When that gust of wind swept by, almost no one between the gates of the Western Chu capital and the imperial city paid it any mind—except for one disheveled old madman who froze in place.
This old man had long been the laughingstock of officials even in distant Tai’an City. Ragged and unkempt, he would roam the alleys, striking his night-watchman’s clapper as usual. Unlike ordinary watchmen who patrolled at night, he only did so during the day, telling everyone he met, “You’re all dead.” In the early years, some well-dressed elders would stop their carriages or linger from afar, watching this deranged old watchman with tears in their eyes. But as time passed, the old man would be trailed by a gaggle of idle children, jeering and shouting, “Dead man! Dead man!” Most would soon be dragged away by their parents, ears pinched in punishment. Years later, the entire city had grown accustomed to his antics.
By the time of the Xiangfu era, when Western Chu was restored, the old watchman—whose voice had nearly given out—suddenly began wailing with a grief deeper than ever before. Before the restoration, Grand Preceptor Sun Xiji, Cao Changqing, and Jiang Ni, who had yet to ascend the throne, once encountered this aged madman on the streets. The old watchman had pointed his clapper at Sun Xiji, calling him a “dead man,” and labeled Cao Changqing a “soon-to-be-dead man.” But when his eyes fell upon the exiled princess Jiang Ni, he broke into heart-wrenching sobs, begging her—the only “living” one left—to flee.
Only after the old man had run off did Sun Xiji reveal the truth: the madman was once named Jiang Shuilang, who at the age of thirty-nine had overseen the Chongwen Academy of Great Chu, managing three divisions of scholars and six hundred editors. Praised by the late Western Chu emperor as “the Jiang Shuilang of letters, the Cao Deyi of chess,” Jiang Shuilang was unlike other surviving elders who retreated into Taoist quietism or Buddhist seclusion—he simply went mad. For over twenty years, he wandered the streets of what was once the greatest city in the Central Plains, striking his clapper in broad daylight.
Now, the old man’s clouded eyes gradually cleared. His copper gong and clapper slipped from his hands and clattered to the ground. Suddenly, he turned and sprinted, stumbling and falling repeatedly but ignoring the pain, scrambling back up each time. When he finally reached his dilapidated, isolated hut, his gaze grew vacant again. Clutching his head, he crouched and let out hoarse, choked sobs, like a mangy dog covered in scars—his pain not from his body, but from a heart burdened with decades of memories.
With a pained expression, the old man staggered into his hut, rummaging through the mess until he unearthed an erhu from beneath the bed. Its python skin had long peeled away, its strings snapped, and even its neck was missing. Holding the ruined instrument, he stared blankly. After a long silence, he exhaled slowly, fetched a rickety stool, and sat before his doorless hut. Straightening his ragged clothes, he closed his eyes, dipped a finger in his saliva, and mimed flipping open an invisible music score. Then, he began to “play” the neckless, stringless erhu.
The tune in his heart was called *Spring and Autumn*.
The great rivers of Western Chu, the towering peaks of Eastern Yue, the frontier deserts of Northern Han, the lychees of Southern Tang, the silks of Western Shu, the colossal timbers of Later Sui…
When the old man was still Jiang Shuilang, Western Chu was called *Great Chu*!
Great Chu had Li Mi, the world’s finest strategist; Ye Baikui, the unrivaled general of the Spring and Autumn era; Li Chungang, who once flew his sword across the Guangling River; Zhao Dingxiu, whose calligraphy was unmatched; Wang Qing, whose poetry crowned the capital; Cao Changqing, the pride of the Cao family; Sun Xiji, who rose to the imperial court in his youth, draped in purple and gold; Zeng Xianglin, the most refined in ritual; Tang Jiahe, a master of a hundred schools of thought…
Tears streamed down the old man’s face.
Great Chu was gone—a lone ghost wandering the wilderness of history, with nowhere to belong.
Abruptly, the old man stopped “playing” and burst into laughter. Finally, he lowered his head and murmured, “I’m not mad. When Great Chu fell, some pretended to sleep, some feigned ignorance, some acted dead. I, Jiang Shuilang, simply couldn’t get drunk enough.”
Wiping his tears haphazardly, he looked into the distance, fingers trembling.
In those days, when he was still young and the “dead” had yet to die, there was a tune that once echoed through the courts and across the land—a song written for General Ye Baikui, composed by Jiang Shuilang, with lyrics by Wang Qing and calligraphy by Zhao Dingxiu.
