The third lap.
The bend.
As Gu Moran's horse entered the bend, it stepped on a loose brick and stumbled on its forelegs.
Its body tilted to the right.
He slipped toward the horse's right side.
The skill card could give him the right muscle responses, but it couldn't save him from an accident.
His left hand grabbed the mane, his fingers digging in, each one clamping down on the horsehair.
His right hand slapped against the horse's neck for support, and he squeezed its belly with both legs until they ached.
Three seconds.
Tilted at forty-five degrees, he held on for three seconds without falling.
Then he pulled himself back up.
The expression on his face was quite a sight-his mouth was crooked, his forehead was covered in sweat, and even the whites of his eyes were bloodshot, but he hadn't let go.
Those three seconds weren't the skill card's doing.
The skill card only covered normal riding, not saving his life.
He had held on himself, thanks to the marrow-cleansing pill.
Murong Xue had already reached the finish line and turned her horse around to watch him wobble through the final stretch.
The two horses came to a stop side by side.
Gu Moran was breathing hard, his face pale. Only when he released the mane did he realize how tightly he had gripped it: his palm was covered in horsehair.
He shook his hand, putting on an air of nonchalance.
"Well?"
Murong Xue looked down at his palm, where he had pulled out a handful of horsehair, then at his sweat-smeared face.
"Not bad."
Two words.
In the Northern Territory, "not bad" was already extremely high praise.
Gu Moran understood the weight of those words.
He took a couple of breaths and grinned.
"My beloved consort is too kind."
"I'm not being kind." Murong Xue pulled on the reins, and her horse turned. Her green eyes shone brightly in the sunlight.
"You didn't fall at that bend. On the grasslands, we call that a 'death grip.'"
"Death grip?"
"The last thing a warrior does before falling from a horse on the battlefield is to grip the mane for dear life. Those who can hold on either live or die on horseback. They don't die on the ground."
"Dying on horseback is better than dying on the ground?"
"On the grasslands, only those who die on horseback are worthy of being burned to ashes and sent up to heaven. Those who die on the ground can only be fed to the wolves."
Gu Moran glanced at her.
"Then I nearly ended up as wolf food just now."
"Nearly."
The corner of Murong Xue's mouth moved, just a little.
But she didn't hide it.
The two rode back side by side. When they passed the gate of the Azure Wolf Courtyard, Batuer was standing there.
She looked at the expression on the princess's face, then at the third prince's disheveled state.
The princess hadn't drawn her saber.
That already said a great deal.
When Gu Moran dismounted, both his legs were trembling.
He stood holding the saddle for a while before he managed to steady himself.
"Your Highness, shall I come again another day?"
"That depends on whether you have the nerve."
"I have plenty of nerve. My skills are a little lacking, though."
Murong Xue swung herself down from her horse, tossed the reins to Batuer, and walked through the courtyard gate without looking back.
Before the gate closed, she said one more thing.
"Next time, bring your own horse. You're not allowed to use mine. That shorty of yours is enough for you."
The gate closed.
Gu Moran stood outside and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
The system panel displayed new data.
[Murong Xue's favorability: -30 (↑15). Source of change: the invitation to ride together sparked a deep resonance on the level of cultural identity. The "death grip" incident triggered an assessment of "courage." The "Central Plains weakling" label has been significantly shaken, and the replacement label "not annoying" has been upgraded to "worth another look."]
Fifteen points.
Five more than the ten on their wedding night.
He dragged his weak legs back to his study, slumped in a chair for a while, and summoned Uncle Fu.
"Go to the Jiangnan Trading Company and buy a good set of brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, the kind used for small regular script. Choose semi-sized yuban xuan paper, and Huizhou pine-soot ink that's been aged at least ten years."
Uncle Fu noted it down.
"Send it to the Misty Waters Courtyard. There's no need to say who sent it. Just leave a note saying, 'I hear you are skilled in calligraphy, madam. Please accept this humble gift.'"
"Without Your Highness's name?"
"Without it."
"Then how will Madam Liu know it's from Your Highness?"
"She'll know."
Uncle Fu took the list of writing supplies and left.
That night, in the Misty Waters Courtyard.
Liu Ruyan sat at the table, the newly arrived set of the four treasures of the study laid out before her.
She picked up the Huizhou ink stick and turned it once between her fingertips.
Ten-year-old pine-soot ink was hard to find on the market.
She then unfolded a sheet of yuban xuan paper and ran her fingertips over its surface. It was semi-sized, absorbing ink without letting it bleed, and suitable for writing fly-head characters.
The note lay beside the inkstone, with only one line on it.
I hear you are skilled in calligraphy, madam. I specially purchased this Huizhou ink from the Jiangnan Trading Company. Please accept this humble gift.
There was no signature.
No request for a gift in return.
No request to meet.
At the Flower-Between Pavilion, she had received countless things worth ten times as much.
Gold hairpins and jade bracelets, fine silks and satins, paintings and calligraphy by famous artists.
Every one of them had come with a price tag.
Some gave her gold hairpins because they wanted her to drink with them.
Some gave her paintings and calligraphy because they wanted her to play the zither.
Some gave her jade bracelets because they wanted her to smile.
No one had ever given her brush and ink.
Because no one cared whether she could write.
She held the Huizhou ink stick in her palm, her fingers tightening around it before relaxing again.
The moon outside the window was bright.
She sat for a long time, then ground some ink, laid out a sheet of paper, and picked up her brush to write two characters.
Thank you.
She looked at them, then crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it away.
She laid out a fresh sheet and wrote nothing.
In a certain corner, the system panel quietly updated.
[Liu Ruyan's favorability: -16 (↑4). Source of change: the unconditional gift created a cognitive contrast with her experiences at the Flower-Between Pavilion. Strength of the "being respected" label +1, but trust remains below the threshold.]
In the Azure Wolf Courtyard, Murong Xue practiced with her saber beneath the moonlight.
After more than thirty chops, her rhythm faltered for a beat.
The angle of the saber in her hand went two inches off course.
She stopped and frowned.
A scene from that day flashed through her mind.
At the bend, that Central Plains libertine had tilted all the way to the side of the horse, both hands clutching its mane. His face had been as white as paper, but he just wouldn't let go.
She chopped her saber into the wooden stake.
The stake split in two down the middle.
She pulled out her saber and wiped the wood chips from its edge.
After staring at the broken stake for a while, she turned and went back to her room.
At the door, Batuer looked at the stake, broken in two, then at the princess's closed door.
She crouched down and gathered the pieces of the stake.
"I'll have to go cut a few new ones tomorrow."