I am invincible, that's why I lie down. You're using your entire clan to rebel?

Tuoba Yan's residence in the north of the city was not particularly grand.

The walls and tiles are gray, there is no plaque above the door, and even the stone lions in front of the door have been worn by the wind and sand, making them look like two old objects slowly merging into the base of the wall.

But once you push open the gate, the layout of the courtyard is quite neat—the ground is paved with blue bricks, and a pomegranate tree is planted in the corner of the wall, with a few withered fruits hanging on the branches, swaying gently in the wind.

He dismounted, tossed the reins to the approaching guards, said nothing, and walked straight through the front yard into the main hall.

The light inside the main hall was dimmer than outside, and a thin layer of gauze was pasted on the window paper, filtering the afternoon sunlight into a soft, warm color.

A woman was sitting on a low couch by the window, holding a book in her hand. She looked up when she heard footsteps.

Her features were not as gentle as those of women from the Central Plains; her brow bones were slightly high, her eye sockets were slightly deep, and she had a distinctive northern profile.

But her gaze was calm, like a pool of water surrounded by rocks, not deep, yet unfathomable.

Her skin had a thin, honey-colored sheen, the kind left by years of exposure to the north wind. There was a very faint old scar on her cheekbone, as if she had been scratched by something many years ago, so faint that it was almost invisible.

When she saw Tuoba Yan walk in, she put down the book in her hand and got up to greet him.

Her movements were slow, but they carried a rhythm she had grown accustomed to waiting for him.

She walked up to him and stopped. She didn't speak immediately, but reached out and took off the dusty cloak from his shoulders. Her movements were very light, as if she was used to doing this. Her fingers found the right spot without even looking when they went around the straps.

"You're back?"

Her voice was neither too loud nor too soft, carrying a unique calmness, as if she had asked many times and already knew the answer.

Tuoba Yan didn't speak, but simply nodded and sat down on the low stool by the table.

He sat down more relaxed than he had been on the street, as if he had shed an invisible layer.

The woman didn't speak, but bent down, squatted down in front of him, and reached out to untie the straps on his boots.

Her movements were steady; her fingertips slid slowly along the seams of the leather, as if she were doing something she could do with her eyes closed.

She took off the boot and set it aside, then went to untie the second one.

Tuoba Yan looked down at her. Her hair was loosely tied up with a wooden hairpin, and a few strands of hair fell down from behind her ears, swaying gently as she lowered her head.

She picked up the copper basin beside her; the water in it was still warm, and the surface rippled slightly, reflecting her lowered eyes and brows.

She gently placed his feet into the water, scooped up water with her palms, and slowly poured it onto the back of his feet.

Her movements were unhurried, as if she were doing something she wasn't in a rush.

Water slipped through her fingers and fell into the copper basin, making a soft, pattering sound that was particularly clear in the quiet main hall.

Tuoba Yan didn't move. He leaned back in his chair and looked down at the hands that were washing his feet.

Those hands weren't young; the knuckles were a little rough, and you could tell they'd done a lot of work.

But she washed it very carefully.

"Things have been a bit turbulent on the border lately," he said, his voice lower than before, as if he were speaking from his own home, no longer needing to maintain the posture he had on the battlefield.

Her fingers didn't stop, and her voice remained flat: "Is that so?"

"There are some unfamiliar faces in the city. Several detachments of soldiers have not returned to camp on time." His gaze fell on her downcast brow. "If you don't have anything important to do lately, try to stay home as much as possible."

"Okay," she replied softly, as if the matter had already been settled in her heart.

She put his other foot into the water as well, and then scooped up a handful of water and poured it on him.

There was no one else in the room, except for the occasional rustling sound of the branches of the pomegranate tree outside the window being brushed against the window paper by the wind.

A moment later, she looked up at him as if he were something she had looked at for many years but still hadn't gotten enough of: "Is everything going well out there?"

Tuoba Yan was silent for a moment: "It's alright. Just a little tired."

She lowered her head again and continued to wash the back of his feet, her fingertips slowly pressing along the calluses caused by his old boots: "Then you should rest well at home tonight. I've asked the kitchen to stew some mutton."

Tuoba Yan didn't reply, but simply turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on her bent profile, as if he were looking at something he had looked at for many years but still felt was worth looking at.

After a moment, he spoke, his voice softer than before: "After all these years, you are still the one who pleases me the most."

There was a relaxed quality in his tone that he himself wasn't fully aware of.

When the words "This King" slipped from his lips, it was as if he had shed a shell that he only put on in front of outsiders, and it fell naturally to the ground, like the knife he casually placed on the corner of the table, unintentional and unshowy, just as he was used to it.

