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Although Lu Lingcong had been fond of archery and horseback riding since childhood, he had never truly been on a battlefield before becoming the commander of the Tiger Division. There were virtually no individuals in the capital whose martial skills surpassed his, and even if there were, they wouldn’t dare openly provoke the emperor’s authority by laying a hand on Prince Zhao either.
Xie Jing had no concept of these matters. He used to just think Lu Lingcong was a good fighter and visually pleasing when he wielded a sword, which was enough. Under normal circumstances, the most he ever noticed were a few bruises or shallow cuts on him, injuries commonplace for a martial artist, and he never thought much of them.
But blades and spears have no eyes on the battlefield. Every scar left behind clearly and cruelly represented an escape from death, genuinely reminding Xie Jing again that this prestigious army, renowned everywhere, was neither assigned by the emperor nor gifted by an old general. Instead, Lu Lingcong had built it from scratch, alone with his horse, working tirelessly day and night and risking life and limbs.
Lu Lingcong, as if bound by an unspoken, irksome understanding with Xie Jing, never once brought up the many setbacks—the suffering and hardships of the past three years. Upon reunion, he effortlessly deflected the solitary struggles of those days and nights, simply opening his arms to the other party and lightly stating, I’m doing well, and I hope you are too.
This was a time-and effort-saving way to reunite, but it was absolutely not safe and led to endless future trouble.
For example, this very moment.
Lu Lingcong didn’t dare to turn back immediately to see Xie Jing’s reaction—he knew that if he turned back, he wouldn’t be able to take a bath today. But he absolutely had to bathe. Covered in dust and exhaustion from the journey, even if he himself was used to it and didn’t care, he also didn’t want to dirty Xie Jing.
The sixteen-year-old Xie Jing was “a beauty like a flower separated by the clouds.” While the thirty-year-old Xie Jing, who had been stranded in the frontier for years, was still, to him, untainted by dust and resting high above the clouds.
Fortunately, he still had the good luck of sleeping by the clouds. Lu Lingcong naturally had to cherish it.
So, he said, “Go to bed and wait for me.” And then he stepped into the screen partition.
Xie Jing remained standing where he was for a brief moment before turning around; instead of going to bed, he walked barefoot to the desk. He briefly tidied the scattered papers and documents. With neither the time nor the inclination to read them closely, he merely sorted them into two piles by category, clearing some space on the tabletop, so it no longer looked so dizzying.
There was quite a bit of movement behind the screen. The water was still warm. Lu Lingcong clearly had no leisure for a long soak, and being accustomed to quick action, he washed very fast.
After he finished bathing, there was no need to put on top garment again. He simply wrapped a thin robe loosely around his waist, strode out, extinguishing a few lamps on his way, and walked straight to the bedside. Xie Jing was already leaning back against the headboard with his knees drawn up; his feet crossed together, the curve of his instep smooth and pleasing to the eye.
Lu Lingcong bent down, about to extinguish the last glimmer of candlelight by the bed, when Xie Jing suddenly spoke: “Leave it.”
“Don’t you dislike—” Lu Lingcong was confused. Xie Jing had always been thin-skinned and shy about doing things with the light on. He was actually more uninhibited when it was pitch dark. If one wanted to enjoy his unique passion, it was best done in the dark.
“Leave it,” Xie Jing repeated. “I want to look at you.”
Lu Lingcong noticed the slight tremor in his voice, sighed internally, and ignored the candle. Instead, he raised his hand and lowered half of the bed curtain, making the light spilling onto the pillow softer and more subdued.
He climbed onto the bed from the foot, his hand brushing against Xie Jing’s slightly cool instep, which he caught and rubbed back and forth in his palm. This pair of feet had been warm right after his bath, but standing barefoot on the ground for a while had quickly made them cold again.
Soon after Lu Lingcong half-lay down on the outer side of the bed, Xie Jing silently leaned over as if on instinct and straddled him. By the candlelight, he studied the crisscrossing scars on Lu Lingcong’s chest, tracing each one in turn with his slender, pale fingertips, his touch careful and earnest, as though handling something precious. The sensation was small and slightly itchy, like the delicate flutter of a butterfly’s wing.
“At least pull your clothes up before looking.” Lu Lingcong wasn’t bothered by the scars, but concerned Xie Jing would catch a chill. He pulled the sleeping robe, which had slipped to Xie Jing’s elbows, back onto his shoulders.
With a slight pull of Lu Lingcong’s palm, Xie Jing’s back softened obediently, and he half-crouched in his arms. After a brief pause, he lifted his arms to loop them around Lu Lingcong’s neck, lowered his head, and pressed a scatter of fervent, unrestrained kisses amid the marks on his chest…
