Shen Zhiwu's wounds had not yet healed. She trailed at the end of the marching column—able to walk, but still requiring daily bandage changes.
And yet, her eyes had never truly closed.
The Third Prince was leading a southern relief tour, meant to bring aid to Jincheng, where the floods had ravaged the region. The journey was expected to last half a month. But by the time they reached Zhenzhou, the rain had not ceased for days. Rivers swelled, mountains groaned, and roads collapsed. Zhenzhou, flanked on three sides by mountains and one by river, had become a trap with no exit.
That night, lights still burned in the command tent when an urgent scout rushed in:
"The grain route ahead was ambushed—thirty carts of relief supplies burned.
Unfamiliar forces spotted at the rear pass. Suspected rebels."
The tent exploded into chaos.
General Chen Yuan dropped to one knee.
"Your Highness, allow me and Zhao Qi to lead fifty riders and break through the night. We must uncover the enemy's intentions!"
The Third Prince said nothing yet, but the generals all chimed in, loud with conviction and eagerness. The tent echoed with strategy and zeal.
She shouldn't have heard any of it.
But on a night like this, with wind and rain funneling through the eaves, a stray snippet from the patrolling soldiers reached her ears—and her heart sank.
She could never forget the topographical maps laid across Shen Manor's strategy hall, or her father's frown as he simulated battles.
Even now, a fugitive. Even now, a patient. Even now, a woman.
When she heard those names, those movements, her mind had already begun forming the outline of a trap.
Her fingers curled slowly into her palm.
This was no ordinary raid.
This was a surgical encirclement—a precise and methodical kill zone.
First, sever the supply line. Then, cut off retreat.
This wasn't a feint. This was an execution.
They were coming for the commander.
And yet she had no right to speak.
She was just "the injured woman." No name. No status. No place. If she spoke now, it would be her own grave she dug.
Xiao Xia leaned closer to her, voice barely above a whisper.
"Gugu, you've got that look. Are we in trouble again?"
Shen Zhiwu's reply was quiet. "Not trouble. Just facts."
"I knew it." Xiao Xia exhaled. "Every time you get that look, someone's about to lose."
Shen Zhiwu murmured, "It's not me that's in danger. It's the whole field."
She had been angry for days—
At Li Cheng'an, at herself, at the cruelty of fate.
She had cried. She had cracked. She had screamed "Help me" into the storm and dreamt of blood seeping into her brocade quilts. She had been afraid—terrified she hadn't stabbed him hard enough. Terrified she'd still die in that gilded cage.
But now—
Now her rage was something else.
She raged that men were dying faster than she could stand. And all she could do was lie in the dark and change her bandages.
They called her mad. A discarded wife. A burden.
She had wanted to answer back—but she bit her tongue.
Not because she was calm.
Because she didn't dare panic.
She knew: if she panicked, then she truly became nothing.
So she hesitated. Then chose to act.
She wrote a letter.
That night, her spirits had been at their lowest.
The damp chill made her wounds ache, and sleep was impossible. Rage piled upon frustration, stacked with helplessness, growing heavier by the minute. She'd even asked herself: had she not leapt into that storm—would she still be alive, or would she have bled out alone in Li Cheng'an's room?
She couldn't rest. Couldn't settle her mind.
Until she heard it—that whisper of a military report.
Names, locations, and movements slicing through the fog like light. The pieces clicked together, each sharper than the last.
And suddenly, she wasn't scared of chaos.
She feared stillness more.
For the first time in days, her mind was awake. Clear.
She wasn't afraid of the storm—she was the storm.
She dipped her brush in ink, hand trembling.
She feared death, yes.
But she feared uselessness more.
So she wrote.
No signature. Just ten succinct lines:
"One: Dual-front attack. Target is not grain, but commander.
Two: Zhenzhou's geography allows defense, but can be fatal if misplayed.
Three: Simultaneous raids suggest a spy within."
She folded the paper with damp palms, heart pounding.
To anyone else, she was still just a silent, feverish patient picked up in a storm.
But inside, the waters once still had begun to churn.
Of course she was afraid.
Afraid they'd find out. Afraid no one would believe her.
Afraid she'd be the perfect scapegoat.
The safest thing to do was stay quiet.