Here, in front of this woman, he no longer needed to maintain that general's airs, nor did he need to calculate the tact of every word.

Her movements paused slightly, then resumed as normal.

She didn't look up, her voice carrying a very faint laugh, as if it were damp with moisture: "It's good that you know."

She carried the basin of water aside and used a dry cloth to dry his feet, her movements still unhurried, as if there was something else waiting for her after she finished this task.

Tuoba Yan didn't say anything more, he just sat there, like a tree that had finally been moved back to familiar soil, its branches drooping and its roots firmly planted.

The wind was still blowing outside the window, and the shadow of the pomegranate tree swayed slightly on the window paper. Everything was quiet.

However, at that moment, the wind suddenly picked up.

It wasn't the kind of wind that comes from the open fields; it was more like a gust of air torn apart by something sharp. It squeezed in through the gaps in the courtyard wall, causing the unlit oil lamp under the eaves to sway. The lampshade hit the iron hook and made a very soft "ding".

Tuoba Yan's gaze suddenly sharpened.

He turned his head, his gaze piercing through the gaps in the window paper and landing on the courtyard wall.

His fingers were already on the hilt of the short knife at his waist, and when his fingertips closed, there was a very soft sound, like the leather being pressed together.

His breathing became shallow, like a wolf that had just caught a whiff of an unfamiliar scent, standing there quietly, even his ears trying to catch the subtle vibrations in the air.

His wife was lifting the copper basin, her movements steady as if she hadn't heard anything, but she had noticed Tuoba Yan's change. She turned her head slightly and asked, "What's wrong?"

Tuoba Yan did not answer immediately.

His gaze remained fixed on the courtyard wall, but after a moment he slowly looked away, his fingers loosening their grip on the knife hilt. "It's nothing... maybe it's just the wind. You should rest."

He stood up and straightened his robes: "I'm going to the military camp."

His wife didn't try to stop him; she simply placed the copper basin in the corner, wiped her hands with a dry cloth, and said, "Then I'll prepare dinner for you. We'll wait for you to come back and eat."

She spoke calmly, as if she were simply stating something she does every day.

Tuoba Yan glanced back at her as he reached the door.

She was standing by the window, holding the cloth in her hand, her gaze fixed on him, like a vine growing quietly at the base of a wall, its roots running deep.

Tuoba Yan pushed open the door and went out.

The door closed behind him, and the wind in the yard was still blowing, rustling the branches of the pomegranate tree.

The wife stood by the window until the sound of horses' hooves completely disappeared at the alley entrance before she slowly put down the cloth, turned around, and walked towards the kitchen.

The kitchen is on the east side of the main hall, and there is an old lock on the door.

She took out her key from her waist, inserted it into the lock, turned it, and the door opened.

There were no lights on inside, and the twilight seeped in through the gaps in the window paper, casting indistinct shadows on the outline of the room.

Several figures were crouching in the corner—they huddled together like a flock of caged birds, trembling in the darkness.

Some people had their clothes torn in half, and others had their hair disheveled, covering half of their faces.

They dared not look up, but huddled there, even their breathing was very low, as if they were afraid that any sound would attract the next person to be chosen.

The wife stood at the door, her gaze slowly sweeping over the huddled figures, as if selecting an ingredient to use that afternoon.

Her voice was gentle, like she was speaking to family: "Who should we eat today?"

The women in the corner trembled violently, and one of them finally couldn't hold back and let out a very soft sob, as if it were being suppressed in her throat.

The sound was very short, as if the person knew they shouldn't make a sound, but the fear in their body acted before their will could act.

Some people shrank back, their backs pressed against the wall, but the wall was cold and hard, with no room to retreat.

Their gazes fell on the figure standing in the doorway, watching her slowly walk in as if taking a stroll, their eyes sweeping over each of their faces in turn.

A faint, gentle smile still lingered on her lips: "Don't be nervous. It's your honor to be eaten by my husband."

She spoke as if it were something completely ordinary, like saying, "The weather is nice today."

She walked to the wooden shelf in the corner and picked up the short knife that was resting on the cutting board.

The blade was polished to a high shine, gleaming coldly in the dim light.

She turned around, her gaze falling on the huddled figures, as if she had finally made a decision.

She walked toward one of the women, her pace still unhurried, as if she were strolling in her own backyard.

The woman shook her head frantically, her hair flying wildly, her hands gripping her collar tightly as she tried to shrink back, but her back was already pressed against the wall, with nowhere left to retreat.

Her lips were trembling, but no sound came out, as if all her cries had been cut off in her throat.

His wife knelt down in front of her, looking her in the eye, her gaze as gentle as if she were looking at a child who needed comforting, her voice as sweet as honey: "Don't be afraid. It'll be soon."

