Chapter 397 Writing to Myself?

Chapter 397: Writing a Letter to Oneself?

Wuliji's hand slowly clenched, the veins beneath his dark skin bulging suddenly like dormant pythons, as if at any moment they might burst through the weather-beaten surface.

That taut arc held compressed thunder—the violence of something straining to break free.

Hutuke took in his reaction at a glance, and his irritation at being challenged gave way to the satisfaction of having things under control.

He snorted, rose from his seat draped in thick blankets, and his leather boots thudded dully on the thick carpet.

He walked over to stand before Wuliji, only two steps between them. The heat of the fire mixed with the heavy stench of liquor and mutton clinging to Hutuke, washing over him.

He lowered his voice slightly: "Wuliji, my warrior, why walk yourself into a dead end?"

He reached out a hand, as if to pat Wuliji's shoulder, but under that silent, looming stare, the hand merely waved in the air, empty and pointless.

"The hooves of the Nanling men are already thundering across the frozen borderlands. I need the swiftest blade to test their edge."

He paused, observing Wuliji's expression, then continued: "As long as you and your Uliangha warriors hold back the Nanling army for me...

Then next summer, the river-valley pastures with the richest grass and water are yours for the picking, for all of the Uliangha Tribe! I, Hutuke, swear it in the name of the Eternal Sky!"

The oath rang out in the warm tent, heavy and resolute.

But immediately after, Hutuke shifted his tone, and that bravado was instantly replaced by a bone-chilling coldness.

He leaned forward, his gaze sharp as a falcon's, trying to pierce the fathomless silence in Wuliji's eyes:

"But if you continue to be this ungrateful, and keep kicking up a fuss over a few cattle and sheep..."

A cruel smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Then as for your Uliangha Tribe—don't count on surviving this winter, let alone future ones. I can't guarantee you'll ever hear the wind and snow on the grassland again."

The life-and-death threat cut through his leather robe like the bitterest north wind, stabbing straight to the bone.

Wuliji's gaze finally withdrew from the void, slowly lowering to rest on Hutuke's face, flushed red with wine and the arrogance of power.

There was no anger in that gaze, no fear—only a razor-sharp clarity.

Like a polished obsidian blade, it scraped away the hypocrisy and brutality layered in the other man's words.

Within the tent, only the crackle of the fire and the suffocating heaviness of their silent standoff remained.

The next moment, Wuliji moved.

He didn't respond to a single word Hutuke had said—neither accepting the hollow promise nor yielding to the blatant threat.

He simply turned and took a single slow step toward the tent's entrance.

His boots made no sound, yet Hutuke's pupils contracted sharply.

"Stop!" Hutuke, caught off guard, let out a furious shout that exploded through the tent, drowning out even the crackle of the fire.

"Wuliji! Where do you think you're going?! Do you not care about your Uliangha Tribe?! Their lives hang on your decision right now!"

Wuliji paused just as his hand was about to touch the heavy curtain.

But only for a moment.

He did not turn back. His tall, straight back stood like a solitary black iron tower.

His voice was not loud, yet it cut clearly through the stagnant air of the tent, each word landing like a cold, hard stone in Hutuke's ears:

"When the Great Khan returns every single head of cattle and sheep that belongs to the Uliangha Tribe,"

He tilted his head slightly, and the firelight flashed across his angular, dark-skinned profile, carving out hard shadows.

"Then, and only then, will I and my blade show up on whatever battlefield the Great Khan needs us on."

With that, he didn't linger. He raised a hand and shoved aside the heavy felt curtain in one motion.

In an instant, the raging blizzard outside howled in, sweeping away all the warmth and the false peace inside.

"Wuliji——!!!"

From inside, Hutuke's incredulous roar burst forth, followed by the shattering of cups and vessels, tinged with a barely concealed shock and fury.

"Mutiny! Mutiny! Damn you..."

The curses and roars were muffled by the thick tent curtain.

………

When Wuliji returned to the Uliangha camp, bringing with him the wind and snow and the lingering gloom of the tent, dusk was already settling in.

The blizzard had let up a little, but the cold had only gotten worse. A few bonfires burned at the center of the camp.

In the vast twilight and lingering snow-mist, they flickered with orange-red light, like the tired but stubborn heartbeat of the land.

From a distance, he could see shadowy figures gathered at the camp's entrance.

A few tribal elders with graying hair and faces deeply etched by wind and frost, along with several children bundled up tightly, only their dark, bright eyes showing.

