Compared to the sweeping reforms that had accompanied the Feng Kingdom’s new ruler ascending the throne, the situation in the Feng State was stable and calm. Beyond a handful of elderly ministers of middling rank who had submitted their resignations, there had been little change among the Feng State’s court officials. Every day, the Zhaoming Hall remained full of capable and talented people, and after the new king’s accession, he had bestowed rewards upon his ministers and issued a general amnesty throughout the kingdom — so the subjects of the entire nation were full of gratitude toward the new king and devoted to him with wholehearted loyalty.

The Marquis of Xun’an raised his head and looked up at the Jitian Palace before him. This palace had been the residence of the founding ancestor, the “Ink-Snow Orchid King” Feng Ji, in his later years, and had therefore been built with particular serenity and elegance. After successive generations of additions and expansions by each ruler, the Jitian Palace was now a match in scale for the Huangji Palace. After the new king’s accession, for reasons no one quite understood, he had not moved into the Huangji Palace where every ruler before him had resided, but had instead moved into this one. As for the Huangji Palace — it was said the new king intended to convert it into an orchid garden. Were there truly not enough orchid flowers already in the Feng State?

The thoughts of this man were growing ever more difficult to fathom. Without realizing it, the Marquis raised a hand and rubbed the space between his brows, quietly exhaling a sigh. Perhaps he was truly getting old. It was about time.

He lifted his foot and stepped through the palace gates. Before a word of announcement could be made, he saw Qi Yuan, the chief steward of internal affairs, hurrying forward to meet him.

“My Lord Marquis, the King is in the Eastern Hall.” Qi Yuan gave a respectful and courteous bow to the Marquis of Xun’an.

“My thanks, Chief Steward Qi.” The Marquis of Xun’an returned the greeting with a slight clasping of his hands.

“My Lord, you will undo me with such courtesy!” Qi Yuan hastily bowed and stepped aside.

Having navigated the palace for decades, Qi Yuan had long since trained himself a perceptive eye for people. This Marquis of Xun’an was the late king’s younger brother from the same mother — a status incomparable to that of any other royal relative. The late king, a man of such cold detachment and solitary decisiveness, had singled him out for closeness and maintained that favor without diminishment for decades. The new king, barely on the throne, had already called him in for private audiences on multiple occasions. Of all the royal relatives and ministers in the entire court, only he enjoyed such distinction. So — however mild and uninvolved this elderly Marquis might appear on the surface, deep in his bones, he was the most clever and astute of men.

“Please lead the way, Chief Steward.” The Marquis of Xun’an wore on his face that mild and disarming faint smile unique to the Feng family.

“This way, my Lord Marquis.” Qi Yuan turned promptly and led the way ahead.

The two of them had barely rounded the front gate when they saw the four Mo Yu generals and the military advisor Ren Chuanyu walking toward them.

“Our respects, my Lord Marquis!” The group offered their salutations to the Marquis one after another.

“No need for such formality, all of you.” The Marquis raised a hand slightly and swept his gaze across each of them in turn. Apart from Ren Chuanyun, whose face betrayed a trace of excitement, the rest were all composed in bearing and steady in expression. So young, yet each carrying the manner of someone of great stature — that person’s ability to choose and employ men was truly something else.

“The King is waiting for the Marquis. We will take our leave first.” Qiao Jin, leader of the four Mo Yu generals, gave a slight bow.

“Please, by all means.” The Marquis gave a small wave of his hand, then watched as the group departed. His gaze lingered at the end on Ren Chuanyu, who walked at the very back. His brow tightened in a barely perceptible furrow — then smoothed back to its usual composure.

“My Lord Marquis, the King is still waiting for you.” Qi Yuan beside him gently reminded him.

“Mm.” The Marquis of Xun’an’s expression remained unchanged as he turned and made his way toward the Eastern Hall.

When they reached the gates of the Eastern Hall, Qi Yuan gently pushed the doors open, turned his head, and said: “Please enter, my Lord Marquis.”

