Duan Ling has just arrived in Mu Qing’s room, but they barely manage to say anything to each other before he’s called back again. This time, Chang Pin tactfully leaves the room, shutting the door behind him, and tells Wu Du not to go in, leaving Mu Kuangda and Duan Ling to themselves.
Mu Kuangda is no longer angry; he considers Duan Ling and says, “I had a banquet set up last night, and Huang Jian waited for you two the whole night and you never showed up. You’ll need to make him an apology.”
“Certainly,” Duan Ling says humbly.
Two cunning foxes, keeping the quiet parts unsaid; of course Mu Kuangda’s not about to spew garbage like telling Duan Ling not to let anyone know what happened the night before, and of course Duan Ling isn’t about to go around telling everyone either.
“Do you remember what the contents of the letters were? It does seem rather strange for Mongolians to send letters to each other in Han.”
One lie only begets more lies to make the first lie work — Duan Ling has somehow forgotten all about that, and he can but say, “It really was in Han. I also wondered why and found it rather odd.”
Mu Kuangda falls silent for a moment. “Write it out and let’s see.”
Duan Ling picks up the brush, and imitating Batu’s tone, he fabricates the first letter. “I don’t quite remember all the details clearly.”
Mu Kuangda calls for Chang Pin. “Go to the library and bring the last letter Borjigin Batu sent.”
Duan Ling’s heart beats wildly in his chest, and he writes out a second page. He stacks the two sheets of paper together. “The second letter was also written by Batu, but that was regarding the alliance. I don’t really remember what it said.”
By the time he finishes, Chang Pin has already brought them another letter. He sets it down in front of Mu Kuangda. Mu Kuangda compares them with a glance. “It does indeed sound like the Mongolian prince.”
It’s yet another checkpoint that Duan Ling has passed, and he lets out an inward breath of relief. Chang Pin gives it a casual look and smiles. “This handwriting of yours bears some resemblance to his, actually.”
In their younger days Duan Ling was the one who taught Batu most of his Han writing, studying and essay-composition. Duan Ling is only realising this point now. “Really?”
He takes the letter and looks over it carefully. Seeing Batu’s familiar handwriting still plagued with many grammatical mistakes, Duan Ling finds it both funny and familiar, and he cannot help but miss him. A mix of feelings rises into his heart.
“Borjigin Batu grew up in Shangjing,” Chang Pin says. “That much is true. He must have learned how to write in Han, and as Jochi never learned to read, Batu’s forgotten the ancestor’s Mongolian — he may only be able to speak Mongolian, but not write it, and that’s why he sends all his messages in Han.”
“On the contrary, I have a feeling that,” Mu Kuangda stares at the letter that Duan Ling has just written, “it’s highly probable that Batu doesn’t want others among his own people to know, and in order to stop this news from spreading and the situation from getting out of control, he wrote his letters to Amga and Khatanbaatar in Han.”
Duan Ling is rather grateful to Mu Kuangda; after all, he’s somehow justified Duan Ling’s lie for him.
“Never mind,” Mu Kuangda says, “we’ll just keep this for now and verify it later.” He then hands all three letters to Chang Pin for him to put away, and says to Duan Ling, “Wang Shan, I’m giving you a holiday so you can go home and visit your parents. You must come back in fifteen days to assist Master Chang Pin, and that’ll give you a chance to learn how to manage the estate as well.”
Duan Ling realises that this means he’s finally through the ordeal, and he gives Mu Kuangda a bow before withdrawing from the room.
“I have discovered that no matter what happens,” Chang Pin says, “Wang Shan always looks like that. He’s rather poised.”
“He can take on great responsibilities, and in the future we should take the time to nurture him. Something like this friendship between him and Qing’er is hard to come by, after all. Chang Pin, it seems we’ll have to make changes to our plans again.”
Chang Pin falls silent for a moment, and then he replies with a nod.
It’s a bright and sunny day. In the palace, Li Yanqiu is sitting in one of the palace halls, and the only person near him is Zheng Yan.
“You have got to be kidding me.” Li Yanqiu’s eyes narrow once he finishes listening to him.
Zheng Yan doesn’t speak, and merely stares at Li Yanqiu.
“Who else heard what he said?”
“Chang Liujun, Wuluohou Mu, Wu Du, Feng Duo, as well as Wang Shan from the chancellor’s estate.”
