On the Buda embankment, the chestnut trees had already turned a rusty brown.

Hei Yanshan walked toward the Margaret Bridge, his camera hanging familiarly around his neck.

He paused to adjust the exposure: the dome of the Parliament building bathed in the October light as if it were the golden roof of an ancient Chinese temple.

One year had passed since their reunion.

They no longer lived in the back room of The Red Thread. Zhanxan – or Zénó, as everyone called him now – had worked hard, and with his family’s blessing, had rented a high-ceilinged, renovated apartment in "Water-city".

Their windows looked directly out over the Danube.

***

Zhanxan was standing in the kitchen, pouring tea into two porcelain cups.

He no longer wore armor, only a soft, dark-grey sweater, yet his movements still carried the dignity he had learned a thousand years ago in the imperial court.

The key turned in the lock.

Yanshan stepped inside, his cheeks flushed from the cool breeze.

"You're late, General," Zhanxan noted with a half-smile, setting the steaming tea on the table.

"The lights were too beautiful at Margaret Bridge," Yanshan replied, immediately burrowing into Zhanxan’s arms.

"And my professor says one of my photos is being selected for the spring exhibition."

Zhanxan held him tightly. Here, within these Budapest walls, they didn't have to whisper anymore; they didn't have to fear spies or the whims of fate.

"You deserve it. You’ve always seen the beauty in the world that everyone else just overlooked."

***

Later that evening, they walked beneath the arches of the Fisherman’s Bastion. The city lay at their feet like a glittering jewelry box. "Sometimes I still think I’m just dreaming," Yanshan whispered, leaning against the stone balustrade. "That Meng Po will suddenly jump out from a corner with her cauldron and say, 'That’s it, boys, back into the cycle.'"

Zhanxan took his hand, interlacing their fingers.

"Then I would spill that bowl again. As many times as it took. But look around, Yanshan. This city is ours. There are no curses here, only us..."

Zhanxan pulled a small box from his pocket.

It wasn't a ring – not yet – just a tiny, red silk cord they had bought from a craftsman on Gellért Hill.

He tied it around Yanshan’s wrist. "It’s an official 'Hungarian' knot now,"

Zhanxan laughed. "So that not only the Heavens, but Budapest knows as well: you belong with me."

Yanshan looked back over his shoulder at the illuminated city, then into Zhanxan’s eyes. "In this life, you don't have to be a warlord to save me. It’s enough if you just come home for dinner."

In the Heavenly Realm, Wang and Chen were likely watching them through the viewing pool over a steaming bowl of goulash, and for the first time in eternity, they wrote nothing in the ledger. Because at this point, the story was no longer about them – it was about two people who had finally learned how to simply... be happy.

***

Author's Note:

If your mind is still completely occupied by my two precious baobao after this chapter, don't forget that I have a moody image-based video edit dedicated to them over on my YouTube! 😉

Just in case you missed out on the visual vibes or want to see how I picture them, you can check it out here:

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/F0UsEavYKBY