Chapter 17

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Yang Zhijian was also an orphan taken in by Chen Yun back then. The Central Plains were engulfed in fierce warfare. In this region, several locust plagues and floods had struck repeatedly, leaving the land strewn with starving corpses. Not only could the common people barely survive, but many noble families also could not endure the relentless disasters and upheavals. They migrated southward to the relatively more peaceful lands of Wu and Chu.

Chaos breeds chaos; if it weren’t chaotic, it wouldn’t be called a chaotic era.

The path southward for the displaced was perilous. It was not just the bandits and robbers preying on travelers, but the ongoing battles as well. Both sides in the war, regardless of victory or defeat, saw the southern refugees as easy targets. Soldiers, having barely escaped the battlefield with their lives, were left unchecked by their commanders to plunder and pillage at will.

Robbery inevitably brought slaughter.

Yang Zhijian lost his parents on that journey south. Chen Yun saved him and took him under his wing.

Yan Nanjing was in a similar plight. Though the two shared no blood ties, they were like true siblings—if anything, Yang Zhijian felt a deeper fondness for her due to their shared past.

He remembered when she was first brought home, covered in blood. Foster father Chen Yun carried her back with a furrowed brow. After days and nights of high fever, every possible remedy was tried, even the mystical healing arts. None could break the fever. All feared the child would not survive. Then one morning, she awoke—but she no longer remembered how to speak or even her own name.

She wore a peach wood charm inscribed with the characters "Zhishan" (Meaning “knowing goodness”), and that became her name.

The persistent high fever had nearly left her broken to the core. Yang Zhijian recalled how Yan Nanjing had to convalesce for a long time before she gradually recovered.

He examined her carefully. Seeing her complexion steady, he looked at her hands. Her skin was still fair, nails smooth and tinged red. Only then did he allow himself some relief.

“Good that you’re alright.”

Seeing her well, Yang Zhijian breathed out a long sigh of relief.

Just then, a figure emerged at the door—tall, slender, with delicate yet sharp features.

“Brother,” she glanced toward the doorway. Yang Zhijian saw the visitor too. His brow furrowed slightly, lips pressed tight. But soon, the displeasure vanished as he swiftly replaced it with a calm expression.

He smiled reassuringly at Yan Nanjing, pressed his hand on his waist sword, and strode forward.

“Greetings, Lord Yang.” Qi Yun raised his hand in salute.

Yang Zhijian glanced at Qi Yun a few times, surprise flickering in his eyes.

Jingzhou, located at a strategic pass, was not the richest place but was home to many talented individuals. He had met many officials at the governor’s residence, yet he had to admit, the man before him bore an uncommon grace and refined bearing—rare even among the governor’s retinue.

“I am unworthy of the title ‘Lord Yang.’”

“Lord Commander Yang,” Qi Yun corrected him with a change of address.

Yang Zhijian smiled. “I hear you two gentlemen were seeking me?”

Zhishan had mentioned her suspicions about the two unexpected visitors in her letter. Seeing them today, Yang Zhijian formed his own guess about their identities.

“I hadn’t intended to come at first. But having stumbled here by chance, I thought it proper to apologize in person for disturbing your household.”

The words sounded formal and courteous. To one unaware of prior events, he might seem a man of decorum.

Yang Zhijian’s expression remained unreadable as he replied, “You are too gracious, sir.”

He then gestured politely, inviting them inside.

“I have already heard from Zhishan about the bandits. If not for your help, the outcome would have been dreadful.”

He expressed heartfelt thanks. Then, seemingly casually, he asked, “May I know your honorable name?”

Qi Yun’s smile did not falter. “My surname is Qi, and my given name is Yun.”

He spread out his palm and wrote a character on it.

Yang Zhijian’s heart skipped a beat. To speculate was one thing; to confirm the suspicion was quite another.

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Qi Yun was, of course, the eldest son of Qi Xun, who controlled a third of the realm. The Qi family’s ancestors had served in officialdom for generations, though they were not among the most prestigious noble houses. Some family members held government posts, but none in the highest ranks. In the two preceding generations, a few talented individuals had risen to the rank of middle-ranking generals. During the chaos that followed, they initially served the court loyally, even fighting to the death on the battlefield.

Yet those who died for loyalty received no proper compensation. The Qi family lost its pillar and endured hardship for more than a decade. After Qi Xun came of age, the court granted him a military title, but unlike his grandfather and father, he was not wholeheartedly devoted to serving the court. He pursued other ambitions.

Using the legacy left by his forebears and his own abilities, he forcibly took control of several prefectures in the Qi region and pressured the court to confer upon him the title of marquis.

Compared to his father, the eldest son’s reputation was relatively muted.

