He walked back to his home along the corner gate. The moment he stepped inside, he suddenly felt that the tune William Sullivan played on the xun sounded a bit familiar. Although it was completely off-key, upon careful recollection, it faintly resembled the melody of "Sending to the West" often played at folk funerals and grave-mourning ceremonies.

"Was it intentional for the occasion?" Charles thought silently.

After seeing Charles off, William Sullivan lowered his head and fumbled for a while before he could barely make out the outline of the threshold. He carefully stepped over it and closed the door.

Waiting in the courtyard, Mr. Sullivan expressionlessly reached out to support his elbow, guiding him into the house.

Mr. Sullivan: "The best iron wrist clasp made of fine black iron, with three silk springs inside, personally forged by Master Lin in autumn. Since the master's death, it's become a rarity... Is this a defective product?"

William did not respond.

Mr. Sullivan: "Enough, stop pretending to be deaf and dumb with me—do you really want to raise him as your own son?"

"Of course I do. I like this child, he's kind and righteous," William finally spoke. "That person probably thinks the same—if in the future I can really adopt this child, those people will be at ease, and his own life will be much better. Wouldn't that be the best of both worlds?"

Mr. Sullivan was silent for a while, then said in a low voice, "First, you have to make sure he doesn't hate you—aren't you worried at all?"

William Sullivan smiled, lifted the hem of his robe, and pushed the door open to enter.

With a roguish look, he said, "There are plenty of people who hate me."

That night, lanterns floated down the river, and souls returned home.

Before dawn, Charles woke up feeling hot all over, a thin layer of sweat on his back, and his underclothes damp.

Every boy, when coming of age, goes through such a bewildering and awkward experience—even if someone has guided him beforehand.

But Charles was neither panicked nor at a loss. He reacted with indifference, simply sitting on the bed for a moment before getting up and tidying himself up casually, a faint trace of disgust barely visible on his face. He went out, fetched a bucket of cold water, and wiped his newly grown body from head to toe. He took the neatly folded clothes from beside his pillow and changed, drank the leftover tea in one gulp, and began his daily studies as usual.

Charles didn't know how it was for others.

But in fact, he hadn't had any erotic dreams. What he dreamed of was a blizzard outside the pass, cold enough to freeze a person into a coffin.

That day's wind was like white fur, sweeping by mercilessly. The blood in his wounds hadn't even started to flow before it froze into shards of ice. The wolves' howls grew closer and closer, but his dulled sense of smell couldn't detect the scent of blood. Every breath choked him with a bone-chilling, salty-sweet cold. Charles's limbs were stiff, his insides burning, and he thought he would die in the snow, leaving no bones behind.

But he didn't.

When Charles woke again, he found himself being carried in someone's arms, wrapped in a cloak.

He remembered that person's collar was snowy white, with a faint, distant, and bitter medicinal scent. When he woke, the person didn't ask anything, just took out a wine flask and gave him a sip.

He didn't know what kind of wine it was. Charles never tasted it again afterward, only remembered that even the strongest spirits outside the pass weren't as fiery. It was like a ball of fire rolling down his throat, igniting all his blood with a single gulp.

That person was William.

The dream was so vivid that the hands with which William held him seemed to still be on his body. To this day, Charles couldn't figure it out—wasn't that man supposed to be sickly? How could he have such steady, powerful hands in that terrifying, frozen wilderness?

Charles glanced down at the iron wrist clasp on his wrist, not knowing what material it was made of. After wearing it all night, it still wasn't warm at all. Using the chill of the cold iron, Charles quietly waited for his restless heart and blood to calm down, gave a self-mocking laugh, tossed aside the absurd thought of "dreaming of one's adoptive father in a spring dream," and then, as usual, lit the lamp and began to read.

Suddenly, a distant rumbling sound came, and the ground and small house began to shake. Charles was startled, then remembered that, by the calendar, the "Giant Kite" returning from the northern patrol should be coming back soon.

The "Giant Kite" was a ship over five thousand feet long, with wings on its back made up of thousands of "fire wings." When the Giant Kite took off, all the fire wings spewed out white steam at once, like mountains and tides, like marshes and dreams. Inside each fire wing burned a bowl-sized piece of purple flowing gold, flickering with a purplish-red glow amidst the vast mist, looking from afar like a myriad of household lights.

Since the northern barbarians submitted and paid tribute fourteen years ago, every year on the fifteenth day of the first lunar month, a dozen or so Giant Kites would set out from major border towns on northern patrols, each following a predetermined route, projecting power for a thousand miles. Any movement from the barbarians could be detected instantly.

Besides deterrence and patrol, the Giant Kites were also responsible for escorting the annual tribute from the northern tribes back to the capital, mainly "purple flowing gold."

A single Giant Kite could carry nearly a million jin of purple flowing gold, and even its returning footsteps sounded heavier than when it departed. The roar of the fire wings could be heard from twenty or thirty li away.

The northern patrol's Giant Kites set out in the first month and would be gone for half a year, only returning when the meteor showers began.

☆, Chapter 3: The Famous General

The The Foster Family had inherited a bit of land from their ancestors, and John Foster was a hereditary military officer. Their life was considered quite good locally. With a modest family estate, they kept an old maidservant to do the cooking and cleaning.