Chapter 92

Chapter 92

The wind whipped sand and grit, slicing across faces like knives.

The Young Marquis braced himself against his horse, feeling as if his bones were about to rattle apart.

…This was already the seventh day of the march.

Since leaving the capital, the Young Marquis had not lain upon a soft bed once.

Back in the capital, he traveled by carriage or rode well-trained, ornately caparisoned horses; at most, he’d amble leisurely around the estate courtyard for half an hour, servants holding the reins and fetching water. When had he ever endured such hardship?

Now, advancing westward with Que Xilan’s army, he had to break camp before dawn each day—and could not rest until stars and moon filled the night sky. Nearly every hour in between was spent on horseback.

Why was this journey so grueling?

Forget the original owner’s coddled upbringing—even any modern person would surely find it unbearable.

Did everyone have iron buttocks?

Moreover, the one accompanying him was not Wen Yu, but that cold, aloof Imperial Uncle who had long disliked him.

Only at the behest of his father, the Old Marquis, was he kept close. It was called “protection,” yet in truth, the Imperial Uncle was irritated just looking at him—viewing him entirely as a spoiled young lord, utterly useless.

“…”

The Young Marquis suddenly wished he could fast-forward straight to the scene where he faked his death.

At first, it was only soreness in his waist and legs. By the third day, his inner thighs were chafed raw—swollen and stinging with searing pain at even the slightest movement.

Today was worse.

He sat rigidly in the saddle, each jolt from the horse’s hooves feeling like fire licking at his skin.

When they made camp at dusk, Que Xilan’s personal guard arrived with an order: the Prince wished to see him. As Luo Qianyu dismounted, the agonizing pain between his legs made him stumble. Had he not grabbed the reins in time, he would have collapsed flat onto the ground.

The youth leaned against the horse, steadying himself for a long moment before barely straightening up—and then limped toward Que Xilan’s tent.

Inside, only a corner of the tent was lit by candlelight.

The man, draped in a thin cloak, looked up as he entered. Those ever-scrutinizing eyes fell upon the youth—and within moments, detected his unusual state.

The man frowned slightly.

He spoke: “Luo Qianyu—after just a few days on the road, you can’t even walk properly anymore?”

Luo Qianyu clenched his teeth. “Replying to Uncle… I *can* walk.”

Que Xilan fell silent again, his brow furrowing deeper. When he spoke next, his voice held even less warmth. “I don’t know how Luo Zhenchuan usually coddled you in the palm of his hand—but remember this clearly: you now wear armor and follow me on campaign. You tread the yellow sands of the western desert, guarding the borders of Da Xi. This military camp is *not* the back garden of your Marquis estate. There is no room here for the slightest trace of pampered habits—nor can it tolerate a delicate young lord who cannot shoulder a burden or lift a hand.”

The man set down his brush and looked at the youth, coldly tossing out a few words: “Luo Qianyu—I don’t keep useless people here.”

Luo Qianyu: “…Yes.”

He knew the original owner had grown up immersed in honey—servants attending to every chill or heat. When had he ever suffered such bitterness? Yet until now, he himself had not once complained of pain—nor had he ever held the troops back. Did he still deserve this scolding?

Besides—you’re only ten years older than me, yet already trying to usurp my father’s generation?

*Dog* Imperial Uncle—you’re *far* from it!

After mentally cursing, he felt much better. The Young Marquis obediently took his leave.

That night, sleeping in a hastily pitched tent, the ground was strewn with gravelly pebbles, and the felt mat spread over it was paper-thin. The Young Marquis curled up, feeling as if every bone in his body ached—especially… his inner thighs.

Remembering the thick brocade mattress in the Marquis estate and the warm soup servants would bring, his eyes stung—but the young lord did not cry. He quickly forced his eyes shut.

The next day, during a rest break on the march, the Young Marquis sat beside a pile of sand and stones, several soldiers nearby.

Some pulled out pickled vegetables; others shared the flatbread they’d brought. Luo Qianyu disdained none of it—eating whatever was available. Occasionally, he even reached into his own pack to pull out preserved fruits brought from the capital and share them with everyone.

“Young Lord Luo, these preserved fruits are so sweet—I’ve never tasted anything like them!” said the soldier beside him, holding one in his mouth and unable to stop smiling. “If my little sister were here, she’d surely love them too.”

This soldier was named Jing Shiyi—slight of build. His family had originally fled as refugees, wandering all the way from their hometown to the capital. Of a family of ten, only he and his younger sister had survived.

He’d had no proper name before. Back in his village, neighbors had casually called him “A Yao.” Later, upon reaching the capital region—where names had to be registered for everything—he gave himself one.

He was Jing Shiyi (Jing Eleven), and his sister was Jing Shier (Jing Twelve).

