But after less than ten minutes on the highway, Xia Songluo couldn't take it anymore.
She had already left the house underdressed, and now she was out in the wind.
It was a sportbike-style model, and Jiang Hang couldn't sit up straight in the front, but she was sitting bolt upright, taking the full force of the winter night wind.
Even with a helmet on, it didn't stop her body from freezing; the cold made her nose run.
Xia Songluo wanted to go back and grab an extra layer, but a round trip would take at least half an hour.
She set her sights on Jiang Hang instead, thinking of asking him to lend her his jacket for a bit.
Given that he'd just downed a bottle of ice water, she figured he wasn't afraid of the cold.
But Xia Songluo was a bit put off by the hygiene. The biggest selling point of workwear was that it hid dirt well; stains barely showed.
It didn't smell like anything, but who knew how long it had been since he'd last washed that jacket.
Luckily, they passed a 24-hour convenience store, and Xia Songluo wanted to go in and see if they sold heat packs.
She called out to him: "Could you pull over by the side of the road for a sec?"
Maybe the engine and wind noise were too loud for him to hear, because Jiang Hang didn't slow down.
Xia Songluo raised her hand, patted his back, and shouted: "Sorry to bother you, turn back, there's a 7-Eleven on the side of the road, I need to buy something!"
A full half a minute passed before Jiang Hang suddenly slowed, made a U-turn, and pulled over to the curb.
Xia Songluo figured it out—he'd heard her the whole time, he just plain didn't want to acknowledge her.
At least he'd eventually stopped, and since it was her own issue, she said nothing and stepped off onto the sidewalk.
This area had a few villa communities with very low occupancy rates, and this fairly large 7-Eleven had been open for years without going under—probably because the franchisee lived in the neighborhood and had nothing better to do.
She went in, bought a pack of heat packs, walked behind the shelf aisle, unzipped her track jacket, and stuck them one by one onto the outside of her black compression top.
"Crunch-pop!"
It sounded like a soda can being crushed.
Over by the window-side high table, there were a few young guys huddled together drinking canned beer.
Outside the window were their off-road motorcycles, parked haphazardly.
That was just how it was beyond the outer ring road—at night, you'd hear roaring street racers everywhere. They'd passed several groups of them on the way from Lushanjing, and they'd even greeted Jiang Hang and her the way biker circles did.
Friendly, no signs of provocation. Because Jiang Hang was truly riding that stallion-of-a-Ducati like a grandma's scooter—steady, smooth, completely harmless.
Xia Songluo had a close friend who loved motorcycles and hung around clubs, so she had plenty of riding experience.
She knew Jiang Hang was a veteran.
With a Ducati, leaning into curves and scraping knees wasn't real skill—the true mark of mastery was gliding over speed bumps without so much as a ripple.
Because that model was famously stiff in suspension.
Even the rider got jarred uncomfortable, let alone her sitting on the passenger cowl.
The first time they hit a speed bump, her thighs and rear clenched up tight, but all she felt was a soft, gentle dip and rise.
It happened like that several times in a row, and Xia Songluo gradually relaxed and started observing Jiang Hang closely.
Every time they crossed a speed bump, he'd adjust his body with the subtlest movements, his muscles tensing and engaging in sequence.
He absorbed the jolts quickly and effortlessly.
Xia Songluo gathered two pieces of information.
First, controlling a bike at that level, unless he was a professional racer, meant he'd probably spent most of his flight years in Southeast Asia. The road conditions there were complicated, and motorcycles were a primary mode of transport—he wasn't doing it for fun, he was doing it to survive.
Second, given his precise control over his own muscles, he was likely very skilled at mixed martial arts.
"Crunch-pop!"
Another sound, this time followed by jeering laughter.
Xia Songluo frowned. So those two can-crushing sounds were about the same as a couple of creeps whistling.
They'd seen her buy the heat packs and guessed what she was doing behind the shelf.
Who knew if they were daring each other to come over.
Xia Songluo kept peeling the adhesive strips, ignoring them.
After she finished sticking them on, she came out from behind the shelf, grabbed a canned coffee off the rack, and walked to the self-checkout machine.
"Crunch-pop!"
A third time, and the laughter was getting sleazier.
She could catch snatches of conversation: "Too skinny," "Not a small chest, I bet she stuck a heat pack on her tits," "I'll bet on that too."
As she paid, Xia Songluo glanced up at the security camera overhead. Last time she'd been burned by a camera and had to pay out a fine.
