Chapter Forty-Seven: One Captured, One Released

Dayin watched him in silence for a long while. Ji stepped back into the room and signaled to the other soldiers with his eyes. A few of them stepped forward to help Chang Geng up. Chang Geng resisted, but at last Dayin spoke: “It’s been two days already. The Nangong forces have long since withdrawn. If she is truly as capable as you say, then surely she’ll find her own way back to the Central Palace…”

“General…” Chang Geng’s anxiety was obvious—Dayin’s words meant no rescue would be sent.

“The commander’s wounds are grave. How have you all been tending to him?” Dayin’s voice darkened as she glared at the soldiers supporting Chang Geng. “Hurry and take him to rest!”

The soldiers hastily obeyed, half dragging, half carrying Chang Geng away.

“General! General!” Chang Geng’s cries echoed until he was out of earshot.

Ji approached quietly, watching Dayin. “General?”

Dayin pressed her forehead, weary. “It’s been two days. Either she’s fallen in battle or been taken prisoner. Chang Geng doesn’t understand—going after her now is nothing but suicide. Besides, a captured male soldier becomes a slave or a lowly footman, but as for a captured woman—”

The words trailed off. Both of them, unspoken, thought the same: camp prostitute.

“Or, at best, a soldier’s maid. No better fate.” Dayin sighed deeply.

Ji spoke softly, “General, let me go.”

She looked at him, surprised he would suggest such a thing.

“I should go. I stand a better chance than Chang Geng.”

“You, even less so.” Dayin held him with a steady gaze. “Have you forgotten who you are?”

Ji could not answer. Indeed—a secret agent for the Emperor, a man of the Dai family. No one could afford to let their guard down, not for a moment.

Dayin straightened slightly. Ji adjusted her pillow. She lifted her face, hesitating. “Perhaps we could try reaching out to that person.”

Ji didn’t understand who she meant, only looked at her in surprise.

“That person might be willing to help.” Dayin’s face was shadowed by pain, her expression tangled and complicated. “I can only hope he remembers the affection of the past.”

Two days earlier, at the Nangong camp.

A few officers walked alongside Qingyun, chatting. “The Emperor has already heard of our great victory and is throwing us a feast to celebrate. At the latest, in the next day or two, we’ll be heading back to Nangong.”

Qingyun smiled, “It was thanks to your bravery that we were able to rout the formidable Central Palace army.”

The officers demurred, “Not at all. It was your brilliant strategy—without it, someone like Dayin could never have been so easily defeated.”

As they laughed, a commotion erupted from a tent ahead—shouts, startled cries, and the sound of reprimands.

“Isn’t that the strategist’s tent?” one officer asked in alarm.

Qingyun realized with a start, his face turning slightly awkward. He quickly excused himself and hurried to his own tent.

He had barely reached the entrance when he heard shouting inside: “Insolence! Utter insolence! Who gave you the audacity to behave so outrageously in the strategist’s tent?”

A woman’s voice snorted coldly, “What strategist? Why isn’t he here yet? Tell Qingyun to come see me!”

“How dare you call the strategist by name, woman!” the guard bellowed. “Do you have a death wish?”

Unable to contain himself, Qingyun entered with a laugh. “Qingyun is here!”

As he stepped inside, he involuntarily drew a sharp breath. The scene was chaos—tables overturned, books scattered, water pooled across the floor. There was hardly a place to set one’s feet.

The guards, startled by his sudden entrance, rushed to tidy up, protesting, “Strategist, it was this unruly woman…”

Qingyun waved a hand. “It’s fine.” His gaze shifted to the only other figure in the tent. Her long, wet hair hung over her shoulders, her eyes cold and disdainful. She wore a plain, clean robe, a little too large for her, and carried herself with a swaggering bravado that gave her a certain roguish air.

“I’ve never seen you so clean since we met,” Qingyun teased. The woman, Kaiming, frowned, lips pressed tight, but a faint blush tinged her cheeks.

“Strategist, you’re wasting your kindness. Our side never treats captives so well! You let her stay here, feeding her fine meals, and this is her thanks—she’s trashed the place!” one guard complained.

“Leave us,” Qingyun said to the guard, who widened his eyes in protest. “Strategist, you can’t! This woman’s origins are unknown, she’s wild and uncouth—who knows what she might do?”

Qingyun just smiled. “If there’s trouble I’ll call.” The guard reluctantly withdrew, ordering two soldiers to carry out the bucket of dirty water left over from the woman’s wash.

Kaiming watched them work. The guard gave the tent a quick tidying, nodded to Qingyun, and stepped out. The moment’s pause let tempers cool; her earlier rage seemed to have evaporated.

“So, you were so eager to see me—what’s the matter?” Qingyun asked, unhurried.

Kaiming shot him a cold glance. “What are you planning to do with me?”

Qingyun tilted his head in mock confusion. “Weren’t we friends once? Why this attitude now?”

“Strategist of Nangong, I’m just a lowly Central Palace soldier. I cannot rise to your level,” she replied icily.

Qingyun smiled, then changed the subject abruptly. “Does the robe fit?”

She glared—why bring up the robe now?

“It’s one of my old ones,” he said simply.

Her eyes widened further. She grabbed the collar, meaning to tear it off, then thought better—without it, she’d have nothing to wear. Dropping her hands, she caught the hint of mockery in Qingyun’s smile and fumed inwardly.

“Are you mocking me?”

“Not at all. In truth, I admire talent.” Qingyun dusted off a chair and sat. “Why not pledge yourself to Nangong? What do you say?”

