The return journey concluded as the twelfth month waned. Chienye, situated in the frozen marrow of the steppes, succumbed to winter far earlier than Khilan; the Ghost City was a landscape of swirling snow and ice. No sooner had Qu Fongning stepped into the Spring Camp than a tribute arrived: a cloak of silver-white mink, lined in plain silk, its collar a plush crown of needles as high as a man’s palm and as soft as a squirrel’s tail. Cher Bien, moved by a natural greed, reached out to touch the prize, finding the fur so frictionless it slipped through his fingers like water. Qu Fongning, irritated by his subordinate’s lack of dignity, dismissed him with a sharp kick. Uncle Hwei, observing the spectacle, remarked with a knowing silence: “The suitor has sent his gift.”

Qu Fongning exhaled a faint breath. “So much endurance,” he muttered, “was not for nothing.” With a casual flick of his wrist, he cast the priceless mink aside.

Uncle Hwei, sampling the fine wine that accompanied the gift, gestured with a slow, deliberate clarity: “You have stepped into every snare he set; you have fallen into every pit he dug. When he finally seeks a… conversation of the heart, he will believe his victory absolute.”

A flicker of joy fleeted across touched Qu Fongning’s eyes. “You should have seen his face in that moment.” He tightened the laces of his military boots and rose. “I am going up.”

Uncle Hwei nodded, then paused as a sudden concern took hold. He lowered his cup and signaled with grave intensity: “Do not let him… touch you.” He paused, then corrected himself: “If he must touch you, do not let him succeed so easily.”

Qu Fongning laughed, the sound bright against the winter gloom. “Uncle Hwei, do you imagine you are marrying off a daughter?” He dipped a finger into the elder’s wine and tasted it. “Rest easy. I know the measure of the man.” He reached for the thumb-ring at his throat, hesitated, and tucked it back beneath his collar.

The elder remained unconvinced. He signaled a final warning: “Tighten your belt. Fasten every button.”

With a resigned sigh, Qu Fongning secured his inner shirt to the throat. At the door, he turned back. “Uncle Hwei, I have finally learned this: the concessions of a man who never yields are the only ones that hold value. To those of us who bow our heads at every turn, the world grants no reverence.”

Uncle Hwei smiled, raising his cup in a silent toast. “It is never too late for a man to learn wisdom.” He retrieved a wide snow-hat from the floor and tossed it to the youth.

The great tents of the Ghost City loomed like black sails anchored in a sea of white, the Nvquay banners snapping in the wind. Within the main tent, the charcoal braziers cast a crimson glow. Oyghrmuki, ecstatic at the youth’s return, had prepared a table groaning with dried meats and sweets, heating a bowl of mare’s milk to ward off the cold. Yujien, observing from the side, intervened: “Old Oyghr, do not give him wine.” Oyghrmuki struck his own head in realization. “Of course. General Guo mentioned that last time in Oghuz…” Before the sentence could find its end, Yujien unceremoniously kicked him out.

Qu Fongning removed his hat and shook the remnants of the storm from its brim. He did not sit, nor did he touch the feast. He remained by the entrance, his voice a formal chime. “General, as agreed, I have come to borrow the Book of Questions and Replies.”

“It is prepared,” Yujien replied, his voice warm. He patted a stack of blue-bound volumes resting on his chair. Seeing the youth remained rooted at the door, the General rose with a soft sigh to deliver them personally.

Qu Fongning felt a jagged pulse of triumph. He allowed himself a touch of arrogance. “Then I shall take my leave.” His gaze drifted to the pages, which were a dense forest of archaic, minute script. There were no diagrams of formations, no maps of cavalry movements, no sketches of ballistae. His heart sank; he realized he had been lured. The text was ancient, its characters so primordial he could barely recognize them. He steadied his voice. “I shall return to… study this with diligence. I expect to gain much.”

Yujien’s massive frame cast a long shadow over the youth. He observed the boy’s stubborn fragility with a silent, aching affection. He took a step closer. “You may study here. If you encounter the impenetrable, you need only ask.”

Qu Fongning raised his dark eyes, weighing the consequences. He gave a sharp nod. “Very well. But you shall remain no closer than five feet.” He raised an arm, marking a boundary in the air that the General was not to cross.

