been smiling at the time. Smiling with such composure and ease that it made one’s skin crawl.

"Is this you?" Old Seven asked hesitantly. But as soon as he spoke, he regretted it.

Although the brothers looked the same, their different upbringings had forged entirely different temperaments. Those familiar with them could easily tell the two apart. The General was so spirited and heroic; he would never curl into such a wretched, shameful posture.

As expected, the man denied it. "It is him."

Old Seven understood and dared not comment further on the General's family affairs. He knew that man had always been a thorn in the General’s side. He wanted to offer a word of advice regarding the order just given to Old Nine. Why go to such great lengths to capture a woman? It would be better to execute her on the spot to prevent future trouble.

But he noticed the man, usually so vigilant, now slumped on the high tiger-skin stool, as if lost in his own world.

—

Heavy snow fell, and the cold wind howled, the gloomy, heavy clouds pressing down on the deserted, ancient mansion.

In a derelict courtyard in the corner, sounds of shouting broke through the gale, intense enough to make one’s eardrums ache. The yard lacked even a long eave to shelter from the wind. A young boy with remarkably refined and delicate features stood in the center of the open ground. All around him were piles of rotten wood and withered branches left by the servants. The flying snow gradually buried all traces in the remote courtyard.

The "whooshing" sound of the wind being cut came from a rough, dry branch held in the boy's hand.

His ragged, thin clothes rose and fell with his fluid, seamless movements, then clung tightly to the curves of his body. It seemed as if the snowflakes were drawn into the vortex he created, vying to slide past him.

Suddenly, a clamor came from outside, moving along the short outer wall and finally stopping at his drafty wooden door.

A flicker of struggle flashed in the boy's eyes, but like a clockwork puppet, he continued to spar with the snowflakes, drawing a tiny bit of warmth from the effort.

"Bang."

The door was kicked open from the outside. Two fragile boards crashed to the ground, and the cold wind surged in, filling his thin clothes with the force of the blow.

"Mother?" The boy’s voice rose slightly, but upon seeing the coarse, thick-necked servants at the door, his tiny hope vanished into the wind.

The withered branch, already brittle, was easily snapped by the strong men. A heavy, solid wooden club struck him squarely in the back, and a sudden, fishy sweetness surged into his throat.

Although he was tall, he was still just a child, reaching only their shoulders. Seeing him beaten to the ground, the group rushed forward, using their knees to pin his arms and legs, pressing him flat against the floor in the shape of a "big" character.

They showed no mercy for his age. His face was pressed hard against the ground, his thin skin folded and squeezed.

The boy did not even frown. He lifted his gaze to watch the movement at the door, the glimmer in his pupils slowly extinguishing like a white candle falling into the deep sea.

The woman, in her early twenties, wore a skirt of misty, silk-like pomegranate red. Her narrow, slanting collar revealed a slender, symmetrical swan-like neck.

Light snowflakes landed on her lashes. Her brows twitched, and her face was so pale it was almost translucent, appearing fragile and breakable. She walked in leisurely, carrying a rusted aluminum bucket.

"It’s been a long time since I came to see you."

Her expression remained calm. She used a ladle that barely reached the bottom of the bucket to splash water onto the withered vines at the entrance. The bare, dry vines hissed and emitted white smoke; the crystalline snow clinging to them turned into columns of water, soaking into the mud and steaming into a layer of ethereal mist.

She lifted her eyes, her expression appearing innocent and fragile.

The next second, she used the tip of her foot to press down on the boy’s shoulder blades, feeling him shiver after lying so long on the ice. "Cold?"

The boy turned his face, his high-bridged nose scraping against the snow, maintaining an indifferent attitude.

"It’s bad enough you look like your beast of a father, but your temperament is just as similar." The woman looked disappointed, muttering incomprehensible things to herself. As she spoke, she scooped a full ladle of boiling water, watering the boy as if she were pouring water onto the roots of a sapling. She let the scalding water splash onto the back of the boy’s hand, all the while murmuring incessantly.

The boy curled his fingers, digging them hard into the ground. His fingernails embedded themselves into the snow, and his forearms trembled with every massive splash of water.

His wrists were already red and swollen, and the splashing droplets left dense, rash-like blisters on his fair skin. He bit his teeth together without a sound, listening to the water splashing against his skin.

The woman, feeling it wasn't enough, pressed the handle of the ladle against the bottom of the bucket and dumped the entire thing.

"Vile spawn!" She smashed the bucket down like a madwoman.

The swollen back of his hand was like overstretched casing; it would have split at the slightest touch, let alone from the impact of such a heavy object.

Fresh blood mixed with the melted snow, quickly freezing into ice shards due to the cold, like crystals trapped inside coral polyps.

She let out a hysterical, exaggerated laugh, her gait unsteady as she swayed, almost falling.

"You thought you could trap me just by making me give birth to you?"

She crouched in front of the boy, gripping his cheeks fiercely and forcing a black pill into his mouth. "No matter how brilliant he is, he would never guess that he has a youngest son still alive in this world, hahahahaha."

The whites of the woman’s eyes were filled with dark red bloodshot veins, yet her eyes welled with tears. As she spoke, the tears slid down her cheeks into the snow.

She blinked rapidly, seemingly disgusted by her own act of weeping. She wiped the tears away and pointed viciously at the boy. "Throw him in the dungeon. Give him no food."

The boy had been pinned for too long; his legs felt weak and numb, as if from extreme hunger, and they hung limply against the ground. Before he could even utter a single word, he was seized like a bundle of hay and dragged away.