Survive the crisis. Find another chance.
But her mind wouldn't stop.
She hadn't been allowed to join the army, but she'd grown up beside maps and war reports, her father training her eye for patterns and deception. And what she saw now—this was a deathtrap.
She could see it clearly:
The scouts being cut down in the dark.
The fire consuming the grain carts.
The enemy closing in, just like the mutiny in Bianzhou.
A collapse, fast as falling dominoes.
Her grip tightened around the letter, knuckles pale.
Two voices warred in her head:
"Stay out of it. You're a fugitive. A patient. Not the protagonist." "If you speak, there's no turning back."
But a third voice cut through, calm and cold:
"You've already lost your home. Lost their trust. Will you surrender your judgment too?"
"You see the truth. And you'll pretend not to?"
"Stay silent—and you'll always be the one who was spared, not the one who survived."
She folded the letter and handed it to Xiao Xia.
"Take this," she said quietly, "Say it's from—Zhiwu. A strategy offered."
Xiao Xia looked at her. Said nothing. Took the letter, tucked it into her sleeve, and vanished into the dark.
She didn't know if the letter would reach him.
Didn't know if anyone would believe it.
But she couldn't gamble on those fifty riders making it back alive.
The prince accepted the letter without comment.
He stood in silence, thumb pressed to his jade belt, eyes lowered to the map.
Then he looked up. Swept his gaze across the room.
And said:
"We'll try. Regroup in three quarters of an hour."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't commanding. But the decision was made.
The guards at the entrance had mocked it.
"Tch. The Prince doesn't read anonymous letters."
"A sickly woman talking strategy? Who does she think she is—General Shen Ziyuan himself?"
Exactly as she had expected.
That night, Chen Yuan led a nighttime breakout.
They were ambushed. Zhao Qi was struck by an arrow and disappeared in the chaos. Only half returned.
The rest were lost to the storm.
At dawn's first glimmer, the tent flap was violently torn open.
Deputy General Zhao Qi burst in with two soldiers, voice like thunder:
"Bring her out—now!"
Xiao Xia stepped forward, blocking their path.
"What are you doing?!"
They ignored her. One man grabbed Shen Zhiwu by the arm and dragged her out into the cold morning air.
"She cursed us! Ever since her damned letter came, everything's gone to hell—she's a witch!" the deputy roared. "Every word she wrote came true—how could she know if she wasn't involved?!"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd gathering outside the tent.
Shen Zhiwu stood amid them, unable to sit, unable to leave—exposed, accused.
Before she could speak, Xiao Xia caught up, her voice strained with anger:
"She saw it coming. That doesn't mean she caused it!"
Zhao sneered. "Or maybe she led them right to us."
"She has no power to deploy troops or give orders! You didn't listen—none of you did! You insisted on that breakout yourselves!" Xiao Xia's voice cracked, eyes turning red. "Now you blame my lady for your mistake?"
The tension was about to snap when Chen Yuan appeared.
He looked worn, one arm in a sling, but his voice was steady:
"Xiao Xia is right."
He stood tall, voice firm despite fatigue.
"That letter—I delivered it. I read her three points. And now, every one of them has come true."
"An ambush for the commander—Zhao Qi was caught.
A siege in disguise—we are trapped.
A leak from within—our routes were known."
"I didn't believe her. I didn't even reply. That's on me."
He turned to the deputy general, tone sharp and final:
"General Zhao was wounded because I made the wrong call. This has nothing to do with Miss Shen. If you're angry—take it out on me."
Zhao opened his mouth, then closed it again.
The crowd fell silent.
Shen Zhiwu lowered her gaze, said nothing, and quietly returned to her tent.
Back at her desk, she let out a soft laugh.
She remembered a note scribbled on the edge of a strategy manual:
"A crisis is a trial—and an opportunity."
No, she corrected it in her mind.
This was their crisis—but her opportunity.
She could feel her blood warming. Her heartbeat steady and sharp, like a drum.
Not fear. Not rage. Something purer.
A kind of clarity that thrilled her.
She stood suddenly and reached for her cloak, a flicker of amusement flashing in her eyes—bladed, brilliant.
"Xiao Xia," she said, "go tell them. Tell them your lady predicted it all."
Xiao Xia blinked. "What?"
