Reborn Liu Bei: I'll lead this Three Kingdoms to victory!

On the ninth day of the fourth month of the seventh year of Jian'an, in Xuchang.

Zhao Yan hasn't left the house for eight whole days.

A thin layer of dust had accumulated on the windowsill, and the water in the bowl had been sitting there for two days without him drinking it. He lay on the tatami mat, staring at the roof, counting the beams one by one.

It's the eighth day.

The officials from the school administration are still patrolling the south of the city, but less frequently. They've gone from three times a day to once a day, and sometimes only once every two days.

Zhao Yan knew that this was not a relaxation, but a change in tactics.

Superficially relaxed, secretly tense.

He had lived in Xudu for over a decade and had seen far too many people ruined by this kind of treatment. First, they make you feel like everything's alright, let you go out, let you relax—then they suddenly grab you and pin you down.

He wouldn't go out. He wouldn't go out even if you killed him. Footsteps came from outside the door. Very light, but very steady. Zhao Yan's hand reached for the short knife under his pillow.

knocking.

Three short, two long, three short.

Zhao Yan got up, walked to the door, and looked out through the crack in the door.

Zhou Yuan. It's that young man again.

Zhao Yan opened the door and pulled him inside. "Are you out of your mind?"

Zhou Yuan looked at him, his face expressionless. "They sent me from the north."

Zhao Yan stared at him. "Don't they know what's going on up here? What time is it now, and they're still sending people over?"

Zhou Yuan took a small cloth bag from his pocket and handed it to him. Zhao Yan took it and opened it.

There were three slips of paper inside.

The first one, by Wang Pu: The day before yesterday, people from the school administration came to ask me if I knew someone surnamed Zhao. I said I didn't. They left. But I felt uneasy.

The second one, by Sun Fu: Those unfamiliar faces from the east of the city are gone. But a new batch has taken their place. Same old wine in new bottles.

The third one was unsigned. It was that same unsigned note again. Zhao Yan's hand tightened slightly.

The note contained only one sentence: "The one investigating the thirty-seven people is from Yingchuan."

"From Yingchuan." Zhao Yan was stunned. Yingchuan. The ancestral home of the Xun clan. The ancestral home of Xun Yu. After Xun Yu's death, all members of the Xun clan migrated north, leaving none behind. How could there be someone from Yingchuan? "Who sent this?" he asked Zhou Yuan.

Zhou Yuan shook his head. "It's still under Sun Fu's counter. I saw it when I opened the door this morning."

Zhao Yan remained silent. He examined the note again and again; the handwriting was exactly the same as the last one. The strokes were steady; it was the handwriting of a scholar. A scholar from Yingchuan.

Who could it be? He thought of Xun Yu. He thought of the days when he studied with Xun Yu.

I am reminded of a saying by Xun Yu: "The land of Yingchuan has buried too many people. Those who are alive are all wearing shackles."

Those who are alive are in shackles. Who else is alive? He doesn't know. But he knows one thing—

Someone is helping him.

And that person didn't want him to know who it was. "Mr. Zhao?" Zhou Yuan's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Zhao Yan raised his head.

"Go back and tell Sun Fu," he said, "that these notes should be left as they are from now on. Don't touch them, don't look at them, and don't ask about them."

Zhou Yuan nodded.

"Also," Zhao Yan paused, "starting tomorrow, don't come anymore."

Zhou Yuan looked at him. "The north sent me, so I came."

Zhao Yan shook his head. "I'll go talk to them in the north. Listen, your most important thing right now isn't delivering the message, it's staying alive. Staying alive is more important than anything else."

Zhou Yuan was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. "Understood."

He turned around, climbed out of the back window, and disappeared into the alley.

Zhao Yan stood by the window, watching his back.

Young. Too young. So young it's worrying. But he knows that this youth also has its advantages. He's fast, agile at scaling walls, and not easily spotted.

He closed the window, returned to his desk, and read through the three slips of paper one by one.

Then bring them to the oil lamp and light them. Watch them slowly turn to ash.

A general store in the east of the city.

Sun Fu stood behind the counter, holding the scissors in his hand, slowly sharpening them. He had been sharpening them for almost half a month.

The blade wore out, so I got a new one. I'll keep sharpening it.

The curtain was lifted, and a man entered. He was a middle-aged man, dressed in a coarse cloth short jacket, with dark skin, clearly someone who did manual labor.

Sun Fu looked up for a moment, then lowered his head again to continue sharpening the knife.