Its name was *The General’s March*, sung wherever there was a well.
The old man began to sing with fervor, but broke down after just one line.
*”A youth not yet crowned, leaves his homeland with noble heart!”*
—
From the innermost palace to the outer walls of Tai’an City, each of the three layers of defense had its guardians. Once, Liu Haoshi was one of them. Now, the ancestral master of the Wu Family Sword Mausoleum stood in his place.
Beyond these martial masters, Tai’an City itself was protected by two grand formations centered around the Imperial Astronomical Bureau, operating ceaselessly.
The grand formation of the Western Chu capital had long been shattered after the kingdom’s fall, destroyed by the usurping Prince Zhao Yi of Guangling. Yet even now, there were still those who guarded its gates. Among them was Lü Dantian, the foremost swordsman of Western Chu—though he had yet to return. The other two, elusive as dragons, now stood plainly in broad daylight. One stood behind the imperial gate, frail and small, draped in wide sleeves and wooden clogs, like a scarecrow by a rice field. The other stood before the palace gate, gazing at the first from afar—an elderly man in a python robe that matched neither the style of the Liyang princes nor the current Western Chu court, but rather the old Great Chu imperial fashion. This tall, lifeless old man had once been stripped of his Jiang lineage by the Great Chu royal family.
Between the two elders stood sixteen hundred elite imperial guards, their polished armor gleaming like celestial gold under the sun.
On the ramparts above, nearly a thousand archers stood ready.
And outside the gate, standing alone, was the audacious young man.
Several high-ranking officers atop the walls stood behind the battlements, drenched in cold sweat, none daring to act or give the first order.
Of all the cities in the world, the people of Tai’an City and this one were the most fervent believers in the existence of terrestrial immortals—largely because of one man: Grand Secretary Cao Changqing.
The martial artists of the Eastern Sea’s Martial Emperor City paled in comparison, for the self-proclaimed “Second Under Heaven,” Wang Xianzhi, never claimed divinity. Over sixty years, countless masters had come and gone, all defeated by this mere mortal, making the city’s folk indifferent to so-called immortals.
But whether it was Cao Changqing or Wang Xianzhi, no matter how high their martial prowess soared, the young man below the city, hands resting on his sword hilts, was at the very least their equal—a grandmaster standing on the same floor.
Xu Fengnian remained where he was. Only now, at this moment, did it strike him that the old man in sheepskin had been a son of Western Chu.
He grinned.
He remembered how, after the climactic battle in Tai’an City, both Cao Changqing and Deng Tai’a had asked him the same question:
*Had that old man by the Guangling River, who shattered two thousand six hundred armors in one breath, truly crossed the threshold into the realm of heaven and earth?*
Back then, Xu Fengnian hadn’t answered directly. Instead, he’d smiled, held up a finger, and let them guess.
*One breath, stretching a thousand miles—and a hundred more.*
*A single sword’s energy, summoning thunder from a thousand miles away.*
Whenever you could face yourself without shame—like the green-robed Sword God sixty years ago, or the old man in sheepskin who had finally freed his heart—becoming the world’s strongest was effortless.
*Because you are Li Chungang.*
In this vast martial world, only you could measure everything by the three feet of your sword.
The title of “Peerless Under Heaven” was a heavy burden—yet only you, Li Chungang, could set it down or pick it up at will.
Xu Fengnian suddenly felt a surge of anger.
But the one he wanted to vent it on was no longer in this city. By now, he was likely far beyond Tai’an’s walls.
*Cao Changqing, I shouldn’t have let you take her away back then!*
*If it were today, would you dare strut before me like some grandmaster?*
Xu Fengnian pressed his palms against the hilts of his Liangdao and *Guohezuo*, taking a deep breath.
His aura surged like a rainbow.
The moment his hands tightened around the hilts, the towering imperial gate shattered beneath his foot.
A thunderclap erupted in the Western Chu capital as the gate exploded into dust.
The small, wide-sleeved elder guarding the gate remained unmoved, steadying his breath and extending his hands, curling his middle fingers as if plucking strings.
With each “pluck,” his sleeves billowed like sails filled with wind, and he slid backward several paces.
Between the frail elder and the towering gate, two dragons—one black, one white—coiled into existence from his fingertips.