“There’s absolutely no way. How are we supposed to explain the Sword of the Realm? Would the late emperor teach his style to someone not of the family?”
“But what if even the late emperor was fooled? After all, Amga never explained the actual situation. If Wuluohou Mu was the one who swindled the late emperor to begin with …”
“If even he was fooled, then that’s fine by me. He’s already decided that’s his son, so who are we to say differently?”
Zheng Yan is struck dumb all of a sudden. He absolutely couldn’t have expected Li Yanqiu to say a thing like that.
“The crown prince seeks an audience,” the eunuch outside sing-songs.
Cai Yan is here, looking in rather good spirits. He glances at Zheng Yan, and gives him a nod. Li Yanqiu gazes at Cai Yan; Cai Yan greets him for the day first before sitting down on his knees at Li Yanqiu’s side without saying anything, just keep smiling at him.
“What is it?” Li Yanqiu asks him, “Did you miss me?”
“The Mongolians say I’m an imposter,” Cai Yan says.
Zheng Yan’s expression darkens a smidgen, but Li Yanqiu says to Cai Yan, “You don’t have to worry about what they say.”
Cai Yan adds, “That’s what they said back then too.”
Li Yanqiu carefully scans Cai Yan’s face, and suddenly breaks into a smile. Cai Yan, on the other hand, has stopped speaking, his eyes reddening, turning his gaze away.
Li Yanqiu reaches out for the back of Cai Yan’s neck to embrace him, and so Cai Yan leans on Li Yanqiu’s shoulder and begins to sob.
“You’re still thinking about all those things I said back then, aren’t you? You hold a grudge as much as your dad did. I still remember that on the day you came back you hugged me and cried just like this as well.”
Cai Yan keeps sobbing, trembling all over. Li Yanqiu says, “Once the third day of the third month passes, two years will have passed since then. I don’t even cry anymore, so how come you’re still like a child who can’t seem to grow up.”
Zheng Yan is still observing Cai Yan though, his brows drawn tight together, unsure momentarily if Cai Yan is acting.
Cai Yan rubs his face against Li Yanqiu’s shoulder, and so Li Yanqiu glances at Zheng Yan to tell him to leave the room, while holding onto Cai Yan and giving him endless words of comfort.
In a fluttering sea of peach blossoms, Duan Ling returns home, but Wu Du is nowhere to be found. As soon as he gets home he goes looking for those two sheets of paper, but when he opens the case it’s to find that they’re gone!
Duan Ling is shocked before he sees the slip of paper Wu Du has left for him in the sword case: I await you beneath the bridge.
Duan Ling’s soul has nearly been scared half out of his body, but once he figures out that Wu Du is just teasing him, he looks around, feeling rather paranoid. He packs up his things, leaves the house, and spies Wu Du’s figure flash past the alleyway. Come to think of it, even if Wu Du is playing with him, he wouldn’t dare stray too far.
Three mountains surround the shores of the Yangtze and nine rivers coil through the city of spring; waterways crisscross Jiangzhou, and nine bridges set atop limestone paths while small boats travel to and fro. Many fishermen pole their boats along the waterways, filled to the brim with river food to sell along the shore.
Peach blossoms fill the air. The main street isn’t far from the bridge, and once he’s under the bridge, Duan Ling looks around in every direction. His head bumps into a peach branch, and he immediately looks up.
Wu Du is leaning over the railing and smiling at Duan Ling below; Duan Ling runs up the bridge, but with a quick dodge, by then Wu Du has already run away.
“Wu Du! You stand right there!”
Wu Du stands at the end of the bridge looking perfectly proper. Duan Ling runs to him, and in the sunlight, Wu Du’s smile is more handsome than anything; his black martial artist robes make him look ever more soldierly in the warmth of spring. Duan Ling can’t help but take another step forward and wrap his arms around him.
“What is it?” Wu Du asks.
“What’s with you?” Duan Ling asks him in return, “Where’s the stuff?”
Wu Du gives his scabbard a pat. “My sword, my life; its death, my death.”
Duan Ling drops his head in his hand. “Why do you all like to keep important stuff in your scabbards?”
But come to think of it, aside from that hapless Amga, a scabbard for one’s sword or sabre is the best hiding place when it comes to things carried on one’s person. After all, to an assassin, their sword is always near at hand.