The words were light, devoid of any true force; had his tone been any softer, it would have resembled a lover’s whim. Yujien felt a surge of tenderness, like the warmth of mulled wine. He agreed readily, though in his heart, he made little of the restriction. Yet he had underestimated the boy’s resolve. For the next fortnight, Qu Fongning became a fortress of stone. He spent his nights huddled in his mink cloak, consumed by the text. When he encountered an obstacle, he would meditate upon it until his brow furrowed with exhaustion; only then would he seek the General’s counsel. His questions were stripped of all intimacy, his responses more formal and distant than they had been during his earliest tutelage. He seemed to have recovered the poise of a high disciple, his bearing also very appropriate and courteous. Every day by the end, he would rise to take his leave. Oyghrmuki didn’t see the change, attempted twice to convince to stay for the night and tried no more, but still volunteered to see him to his campgrounds. And would stuff him a pocket full of snacks. The two would walk against the wind and snow, chatting and laughing on their way down.

Yujien attempted several times to weave threads of provocation into their conversation, but Qu Fongning diverted them away airily. Citing the passage “The path of war is a deception, akin to the movement of chess”—the youth resumed the practice of the game he had long neglected. Yujien used the board to illustrate the philosophy of attack and defense. Qu Fongning sat opposite him, knees pulled to his chest, fighting a desperate action against the General’s superior strategy. He would linger over a move for an eternity, only to realize his error the moment he saw the General’s smile. Yujien would offer the piece back, a gesture of magnanimity. Qu Fongning refused. “A mistake made is a mistake kept,” he said. “I do not retract.”

“Ningning is a real man of honor,” Yujien remarked with a smile.

“I have not regretted far greater things,” Qu Fongning replied, his eyes downcast. “Why should I mourn a mere game of Qi?”

Yujien’s heart skipped; he looked at the youth, the words he sought suddenly trapped in his throat. Qu Fongning leaned upon his elbows and offered a small, mischievous smile. “General, it is your move.”

The game naturally ended in a crushing defeat for the youth, yet Yujien knew he was the one who just as lost. When Qu Fongning rose to depart, the General personally adjusted his snow-hat and secured the ties. He took an old cotton felt from Oyghrmuki and draped it firmly over the boy’s shoulders. “Ningning has become a fortress of copper and iron,” he remarked.

Qu Fongning adjusted the brim of his hat, his lips—reddened by the heat of the mare’s milk—curving into a silent message: “The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.” He took Oyghrmuki ’s arm and disappeared into the night.

Yujien remained, feeling the blood rush to his head. That night, sleep brought a feverish dream of Qu Fongning lying beside him, his back turned in enduring resentment. In the dream, the General stripped the youth and bound him to the bed, watching his skin flush with a feverish red as he said in shivers, “I’m going to kill you.” Yet as he split his legs and thrust into him, the youth’s screams dissolved into a rhythmic moaning, crying “I hate you, old bastard, fucker!” And suddenly he broke the chains on his wrists and plunged a shimmering dagger into Yujien’s chest. The General awoke with a visceral pain, his body taut and his wound reopened, the bandages soaked in blood. He lay in a cold sweat, the sweet echo of the boy’s breath still haunting his ears, and the feeling of their intimate connection still lingering, how could he sleep?

~

While the General endured his nocturnal torments, Qu Fongning remained in a state of high, cold clarity. He accepted an invitation from Ting’yu and journeyed to Wolfbend Mountain with a light step. He found the young commander in a state of hesitation. It appeared that Lady Ya, desperate for a grandchild, had developed an illness, forcing her son to begin the search for a bride. Qu Fongning found the situation absurd. “Then what is the difficulty? The Princess Tucai would surely not refuse you. Take out the fox pelts and white geese, seek the King’s blessing.” He noticed Ting’yu’s strange expression and realized the truth. “You have another in mind?”

Little Ting’yu’s face colored. “No need to be so loud, okay?” It would seem that his mother had selected several candidates: other than the Princess, the daughter of General Nakin of the Evergreen Army, and the daughter of Lord Arislan. Qu Fongning laughed. “A wealth of choices! Our General of a Thousand Arms is a man of great fortune.” Ting’yu laughed as well, but his toon turned serious. “You help me make a choice. Marriage is not a trifle for me, I must choose with care.”