The Marquis of Xun’an gave a mild nod, then stepped into the great hall. The doors eased shut behind him. Sunlight stopped at the threshold. Crystal lamp stands lined all four walls, their facets scattering radiant brilliance — like the blazing sun outside — casting the interior in a flood of light.

Before the tall royal throne sat the Xi King, refined and graceful. The long, wide table before the throne was heaped with neat stacks of memorials alongside somewhat more scattered sheets of paper, bamboo slips, and silk documents. The Xi King’s gaze rested on the wall to the left, where a map of about one zhang square was hung — a topographical map of the Dong Chao empire.

“Your minister pays his respects to the Great King.”

“Please rise, Royal Uncle.” Lanxi stepped down from the throne and with his own hands helped his uncle to his feet. “There are no outsiders here. Between family, there is no need for such empty formalities.”

“Your minister is grateful for your grace, Great King.” The Marquis of Xun’an rose and offered his thanks, yet still kept his head slightly lowered, his gaze resting on the ground three inches before his feet. “I do not know what matter the King has summoned your elderly minister to discuss?”

“Bring a seat.” Lanxi replied instead of answering, giving the quiet instruction. A palace attendant at once brought over a chair.

“My thanks to the King.” The Marquis of Xun’an made no show of false modesty and settled comfortably into the seat.

The attendants withdrew silently to one side. A brief moment of stillness settled over the hall.

Lanxi looked quietly at his royal uncle seated before him. For as long as he could remember, this uncle had done everything with “modest merit and no missteps,” and conducted himself with “just the right measure.” Over so many years, the late king had dealt with any number of ministers and royal relatives — and there had been those among them who had enjoyed tremendous trust and favor — yet only this royal uncle had always remained securely ensconced in his high position.

The Marquis of Xun’an sat in apparent tranquility, eyes lowered toward his nose and thoughts seemingly turned inward — yet his mind was working quietly, turning over the question of when the most appropriate moment might be to present the memorial tucked in his sleeve.

“Read the edict.” Lanxi’s voice rose suddenly, utterly light and mild, yet in the broad expanse of the great hall it rang with unmistakable clarity.

“As you command.” The attendant waiting to one side stepped forward at once, unrolled the edict in hand, and announced: “Let Feng Ning, Marquis of Xun’an, receive the royal command!”

The Marquis of Xun’an was taken aback. Not a word had yet been exchanged — how had they already arrived at the reading of an edict? What could this edict possibly contain? His mind raced through these thoughts, yet his body had already risen and fallen to his knees.

“As the realm is presently plagued by unceasing war and endless calamity, sovereigns cannot secure their kingdoms and the people cannot secure their homes. Having received the Emperor’s grace across generations, I am duty-bound to repay it. Therefore I am resolved to commit the full strength of this nation — to strike down treacherous ministers and bring peace to the sovereign’s side, to sweep away rebel forces and restore security to the people’s lives. Though the blade’s edge is cold and the road ahead is strewn with thorns, so long as the nine provinces are brought to peace, I would gladly lay down even my very life in gladness. Therefore: a nation cannot be without a ruler for even a single day. Upon the day of my departure from the kingdom, I entrust the kingdom to my Royal Uncle, the Marquis of Xun’an, to oversee all affairs of state, with all officials under his command.”

What? How had things come to this? The kneeling Marquis of Xun’an jerked his head up in an instant, not sparing a thought for the look of complete astonishment that must be written plainly across his face for all to see. He only wanted to know — why had it turned out like this?!

According to his own careful plan, his royal nephew — the King — would have exchanged a few pleasantries with him, asked after his health, inquired about those cousins of his, and then offhandedly touched on court matters. And he, in turn, could have answered while coughing every so often to suggest the frailty of old age and illness, and when answering he would have made sure to muddle his words — forgetting what he had just said, losing the thread of his thoughts, and repeating himself — to convey the impression of an old man grown addled and confused. By that point, the King would have either given a few perfunctory words of dismissal out of barely concealed impatience, or offered a few sympathetic words of consolation. And he, alternating between self-reproach and self-pity, would have murmured a few more confused-sounding words, coaxed a few more reassuring phrases from the King — and then he could have produced, with every appearance of justification, the resignation letter he had been keeping warm against his body in his sleeve, shed a few tears that would seem to brim with no small amount of reluctant attachment, and at last returned to his Marquis of Xun’an residence with the King’s approval and whatever rewards were given — to spend his remaining years in peaceful retirement, bouncing grandchildren on his knee. And then every storm and flurry that came after would have had nothing to do with him whatsoever.

