Early winter settled over Gong'an without ceremony.
The cold did not arrive with frost or snow, but with a kind of damp stillness that clung to sleeves and seeped into bone. Jiang Wan noticed it most clearly in his fingers. The bamboo pen felt heavier than usual, its surface cool despite the brazier burning steadily at his side.
He paused, flexed his wrist once, then resumed writing.
The hall was quiet — not the empty quiet of neglect, but the disciplined quiet of a place that had learned restraint. Clerks moved without speaking. Scrolls were passed hand to hand without comment. Ink stones were rinsed, dried, and set aside with the same care one might show a weapon.
This, Jiang Wan thought, was what order sounded like.
He had not slept well the previous night. Or the night before that.
It was not illness. It was not fear. It was simply that the lists no longer ended.
Grain tallies from the four commanderies. Labor rotations for the hydraulic workshops. Iron allotments. Transport losses. Refugee registrations that had begun as emergency records and were now, disturbingly, becoming permanent census entries.
He had once believed that administration was a matter of clarity: understand the flow, correct the blockage, and the system would right itself.
Now he knew better.
Administration was endurance.
A shadow crossed the desk.
Jiang Wan did not look up. "Set it there."
The shadow did not move.
He frowned slightly and raised his head.
Jian Yong was standing before him, hands tucked into his sleeves, posture relaxed to the point of impropriety. He looked as though he had wandered in by accident — which, Jiang Wan knew, meant he very much had not.
"You're blocking the light," Jiang Wan said.
Jian Yong glanced upward, as if only now noticing the sun's position. "Ah. So I am." He shifted half a step, still very much blocking the light. "Better?"
"Marginally."
Jian Yong grinned and leaned against the edge of the table without asking permission. "You've been writing since dawn."
Jiang Wan dipped the pen again. "Since before."
"Mm." Jian Yong peered at the documents. "You're using the bamboo pen again."
"It's faster."
"And uglier."
"I am not submitting calligraphy to the court of Emperor Ling."
Jian Yong laughed softly. "Fair."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Outside the hall, the wind moved through the eaves. Somewhere farther away, a hammer rang — iron on iron, steady and deliberate. The sound carried faintly, like a heartbeat.
Jian Yong's gaze drifted toward the door. "The workshops are busy."
"They must be," Jiang Wan replied. "Winter does not pause."
"And neither do you."
Jiang Wan finally set the pen down. "If you came to tease me, do it quickly. I have three more registers before noon."
Jian Yong's expression shifted — just a little. The smile remained, but something beneath it tightened.
"I came because Zifang refuses to eat."
Jiang Wan closed his eyes briefly.
Mi Fang.
Of course.
"He eats," Jiang Wan said evenly. "I've seen him."
"He chews," Jian Yong corrected. "That is not the same."
Jiang Wan leaned back slightly. "What does he say?"
"That he regrets it."
"That he regrets being caught," Jiang Wan said.
Jian Yong chuckled. "You and Kongming truly are of one temperament."
"That is not praise."
"No, but it is accurate."
Jiang Wan rose, stretching his stiff shoulders. He moved to the side table and poured tea for both of them. The steam rose slowly, carrying a faint bitterness.
"Zifang's position is… delicate," Jiang Wan said. "You know that."
"I do."
"And yet you still came."
Jian Yong accepted the cup, cradling it with both hands. "Because delicacy spoils if left untouched."
Jiang Wan studied him over the rim of his cup. "What do you suggest?"
Jian Yong blew on the tea. "Let Yide handle him."
The tea nearly went down the wrong way.
"You are serious."
"Entirely."
Jiang Wan stared. "Zhang Yide is… not known for subtlety."
"Exactly." Jian Yong sipped. "Zifang has lived among silk curtains too long. He needs to understand weight. Pain teaches quickly."
"And if Yide goes too far?"
Jian Yong smiled faintly. "Then Zifang will finally understand how close he came to ruin."
Jiang Wan said nothing.
He turned his gaze toward the hall entrance.
Standing just beyond the threshold, half in shadow, was Chen Dao.
He had been there for some time. Jiang Wan was certain of it.
Chen Dao stood with hands resting loosely at his sides, posture straight but unassuming. His white cloak was clean, unadorned, the faint silver embroidery at the collar catching light only when he shifted his weight — which was rarely.
He was not looking into the hall.
He was watching the corridor.
Jiang Wan felt a familiar, quiet pressure in his chest.
Chen Dao did not intrude. He never did. He existed as a boundary — a line one crossed only once.
Jian Yong followed Jiang Wan's gaze and raised an eyebrow. "The Captain is vigilant."
"He always is," Jiang Wan replied.
As if sensing the mention, Chen Dao turned his head slightly and met Jiang Wan's eyes. He inclined his head — a precise, restrained motion — then returned his attention to the passageway.
No words exchanged.
None needed.
Jiang Wan returned to the desk. "Zifang's matter will be discussed after the New Year."
Jian Yong sighed. "You delay."
"I preserve balance."
"Balance is fragile."
"So is blood," Jiang Wan said quietly.
Jian Yong studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Very well. I have spoken."
He drained his tea and set the cup down. "You will burn yourself out."
Jiang Wan picked up the pen again. "So will the state, if I stop."
Jian Yong laughed once, softly, and turned to leave.
At the door, he paused. "When the light returns… be careful."
Jiang Wan did not ask what he meant.
By the time Jian Yong's footsteps faded, the hall had returned to its measured rhythm.
Jiang Wan wrote until his wrist ached and his vision blurred. When he finally stopped, the light outside had shifted. Afternoon had given way to a pale, colorless dusk.
He stood and walked to the window.
The city beyond was alive in small, persistent ways. Smoke rose from cookfires. Carts moved along the main road. Soldiers rotated posts with practiced ease.
Near the south gate, a group of recruits drilled under Chen Dao's supervision.
There was no shouting.
No flourish.
The men moved as one — step, halt, turn — silent, precise. Their spears rose and fell like the breathing of a single creature.
Jiang Wan watched for a long time.
This was not the army of heroic tales.
This was something else.
Something heavier.
A clerk approached quietly. "Sir. The Lord requests the updated supply summary."
Jiang Wan nodded. "Send it."
"And… the light-screen." The clerk hesitated. "There are rumors."
Jiang Wan closed his eyes.
"Yes," he said. "There are always rumors."
When night fell, Jiang Wan was still awake.
He sat alone, reviewing the same figures for the third time, knowing they would not change.
Outside, Chen Dao took over the night watch personally.
The wind grew colder.
Somewhere beyond the darkness, something vast and unseen was counting down.
Jiang Wan dipped his pen once more and wrote steadily, each stroke firm.
If history intended to judge them, then at the very least, the ledgers would not lie.
And if the future demanded heroes—
Then someone, quietly, would have to make sure there was still a world left for them to stand upon.