“You’re getting the wife, why are you putting this on me?” Qu Fongning teased. And getting a smack from his pocket crossbow, he mused on the politics. A union with General Nakin would unify the Western Army’s strategy. The Evergreen Army is one of the most prominent of the sixteen Chienye forces, its power is just beneath the Ghost Army and Guo Army. but Arislan was different. His wealth in livestock and slaves was legendary, nearing matching that of former Lord Sharraugh. In comparison, the flower of the royal house rather has no advantage whatsoever. Little Ting’yu listened with nods and asked, “Then according to you, who should I choose?”

Qu Fongning thought deeply and said, “If going by common sense, tying a union with General Nakin would be greatly advantageous to the Western Army in strategy and supplies. Yet however great his prowess, he cannot give you iron or gold. Arislan is different, they keep cattle and slaves, he’s much wealthier than us. To call such a man ‘Father’ is to invite a flood of treasure. Furthermore, as Chienye expands, you could divert the strongest slaves to your own ranks, replenishing your blood. Your soldiers require little training to master the repeating crossbow.”

Little Ting’yu listened with surprise. “After the council today,” he said, “I asked the same of General Yujien. His counsel was nearly identical to yours. Truly… father and son share one heart.”

Qu Fongning feigned a flash of anger. “So, I am merely the secondary counselor?” He patted his butt, going about to bully him.

Little Ting’yu laughed and rose his crossbow. “Okay, I must go speak to mother.” Then suddenly, he turned around his wheelchair, and said. “The General said something else, it… surprised me.”

Qu Fongning expressed no interest. “Does he ever speak anything of worth?” He pulled up his covers and sent the young commander away.

When General Ting’schi was alive, Little Ting’yu also often had doubts about him, but never spoke out loud. He thought all the sons must be this way about their fathers, and didn’t think it odd. On his way back, he reminisced about the events of the morning. In truth, Yujien explained the pros and cons in a few succinct sentences, yet as he walked a few steps away, he stopped again: “Among these girls, is there one whom you like?”

The word, coming from the General’s lips, was not only shocking, it was almost like a little bunny sitting on top of a big bad wolf. In Little Ting’yu astoundment, he forgot to blush, and merely stuttered: “This, this, well…”

And he heard is austere voice slowly ringing. “No need to fret. Though Tucai calls me uncle, I would not take sides. You are young. To face a person for whom you have no heart, day after day… there is no joy in such a life.”

Little Ting’yu listened to the genuine advice in his words, and for a moment completely forgot his being the god of war of the steppes, and voiced quietly. “…No. I used to, but… not anymore.”

General Yujien paused, seeming to be reminiscent of something. “That’s fine,” he said, shifted his boots, and disappeared from his eyes.

~

In the days following his descent from the mountain, Qu Fongning received no summons to the main tent. Having no knowledge of getting fucked so hard to can’t keep his legs closed in another’s dreams, and he wondered if the General’s patience had finally exhausted itself. During an archery competition among the Eight Tribes, a recruit challenged him with a massive bow, stiff and cold as iron. Qu Fongning felt the eyes of the crowd and made his decision. He pulled the iron-jade ring from his neck, notched an arrow, and struck the center of the target.

The Spring Sun Camp took the prize, and almost immediately, a summons arrived. Qu Fongning entered the main tent, finding it plunged into darkness. He called out for the General, only to be seized from behind by two powerful arms. Yujien stood in his inner garments, his face alight with desire. “You have agreed,” he murmured. “Why do you run?”

Qu Fongning stood with his back against the tent door, lifting his chin to reveal the ring around his neck. “Agreed to what? I could not draw the bow; I merely borrowed the tool.” He opened his hands to show they were empty.

Yujien leaned in, the bridge of his nose brushing the youth’s brow. “Bad child,” he whispered. “A breaker of promises.”

Qu Fongning retreated as far as the door would allow. “You said you would wait until I was willing.”

Yujien withdrew, bending his tall frame to look the youth in the eye. “Do you take such pleasure in tormenting an old man’s heart?” He rubbed the boy’s hair, his fingers lingering on an earlobe.

Hearing this self-title, Qu Fongning couldn’t help breaking a laugh, but he knew this wasn’t a time to laugh, and had to straighten his face, sticking against him by the curtain door.

Yujien watched him for a while, ruffled his hair, nibbled his soft earlobe, and breathed: “My heart is being crushed by your play.” He lit the candles and handed the youth a new manual.

