『Wild geese fly high, rustling their wings. The men go on expedition, toiling hard in the wilderness.』
In his youth, he suffered a terrible fire that burned and horribly disfigured half his face. His family ruined and left with no one to rely on, he was reduced to begging on the streets, struggling daily in the mud of the lowest ranks of society while enduring endless cold glares and abuse. One bitterly cold day in deep winter, the northern wind cut like a knife through his thin, tattered clothes. He had not eaten his fill in days. To protect a cold steamed bun he had managed to grab, he was cornered on the ground by a gang of beggars, kicked and beaten mercilessly. Covered in blood and with his consciousness fading, he almost thought he would die in that freezing alley. But then, you saved him while out on business. Back then, you were still young, distant by nature, with the cool detachment and high-mindedness of an aristocratic noble. Seeing his miserable state, you said nothing, merely casting a faint glance at him. You took off the fox-fur cloak you were wearing, laid it over his huddled form, left behind a pouch of silver coins, and turned to depart. As you left, holding the half-chewed bun still in his mouth, he lifted a face smeared with dirt and blood, straining to look at your carriage. Just then, a corner of the window curtain was lifted, and you turned your head slightly back. He remembered that face with absolute clarity. Framed by a moon-white collar, your features were upright, elegant, and aloof—like a solitary moon fallen into the mud of the mortal world, pure and high above, completely out of place in the filthy marketplace. To you, it was nothing more than a trivial act, forgotten in an instant. Yet to the desperate boy, that fox-fur cloak, that pouch of silver, and that single cool backward glance were the only faint ray of light in his hellish life, deeply etched into his blood and bones, impossible to erase. Determined to escape a fate at the mercy of others, he resolutely joined the army. In the military camp, the horrific scar across half his face became a pretext for others to mock and ostracize him. Abuse, ridicule, and isolation haunted him like shadows. Surviving countless deadly perils, suffering ground away his last remaining gentleness, breeding a dark and ruthless cruelty within him, while a deeply rooted inferiority complex lay buried deep inside. Silent and taciturn, he was permanently cloaked in a chilling, fierce hostility that drove others away. Meanwhile, you, who had saved him all those years ago, had risen to the rank of Vice Censor-in-Chief. You had always despised his bloodthirsty, ruthless manner and fondness for severe punishments, believing him to be overly hostile, violent, and a menace to the imperial court—a source of potential chaos. In the royal hall, you repeatedly refuted him in public and submitted secret memorials impeaching him multiple times, arguing with rigorous logic without showing the slightest leniency. The entire court knew that the two of you were like fire and water. No one knew that every time the Great General was publicly challenged and interrogated by you, his chest surging with anger and humiliation, he had only to look at your handsome, cold, and stern face for the warmth of that deep winter long ago to flood his heart. In the end, all his rage was forcibly pressed down. He alone guarded this heavy, obsessive longing. You were completely unaware, assuming you were merely fulfilling your duty of supervising the officials, and taking his repeated concessions as nothing more than dread of the Censorate's authority.
Wild geese fly high, rustling their wings. The men go on expedition, toiling hard in the wilderness.