—
By the lakeside pavilion in the palace’s northwest, the air was thick with tension. Deputy Commander He Taisheng of the Imperial Guard, clad in golden armor, stood awkwardly at the foot of the steps.
Though Lü Dantian, the swordsman, nominally commanded the four thousand imperial guards—outranking He Taisheng and the other two deputy commanders—he held only a ceremonial post, leaving real authority in the hands of He Taisheng and Gu Sui, who currently guarded the palace gates. The third deputy, a certain Qi, had long been sidelined, drowning his sorrows in drink and rarely appearing for duty since the start of the year.
He Taisheng and Gu Sui were different. Gu Sui came from a noble family with two elders dominating the court, allowing him to navigate politics with ease. He Taisheng, however, was of modest lineage, having clawed his way up through battlefield merits and backroom alliances. The harder the climb, the more he cherished his position—making his current turmoil all the sharper. Guilt toward the young empress warred with a darker, hidden ambition.
Having lived as a subject of Liyang for twenty years, He Taisheng no longer shared the older generation’s obsession with Great Chu or Western Chu. Whether the royal surname was Jiang or Zhao mattered little to a man in his prime, hungry for power. He had fought valiantly, distinguishing himself in the annihilation of Yan Zhenchun’s cavalry, believing he could rise as a founding hero of the restored dynasty. After returning to the capital, he was swiftly recruited by the rising star of the Song family, Song Maolin.
Now aboard the Song family’s soaring ship, He Taisheng had ascended rapidly—so much so that even the Songs, who saw him as a valuable asset, didn’t realize he had also caught the eye of a hidden power within the city: the Zhao Gou’s shadowy figures had promised him the rank of *Zhenhu General*.
In the Liyang dynasty, honorary generals were a dime a dozen, but real authority lay with the *Four Expeditions*, *Four Pacifications*, *Four Garrisons*, and *Four Secures*—the sixteen “great generals.” Below them, positions like *Hengjiang General* (which Song Li had obtained last year) and the *Zhenhu General* He Taisheng now coveted were still formidable, rivaling even provincial military governors.
He Taisheng’s gaze flicked furtively toward the woman.
The Empress of Great Chu.
A beauty ranked on the *Rouge List*.
A sword immortal in her own right.
His heart burned like a furnace.
*Why can you, Song Maolin—a weak scholar who couldn’t crush a chicken—openly admire her, while I must grovel, lowering my cup beneath yours at every toast?*
Song Wenfeng, after hearing He Taisheng’s urgent report, remained unshaken, smiling faintly by a vermilion pillar. “Does Your Majesty believe that man’s sudden appearance in the capital solves everything?”
Receiving no answer, he continued, “His arrival is unexpected. Logically, he should have waited beyond the walls for his ten thousand Liang savages to break through Wu Zhongxuan’s forces and our defenses. But I must say, this young prince is bold—unfortunately, his luck is abysmal. Once we confirmed Cao Changqing’s departure, the three great families, led by my Song, began our preparations—originally meant for Cao’s potential return, not this Xu boy. Your Majesty is new to the throne, too young to know many secrets… and, of course, you’ve never truly cared for statecraft…”
Here, his voice dripped with scorn for the first time.
*”After all, a woman holding the reins of power—how could her heart truly be in the rise and fall of nations?”*
Song Maolin, pale-faced, started to speak, but his father, Song Qingshan, yanked his sleeve, silencing him with a glare. Clenching his fists, the renowned romantic lowered his head in anguish.
Song Wenfeng, patriarch of the Song family, stroked the lacquered pillar. “Human hearts are fickle. When Great Chu fell and Zhao Yi seized this city, the grand formation’s secrets were quickly leaked. Yet when we drove out that Liyang prince, someone else came forward with the other half, claiming Zhao had only destroyed part of it. Your Majesty, see how one thing is sold in two parts—both at sky-high prices? Clever, no? I was once a bookish pedant, no better than Tang Jiahe hiding in the mountains. But these twenty years of watching coldly have taught me: in this bustling world of fame and profit, aren’t we all merchants? Common merchants chase wealth; we scholars chase legacy, craving a place in history. In the end, it’s the same.”
