After the Sata City affair was settled, Lingcai’s crew merged with Kelor’s convoy, a ribbon of dust unspooling as they rolled toward the next city.

Sometimes life sprouts regrets you can’t dodge, like stains blooming on silk after rain.

But not now; emotions tucked away, they set out again, a tide of wheels and hooves surging toward the Seven Northern Towns.

This time, Xueyu dropped the dream of racing Lingcai’s little trike; she let her trail at the convoy’s tail like a stubborn kite.

The road ran long and pale, and boredom pressed in like a slow fog no one could scatter.

Even Kelor, curled in her carriage with pages rustling like dry leaves, eventually wilted from the sameness.

Forest, then plain—patterns repeating like woven reed mats—nothing to catch the eye, and talk thinned like smoke in wind.

Loneliness padded alongside like a silent wolf beyond the firelight, the most patient, the most dangerous.

Heat draped over them like a damp cloak; even Scarlet Leaf sagged across her donkey’s spine, nearly sliding off like a melting candle.

The air went stale, pond-still and breathless.

We can’t keep drifting like this, Lingcai thought, her mood sinking like a stone in still water.

To fend off the drowsy lull, she finally decided to stir the waters and do something.

“Should we… take a short break?” She pushed the words out, heart heavy, then voice light, toward Xueyu at the reins.

Xueyu turned, eyes glazed like winter glass. “Funny… I was thinking that too. But we wasted too much time in Sata City. We’ve got to make it up, right?”

Duty sat on Xueyu’s shoulders like armor; no matter the fatigue, she held her post like a rooted pine.

If rest wouldn’t come from the guard, it had to come from her master.

Lingcai nudged her trike close and raised her voice toward the carriage. “Your Highness, we’ve still got two or three hours of road ahead. Pushing on is too tiring. Let’s stop, swap a story, loosen the knots a bit?”

The curtain breathed, then Kelor’s head poked out, a weary crane peering from reeds. “What’s there to tell? This godforsaken stretch where even birds won’t bother to poop—stopping won’t change it. And I don’t have stories…”

Hook set, Lingcai tugged the line, bold as sunlight. “Sure you do. Tell us about your last life—your country, what the society looked like…”

She only meant to bait Kelor into calling a rest, words tossed like pebbles at water. But the ripples ran deeper than she guessed. Kelor thought a moment, then—exactly as Lingcai hoped—gave the order.

“Xiao Xue, pull over and rest. I think this is a good chance.”

Score! The word tasted sweet as haw candy, though the second half left Lingcai blinking.

Good chance for what? What’s she plotting?

Whatever. Rest was rest; the cloud finally promised shade.

Hearing Kelor’s order, Xueyu dropped debate like a hot coal and halted the carriage, signaling the cavalry to the roadside for a quick reset.

Truth was, she’d longed to stop, but duty had cinched her tight like a belt. Now the buckle slipped.

With the princess’s word, no reason to hold the reins taut.

Lingcai let herself savor the small victory, pride fluttering like a bright flag.

She had no clue her casual line had cracked the dam and let a flood in.

The Starward Guard drew to one side, watering horses with hands cupped like ladles, reins slack as river grass. Lingcai hopped down and kneaded her thighs, sore cords thrumming like bowstrings.

After so long off her feet, standing felt wobbly, legs like noodles swaying in a summer breeze.

While everyone scattered for a breath, Kelor drew several white sheets from the carriage, pressed them together, and pinned them to the carriage wall like a makeshift screen.

Then she clapped, sharp as bamboo, pulling every gaze toward her.

“Ahem… since we’re resting, don’t let the time rot like fruit. Eyes on me.”

What is she doing? Lingcai’s thoughts drifted like leaves in a slow eddy. Stories, yes—but this felt… formal.

Kelor scanned them, face settling stern as a carved seal. “Sit somewhere and look this way. I’m going to talk about something from another world—”

She dipped a pen and wrote large, ink blooming like dark water across snow-white paper:

“Marxism and the Socialist Theoretical System.”

…Huh?

Kelor ignored their stunned faces and began, voice steady as a drumbeat. “First, let’s talk about how human society actually runs…”

Five minutes in, Lingcai regretted everything, regret crawling like ants. Better to have kept rolling under the sun.

But she’d thrown the stone; stopping it mid-splash would only muddy the pool.

She swallowed her fate and listened, each minute a mile.

Half an hour later—

“…So, to better gather voices from every corner, we need to elect people’s representatives in each place, and have them regularly help set national policy. That’s the people’s congress system…”

Kelor sketched and wrote, ideas unfurling like maps; then she turned, gaze soft as dusk. “Did that make sense?”

Scarlet Leaf and Xueyu exchanged a look, silence pooling like shadow.

Lingcai lifted her hand like a slow reed. “Reporting in… I didn’t get it.”

“Which part?” Kelor asked, brows arched like twin bridges.

“All of it,” Lingcai said, voice flat as a pond at dawn.

Kelor, mouth dry as sand, smacked her own forehead. She should’ve known; her words were rain on stone, zither to an ox.

Scarlet Leaf raised her hand too, voice small as a sparrow. “We’re just ordinary folk… We don’t know this stuff, and we won’t use it…”

“You will,” Kelor said, putting the pen away, urgency bright as firelight. “A country can’t grow on an emperor’s word alone. The future has to be an equal society. If everyone knows a bit, they can guard their rights like a fence around their fields.”

To a guard’s ears, the wind carried a different scent. Xueyu hesitated, then edged close, voice careful as stepping on ice. “Your Highness… you’re not planning a revolt, are you…?”

Kelor blinked, baffled as a deer in lantern light. “Revolt against what?”

Xueyu paused, then pressed on, words tumbling like pebbles. “You said we can’t let only the emperor decide… meaning we, uh, cut him…”

She caught herself mid-blade and straightened, voice ringing like steel. “Of course! I’ll always stand with you, Your Highness! When the time’s ripe, one word—over half the Starward Guard are yours. We break into cells, slip into the capital, ring the palace, and then—”

“Stop! Enough! That’s not what I meant!” Kelor heard the edge under the silk and snapped, sharp as a snapped bowstring.

“Then what do you mean?” Xueyu blinked, eyes clear as rain.

Kelor turned to Lingcai, helplessness pooling like dusk. “A-Cai… did I sound like that?”

Lingcai nodded like a pecking chick.

It did sound like grabbing the reins from the throne.

Kelor deflated, then flared, shaking her head hard. “Do I look like someone scheming to seize power?”

Lingcai bobbed a yes, then jerked a no, her mind a windblown vane.

Kelor lost it, anger crackling like dry pine. She tore the papers from the carriage in a single rip, snow to shreds.

“Enough! Prepare to move!! To Qiyan City!!!”