But instead… instead, why had it begun with a royal edict descending on his head out of nowhere? A royal command — something it was impossible to decline or gracefully refuse!

“Marquis of Xun’an, will you not accept the edict and offer your thanks?” The sharp, high-pitched voice of the attendant rang out, jolting this Marquis who appeared to have been struck senseless by the magnitude of this tremendous royal honor.

He wondered privately whether feigning a faint right now might possibly allow him to slip out of this… The Marquis of Xun’an carefully, carefully raised his eyes and stole a look at the royal nephew seated on the throne — but the moment his gaze met those dark jade eyes, a thunderous boom seemed to sound in his chest, and cold sweat broke out along his spine. Ah… unless he truly died at this very instant, even if he deployed all thirty-six stratagems and every one of the seventy-two transformations, none of it could deceive the man seated up there.

“Your minister receives the edict and offers his gratitude!” The Marquis of Xun’an at last reached out and accepted the edict, casting a look of resigned acceptance at the figure on the throne.

“Royal Uncle, you will have to give much of your care and attention from now on. I am entrusting this Feng State to you.” The corners of Lanxi’s lips curved upward in a flawlessly refined smile. His dark jade eyes gleamed as they looked at his royal uncle, who — no longer concerned with observing too many formalities — had sat himself unceremoniously back in the chair. Well then… succeeding in outmaneuvering this slippery old fox of his did give one a real sense of accomplishment.

“Your minister shall give everything, and spare nothing, in repayment of the King’s grace and trust!” The Marquis of Xun’an spoke with his head deeply bowed, in an attitude of utmost deference — yet to a discerning ear, it rang with a note of extreme reluctance.

“With those words from Royal Uncle, I am at ease.” Lanxi smiled as though entirely without a care, his dark eyes shifting, and then he continued in a mild tone: “There is one more matter for which I asked Royal Uncle to come today.”

“Please give your command.” The Marquis of Xun’an replied with his gaze lowered. He had no idea what other thankless burden was about to be left in his hands.

“Ever since Feng Wei learned that I was about to march to war, he has come to the palace every single day to pester me, demanding to be taken along.” Lanxi’s gaze passed over the Marquis of Xun’an with what seemed like idle curiosity, his fingertips tapping lightly against the arm of the throne. “Feng Wei has remarkable natural aptitude, and I have always intended to cultivate him properly. It is only that… Royal Uncle is well aware — blades on a battlefield have no eyes, and a single moment’s carelessness can bring injury or death. Young Brother Wei is the youngest son you love most dearly, so I ask that Royal Uncle find a way to persuade him otherwise.”

The Marquis of Xun’an paused — and then slowly rose from the chair. With his head bowed in a respectful posture, he said: “The affairs of the King are the affairs of the minister. The King himself does not fear the dangers of war and leads his armies personally into battle — how much less should a minister’s son? Moreover, to have the King personally instruct him — this is Feng Wei’s good fortune. How could your minister stand in the way? If Feng Wei wishes to follow at the King’s side, I would ask the King to grant this, and allow him to render what small service he can.”

“Is that so?” Lanxi smiled faintly, raised a hand to lightly prop his chin, and regarded the Marquis of Xun’an with a mild and steady expression. “Does Royal Uncle not fear for his safety? You should know — on a battlefield, dry bones pile high.”

The Marquis of Xun’an lifted his eyes to look at Lanxi. Both wore expressions of serene composure, their gazes perfectly undisturbed. “Life and death are matters of fate, and wealth and honor rest with heaven. Moreover, Feng Wei will be following the King — he will naturally be sheltered by the King’s own fortune. If anything truly were to happen, it would be his dying in loyal service to the King — and that would be your old minister’s honor.”