After checking out, she walked outside, sipping her coffee, and turned left along the storefront until she stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window.
She knocked on the glass with her knuckles to get their attention.
Through the pane, the guys at the high table all turned to look at her, expressions of surprise on their faces.
Once she had all their eyes, Xia Songluo took a few steps forward, raised her leg high, and with her black Martin boots kicked their motorcycles over, one by one.
After she was done, she backed up a few steps and flipped them the middle finger.
Then she turned toward the road, crushed the empty coffee can in her hand, and walked over to the bright red Ducati parked at the curb.
Jiang Hang sat on the bike, one foot on the ground, arms crossed, eyes closed, resting. He'd been awake for three days and two nights.
When he heard her coming, he turned his head to look.
Xia Songluo walked up. Through the helmet visor, she couldn't see his expression, but she assumed he'd be annoyed that she was causing trouble.
She tossed the garbage, then picked up the helmet resting on the cowl: "Sorry. I tried to hold it in. I couldn't."
Jiang Hang pointed behind her: "They're coming out."
Xia Songluo sat back down: "Ride faster, don't let them catch us. Just get past the neighborhood up ahead and stop. This'll be done quickly."
That was the Xiaolushan area, with no residential zones for a long stretch in either direction, and probably no cameras either.
Jiang Hang didn't move: "Out there, you'll have no hesitation, but neither will they. You by yourself, against the five of them—you sure you're okay?"
She put on her helmet: "Usually I wouldn't dare, but tonight I'm not scared. I've got a knife on me."
She slipped her hand into her pocket and touched the butterfly knife.
None of them were idiots—a little blood would send them running faster than anything.
But then she realized she shouldn't have said that out loud. Asking Jiang Hang out to talk while carrying a knife didn't exactly show good faith.
Xia Songluo tried to cover: "Aren't you my knife? If I really can't win, I'll call for your help. We haven't reached Pigeon Square yet—you're not going to bail on me, are you? If anything happens to me, and Jin Zhan can't reach me in the morning, your blond-haired buddy's still in trouble."
Jiang Hang didn't respond, just sat there without moving, lost in thought.
Seeing that the guys had already picked their bikes back up, Xia Songluo didn't want to fight here. She urged him: "Go, go!"
Jiang Hang fired up the engine.
As he shifted gears, he squeezed the clutch, cutting the power.
Xia Songluo saw him crank the throttle to the max, and her heart jumped. "Not too fast either!" she hurriedly said.
Too late. The moment he released the clutch, a thunderous roar exploded, and the bike shot off like a rocket.
Xia Songluo had no time to think. Determined not to get thrown off, she immediately bent forward, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist and pressing herself against his back.
The tachometer needle was nearly burying itself in the red, and he tore through consecutive curves without once hitting the brakes.
Before, he'd turned a warhorse into a granny cruiser. Now, he'd turned it into a mad stallion.
"Slow down!" Xia Songluo was terrified. "Beating them up—I could handle it on my own. I didn't need your help at all. Was it really necessary to ride like we were fleeing for our lives?"
"Or are you mad because I used your brother as leverage?"
The roar of the engine completely drowned out her voice.
They flew through the streets all the way into the city center, and only at the first red light did he finally stop.
Xia Songluo's hands and feet had gone weak with fear. She pulled off her helmet, swung her leg off the bike, and her stomach churned violently—she felt like throwing up.
She walked to the side of the road, squatted for a moment, but didn't vomit. She stood up, came back, grabbed the helmet, and hurled it at him in fury: "Are you insane? Were we running for our lives or what?"
The light had already turned green. It was the early hours of the morning, and no cars were behind them. Jiang Hang killed the engine: "How did you know the two of us could take them?"
"I refuse to believe you couldn't tell from the way they were holding their motorcycles." Xia Songluo gritted her teeth and lobbed the helmet at him again.
Jiang Hang's tone was flat: "If I weren't cautious, I wouldn't be alive today."
Xia Songluo was livid: "I see it now—you're nothing but a desperado!"
Jiang Hang flipped his visor up again and turned to look at her: "You're only now realizing I'm a desperado? I thought you knew exactly what you were getting into when you got on my bike."
Who could understand her? At that moment, Xia Songluo truly wanted to pull out that bronze letter tube and beat him with it.
But unfortunately, he wasn't wrong—she was the one who had chosen to get on.
"Let's go." Jiang Hang pulled his visor down. "It's almost dawn."
Xia Songluo tossed the helmet back to him: "I'm not going."