“Where’re we goin’?” Duan Ling asks, “Is something the matter?”
Wu Du seems a bit nervous. “Come on, down here.”
Duan Ling’s mood takes a turn for the brighter — it’s just been one thing after another lately, and now he feels like the haze has been swept aside, and the sky is wide and blue above him.
Wu Du walks to the pier by the creek’s edge, indicating that Duan Ling should board it first. Duan Ling knows Wu Du can steer a boat, and he’s rather good at it too, so he gladly gets on.
Wu Du unties the rope and leaps onto the boat. With one push of his long pole by the shore, the small boat vanishes into the boats congregating in the water market. Soon enough, it shoots out the other side like an arrow and keeps going, following the zigzagging waterways to wait in line for the Black Armours’ checkpoint at the narrow waterway entrance as they prepare to leave the city.
It’s the first time Duan Ling has ever gone on a trip by boat, and he can’t help being filled with excitement. Wu Du passes the checkpoint, pushing on the pole again; the boat leaves the waterway for the Yangtze main and the way opens up in front of them, where nothing but water meets the eye, a torrent rushing towards the east.
A thousand sails compete on the Yangtze; Wu Du hoists the sail with several quick pulls, wraps the rope around the mast several times, then tosses the rope over it casually and sits down next to Duan Ling at the prow, side by side.
“It’s so beautiful,” Duan Ling says. “Where are we going?”
“To the ends of the earth,” Wu Du says, “you want to go?”
Duan Ling suddenly feels so utterly exhausted, yet so happy, especially in the very instant he catches the bright blue sky above meeting the wide expanse of the water below; it makes him think that everything that is beautiful about the land is all right here.
“I want to go,” Duan Ling replies.
Neither of them say anything, sitting with their backs against the prow.
“When we get home again you’ll have to become the emperor. Perhaps it’ll be a long, long time before we can make it out again.”
Duan Ling understands what Wu Du means — now that they have the evidence, he has taken one step closer in his plans to return to court. Before the results of the exams are released, staying in Jiangzhou is not the best idea.
The small boat flies across the surface of the river and enters another narrow waterway before turning north. Both sides of the shore are towering mountains, more beautiful than anything he can imagine. Wu Du strips himself of his outer robe, rolls up his pants, and poles the boat along. When they happen to meet a fish merchant hawking their catch on a boat, they buy some food from them.
Meanwhile, Duan Ling has found a coal stove, and he starts a fire at the prow for cooking fish soup and rice.
He doesn’t ask where they’re going. Bit by bit he’s starting to think that if he can spend his whole life like this, that’s fine too; to live like duckweed drifting on the surface of a pond, roaming far, roaming wide. The marvellous world beyond and all the people in the world will simply turn into birds crisscrossing the skies, scattering beneath the mountain peaks. Everything would become so simple.
In the night, when rain falls, Duan Ling and Wu Du sleep in the cabin together, listening to the pitter-patter of rain landing on the river. Looking outside, all he sees is a million raindrops splashing onto the water.
When the wind picks up and blows away all the rain clouds, they lie down on the deck where they’re surrounded by a thousand miles of still water, the surface as reflective as a mirror, while a brilliant starry river shines before their eyes.
And thus two days go by. On the third day, as Duan Ling wakes up yawning, Wu Du is already pushing the boat to shore. They’ve reached a remote corner between the mountains with a limestone path that leads towards the end of the mountain range.
“What is this place?” Duan Ling asks.
Wu Du looks up into the distance. After a brief silence he says, “I’ll carry you.”
“Let’s walk together. Are we going to pray at a Buddhist temple?”
“You’ll see when you get there.” As he says this to Duan Ling, Wu Du seems a bit nervous.
They climb up the stone steps, covered in lichen from long years of disrepair. When they get to the cliff, there’s a plank walkway that snakes along the cliff face, round and round, leading deeper into the wilderness. When Duan Ling sees the first monastery gate, he finally realises why Wu Du has brought him here.
Before them is a giant, stone-carved white tiger, as life-like as the real thing, facing the great river and the world of the central plains below, surrounded by layer upon layer of clouds.
I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free.
