Chapter 1
The sky was azure, and the wind was biting; snow stretched endlessly across the vast plains.
The official road in the Nanzhou (southern state) was broad, and the crunch of horse hooves on the snow filled the silence as a convoy of carriages and riders moved slowly through the mountains.
Snowflakes pressed heavily on people’s brows. A middle-aged man kept his gaze fixed on the shadowy dark-green forest where the sky’s light could not reach. He loosened his grip on the reins and reached slowly for the long blade at his waist.
The wind lifted the edge of his black robe, revealing the dark green crane emblem embroidered inside.
Note: The crane symbol is often associated with nobility, longevity, and authority in Chinese culture. It signifies that the man is not an ordinary official but someone of high status or special rank.
Suddenly—szzzzz!
The sharp sound of something slicing through the air erupted. The man swung his blade, and the incoming arrow snapped in two.
His eyes caught the flicker of flames extinguished on the arrowhead. His brow furrowed as he turned to see flaming arrows pouring from the dense forest. Even with their quick reaction, a few arrows embedded themselves in the carriages, and the flames spread in an instant.
The firelight illuminated the pale face of an elderly man standing by one of the carriages. Panic made his voice shrill, “Protect His Majesty! Quickly, protect His Majesty!”
The commotion in the forest intensified, and soon several figures leaped out with swords raised high. They landed deftly, swiftly slashing through the heads of several guards in green robes.
The smell of blood spread through the air, and the clashing of swords echoed incessantly. The middle-aged man with the long blade dismounted and turned to see a green-robed guard prying open a carriage door and helping a nobleman out.
Immediately, the man retrieved something from inside his robe. With an ear-splitting bang, a burst of colorful fireworks shot into the sky.
Note: Fireworks were historically used in China as signals during battle, both to summon reinforcements and to communicate strategic movements.
“Don’t move.”
Several figures holding swords in the forest prepared to leap into action. But the leader’s arm was suddenly held back by someone.
“Zhe Zhu, what are you doing?”
The young man had his face covered, revealing only a pair of sharp eyes. He glanced at the hand gripping his arm and frowned deeply, his tone unfriendly.
“If you step away from this mess now, you still have time,” Zhe Zhu said, his voice crisp and clear, his fair face unmasked.
Note: Zhe Zhu’s unmasked face contrasts with the others, suggesting both confidence and a refusal to hide his identity, adding an air of mystery and defiance to his character.
“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” the man replied impatiently. Shaking off Zhe Zhu’s hand, he gestured toward the dozen men behind him.
The black-clad boy’s smile vanished. Drawing the soft sword at his waist, he moved so quickly that the man barely had time to react. A few inches of blade light flashed before his eyes, and the cold edge of the sword was suddenly pressed against his neck.
Note: The soft sword (软剑) is a weapon unique to Chinese martial arts, symbolizing a combination of flexibility and lethality. It often represents finesse over brute strength.
The man stiffened, his back rigid, and gritted his teeth. “Zhe… Zhu.”
The forest wind stirred, and a few rays of light filtered through the treetops, reflecting off the blade and creating streaks of brilliant light.
“Eleventh Brother, hasn’t the wife you hid in the southern state been dead for three years now?”
As soon as Zhe Zhu spoke, the man’s face turned pale. Ignoring the blade grazing his neck, he turned sharply, leaving a faint cut on his skin. “How did you know?”
But Zhe Zhu stood motionless in the dappled, dim light, his gaze calm and unfathomable, like still water.
“Was it you?!”
The man’s eyes turned red with rage. Forgetting the bloodied business below, he gripped his sword tightly.
Zhe Zhu chuckled softly. “Eleventh Brother, do you know where she’s buried now?”
A roaring sound filled the man’s ears. Raising his sword, he charged at Zhe Zhu, only to see him leap effortlessly into the treetops, his movements ghostlike and elusive.
