However far, however deep, he would always find his way home by that light.
Such distant matters now—Yu Jinnian stammered, eyes fixed on the canopy above.
He had never imagined he would go through so much, or come to know so many people.
When he first arrived in Xin’an County, his greatest ambition was just to open a proper clinic, take on two eager apprentices, and practice medicine in peace. In the very beginning, he spoke without much care—words let fly were gone, he hardly put them to heart. He’d always thought he and Ji Hong would part ways one day, so what did true or false matter or what to beware?
—He never imagined he’d form such a deep bond with this person.
The white beauty was purring contentedly as Ji Hong stroked her, eyes half-lidded. Yu Jinnian turned, meeting the cat’s intent gaze—a pair of jade eyes like Ji Hong’s: clear, cold, perceptive. They say cats are messengers of the underworld, who can pierce the fog of existence and see through veiled truths.
At this moment, which Yu Jinnian was the white beauty truly looking at?
Yu Jinnian no longer knew who he himself was, much less whether Ji Hong, on hearing his story, would doubt him, or…fear him?
Lost in thought, he was interrupted when the white beauty suddenly arched and cried, madly kicking his chest before leaping off the bed. Yu Jinnian turned and saw Ji Hong staring at three red scratches on the back of his own hand, beads of blood welling along the fine marks. Ji was just about to wipe them away when Yu Jinnian flipped up, quickly grabbing his hand in worry. “Does it hurt?”
Ji Hong glanced sidelong, letting his look rest on the youth’s face. “These little creatures really are hard to please.”
“Your nails are a little long—you probably scratched her and hurt her. Cats are always like that, hating restraint, always their own masters.” Yu Jinnian fetched his medicine chest, took out distilled strong liquor, tweezed up a wad of cotton, and gently disinfected Ji Hong’s wound with the spirit. He knelt on the footrest, cradling Ji’s hand and blowing on it. “Luckily, it’s not deep, just a scratch—no need for medicine, just keep it from raw water these next two days.”
Tiny beads of blood welled up, the liquor stinging as it soaked into the wound, making Ji Hong knit his brows faintly.
“Did I hurt you?” Ji Hong asked. “How am I supposed to treat you, really?”
Early spring wind slipped in, brisk and clear, through the window cracked open by the white beauty, fluttering Yu Jinnian’s sleeve. The bed-curtain ballooned; Ji Hong’s black hair was tousled by the night breeze, and the lamp by the bed flickered, struggling to keep its trembling flame alight. Ji Hong seemed to come to himself, gently scratching the other’s palm with his fingertip before slipping his hand back. “Just a scratch. No fuss. Let’s sleep.”
Yu Jinnian caught him at once, tossed the bloody cotton, and swapped it for a fresh one. Outside, cats meowed—Little Dingdang crouched on the corridor stool, meticulously licking the white beauty’s fur; Yu Jinnian just as carefully cleaned Ji Hong’s wound.
“Do you believe in souls borrowed for a new life?”
The canopy fell, soft gauze veiling their sight but not the warmth passing through entwined hands. Ji Hong was momentarily at a loss. He reached for the curtain, but someone outside gripped it down. Ji sat alone in the dim golden light, listening to the youth’s soft voice.
Yu Jinnian, head lowered, spoke almost to himself: “One man dies, another comes alive—step by step climbing back from a wilderness burial to the world of the living. He doesn’t know who he is: the dead, or the living, or perhaps both already gone, and this is all just my idle dream.” He raised his gaze to the shadow of Ji Hong behind the curtain and asked again, “Do you believe it?”
Ji Hong’s heart clenched.
Yu Jinnian let the curtain drop, as if letting go of some inner secret. He cut a thin piece of white gauze and covered Ji’s wound. “One must live on! There are so many wishes yet unfulfilled, so many plans unfinished, all the world’s sights and this red-dusted human life I’ve yet to enjoy. I’ve seen many dying, I know how hard life is and how sudden death can come…but even if this is all just a dream, I still want to live.”
He drew the curtains open, the scent of disinfectant fading, leaving only a faint spicy fragrance. Ji Hong leaned in; the boy’s face was clean and warm. Ji cradled Yu Jinnian’s face, slowly suckling his soft, dry lips, one hand winding around to rub the youth’s chilled shoulder blade.