The old man seemed to sense a chill, instinctively tugging at his collar and sleeves. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I implore you to look around. In the court of Great Chu today, who isn’t waiting to sell themselves to the highest bidder? Who isn’t plotting their own escape? There are those who remain loyal to you—many, in fact—but alas, they are all on the battlefield, not in the capital. They cannot escape death. Even if they miraculously survive the war, we will ensure they do not live. Rest assured, the Zhao clan of Liyang will delight in this outcome. Whether scholars kill scholars or scholars kill warriors, it has always been a bloodless affair. The key is to ensure the defeated can never rise again in the annals of history.”
At some point, the Emperor of Great Chu remained seated cross-legged, now facing the martial world with her back to the crowd. She had already gathered the stacks of copper coins she had meticulously arranged earlier.
With a tone neither light nor heavy, she uttered a childish yet jarring remark: “Are you trying to scare me?”
Song Wenfeng was torn between laughter and tears. It felt like watching a master calligrapher painstakingly crafting a masterpiece, only for an illiterate brute to ask how it was and reply that he couldn’t understand a single character.
She continued, “Though I don’t quite grasp what you’re saying, I wasn’t raised to be frightened.”
There was something she didn’t say aloud.
*I was raised being bullied.*
Frustrated by what felt like casting pearls before swine, Song Wenfeng inexplicably surged with rage. He raised his hand abruptly, ready to strike the young woman.
In that moment, the old man had never felt more heroic.
But suddenly, the ground shook violently, and he nearly collided headfirst with a pillar.
※※※
At the imperial city gates, two ferocious flood dragons charged forward.
Xu Fengnian didn’t draw a single blade. Instead, he raised both hands, fingers splayed, and directly seized the monstrous heads of the two massive dragons.
Light erupted between his fingers.
The two gales of wind were so fierce that they swept Xu Fengnian’s hair back from his temples.
With a downward press of his hands, the black and white flood dragons were forced like stubborn oxen to drink water, powerless to resist as they crashed into the water.
Two enormous craters formed beside Xu Fengnian, their depths matching the lengths of the dragons.
Xu Fengnian stared at the expressionless, diminutive old man. “I didn’t come here to kill, but don’t push your luck.”
The old man, standing twenty zhang away, smirked coldly. He crossed his hands and drew a large circle in front of him.
Energy swirled, rippling outward.
A thick mirror-like surface formed, as if he had lifted a basin of water and removed the basin, leaving the water suspended in midair.
The old man glared at the young prince who seemed to dominate the martial world, his smile not reaching his eyes. “This old ghost may be nothing but bones, but I still have unfinished business. I’ve never had the chance to compete with Han Shengxuan, the ‘Human Cat,’ so I still don’t know who truly reigns supreme in the Zhixuan realm.”
Within the mirror, towering pavilions and palaces materialized, as vivid as mirages or ethereal paradises.
Upon closer inspection, one could see the entire Western Chu capital, down to the finest detail.
The old man lightly tapped the mirror with a finger.
Once, then again.
Five times in total.
High above the Western Chu capital, a thunderbolt seemed to descend from the heavens, piercing the clouds and hurtling straight toward the young prince’s head.
*The wrath of the immortals—five thunderbolts strike the crown.*
The first thunderbolt, channeling the heavens’ fury, exploded three chi above Xu Fengnian’s head.
The chaotic energy scattered around him, instantly stripping three cun of earth from the ground.
A glimmer of delight flashed in the old man’s eyes.
But his expression soon turned to shock.
The second thunderbolt didn’t strike the young prince’s head but stopped a zhang above him. The third was even higher, and the last was all thunder and no rain.
The old man’s grand display was clearly using the remnants of Western Chu’s fortune as a shortcut to the Tianxiang realm.
These dwindling reserves belonged to *her*.
And that foolish girl would fret or rejoice over the loss or gain of a single copper coin for days.
Without another word, Xu Fengnian surged forward.
The next moment, he stood behind the diminutive old man. “You dare compare yourself to Han Shengxuan for the title of Zhixuan’s finest?”
The old man’s head was no longer attached to his body—it now dangled from the young prince’s hand.
The long-retired elder of the Jiang clan of Great Chu suddenly opened his eyes, his aura exploding.
Xu Fengnian casually tossed the head toward the sixteen hundred armored soldiers.
It rolled across the ground, leaving a trail of blood.
At that moment, three riders with swords on their backs galloped down the imperial path. A booming voice called out from behind Xu Fengnian: “Xu Fengnian! Leave the capital!”
