A great wind comes from the depths of the desert, blowing straight across a boundless meadow. Beyond it is a nomadic city, its night as bright as the day. 'This wind––' 'What about it?' 'I'm not sure how to describe it right now.' 'Even the great wordsmith, Ling, has times when she's lost for words?' The wind first passes through the eaves of the garden, swirling around the head of the willow tree. Its power largely spent, it brushes against Ling's face, as if scratching an itch. 'The company of friends, endless cups of wine. The warm wind brings me––' 'I flipped through your recent poems...' A sudden voice rings out. 'Brother...' 'Warm wind, fragrant wind, easterly wind, lotus wind, willow wind, wind across the bridge, wind beneath the fan... Why don't you try going somewhere without wind for a change?' 'Is there any place in this world that doesn't host any wind?' She can't remember how many poetry meetings she has attended recently - pretty much the same gardens, the same meandering water, the same thousand cups of liquid you couldn't get drunk on, the same hundred poems, the same charming emotions. To make merry is fine indeed, but it is too easy to make merry. 'There may be a place that needs you more... somewhere that'll let you compose new poems.' In order to control its only water source, this nomadic city does not rely on the mountains as a barrier, but rather stands on the vast desert, like a lonely giant in an unfathomably vast world with nobody else to rely on. The great wind rouses, occasionally kicking up rough sand and dust that passes across one's cheeks like daggers. It's not as if there's no wind here - it's just not that same kind of wind. The mountain's sanctuary is distant, the spring wind's breath expired. Ling stares at the meadow but a stone's throw away, where the last of the remaining elite soldiers lay, their armor covered in wet spikes. Three whole battalions, yet the meadow at night is nothing but a meadow. An ambush took place here. The city that rouses the night was the bait, while the meadow was the trap. 'Light the torches brighter.' 'They're already bright enough to attract those guys.' 'It is for the soldiers beneath the meadow to see. War comes soon, and none shall return. Nobody can resist the urge to turn around and look. Burn them brighter, and they shall become the lights of their hometowns.' The great wind cannot extinguish the flames in the meadow, the men's eyes fix upon their homes through the night. A cold wind blows, the senses stir. Her eyes open to the depths of Shancheng's night. Empty jars of Husong wine fill the pavilion, a half-written poem on the page in front of her.