Ji Hong would rather Yu Jinnian had some desperate reason—a borrowed soul as an excuse to comfort himself. Only such a fanciful story could explain that uncanny knowledge, that precocious calm and clarity. So, he really…must have died once.
Ji Hong had come close to death—once, pulled back by his second brother, another time by Yu Jinnian.
What does death taste like?
Yu Jinnian lowered his eyes, letting himself be drawn onto the bed, astride the man, bitten hard on the neck as if to be devoured.
The pulse beneath the tongue throbbed hot and strong; Ji Hong kissed along that spark of life, up to the youth’s lips, and paused. He lifted his finger to rub the boy’s barely parted lips, studying him. “What’s your name?”
Yu Jinnian looked down from above, yet felt he’d never held the initiative. He didn’t catch Ji Hong’s meaning at first, gazing uncertainly at him.
Ji Hong’s fingers brushed against his waistband, his gaze fixed on Yu Jinnian’s eyes. “Your original name. Your own.”
Yu Jinnian swallowed shakily. “It… it’s also Yu Jinnian…” Seeing Ji Hong’s suspicion, he nuzzled his cheek hesitantly, whispering, “I didn’t lie. There’s nothing left to hide—it truly is fate. Year after year—”
“Splendid years, I know.” Ji Hong opened his mouth, taking his tongue, soothed the youth’s back—swallowing his panic and insistence, and his own pressing unease. Ji Hong knew he wasn’t born with the gift to pity all, and didn’t really know how best to care for someone equally “unruly, always his own master.”
But right now, he only felt at peace: “That’s enough—as long as all this while…I haven’t called the wrong name for the one I love.”
Yu Jinnian whispered, “A-Hong.”
“You…” Ji Hong knew he shouldn’t ask, but couldn’t help wanting to know—he wanted to know everything about this youth. “How did it happen, how did you…”
“How did I die?” Yu Jinnian finished for him. Just two years—his last life already felt so far away. Even the pain of illness was hard to remember now; people really do forget old wounds.
“Sick,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head and smiling, “The elders were right, doctors can’t cure themselves. Fate is real, even if you don’t believe in it.”
Ji Hong was astonished. Sick—an ordinary word, but it had nothing to do with him.
Yu Jinnian said, “It’s all right. I’m used to it.”
Ji Hong understood and asked no further, only holding him tighter.
After a while, he breathed in relief: “Since it’s all a dream, then let’s just dream it forever—never to wake. As for whether you’re a spirit, a man, a cat-fiend or an ancient fox, it doesn’t matter.” The curtain-wrapped room slowly warmed, his words filling the air, “Even if you’re some flesh-eating devil, I’ll let you feast on me—just fear I’m not rich enough.”
Yu Jinnian’s back stiffened. “You say all that, but your hands—”
There was a rustle, and Ji Hong placed both hands on his waist, supporting himself, bending to whisper, “All right, then you do it yourself.”
Yu Jinnian grabbed his wrist, trying to keep a distance, rushed: “But tomorrow, you have morning court—”
“No matter.” Ji Hong drew him back leisurely. “I’ll just report sick. I’m already known for frailty; after such a journey, a few weeks’ rest won’t hurt.”
Yu Jinnian: “……”
Late at night, the cat-servant wandered the vast Jinyouting with a lantern in hand, softly calling “Lord Bai,” anxious and searching. Lord Bai was the white jade-eyed cat. The servants only knew his breed was precious, not which household he came from, so they just called him Lord Bai. Over time, the white cat would sometimes even answer.
Since arriving with Little Dingdang, the cat had explored the whole Jinyouting, choosing an empty room for himself. The housekeeper Qing Huan arranged thick velvet curtains and made a cozy cat-room. Skillful maids sewed balls and cloth mice, and hung great bells for toys. Luckily, the white master liked his new home and always returned at night to sleep.
Tonight, the servant slept half the night before realizing Lord Bai hadn’t returned, so he hurried out with a lantern to search.
At Tingyue Pavilion, a few catlike baby-cries sounded from inside—he recognized Lord Bai’s soft mewling, hurried in—and gasped! Little Dingdang, that rascal, was riding on Lord Bai! The polished, pretty white cat, now with ruffled fur like a wild cub.
He knew not to interfere when cats mated, lest he get scratched, so he just waited at the end of the corridor for them to finish.