As the three riders neared the palace gates, they drew their swords, filling the path with sword energy.
These were the last remaining sword masters of Western Chu, aside from Lü Dantian.
Xu Fengnian calmly uttered three words: “Get lost.”
The three horses charging side by side collided with an invisible, iron-hard wall as they reached the gate, their heads shattering on impact.
The three renowned sword masters, sensing danger, abandoned their mounts and leaped forward, thrusting their swords at the unseen barrier.
Without exception, their blades snapped upon impact. The strongest among them slammed bodily into the energy wall.
It was like three fine needles piercing thick paper—the paper remained intact while the needles broke.
The difference in power was stark.
The three sword masters, their internal organs injured, exchanged stunned glances.
Xu Fengnian didn’t even turn his head. Staring at the outnumbered yet terrified imperial guards, he said coldly, “Move.”
With each step Xu Fengnian took forward, the first line of armored soldiers retreated a step.
When Xu Fengnian’s right hand grasped the hilt of *Guohezu* at his left waist, the densely packed infantry formation grew even more chaotic.
From the city walls, officers finally gave the order to shoot.
But the arrows from over a thousand bows froze in midair less than a zhang from their strings, then slowly turned their points backward.
A thousand cold, sharp arrowheads resembled a thousand venomous snakes hissing in the dark.
Some swallowed hard, others broke into cold sweats, and a few trembled.
But not a single voice was raised, not a single soldier retreated.
The elder of the Jiang imperial clan stepped forward, crushing an object in his palm before striking his chest with a heavy fist.
His already towering frame suddenly expanded to an impossible fourteen chi, radiating golden light.
Seeing this familiar sight, as if transported back to the gates of the Imperial Academy, Xu Fengnian said darkly, “You truly deserve death.”
The golden giant raised his arms to shield his head.
Xu Fengnian flashed past the armored formation, his right hand wielding *Guohezu* to slash at the giant’s arm.
The golden giant was sent crashing through the palace gates.
As Xu Fengnian stepped inside, the golden giant rose from the dust, knees slightly bent, and declared, “Again!”
Xu Fengnian vanished once more.
The golden giant was forced back again, carving a trench into the hard ground.
This time, before the giant could speak, Xu Fengnian struck him down into the earth with another slash.
Xu Fengnian strode forward, blade in hand.
Behind him, rubble exploded from the crater as the golden giant, reforged from Western Chu’s fortune, charged like thunder, each step shaking the earth.
Xu Fengnian’s left hand gripped the Beiliang blade at his right waist.
This blade had already been broken in his battle with Chen Zhibao at Guangling River, and *Guohezu* bore fine cracks as well.
In that fight, Xu Fengnian had stabbed Chen Zhibao once.
The cost was a strike from the plum wine spear, its tip shifting from green to purple, slamming into his shoulder.
Xu Fengnian turned and slashed with his left hand.
The broken Beiliang blade traced a crescent moon across the mortal world.
The golden giant, struck at the neck, wasn’t decapitated but sent flying, crashing into the city wall.
The giant, now matching the indestructible golden body of Buddhist teachings, clawed his way free, ready to fight again.
Xu Fengnian leaned forward, gripping his blade with both hands, and surged toward him.
※※※
Near the lakeside pavilion in the martial world, updates kept arriving, and He Taisheng’s expression grew increasingly grave.
Song Wenfeng’s face darkened unpredictably.
The young empress seemed utterly indifferent to the fierce battle raging nearby, her gaze fixed on the still waters, where an occasional geyser erupted.
Perhaps no one noticed the subtle detail: in just over half a month, the lake’s water level had risen several zhang. But with the palace’s eunuchs and maids all new to Western Chu, they assumed it was simply the spring’s doing.
Resting her chin in her hands, she gazed into the distance, where greenery flourished, vibrant with life.
This time, it was her turn to mock them. “What, are you scared now?”
Song Wenfeng sneered. “Does Your Majesty truly believe the Northern Liang Prince can leave unscathed? Or that you can flee with him?”
It was the season of blooming grass and singing orioles.
Yet one oriole inexplicably plummeted into the lake.
In a whisper only she could hear, she murmured, “I’m not leaving.”