Luo Qianyu patted Jing Shiyi’s arm and smiled. “Once this campaign ends and you return to the capital, go to the Marquis estate and find Zhao Nian. He always keeps some fine preserved fruits there. Ask for a few packs to take back—just say I told you to. He’ll definitely prepare them for you.”

Jing Shiyi looked puzzled, scratching his head. “Young Marquis—won’t *you* be returning to the capital yourself? Why entrust this to Zhao Nian?”

Luo Qianyu: “Uh…”

He was momentarily speechless.

The Young Marquis silently changed the subject, unfastening the sword from his waist. “Right—yesterday you mentioned not knowing how to wield your swords amid the chaos of battle. Let me try to explain.”

The youth drew his sword, its tip touching the ground at an angle, and said solemnly, “In close combat, flashy moves are the worst. What matters is speed, accuracy, and ruthlessness… First protect your vital points—wound the enemy when you see an opening. Don’t worry about making the moves look elegant. Watch—like this…”

Recalling what Wen Yu had taught him, he demonstrated, explaining the practical techniques of swordplay in combat to the soldiers gathered around—breaking down the essentials.

The soldiers listened intently, nodding now and then, occasionally raising questions—which Luo Qianyu patiently answered, one by one.

Just as things were getting lively, he faintly sensed a gaze resting on his back.

It felt inexplicably chilling.

Luo Qianyu’s movements paused slightly. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a figure standing in the distance—seemingly having noticed their group.

It was indeed Que Xilan.

The Young Marquis’s expression stiffened slightly. He turned his head and continued talking with the soldiers. Taking advantage of the fact that ancient people wouldn’t understand an internationally friendly gesture, he silently freed one hand—and gave Que Xilan the middle finger.

Que Xilan: “…?”

Prince Yanhuai turned and walked away, his frown deepening.

He didn’t understand. How could Luo Qianyu—a pampered, nearly ruined young Marquis—get along so well with these soldiers?

…

Regardless—

He would never misjudge a person.

.

One week later.

As they were setting up camp, a sudden, heavy rain swept in. Most of the new recruits in the troop had never experienced this. They fumbled while erecting the tents—but a few simply wouldn’t stay upright. Raindrops seeped through the gaps. Several soldiers, already drenched like drowned rats, scrambled clumsily in the rain to fix them—shivering from the cold.

Luo Qianyu saw Jing Shiyi huddled in a corner, clutching a bundle of wet firewood, his tent reduced to a tangled wreck, teeth chattering uncontrollably. The young man brought him back to his own tent, fetched spare dry felt and a thick outer robe, and thrust them into his hands.

Just as he finished helping Jing Shiyi lay the felt on the ground, Que Xilan’s cold, furious shout rang out from outside the tent: “Luo Qianyu!”

The Young Marquis flinched. He turned to see Prince Yanhuai standing in the rain, his cloak thoroughly soaked, water dripping steadily from its hem as he stared down at him.

His expression was colder and more severe than the icy rain itself.

“…”

An ominous premonition rose in the young man’s heart—but he still called out, “…Uncle.”

“Everything in the army follows regulations. I ordered the new recruits to set up their own tents precisely to harden them through experience,” Que Xilan stepped into the tent, his gaze falling on the outer robe in Jing Shiyi’s arms, his tone growing even harsher. “You shielded him from the rain today. But tomorrow on the battlefield, blades strike blindly, arrows fall like hail—can you shield each and every one of them then?”

Luo Qianyu pressed his lips together. “He’s drenched like this. If he truly falls ill from the cold, it will only cause problems.”

“Cause problems?” Que Xilan’s eyes darkened further. With a cold laugh, his gaze swept over the new recruits still struggling against wind and rain outside the tent. “If he can’t endure a single day’s rain today, what about tomorrow when we reach the Western Desert? Sandstorms can bury a man halfway; nighttime cold can freeze bones solid. Will they also wait for you to deliver felt and clothes?”

Que Xilan’s voice was icy. “You’re not helping them—you’re harming them! Coddling them through this bit of hardship now means they won’t even be able to protect their own lives when they step onto the battlefield someday!”

The tent fell instantly silent, save for the drumming of rain on the canvas.

Luo Qianyu was left speechless.

After Que Xilan turned on his heel and left, Jing Shiyi mumbled about returning the items. Only then did Luo Qianyu whirl around, sitting down with his back to the tent entrance.

The Young Marquis’s face flushed red—bit by bit—not from shyness, but from anger. His heart felt as though a ball of fire were lodged in his chest, tightening his throat.

What tempering? What strict military discipline? It’s nothing but heartless cruelty! It’s just giving a robe and laying some felt—how does that become harming someone? Of course you have to rely on yourself in battle—but does freezing into illness now somehow toughen them up and make one invincible?

You, Que Xilan—so formidable, so formidable that your eyes see only rules, not a shred of human compassion?