Nodding off, he awoke with the lantern nearly out, and saw the two cats curled up licking each other’s fur by the colonnade. Joyfully, he picked up Lord Bai, who snuggled sleepily into his arms. Little Dingdang, clever as ever, jumped onto his shoulder and purred at Lord Bai.
Just as they were leaving, a dainty mew sounded again. The boy looked around, puzzled, but found no other cat—he left with a headful of questions: Could there be yet more cats in the yard? He rubbed Little Dingdang’s head—did you lure another feline home?
Little Dingdang just lifted his small face and snorted toward the bedroom.
The candle sputtered, wax tears streaming down the holder; clothing rustled, and Ji Hong’s voice came low: “Am I not rich enough, hm?”
Rich enough or not—was he or wasn’t he? Yu Jinnian bit his shoulder in exasperation.
Spring ought to be wet with scattered rain, softening the garden at dawn—when the sun rose, it was a beautiful day.
The next morning, the whole household was again chasing cats, as the golden and the white tore through the yard. Little Dingdang, for some reason, angered Lord Bai, who chased and bit him. Just awake, the duo left tracks all through the flowerbeds. Sui Sui, trailing her skirt and wild hair, ran after Lord Bai, whom she loved for his soft fur and jewel eyes.
She was just as mischievous as the boys; Qing Huan had less hope keeping her in check, holding a hairband in one hand and a cloak in the other—lame and slow, she could only shout in vain behind, “Sui Sui… Sui Sui!”
Yu Jinnian hadn’t heard such joyful noise in a long time—not war drums or cries, just plain, ordinary racket. The street vendors hawked, and the servants clustered to gossip—this was the world of the living.
Dozing in the hangings, he tossed restlessly, dreaming of Ji Hong asking, Is it tasty? Am I rich enough? Want another bite?
Yu Jinnian jolted awake.
His waist ached. So did his legs. With a groan and dark circles under his eyes, he slumped back. Trying to rub his sore back, a strange feeling came from his belly and lower, face flushing. He looked around—no culprit in sight, but a dense incense aroma hung in the air: cleansing and refreshing, the kind burned at Buddhist temples.
Ji Hong wasn’t religious—why burn temple incense at dawn?
He grabbed a pillow to bolster his waist; lifting it, he found several yellow talisman packets hidden beneath.
“……” Yu Jinnian was startled—what, had the temples fallen to Daoists now, selling charms, too? He stared at the packets when someone stepped in, light but steady.
It was Ji Hong, arms full of clothes. Seeing him awake, Ji lifted the curtain and helped him up. A basin was ready, towels fragrant with some unknown addition. He cleaned Yu’s face, then, one by one, dressed him, explaining as he went: “Last night I sent for Taoist Zhong from the Min household. He divined your previous good fortune, said you’re not meant to die, and even the King of Hell had to release you, but the body not being yours could leave the soul uneasy.”
“The Taoist wrote a soul-calming charm himself, told me to have servants sew them into your collar and cuffs, and for you to wear talismans at all times. The incense was obtained specially from the Greater Buddhist Temple outside the city, blessed by the monks—good for settling the soul.”
He checked Yu Jinnian over, regretful: “I’ll make sure to give you more of what you need from now on, to keep you strong and long-lived.”
Yu Jinnian frowned, “More of what?”
“Semen.” Ji Hong said it with absolute calm, as if stating a truth of heaven and earth, patiently coaxing, “A man’s essence is the finest medicine. Jinnian, be good.”
Yu Jinnian squinted as he listened to this nonsense for a quarter hour, his face unravelling. He grabbed the pillow and hurled it at Ji Hong, half exasperated, half laughing: “So that’s why you won’t bathe me after—?!”
For someone who was neither Buddhist nor Daoist, to become this caught up in ghostly superstitions—truly, a new side revealed! Feudal nonsense was indeed dangerous!
Yu Jinnian fumed.
……
It only takes a word to stir a rumor; quashing it costs a hundred steps.
Condemned by Taoist Zhong as having a restless soul, Ji Hong truly put Yu Jinnian through a month of “calming.” Who knew if it was for the ritual itself or just to get away with bullying him. Luckily, the Taoist never prescribed abstinence, or Yu might have been denied even drink or meat.