Note: Zhe Zhu’s ability to move lightly through the treetops (轻功, qing gōng) is a hallmark of wuxia (martial arts fiction) protagonists, emphasizing agility and a near-supernatural mastery of martial arts.
“Are we still going down there?”
The dozen men hidden in the forest hesitated, watching the two figures disappear one after another.
“Since the two leaders are gone, let’s retreat.”
After a brief moment of deliberation, another man made the call.
The forest fell silent, but below the cliff, the thick snow on the official road was stained red with blood, melted by the heat of the battle.
The nameless soldiers pressed forward, but the fireworks that shot into the sky earlier weren’t just for show. Nearby troops had already been dispatched, following the signal to arrive.
Together with a hundred green-robed guards, they slaughtered the unidentified assailants to the last.
—
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, for causing you distress. The fault lies with me.”
The middle-aged man, having removed his plain black robe, revealed the dark green crane-embroidered uniform beneath. This attire was exclusive to the Lingxiao Guard, the elite force stationed closest to the Emperor of the Great Yan dynasty.
He was none other than the current commander of the Lingxiao Guard—He Zhongting.
Note: The Lingxiao Guard (凌霄卫)—”Guards of the Lofty Skies”—suggests imperial protection. Their name evokes grandeur, loyalty, and military prowess.
Ignoring the blood splattered across his face, He Zhongting clasped his hands and knelt before the nobleman cloaked in a dark purple fox-fur mantle.
“Rebels dared infiltrate these lands, ambushing us here. How did they learn of today’s journey to Yuanjue Monastery?” The Emperor, Chun Shengdi, looked immaculate, his topknot untouched, supported by an elderly eunuch bowing at his side. His sharp gaze fell upon He Zhongting, who knelt in the snow.
Note: The Emperor’s title, Chun Shengdi (淳圣帝), combines Chun (pure) and Sheng (sacred), emphasizing his divine and moral authority as ruler.
“I will investigate this matter thoroughly,” He Zhongting replied, bowing his head low.
“Fortunately, He Qing (Minister He) was well-prepared. Rise,” Chun Shengdi said, his expression easing slightly as he waved a hand. But before he could finish his words, several pale-faced palace maids ran toward them, falling to their knees in panic.
“Your Majesty, the Princess… the Princess is missing!”
One of the maids spoke in a trembling voice.
The faint smile on Chun Shengdi’s face vanished. His cold eyes fell upon the maid who had spoken.
The maid trembled violently, too terrified to raise her head and meet the Emperor’s gaze. Forcing herself to remain steady, she continued, “When the flaming arrows struck the Princess’s carriage, the horses panicked, and the carriage overturned. When I hurried to pull aside the curtains, the Princess was already gone!”
“He Qing.”
Chun Shengdi slowly rubbed the jade ring on his thumb, his expression darkening.
“At your service.”
He Zhongting (Minister He) responded immediately.
“These rebels failed to take my life but dared to abduct a Princess of Great Yan. It is unforgivable.” There was a faint, suppressed irritation in Chun Shengdi’s voice. “You must find Mingyue. Nothing must happen to her.”
Note: The Princess’s name, Mingyue (明月), means “Bright Moon.” In Chinese literature, the moon often symbolizes purity, hope, or unattainable beauty, adding a poetic element to her character.
“Your servant obeys!”
—
The withered grass, weighed down by snow, drooped low. In the entire forest, there was almost no sound save for the whispering wind.
Suddenly, there was a faint rustling in the grass piles.
Shang Rong had tumbled down the slope from the official road, clutching a broken tree branch as she ran through the forest. At last, she slipped into a dense thicket, lying hidden beneath the snow. Hearing the sound of hooves far away, she buried herself deeper, motionless for a long time.
The voices of men drew close and then faded. When the horse’s neighs finally became distant, she sat up from the grass pile.
The snow that clung to her fell like shimmering crystals with her sudden movement. Her face was pale from the cold, but her small nose was flushed red. The half-melted snowflakes on her long, dark lashes gave them a frosted appearance. Gasping for breath, she winced as the icy wind scraped her throat, triggering a cough she could not suppress.