Qu Fongning took it. “The Six Blossoms Formation,” he exclaimed. Square on the outside and circular in the center. The fine print described its infinite twists and turns, Heaven, Earth, Wind, Cloud, Dragon, Tiger, Bird, Snake, and Elephant forms. “The essence of the Ghost Army’s formation is drawn from the Martial Marquess Zhuge’s Eight Formations. Duke Wei’s unconventional measures is a unique approach to a common goal,” explained Yujien.

“The Eight forms is the master, the six blossoms is the student,” Qu Fongning said with comprehension. “Precisely,” Yujien approved, pointing to the diagrams and explained thoroughly. With the drawings in hand, it was as if receiving a holy weapon and achieved a grand enlightenment, Qu Fongning’s scope of conscience broadened to ascend any moment.

They spent the night in study, by the time Qu Fongning rose to depart, Oyghrmuki was long lost to the world. Yujien helped him tie on the snow-hat. “I will walk you down,” he said softly.

Qu Fongning stepped back. “There is no need… to trouble you.” They looked at one another through the falling snow. A lingering longing came back. Qu Fongning lowered his lashes.

“Watch the path,” Yujien called after him. “Do not go leaping about.”

“Do you take me for a monkey?” Qu Fongning hmphed.

Yujien chuckled. “I take you for the one in the sky..”

“Fine, hanging high. So they won’t pluck me easy,” Qu Fongning retorted. Onwards a few steps, he heard Yujien laugh from behind him.

“Have you heard of Kuafu chasing the sun¹? Even if his eyes are blinded and his limbs lost—grey of hair, and can no longer walk, he will not stop until he has the sun in his hands.”

Hearing this, Qu Fongning almost couldn’t hold out his leg. He only wanted to turn to look at his face, but he knew if he did, he would never be able to escape. And thus steeled his heart, Qu Fongning fled down the mountain as if pursued. He stumbled in the snow; when Uncle Hwei tended to his scrape, the elder remarked: “To adapt to the circumstances—is that not the highest wisdom?”

Qu Fongning listened to his sanctimonious spiel, didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and couldn’t help feeling lost.

~

The next day brought a blizzard. The Spring Camp was tasked with patrolling a forty-mile radius. The northern winds howled, and Qu Fongning woke in the bone-piercing cold. Thinking he must spend eight hours in the snow, Qu Fongning donned the silver mink cloak Yujien had sent.. He snatched two of Uighshön’s fox pelt around his boots, and picked up a pair of Cher Bien’s imported deer skin gloves. Feeling impenetrable, he chose the longest route for the grand benefits of his soldiers. He imagined a camp every five Li, and an inn at every ten, it shouldn’t be too hard. Yet as he moved further from the city, the snow deepened to his thighs. By the time he got to a nearby outpost, he was shivering violently, and only managed to catch his breath after drinking two bowls of ginger milk.

Just as he prepared to call for a handwarmer, the sound of a horse signaled Yujien’s arrival. Handwarmers, neck scarfs, gloves, leg warmers and such contrabands should be in no presence of the Commander General. The soldiers prayed to the heaven and earth, but the General seemed to have no intention of leaving. The General donned a black mink cloak and fell into step beside the youth. The others dropped their pace slower and slower until the black and white figures disappeared into the vast, white silence.

Qu Fongning looked into the storm and smiled. “They are afraid of you. They will not walk with you.”

Yujien looked at him, his brow furrowed against the wind. “Only you are not afraid.”

Qu Fongning reflected for a moment. “Most of the time, that is true. But when you call me ‘Captain Qu,’ my fear is absolute.”

Yujien laughed. “So, you are seeking a promotion. I offered you the rank of Vice-Commander, but you wouldn’t take it.”

“A Vice-Commander is entitled to a personal guard,” Qu Fongning replied. “I find I covet that privilege. Yet my hands… they develop frostbite at the mere touch of cold water.”

Yujien observed the long, elegant fingers within the boy’s gloves, they were slightly distorted but not swollen, and he knew he was bluffing again. “You don’t want to wash, there are ways about it.” He looked towards him and found his face nearly entirely buried under the fluffy whiteness, and his head under a blanket of frost and snow. “Why aren’t you wearing the big snow-hat anymore?” He unfastened his black cloak and held it wide, pulling it over the youth’s shoulders until they were both shielded from the storm.

Qu Fongning allowed himself to be drawn into the heat of that embrace. Well, he thought, it’s to earn your pity. He smiled and leaned against the General’s shoulder.

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