How many moments in a lifetime leave a deep, lasting mark — moments one never forgets?

Thinking it over, Xiao Nanhui felt there were actually very few.

She often hoped that among them there would be more beautiful, meaningful moments — but against her wishes, what people tend to carry with them for an entire lifetime was often the humiliating, painful, or even tragic memories.

So she put her hope in the slow flow of years — that time might wear away the passion and the grief, and render the emotions she had left behind small, even meaningless by comparison.

But she was so young. Some things, once they happened, were carved in place — and would not leave without first cutting through flesh and bone.

It is said that the finest warriors keep only a single weapon all their lives. Their soul seeps into the blade in their hand. With every movement, every breath, the two are bound together — until the day one of them falls or the steel rusts and snaps.

Xiao Nanhui had once dreamed of possessing such a weapon of her own — until the year she turned fourteen, on one ordinary evening, when Xiao Zhun walked up to her with Ping Xian in hand.

In that instant, the weight, the warmth, the hard and unyielding quality of the steel were branded into her memory as deeply as words chiseled into stone — and as the years passed they dissolved into her blood, as familiar as a part of her own body.

“This spear is called Ping Xian. It weighs seventeen jin and four liang, and is one zhang, one chi, and two cun in length. Forged from refined iron, inlaid with gold and silver filigree, with a mechanism inside.”

He ran his hand along the carvings on the shaft — and the not-yet-three-chi shaft expanded in an instant to three times its length, transforming from a short club into a deadly weapon.

Xiao Nanhui’s eyes reflected that flash of silver, and something in a corner of her heart lit up.

“In the world, a husband is the zither and a wife is the string. This spear was made for a woman’s use. The name Ping Xian is a metaphor — a declaration to the world that women, too, may take the field, that they are equal to men in every way. It is also a promise to you.”

He placed Ping Xian solemnly in her palms held high, as though he were setting down not an iron and bronze weapon, but a jade ruyi of the finest gold.

“I give this spear to you. May you from this day forward be upright and true, know when to bend and when to hold firm — and be as this spear is.”

She gripped the shaft with excitement for a long time, her voice trembling with emotion.

“Xiao Nanhui thanks her foster father!”

For a long while Xiao Zhun made no reply. Xiao Nanhui looked up anxiously and found him watching her with a complicated expression.

“From now on — whether you ride to war or roam the world — do not lightly reveal the name of the weapon in your hand.”

She thought it was because she was not skilled enough, or perhaps not yet worthy of wielding Ping Xian. A note of urgency entered her voice and she rose to her feet: “If foster father believes I would bring dishonor to it, Nan Hui can put it aside for now and wait until my technique has improved—”

“This spear was entrusted to me by an old friend. He did not wish others to know of it — it has nothing to do with you.”

“I see. Please rest assured, foster father — I will never speak of this in front of anyone.”

That young face, smoothed open again by his few words, carried the sharpness of a martial practitioner — yet even more than that, an unaffected sincerity. Hardness and gentleness had always coexisted in her without any contradiction.

Xiao Zhun gathered himself and turned away, hands clasped behind his back.

“From today, you are considered to have completed your training. Ping Xian is your graduation gift. I have nothing more to teach you.”

She was still incredulous at this sudden “graduation.” “But foster father has only taught me one set of spear forms—”

“A spear form is best when refined, not when many. The Xiao Family’s technique has only nineteen moves in total.”

She extended her ten young fingers and counted silently through the moves one by one, then looked up: “But I have only learned eighteen — there is still one more.”

Xiao Zhun said nothing, then suddenly caught up the white wax practice spear with its red tassel beside him and attacked her with it. The strike was fierce and powerful. She scrambled to meet it. The keen edge of Ping Xian became a shimmer of silver stars in her hands, thrilling her with exhilaration.

But Xiao Nanhui’s technique had all been taught to her by this man before her, and her footwork and force were no match for his — she was quickly overwhelmed.

Her guard broke. Ping Xian shook in her grip and in an instant flew out of her hands and clattered to the ground.

Xiao Zhun had been teaching her the spear for years, and the very first lesson had been how to hold one. Yet now she had not even managed to survive a single exchange — she had lost her grip on the weapon outright. The shock of it was followed by a wave of shame.

“Nan Hui’s martial training is inadequate. Please punish her, foster father.”

Xiao Zhun had expected this reaction, and his expression gradually softened.

“You are truly still a little time away from the highest tier — but just now, any other person would have fared the same.”

She found no real comfort in these words, and instead felt a stubborn refusal to concede defeat rise in her: “What is this move called? I’ve never seen it before.”

“This move is called Jie Sha — the Severing Strike.” Xiao Zhun drew the spear back neatly. “I only used five parts of my strength, and your spear is not an ordinary weapon. Otherwise—”

“Otherwise what would happen?”

“Otherwise the spear in your hand would have snapped at this move.”

She stared unblinking at that straight, clean shaft, and the humiliation of a moment ago swept clean away, replaced by an excitement so keen she could not even blink — her mind already full of how she would use this devastating move to pound the little brat Xu Shu into the ground.