Duan Ling has just arrived in Mu Qing’s room, but they barely manage to say anything to each other before he’s called back again. This time, Chang Pin tactfully leaves the room, shutting the door behind him, and tells Wu Du not to go in, leaving Mu Kuangda and Duan Ling to themselves.
Mu Kuangda is no longer angry; he considers Duan Ling and says, “I had a banquet set up last night, and Huang Jian waited for you two the whole night and you never showed up. You’ll need to make him an apology.”
“Certainly,” Duan Ling says humbly.
Two cunning foxes, keeping the quiet parts unsaid; of course Mu Kuangda’s not about to spew garbage like telling Duan Ling not to let anyone know what happened the night before, and of course Duan Ling isn’t about to go around telling everyone either.
“Do you remember what the contents of the letters were? It does seem rather strange for Mongolians to send letters to each other in Han.”
One lie only begets more lies to make the first lie work — Duan Ling has somehow forgotten all about that, and he can but say, “It really was in Han. I also wondered why and found it rather odd.”
Mu Kuangda falls silent for a moment. “Write it out and let’s see.”
Duan Ling picks up the brush, and imitating Batu’s tone, he fabricates the first letter. “I don’t quite remember all the details clearly.”
Mu Kuangda calls for Chang Pin. “Go to the library and bring the last letter Borjigin Batu sent.”
Duan Ling’s heart beats wildly in his chest, and he writes out a second page. He stacks the two sheets of paper together. “The second letter was also written by Batu, but that was regarding the alliance. I don’t really remember what it said.”
By the time he finishes, Chang Pin has already brought them another letter. He sets it down in front of Mu Kuangda. Mu Kuangda compares them with a glance. “It does indeed sound like the Mongolian prince.”
It’s yet another checkpoint that Duan Ling has passed, and he lets out an inward breath of relief. Chang Pin gives it a casual look and smiles. “This handwriting of yours bears some resemblance to his, actually.”
In their younger days Duan Ling was the one who taught Batu most of his Han writing, studying and essay-composition. Duan Ling is only realising this point now. “Really?”
He takes the letter and looks over it carefully. Seeing Batu’s familiar handwriting still plagued with many grammatical mistakes, Duan Ling finds it both funny and familiar, and he cannot help but miss him. A mix of feelings rises into his heart.
“Borjigin Batu grew up in Shangjing,” Chang Pin says. “That much is true. He must have learned how to write in Han, and as Jochi never learned to read, Batu’s forgotten the ancestor’s Mongolian — he may only be able to speak Mongolian, but not write it, and that’s why he sends all his messages in Han.”
“On the contrary, I have a feeling that,” Mu Kuangda stares at the letter that Duan Ling has just written, “it’s highly probable that Batu doesn’t want others among his own people to know, and in order to stop this news from spreading and the situation from getting out of control, he wrote his letters to Amga and Khatanbaatar in Han.”
Duan Ling is rather grateful to Mu Kuangda; after all, he’s somehow justified Duan Ling’s lie for him.
“Never mind,” Mu Kuangda says, “we’ll just keep this for now and verify it later.” He then hands all three letters to Chang Pin for him to put away, and says to Duan Ling, “Wang Shan, I’m giving you a holiday so you can go home and visit your parents. You must come back in fifteen days to assist Master Chang Pin, and that’ll give you a chance to learn how to manage the estate as well.”
Duan Ling realises that this means he’s finally through the ordeal, and he gives Mu Kuangda a bow before withdrawing from the room.
“I have discovered that no matter what happens,” Chang Pin says, “Wang Shan always looks like that. He’s rather poised.”
“He can take on great responsibilities, and in the future we should take the time to nurture him. Something like this friendship between him and Qing’er is hard to come by, after all. Chang Pin, it seems we’ll have to make changes to our plans again.”
Chang Pin falls silent for a moment, and then he replies with a nod.
It’s a bright and sunny day. In the palace, Li Yanqiu is sitting in one of the palace halls, and the only person near him is Zheng Yan.
“You have got to be kidding me.” Li Yanqiu’s eyes narrow once he finishes listening to him.
Zheng Yan doesn’t speak, and merely stares at Li Yanqiu.
“Who else heard what he said?”
“Chang Liujun, Wuluohou Mu, Wu Du, Feng Duo, as well as Wang Shan from the chancellor’s estate.”