They stood there, as if they had been waiting a long time, their figures looking a bit frail in the wind and snow.

When they saw his group of riders approaching, the figures stirred.

The elders straightened their hunched backs, and the children stood on their tiptoes.

There was no anxious questioning, no complaining or crying over the lost cattle and sheep.

When they recognized the familiar tall figure on horseback, smiles spread across their wind-chapped faces.

Those smiles were simple and sincere, with a hint of cautious, almost reverent relief, as if they were afraid to disturb him.

They placed one hand over their chests and bowed slightly, greeting their returning Chief.

Under the hems of their worn leather robes, the firelight danced in their eyes—nothing but heartfelt joy at his safe return.

Wuliji reined in his horse, his gaze sweeping slowly across each face.

The spot in his chest that had felt frozen solid since leaving the Khan's tent was suddenly seared by something hot.

The heat spread quickly, bringing a sharp, stabbing pain that nearly made him drop the reins.

An indescribable shame, bitter as gall, flooded through him in an instant.

He hadn't brought back their cattle and sheep. He hadn't even brought back a clear hope.

He dismounted, his movements heavier than usual, his leather boots crunching softly in the snow.

An old woman from the Northern Di, her hair almost entirely white, shuffled forward unsteadily.

She looked up, her eyes cloudy yet still clear, carefully examining Wuliji.

The old woman extended a withered but steady hand, gently pointing at the wound on the back of his hand.

Her voice was aged and soft, carrying the resilience and concern characteristic of the women of the grasslands.

"Chief, you're hurt here—why haven't you bandaged it? In this snowy weather, a wound left exposed is no good."

Wuliji followed her finger, glancing down at the wound on the back of his hand, not knowing when he'd gotten it.

He looked away, toward the leaping bonfire at the center of the camp, the firelight flickering in his eyes.

After a long moment, he finally forced out from deep in his chest: "...It's nothing. Just a minor wound."

His voice was hoarse, barely coming out right.

He didn't look back at the elders and children waiting for him, but turned, handing the reins to the approaching guard, and strode off toward his own tent.

Wuliji pushed aside the thick felt curtain and stepped in, trailing a lingering chill.

The tent was much warmer than outside; the charcoal brazier in the center burned, taking the edge off the cold but also deepening the gloom on his brow.

His gaze swept past the low table, then came to a stop.

Cheng Ge was sitting there, leaning forward slightly, brush in hand, writing on a sheet of paper spread out before him.

The firelight flickered, tracing his focused profile and the still-wet ink on the page.

Hearing the sound, Cheng Ge seemed to sense something and looked up almost instinctively.

When he saw it was Wuliji, his expression stiffened for a moment.

But then he caught where Wuliji's gaze had landed.

Cheng Ge's body stiffened almost imperceptibly, and his fingers tightened slightly around the brush.

Wuliji frowned, his gaze locked on that sheet of paper.

Especially the two slightly larger ink characters at the top or bottom of the page—Yuli.

The tent fell silent, and the air between them suddenly grew thick and tense.

After a pause so long that Cheng Ge almost thought the other man would confront him outright, Wuliji's voice finally broke the silence:

"You... why are you writing a letter to yourself?"

His question was blunt, even a little confused.

His gaze stayed fixed on the paper, as if trying to find an answer in those unfamiliar strokes.

Cheng Ge: "...???"

He froze for a second, then his heart lurched, and he nearly jumped off the low stool!

Damn! He'd forgotten he was currently pretending to be "Yuli"!

His mind raced, and he raised a hand to scratch his cheek awkwardly, letting out a vague sound: "Uh... um."

He looked at Wuliji, whose eyes were fixed on him.

Cheng Ge steeled himself and started to improvise: "This is actually... uh, for you."

The words slipped out, and the second they did, he wanted to slap himself.

He was digging his own grave! But the words were already out, so he had no choice but to keep spinning the lie.

Sure enough, Wuliji looked up at him, unmistakable astonishment flashing in his eyes.

Written for him? Wuliji really didn't recognize many Great Zhou characters—just a few symbols for numbers or simple things, and the name "Yuli" he'd made a point of memorizing.

The curving strokes on the page might as well have been a foreign script to him.

Whatever Cheng Ge said was "the truth" to him, because there was no way to check it.

His gaze settled back on the thin sheet of paper, as if trying to see past those unfamiliar symbols to the content "written for him."

