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

Dusk slowly spread from the edge of the wilderness, like a thin veil soaked in water, gradually gathering and darkening the dark orange afterglow on the horizon.

The wind was a little less intense than in the afternoon, but it was still dry, carrying the unique scent of the northern wilderness—not the earthy smell of soil, not the dampness of grass and trees, but the scent of old cotton cloth that had been repeatedly dried in the sun, with nothing left but the traces of everything that had been dried.

The camp was set up on a slightly elevated plateau beside the dry riverbed.

The fire was already lit, and an iron pot was placed on it, with water slowly bubbling inside.

Yin Sutang was squatting by the fire, using a small knife to whittle a dry branch, carving a sharp bevel, and then placing the whitted part on a stone, ready to skewer meat.

Yunluan was sitting on a flat rock not far away, with the dark silver sword lying across her lap. She was slowly wiping the blade with an old cloth, her movements steady and deliberate, as if she were doing something she wasn't in a hurry to finish. Her gaze was fixed on the blade, as if she were checking every tiny scratch.

The people sat scattered around the fire. Some sat against the roots of the poplar trees, some sat on the overturned wooden boxes, and some squatted by the fire, poking at the embers with a twig.

The dry rations and dried meat were laid out on a piece of oilcloth, and several rough earthenware bowls were filled with freshly boiled water, from which thin wisps of white steam rose.

Mo Lang lay on a slightly elevated earthen slope outside the crowd, like a tree that had been blown by the wind for many years but had never bent over, its posture relaxed and stable.

Qin Mu sat on a slightly larger rock beside the fire, the scroll of "Travels in the North" closed and placed beside his lap.

He wasn't reading or talking; he just sat there staring at the fire, like a tree whose roots had already penetrated the ground, its branches neither swaying nor needing to sway.

The firelight cast a warm glow on his profile, casting shadows of varying shades in the folds of his grey robe.

The area around the campsite was quiet, so quiet that you could hear the crackling of the firewood in the fire. Occasionally, a breeze would blow from the open field, pushing the flames to one side and then releasing them, like a hand testing the temperature.

Qin Mu spoke up: "Don't you guys feel that although this place is desolate, it makes you feel at ease after staying here for a while?"

Jiang Zhaoyue sat beside him, holding a cup of tea that had stopped steaming: "There are no city walls, no streets, no things that make people uneasy."

Qin Mu placed the dry branch he was holding back on the edge of the fire, lifted his gaze from the fire, and looked at the horizon in the distance that was being slowly swallowed by the twilight, as if he were looking at a book that was being slowly opened, a book that he knew the contents of but would still read again.

He spoke, his voice not loud, yet clearly reaching the ears of everyone around the fire: "The Yellow River flows far up to the white clouds, a lone city stands amidst ten thousand mountains. Why should the Qiang flute lament the willows, for the spring breeze does not reach Yumen Pass."

Without explanation or foreshadowing, it floated there naturally, like a leaf that had fallen onto the water.

There was a moment of silence around the fire.

Even the crackling of the firewood in the bonfire seemed exceptionally clear at that moment, as if waiting for the words to find their place in the air.

Then Jiang Zhaoyue was the first to move.

She looked up, her gaze lingering on Qin Mu's face for a moment before shifting back to the fire. She didn't speak immediately, as if she were going over those words in her mind again.

Then she spoke softly, her voice carrying something she hadn't used on her journeys in a long time: "'Why should the Qiang flute lament the willows, for the spring breeze does not reach Yumen Pass'..." She repeated slowly, "Young master... is this saying that no matter how far one travels, some things will ultimately remain unreachable?"

Lin Xiaolu squatted by the fire, the meat skewer in her hand suspended in mid-air.

She tilted her head, her gaze seemingly following the words back to their source, yet still unsure where it finally landed: "Brother Zhao... did you just come up with this poem?"

Qin Mu didn't answer directly, but just smiled and said, "It was something I thought of when I saw this twilight just now."

Han Xin'er stopped what she was doing, as if she was trying to understand the weight of those words in her own way, and then she spoke: "'A lone city amidst ten thousand mountains,' does that describe our current situation? It seems to say that no matter where we go, we are a lone city."

Zhao Alan looked up. She was sitting on the outside of the fire, with the water bag on her lap and a half-bowl of soup that was no longer steaming in her hands.

Her gaze fell on Qin Mu's profile, as if she wanted to say something, or perhaps felt that her words lacked weight, she paused for a moment before speaking: "I've never heard such a sentence before... it's like a single sentence encompasses the entire wilderness. I don't know many words, but that sentence just now... I could understand every single word. But when they're put together, it seems to be more than just the words themselves."