“There’s absolutely no way. How are we supposed to explain the Sword of the Realm? Would the late emperor teach his style to someone not of the family?”
“But what if even the late emperor was fooled? After all, Amga never explained the actual situation. If Wuluohou Mu was the one who swindled the late emperor to begin with …”
“If even he was fooled, then that’s fine by me. He’s already decided that’s his son, so who are we to say differently?”
Zheng Yan is struck dumb all of a sudden. He absolutely couldn’t have expected Li Yanqiu to say a thing like that.
“The crown prince seeks an audience,” the eunuch outside sing-songs.
Cai Yan is here, looking in rather good spirits. He glances at Zheng Yan, and gives him a nod. Li Yanqiu gazes at Cai Yan; Cai Yan greets him for the day first before sitting down on his knees at Li Yanqiu’s side without saying anything, just keep smiling at him.
“What is it?” Li Yanqiu asks him, “Did you miss me?”
“The Mongolians say I’m an imposter,” Cai Yan says.
Zheng Yan’s expression darkens a smidgen, but Li Yanqiu says to Cai Yan, “You don’t have to worry about what they say.”
Cai Yan adds, “That’s what they said back then too.”
Li Yanqiu carefully scans Cai Yan’s face, and suddenly breaks into a smile. Cai Yan, on the other hand, has stopped speaking, his eyes reddening, turning his gaze away.
Li Yanqiu reaches out for the back of Cai Yan’s neck to embrace him, and so Cai Yan leans on Li Yanqiu’s shoulder and begins to sob.
“You’re still thinking about all those things I said back then, aren’t you? You hold a grudge as much as your dad did. I still remember that on the day you came back you hugged me and cried just like this as well.”
Cai Yan keeps sobbing, trembling all over. Li Yanqiu says, “Once the third day of the third month passes, two years will have passed since then. I don’t even cry anymore, so how come you’re still like a child who can’t seem to grow up.”
Zheng Yan is still observing Cai Yan though, his brows drawn tight together, unsure momentarily if Cai Yan is acting.
Cai Yan rubs his face against Li Yanqiu’s shoulder, and so Li Yanqiu glances at Zheng Yan to tell him to leave the room, while holding onto Cai Yan and giving him endless words of comfort.
In a fluttering sea of peach blossoms, Duan Ling returns home, but Wu Du is nowhere to be found. As soon as he gets home he goes looking for those two sheets of paper, but when he opens the case it’s to find that they’re gone!
Duan Ling is shocked before he sees the slip of paper Wu Du has left for him in the sword case: I await you beneath the bridge.
Duan Ling’s soul has nearly been scared half out of his body, but once he figures out that Wu Du is just teasing him, he looks around, feeling rather paranoid. He packs up his things, leaves the house, and spies Wu Du’s figure flash past the alleyway. Come to think of it, even if Wu Du is playing with him, he wouldn’t dare stray too far.
Three mountains surround the shores of the Yangtze and nine rivers coil through the city of spring; waterways crisscross Jiangzhou, and nine bridges set atop limestone paths while small boats travel to and fro. Many fishermen pole their boats along the waterways, filled to the brim with river food to sell along the shore.
Peach blossoms fill the air. The main street isn’t far from the bridge, and once he’s under the bridge, Duan Ling looks around in every direction. His head bumps into a peach branch, and he immediately looks up.
Wu Du is leaning over the railing and smiling at Duan Ling below; Duan Ling runs up the bridge, but with a quick dodge, by then Wu Du has already run away.
“Wu Du! You stand right there!”
Wu Du stands at the end of the bridge looking perfectly proper. Duan Ling runs to him, and in the sunlight, Wu Du’s smile is more handsome than anything; his black martial artist robes make him look ever more soldierly in the warmth of spring. Duan Ling can’t help but take another step forward and wrap his arms around him.
“What is it?” Wu Du asks.
“What’s with you?” Duan Ling asks him in return, “Where’s the stuff?”
Wu Du gives his scabbard a pat. “My sword, my life; its death, my death.”
Duan Ling drops his head in his hand. “Why do you all like to keep important stuff in your scabbards?”
But come to think of it, aside from that hapless Amga, a scabbard for one’s sword or sabre is the best hiding place when it comes to things carried on one’s person. After all, to an assassin, their sword is always near at hand.
“Where’re we goin’?” Duan Ling asks, “Is something the matter?”
