The relay station had fallen utterly silent. Only the stables in the rear courtyard occasionally broke the stillness with a few hoofbeats stirred by the wind.
The guards of the Marquis of Yongning had traveled hundreds of li for days on end and were exhausted to the bone. Too tired even to wash or eat, they each sought out a room and collapsed onto the beds, snoring the moment they touched the mattresses. Not a single lamp had been lit.
Only the room where Wen Zhuo lay still had a guttering candle burning. Wax meandered down the wick and dripped onto the table, mirroring the silent tears rolling down Wen Zhuo’s cheeks.
No matter how painful it was, the wound still had to be treated. Shen Zheng coaxed and comforted him as he applied the medicine. Though his heart ached for Wen Zhuo, he finally managed to finish. At first, Wen Zhuo could not stop sobbing, but once the ointment had been spread over the entire injury, his tears gradually ceased.
“Would Teacher mind if I spent the night in your room?” Shen Zheng screwed the medicine bottle shut and tucked it back into the small leather pouch before looking toward the man on the bed. “If you need to get up during the night, or feel thirsty and want some water, I can take care of you. Besides, all my luggage is here.”
It was truly a reason Wen Zhuo could not refuse.
Wen Zhuo turned his head to glance at the narrow couch. Two grown men would be cramped sharing it, but it was not entirely impossible.
He said nothing. His lashes cast a faint shadow beneath his eyes, which amounted to tacit consent.
A trace of amusement flashed through Shen Zheng’s eyes. He rose, stuffed the small pouch back into his bundle, and took out a fresh set of underclothes for himself. Then he stood in the very middle of the room and began undoing his sash.
Only then did Wen Zhuo realize that, in worrying over Liu Qiying and Jiang Mannü, he had forgotten that Shen Zheng needed to wash as well.
Feeling somewhat remorseful, he said, “Go call someone to heat more water.”
“There’s no need to trouble anyone. Everyone’s already resting. I can use this.” The leather belt binding his waist was tossed aside, and the lower garment cinched around his supple waist hung loose. As he spoke, Shen Zheng had already pulled open the collar of his flying-fish robe embroidered with silver thread, shrugging off the neat yesa together with the pleated apron and flinging them onto the windowsill.
“But that water…” Wen Zhuo hesitated. It was water he had used.
“Has it gone cold? The weather’s hot. I like cold baths.” Shen Zheng stripped off his underclothes as well, revealing a solid, well-built physique. The lines of his back were smooth, his legs straight and long.
He had always been something of a neat freak, in fact. Yet he did not seem to mind the water the cat had bathed in at all.
Wen Zhuo hurriedly looked away. Whenever Shen Zheng moved, his muscles shifted with him—a physique entirely different from Wen Zhuo’s own. There was not an ounce of excess on him; every line was lean, taut, and powerful.
His tall, broad figure swayed before Wen Zhuo’s eyes, more dazzling than the candlelight. Conditions here were crude, and Shen Zheng was far less restrained than he had been at Chunlai House. If Wen Zhuo wished, he could look at him completely unclothed.
Lying on the couch, Wen Zhuo’s thoughts ran wild. He remembered that when Shen Zheng had returned from Nanping, he had still been thin, pale, and haggard. Yet now he had changed beyond recognition.
Splash!
A ladleful of water poured over Shen Zheng. Wen Zhuo’s gaze was inevitably drawn back. He watched as droplets slid down Shen Zheng’s spine and rolled into the wooden basin, scattering into tiny sprays.
An inexplicable emotion stirred within him. That water had once brushed against his own skin, and now it flowed over Shen Zheng’s body—as if, separated by time, the two of them were sharing some secret intimacy.
It was a delusion born of his illness. Yet here, at this desolate relay station for horses and water, it filled his heart until it was swollen to the brim, almost spilling over.
Just as Shen Chen had said, he was a man, yet he was willing to be the one lying beneath another.
He was ashamed of it, loathed it, and had struggled against it with all his might.
For years, the old scars on the insides of his thighs had helped suppress that depraved desire, allowing him to remain chaste and live with his dignity intact.
But in Shen Zheng’s presence, his affliction grew increasingly fierce, nearly breaking through its shackles and reducing him to a shameless sinner.
Shen Zheng rinsed himself quickly.
By the time he wrapped his wet hair in a cloth and began putting on his underclothes, Wen Zhuo finally closed his eyes in self-deception, turning his face toward the wall and pretending to be asleep.
A moment later, footsteps approached. Carrying a body still wreathed in damp warmth, Shen Zheng came to the bedside.