“Is that so?” Lanxi’s gaze moved away from the Marquis’s face and settled on the hand gripping the royal edict — the knuckles had turned white, and the veins stood out prominently beneath the skin. “It seems Royal Uncle has consented to allow Feng Wei to march to war with me. For a royal relative to possess such loyalty — how could I in good conscience refuse to honor it? I ask Royal Uncle to rest easy then. I have always thought of Feng Wei as a blood brother of my own. As long as I am here, he will be safe and unharmed.”

“Your minister is grateful for the King’s grace!” The Marquis of Xun’an bowed in salute.

“The Feng State remaining safe and unharmed is the greatest repayment Royal Uncle could offer me.” Lanxi rose from the throne, helped the Marquis of Xun’an to his feet, and gave the hand clutching the edict a gentle pat.

“Your minister will not fail what the King has entrusted!” The Marquis of Xun’an gave an involuntary start. His hand reflexively loosened its grip on the edict — nearly letting it fall to the ground — and he hastily seized it again. But in that moment of loosening and re-gripping, he could not help but laugh bitterly to himself. Sure enough, there was truly no escaping the eyes of this man.

“That is good.” Lanxi smiled lightly. “That is all I had to say. If Royal Uncle has no other matters, please return to the residence and rest.”

“Your minister takes his leave.” The Marquis of Xun’an bowed and withdrew.

The hall doors opened and eased gently shut again. The attendants withdrew at a wave of the King’s hand. In the broad expanse of the great hall, only Lanxi remained. The dazzling luminescence of the precious pearls continued to scatter their light, as though showing off their splendor to the coiling dragons and vermilion phoenixes carved upon the hall’s pillars.

“Truly a family of the same blood — every single one of them with nine apertures in the heart and nine bends in the gut.” From behind the densely threaded bead curtain on the side of the hall came a voice carrying a faint note of mockery. The curtain was drawn aside, and Xiyun stepped out in a white royal robe.

“This royal uncle of mine is an exceptionally intelligent man. Even the late king gave him a measure of deference.” Lanxi glanced at Xiyun, then walked toward the wall and stood before the map hanging there.

“You seem not entirely at ease with him?” Xiyun looked at him and said.

“Do I?” Lanxi turned to look at her, his eyes blinking once. “I have entrusted the entire Feng State to him. Is that not trust enough?”

“Hmph.” Xiyun gave a soft derisive sound, a faint, sardonic smile on her face. “Don’t try that with me. If you truly trusted him, why bring Feng Wei along at your side? If he truly wanted to rebel, would a single hostage be of any use at all?”

Lanxi gave not the slightest concern to Xiyun’s mockery, and smiled lightly. After a moment of quiet deliberation he said: “In your Feng Kingdom, throughout the generations, there has always been only a single heir. For certain of those heirs, the throne has not been a symbol of power and glory — but rather a burden one cannot escape.” He clasped his hands behind his back, turned, and gazed up at the tall royal throne. “But here in our Feng State, every single generation has fought to the death over this one royal seat, shattering skulls and spilling blood.”

He turned his head and looked at Xiyun. That mild smile remained on his face as before, yet those dark eyes gleamed like cold stars. “Royal Uncle has no treacherous intentions now. But… once I am gone, this entire Feng State will be placed entirely in his hands. As the days pass, sitting entrenched in high position, that feeling of holding life and death, of commanding tens of thousands of subjects — it is difficult to avoid letting it go to one’s head, making one forget oneself, making one grow dangerously attached. My keeping Feng Wei close is simply a reminder — a way of ensuring he remembers at all times who the true master of this Feng State is. So that he does not lose himself, and so that he does not… fall into irredeemable ruin.”

“And besides…” Lanxi paused slightly, then raised his head to look at the map on the wall. “Feng Wei truly is a talent worth developing. It has always been my intention to nurture him.”

Xiyun shook her head at those words and let out a long sigh: “In all this world, there may not be a single person you truly trust.”

Lanxi looked at her at those words. After a moment he said: “As for complete trust… the kind where one could entrust another with one’s very life… such a person is… genuinely difficult to find.”

