"I was just trying to save lives."
There were too many wounded. They came down from the north in wave after wave. Some could still walk on their own, arms draped over companions' shoulders, blood dripping down their trouser legs. Others were carried on wooden doors, faces covered with cloth, it was impossible to tell if they were dead or alive. I squatted on the open ground east of the camp, my hand pressing on a man's shoulder to staunch the wound in his abdomen. Blood seeped through my fingers, warm and sticky. My stomach churned, but I didn't let go.
Sounds around me blended into a chaotic roar. Calls for stretchers, demands for tourniquets, shouts for military surgeons. In the distance, the sounds of battle continued, quieter than before but still present. The tents flapped loudly in the wind, and the light from the torches danced across everyone's faces, flickering bright then dim.
I could no longer attend to anything else. I turned to find bandages, my knees kneeling on the sandy ground, grinding painfully. The medicine chest beside me had tipped over; the bottle of golden wound powder rolled far away. I reached for it, my fingertips just touching the bottle—
Then I heard someone shouting. Very close, right behind me. The voice was sharp, filled with terror.
I looked up.
A man was charging at me.
He was covered in blood, his sword raised high, the blade reflecting the torchlight. His face was twisted under the firelight, eyes wide open. Too close. So close I could even see the scratches on his armor, could smell the pungent mix of blood and sweat on him.
My mind went blank for an instant. My knees were still buried in the sand, my hand still clutching that medicine bottle. I wanted to stand, but my legs were weak. I wanted to dodge, but my body wouldn't obey.
The next second—
Someone was faster than me.
Zhu Zhanji had somehow arrived by my side. I hadn't seen how he got there. One second he was still at the north of the camp, surrounded by messengers and banners. The next, he was standing right in front of me. His great cloak was whipped aside by the wind; his light armor was dust-stained, and the missing corner of the armor plate on his left shoulder hadn't been replaced yet. His sword was already unsheathed.
The man fell. Clean and decisive. No second strike needed.
The sound of the blade slicing through the air was brief, so brief I hadn't even had time to blink. The attacker crashed to the ground, his sword flying from his hand and landing with a dull thud three paces away from me.
The air suddenly fell silent for a moment.
He stood before me. Very close. Close enough for me to see the fine scratches on his armor, to see the hair at his temples ruffled by the wind, to see the fingers gripping his sword—distinct knuckles, steady. His chest heaved; his breathing was heavier than usual. Yet, his entire presence was still, like a sword that had just been unsheathed and returned to its scabbard.
I opened my mouth, but my throat was too dry to make a sound.
He looked down at me. His gaze was cold—not angry, but the coldness of the battlefield. Assessing the situation, calculating gains and losses, deciding the next move. But when that gaze landed on me, there was an added layer to it. I couldn't quite define what it was. I just felt his eyes were heavier than usual. Like a hand resting on my shoulder—not heavy, but palpable.
Instinctively, I wanted to explain: "I could—"
"No." He cut me off. His voice wasn't loud, but it was crisp. There was no room for negotiation, no explanation, he didn't even look at me.
I froze. He had never spoken to me like this before. When we were in the Eastern Palace, if I said I wanted to go to the market, he would say, "This Prince will accompany you." If I said I wanted to raise Huang Tuan (a pet), he would say, "Keep it in your courtyard." If I said I wanted to buy a new jar for the Great General, he would say, "Buy it if you like it." He never directly said "No." This was the first time.
"Step back," he said.
I didn't move. Not because I didn't want to, but because my legs were still weak. My knees were sunk into the sand, painful, but I couldn't summon any strength. I was still clutching the medicine bottle, its surface warmed by my body heat. I wanted to say "I can help," wanted to say "There are too many wounded," wanted to say "I didn't mean to run to the front." But those words stuck in my throat; not a single one could come out.
It wasn't because he would scold me. It was because of the way he looked at me. That look—not blame, nor pity, but something in between. I couldn't clarify it. But that look made me feel that if I said "I can" one more time, it would be adding another stone onto a heart already burdened heavily.
"You are not needed here right now," he said.
This sentence carried some weight. It wasn't a command; it was a statement. He was telling me a fact: this is not my battlefield. I cannot help them. The only thing I can do is avoid becoming another person who needs protection.
For the first time, I did not argue. I released the medicine bottle in my hand, pushed against the ground, and slowly stood up. My knees tingled with pain, my calves trembled, but I stood firm. I took a step back. Then another.
He had already turned away. As if nothing had happened, he walked back toward the north of the camp. His pace was neither fast nor slow, the same as when he came. The wind whipped up his great cloak, his silhouette stretching long in the torchlight. Those few steps were short—so short he hadn't even reached the edge of the camp. Yet they felt long—so long that I stood there, watching him walk away, unable to say a word.