“Won’t Teacher make room for me? Are you asleep?” He braced both hands against the edge of the couch and bent over him, his breath brushing Wen Zhuo’s ear.
Wen Zhuo raised one eyelid and slowly edged inward, making room for Shen Zheng to take up most of the remaining space.
Shen Zheng turned, blew out the oil lamp beside the bed, and plunged the room into darkness. Only the dim, hazy moonlight filtering through the window remained.
Everything was blurred. They could barely make out each other’s faces.
Shen Zheng bent down and climbed onto the couch, lying beside Wen Zhuo. His hair was not yet dry and still held the dampness of water, but his body radiated a faint warmth that seeped through his underclothes. Mixed with the light scent of soapberry, it formed a distinctive fragrance.
Breathing in that scent, Wen Zhuo shifted awkwardly and reached for the undergarments beside the wall.
He was afraid that by morning he would lose control and reveal that humiliating state again.
His fingers had only just touched the fabric when a warm hand seized them with uncanny precision. Shen Zheng’s voice sounded in the darkness, carrying a hint of huskiness.
“What is Teacher trying to do?”
“…Get dressed,” Wen Zhuo replied, his voice somewhat strained.
Shen Zheng gave his hand a squeeze, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You cannot wear those tonight. The wound needs to stay dry and ventilated if it is to heal quickly.”
Wen Zhuo was silent for a moment, then could only release the fabric.
Shen Zheng tucked his hand back beneath the quilt.
The two of them lay extremely close. The slightest movement would make their arms or legs bump into one another.
Wen Zhuo was accustomed to curling up against the wall when he slept. Now, constrained by his injury and by the person beside him, he could only remain perfectly still.
Shen Zheng, however, was restless in his sleep. When he turned over, he accidentally brushed Wen Zhuo’s toes. He immediately felt Wen Zhuo stiffen and cautiously try to shift away.
To keep the cat from feeling so self-conscious, Shen Zheng searched his mind for something to say. The corners of his lips curved upward.
“Teacher, don’t we seem a little like Sun Ce and Zhou Yu now—bound by a deep friendship, sharing the same bed? Or perhaps Liu Xiu and Deng Yu, who took to each other at first sight and spent the night beneath the same tent? Or Xin Qiji and his sworn brothers, facing the storm by the small window, sharing the lamplight across the bed?”
Wen Zhuo held it in for a long while before drawing a deep breath and asking resentfully, “Were they not allowed to wear their underclothes at night either?”
Shen Zheng let out a low laugh. He truly wanted to pull the person beside him into his arms and give him a thorough, merciless squeeze.
“It isn’t that I’m forbidding you to wear them. Your skin is simply too delicate. The wound needs to recover sooner so we can resume our journey sooner.”
“Your Highness, go to sleep.” Wen Zhuo pulled the thin quilt a little higher, hoping its damp, stale scent would conceal the fragrance that made his heart race.
“Wanshan.”
“Hmm?”
“Good night.”
As soon as the words fell, Wen Zhuo heard a rustle. An arm reached over, and rough fingertips lightly brushed the hair beside his ear before withdrawing in a proper, measured manner.
The tips of Wen Zhuo’s lashes trembled.
The gesture felt intimate, unlike anything a student would normally do for his teacher. Yet Shen Zheng had maintained perfect restraint; he had not tried to kiss him.
Wen Zhuo suspected that he was only imagining things because he wanted them so desperately.
Neither of them spoke again. Their steady breathing mingled in the darkness.
Wen Zhuo had thought falling asleep would be difficult that night, but after exhaustion had wrung him dry and his mind finally relaxed, he slipped into dreams in the blink of an eye.
In his hazy sleep, a thought flickered through his heart: what he wanted was not “to face the wind and rain across the bed, sharing lamplight as they discussed their writings,” but rather “to hold hands and await the pleasures of love, having shared the same quilt and garments since long ago.”
Daylight brightened, piercing through the old, battered window paper and scattering its radiance across the room.
Wen Zhuo woke after sleeping soundly. Once he had gathered his wits, he realized that he was no longer curled up against the wall. Instead, he was resting in Shen Zheng’s arms, his hands and feet completely relaxed.
Shen Zheng had yet to wake. He turned over and draped one long arm around Wen Zhuo, treating him like a pillow. Without even opening his eyes, he absently stroked Wen Zhuo’s back a few times.
“Good boy. I’ll feed you some canned food later.”
“……”
What on earth was he talking about?