Ji Hong chased every soul-saving method he could find, so clever in all else but here fooled by every monk and priest in sight. Wine, by contrast, was the least of Yu’s concerns. Light-sleeping, Ji Hong now woke every morning just to check if Yu Jinnian was still warm—half fearing he might one day lose his soul for real.
Yu Jinnian didn’t lack a heart—it was just that, if he didn’t pacify Ji Hong this way, the worry would remain. He shouldn’t have told him at all, for all the trouble it brought.
The Sanyulou in the capital had sustained damage during the epidemic’s suppression; not in a hurry to reopen, Yu Jinnian passed the time leading the servants around to buy good wine, since if he got drunk, Ji Hong would dutifully fetch him home. Anyway, drunk, Yu Jinnian turned agreeably obedient.
It became a thing; wine shops started inviting him to taste and judge their best, all wanting to glimpse the Ji family’s radiant young master. Messages kept coming—like Ji Hong’s second brother, famed a decade ago for drunkenly dreaming in the willows.
Unluckily, that day, reclusive Taoist Zhong, out for ink, saw Yu Jinnian wasting away in taverns midday, and in horror rushed to accuse him to Ji, chastising him for “abetting sin, spoiling the youth,” and adding a “no wine for three months” clause to the soul-calming ordeal.
The next day, not a drop of wine at Jinyouting—even the cooking wine in the kitchen was confiscated.
Pleading didn’t help; what the Taoist said, Ji Hong enforced, even against his own. Yu Jinnian tried to argue, but one look at Ji’s gentle brows left him powerless.
Desire ruins even the wise.
Southern couriers swept north with the chill of the thirteen southern prefectures’ campaign like snow. In court, cleansing and reckoning began. The Emperor was furious—streams of blood were shed at Yingqian Hall. Jinyouting, though, was still peaceful; Ji Hong was officially on sick leave, tending Yu Jinnian and quietly awaiting the justice that was finally approaching.
By late April, the peach blossoms were riotous in the capital, Jinyouting was flooded with green and gold. Yu Jinnian, cloaked in pale blue, sat beneath the flower hall, hood shadowing his hair, looking up at the half-bright, half-drowsy sun. Behind, Ji Hong copied out scripture, a plate of fresh gold cakes set on the side table.
The little cakes were golden-crisp, made of soft dough and filled with red sugar syrup, pressed flat, center dimpled into a round navel, and dribbled with a splash of more red sugar. Out of the pan, they were fragrant and crisp, the center red like a copper coin or a sweet bellybutton—hence “brown sugar navel cakes.”
Qing Huan was outside taking little Haitang for a stroll—the baby was greedy and lively, not able to walk yet, but peering with cherry-bright eyes at Yu Jinnian, suddenly giggling, “Ta! Ta!”
The little one was learning to speak and could not distinguish “tang” (candy) from “die” (dad). Yu Jinnian jumped down from the balustrade, broke a piece of cake for her to lick, and patted her fuzzy head. “Your dad is off south, saving lives!”
Little Haitang cooed, “Ya, ya.”
“Victory at Lanyang!” someone called from outside.
Yu Jinnian looked up.
“Victory at Lanyang!” Duan Ming rode in swiftly, dust-covered and breathless. The victory dispatch from Lanyang arrived in the capital: the herald bearing the gold-and-red Xia army banner, parading through the grandest crossroads. Thousands upon thousands saw and heard it.
Victory at Lanyang—Yuezhou’s northern gates thrown open, Yan Chang’s forces unable to run any further.
There was no need to wait for the Emperor’s decree—the crowds had already spread the good news everywhere. By midday, word of the great victory filled every street and alley.
Jinyouting, remote as it was, kept shut away for health and missed the news till the afternoon.
Duan Ming’s delight was barely contained, his words tumbling over themselves: “Heir, young lord! Great victory at Lanyang, the ringleader of the rebellion was taken alive for transport to the capital! General Min wrote as well—the army will encamp at Hugu south of the city, escorting the prisoner straight to the ancestral prison. If the master has any words, he can say them then.”
Min Xuefei’s letter fluttered in Ji Hong’s hand, smelling of southern gunpowder—his justice, ten years in waiting, was finally pushing through the clouds to stand before him.
Yu Jinnian seemed to hear a click—the heavy shackle unlocked, black chains falling away layer by layer. Cloud broke, gold pierced fog, and for the first time, Yu Jinnian saw relief on Ji Hong’s face.