She raised the dagger in her hand.

The woman closed her eyes, tears sliding down her mud-splattered cheeks and dripping onto her clothes.

The blade gleamed coldly as it slowly moved downwards in the twilight, then stopped.

The knife tip did not land on the woman.

It stopped in mid-air, as if it were being gently supported by something.

The wife's hand tightened slightly on the knife handle, then loosened, and she slowly turned her head as if confirming something.

A figure stood at the kitchen doorway.

The twilight shone in from behind her, outlining her silhouette as a slender figure. Her face was obscured, but her hand, hanging at her side, slowly slid off the hilt of the sword at her waist, as if she had finally put down something heavy.

Her gaze fell on the short knife suspended in mid-air, then on that gentle face with a smile on its lips, as if she were looking at something in slow motion.

The wife's fingers tightened slowly around the knife handle.

She stood up, turned around, and faced the figure in the doorway, her posture still composed, as if she were greeting an uninvited guest in her own kitchen: "Who are you? How did you get in?"

The figure at the door did not answer.

She simply stepped over the threshold, took two more steps into the kitchen, and let the twilight illuminate her face.

It was a young face, slightly weathered, bearing the weariness of a long journey, but with steady eyes, like a well that had been repeatedly washed yet remained clear, knowing exactly where it was looking.

Her gaze shifted from her wife's face to the huddled figures in the corner, then returned to her own.

She spoke, her voice low, yet it made even the faint breathing in the kitchen clear: "Who I am is unimportant. But what about you? What you just said—husband, cannibalism, honor—were you serious?"

The wife looked at her and remained silent for a moment, as if weighing whether the person in front of her was worth telling the truth to.

Then she smiled, a gentle smile, like the last bit of frost melting on the tip of a knife.

She didn't answer, but simply raised the dagger in her hand.

She took a step forward, raising the knife tip again, but her movement stopped when she took her second step.

Because the figure's sword was already drawn, so fast that she could hardly see it. The movement was like the faint sound of a gust of wind passing through a crack in the door, and in the dim kitchen, it was like a bent moonlight, drawing a long, thin arc in the air.

The wife's wrist was flicked by a very light force, as if someone had gently touched it with a finger. The short knife slipped from her hand and landed on the blue brick floor with a crisp sound.

The wife swayed slightly. She looked down at her empty palms, then looked up at the figure in front of her, like a cat used to standing on high places suddenly realizing that the branches under its feet were breaking.

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but before she could utter a word, the figure had already passed her, walked to the women huddled in the corner, squatted down, and met their gaze.

The women were still trembling, but when their gazes fell on that figure, it was as if something invisible had gently enveloped them, and their trembling gradually subsided, becoming extremely light and slow.

A gust of wind blew in from the doorway, causing the half-closed kitchen door to sway slightly and creak, like an old piece of wood that had been pressed down for too long finally being turned over.

Qin Mu slowly shifted his gaze away from the huddled women.

His gaze lingered for a moment on their downcast eyes, then quickly settled on their identities and the subtle cracks in their eyes that would loosen at the mere sight of someone from their hometown.

He still had his back to the woman standing in the center of the kitchen, her fist clenched in mid-air, his voice as cold as a blade chilled by the night wind: "Are you all citizens of the Great Qin?"

The women in the corner looked up.

Their gazes fell upon him, like those upon people warming themselves by a fire in the snow. They were still somewhat uncertain, but the firelight had already given their faces a brief moment of light.

They nodded, very gently, as if they weren't quite sure whether they should trust the person in front of them, but their bodies had already given the answer for them.

Someone opened their mouth, and the voice that came out was soft and hoarse, like a thread that had been pressed down for too long finally being loosened: "Yes."

When that single word fell into the air, Qin Mu didn't turn around, but his voice seemed to be imbued with that word: "I'm curious. Don't you have any food to eat?"

He asked very softly, as if he were asking about something that had nothing to do with him.

But beneath that gentle sound, something was slowly tightening, like the sound of a bowstring being slowly drawn to its fullest extent, subtle yet clear, gradually drowning out all the breathing sounds in the quiet kitchen.

The Northern Manchu woman standing in the center of the kitchen smiled.

She looked down at her empty palms, then looked up again, her gaze falling on the back of the figure facing away from her. She said softly, "No food... can compare to the taste of the people of Qin."

She hadn't finished speaking.

The smile on her face was still lingering at the corners of her mouth, as if it hadn't had time to fully unfold before being suddenly suppressed by something.

Her body suddenly sank, as if an invisible hand had pressed down on her shoulder from above.

Her knees felt like they'd been hit hard by something, bending down and causing her to fall uncontrollably to her knees.