“Foster father, teach me quickly — I want to learn this move.”

“What I know in my life, I have already taught you in its entirety. Only this last move — I cannot pass it on yet.”

“Why not?” She could not hide her disappointment; her voice was full of confusion.

“Because this is a rule left behind by our teachers.” Xiao Zhun drew her close, his gaze level with hers — and the light in his eyes was enough to inspire a dread that went straight to the heart. “If the day comes that the person who carries this spear technique does something unworthy of the Xiao Family’s art — then use this last move to destroy the weapon in their hands, and ensure they can never use it again to do harm.”

At the time she had been so young, so timid — and when she heard those words she was so frightened that she fell to her knees and performed the full bow of a disciple taking on a teacher.

“Foster father has taken me in, given me shelter and protection, and passed on his skills to me — Nan Hui could not repay this kindness even with ten thousand deaths. I would never dare act recklessly or willfully. If the day comes that Nan Hui does anything to wrong foster father or the Xiao Family, then let the heavens strike me down with five thunderbolts — let me die without peace—”

She flung herself into these self-cursing words, as though the more savage and vicious the oath she swore, the more the other person would believe she meant every word.

The final moments of that day on the practice grounds she could no longer clearly recall. It seemed Xiao Zhun had said many comforting things — or perhaps he had said nothing, and had simply sent Dujuan to stay with her.

She only remembered that after that day, she suffered from nightmares for months on end. In the dreams, Xiao Zhun’s face was always severe. He reproached her for something that had disappointed him beyond measure, then before her eyes snapped Ping Xian in two.

The primal fear buried in the heart of that young child was a fear of making mistakes — of losing all she possessed — of the day Xiao Zhun might stand on the opposite side from her and cleave away what little warmth existed between them.

Yet she had never — never — imagined that what she had feared in her childhood nightmares would actually come to pass, over ten years later, before her very eyes.

The night was quiet. Among the poplar and elm skeleton-woods, the shadow of the great Suibei camp flickered, yet not a lamp was lit. Since Tiancheng had broken through Sanmu Gate and pushed deep into Bijiang to annihilate the remnants of Bai Clan, Bai Heliu himself had still not been captured alive. Night raids by the Bai Clan forces kept coming, and the camp had been relocated repeatedly, until a temporary rule was established: after dark, no open flames were permitted anywhere outside the tents, to avoid revealing their position.

Now, after several campaigns of luring the enemy out, eliminating them, and relocating, the Suibei camp had at last settled here for a temporary stay. By the count, it had been three days.

Xiao, the Great General, had led ten thousand elite soldiers out of camp two days ago and returned only today, with several hundred Guangyao Camp light cavalry in his wake.

And then, only a few hours later, the Emperor’s carriage arrived under cover of darkness as well. Suibei camp had become a place where dragons and tigers lay coiled together, a place of the deepest turbulence — every person had to summon the utmost vigilance and composure to navigate it.

The cavalry that had returned to camp came and went throughout the grounds. No one spoke, yet the sound of disordered footsteps stirred everything up.

Xiao Nanhui had been crouching outside Xiao Zhun’s tent for a full shichen. At one point she had quietly lifted a corner of the felt flap, only to discover that Xiao Zhun had at some unknown moment hung a curtain inside, nearly the full height of a man, blocking her view entirely. She could only see the faint glow of candlelight filtering through — nothing else.

The attending physician went in and came out three or four times. Soldiers delivering dispatches came by as well. Still Xiao Zhun did not emerge from the tent. Her stomach had begun to grumble. She sighed, stretched her stiffened body, and was just preparing to leave and find something to eat when the felt flap of the tent was lifted without warning.

Xiao Nanhui looked with some bewilderment at the bloodshot eyes of Xiao Zhun, and rubbed her hands awkwardly: “I was just passing by — thought I’d come and have a look—”

That was a terrible opening.

They had not seen each other for months. The first thing she said upon their reunion was that she had been passing by.

“She just woke. Come in.”

Xiao Zhun exhaled, did not look at her again, and turned back inside the tent. She lingered on the spot for a moment, then followed him in.

Inside the large tent it was dim and dark, only that curtain glowing faintly with candlelight. Xiao Zhun pulled it aside. A single lamp was lit, revealing a low cot, on which lay a woman, hair loose and spread. She was dressed only in an inner robe. Her left hand was wrapped in gauze, still seeping with blood.

Wait — wasn’t this the same person from—

Xiao Nanhui could not yet collect her thoughts and stood on the spot, dazed.

Now that the grime had been wiped from her face, she saw what a beautiful person she was. Delicate, fine features set in a soft and rounded face — she appeared as though her bones were made of jade, her flesh shaped from water, pale and fragile, cold and still.

Without any particular cause, she glanced down at her own hands — roughened from years of gripping a spear — and felt a flush of heat rise in her face for reasons she herself could not explain.

“Nan Hui.”

Xiao Zhun was calling her. She looked up at once.

“Nan Hui, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Please speak, foster father.”