====
They saw the man at dusk. Outside the ancestral prison, scarlet clouds burned the sky; the whole capital seemed to blaze, long shadows pooling into a tangled blur at their feet.
Just past the wall, the prison’s long stone gate yawned black, stone steps descending into the swallowed daylight. Here, royal kin and ministers too numerous to count had been imprisoned. Yu Jinnian, shivering, couldn’t help thinking—if not for the anti-rebellion army’s victory, it could have been Ji Hong in this jailhouse now.
The jailer had been warned; he received them with care.
The passage was deep, seemingly endless. Here and there, a brazier guttered, casting out a stink of rot, green-brown moss clinging to the walls. Flames licked the walls black, monstrous shadows flitting like prison-ghosts.
The nearby cells held unknown prisoners, neither shapes nor names remaining, only listless glances spared for newcomers. Yan Chang was deeper still, beyond all light.
An imperial edict abolished his title, sentencing him to lifelong confinement. From now on, the former “one-character king” of Yue would end his days here.
Ji Hong strode straight inside, his dark robe swishing, half his face engulfed in shadow, light flickering over his stark cheek. Yu Jinnian followed a few steps, then paused, eyes following the man’s fading silhouette into darkness.
Yu Jinnian merely accompanied; the road ahead was for Ji Hong alone to walk.
The jailer watched the youth—a gentle figure utterly at odds with this place, a breath of spring wandering where only death reigned. Only much later would he understand that the gentle warmth about him was “life,” while the prison spelled only “death.”
Thinking of him as one of Ji Hong’s confidants, the warden dared not neglect him, leading Yu Jinnian to tea in the one sunlit office at the end of the corridor. As they passed a cell, Yu’s medicine bell jingled delicately by his waist. Inside, a despondent prisoner suddenly sprang up in a frenzy, latching onto the bars.
Clang! The jailer hit him in the face with a club, “Get back!”
Yu Jinnian glanced in. Red fire lit the prisoner’s features. Though hit, he did not shrink, just stared doggedly, an odd light of hope in his eyes. Yu Jinnian hesitated and said, “…Zhou Feng?”
Two gray streaks of tears slipped down Zhou Feng’s grimy cheeks. He staggered, then slumped or knelt to the ground. Only then did Yu Jinnian see that one knee was crippled, his leg twisted and festering, blood and pus running from sores—neglect would kill him soon enough.
So this was Yan Chang’s General Zhou, his closest confidant, felled by He Lianzhi’s arrow.
The jailer sneered, “He fell from his horse, and his own men trampled his leg as they fled. Serves him right!”
Yu Jinnian froze.
“Miracle doctor!” Zhou Feng, dragging his ruined leg, pressed his head to the ground, clutching at Yu’s robe through the bars. “Please, I beg you! Come see my master—at least take away his pain… He’s in agony day and night; nothing can help him anymore!”
Yu Jinnian withdrew instinctively.
“Miracle doctor! Please!” Unable to reach, Zhou Feng could only bash his head to the floor, blood streaming down his brow like tears. “Do anything you want—flay me alive, take my heart, whatever it takes—just see him, just see him once!”
Zhou Feng grovelled, abandoning all dignity; if only Yu Jinnian would look at Yan Chang, just keep him alive a little longer—once a year, even! Surely the miracle doctor would sometimes remember to look in on Yan Chang, too!
Medicine boy of the Celestial King—yet back then, that province was far away, so Yu Jinnian could not save him. If only Zhou Feng had known then, had any way, even a shred: “I’d never have given him opium…”
But Yuezhou needed Yan Chang; the army needed him alert, and couldn’t lose him to mere pain! Ships crossed the western seas with their “divine” medicines, rare and precious, and the foreign monks swore it was a panacea for agony.
Zhou Feng had no choice. Not a bit. Dead or alive, it had to be tried.
Yu Jinnian, arms folded, was shocked—he’d given Yan Chang opium. It truly dulled pain, but it was a deadly poison-flower, a poppy of the netherworld; touch it once and you were finished.
“To quench thirst with poison…”
Yu Jinnian turned, following the jailer to the office; firelight made their faces seem monstrous. Even the softest-hearted medicinal prodigy could grow cold eventually.
Zhou Feng banged his head on the bars till blood streamed. He called after Yu Jinnian, eyes wide and wild: “See him, just see him once and he can go on! Miracle doctor, Yu Jinnian! He’s all alone—how do you expect him to survive—how?!”