Xu Fenghua sat quietly on the other side of the fire, holding a cup of tea that had gone cold in her hand, her gaze fixed on the flames, as if she was thinking about something she had been pondering for a long time but had not yet fully figured out.

She didn't look at Qin Mu, her voice was low, but it carried a tone she hadn't used on this journey in a long time: "'The spring breeze doesn't reach Yumen Pass'... does it mean that some things, no matter how far you go, you can't take them with you?" She asked very softly, as if she were asking herself, or as if she were asking the slowly burning flames.

Yunluan paused for a moment while wiping the sword, then continued.

She didn't look up, but her hand lingered on the spine of the sword for a moment, as if she were putting something she wouldn't say aloud in that brief pause.

The black wolf remained lying on the earthen slope, its ears twitching slightly, like a listening device trying to pick up distant sounds, before returning to their steady state.

Its kittens had curled up into a gray ball of fur, with only the one closest to it slowly blinking.

Its gaze fell on the direction of the fire, as if it were using its eyes, which were adjusting to the light, to confirm the outline of the firelight, or perhaps it was simply attracted by the unfamiliar sounds.

Chen Wanqing sat down next to Lin Xiaolu and softly repeated the last line: "'The spring breeze does not reach Yumen Pass'..." Then, as if she had thought of something, she softened her voice and said, "It means that once you get here, some things are truly left behind."

Su Wan sat on the edge of the fire, her gaze falling on Qin Mu's face before returning to the fire. She didn't repeat those sentences, but her posture was like a window that was readjusting its position, subtly adjusting its angle without anyone noticing.

Mingyue sat beside her, head bowed, as if she were putting those words into her heart, waiting for them to settle into their proper place.

She didn't speak, but her eyelashes twitched slightly, like a leaf being blown by the wind.

Yin Sutang sat a little further away from the crowd. She looked up, her gaze falling on the horizon that was turning deep blue, as if she were thinking about something she rarely thought about. After a while, she said, "'Yumen Pass'—I've heard of that place. It's further south, near the border of the Central Plains. Many people say that once you cross that pass, you'll never see the willows of the Central Plains again. But they planted willows in their poems."

After she finished speaking, she stopped talking.

The firewood in the bonfire crackled and popped, as if it were slowly burning dry branches that didn't belong anywhere.

Qin Mu did not respond.

He simply sat there quietly, watching the fire slowly dwindle, like a tree that had stood in the wind for many years, needing no more words to prove its place, nor any more explanations to strengthen its roots.

The firelight flickered across his face for a moment, then returned to its steady state.

Jiang Zhaoyue spoke softly, her voice not loud, yet clearly reaching the ears of everyone around the fire: "Young Master, how much longer until we reach the Northern Mang Royal Court?"

Qin Mu looked up from the fire: "Almost there. We'll be there in a few more days."

The night wind blew from the open field, scattering the last embers from the fire.

The black wolf was still lying under the roots of a poplar tree not far away. Its cubs were all asleep, but it was still awake, like a black stone monument waiting for dawn.

Yunluan stopped wiping the sword.

She held the old cloth, not looking up, but listening for a moment, then gently folded the cloth with her fingers and placed it beside her knee.

Her posture remained unchanged, like a piece of iron waiting for the water temperature to rise.

Jiang Zhaoyue's voice also stopped.

She held the cup of tea, which was no longer steaming, her gaze fixed on the fire, as if waiting for the sound to disappear on its own.

But the sound didn't disappear; instead, it grew closer and closer.

First came the scattered, rapid hoofbeats, followed by the snorting of the horses and their short, sharp neighs as they were reined in, like a tide surging in from an unseen place.

Qin Mu did not move. He remained leaning against the root of the poplar tree, his posture as relaxed as a stone that had been washed by a river for a long time, not even in a hurry to adjust his own outline.

The sound of hooves stopped abruptly, like a door that was being forcefully pushed open but suddenly got stuck.

About ten feet in front of the camp, several figures reined in their horses and stopped.

There were seven horses and seven men, all dressed in old, gray-brown leather armor, with knives of varying lengths hanging from their waists, and food bags and quivers hanging on either side of the saddles.

The man at the head of the group was burly and had his chest exposed, revealing a roughened chest worn by wind and sand. A ghost-head knife hung at his waist, with a blackened old cloth wrapped around the hilt.

His gaze swept across the fire, past Qin Mu as if looking at a stone not worth paying much attention to, and then landed on the figures scattered around the fire, slowly and in turn looking at each face.

He watched the figures bathed in warm light at the boundary between the firelight and the night, their gaze falling on Chen Wanqing's slightly lowered profile, then moving from her face to Han Xin'er's fingers as she gathered the grass stems, and finally to Lin Xiaolu's posture as she gripped the hilt of a short knife.