I stood there, my hands still trembling. Not from fear. It was the body's natural reaction after the adrenaline faded. Back in Australia, when an animal anesthesia procedure in the lab went wrong and it nearly bit me, my hands shook like this afterward. But this time, the trembling was worse.
I looked down at the person on the ground. He was motionless. The sword still lay three paces away from me. My shoes were stained with blood; I didn't know whose it was. The medicine bottle rolled in the sand, mouth down, the powder inside spilled everywhere. I squatted down and picked up the bottle. Empty.
Eunuch Li came running from behind, his face still pale, his voice trembling: "Miss! Miss, are you alright?"
"I'm fine," I said. My voice was steadier than I expected.
"His Highness said to have you return to your tent."
I looked toward the north of the camp. Zhu Zhanji had already returned to that high ground and was speaking with the messengers. His hands weren't shaking. His voice was steady. He stood there, just as before.
He seemed to sense something, tilting his head slightly. He didn't look at me, just tilted his head slightly. Then he turned back.
I tucked the empty medicine bottle into my sleeve pocket and followed Eunuch Li back. After walking a few steps, I looked back. He was still there. The wind blew his great cloak upward, torchlight dancing on his armor. He stood there, in the same posture as when he blocked the attack in front of me.
I turned my head back and continued walking.
Back in the tent, the charcoal fire burned fiercely. I sat on a low stool, extending my hands toward the fire. My fingers were still trembling, not severely, but I could feel it. I clenched my hands into fists, then released them. Clenched, released. Repeated several times, they still trembled.
Ruolan was not there. No one was there to pour me tea. I sat there, staring at the charcoal in the fire basin. The charcoal burned white, with a hint of red at the edges, occasionally popping with a soft sound. I stared at those sparks, my mind completely blank.
After a long time—perhaps not long, I didn't know—the tent flap was lifted. Wind rushed in, causing the flames to flicker.
Zhu Zhanji walked in. He stood at the doorway, glanced at me. Then he walked over and sat down opposite me.
He didn't speak. He just sat down and extended his hands toward the fire. There was still blood on his hands. Not his own. It belonged to that man. The blood had dried somewhat, leaving dark red stains on the back of his hand. He didn't wipe it off; it seemed he hadn't even noticed.
I didn't speak either.
We sat like that. The wind blew outside, the tent rustled, the charcoal fire burned. Neither of us opened our mouths.
After a long while, he suddenly said: "Your hands are still shaking."
I looked down. Indeed, they were still trembling. Not obviously, but it was visible. I pulled my hands back into my sleeves. "It's nothing," I said.
He didn't press further. He just pushed the teapot on the table toward me. "Drink something hot."
I poured a cup of tea and held it in my palms. Hot. Scalding hot, as always. I took a sip; it was bitter. But as my fingers touched the cup wall, the trembling subsided slightly.
"Zhu Zhanji."
"Hmm."
"Just now—did you come specifically for me?"
He didn't answer. He stared at the fire basin, silent for a long time. So long that I thought he wouldn't reply.
"Next time," he said, "don't go to the front."
"There were too many wounded—"
"I know." He interrupted me, his voice soft but firm. "But next time, don't go to the front."
He didn't explain why. He didn't say "It's too dangerous," or "You could get hurt." He just repeated it. Like a request that needed no reason, or rather, a demand he knew I wouldn't agree to, but felt compelled to make anyway.
I said nothing more. I held the teacup in my palms, warmth slowly rising from my fingertips.
He stood up, walked to the tent entrance, and lifted the flap. The wind rushed in again, the flames flickered. He stood there, his back to me.
"Song Yu'an."
"Hmm."
"As long as you are safe, that is all that matters."
His voice was very light. So light it almost scattered in the wind. But I heard it.
Then he left. The curtain fell, blocking the wind outside. The flames jumped a few times, then stabilized.
I sat there, holding that cup of tea. The tea was still hot. My fingers had mostly stopped trembling.
I looked at the whitened charcoal in the fire basin, thinking of when he said those words just now—his voice so light, as if he didn't want anyone else to hear, or perhaps, as if he wanted only me to hear.
I put down the teacup, took the empty medicine bottle from my sleeve, and placed it on the table. The bottle was stained with sand and a bit of uncleaned blood. I stared at the bottle for a while. It originally contained medicinal powder that could save lives. Now it was empty. Just like me.
I turned the bottle upside down, mouth facing down; nothing could be poured out.
Then I placed the bottle on the table and blew out the lamp.
Outside the tent, the wind was still blowing. But I felt, somehow, it wasn't so cold anymore.
(End of Chapter Sixteen)