"I said—go. Spread the word."
"Shouldn't we... keep a low profile?" Xiao Xia asked carefully.
Shen Zhiwu shot her a sidelong glance, lips curving into a razor-edged smile.
"This is the battle where we make our name."
Her voice was quiet, but carried an unmistakable weight.
Xiao Xia hesitated, then bowed her head.
"Yes, my lady."
Wind slipped through the seams of the tent. The lantern flame danced.
She turned back to the table, pen in hand. Her shadow stretched long across the floor, as if already walking toward the high halls that had once excluded her.
Her second proposal was made not in secret—but at the Third Prince's summons.
She said nothing as she entered the command tent.
Instead, she calmly straightened her sleeves, stepped to the map table, and began marking potential ambush points. Her brush moved like a blade.
"The enemy surrounds us but does not strike. They want us to break formation. Then we must not retreat. We must stand and hold."
Her voice was calm.
"This city sits where three rivers meet. With proper barriers, false troops, ration storage, and civilian defenses—we can hold for three days."
Silence.
Then the scorn began:
"She thinks she's Minister of War now?"
"Just a woman."
"An abandoned woman."
"If His Highness hadn't saved her, she'd be dead."
Words like needles, each meant to pierce, to shame.
But Shen Zhiwu merely set her brush down, bowed without a word, and stepped back.
She knew: if she argued, they'd say she was arrogant.
But if she stayed silent—
She'd haunt them with her restraint.
The Third Prince looked at her for a long moment. Then said, quietly:
"Follow Miss Shen's plan. Mobilize civilians. Fortify the city."
Grudging compliance followed.
Even then, voices muttered in corners:
"He's mad—giving her authority."
"She thinks she's someone now? Just a pretty face who got lucky."
But Shen Zhiwu paid them no mind.
Over the next two days, the camp adjusted its defenses.
The perimeter barely held.
But rations ran low, soldiers tired, and the pressure mounted.
By the fourth night, rain fell harder than ever.
Shen Zhiwu sat cross-legged in her tent, studying the bleeding red lines on her map.
The rain roared like a curtain, but her mind was still.
Her strategy had worked—partially.
But the troops were weakening.
And despite everything she'd offered, the siege remained.
She'd given everything she knew—
But it wasn't enough. Doubt crept in.
She closed her eyes, opened them again—
And her gaze landed on the lower-right corner of the map.
A small courier station. Often overlooked.
A name surfaced in her mind.
Yan Hanjiang.
She had never met him.
Only read of him—in fragmented reports and war plans long buried.
Once known as one of the "Twin Stars" beneath the Third Prince—
Chen Yuan was the anchor. Yan Hanjiang was the blade.
But ten men out of ten would only know the name "General Chen."
Chen Yuan came from a military family. Famous since youth. A skilled rider and archer. Beloved by soldiers. Praised by courtiers.
Shen Zhiwu had met him several times.
Watched him carefully.
Her conclusion was firm:
Brave, dependable. Good in the field. But not a strategist.
He could fight—but not plan.
Hold a line—but not shift momentum.
A loyal general—but no game-changer.
What they needed now—was a blade.
And that blade… was Yan Hanjiang.
Few knew him.
He was quiet. Distant. Never sought allies. Even when he served alongside Chen Yuan, he remained aloof.
Later, he transferred to the Crown Prince's camp.
People scoffed at the move.
"Ambitious. Unstable. Unfit."
Within three months, the Crown Prince shelved him.
Now, he held a ceremonial border post—tending grain and horses at a remote station thirty li away. Forgotten.
"An abandoned relic," some said.
But Shen Zhiwu didn't believe it.
She had once read a brief report he'd written after a failed campaign—barely ten lines.
It dissected Chen Yuan's failed formation with surgical precision.
No anger. No flattery. Just clean, merciless logic.
Like a blade gliding across ice. No blood—but fatal.
From those few lines, she read his mind—
A mind clear, sharp, unrelenting.
A man exiled by politics, but unbroken.
She rose.
Set her finger on that corner of the map.
"There," she said.
"Xiling Post. Thirty li away."
She wrapped herself in a cloak, breath steady.
"If there's any hope of breaking this siege," she whispered,
"it lies with Yan Hanjiang."