He grinned, revealing teeth stained yellow from smoking and drinking: "Lucky you."

The men behind him also dismounted, some quickly and some slowly. Some did not approach immediately, but stood beside their horses, stroking their necks with one hand, as if waiting for a signal.

Someone had already drawn the knife halfway out of its sheath, the cold metal reflecting a chilling light in the firelight, before putting it back.

The man at the head of the group took a few steps toward the fire, his boots making a dull thud as they stepped on the sandy ground.

He stopped about five steps away from Qin Mu, like a piece of wood being slowly pushed, almost touching the ground.

His gaze swept across the fire and landed on Qin Mu: "You've come from the south, haven't you?"

Qin Mu didn't move: "Yes, I was just passing by."

The man chuckled. "It's not common to see people traveling over there. I'm a hunter from around here, my name is Batu. I often hunt small animals in this area. Today I just happened to see smoke coming from over here, and I thought there were some clueless prey here."

As he said this, his gaze shifted slightly towards Jiang Zhaoyue.

Lin Xiaolu tightened her grip on the dagger slightly.

The man named Batu didn't move immediately. He just stood there, like a hunter waiting for his prey to peek out of its den. His gaze slowly moved over the outlines drawn by the firelight, as if he were making some kind of assessment.

Qin Mu remained motionless, his voice still unhurried: "Hunters? So you hunt until late at night?"

Batu's gaze returned to Qin Mu, his smile still lingering: "What do you know, young brother? The later it gets, the easier it is for the prey to reveal itself. Those hunters during the day only follow footprints, but only those at night can see clearly what to hunt."

After saying that, he finally took two steps forward.

He didn't walk towards Qin Mu, but instead walked towards the nearest figure by the fire.

His boots crunched through the sand as he stopped at the edge of the fire, bent down to look for a moment, and then reached out towards the figure's cheek.

The fingers, bathed in the warm light of the fire, were slowly approaching the silhouette.

Then a very thin sound, like the sound of wind blowing, cut through the air.

The sound was very short, like a needle falling onto the ashes-covered ground with a soft thud, followed by a flash of dark silver light.

The dark silver blade, like a bent moonlight, skimmed across the ground from the edge of the fire. The ghost-headed knife was still hanging at his waist. He looked down at his lower arm, which was slowly becoming empty.

His mouth was still open, as if he hadn't quite finished making the sound he wanted to utter, before he fell from his shoulder and landed on the sandy ground, scattering a small patch of ash.

Those behind him saw the figure move.

Someone had already drawn their knife; the blade flashed for a moment in the firelight, but that flash lasted only a moment, like a candle blown out by the wind.

The third man turned to run, but as soon as he took a step, the sword blade swiftly grazed his knees. He lost his balance and fell forward, uttering a short, incomplete sound from his throat.

The fourth man had already climbed onto the horse's back. He leaned down, gripped the reins tightly, and squeezed the horse's flanks with his legs, sending it charging out of the camp.

But Yunluan moved faster than the horse, the dark silver blade piercing through the horse's belly and precisely slicing across its calf.

His body slumped off the horse, his legs still stuck in the stirrups. He was dragged a few steps by the frightened horse before he broke free and crashed into the roots of a dead tree.

The remaining few finally realized what was happening; they stopped trying to escape and stopped trying to draw their knives.

Someone knelt down, like a sawn-off piece of wood, and plunged into the ashes and sand.

Someone braced their hands on the ground, forehead pressed against the earth, and made a broken, guttural sound, as if something was being forced down their throat.

Someone opened their mouth, but couldn't make a sound.

The hunters of the Northern Wilderness all fell.

Yunluan sheathed her sword, walked back to the fire, sat down again, placed the old cloth back on her lap, picked up the sword, as if she had only gotten up to add a piece of firewood.

After she sat down, her posture relaxed again, like a tree that had just been blown by the wind and had returned to calm, no longer needing to sway.

On the edge of the fire, there were traces of ash slowly seeping into the ground, gradually darkening at the boundary between the ashes and sand, glistening with a damp light in the firelight.

But the fire was still burning, the water in the pot was still bubbling, and the gray-white carrier pigeon in the distance was still flying north into the night.

No one spoke anymore, as if those sounds and the sound of horses' hooves were being slowly swept away, dispersed, and melted into the wilderness by the night wind.

Jiang Zhaoyue picked up her cup of tea, which had gone completely cold, and took a sip, as if to confirm that the air was returning to its original state.

Qin Mu remained leaning against the root of the poplar tree, his posture unchanged, but his gaze was fixed on the fire that was slowly dying down, as if he were looking at something that had already done what it was supposed to do.