The day after the battle, the northern gate of Zhenzhou had yet to be cleared. Though the enemy had scattered, the fields beyond the walls were still in disarray, littered with corpses, blood not yet dried, dust unsettled.

  In the main command tent, the Third Prince was in conference with his generals, discussing the post-battle arrangements. The atmosphere was heavy. Suddenly, the sound of urgent hoofbeats approached. A guard burst in, barely able to contain his excitement:

  "Your Highness! General Chen—he's been found!"

  A ripple of shock swept through the tent. The Third Prince stood abruptly, and Shen Zhiwu rose with him.

  Outside, a stretcher was being carried toward them. Illuminated by torches, the figure atop it was thin, armor shattered, bloodstained and battered, but still with a straight spine—as if unwilling to fall before the enemy.

  It was Chen Yuan.

  A guard whispered, "He was held in the enemy's rear camp and tortured for days. When the enemy retreated in disarray, they abandoned him in the forest... It was General Hanjiang who ordered a thorough search of the valleys and found him."

  The generals gathered, visibly moved.

  The Third Prince stepped forward, knelt, and gently brushed dust from Chen Yuan's hair. He called softly, "Chen Yuan."

  Chen Yuan's lashes trembled. He slowly opened his eyes.

  His first words were not "Where am I?" or "How am I?" but:

  "...Did we win?"

  The Third Prince paused, then nodded solemnly. "We did. You did well."

  Chen Yuan's lips twitched, as if to smile, then he exhaled. "That's good..."

  He closed his eyes again, saying nothing more, but his expression was at peace, as if something had been let go.

  Shen Zhiwu stood behind the crowd, watching the wounded man without moving.

  This was the envoy she had entrusted, the one person she had gambled her last hope on. Now, she only prayed he would survive.

  She did not step forward.

  She remained at the edge of the torchlight, watching the bloodied figure on the stretcher, her chest tight with something heavy—not the war, but a sudden, jarring realization:

  She was an escapee. A fugitive.

  Despite winning the battle, despite breaking the siege, she had no official status, no name, no papers. She was an abandoned wife, a "madwoman" wanted by the Li household.

  After this, she might live—but what kind of life would it be?

  Her fingers curled in her sleeves, knuckles white with pressure. The wind flickered the torchlight, as if each flame might vanish.

  She closed her eyes. Countless thoughts surged, but none reached her lips.

  Xia Xia approached and whispered, "Miss?"

  She didn't look at her. "It's not over."

  Xia Xia blinked.

  "This war isn't over," Shen Zhiwu repeated, her voice steady, as if the earlier wave of emotions had never touched her.

  Her gaze returned to Chen Yuan. That was the man she had entrusted her letter to, the one she had placed her faith in. He had returned alive, but the enemy had not been fully defeated, and the game was not yet over. Any lapse would make the dead die in vain.

  Shen Zhiwu tilted her head slightly, breathing in the night air laced with blood, dust, and smoke.

  "Let's go," she said at last.

  "Miss?"

  "To review their post-battle arrangements," she said, already walking. Her steps were firm, each one beating like a distant war drum.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Xia Xia followed, glancing at her profile. She opened her mouth, then said nothing.

  She understood. The lady understood everything. She just chose not to speak. Not because she didn't feel—but because she knew feeling wasn't enough.

  Two days later, Zhenzhou held a banquet to honor the troops.

  Though victorious, the casualties were severe. The atmosphere was solemn. The Third Prince sat at the head, one seat left conspicuously empty—reserved for the general who came to their aid.

  At dusk, hoofbeats sounded outside. A soldier reported in a hushed voice: "General Hanjiang has arrived."

  Silence fell.

  Shen Zhiwu set down her cup and looked up.

  The tent flap lifted. A man stepped in—black armor on his shoulders, stern brows, sharp gaze. He bore no ornate trappings, yet exuded a chilling presence.

  He did not kneel, only cupped his fist in salute: "Hanjiang at your command. Apologies for the delay."

  Prince Jingming smiled warmly. "No need for formality. Your arrival is our great fortune."

  Hanjiang nodded slightly, but his gaze briefly paused at the desk behind the prince—

  She wore simple clothes, a calm expression, but her eyes gleamed with intelligence.

  Shen Zhiwu.

  A name he had seen on a confidential letter.

  Their eyes met briefly. Neither spoke.

  He sat down without further courtesies. He drank nothing, made no small talk, and his few responses were terse and cold.

  Then, a voice murmured, "How is General Zhao's injury?"

  All eyes turned to the empty seat.

  The tent flap stirred. Zhao Qi entered, pale, still stiff in movement, followed by the deputy who had once rebuked Shen Zhiwu.