The man walked to the counter, picked up a bag of salt, and put it down. Then he picked up a bag of sugar and put it down as well.

"Shopkeeper, how much is this candy?"

Sun Fu gave the price, the man paid, picked up the candy bag, and left. The entire process was conducted without a single unnecessary word.

But just as the man took the candy packet, a note slipped into Sun Fu's palm.

Sun Fu didn't look at it. He stuffed the note into his sleeve and continued sharpening his knife. Only after dark, after closing the door, did he unfold the note under the oil lamp.

The note contained only a few words: "Leave those notes as they are. Don't touch them, don't look at them, don't ask questions."

Sun Fu stared at those words, remaining silent for a long time. They were left as they were. Don't ask. He remembered the unsigned notes. He remembered the message delivered from the shadows by someone he didn't know.

Who was it? Why was it helping them? He didn't know. But he knew this person didn't want them to know. So be it. He stuffed the note into his mouth, chewed it, and swallowed it. Then he blew out the light, lay down, and stared at the dark ceiling. He couldn't sleep.

But he told himself: I have to open the shop tomorrow. I have to sell candy. I have to smile at the customers.

Same as before.

In the barracks of the city gate captain.

Wang Pu sat at his desk with an account book spread out in front of him. He had been looking at it for half an hour, but hadn't absorbed a single word.

The day before yesterday, someone from the school administration came and asked him if he knew someone surnamed Zhao.

He said he didn't know him.

The man's eyes lingered on his face for a long time, then he smiled and left. That smile still sends chills down Wang Pu's spine whenever he thinks about it. He didn't know if he had given himself away. He didn't know how much longer he could hold out.

He didn't even know what would happen to his wife and children if he couldn't hold on any longer. There was a knock on the door. Three short knocks, two long knocks, three short knocks. Wang Pu's heart skipped a beat. He got up and opened the door. A dark figure darted in.

It was the messenger. "Captain Wang," Wang Pu said, looking at him.

"They sent me a message from the north—"

The man paused. "If you can't hold on, run."

Wang Pu's hands trembled slightly. "Now? Can we hold on now?"

The man looked at him. "What do you think?"

Wang Pu remained silent. What did he say? He said he could hold on, but he really didn't know how much longer he could hold on.

"My wife and children—"

The man interrupted him.

"Let's run together."

Wang Pu closed his eyes. After a long while, he opened them. "I understand."

The man nodded, turned, and disappeared into the night. Wang Pu closed the door and leaned against it. He suddenly felt incredibly tired. So very tired. Too tired to think about anything anymore. But he couldn't stop thinking. His wife, children, father, mother. And those thirty-seven names. Behind each name was a life. If he ran away, what would happen to them?

If he gets arrested, what will happen to those people?

He didn't know; he knew nothing.

Xiapi.

In the secret chamber where no one could sue at night, Sima Yi and Pang Tong sat facing each other.

A newly delivered secret report lay spread out on the table. "Someone from Yingchuan is investigating thirty-seven people."

Pang Tong looked at these words and took a swig of wine. "Yingchuan."

Sima Yi nodded. "Xun Yu's hometown."

Pang Tong put down his wine gourd. "After Xun Yu's death, the entire Xun clan migrated north. Who remained in Yingchuan?"

Sima Yi remained silent for a moment. "Xun Yu's disciples, former subordinates, and old friends. And those who had dealings with him." "Who would investigate thirty-seven people?"

Sima Yi shook his head. "I don't know."

Pang Tong thought for a moment. "Investigating these thirty-seven people, there are two possibilities. One is that they are Cao Cao's men, trying to uncover an inside agent. The other—"

He paused.

"The other is friends, wanting to know if any of their own are among the thirty-seven people."

Sima Yi looked at him. "You mean, someone is helping us?"

Pang Tong did not answer. He stood up, walked to the map, and pointed to the location of Yingchuan.

"Xun Yu is dead, the Xun family is gone, but this land of Yingchuan has buried too many people. Among those who are alive, perhaps there are still those who remember Xun Yu's kindness."

He turned to look at Sima Yi. "Zhongda, do you still remember Xun Yu's last letter?"

Sima Yi nodded.

"Although I cannot go there, my heart yearns for it."

Pang Tong took a swig of wine. "He yearned for it. What did he yearn for? It was you, it was me, it was that land of Liaodong. But what about those people he left behind in Yingchuan? Did they also yearn for it?"

