She was finally letting him in. That alone was a blessing — proof, at least, that she cared enough to think of him. That night Zhongli Mingye slept soundly. The good mood lingered into the morning, and even when he noticed the dark circles under Song Jinyu’s eyes, it didn’t entirely fade.
The road blurred by; the news Cheng Song brought made her uneasy. A trip to the capital had set so many things behind schedule.
“Not going home first,” she said.
“What can we do to buy Master more time?” Cheng Song asked.
Before she could answer, the carriage suddenly halted.
“How dare you stop Prince Yu’s coach?” a man called out as Qingfeng drew his sword and stepped forward.
A figure dismounted and bowed. “Master of Jinshui Palace greets the Prince.”
No one emerged from the coach; the reply was cool and detached.
“I’m an old acquaintance of Miss Song. Do me the courtesy of allowing me to speak with her,” the newcomer said.
An old acquaintance? Zhongli Mingye’s brow tightened. He was about to refuse when Song Jinyu unexpectedly climbed down. If she left the carriage, he would not remain seated either.
“What are you doing?” he demanded, stepping in front of her. Something like displeasure flickered in his phoenix-like eyes. Was it lingering affection? Or old obligations?
Song Jinyu held him briefly, glanced at him, and said simply, “I have my reasons.”
She wouldn’t be stopped. She walked straight up to the speaker.
“So? What do you want to say to me?” she asked.
A faint, mocking smile curved the man’s lips. Ouyang Jinse looked like a blade wrapped in silk — charming on the surface, mean underneath. He had not seen her in a long while; he pretended to be full of contempt. “I hear you were in the capital. Sitting at Prince Yu’s table, of course,” his voice dripped acid.
Song Jinyu chuckled and turned her face to the fading sun. The sky had split into bands of color, like layers on a painted scroll. “I didn’t come here to listen to your prattle,” she said.
Ouyang’s expression soured. “Tianmen Mountain’s Spirit Root Base has been destroyed. Your ailing master has lost his support. In less than half a year, your sect—” He sneered, savoring the image. “—will be ashes.”
The last word hadn’t even left his mouth before Song Jinyu struck him across the face. The slap landed with a crack that silenced the small crowd.
He opened his mouth to retort and she slapped him again. The second blow carried more than force; it carried purpose. “The first slap is for daring to disrespect my master. The second is for insulting my sect.”
Her wrist ached from the effort; she rubbed it reflexively. The small motion didn’t escape Zhongli Mingye’s notice. A pang of concern softened his face.
Ouyang Jinse stared at her in astonishment. “You would dare—?” His guards stirred to intervene. Qingfeng and Cheng Song moved in front of Song Jinyu without hesitation.
“Stand down!” she snapped.
She stepped forward, cold as the last light on the horizon. “If you want to die, no one’s stopping you.”
“Cheng Song, teach Lord Ouyang a lesson,” she ordered.
“Make him learn his place,” Cheng Song replied, answering the command.
They clashed. At first the fight was evenly matched, then Ouyang’s strength flagged as if some invisible weight had been laid upon him. He kept pressing a hand to his head as if insects gnawed inside; pain and dizziness blurred his focus. In a dazed moment, Cheng Song sent him crashing to the ground.
Song Jinyu turned her back to the others; she could not bear to watch the spectacle. Her hands were clenched tight, betraying the turmoil beneath her calm face. Zhongli Mingye did not disturb her. He watched, instead, for anything that might harm her.
Men from Jinshui Palace surged forward to aid their lord, but she swept them with a single, disdainful glance. “What, ready for a brawl? Is that all the Master of Jinshui Palace can do? Hardly fitting for a man with your reputation.”
Her mockery finally broke something in Ouyang. “Clear the way!” he bellowed. “I don’t believe she would kill me!”
Song Jinyu’s expression was half amusement, half steel. “Cheng Song, beat him till he can’t stand,” she said slowly.
Ouyang couldn’t comprehend it. The soft, mischievous girl he’d grown up beside — the little goldfish he’d doted on — had really ordered him to be beaten to death.
“We grew up together. I treated you like my life. You—” he choked on the words, the pain in his chest worse than any blow.
Song Jinyu waved a hand. Cheng Song stopped. She approached the fallen man and surveyed him with an appraising eye. He was badly hurt. She smiled, cold and brief.
“Ouyang Jinse,” she said. “I gave you three chances. I won’t kill you this time.” She held up her hand and shimmered it in front of his face.
She watched the sunset a moment, the cloudbands like the layers of her mood.
“The first time — your mother chased me and forced me off a cliff. I should have left you there. I didn’t.”
“The second time — you threatened me with my life to coerce a marriage. I still spared you.”
She no longer looked at him. Her voice went hard as iron. “The third time, today — you insulted my master and my sect. I only wounded you.”
She sighed, and coldness edged every syllable. “Those three mercies owed to the years we grew up together. Next time, I will not stop until one of us dies.”
She signaled Cheng Song back. Ouyang Jinse lay there, raving, then laughed loudly as if unhinged.
As she passed Zhongli Mingye, he reached out and said quietly, “Did your hand hurt?”
She shot him a single, silent look, then climbed back into the carriage without answering.
“Master of Jinshui Palace is gravely injured. We’ve bought Master some time,” she told Cheng Song, closing her eyes to think the next step through. “If we can make it to Yuzhou and find Senior Brother Bai, we’ll be in better shape.”
Niaoniao asked, worried, “And Prince Yu? He’ll certainly escort you back to his residence. What shall we tell him?”
Song Jinyu didn’t reply. She only told Cheng Song, “In future, don’t meet Ouyang head-on. He was half-drugged — I weakened him by at least fifty percent.”
Before she slapped him, a mechanism in the ring had been tripped. Ouyang had been unprepared. Next time, with his full strength, she might not get another chance.
“Understood, Miss,” Cheng Song replied.
It was time to inform Prince Yu. She couldn’t delay — Tianmen Mountain needed her. At the relay station she bade Zhongli Mingye farewell: “Tianmen Mountain has summoned me.” No more. He read what he wanted into it and said nothing to stop her. “Travel safely,” he offered instead — a phrase delivered without real belief in her excuse.
She rode off with her two companions. As soon as they rounded a bend, Zhongli Mingye sent riders after them.
“Your Highness, the Shadow Guards have found that Miss Song is the closing disciple of Tianmen Mountain, greatly favored by the Sect Master. There’s nothing else suspicious,” one report came in.
“Only a disciple?” he murmured, a note of disappointment slipping through. He sighed and produced a small, ornate silver mask.
“Your Highness, aren’t you returning to Liuzhou?” Qingfeng asked, watching him mount his horse.
Zhongli Mingye’s face was unreadable. He lifted the mask as if weighing an idea. “If she doesn’t go back, what’s the point of my returning?” he said, and his answer carried both restraint and resolve. Then he and his men rode off in a different direction, the silver mask gleaming faintly in the late light.