“You want me to betray my side?” Her brow arched.

“It costs you nothing. You’re no officer, just a defeated soldier. Surrender is your only option. You have no value as a bargaining chip—you know this yourself,” Qingyun said evenly.

Kaiming’s expression darkened. “If I’m worthless, why care whether I live or die?”

Qingyun answered smoothly, “For old times’ sake—I don’t want to see you come to a miserable end.”

Kaiming came closer, crouching before him. Qingyun watched her, eyes on her face.

She flashed a dazzling smile. “Your kindness is appreciated, but if you want my surrender, you’ll have to convince me.”

Qingyun smiled. “You’re not convinced?”

She placed a hand lightly on his knee. Qingyun stiffened a little, curious. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Have you heard the story of Zhuge Liang capturing and releasing Meng Huo seven times?”

Qingyun honestly shook his head, which made her laugh even harder. “Of course you haven’t. It’s a tale from my homeland—a strategist who captured a tribal leader; since the leader refused to submit, he released him seven times, captured him seven times, until at last he yielded.”

“So you want me to release you, then capture you again?” Qingyun asked, amused.

“If you want my allegiance, show me your true skill—make me yield willingly.” Kaiming smiled with a quiet pride. Strategists were always arrogant, unable to tolerate another’s superiority. And clearly, Qingyun treated her differently from the other prisoners. She was betting he would take the bait, and dare to accept the challenge.

There was only one chance to win her freedom.

Qingyun smiled, reaching out—he stopped short of her cheek, then changed course, lightly hooking her chin with one finger. The gesture was graceful, forcing her to lift her face to his. To her own surprise, her heart gave a sudden leap.

“Want to challenge me?” Qingyun’s smile deepened, his handsome features dazzling. “If your homeland’s strategist could do it, so can I. I’ll give you a chance.”

Her delight was unmistakable—the fish had bitten. “You must keep your word!”

“I never go back on my word,” he replied, his tone steady, though a strange light flickered in his eyes. “But if I catch you again, you’ll owe me for this and for last time as well.”

“Last time?” she echoed blankly, then remembered—she’d once begged him for a piece of calligraphy and he’d joked that she owed him a great gift in return.

Damn him. No wonder he was a man of schemes—he remembered every little debt. She wagered that if someone owed this man a single coin, he’d come calling for it ten years later.

“It’s settled, then!” She leaned back, slipping from beneath his finger, her gaze drifting outside—then she froze.

Qingyun noticed her change in expression and followed her gaze, also pausing in surprise.

There, at the entrance to the tent, the canvas was lifted, and a striking young officer stood rigidly, his face wearing the same look of shock as their own.

“Sikong?” Kaiming recognized him—a young, handsome captain in silver armor.

Qingyun recovered quickly, rising to his feet. “Does the commander need something from me?”

Sikong stared, dumbstruck by what he’d just witnessed—Qingyun sitting, leaning forward, his finger hooked under a woman’s chin, smiling with knowing intimacy. The woman herself had her hands on Qingyun’s knees, face upturned, her expression somewhere between entreaty and invitation.

“You two… what are you…?” He swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence.

“You misunderstand, Commander,” Qingyun began, but Kaiming quickly cut him off, stepping toward Sikong. “The strategist and I are old acquaintances, Commander.”

Sikong regarded her warily. “Old acquaintances? I don’t recall such a friend among my circle.”

“We met at the Central Palace camp. It was only a few days, but we made a good impression on each other.” Kaiming spoke rapidly, giving Qingyun no chance to interject.

Qingyun did not interrupt, only watched her with an amused expression, interested to see what she was up to.

Sikong’s gaze hardened. “Strategist, you were sent to the Central Palace on a mission, not to flirt! I’ll report this to the general—you’ll be punished!”

Qingyun chuckled inwardly—so Kaiming sought to sow discord between them. He’d have to show her the consequences. He turned to Sikong. “Commander, do you know who this woman is?”

“Should I?” Sikong replied coldly.

“She’s the female soldier who ripped out the mane of the Windchaser horse—the one we just captured. Surely you remember.”

Sikong’s face turned ashen in disbelief. “That soldier—it was her? This woman?” The mud-caked prisoner we brought in compared to this fresh and clean woman—a striking contrast.

Qingyun nodded, smiling.

“Damn it!” Sikong took two steps toward her, fist raised, then reluctantly let it drop, grumbling, “Does the Central Palace have no men? Sending women to war—damnable!”

Kaiming unconsciously retreated a step. She had seen how fierce he could be—that swing of his blade still haunted her.

Sikong, always proud, was too angry to strike a woman, so his fury had nowhere to go. In the end, he vented it at Qingyun. “It seems the strategist and this Central Palace woman are quite close. Have you forgotten I said she should be punished severely?”

“I know what I’m doing,” Qingyun replied evasively.

Sikong swept his sleeve, turning away. “Strategist, pack your things. We’re heading back to Nangong. That’s why I’m here.” As he left, he cast them a sidelong glance, his words heavy with meaning. “You’ve always been fair and just, strategist—don’t let me down.”

Qingyun naturally agreed.

As Sikong left, Kaiming shot a look at Qingyun. “You aren’t backing out, are you?”

Qingyun smiled. “We’ll proceed as planned.”

“That Sikong is fierce—you’re not afraid?” she prodded.

“Sikong has always been that way—arrogant, competitive. I know how to handle him.” Qingyun’s lips curled. “But you should prepare yourself to be caught by me again.”

“Don’t underestimate me!” she retorted proudly, lifting her chin.

Qingyun only smiled.