Jiang Hang caught it, then handed it back to her: "We can slow down now."
Xia Songluo was irritated: "I said I'm not going. There's no need to go."
She'd thought earlier that she wasn't the type to be lovestruck, that she wouldn't fall for a killer.
But now, whether or not he was a killer, she wasn't a masochist either—she wouldn't fall for a lunatic who went off the rails at the slightest provocation.
"Come over here. Let's talk for a bit, and after we're done, we each go our own way." Xia Songluo had noticed earlier, when she'd walked to the roadside, that there was a cultural park on the pedestrian walkway—basically a community garden, completely empty at this hour.
She left him behind, crossed the crosswalk onto the pedestrian path, walked into the small park, and sat down on one end of a bench.
Jiang Hang parked his bike at the entrance and walked over, sitting at the other end of the bench.
He raised his arm, bending his elbow to rest it on the back of the bench.
He said nothing.
Xia Songluo was trying to figure out where to begin, recalling what Jin Zhan had told her that day: "You should know an old saying: In three hundred and sixty trades, every trade has its master."
Jiang Hang said: "I studied in Malaysia."
Xia Songluo: "..."
She suddenly understood exactly how Jin Zhan must have felt when he'd shown her an English document and she couldn't read it—that same helplessness.
She explained it in her own terms: "It means there are all kinds of professions in this world. Scholars, farmers, artisans, merchants—high or low, noble or humble—each has its purpose in society. As long as you do it well, you can succeed."
Jiang Hang asked: "Do you believe that?"
"Not really..." Xia Songluo stopped herself in time. "But that's not the point. The point is the next line: The Twelve Guest Trades—each guest works his own marvel."
"These Twelve Guests—it's probably about professions too. Jin Zhan, the man you saw at my place the night before last—his family is one of the Twelve: the Letter Couriers. He said his ancestors ran three-thousand-li urgent deliveries in ancient times. Now, his parents both work at the postal service."
Jiang Hang pressed down the brim of his cap and said nothing.
Xia Songluo reached into the small pouch at her waist, pulled out the bronze letter tube, and the characters on its surface were still flickering red.
She handed it to him.
He didn't take it. He only lowered his eyes to look at the tube.
Xia Songluo said: "A week ago, I noticed pigeons gathering around me. The day before last, I found Jin Zhan, and he gave me this tube. He said there's a letter from the future inside—written by me, to you. He couldn't find you, so he could only find me. He told me that..." She hesitated slightly, "Jin Zhan told me that in the future, you and I might be husband and wife."
Jiang Hang kept his head down. The streetlight was dim, and she couldn't see his expression.
The air seemed to freeze for a moment. His shoulder seemed to give a slight twitch—like a cold laugh.
Xia Songluo shot him a fierce glare: "You think this is funny, don't you? I don't just find it funny—I find it utterly absurd."
Jiang Hang said: "But you believe it."
Xia Songluo didn't want to believe it either: "This Jiang Hang—you—really did show up, right beside me. Except for the occupation, everything matches. And that golden-armor pigeon Jin Zhan raises, and this bronze tube in my hand—they're all out of the ordinary, impossible to explain scientifically, right?"
After a moment of silence, Jiang Hang asked: "You keep chasing after me—are you curious about me as your future husband, or about these things that science can't explain?"
Xia Songluo was still angry, so she sneered back: "I'd like to ask you, what is there about you that's worth my curiosity?"
Jiang Hang nodded: "You're very curious about Jin Zhan?"
Xia Songluo admitted: "I'm curious about his identity as a Letter Courier. Aren't you surprised? That there are all these hidden extraordinary people in the world." She raised the tube, "And ancient objects like this one with mysterious powers."
Jiang Hang's gaze, however, moved away from the tube and toward the trees nearby.
Xia Songluo asked: "You still don't believe it."
Jiang Hang said flatly: "I never said I don't. I know the Twelve Guests exist."
Xia Songluo was stunned. She turned sideways, staring at his profile: "You know? How do you know?"
Jiang Hang didn't answer. He only said: "What I doubt isn't whether the Letter Couriers or the tube exist."
Xia Songluo: "Then what do you doubt?"
Jiang Hang said, one word at a time: "Jin Zhan wants to kill me."
Xia Songluo let out a muffled "Huh?" as she watched Jiang Hang pull two Bluetooth earbuds from the large cargo pocket at the knee of his work pants.
He put one in his own ear and one in Xia Songluo's.