Yang Zhijian had heard that Qi Xun once fought a stalemated battle with a feudal lord and sent his then-ten-year-old son to the enemy camp to negotiate a mutual withdrawal.

A mere boy, not even formally an adult by ancient standards, was sent into the enemy camp by his own father.

When Yang Zhijian first heard this from colleagues, he thought it a rumor.

Now, with the man standing before him, he scrutinized him more carefully.

Officials at the governor’s residence were adept at discreet observation, never revealing their intent.

For a man, Qi Yun’s features were too delicate, his brows and eyes too sharply defined—upon close inspection, they cut like blades.

Yang Zhijian rubbed his sleeve, his anxiety growing. He subtly shifted, positioning Yan Nanjing behind him for protection.

Qi Yun smiled. “Commander, no need to worry. Victory and defeat are common in war. Since our forces lost, it was due to our inferiority in skill. We would not take it out on women and children.”

His words were polished, flawless.

But Yang Zhijian was not deceived. When Qi Yun saw through his thoughts, he showed no embarrassment—only a smile as he nodded.

“You have a generous heart, sir. But these are turbulent times, and I must remain cautious. I beg your forgiveness.”

“Brother.”

Yan Nanjing suddenly spoke. Yang Zhijian turned slightly to look at her, noting her chin raised slightly.

Another youth approached.

“Has the lord arrived as well?” Yan Nanjing asked with a smile.

Today, she still wore simple attire, her face bare of makeup, her long black hair loosely tied at the nape with wisps framing her face, exuding an endless gentleness.

Zheng Xuanfu lingered there, stealing a few glances. Before his mind could wander, Qi Yun caught his gaze. Though smiling, Qi Yun’s stare made Xuanfu’s shoulders ache faintly.

He dared not look again.

Yan Nanjing saw Zheng Xuanfu’s face pale instantly and then turned away, no longer looking at her.

She took back her gaze without concern.

Her earlier words were merely to remind Yang Zhijian and observe proper etiquette.

“Brother, shall we speak inside the main hall?”

She spoke softly.

Her reminder restored Yang Zhijian’s composure quickly.

“I will go in first with our honored guests. Zhishan, you should return ahead.”

He fixed his gaze on her.

Yan Nanjing nodded, watching the three enter the hall before sending A Yuan to fetch warm soup. Then she summoned Bai Su to bring Cui Ti.

“Please have Lord Cui guard the door. If anything happens, I ask him to act as our external support.”

Cui Ti’s face glowed with excitement. Even with Yan Nanjing’s meticulous care for those two men, he did not believe she truly wished them well.

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Just as he thought, she was only compelled by circumstance.

“Very well. Should anything stir inside, I will rush in immediately!”

He was about to head to the hall where Yang Zhijian and the others were.

Seeing all arranged, Yan Nanjing blew on her palms, rubbed them together, and returned to her chambers.

Yang Zhijian returned, the others already well ahead. Only Yan Nanjing remained, moving a pottery lamp closer, shielding the flame as she read.

After some time, footsteps approached outside, followed by a few knocks at the door.

“Zhishan, may brother come in?”

Yan Nanjing replied affirmatively, and Yang Zhijian pushed the door open.

“Brother, has the matter been settled?”

Yan Nanjing asked.

Yang Zhijian rubbed his nose bridge and sat beside her.

“Do you know who that man is?”

“He’s a Qi army general, right? When he first arrived, from his leather armor, he seemed to come from a notable background.”

“He is the eldest son of Qi Xun from the Qi region.”

Yan Nanjing murmured, then sifted through the embers in the fire cage, plucking out mandarins with delicate copper chopsticks.

“He told me he admired your talents.”

Curious, she added, “From his appearance, it seems somewhat genuine.”

People’s words can be lies; their expressions may not always be truthful. But actions do not deceive.

“He said the same to me.”

Yang Zhijian’s expression was calm. Seeing her reach for the hot mandarins, he raised a hand to stop her, taking them himself and peeling the burning skin.

“I’m curious—how did he hear of me?”

He shook his head. “He praised my military strategy and formations. You’d never guess he was a defeated general.”

“Then again, he’s not the commander. Many matters are beyond his say.”

“His heart seems quite broad,” Yan Nanjing remarked, accepting a mandarin from him.

Even having lived under the same roof for days and survived hardship together, she hadn’t forgotten the icy cold pressed to her neck that night. So she remained wary of Qi Yun.

She was forced to get along with him and wished to avoid closer relations if possible.

“But this time, no matter how broad his heart is, it won’t help.”

Yan Nanjing looked at him with puzzlement as Yang Zhijian lowered his head, tidying the white pith from the mandarin peel.

“The Qi army’s commander—his uncle—is dead.”