Luo Qianyu gritted his teeth secretly, mentally cursing the Dog Imperial Uncle’s ancestors eighteen generations back—with the Dog Emperor thrown in for good measure.

Seething, the young man couldn’t help thinking:

Hypocrite! I heard you’re the only gong in the original novel who never got any, dying a virgin, always restraining and suppressing yourself—suppressed so much you even lost your wife in the end!

Clearly a popular older beauty type, yet alas, while having chemistry with the protagonist shou, you had no fate as a couple. You barely showed up—mocked by rival fans as “Absence Bro.”

Though the Young Marquis is also an unlucky soul, never getting a chance before death’s end, now with the plot derailed, he and Wen Yu, through twists of fate, have not only kissed and embraced… but even gone all the way.

They’d done pretty much everything there was to do.

“…”

Thinking this far, Luo Qianyu found it hard to continue.

This isn’t exactly something to be proud of either. Why compare himself to Que Xilan?

Winning wouldn’t be glorious anyway.

.

Counting the days, the march had been going on for nearly half a month.

The Young Marquis wished with all his might—never before had he wanted to get killed off so badly.

It was on this day, as the troop traveled along a narrow mountain path flanked by steep cliffs—wide enough for only two riders abreast—that scouts ahead sent word back: a rockfall zone lay three li ahead; they had to proceed with extreme caution.

The Young Marquis was positioned in the middle-to-rear section of the column, keeping a wary eye on the loose rocks overhead, when he suddenly heard the frightened whinny of a horse up ahead.

It turned out a new recruit hadn’t held the reins firmly. Startled by small stones rolling down the cliff face, his mount bolted violently toward the outer edge of the precipice.

The recruit, pale with terror, swayed wildly on horseback—on the verge of plunging over the cliff.

The surrounding soldiers broke into a cold sweat, but the path was too narrow for effective rescue. Almost instinctively, the Young Marquis urged his horse forward. His own steed was calm by nature. He yanked the reins hard, pulling close to the panicked horse—and as the recruit’s body tilted, he grabbed the other’s belt, hauling him bodily off the saddle.

During the drag, the panicked horse’s momentum caused Luo Qianyu’s mount to stagger half a step outward, its hooves skidding at the very edge.

He felt a heavy pull at his waist—half his body suspended over the abyss. Cold wind carrying debris swept past beneath him, sending a chill down his spine.

Fortunately, the young man clung desperately to the saddle, and his mount fought to stabilize its center of gravity, managing to pull them back to safety. Then, both men crashed heavily against the inner rock wall of the path. The Young Marquis’s back slammed into a protruding stone. He grunted—pain darkening his vision.

The recruit’s panicked horse, however, lost all control and, with a mournful cry, plunged over the cliff.

A life saved—but a warhorse lost.

Sure enough, when Que Xilan arrived upon hearing the news, his face was thunderous.

The next moment, the young man heard the man’s voice: “The mountain path is narrow. Do you realize that a slight misstep just now would have meant two men and two horses falling to their deaths?”

Luo Qianyu, just catching his breath, silently propped himself against the rock wall and stood up—barely managing to mount his horse. A dull ache throbbed in waves from his back, so that his voice shook as he whispered, “I couldn’t just watch him fall.”

Que Xilan clearly had more to say.

The Young Marquis even knew what the Dog Imperial Uncle would scold him for.

Nothing more than “In military operations, one must consider the overall situation!” or “A warhorse can carry supplies, deliver military intelligence—your moment of reckless bravery cost a warhorse. Is that a great merit or a grave fault?”—and other such heartless words that made one want to die.

But unexpectedly, Que Xilan did not press further. He simply gave him a heavy look, then turned his horse and continued forward.

Having slept poorly for days and now slightly injured, by the time he returned to his tent, the young master lacked even the strength to remove his boots. He collapsed onto the felt-covered ground. Originally, he had thought to take advantage of the late-night solitude to write letters home and to Wen Yu—but now he had no energy left, not even noticing the tent flap wasn’t fastened properly.

Hazily, he wondered again: Would Que Xilan, having held back during the day, come to settle accounts with him in the middle of the night?

Surely not.

That man couldn’t be that perverse, could he?

After finishing his military duties, Que Xilan stood up, left his tent, and headed straight for Luo Qianyu’s tent—his face like a thundercloud.

But just as he reached the young master’s tent, he was blocked by several soldiers stationed nearby—the very one rescued that day, along with those who usually shared rations with Luo Qianyu. Their faces were now flushed pale, Adam’s apples bobbing—yet they stubbornly stood their ground in front of him.

They exchanged glances.

“Y-Your Highness…” the leading soldier stammered, “the Young Marquis… he’s exhausted—he’s just fallen asleep…”

“That’s right, Your Highness,” another quickly chimed in, “if it weren’t for the Young Marquis today, A-Liang would have lost his life… Could you… whatever matter it is, discuss it tomorrow morning, please?”

