Hot flashes

Xiao Jue continued on his journey.

The mountain path was rugged and difficult for a horse to traverse. He abandoned his horse and walked on foot into the desolate paths that Zhou Heng had traversed.

Thorns tore at his clothes, pebbles dug into the soles of his boots, and the wound on his shoulder reopened and bled again and again.

Chen Shen offered to re-bandage him, but he shook his head.

—Under a withered tree, he found traces of Zhou Heng's resting place.

There was a smooth stone under the tree, with a small piece of dried biscuit crumb stuck in a crevice, which had already been pecked halfway by birds.

On the evening of the third day, the news came back.

It was an inconspicuous spy that Xiao Jue had planted along the way—a tea stall located at a desolate crossroads. The stall owner was a lame old soldier who used to feed horses in the Northern Army.

"The other evening," the veteran said, "a young man came asking for water. He was around twenty years old, his left arm was in a sling, he looked very unwell, and he was walking unsteadily."

He only ordered a bowl of hot water, leaned against a tree by the stall, slowly drank it, rested for a quarter of an hour, and then asked for the most discreet route to the southern capital.

Xiao Jue's breath caught in his throat for a moment.

"Then what."

"Then he went west." The old soldier pointed to the distant mountain shadows. "There's a medicinal herb gathering path over there that's been abandoned for decades; the locals have almost forgotten about it."

Xiao Jue followed his finger and looked towards the continuous mountain range.

As dusk settled, the mountain shadows became as dark as ink.

He mounted his horse.

"Your Highness," Chen Shen caught up, "it's getting dark, and we're not familiar with the mountain paths. How about we go tomorrow—"

Xiao Jue did not turn around.

The hooves of the green horse shattered the twilight as it plunged headlong into the deep green expanse.

The mountain road was more dangerous than he had imagined.

The herb-gathering path, which had been abandoned for fifty years, was mostly submerged in weeds and thorns.

Some sections of the road had completely collapsed, requiring horses to be led around the side slopes; other sections were as steep as walls, causing horses to slip and tumble stones down into the deep ravine.

Xiao Jue did not stop.

Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the leaves, scattering into dappled patches of silver. He led the horse, step by step, toward the ridge.

I can no longer feel the injury on my shoulder.

The extreme of pain is numbness, and he has been numb for many years—since the night he was thirteen, when he was dragged out of the sea of ​​fire and turned around to see the gate plaque of the Marquis's mansion crash to the ground amidst the flames.

That night, he lost everything.

Later, he learned not to feel pain. He learned to crush his fear, hide his weakness, and forge himself into a flawless blade.

He thought that was enough, that nothing could hurt him anymore, nothing could frighten him anymore.

But when Chen Shen knelt in the tent, presented the blood-stained secret report, and uttered the six words, "The young master's whereabouts are unknown"—

The knife broke in half.

Under the moonlight, Xiao Jue stopped in his tracks.

The mountain road bends here, and ahead lies a sheltered rock face. At the foot of the rock face is a shallow hollow, just big enough for one person to curl up and lie down.

He walked over.

There were signs of a fire in the cave—the ashes were thin, there were only a few half-burnt dry branches, and the fire was very small, obviously to avoid being discovered.

The ground next to the ashes had been carefully leveled and covered with a layer of dry grass, on which was pressed a shallow human-shaped indentation.

Xiao Jue squatted down.

His fingertips touched the dry grass, touched the almost dissipating body heat that belonged to another person.

He slowly closed his fingers, gripping the small handful of flattened grass stems tightly.

Moonlight streamed into the cave, illuminating his downcast profile.

No one could see his expression.

Only Chen Shen, watching from afar at the bend in the mountain road, saw that person's back bend down very, very slowly, as if something was pressing down on it.

In just a moment.

Then he stood up, tucked the small handful of hay into his clothes, and turned around.

"Go down the mountain."

His voice sounded perfectly normal.

"continue."

At the fourth watch of the night, they found a fire in a mountain hollow.

It's a tiny dot, hidden deep in the dense forest, almost invisible unless it's high up on a mountain ridge.

Xiao Jue ordered the torches to be extinguished.

He rode downhill in the darkness, his horse's hooves wrapped in thick cloth, landing silently. Six guards scattered, approaching the firelight without a sound.

It was a simple shelter—a small fire pit made of a few stones, the flames already small, flickering as they licked the last few pieces of kindling. There was no one by the fire.

Xiao Jue dismounted.

He stood there, watching the fire that was about to go out.

It was quiet all around. Only the night wind rustled through the treetops and the distant, low cries of unknown night birds could be heard.

Then he heard footsteps.

It came softly and slowly from deep within the shadows of the trees. The person had clearly heard the noise and tried to hide, but he was too weak to run.

The footsteps grew closer, with a staggering, unsteady rhythm, one step at a time—

A very faint thud echoed through the woods.

It looked as if someone had supported the tree trunk, or as if the legs had given way and the person had collapsed to their knees on the fallen leaves.

Xiao Jue turned around.

Under the moonlight, Zhou Heng leaned against a tree trunk three steps away, one hand holding the tree trunk and the other hand dangling a half-worn strip of cloth.

He had lost a lot of weight; his cheekbones were prominent, and his face was covered in mud, abrasions, and dried blood. His hair was a mess, like dry straw, and his cotton-padded jacket had several tears, revealing the dirty cotton wadding inside.

He looked at Xiao Jue.

Those eyes suddenly turned red the moment they saw who it was.

Xiao Jue remained silent.

He walked over, step by step, until he stood before Zhou Heng.

Three steps, two steps, one step.

He stretched out his hand.

Her fingertips landed on Zhou Heng's cheek, very lightly, brushing away a withered leaf that had somehow brushed against his face.

The sound of that withered leaf falling to the ground was softer than a heartbeat.

Zhou Heng opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His lips moved as if he wanted to call out that name, or as if he no longer had the strength to do so.

He fell forward.

Xiao Jue caught him.

In that instant, he felt Zhou Heng's body trembling—not from the cold, but because the string that had been stretched to its limit had finally loosened.

His forehead pressed against Xiao Jue's shoulder, burning hot, still running a fever.

"You've come." Zhou Heng's voice was muffled in his chest, as if it came from a very, very far place.

Xiao Jue did not answer.

He simply tightened his arms, holding the person close to his chest. Very tightly, as if he wanted to meld them into his very bones.

a long time.

He rested his chin on Zhou Heng's head and closed his eyes.

"Um."