Night had deepened. The city of Zhenzhou lay in utter silence, save for the wind threading through walls and roof tiles, carrying with it the lingering chill of war.

  Shen Zhiwu stood under the riverside corridor at the rear of the military quarters, her robes gently swaying in the breeze.

  The one she awaited had arrived.

  She heard footsteps halt behind her. Turning, she saw—as expected—Third Prince Xiao Jingming.

  He was in casual robes, hair unbound, holding a celadon wine flask in hand. His gait was steady, his expression composed, and even the night could not conceal the grace and light in his bearing.

  “The night is cold. Why have you not retired?” he asked.

  Shen Zhiwu did not answer. Instead, she looked up and asked directly,

  “Does Your Highness recall—between Chen Yuan and Yan Hanjing, who is the superior?”

  Xiao Jingming paused briefly, then chuckled, pouring himself a cup of wine. As though speaking to himself, or perhaps replying to her:

  “Of course it is Yan Hanjing.”

  “Since you know that—why not use him?” Her gaze remained steady, her tone direct.

  Xiao Jingming lowered his eyes and replied softly, “It’s not that I won’t use him… it’s that I can’t keep him.”

  He placed the cup down, fingers trailing its rim. His voice dropped:

  “His ambition is not in office, nor does he crave fame. He only wishes to protect the land, to guard the people. And I—a powerless prince—cannot offer the battlefield he desires.”

  Shen Zhiwu fell silent, then asked quietly,

  “Does Your Highness… resent him for not staying?”

  Xiao Jingming smiled faintly, still gentle as ever:

  “No. He is an eagle, and I—am no mountain.”

  Shen Zhiwu lowered her eyes, then slowly looked up.

  “Your Highness may not keep him. But I wish to invite him.”

  Xiao Jingming looked at her. “You’ve never met him—what makes you think he’ll come?”

  “I do not know if he will,” she said, firm and clear. “But if he comes—he will break this stalemate.”

  Her eyes were bright and unflinching. “Reading the remnants of his old battle formations, just a few words were enough to see the clarity of his mind and mastery of warfare.”

  Xiao Jingming gazed at her for a long moment before smiling and sliding his cup toward her.

  “Then tell me—what must we do now?”

  Shen Zhiwu took the cup and drained it in one go. Setting it down like issuing an order, she answered:

  “Send word to Xiling Post. Summon Yan Hanjing.”

  She paused. Her voice was as sharp as steel:

  “If this siege is to be broken—it can only be him.”

  The wind and rain in Zhenzhou had not yet ceased. Firelight flickered through the tent flaps of the military camp.

  That night, Shen Zhiwu wrote a confidential letter in the name of the Third Prince.

  The handwriting was bold and forceful, the brushstrokes like wind. The opening:

  To General Hanjing.

  No pleasantries, no preamble—she went straight to the point:

  “Zhenzhou stands in peril. Supply lines severed, forces surrounded. Reinforcements delayed, Chen Yuan gravely injured. The Third Prince sends this letter in dire plea.”

  “Xiling Post lies thirty li from the city. Should your army arrive within three days, strike the north gate, ambush the southern slope—we can rout the enemy.”

  “Though you are not bound to any lord, His Highness once recognized your brilliance and gave you freedom to act. Circumstances then were poor, but today, he humbles himself to seek your aid.”

  “If you still recall his past trust, let us meet again on the battlefield as allies.”

  —Third Prince Xiao Jingming

  Written by: Shen Zhiwu

  She sealed the letter, pressing the wax with her hand, leaving a crisp imprint.

  Outside the tent, footsteps approached. The Third Prince and Chen Yuan stood at the threshold.

  “Your Highness, the letter is ready,” she said.

  Xiao Jingming stepped inside and accepted the letter from her hands. He touched the still-warm wax, then looked at her:

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “You’re certain you want to wager on this?”

  Shen Zhiwu answered without hesitation:

  “If we don’t, there is no other solution.”

  The prince was silent for a moment, then slowly passed the letter to Chen Yuan.

  “You will deliver this yourself.”

  Chen Yuan clasped his fists and replied solemnly,

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Xiao Jingming looked at him. His voice dropped:

  “This journey is dangerous. If you fall into ambush, do not fight to the death. Delivering the letter is what matters most.”

  Chen Yuan bowed again, grave and firm:

  “Understood. But if it comes to that—my life means nothing, the letter must go.”

  Xiao Jingming paused, then nodded slightly.

  That night, the storm surged. Chen Yuan donned his armor and left the camp, his cloak billowing, his steed vanishing into the wind and snow.

  By morning, the wind in Zhenzhou was biting. The battle had not begun, but the wind howled like mourning.

