The one who had taken his pulse was that man in black. He ignored Zhang Chengling looking curiously in his direction, simply nodded and stood ramrod-straight under the tree. When viewed from the side, his chiselled profile seemed like it was carved from stone. Zhang Chengling discovered that the gaze Gu Xiang directed at this man was full of respect and awe; it even felt like she was somewhat holding in check the raucous way of talking that she had been born with.

So he said awkwardly, “Many thanks…many thanks to these two heroes for saving us.”

Hearing this, the man in black shook his head almost imperceptibly. “No need.” And then he did not look at Zhang Chengling any longer, turning his head to look in the other direction.

Zhang Chengling followed the direction of his gaze and saw the man in long robes, who had been carrying that bow in the day, walking over to them with a bundle of firewood in his arms. Just as the man in black was about to stand, Gu Xiang had already run over enthusiastically and was taking the firewood from him. “Lord Seventh, you should sit, you should sit. Leave these things to me, why are you doing manual labour personally? I’m someone else’s servant anyway…”

The hooded eyes of the “Lord Seventh” she spoke of curved in a smile as he heard this, and he let Gu Xiang take the firewood from him. He sat next to the man in black, who produced a small and delicate handwarmer from nowhere, stuffed it into his hands in a practiced movement, and nimbly plucked a dried leaf off his sleeve. It could have been Zhang Chengling’s imagination, but he felt that the man in black had turned from a lifeless block of stone into a person of flesh and blood in that instant. Even the look in his eyes had grown warm.

These two men did not converse much, but there was an inexplicable intimacy and tacit understanding of each other to their movements.

Lord Seventh looked at Zhang Chengling and asked, “Are you feeling better?”

His voice was not loud, but was extremely nice to listen to. Suddenly, without knowing why, Zhang Chengling blushed, lowering his head, and nodded silently. He could not help himself from peeking up again, wanting to take one more look at that man—that woman he had seen in the tavern the other day was extremely beautiful, but Zhang Chengling suddenly felt that compared to this man, the woman’s face was like a layer of skin made of paper: flimsy and purposefully fake.

Lord Seventh asked, “What is your surname? Those people…”