Wu Du seems a bit nervous. “Come on, down here.”
Duan Ling’s mood takes a turn for the brighter — it’s just been one thing after another lately, and now he feels like the haze has been swept aside, and the sky is wide and blue above him.
Wu Du walks to the pier by the creek’s edge, indicating that Duan Ling should board it first. Duan Ling knows Wu Du can steer a boat, and he’s rather good at it too, so he gladly gets on.
Wu Du unties the rope and leaps onto the boat. With one push of his long pole by the shore, the small boat vanishes into the boats congregating in the water market. Soon enough, it shoots out the other side like an arrow and keeps going, following the zigzagging waterways to wait in line for the Black Armours’ checkpoint at the narrow waterway entrance as they prepare to leave the city.
It’s the first time Duan Ling has ever gone on a trip by boat, and he can’t help being filled with excitement. Wu Du passes the checkpoint, pushing on the pole again; the boat leaves the waterway for the Yangtze main and the way opens up in front of them, where nothing but water meets the eye, a torrent rushing towards the east.
A thousand sails compete on the Yangtze; Wu Du hoists the sail with several quick pulls, wraps the rope around the mast several times, then tosses the rope over it casually and sits down next to Duan Ling at the prow, side by side.
“It’s so beautiful,” Duan Ling says. “Where are we going?”
“To the ends of the earth,” Wu Du says, “you want to go?”
Duan Ling suddenly feels so utterly exhausted, yet so happy, especially in the very instant he catches the bright blue sky above meeting the wide expanse of the water below; it makes him think that everything that is beautiful about the land is all right here.
“I want to go,” Duan Ling replies.
Neither of them say anything, sitting with their backs against the prow.
“When we get home again you’ll have to become the emperor. Perhaps it’ll be a long, long time before we can make it out again.”
Duan Ling understands what Wu Du means — now that they have the evidence, he has taken one step closer in his plans to return to court. Before the results of the exams are released, staying in Jiangzhou is not the best idea.
The small boat flies across the surface of the river and enters another narrow waterway before turning north. Both sides of the shore are towering mountains, more beautiful than anything he can imagine. Wu Du strips himself of his outer robe, rolls up his pants, and poles the boat along. When they happen to meet a fish merchant hawking their catch on a boat, they buy some food from them.
Meanwhile, Duan Ling has found a coal stove, and he starts a fire at the prow for cooking fish soup and rice.
He doesn’t ask where they’re going. Bit by bit he’s starting to think that if he can spend his whole life like this, that’s fine too; to live like duckweed drifting on the surface of a pond, roaming far, roaming wide. The marvellous world beyond and all the people in the world will simply turn into birds crisscrossing the skies, scattering beneath the mountain peaks. Everything would become so simple.
In the night, when rain falls, Duan Ling and Wu Du sleep in the cabin together, listening to the pitter-patter of rain landing on the river. Looking outside, all he sees is a million raindrops splashing onto the water.
When the wind picks up and blows away all the rain clouds, they lie down on the deck where they’re surrounded by a thousand miles of still water, the surface as reflective as a mirror, while a brilliant starry river shines before their eyes.
And thus two days go by. On the third day, as Duan Ling wakes up yawning, Wu Du is already pushing the boat to shore. They’ve reached a remote corner between the mountains with a limestone path that leads towards the end of the mountain range.
“What is this place?” Duan Ling asks.
Wu Du looks up into the distance. After a brief silence he says, “I’ll carry you.”
“Let’s walk together. Are we going to pray at a Buddhist temple?”
“You’ll see when you get there.” As he says this to Duan Ling, Wu Du seems a bit nervous.
They climb up the stone steps, covered in lichen from long years of disrepair. When they get to the cliff, there’s a plank walkway that snakes along the cliff face, round and round, leading deeper into the wilderness. When Duan Ling sees the first monastery gate, he finally realises why Wu Du has brought him here.
Before them is a giant, stone-carved white tiger, as life-like as the real thing, facing the great river and the world of the central plains below, surrounded by layer upon layer of clouds.
I do not monetise my hobby translations, but if you’d like to support my work generally or support my light novel habit, you can either buy me a coffee or commission me. This is also to note that if you see this message anywhere else than on tumblr, do come to my tumblr. It’s ad-free.
