The Battle of White Horse City had ended.
The bodies had been cleared.
The city walls were repaired stone by stone.
The shattered gates were temporarily reinforced with the thickest old locust beams, held fast against death itself.
Lord Fu Jian did not hold a celebration.
He checked the casualty rosters again and again,
inspected grain stores and water cisterns tirelessly.
Hong Lei accompanied him, completing every necessary task,
like two men long accustomed to cleaning up the aftermath of war.
Later, Hong Lei returned alone to the Holy City.
Deep within the royal palace, the candlelight was dim and weak,
and the smell of wine mingled with the smoke, stinging the throat.
King Kai slumped lazily on the throne.
The gilded goblet had never left his hand;
wine ran down his chin, soaking the golden embroidery of his robe.
Hong Lei kneeled once, his armor still crusted with dried blood.
"The Battle of White Horse City," he reported.
"The beast army has retreated. The walls hold.
Over half our forces are casualties, but the southern line has been defended."
He spoke clearly, calmly, without a trace of pride.
It was the plainest report a soldier could give.
Yet the wine spilled along the rim of the cup, splashing on the white marble steps in tiny droplets.
Kai muttered an indistinct laugh, loose and indifferent, as if hearing something utterly trivial:
"Oh… held… good… that's good… that's good…"
He took another long sip, eyes drifting endlessly along the palace colonnade, never settling on Hong Lei.
Farr, standing to one side, moved his lips but said nothing.
It was not that words failed him;
in the presence of such a king, every phrase felt like a knife falling on cotton—soft, useless.
The silence of the hall was sharper than any scolding, cutting the heart.
Hong Lei rose slowly, no longer saluting, not waiting for any response, turning and leaving.
In that moment, his back no longer looked like that of a victorious general,
but of a man whose faith had been worn down by years and reality.
The night wind whipped sand against the city walls.
Hong Lei walked alone to the highest female battlement of the Holy City.
Outside stretched the rolling lands, silvered by moonlight like frost, silent almost to desolation.
He stood for a long while, then slowly turned.
His gaze fell on the scar inside the wall—a cut shallow, yet clean, sharp, engraved in time itself.
It was left many years ago by a child who did not yet know human speech,
a wild beast of a boy, restless and untamed.
Hong Lei ran a hand over the mark, fingers chilled by the wind.
"This cut… truly remarkable, little Hong Chen."
The wind rushed into his armor like a sigh no one could hear.
He raised his eyes to the roiling clouds on the horizon and finally voiced a question long buried:
"Does the Holy City… still have hope?"
The wind gave no answer.
But footsteps came behind him, slow and deliberate.
"Yes," Farr's voice said, steady amid the wind.
Hong Lei did not turn, yet he knew it was him.
Farr walked to his side, his robe flapping wildly in the night wind.
"The wind is too strong here. We are no longer young. Come, to my study."
Hong Lei closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, his gaze had regained its steadiness.
He glanced one last time at the blade mark, giving a slight nod.
Two figures walked side by side down the battlement.
The wind still howled, and under the moonlight, the Holy City's palace seemed more fragile than ever.
The candlelight in the study flickered steadier than the hall's,
casting shadows across bookshelves and desks.
On the desk lay a partially read military tome.
Hong Lei sat by the window, gaze resting on the table yet seeming to pierce through the layers of time.
He saw, years ago: the late king had entrusted them to teach a child who could not even speak,
a wild beast of a boy, whose temper had nearly broken his wrist.
Farr leaned against the bookshelf, fingers brushing over brittle book covers.
The pages whispered.
"Fortunately, there was Qin Feng," he said.
"Her gentleness taught him to stop; her resilience taught him to endure."
He paused, eyes drifting past the candlelight to the darkness beyond the window,
as if looking at a place he could never return to.
Hong Lei closed his eyes, fists slowly clenching beneath the armor.
"Qin Feng…"
The name left his lips, swallowed by the night.
Silence flooded the study like a tide.
After a long moment, Farr spoke again.
"That night, in the late king's chamber, he was not alone.
The little princess Ning… and Hong Chen were there too."
Hong Lei's eyes snapped open, breath catching.
"I always wondered… why was Ning there? Perhaps she knew something!"
Farr did not answer immediately, staring at the flickering flame, weighing a possibility long pondered.
"I guessed the same.
But after that night, the little princess hardly spoke again.
The physician said she suffered a great shock. Conscious, yet refusing to respond with even her eyes."
Bang!
Hong Lei slammed his fist on the desk.
The teacup wobbled, tea spilling onto the military tome.
"What exactly happened that night?!"
Farr finally looked at him, eyes calm yet undeniably weary.
"Precisely because no one can explain it, we cannot ask anything now."
The candle flickered. Silence returned.
After a while, Farr's voice dropped lower:
"There's one more thing… what unsettles me is not that he became strong,
but that he became strong too fast."
Hong Lei stiffened.
"Five years.
In just five short years, the boy who could not even speak has become Hong Chen, who, with eleven, can annihilate a fortress."
Farr looked at him, eyes dark as ink:
"That kind of strength is not honed through ordinary training—it seems… pushed, forced forward by something beyond us."
The words trailed off, the unspoken unease hovering above the candlelight, trembling with the flickering flame.