In the seventh month of the eighteenth year of Ren, the Xi King and the Feng King, citing the cause of “striking down treacherous ministers and rebel forces,” dispatched an army of two hundred and fifty thousand troops to attack the Bai Kingdom — which had “repeatedly offended the Emperor’s dignity.”

That same month, the Imperial King, citing the cause of “ending the age of chaos and cleansing the realm,” gathered a combined Imperial-Hua army of three hundred thousand, divided into two columns, and launched simultaneous attacks against Wangyu and the Nan Kingdom.

The Wind-Cloud Cavalry and the Mo Yu Cavalry lived up to their formidable reputations. Advancing with the force of splitting bamboo, they captured four cities of the Bai Kingdom in under a month, driving straight toward the last line of defense protecting the Bai Kingdom’s capital — Ding City.

At the same time, the combined Imperial-Hua army was also winning battle after battle. The Hua Kingdom’s Golden Robes Army, led by the three young masters of the Hua Kingdom alongside the Imperial Kingdom’s “Frost and Snow” twin generals, captured two cities in Wangyu within a single month. The great conquering army personally led by Huang Chao swept through like an army entering undefended land, capturing three cities of the Nan Kingdom within a single month.

The tenth day of the eighth month. Mid-Autumn was drawing near. The moon was growing rounder, and the fragrance of flowers was already in the air.

Tai City, now occupied by the Imperial Kingdom — under the cover of night, the shallow wounds scorched by the fires of war had vanished completely from sight. The city was still the city it had been. Its people had dwindled in some ways and grown in others. It stood quietly, and only the occasional glint of a blade caught in the lamplight could remind one that this city had once fallen — and that what now flew from its towers was the violet flame banner.

Standing on the city tower, tilting his face up toward the night sky — that bright moon seemed to hang just overhead, close enough to cup in one’s palms. Only the fact that it was not yet perfectly full left one with a faint, lingering sense of incompleteness. But the few scattered, faint stars beside it were somehow more captivating — one feared that unable to bear the brilliance of the moonlight, they might hide themselves away in embarrassed retreat.

“Wuyuan, do you think that snow person is truly very beautiful?” On the city tower, Huang Yu — clad in golden armor with a long sword at his waist — asked the ever-white-robed Yu Wuyuan at his side.

“You mean Xuekong?” Yu Wuyuan’s gaze remained fixed on the bright moon overhead as he replied offhandedly. “Snow-pure and ethereally clear — of course he is beautiful.”

“Then do you think… all those women who see him would fall for him?” Huang Yu asked again, his palm tightening slightly around the hilt of his sword.

Yu Wuyuan heard the question and couldn’t help but turn to look at him. His eyes seemed to have gathered all the moonlight, brilliant and luminous.

“Hey, I’m asking you — why are you looking at me like that?” Huang Yu felt deeply uncomfortable under that gaze, as though he were being seen right through.

Yu Wuyuan smiled faintly and said: “Huang Yu, you’re worried that Jiushuang might fall for Xuekong, aren’t you?”

“Of course not!” Huang Yu shot back reflexively. “That ugly woman — why should I care who she falls for? What does it have to do with me?!”

“Rest easy. Jiushuang will not fall for Xuekong.” Yu Wuyuan paid no attention to his outburst and continued to smile gently.

“I said I don’t care — didn’t you hear me?!” Huang Yu cried out again, not bothering to care whether the sentries on the city tower might overhear.

“Jiushuang is one of the rare remarkable women of this world. Many people are fond of her.” Yu Wuyuan turned his eyes back toward the luminous moon in the night sky. “Though this moon has its slight imperfection, it does nothing to diminish its radiance. Crystal-bright as frost, proudly spilling over the world of mortal life — it remains what all people long for and admire.”

“What are you talking about… that woman — she has no figure, no beauty, no refinement… Her speech is coarse, her manner rough, not the least bit like a woman. Who would have such poor taste as to like her!” Huang Yu went on arguing regardless, though by the end his voice had dropped lower and lower, until he seemed to be muttering only to himself.