After that, he took out his phone: "Sorry, last night before I left, I unlocked your car and removed the dashcam."
"What?" Xia Songluo was taken aback, but then she immediately remembered—two nights ago, Jin Zhan had come to her home, left the letter tube, and driven off with her car.
What Jiang Hang wanted, presumably, was Jin Zhan's route that night.
Sure enough, from the earbuds came Jin Zhan's voice.
"Grandpa, it's me, Jin Zhan."
Jin Zhan had been trying to ask his parents about something.
Then came another segment of conversation.
While driving, he had it on speakerphone. The person he was talking to was his mother.
Jin Zhan: "Mom, the recipient's name on the tube keeps flashing red. What does that mean?"
Hearing this, Xia Songluo thought: So his claims that Jiang Hang is dangerous were indeed lies.
His mother's mocking voice: "I told you to read more books, but you insisted on going to raise pigs."
Jin Zhan's helpless voice: "Mom, cross-time message delivery isn't common, is it? And the recipient's name flashing red—that's even rarer, right?"
His mother: "The name flashing red means the recipient is extremely dangerous."
Jin Zhan: "So I guessed right?"
His mother: "Guessed right?"
Jin Zhan: “This time, the recipient is a wanted criminal. His name flagged red. I suspect he’s a dangerous person, and I wanted to tell the sender to stop looking for him.”
Jin’s mother: “It’s the opposite.”
Jin Zhan: “What do you mean, the opposite?”
Jin’s mother: “The letter tube is reminding us that the recipient himself is in danger. He could lose his life at any moment and needs to be found as soon as possible. Otherwise, the task of this letter will fail, and the letter inside will be destroyed.”
Jin Zhan: “Oh, I see.”
Jin’s mother: “Use your brain and think it through. If the recipient weren’t facing a life-or-death crisis, why would a letter from the future automatically arrive at this exact point in time?”
Xia Songluo suddenly tightened her grip on the letter tube and glanced at Jiang Hang beside her.
Jiang Hang’s face was half hidden in the shadow of his cap brim, his expression unreadable.
Xia Songluo’s face darkened. That damn Jin Zhan—he said he’d come over yesterday morning, then suddenly claimed he was busy and wouldn’t show up.
So that was the reason.
He didn’t want to deliver a letter to a wanted criminal. He was afraid it would tarnish his reputation as a big-shot lawyer.
Knowing Jiang Hang was in danger, he’d decided he wouldn’t deal with it anymore, just let it go, and the task would vanish on its own.
“Jin Zhan isn’t trying to kill you,” Xia Songluo still felt the need to explain on his behalf. “He’s just slacking off. He doesn’t like this line of work, and he’s convinced from the bottom of his heart that you’re a bad person. He doesn’t want anything to do with you.”
“I originally thought the same thing,” Jiang Hang said in a low voice. “Until…”
“Hm?” Xia Songluo listened.
Jiang Hang put his phone away, and from the same pocket, he pulled out a silver butterfly knife.
He kept his arm resting on the back of the bench, spinning the knife idly in one hand, looking almost relaxed.
Xia Songluo’s pupils contracted sharply. She frantically reached for her own pocket.
In Jiang Hang’s hand was her butterfly knife!
She was certain that when she’d left the convenience store, the knife was still in her pocket.
“So you suddenly went crazy because of this?” Xia Songluo was at a loss for words.
She’d said she brought a knife—even though she’d tried to backtrack later, he’d gotten suspicious.
Her pants had no pockets, and usually people hid knives in the upper pockets for easy access.
He’d bolted into a sprint, she’d hugged him tight, pressed herself against his back—and the knife had traced its shape against his back.
He’d run wildly the whole way, she’d been tense and distracted, and he’d slipped his hand into her pocket without her noticing.
Xia Songluo wasn’t angry anymore. After all, as he’d said, if he weren’t cautious, he wouldn’t have survived this long.
Especially after learning from Jin Zhan that he was in danger right now.
If it were her, she’d do the same.
“With your skills, are you still afraid of a butterfly knife?” Xia Songluo couldn’t understand him. Was he being overly cautious? “Good thing I didn’t bring a trench knife—you’d have been scared to death.”
Jiang Hang spun the butterfly knife without a word. The only sound was the cold glint of steel flickering through a hundred intricate tricks.
Xia Songluo silently judged: he played it very well, but still far worse than her.
A butterfly knife is a flashy weapon—ballet for the fingers. It demands dexterity.
Jiang Hang’s style was clearly more about brute force.