Sima Yi remained silent. After a long while, he spoke: "You mean, the person who investigated the thirty-seven people, is trying to help us?"

Pang Tong shook his head. "I don't know. But I do know one thing—"

He paused. "Whether he was friend or foe, he knew the number thirty-seven."

Sima Yi's hand tightened slightly. Everyone knew this number. Thirty-seven. If he knew this number, what did that mean?

This means he is either a mole or one of their own.

There is no third possibility. "Investigate," Sima Yi said. "Continue investigating. Start from Yingchuan, investigate one by one. Investigate every disciple, every former subordinate, and every person who has ever had dealings with Xun Yu."

Pang Tong looked at him. "And then what happens?"

Sima Yi remained silent. What happens after the truth is found? If they are enemies, the thirty-seven men might already be exposed. If they are allies, why bother with secrecy?

He doesn't know. Whoever it is, there must be a result.

Xiapi Academy.

Xun Yun sat by the window, gazing at the night sky. In his hand lay a letter, received just that afternoon. There was no signature, no closing, only one line: "An old friend from Yingchuan inquires after Young Master Xun's well-being." An old friend from Yingchuan. Who?

He thought of his father, the old house in Yingchuan, and the uncles and elders who used to come to visit during the Spring Festival.

They all left. Some died, some scattered, and some migrated north with the Xun family.

Who else remained in Yingchuan? He didn't know. But he knew that someone still remembered him. Remembered that he was Xun Yu's son.

"Young Master Xun." A voice came from behind. Xun Yun turned around. Fu Shou stood behind him, holding a bowl of hot soup. "Mr. Hua said you haven't eaten again today."

Xun Yun took the soup and took a sip. The soup was warm. "Miss Fu, tell me, what can a person leave behind after they die?" Fu Shou sat down beside him.

"Leave your name," she said. "Leave what you've done. Leave the people you've saved."

Xun Yun looked at her. "What did your father leave behind?"

Fu Shou was silent for a moment. "Leave me here," she said. "Leave Mr. Hua to teach me medicine. Leave those he helped, those who still remember him."

Xun Yun remained silent.

Fu Shou continued, "Sometimes I think, if I live a good life and save people, people will say when they talk about Fu Wan's daughter—she was a good doctor."

She paused. "Then my father will be remembered."

Xun Yun looked at her. In the moonlight, there was something indescribable about the face of this eight-year-old girl.

It's not strength, it's not weakness, it's... something very clean.

"Miss Fu," he said.

"Um?"

"Thank you."

Fu Shou was taken aback. "What are you thanking me for?"

Xun Yun did not answer. He simply continued gazing at the night sky, at the stars.

South of Xudu City. Zhao Yan lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He had been lying there for three hours, still unable to sleep. His mind was filled with that note. "The one investigating the thirty-seven people is from Yingchuan." Yingchuan. He thought of Xun Yu.

I recall those days studying at Xun Yu's residence. I remember Xun Yu often saying, "One must leave a way out for oneself. Not for oneself, but for others." Leaving a way out for others. Was that person the way out Xun Yu left for himself?

He didn't know. But he knew that if that person truly existed, he would be watching from the shadows, watching whether they could hold on. A soft sound came from the windowsill. Zhao Yan sat up abruptly. He walked to the window and opened it.

Under the moonlight, a small pebble lay on the windowsill.

It was bluish-green and round. Exactly the same as the last one. Zhao Yan reached out, picked up the pebble, and gently squeezed it in his palm. The pebble cracked open. Inside was a tiny slip of paper. He unfolded it and read it by the moonlight. There were only a few words on the paper:

"Don't be afraid. I'm here."

Zhao Yan stood there, motionless. A cool night breeze blew in. He suddenly felt like crying. But he didn't. He put the note in his mouth, chewed it, and swallowed it. Then he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes.

This time, he fell asleep.

At dawn.

The sky was beginning to lighten with the first hint of dawn. Xudu City slowly awoke in the morning light. The city gates opened, vegetable vendors entered the city, people went to the market to leave, stalls took up their spots, and steam rose from the pancake shops.

Business as usual.

Wang Pu stood by the city gate, watching the people coming and going. His hands were tucked into his sleeves, clutching tightly the slip of paper that told him to "run." He didn't know whether he should run or not. But he knew that today, he had to make a decision. The sun rose. He turned and went into the barracks. Time for duty. Same as before. But inside him, a voice said:

Perhaps, this is the last time.