Xiao Zhun’s gaze flickered briefly to the woman, then returned. He exhaled a barely audible sigh. He rarely sighed — in all her years she had almost never seen Xiao Zhun sigh.

But just now, in that brief span, he had sighed twice.

“Her identity is unusual. From this moment, stay with her at every step and do not leave until someone comes to take over.”

She nodded quickly: “Understood.”

Xiao Zhun passed her a bowl of medicine, still steaming. “This was just brewed. Make sure she drinks it while it’s warm — not a drop to be left.”

She took the bowl, then immediately noticed several unmistakable bite marks on the back and wrist of Xiao Zhun’s hand. She looked sharply toward the woman on the cot, and the fury in her eyes was impossible to contain.

But the woman on the cot looked only indifferent. Her gaze had no focus — it was as though she could not see any of the people in this tent.

After consecutive battles followed by an overnight march into Bijiang, Xiao Zhun rubbed at the crease between his brows, and that deep furrow reappeared. “His Majesty only returned to camp after dark. I have not yet gone to report on the events of the day — if anything urgent arises, send someone to call me.”

Xiao Nanhui said nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on the marks on Xiao Zhun’s hand, as though she had forgotten how to blink.

Xiao Zhun, hearing no response for a long time, opened his eyes: “What is it? Is there anything else?”

Who is she?

Do you know her?

Why do you treat her so well?

Xiao Nanhui’s eyelashes trembled faintly, but in the end she moved her gaze away, and gave a slight shake of her head: “Nothing.”

Xiao Zhun was utterly exhausted and said no more, turning to leave the tent.

The moment the thick felt flap fell back into place, she brought the medicine bowl down hard on the table. The bowl let out a loud crash — “bang” — startling the beauty on the cot who had shown no reaction to anything.

“My temper is not good. Are you drinking this yourself, or am I helping you drink it?”

Another brief silence fell inside the large tent. After a moment, a cool, clear female voice rang out.

“I’m not drinking.”

Xiao Nanhui said nothing, picked up the bowl, and marched toward the cot with a fierce air.

The woman on the cot saw her coming with the look of a malevolent spirit and trembled slightly — but she had backbone, at least, and sat there stubbornly with her head lowered, saying nothing.

Hardening her heart, Xiao Nanhui moved like lightning, pinched the woman’s jaw in one hand, and with a single exertion pried that mouth open.

The woman cried out in pain, both hands fighting back frantically.

She clamped both legs over the woman’s arms to pin them, raised the medicine bowl with the other hand, and prepared to force-feed every drop no matter what it took.

But just as the bowl touched the woman’s lips, she felt something warm against her hand.

She looked up.

She was crying.

Those eyes, carrying a certain pride, were filled with tears. The lashes trembled as she fought the urge to blink, afraid that if she did the large drops would spill and betray her.

Xiao Nanhui was the kind of person who responded to softness and resisted force — and from childhood to now she had never been able to bear watching anyone cry. Especially a girl. She had never had many delicate young women around her growing up — Bolao and Dujuan were not people who cried easily, and even Dai Yi rarely gave way to grief. Now that she had actually encountered one, she was genuinely at a loss.

She felt somewhat exasperated: “What are you crying for? It’s just medicine — no one’s trying to take your life.”

The woman bit her lip, struggled for a moment to control herself, and said in a hoarse voice: “It’s just a matter of sooner or later regardless. In the end I’m going to be tortured and killed anyway — what’s the point of taking medicine now?”

Xiao Nanhui laughed in spite of herself, her voice rising: “Torture you and kill you? If he wanted to harm you, why would he save you? Why would he block my spear? Why would he put you in his own tent and refuse to let anyone so much as glance at you?”

The woman paid no attention to her anger, and instead looked at her steadily. Then, after a moment, she spoke: “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Xiao Nanhui let out a dismissive snort. In her mind she thought: You could be the Jade Emperor himself and it would make no difference.

“My surname is Bai.”

Xiao Nanhui’s heart gave a sharp thud.

“My surname is Bai. My name is Bai Yun. My father’s name is Bai Heliu.”

The bowl in Xiao Nanhui’s hand nearly shattered, and the medicine spilled out, running all over her hand.

In the thirty-ninth year of Tiancheng’s Suiyuan reign, in the third month, the Emperor took the imperial consorts, civil and military officials, and the children of noble families to the northern outskirts of the capital for the customary spring hunt, personally presiding over the new Yueze Army and reviewing the elite Guangyao forces.

Taking advantage of the capital’s emptiness, the former Imperial Censor Bai Heliu stole the military command seal and raised troops in rebellion — only to be repelled by the defensive forces of the Heiyu combined camp. His eldest son Bai Chong and second son Bai Hun led the rebel army in slaughtering more than a thousand Suibei garrison troops. The entire household of Prince Shuo Xiao Qing was massacred. The Bai Clan then fled with its family to Bijiang, taking with them the newly organized Yueze Army of one hundred thousand men. This event came to be known in history as the Yu’an Rebellion.