After muttering that bit of nonsense in his sleep, Shen Zheng sank back into a deep slumber. By then, however, Wen Zhuo had already been locked firmly in his embrace and could not move.
He had never been held so tightly by anyone in bed before. He thought that, as expected, sleeping alone was more comfortable. Otherwise, one could easily end up trapped, which was terribly unpleasant.
Yet as he continued thinking about it, he fell asleep again in that very uncomfortable position.
When he woke once more, it was already past noon, and the sun had slanted across the window lattice.
By then, Shen Zheng had long since risen and changed into a fresh long robe. He was neatly dressed from head to toe.
On the low table beside the bed sat a small white porcelain plate bearing two golden sugar cakes, with a bowl of warm water beside it.
“You’re awake, Teacher? Have something to fill your stomach first, then try on the leg wraps I made this morning.” Shen Zheng shook out two furry rolls of cloth in his hands. They looked vaguely familiar. In fact, he had clearly cut up Wen Zhuo’s fur cloak and remade it into protective wraps.
The pain between Wen Zhuo’s legs had already eased considerably, and the injury was healing far faster than expected. He sat up, his black hair tousled and fluffy from sleep, but had no time to tidy it. Hiding beneath the covers, he hurriedly pulled on his underclothes.
His voice was hoarse with sleep. “Bring them here. There’s no time to waste. We’ll set out immediately.”
In truth, Wen Zhuo had not fully recovered, but this journey concerned matters of great importance. Shen Zheng had no choice but to nod in agreement.
Wen Zhuo picked up the warm water and rinsed his mouth. Then, bite by bite, he ate the now-lukewarm sugar cakes while Shen Zheng crouched beside the bed and carefully wrapped the leg guards around his injured area, binding them tightly layer by layer.
By the time Shen Zheng stood up, Wen Zhuo had already swallowed the sugar cakes in a few hurried mouthfuls.
The man who normally placed the greatest importance on etiquette had, in order to save time, forgotten all about the teachings of the sages.
The door opened, and Liu Qiying entered alongside Jiang Mannü. Their hair was loosely tied, and their clothes were slightly rumpled; clearly, they had only just woken and had not bothered to tidy themselves.
Fortunately, both women had come from rough-and-tumble backgrounds and were not fussy about such things. They immediately began packing their luggage with brisk efficiency.
The group left the post station. Horses had already been prepared beside the official road. After a night’s rest, the guards of the Yongning Marquis’s residence had shed much of their fatigue, and every one of them looked alert and spirited.
Wen Zhuo nodded, then handed Ta Baisha a shriveled carrot. After that, he braced himself and allowed Shen Zheng to lift him onto the horse.
The horses’ hooves flew, sending clouds of dust billowing along the road.
They traveled south. The landscape grew increasingly desolate. This coastal region, normally blessed with abundant rainfall, was now split by parched earth, cracks crisscrossing the ground. Here and there, a few stubborn shoots still clung to life, but they drooped miserably and looked unlikely to survive more than a few days.
Strangely enough, at the Water-Horse Relay Station they had still occasionally seen starving refugees lying dead by the roadside. Yet the closer they came to Mianzhou, the fewer refugees they encountered. Before long, they did not see a single person.
By afternoon, the outline of Mianzhou City appeared in the distance, and the sea wind blew toward them, carrying a salty, fishy tang.
The city gates stood wide open. Several armored soldiers guarded either side of the entrance, inspecting each commoner who entered.
The line of people stretched on without end. All were cleanly dressed. Though their faces were pale with hunger, they stood on tiptoe in anticipation, orderly and calm.
The scene was utterly no different from what they might have seen in the capital.
Everyone exchanged bewildered looks.
Shen Zheng dismounted and firmly supported Wen Zhuo.
The moment Wen Zhuo’s feet touched the ground, a dull, tugging pain shot through his injury. Cold sweat instantly broke out across his forehead, but he forced himself to stand straight and stared at Mianzhou City—familiar, yet strangely foreign—with his brows drawn tightly together.
This made no sense.
Having read extensively in the histories, he knew that whenever disaster spread and the refugees had no food left to eat, they would inevitably gather and storm the city, forcing the authorities to open the granaries and distribute relief grain.
Once the city was breached, all order within would collapse. Looting, destruction, and arson would be unavoidable, and the number of deaths and injuries would be impossible to predict.
Thus, throughout the dynasties, the usual response had been to defend the city to the death. If the refugees caused trouble, they were branded “rebels” and killed without mercy. The authorities would rather let rivers of blood flow than risk the peace within the city walls.
Yet Mianzhou before them was eerily calm.
