Chapter 45: Transaction

Still that faint tone.

Feng Anlan finally came back to her senses. She took a deep breath, suppressing her churning emotions, sheathed her sword, and bowed to Shuang Feixue.

“Thank you, Senior, for saving our lives. You look somewhat familiar—have we met before?”

Shuang Feixue glanced at her and knew she had long forgotten.

“Mm, two years ago, you met my disciple.”

“It’s you! I didn’t expect to meet here. Back then, I owed that young hero a debt, and now I owe you one—truly fated. May I ask how to address you, Senior?”

“Shuang Feixue.” She replied faintly with her name, then pressed on, “Why are you here? Where are your guards? What about that old nanny from back then?”

Shuang Feixue fired three questions in a row, each striking at the princess’s sore spots.

Feng Anlan gave a bitter laugh, her smile filled with vicissitudes.

“This is a long story.”

After speaking, she glanced at the corpses littering the ground and continued.

“But this place isn’t suitable to linger. If you’re willing, Senior, perhaps we can find another spot to talk?”

Shuang Feixue nodded; she also felt this wasn’t the time.

So the four began to tidy up.

The dual-blade and spear-wielding maids supported each other, simply bandaging their wounds.

Shuang Feixue searched the jianghu corpses for some dry rations and handed them over. 

Feng Anlan rummaged through the overturned carriage, finding a small bundle to sling over her shoulder—it seemed to hold nothing valuable, looking light and flimsy.

“The carriage is unusable, and the horses are dead. We’ll walk.”

“To Qingshi Post?”

“You’re heading there too, Senior?”

“Mm.”

The four set off, Shuang Feixue leading, Feng Anlan and the two maids following. 

The maids’ injuries were severe, slowing them down; Shuang Feixue didn’t urge, maintaining a pace they could match.

The sky turned fully dark, a crescent moon rising above the treetops, casting cold light. 

The official road was empty, only their footsteps and night insects’ chirps.

After about half a shichen, lights appeared ahead—Qingshi Post.

It was a small town, prosperous due to its position on the north-south route. 

A main street ran through, lined with inns, taverns, warehouses.

Though night had fallen, pedestrians remained—mostly caravan guards and porters—the clamor audible from afar.

Shuang Feixue found a relatively clean-looking inn and requested two rooms: one for her and Feng Anlan, one for the two maids.

The innkeeper, seeing their bloodstained clothes, started to say something; Shuang Feixue tossed a few taels of silver, and he shut up, eagerly having the waiter lead the way.

The rooms were on the second floor, facing the street—small but tidy. 

The waiter brought hot water and clean cloths, then withdrew. 

Shuang Feixue closed the door, sat at the table, and poured herself a cup of cool tea.

Feng Anlan washed up simply, changed into clean clothes, then sat across the table. 

The candlelight flickered, illuminating her pale face.

“You can speak now.”

Shuang Feixue set down her teacup.

Feng Anlan was silent for a moment before slowly beginning.

As it turned out, after entering the North Zhou imperial capital as a hostage two years ago, her days were tough. 

The Zhou people treated her courteously on the surface but confined her to a remote residence, guarded by soldiers, forbidding free movement.

The accompanying old nanny, Chief Su, was advanced in age, unaccustomed to the climate, and overwhelmed with worry—she suffered a stroke within months, lingered half a month, and passed.

Feng Anlan became truly alone.

She stayed in Zhou for two years; the first year, she clung to hope of returning, but gradually despaired.

Yet Zhou treated her decently—lacking freedom, but no heavy labor or servitude. 

Food when hungry, clean water when thirsty, warm clothes in cold—though no luxuries, basics were met, counting as proper treatment.

But the Zhou court wouldn’t release her, and the Liang court seemed to have forgotten this imperial princess existed.

Until this year, when northern grassland barbarians invaded southward en masse, breaching three Zhou provinces. 

Zhou’s main forces went north; the country emptied. 

Liang, seeing this, pressed with force and diplomacy.

One negotiation outcome: release Feng Anlan home.

“Called release, but really just driven out.”