  Prince Jingming rose to greet him. "You are still wounded. Why attend the banquet?"

  Zhao Qi saluted, voice hoarse but clear. "I am unworthy of leading troops. I am ashamed."

  Then he turned to Shen Zhiwu.

  She was holding her cup. Hearing his voice, she raised her eyes.

  Zhao Qi bowed low. "Miss Shen, I was blind before. I wronged you. I offer my sincere apology."

  The deputy knelt beside him. "Miss Shen, I misspoke, and I misjudged. Please forgive me."

  The generals' expressions varied. Some were shocked, others avoided eye contact, and a few looked at Shen Zhiwu thoughtfully.

  She rose, voice even. "The matter is past. No need to revisit it."

  She looked at the crowd.

  "I have no official title. I dare not accept such honors. But on the battlefield, life and death make no distinction of rank."

  "Victory today was not mine alone. It was the work of many."

  She bowed slightly and resumed her seat.

  Several generals exchanged glances, then rose and bowed in return.

  The banquet ended near midnight.

  The Third Prince summoned Shen Zhiwu and Hanjiang for a private meeting. Shen Zhiwu arrived first, straightening maps. When Hanjiang entered, she got to the point:

  "Have you reviewed yesterday's deployment map?"

  "Briefly."

  "Any objections?"

  Without a word, he stepped forward, picked up a brush, and began to mark changes:

  "These are decoys, use real troops. Flood here. Avoid luring the enemy—set a trap instead."

  His moves were confident, precise.

  Shen Zhiwu raised a brow. "Had you come earlier, I'd have saved myself much explanation."

  He replied calmly, "Your map was rough, but the idea sound."

  "Rough?" Her smile chilled.

  "You're not yet a general," he replied.

  She smiled. "Then from today, I shall learn from you."

  "There's still time," he said.

  The candlelight flickered between them.

  Even before the Third Prince arrived, a storm was already brewing.

  That night, Shen Zhiwu sat alone, reading intelligence reports. Her shadow stretched on the curtain, shoulders stiff.

  Footsteps approached. The Third Prince entered, plain-clothed, holding wine.

  "Still awake?"

  "Rechecking troop assignments."

  He placed the wine down, sat. "If you won't drink, I will."

  She finally looked up. "Not until victory is complete."

  "What are you afraid of?" he asked.

  She paused, then laughed softly. "A great many things."

  He listened quietly.

  "They call me mad, impure, unfit to be here—even after saving lives, I can’t live with dignity."

  "I feared it all. But I couldn't think on it until now. If I survive... then who will I be?"

  He poured a drink and pushed it toward her. "You are Shen Zhiwu. The hero of Zhenzhou."

  "You needn’t be anyone’s pawn. I will protect you."

  "Thank you, Your Highness."

  He smiled gently. "I met you once, when we were young. You were mapping campaigns in your father’s study. I thought then—you looked more like a general than I."

  She didn’t smile, but her eyes shifted.

  Later, on Zhenzhou tower under the moonlight, Shen Zhiwu sat reading border reports. Hanjiang approached with warm wine, sat beside her.

  She took a sip, no pleasantries.

  After a while, he said, "I once wanted to be Huo Qubing."

  She said nothing.

  "Later I realized, being Li Ling was already fortune enough. I only want my blade not to strike the innocent."

  "And me?"

  "You are Ban Zhao."

  She said nothing, then raised the cup and poured wine toward the border:

  "To your Li Ling, my Ban Zhao—but we are only ink in the annals."

  No more was said.

  Their shadows, one like a blade, one like a wall, stretched together in silence.

  In the following days, they divided forces and cleared remnants. They spoke little, yet cooperated flawlessly.

  One day, Shen Zhiwu said without looking up: "When I wrote that letter, I knew you would come."

  She paused. "But seeing you actually come..."

  He said, "Your letter didn’t beg. It invited."

  "So you came because I said please?"

  "Because you don’t waste words. And you don’t belittle people."

  She smiled faintly, like a breeze settling after a storm.

  That night, he entered her tent. She showed him a new map: "I suspect an ambush here."

  "You’re right. The prince may be behind it."

  She asked, "Will you help us again?"

  "You want me back under the Third Prince?"

  "He listens. You’d have a chance to change the world."

  "But he hesitates. He could become the next Yuan Shao."

  "He will listen. I will make him."

  He tapped the map. "You have something he lacks—decisiveness."

  "I'll take that as praise," she replied. "Besides, you have no better choice."

  "By aiding us, you’ve lost the prince’s trust. Where else can you go?"

  "Help me, and you’re my sword. Stay apart, and you’re nothing but a discarded piece."

  He said nothing, but he knew—she was right.

  He had no choice but to join the game she had already mastered.