  Suddenly, the enemy sounded horns and halted their attack. A messenger rode forth:

  “Your subordinate Chen Yuan is in our custody. We bring him before your gates—to negotiate.”

  A small group rode out from the enemy camp. At the center, bloodied and battered, stood a man in broken armor—yet still upright.

  It was Chen Yuan.

  The Third Prince ascended the walls. At the sight of that familiar figure, his gaze turned icy, knuckles whitening.

  The enemy commander shouted:

  “Your Highness, surrender the city and your army will be spared. Resist—and his head will fall.”

  The generals on the wall grew agitated, hands gripping weapons.

  But Shen Zhiwu’s gaze remained fixed on Chen Yuan.

  Chen Yuan was pale, blood at his lips. Yet he bowed slightly toward the prince and spoke:

  “This general… did not fail his mission. May this body serve loyalty and honor.”

  He made to bite his tongue, but was stopped. The enemy messenger sneered:

  “A man this loyal—we won’t kill him easily. Surrender, and he will be returned unharmed.”

  “Otherwise,” he continued, voice cold, “his head will hang at your gates by noon tomorrow.”

  With that, they dragged Chen Yuan away. Silence fell.

  The Third Prince stood in the wind, robes fluttering, face grim, hands trembling inside his sleeves.

  The tent erupted in argument:

  “Your Highness! We cannot sacrifice the army for one man!”

  “But if General Chen dies, morale will collapse—what hope of rescue then?”

  Shen Zhiwu stood in the corner, her eyes on the city map, calm and steady.

  At last, she said,

  “Your Highness.”

  He turned, his expression pained.

  “He said, ‘I did not fail.’” Shen Zhiwu’s voice was quiet. “Then allow me to propose a strategy—feigned retreat. Tonight, we show weakness, lure the enemy into the city for street battle, then ambush from within and without.”

  Silence.

  A general sneered:

  “A woman’s words? You’d use Zhenzhou as bait? If this fails, we’re feeding our whole army to the wolves.”

  “What does she know of war?”

  “Your Highness places so much trust in her—does a strategist outweigh a general?”

  Voices clashed. The Third Prince’s brow furrowed.

  Shen Zhiwu did not flinch. She walked calmly to the table, unfurled a fresh map, and picked up the brush.

  Stroke by stroke, she traced the enemy’s route, planned ambushes, traps, and fire points. The diagram locked into place like gears in a machine.

  “Abandon the north gate—they’ll take the bait. They must pass five alleys and three junctions—set fire points, lay traps, block the roads—”

  “This is the internal trap. The external strike—when reinforcements arrive—will flank from the southern slope.”

  “They think we’re weak—we bait them. They think Chen Yuan is lost—but his sacrifice is the opening.”

  Her voice was quiet but firm as steel.

  The prince stared at the map.

  At length, he asked,

  “Do you truly believe Yan Hanjing will come?”

  She met his gaze, without hesitation:

  “I do.”

  The tent fell into solemn silence.

  The prince looked at her, emotions surging. Then he laughed softly, resolve flashing in his eyes:

  “Very well. This plan—you will lead it.”

  “If it succeeds, the greatest merit shall be yours.”

  The murmurs ceased. The generals fell silent. Then, all saluted as one.

  At dawn, the north gate opened. The enemy surged in, unopposed.

  They believed the city theirs.

  But deep in the alleys, smoke rose—then flame.

  Pits, collapsed walls, stones, ambushes—

  In an instant, the enemy was trapped in a web.

  Just then, battle drums thundered in the mountains.

  Three thousand cavalry descended from the southern slope like a storm, slicing into the enemy rear.

  Chaos erupted. Surrounded, the enemy’s formation crumbled.

  A black battle flag unfurled in the wind.

  Upon it, a single white character:

  Yan.

  The soldiers did not recognize the banner, but beneath it—iron armor, snow under hoof, lances like forests. One rider led the charge, cutting through the enemy like blood-slick wind.

  That day, the enemy retreated thirty li. Supply lines restored, the siege lifted.

  In the command tent, the Third Prince penned the victory report. Generals sang praises:

  “General Hanjing lives up to his name!”

  “Swift as ever—this man is victory incarnate.”

  Shen Zhiwu stood quietly in the corner, saying nothing.

  When the tent emptied, she sat alone beneath the lamp. The battle map lay open.

  Her fingers brushed over one point again and again, as if stirring hidden tides in her heart.

  She stared at it for a long time, her gaze dimming in the firelight, as though reading armies and battle cries from between the lines.

  At last, she murmured to herself:

  “This man… I must meet him.”