After Shou An and Maid Su disappear beyond the courtyard gate, silence settles fully over the Pavillion.
Shen Qingwan exhales.
It is a long, quiet sigh one that seems to draw something dark out of her chest and release it into the night. The bitterness she has carried for so long loosens, just a little.
She remains seated beneath the tree.
It is a Loquat tree its branches spread wide above her, leaves thick and glossy even as the seasons begin to shift. A faint, sweet fragrance drifts down, soft and comforting, mingling with the cool night air.
Qingwan tilts her head and studies it.
Small flowers dot the branches pale and delicate.
Winter is coming, she thinks.
Her gaze softens.
A memory rises unexpectedly.
The last time she ate Loquat… she had not yet been married.
She remembers standing beneath this very tree, young and impatient, plucking a fruit before it was fully ripe. She had bitten into it eagerly, expecting sweetness but....
Only to wrinkle her face at the tart, and sour taste.
She had been in too much of a hurry.
The memory makes her lips curve upward.
A soft laugh escapes her, light and unguarded, dissolving into the night.
"How foolish I was," she murmurs, lifting her teacup.
Shen Qingwan lifts her teacup beneath the loquat tree, the surface of the tea reflecting the full moon like a fragile mirror. The night air is cool now, carrying the first sharp edge of coming winter. She breathes it in slowly, savoring the quiet.
Far away..............
So far that moonlight must cross mountains and rivers to reach it,
The night is colder.
A vast military camp lies under the same sky, torches flickering violently as strong wind tear across the open land. Canvas tents snap and groan, their ropes pulled tight as if resisting the season itself. The wind carries the smell of frost, warning of winter's approach.
Inside the largest command tent, six figures sit around a rough wooden table.
At the head of the table sits Zhang HuaiJin, the Head Commander.
His armor is dark, unadorned, bearing the marks of long campaigns. He does not raise his voice, yet the tent bends subtly around his presence. When his gaze lifts, the six commanders straighten instinctively.
"Border bandits," Zhang HuaiJin says, tapping the map. "Scattered, entrenched, familiar with the terrain. They rob merchants, corrupt officials, and vanish before punishment arrives."
His finger pauses.
"This winter, they end."
He turns his gaze to the first figure on his left.
Liang Yushen, vanguard commander, steps forward. His posture is aggressive, eyes sharp like a drawn blade.
"Give me three days," Liang says. "I'll strike fast and loud. Force them to move. Bandits scatter when pressured they can't help it."
Zhang HuaiJin nods. "You will be the spear."
Next, Hua Mingzhi, responsible for siege and defense, speaks calmly, fingers already tracing mountain passes on the map.
"They flee toward the old forts and abandoned watchtowers," he says. "We seal them. Barricades here and here." He marks choke points with charcoal. "Once enclosed, they'll have nowhere to run."
"Good," Zhang replies. "The net."
A heavy presence shifts.
Chen Qianglong, cavalry commander, cracks his knuckles. "My riders will patrol the outer routes. If any break through, we cut them down before they reach civilian land."
His voice is blunt, confident.
"The hammer," Zhang HuaiJin says simply.
Across the table, Sun Qingyuan quiet, observant unrolls a thinner parchment. It is filled with symbols rather than roads.
"The bandits are divided into four factions," he says. "They distrust each other. We exploit this." His finger points to a mark. "False rumors. Forged letters. We let them think one group sold out the others."
Zhang Huaijin nods, "Chaos within," he murmurs. "Well done."
Beside him, Yao Chengzhi, dressed plainly, speaks next.
"Supplies are ready," he says. "Winter rations, spare arrows, and medical stores are positioned two days behind the front. Even if the operation drags on, morale won't suffer."
He pauses. "The bandits won't last as long as we do."
Zhang inclines his head. "Endurance wins wars."
Finally, Fu Wen An, elegant even in military council, steps forward.
"After the elimination," he says, "local governance must follow immediately. Compensation for merchants. Grain relief for villagers. If we don't fill the vacuum, another rot will grow."
Hee meets Zhang HuaiJin's gaze evenly.
"This victory must look like justice not conquest."
Zhang studies himfor a moment, then nods.
Outside the main circle, two more figures wait.
From the shadows emerges Liu Qingzhi, leader of the covert unit known as the Shadow Petals. His voice is low, nearly swallowed by the wind.
"My spies are already inside their ranks. Leaders, supply caches, escape tunnels we have them all marked. When the signal comes, they won't know who stabbed them."
Zhang HuaiJin's hand tightens slightly on the table.
"And you," he says, turning.
A scholar steps forward robes simply, eyes sharp behind calm restraint.
Shen WeiHao,
"All scenarios accounted for," Shen says. "If they surrender, we record names and crimes. If they resist, we erase them cleanly. No room for lingering hatred."
The tent falls silent.
Zhang HuaiJin looks at the map one final time.
"Spear. Net. Hammer. Shadow. Mind. Mercy."
He straightens.
"At dawn, we move."
Outside, the wind howls louder.