Chapter 10: Does That Make You Happy?
Agu mentally weighed each of his brothers, one by one, and concluded that not a single one of them was worthy of the person sitting before him.
Shen Heng lifted her teacup, hiding the smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
“Agu.”
She spoke slowly.
“Guess who I want to marry.”
Agu looked up and tilted his head, the picture of attentive listening.
“I want to marry the Imperial Preceptor of the Northern Frontier.”
Agu nodded.
Then he lowered his head and took a sip of tea.
Mm. The Imperial Preceptor.
Wait—?!
“Pfft—!”
Tea sprayed from his mouth in a small fountain, snuffing out the oil lamp right in front of him.
Agu choked, coughing violently, his whole face flushing bright red, his reddish-brown eyes full of disbelief.
The osmanthus cake in his hand dropped with a soft plop onto the table, crumbling into several pieces.
He didn’t even bother wiping his mouth. He jerked his head up to stare at Shen Heng, mouth opening and closing, closing and opening, as if ten thousand words were jammed in his throat with not one of them able to get out.
Finally, in his panic, he started gesturing wildly.
First he waved both hands frantically—no way.
Then he crossed his arms over his chest—absolutely not.
Then he pointed at the sky, then at the ground, shaking his head desperately—absolutely, absolutely not.
His hands flew so fast he seemed to wish he had ten of them.
Shen Heng couldn’t quite follow the standard signs, but his meaning was written all over his face. Every expression screamed: *Have you lost your mind?!*
“You’re trying to say the Imperial Preceptor can’t take a wife?”
Shen Heng blinked.
Agu nodded frantically.
Shen Heng tilted her head, the picture of innocence.
“Huh? Who said that?”
Agu opened his mouth to argue, hand already raised—then froze midair.
He scratched his head.
Scratched it again.
His mop of curly hair grew even wilder under his fingers.
It was true. No one had ever said so.
The Snow God hadn’t said it.
The Great Khan had never issued such an order.
It wasn’t written in the laws of the Northern Frontier.
And Xun Zhuo himself had never publicly declared he wouldn’t marry.
Still, it was something the people of the Northern Frontier took for granted.
They believed the Imperial Preceptor was the Snow God’s envoy, a being akin to a deity. How could a god marry a mortal?
So could the Imperial Preceptor marry or not?
Agu’s expression turned exceedingly complicated.
He frowned, thinking so hard his little curly-haired head nearly exploded, and still couldn’t reach a definitive conclusion.
Agu sighed. He looked at Shen Heng, then at the ceiling, then at the shattered osmanthus cake on the table.
His small face said it all: *She has a point.*
Shen Heng’s eyes curved into happy crescents.
“There you have it.”
Agu looked up, drained the last half cup of tea, picked up the broken pieces of osmanthus cake, blew off the dust, and stuffed them into his mouth.
Forget it. Not thinking about it anymore.
Actually, the Imperial Preceptor and Sister weren’t a bad match at all.
Shen Heng laughed, stood, ruffled Agu’s curly hair, and turned to head back to her own courtyard.
The night was deep.
By the time Shen Heng returned to her chambers, Chunyuan had already laid out the bedding and lit the warming stove.
She removed her outer ruqun, leaving only her inner garment, let down her bun, and sat on the edge of the bed.
Her long hair cascaded down, making her look even more slender, her collarbone casting faint shadows in the candlelight.
Cangran knocked and entered, a letter in hand.
“Princess, a letter from the General.”
“It arrived this evening. You had gone into the palace, so I couldn’t give it to you sooner.”
Shen Heng took the letter.
The handwriting on the envelope was upright and forceful.
She tore it open and pulled out the page.
The letter was short, the strokes hasty, some characters running together.
She could picture the speed at which he’d written it—likely the moment he heard she’d fallen into the water, he hadn’t even bothered to remove his armor, strode into the military tent, grabbed a brush, and put it straight to paper.
“Heng’er: Hearing you fell into the water, your brother is frantic. Your constitution can’t take the cold—has the imperial physician come? Are you taking your medicine on schedule? Don’t indulge in the cool night air; have Chunyuan prepare extra warming stoves. I have petitioned His Majesty for leave to return to the capital. If His Majesty refuses, I will come back without permission. Either way, within ten days your brother will be at your side. Rest easy and recover. Leave everything to your brother.”
Shen Heng read the letter once. Then again.
The candle flame flickered across the paper, lighting up the words *“your brother will be at your side”* with particular clarity.
She suddenly remembered Shen Lin’s ending in the original novel.
When he died, his body was covered in wounds, a broken jade pendant clutched in his hand. It was Shen Heng’s pendant—she had given it to him as a child, told him it would keep him safe.
To the very end, he held onto that piece of jade.
Shen Heng’s eyes grew damp. After finishing the letter, she carefully folded it and tucked it under her pillow.
[Ding—]
Shen Heng paused.
[Host emotional fluctuation detected. Fragment memory unlock triggered. Accept?]
“What fragment memory?”
[Regarding the original Shen Heng’s experiences at age five. Content not included in the original book. View?]
Shen Heng hesitated for a moment.
“View.”
[Unlocking fragment memory…]
A wave of intense drowsiness washed over her.
Shen Heng’s head tipped sideways onto the pillow, her consciousness sinking into a bottomless darkness.
Then she saw smoke filling the sky.
Wolf smoke mixed with the stench of blood and scorched earth rose from every direction, staining the whole sky a grayish-yellow.
Battle cries shook the heavens. Shen Heng stood amid the wreckage, her palms slick with cold sweat.
Among the corpses strewn across the battlefield, two lay together.
The man wore silver armor, scored with blade cuts and arrow holes, a long spear run through his left chest.
His hand still gripped the woman beside him, fingers locked together, as if in his final moments he had poured every last ounce of strength into shielding her.
The woman lay on her side against him, several arrows in her body, her face pale as paper, yet her lips were slightly parted, as if she were still speaking with her dying breath.
One of her hands was held by the man. The other reached forward—toward a child lying prone in the mud not far away.
A little girl of about five lay beside the two corpses, covered in mud and blood.
Her hair was a tangled mess, her face so filthy the original color of her skin was unrecognizable, her cracked lips bleeding. Tears had carved two crooked white trails down her grimy cheeks.
That was five-year-old Shen Heng.
“Father…”
The little girl’s voice was thin and hoarse, as if her throat had been ruined from crying.
“Mother… get up… the ground is so cold… Heng’er doesn’t want to be here… Heng’er wants to go home…”
But no one could answer her anymore.