Xia Songluo defended herself: “I only judged you weren’t a bad person because of that letter written to you. I know nothing else about you. What’s wrong with carrying a butterfly knife for self-defense?”
But Jiang Hang said as he kept flipping the knife: “I was just thinking—is there another possibility for the letter tube in your hand?”
Xia Songluo: “What possibility?”
She shifted her sitting position, because Jiang Hang spoke as if he had to translate whatever he wanted to say from Cantonese or English into Mandarin in his head first, then proofread it before saying it out loud. It was enough to drive a person insane.
Jiang Hang stared ahead: “In the future, you and Jin Zhan are the couple.”
Xia Songluo’s mouth twitched: “Just because I said I’m not curious about you, but I am curious about him?”
“Did you ever ask me why I know about the Twelve Guests?” Jiang Hang suddenly switched topics.
“Your reaction time is truly something else,” Xia Songluo thought he was acting crazy again.
“Because I’ve met another ‘guest’ among the Twelve,” Jiang Hang said. The butterfly knife in his hand slowed down.
“Tell me more?” Xia Songluo was very interested.
Jiang Hang said: “The Assassin.”
Xia Songluo froze for a moment: “The Assassin?”
What assassin?
An assassin like Jing Ke trying to kill the King of Qin?
An assassin jungling in the jungle in King of Glory?
“In ancient times they were called assassins—hired to kill,” Jiang Hang’s voice grew lower. “In modern times, they’re called hitmen—paid to do the job.”
When it came to hitmen, Xia Songluo could understand better, but the “Assassin” among the Twelve definitely wasn’t your ordinary killer.
She asked: “Do you know what abilities they have? Do they also possess ancient artifacts like the letter tube?”
Jiang Hang nodded slightly: “I’ve seen the Assassin twice. The first time was when I was eleven years old…”
That night when the typhoon was about to hit Malaysia, black clouds pressing down, wind and rain raging.
“I couldn’t move. I watched with my own eyes as he used a strange butterfly knife—with methods beyond everything I knew about this world—to torture and kill everyone in my family at the time.”
Jiang Hang’s voice grew more and more suppressed, and Xia Songluo, covered in warm patches, couldn’t help but shiver.
“The second time…”
Jiang Hang dragged out his words. The butterfly knife, now closed in his hand, suddenly snapped open.
He spun around, lunged forward, and cornered Xia Songluo against the bench.
He bent his knee, pressing down on her legs. One arm wrapped around the back of her neck, and he leaned down.
A passerby on the sidewalk glancing over would see what looked like a man swooning with passion, kissing and holding his lover.
In reality, the sharp edge of the butterfly knife was pressed against Xia Songluo’s throat.
Xia Songluo tilted her head slightly, cold sweat beading on her forehead.
Jiang Hang’s nose was almost touching hers.
This time, she could even see the fine fuzz on his face, clearly.
His eyes, slightly damper than an ordinary person’s, hid a deep and brutal violence, waiting to be unleashed.
Just like the terrifying night he spoke of, when the typhoon was about to land.
“All these years I’ve been hiding, did you think I was running from the police? The Assassin is looking for me, and I’m looking for them too.”
Jiang Hang’s gaze dropped to the bronze letter tube clutched on Xia Songluo’s chest. “Last night I wanted to run, just because I didn’t want to get tangled up with message couriers. Who knows if they’re in league with the Assassin?”
Xia Songluo couldn’t speak with the blade at her throat.
“But when I found the butterfly knife on you, I thought of one possibility…”
Jiang Hang let out a low laugh. “In the future, did I succeed in wiping out that assassin organization myself? But there was one who slipped through the net— she’s married to Jin Zhan, and through Jin Zhan’s identity as a courier, she sent a letter, trying to use the courier family’s carrier pigeons to pull me out from the whole world, kill me ahead of time, and change the future.”
“Xia Songluo, you say you’re my wife. But the truth is, when I go with you to find Jin Zhan and open this letter, the moment Jin Zhan translates it, he’ll realize that I’m actually your enemy—and both of you, husband and wife, will join forces against me.”
“That’s what the letter tube is warning me about. My life-or-death crisis.”
After the long night finally gave way to dawn, the sky gradually brightened.
A few students walking together to school for morning study passed through the cultural corridor, chatting and laughing as they went by.
Jiang Hang tilted his head slightly, leaning close to her ear, murmuring like lovers do, "Do you think my guess is possible, Miss Assassin?"