They knew this prince before them was awe-inspiringly imposing and decisive. Those who had served under him could wake in fright from dreams of Prince Yanhuai.

What Que Xilan intended to do, no one could stop.

Yet they were stopping him.

But they weren’t alone.

Que Xilan’s gaze swept over the soldiers’ tense, pale faces—his brow furrowing tighter. “Step aside.”

His voice wasn’t loud—but it successfully made the men tremble, their calves quivering—yet still, no one moved.

Prince Yanhuai lowered his gaze to look at them, so angry he could only laugh coldly. "Well, well, Luo Qianyu. You haven't even been in camp two weeks. Just what did you do to make these men risk their lives protecting you like this…"

As Que Xilan's expression darkened completely, the chill radiating from him was almost palpable. "Do you not understand what I'm saying?"

The man took a step forward, his voice icy. "A bunch of fools. Do you think blocking my way means I won't settle accounts with him?"

...

"If you don't step aside now, you will face military discipline."

At "military discipline," the situation changed entirely. The soldiers fell to their knees, terrified, no longer daring to obstruct him. They lowered their heads, exchanging anxious glances with one another.

Que Xilan snorted coldly and shoved aside the tent flap to step inside.

The tent was dim inside. By the moonlight seeping in from outside, he could see a thin felt mat spread on the ground. The young man who had caused all this trouble lay curled up on the mat, his head resting on the back of the silver-white Arctic Wolf, fast asleep.

The tent was quiet, broken only by the boy's steady breathing.

Luo Qianyu's inner robe was disheveled, loosely draped over his body, revealing his fair back and a stark, darkening bruise that was already tinged with purple.

A jar of jade ointment sat nearby. It seemed he had only applied half the medicine before exhaustion overtook him and he fell asleep.

Que Xilan remained silent, his eyelids lowered.

His gaze fell on the bluish-red marks on the boy's inner thighs, stark against his pale skin—injuries from days of riding, chafed by the saddle.

...

So he hadn't been lying.

Nor had he been putting on airs or pretending to be delicate.

Outside the tent, the soldiers stood in dead silence, swallowing nervously.

They feared that Prince Yanhuai might drag the young marquis out by the collar at any moment, like scruffing a kitten.

But after a long wait, just as they were hesitating whether to get up, Prince Yanhuai emerged.

His cold gaze swept over them, and without a word, he strode away.

The men waited fearfully, and it was a while before they cautiously rose to their feet.

They were about to check on the Young Marquis's tent, but when they reached it, they found the tent flap had been tied shut.

Not a single gap remained.

.

That evening, before the camp was set up, the Young Marquis rode back slowly.

Soldiers around him dismounted one after another, their footsteps and chatter mingling together. The Young Marquis quietly shifted to the side, intending to wait as usual until others had moved away before finding a corner to slowly slide down from his horse.

After long hours in the saddle, dismounting had become an uncomfortable process.

Even if it was awkward, at least no one would see.

He held onto the saddle, moving to a spot where the tree branches hung lower. His movements were unusually slow as he prepared to dismount. He took a deep breath and cautiously tried to lift his right leg.

The next moment, a firm grip tightened under his arm.

Before he could react, an arm reached under his armpit, lifting him with steady strength and setting him down gently.

Once his feet touched the ground, Luo Qianyu didn't even have time to look up before hurriedly uttering, "Thank—"

The second "you" caught in his throat, and the boy fell silent.

Only stunned disbelief remained.

He looked down at his own hands, then at Que Xilan's retreating back, his mind reeling as if struck by a sudden storm.

Que Xilan… had actually helped him down?

...

What was going on?

The Young Marquis fell into deep thought. As he walked back to his tent with Yunshan in his arms, he couldn't help but frown slightly.

Could it be…

An imposter?

Had someone stolen Que Xilan's skin too?

.

North of Yunmo Pass, the northern wind swept coarse sand like blades against their faces.

Wen Yu reined in his horse, his eyelashes already coated with a fine layer of sand. His lips were dry and cracked from days of marching. His armor felt heavy from the cold, each movement stiff and sluggish. His boots were worn from the frozen ground, and his legs had long gone numb, as if they no longer belonged to him.

The troop finally paused to rest in a sheltered depression. Wen Yu dismounted and sat with his back against a dirt slope. He untied his waterskin, shaking it before managing to pour out a small mouthful of water to soothe his parched throat.

Then, he reached for the pouch tied at his waist.

His fingers were stiff, and it took some effort to retrieve a small, square paper cutout from the pouch.

...

It was a tiny portrait of a young man.

Wen Yu lowered his gaze, looking at it again and again.

After a long while, he clenched it slightly and placed it over his heart.