Yu Jinnian paused, glanced back with a touch of amusement: “The whole world’s in one pot—what makes you special? When you lorded it over Ji Hong, did you ever think about how he’d survive? Now you ask me, how should Yan Chang survive?”
“Zhou Feng, he will—if he can.”
Zhou Feng collapsed—all that devotion was useless now. He knelt, shoulders shuddering, face crumpled in misery.
Around him, the sobbing spread through the prison—many had been locked up for decades, boys grown old, losing even track of their ages. The weeping snowballed, echoing through the corridor like a ghostly lament. The jailer hammered the bars, to no avail—so long as there was one crying, the rest would remember themselves, and weep.
Ji Hong strode deep into the corridor to the only silent cell. Through a thick wooden grate, he stared at the drooping figure on the wall, gaunt beyond belief. Not that the jailers tormented him—the emperor forbade his death, so no one dared let him die, nor would suicide be allowed. Once a grand hero, with enemy blood covering his feats.
He had brought peace to Daxia.
But in the end, what for? So many with laurels, yet here, all that meant less than a mouthful of sun or a drink of clean water. When brought in, Yan Chang kicked a guard to death, grabbed a sword, and nearly ended himself.
Afraid he’d try again, the jailer had him strung up and left to stew. Long stays sap anyone; with time, resolve fades. He’d come to learn—in prison, there are no princes or nobles, no fame, no deeds—nothing worth more than daylight on the face.
Back in the darkness, Yan Chang, at last sensing someone outside, moved his fingers, eyes muddled, lips cracked and dry, moved several times before finally whispering: “Zhou Feng… it hurts…”
Ji Hong had a thousand questions to ask, but standing before him, he found none really needed asking.
After a pause, he said quietly, “Yan Chang.”
Yan Chang tensed, then forced his eyes open—recognizing at last, instantly alert, rage pulsing, and chains rattling cold around his battered body. His swollen shoulder joints shrieked with pain.
He glared with violent hatred.
On the snowy mountain, Ji Yan, carrying Ji Hong, trudging through drifts; he could still taste second brother’s hot blood—salty, faintly sweet. Hands massaged with snow, both boys frozen numbly—bone-deep cold, perhaps like Yan Chang’s pain now.
Both Daxia’s swords, Quji and Wuzai, had ended in Yan Chang’s hands—maybe, on the frozen frontier, before his brother died, Yan Chang saw him, watching coldly as he passed.
But right to the end, Ji Yan had never cursed Yan Chang—he’d respected his choice, even at the cost of his own life.
Two swords from one forge, two inseparable friends—ending in one dead, and the other crippled. Shadow lay over Ji Hong’s face—he suddenly saw that Yan Chang was pitiable. Ji Yan was not the only one left in the cold.
They faced each other silently before Ji Hong turned away, looking down the long, fire-lit corridor.
Before leaving, he asked: “Do you regret it?”
Then he walked toward the swirl of orange light, growing sharper and brighter—the glow of Yu Jinnian waiting at the corner. The gentle hemisphere of light enveloped the youth’s slender figure. The other braziers flickered out; only his calm brightness silently lit Ji Hong’s way.
However far, however deep, he would always find his way home by that light.
“Ji Hong! Ji Hong!”
Behind, Yan Chang suddenly howled, tearing at chains in agony, the faint flame unable to reach his cell, jealous rage overwhelming him. He roared at Ji Hong’s back like a dying beast: “Why you!? Why did Ji Yan choose you? He chose you too—!”
Why did Ji Yan always go against him—rather guard a weakling boy to the death than join him in glory? And Yu Jinnian too—preferring some sickly thing and never sharing splendour with him?
If only he’d had Ji Yan’s help and Yu Jinnian’s companionship—how could he have fallen so low?! He gasped again and again, rage burning until he spat a mouthful of blood. “Why—?!”
Where did it all go wrong?!
A commotion of jailers hurried in, brushing past Ji Hong as he strode out.
At last, Ji Hong reached the warmth, recollecting himself to look down.
Yu Jinnian, lamp in arms, eyes glowing gently, smiled: “Shall we go home?”
“Mm.” Ji Hong replied, taking his hand.
Suddenly, the wind grew warm. Pink snow swept past; spring had come to Xiajing.