The firelight threw his sharp features into relief, his focused expression carrying a kind of clumsy earnestness.

Cheng Ge watched him, relaxing a little, knowing the other man truly didn't recognize a damn thing beyond "Yuli."

His fingers scraped unconsciously against the table, making a faint sound, while he snuck a glance at Wuliji's expression.

Seeing Wuliji just focused on the paper, not showing any more suspicion, Cheng Ge grew bolder and kept spinning the lie, his finger pointing vaguely at the top of the page.

"It's just... I heard you were heading to the battlefield," he paused, watching Wuliji's reaction, and when the other man didn't interrupt, he went on: "So I figured... I'd write you a letter, to say hi. Remind you to... you know, stay safe and all."

He moved his finger to the spot at the end of the page where "Yuli" was written, tapping it with exaggerated seriousness: "That's the signature... so I put my name down."

Wuliji listened quietly, his dark eyes churning with complicated emotions.

In that moment, it seemed like something filled his chest.

He was quiet for a while before speaking, his voice even hoarser than before.

"What did... it say?" he asked, his gaze still not leaving the paper. "Could you... tell me?"

He asked carefully, as if afraid to disturb this feeling, yet genuinely wanting to know what words lay behind those unfamiliar strokes.

Cheng Ge cursed inwardly, but his face gave nothing away.

He steeled himself, extending his index finger to spin the lie, his fingertip tapping vaguely at spots on the paper he actually knew well:

"Here..." he pointed to the part where he'd written to Lin Nanshu to say he was safe, "it says 'Seeing this letter is like seeing me'—meaning, reading the letter is like seeing the person." Total bullshit.

His finger moved down, pointing to the part where he'd complained about Wuliji: "Here... it says 'The wind and snow are harsh; I hope you take care of yourself and eat well.'" More bullshit.

Further down, pointing to where he'd planned his escape: "Here... 'The grasslands face a hard winter this year; I hope the chief and his people stand united and will surely get through it.'" The lies were getting more and more elaborate.

His fingertip wandered across the ink, his mouth spouting warm platitudes that were full of holes but tried to fit the format of a "letter of greeting," while his eyes never fully left Wuliji's face, afraid the other man might see through his expression or gestures.

Wuliji stood there quietly, head slightly bowed, listening to Cheng Ge's translation with earnest attention.

The fire cast small shadows under his eyelashes, hiding whatever flicker might have passed through his eyes.

He couldn't understand the words, but he listened to Cheng Ge's flat, slightly halting tone as he spoke of taking care of one's health and getting through hard times.

These made-up "well-wishes" were like a tiny, faint flame, quietly easing the tightness in his chest.

He didn't know what the letter truly said. All he knew was that right now, someone was "writing a letter" for him in words he couldn't read. That was enough.

Cheng Ge finally finished translating the last word and let out a quiet breath, feeling a thin sheen of sweat on his back.

He lowered his hand and glanced at Wuliji, looking a little sheepish. "That's... about it. It's not great, so don't hold it against me."

Wuliji slowly lifted his head, his eyes moving from the paper to Cheng Ge's face.

For just a moment, under the dancing firelight, his eyes seemed to soften.

He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

"...Thank you," he said. His voice was low but clear.

The firelight danced in his deep eyes, and the softness from the translation hadn't fully faded—it had settled into something deeper, harder to name.

He watched Cheng Ge quietly for a moment, his gaze so intense that Cheng Ge's just-relaxed heart tightened again, his fingers curling instinctively.

Just as Cheng Ge was wondering whether to say something to break the silence or just get up and poke at the charcoal, Wuliji spoke.

His voice was even lower than before, with a rare, almost hesitant pause, as if he were weighing every word on his tongue:

"The letter..." He paused, his gaze sweeping once more, almost against his will, over the paper Cheng Ge had loosely pressed against the edge of the low table. "Is it done?"

Cheng Ge's heart lurched, but he fought to keep his composure.

"Huh? Oh... not yet. There are still... uh, some small things left to write."

He answered vaguely, thinking, Why won't this god let it go?

Wuliji's Adam's apple moved almost imperceptibly.

He seemed to have steeled himself, his voice nearly dissolving into the crackle of the charcoal fire, yet carrying an unmistakable seriousness.

"Then... when you're done," his gaze finally stopped drifting and locked onto Cheng Ge.

His eyes now held a hope so earnest it was almost clumsy. "Could you... give it to me?"

Cheng Ge: "...!!?"