Feng Anlan tugged at her lip, no mirth.

“Gave a rickety carriage, assigned ten guards—deliver to the border and done. But just entering Liang territory, ambushed by those people earlier.”

“They’re jianghu folk—likely from that Liang incident fourteen years ago, but could be your own side hiring, or both.”

“Yes, possible from any side—even Zhou instigating, wanting me dead en route. That incident bred endless troubles for the court; even in Zhou, I heard rumors of high officials assassinated by jianghu. In the end, family troubles—I accept whatever.”

“You’re quite open-minded.”

Palace intrigue—Feng Anlan away from Liang two years; short, but court powers had shifted. Her return was a variable; some didn’t want her alive—normal.

“What do you plan?”

“Return to the capital. I must—I need to see things with my own eyes. My imperial mother is aging, and court matters… Thanks for your aid, Senior. Whatever you need, ask—if I can help, I will.”

Shuang Feixue didn’t respond immediately. 

She had no interest in Liang court, nor desire to meddle, but saving Feng Anlan was for her status—aid in exchange for court help.

“I’m straightforward, dislike beating around the bush. Saving you wasn’t chivalric whim. Since you offered, refusing would seem ungracious. I do need something, but not titles or wealth—rest assured.”

Shuang Feixue finished, setting her gripped teacup on the table.

“Senior, please speak.”

Feng Anlan spread her hands, expression bold.

“My disciple—you’ve met him. He’s missing now. I know he’s alive, but not where—only that it’s likely a poor coastal area in the south. I help you not for else, but to borrow Liang’s power to find him. That’s all.”

Finished, Shuang Feixue picked up her tea again, sipping. 

She needed tea to ease her heart’s bitterness, irritation.

She didn’t tell Feng Anlan the stakes—one, couldn’t voice it; two, feared knowing would kill aid.

“Since so, Anlan will assist fully. Not just the young hero’s debt to me—even your grace, Anlan can’t repay. Once in capital, I’ll report to my imperial mother—may not guarantee, but some help. This journey’s arduous—trouble you to escort me to the capital, Senior.”

“Naturally.”

“Then thanks again, Senior.”

Feng Anlan wisely didn’t press why Shuang Feixue’s disciple vanished—knew she wouldn’t say.

She looked at Shuang Feixue—this woman glimpsed two years ago in Huaniang Town, now haggard as if changed.

But the light in those eyes was sharper than before.

The gaze of one who lost someone vital—Feng Anlan knew it well; she’d seen it countless times in her own eyes, in Zhou palace bronze mirrors.

The two maids already slept in the next room—their wounds heavy, needing rest.

Feng Anlan and Shuang Feixue shared the room; Shuang Feixue sat against the wall regulating breath, Feng Anlan laid a floor mat—she insisted Shuang Feixue take the bed; Shuang Feixue didn’t argue.

Moonlight seeped through window paper, spreading frosty white on the floor.

Feng Anlan lay on the mat, staring at the ceiling, suddenly asking softly.

“Senior Shuang, what kind of person… is the young hero?”

Shuang Feixue didn’t open her eyes, but after a long while, she answered lowly.

“Two years ago, very foolish, very stubborn—always wanting to be a great hero. But after two years, like a different person—he matured more. Clearly grown into what I like, yet now like changed.”

Her voice was light, yet immensely complex.

Feng Anlan didn’t press the master-disciple’s sorrows—now wasn’t time. She switched to trivial matters.

“Is his martial arts good?”

“Decent.”

“How old now?”

“Fourteen.”

“What does he like to eat?”

“Sweets.”

Feng Anlan asked no more. 

She heard the suppressed emotion in Shuang Feixue’s voice—that mix of pride and worry only a mother mentioning her child has.

She closed her eyes, suddenly recalling years ago—her imperial mother once spoke of her in such tone.

She was young then, not understanding the complexity; now she did, but couldn’t return.

Watchman’s call outside—third watch.

Shuang Feixue still sat, breath long. 

In her arms, the warm jade sword against her chest, emitting constant faint warmth—like a beating heart.