Chapter 257.1: Hello Chang'an
Chapter 257.1: A Thousand Miles, Sharing the Same Wind (Part 1)
Yuan Xiang had once served as a personal guard to Cui Jing. His position by Cui Jing’s side was not by coincidence, but by the latter’s personal choice and arrangement.
The reason Yuan Xiang could follow Cui Jing so closely was not because of any noble birth or background, but due to his remarkable abilities in both riding and archery, as well as his calm, reliable disposition. He never spoke unnecessarily, never overstepped his place, and handled every matter with steady composure.
Because of these traits, over the years, Cui Jing gradually placed greater and greater trust in him.
However, few people knew that Yuan Xiang was not from the north—nor from the capital—but from the distant southern lands of Jiangnan.
When Cui Jing had still been stationed as Commander of Jinling’s garrison, he had once encountered an ambush while traveling along the river. Yuan Xiang, who was then merely a soldier in the local defense battalion, had saved him amidst the chaos.
After that incident, Cui Jing personally transferred him into his own command, and later brought him along when he was recalled to serve in the capital.
Since then, Yuan Xiang had accompanied Cui Jing through countless battlefields—across plains and rivers, through snow and dust. From the misty waters of Jiangnan to the harsh northern frontiers, his loyalty remained steadfast, never once wavering.
In the barracks, everyone knew that though Yuan Xiang was not particularly talkative, his devotion to the General was unmatched.
That night, the army was stationed by the riverside. The campfires stretched far into the distance, flickering like stars across the dark plain.
The northern wind howled past the tents, carrying with it the chill of early frost. From time to time came the sound of horses stamping and neighing softly in the dark.
Yuan Xiang stood guard outside the main tent, his spear planted upright beside him, his figure unmoving. He kept his gaze fixed toward the dim horizon, listening to the faint rustle of flags and the distant cries of sentries exchanging calls.
Within the tent, Cui Jing sat at the table beneath a single flickering candle, reading over a stack of military dispatches that had just arrived from the Prefecture.
The candle’s flame swayed in the wind, its light falling across the ink-brushed pages and the pale outline of his hand. His expression remained still—neither joy nor anger discernible.
After some time, he set the letter aside.
Yuan Xiang, who had been silent all along, quietly stepped closer. “General,” he said softly, “has there been any word from the Prefecture?”
Cui Jing’s gaze lifted slightly, his tone calm but carrying a trace of fatigue. “Not yet.”
He tapped the table lightly with his fingertips, then added, “If no message arrives by dawn tomorrow, it can only mean something happened along the road.”
Yuan Xiang’s brows drew together slightly. “Shall I send another man to check the route?”
Cui Jing nodded. “Go ahead—but quietly. There is no need to alert the others.”
“Yes, General.”
Yuan Xiang saluted and withdrew, his footsteps vanishing beyond the tent flap.
Only the whispering of the wind remained.
The candlelight flickered, and the shadow of Cui Jing’s figure swayed faintly against the tent wall.
After a long silence, Cui Jing reached out once more and opened a folded letter that had been lying to the side.
It was written in delicate handwriting—each stroke steady, elegant, and full of grace. The ink was slightly faded from travel, yet the scent of the paper still carried the faint fragrance of orchids.
He lowered his gaze to the final line, where the signature read: Chang Suining.
At that sight, a subtle softness appeared in his eyes.
He sat quietly for a moment, reading each line again, as though her voice could be heard between the words.
When he finally closed the letter, he exhaled slowly, murmuring under his breath, “Suining…”
Outside, the wind swept against the tent. Somewhere in the far south, beyond rivers and mountains, perhaps the same wind was stirring the willows by the water’s edge, brushing past the eaves of her courtyard.
Though separated by a thousand miles, they both felt the same breath of wind that night.
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