But after coughing only a few times, she forced herself to stop. Her feet were numb with cold as she struggled to stand. Gripping the tree branch, she began to limp forward, using it to sweep away the footprints she left in the snow.
At the edge of the forest was a rocky riverbank, now blanketed in white. The river had frozen solid, and her breath turned to mist in the frigid air. Her body had gone numb from the cold.
Everywhere she looked was the same—endless white.
Her embroidered shoes, with their thin soles, were soaked through by the snow, leaving her feet completely numb. Her lips were dry, and she felt utterly exhausted.
But suddenly, she heard a sound. Alert, she lifted her head.
In the distance, a figure clad in black appeared, their robes fluttering in the wind. The flexible blade in their hand gleamed, moving like a shooting star. The figure evaded projectiles from their pursuer with effortless agility before landing lightly on the frozen river.
The river was shrouded in mist, and from afar, Shang Rong could only make out two figures weaving back and forth, their weapons clashing with crisp, metallic sounds. However, the noise was faint by the time it reached her ears.
The snowstorm grew fiercer, and thick flakes fell like goose feathers. The swirling mist was momentarily swept aside by the wind, revealing only one figure standing on the river, sword in hand.
The ice beneath them had cracked open into a gaping hole.
A boy holding a blood-stained long sword stepped closer. Hanging from his waist was a small, intricate jade flask.
The cold mist swirled around him, blending into the pure white world. Snow clung to his shoulders. His inky-black robes contrasted sharply with his surroundings, and his narrow waist was cinched with a leather belt adorned with gleaming golden buckles. Even the metallic shimmer of the buckles seemed icy.
Casually, he bit the cork off the wine flask. Without much glance at Shang Rong, he began to walk past her, taking a swig of cold wine. His thick lashes lifted slightly as he paused abruptly, turning to look at her.
His fingers curled slightly around his sword hilt, and the murderous intent in his eyes flared without a word. But when their gazes locked, his attention shifted to the flask in his hand.
“Are you thirsty?” he asked.
Shang Rong nodded, her wide eyes fixed longingly on the wine flask.
The boy’s lips curved into a mischievous smile as he pointed his bloodied blade at the snow. “Why not eat some snow?”
Shang Rong stared at the blood droplets on the blade as they melted into the snow, leaving faint red streaks. She shook her head firmly. “It’s Dirty.”
Hearing this, the boy laughed, as if he had heard the most absurd joke. “And yet, you don’t think I’m dirty?”
Without waiting for her response, he tipped the flask to her lips, pouring a mouthful of fiery wine into her mouth.
Shang Rong coughed violently, her face turning bright red. Tears welled up in her eyes from the heat and the choking sensation, blurring her vision of the boy’s smug, wild grin.
Loosening her frozen fingers, she clumsily removed all the jewelry from her body—hairpins, bracelets, rings—and shoved them into his hands.
The boy blinked, glancing down at the sudden pile of gold and jade ornaments in his palm. Then he looked up at the girl before him.
Her fine silk dress was soaked and wrinkled from the snow, her nose was red from the cold, and her black eyes were teary. The faint blush from choking on the wine was fading from her otherwise pale, delicate face.
She looked pitiful, yet not entirely so. There was an innate dignity in her that even her bedraggled state could not erase.
“A sip of wine isn’t worth all of this,” he remarked, his interest piqued.
“I know,” Shang Rong replied, her voice soft but firm. Looking up at the boy, whose height made her crane her neck, she said, “I want to ask for your help.”
“And what is it that you want?”
Dusting the snow from his shoulder, his voice was low and enigmatic.
Amid the swirling snow and the biting cold, Shang Rong, nearly frozen to the bone, her gown billowing like clouds in the wind, replied seriously,
“I want you to kill me.”
T/N:- Hello Dear Readers, Please Let me know If you like this story or not and whether I should continue it. Thank you!!