Song Wenfeng’s voice turned sharp. “Jiang Shi, never forget—you were born a Jiang of Great Chu, and even in death, you must remain a Jiang ghost! You may die anywhere in this world, but never in Northern Liang! That is neither your place of refuge nor peace!”
Song Wenfeng, furious to the point of laughter, glared at the young woman. “Hah! What a farce! The eldest son of Xu Xiao, rescuing the emperor of Great Chu’s Jiang clan from this cage?! Your Majesty, as a loyal subject of Great Chu, I ask you one last time: even if no one stops you, dare you follow him? How could you face your ancestors?!”
Just then, an unfamiliar yet warm voice spoke nearby. “Old turtle, shut up, will you?”
Song Wenfeng froze as if struck by lightning, too afraid to turn around.
Song Qingshan and Song Maolin fared no better, while Deputy Commander He Taisheng broke into a cold sweat.
The young man who had finally arrived was travel-worn, his left shoulder stained with blood.
He instinctively wiped his shoulder, like a farmer returning from the fields, brushing off sweat before knocking on his door so his wife wouldn’t see his exhaustion.
He Taisheng quietly retreated a step.
The clank of his armor drew unwanted attention, making him loathe its ostentatiousness for the first time.
The young man glanced around, deliberately ignoring the elegant Song Maolin, and instead smirked at the middle-aged Song Qingshan. “Ah, so you’re that Song Maolin fellow. Quite the dandy, aren’t you?”
Song Qingshan and Song Maolin both turned livid.
Song Wenfeng narrowed his eyes, his thoughts inscrutable—a true old fox of the court.
Xu Fengnian crooked a finger at the “Song Maolin” he’d singled out. “Step forward, boy. Let’s have a chat.”
Song Qingshan, enraged, snapped, “Xu Fengnian, how dare you! This is the capital of Great Chu—”
*Slap!*
Song Qingshan was sent flying, landing several zhang away, twitching before falling still.
The real Song Maolin barely opened his mouth before suffering the same fate, as Xu Fengnian muttered, “Ugly as sin, yet parading around in broad daylight…”
In the pavilion, her back still turned, her shoulders seemed to tremble slightly.
Xu Fengnian, his gaze fixed on her, smiled.
Just seeing her—even from behind—filled him with joy.
He Taisheng, not daring to breathe, stared fixedly at his nose, pretending not to see the unfolding tragedy.
Alas, the unreasonable youth kicked him anyway, sending him flying like a shrimp into a thick willow tree. He vomited a mouthful of blood before passing out.
Xu Fengnian ascended the steps one by one.
Song Wenfeng retreated until his back hit a pillar.
Xu Fengnian slammed his head into the pillar.
The high-ranking official of Great Chu’s Chancellery slumped to the ground, eyes rolling back.
She faced the martial world; he turned his back to it.
Softly, he said, “Had enough? If so, come with me.”
She remained silent.
He added, “If not, I can wait.”
Still, she said nothing.
After their reunion, the two stood wordlessly for a long time.
Xu Fengnian repeated, louder this time: “Come with me!”
Yet she refused to speak.
Lowering his voice, he pleaded, “Please?”
Jiang Shi—no longer the pitiful maid Xiao Niren of Northern Liang Manor—lifted her head slightly, her tone devoid of emotion. “They don’t know. But you do.”
The martial world before her…
Why had the lake’s water risen this spring? Why did birds often fall from the sky near the capital? Why did lingering by the lake chill one to the bone?
Because over a hundred thousand swords lay hidden beneath its surface!
They had flown from all corners of the land to gather here.
She said slowly, “I’ve already returned the sword case to you through Elder Lü.”
Whether he truly didn’t know or was pretending, he simply replied, “I received it. Come back for it.”
She said calmly, “Leave.”
He replied, “I won’t bully you anymore.”
He grinned. “Really.”
She fell silent for a moment. “Go! Since I didn’t go to West Rampart, I’ll never leave this place in this lifetime. If you don’t leave, either I die, or you die!”
She suddenly stood up, still facing the small lake.
As she rose, so did the *one hundred thousand* genuine swords lurking beneath the lake’s surface!
The heavens and earth brimmed with sword energy!
“Go!” she roared.
Xu Xiao sat quietly beside her, gazing at the pair of boots she had haphazardly discarded. He bent down and straightened them.
As he leaned over, he sniffled, his face streaked with tears.
She couldn’t see.
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