白马城之战落幕.
尸体清理干净,城墙砖石逐块修补妥当,裂开的城门用最粗的老槐木梁暂时抵死.
城主傅坚没有摆庆功宴.他只是一遍又一遍核对伤亡名册,一趟又一趟去粮仓与水窖查验储量.洪雷陪着他,把该料理的事一件件做完像两个早就习惯了收拾残局的人.
而后,洪雷孤身返回圣城.
王殿深处,烛火昏黄如豆,酒气却漫过烛烟,呛得人喉头发紧.国王凯歪瘫在王座上,鎏金酒杯就没离过手,酒液顺着他的下巴淌进领口,洇湿了大片织金纹章.
洪雷单膝跪地,盔甲上还凝着已干枯的血渍"白马城之战"
"兽军已退,城垣未失.我军死伤过半,但南线防线守住了."
他说得清楚,冷静,没有半句夸耀,是最直白的军人禀告.
可酒液却沿着杯沿泼洒下来,砸在白玉石阶上,溅起细碎的酒花.凯只含糊地笑了一声,松散得像听见了件无关紧要的闲事"哦...守住了啊...那就好...那就好..."
他又灌下一大口酒,视线始终飘在殿外的廊柱上,连半分都没落在洪雷身上.
站在一侧的法尔嘴唇动了动,终究什么也没说.不是无话可说,是在这样的王面前,任何言辞都像落在棉絮上的刀,绵软得毫无意义.殿内的沉默比任何责骂都更锋利,割得人心口发疼.
洪雷缓缓起身,没有再行礼,也没再等回应,转身便走.这一刻,他的背影不再像个百战百胜的将军,反倒像个被岁月与现实耗尽了信念的普通人.
夜风卷着沙砾扑打城墙,洪雷独自走上圣城最高的女墙.城外是连绵起伏的大地,月色如霜覆在其上,寂静得近乎荒凉.
他站了很久,才慢慢转身,目光落在墙内侧那道刀痕上不深,却干净,凌厉,像一道刻在时光里的印.
那是很多年前,一个还不懂人话,像小兽般躁动的孩子留下的.
洪雷抬手抚过痕迹,指腹被风吹得冰凉"这一刀...真是...惊人啊,小红辰."
风声灌进他的盔甲,像一声没人听见的叹息.他抬头看向天际翻涌的乌云,终于把藏了许久的疑问说出口"圣城...还有希望吗?"
风没有回答,身后却传来不急不缓的脚步声.
"有的."法尔的声音在风中稳稳传开.
洪雷没回头,却知道是他.
法尔走到他身旁,法袍被夜风扯得猎猎作响"这里风太大了.你我都不年轻了,去我书房吧."
洪雷闭了闭眼,再睁开时,目光已重新沉定下来.他最后看了眼那道刀痕,轻轻点了点头.
夜色里,两道身影并肩走下城墙.风还在呼啸,圣城的宫阙在月色下第一次显得如此摇摇欲坠.
书房的烛火跳得比殿里稳些,光影在墙上映出书架与案几的轮廓,案头还摊着一卷没看完的兵书.
洪雷坐在窗边,目光落在桌面,却像穿过了重重帘幕,看到了许多年前"当年,先王让你我教导他那个连话都不会说,像野兽一样的孩子,脾气上来时,差点拧断我的手腕."
法尔靠在书架旁,指尖拂过一卷封皮发脆的典籍,书页轻响"幸好有琴风.她的温柔让他学会停下,她的坚韧让他学会忍耐."
话到此处顿了顿,法尔的目光越过烛火,投向窗外漆黑的夜色,像是在看一个再也回不去的地方.
洪雷闭了眼,铁甲下的拳头缓缓攥紧"琴风..."
名字刚出口,后半句便被吞进了夜色里.沉默像潮水般漫过书房,良久,法尔才再次开口"那一夜,先王的寝殿里并非只有他一人.还有小公主宁,以及红辰."
洪雷猛地睁眼,呼吸骤然一滞:"当时我就很奇怪,为什么宁会在里面?也许她知道什么!"
法尔没有立刻接话,只是盯着跳动的烛芯,仿佛在掂量一个早已被反复想过的可能:"我也这么猜过.可惜自那夜之后,小公主几乎不再开口.医官说她受了极大惊吓,意识清醒,却连眼神都不肯回应任何人."
砰!
洪雷的拳头重重砸在桌上,案头的茶盏晃了晃,茶水泼在兵书上"当时到底发生了什么事情?!"
法尔终于抬眼看向他,目光里藏着冷静,也藏着无法掩饰的疲惫"正因为没人说得清,我们现在才什么都问不到."
烛火晃了晃,书房又陷入沉默.过了片刻,法尔的声音更低了些"还有件事...让我不安的不是他变强,是他强得太快了."
洪雷一怔.
"五年.不过短短五年,从连语言都无法掌握的孩子,变成如今能以十一人覆灭一座要塞的红辰."法尔看向他,眼神沉得像浸了墨,"那不是靠打磨能练出来的力量,更像是...被某种东西推着,逼着,硬生生往前冲."
话没说完,推论也没说破,那份说不清道不明的不安,就悬在烛火上方,随着光影轻轻摇晃.