“To be able to like her — now that takes a truly extraordinary eye.” Yu Wuyuan at last lowered his gaze and raised his palm slightly. In the moonlight, that hand gleamed with a jade-like luminosity — at a glance one might have thought it was translucent white jade, the ten fingers long and graceful, perfect to the point of dazzling. But in an instant, the hand returned to its normal appearance — only somewhat more pale than that of an ordinary person.

Huang Yu had not noticed Yu Wuyuan’s hand. His gaze had settled on the bright moon overhead — slightly imperfect as it was. He stared at it for a long time, and seemed to arrive at a resigned acceptance of the fact that no matter how long he looked, the moon would not suddenly become perfectly round. He let out a heavy sigh. “Ah… at least having a truly extraordinary eye isn’t a bad thing.”

Yu Wuyuan looked at him with what seemed like a mixture of amusement and a faint wistfulness, and patted his shoulder. “Did she and Xuekong not make a wager with you? About who would be the first to reach Changmang Shan.”

“Of course it will be me — and the Royal Brother!” Huang Yu burst out, then caught himself and made a small correction.

“Mm.” Yu Wuyuan looked out ahead. In the deep darkness of the night, everything ahead was a wash of blur. Even with the bright moon high overhead, beyond ten paces all was dim and dark. “At the summit of Changmang Shan… Huang Chao will get there.”

“Of course the Royal Brother will reach the summit of Changmang Shan!” Huang Yu said without a moment’s thought. He looked at this man before him — untouched by the dust of the world, like an immortal descended from the moonlight — and felt a flicker of puzzlement. “Wuyuan, is there someone you like?”

“Someone I like?” Yu Wuyuan turned to glance at him, and smiled with warmth. “I like all people.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Huang Yu shook his head and pointed at the other man’s chest. “I mean someone in your heart!”

“Someone in my heart?” Yu Wuyuan paused. A moment later, a faint smile settled on his lips — but the smile was blurred, like the night itself. Those eyes, which had gathered all the brilliance of the moonlight, now dimmed, drawing all their radiance inward. His head tilted slightly downward. A strand of hair fell loose, half-veiling one side of his face… White robes like snow. Hair black as ink. In that moment, he was desolate and solitary — like a wandering soul adrift in the depths of night — and no longer the otherworldly immortal descended from the moon.

“Wuyuan…” Huang Yu reached out a hand, wanting to tug at his sleeve — but for some reason, the hand fell back to his side. He wanted to call to him, yet did not know what to say. He only knew that he had never seen this side of Yu Wuyuan before — as though he himself had taken up a knife and wounded him, sending him plunging from a carefree existence in the nine heavens down into this helpless mortal world.

“The people of the Yu family have no heart — and with no heart, how can one receive another’s?” That voice rose clearly, calmly. The man raised his face toward the sky. The strand of hair fell back behind him. That face was without expression and undisturbed.

“Without a heart, how could a person still be alive — wouldn’t they have died long ago?” Huang Yu murmured at those words, almost without thinking.

Hearing this, Yu Wuyuan couldn’t help but turn to look at him. He studied the person before him — seemingly naive, yet seemingly perceptive — and after a long moment said, in a mild tone: “Perhaps.”

“What kind of thing is that to say!” Huang Yu’s eyes rolled at that. “You’re clearly alive!” He reached out and took hold of the other man’s shoulder. This body was warm. “Your Yu family prides itself on being ‘Tianren’ — are you truly supposed to cast aside all love and hatred, all joy and sorrow in this world, and cultivate yourselves into the realm of Tianren, desiring nothing, seeking nothing? Or is it to abandon all personal affection and love, so as to nurture all the people of the world with a benevolent heart? The people of the Yu family… this is too… well… admirable, don’t you think?!” His mouth said these words, but his heart was far from convinced.

“Tianren… the Yu family, wise beyond all others in the world… Tianren…”

Yu Wuyuan murmured it softly, as though speaking to himself, or as though giving voice to words meant for the ancient wandering souls of distant ages. He raised a hand to cover his eyes and said no more. In the moonlight, that upturned face was as pure and beautiful as white jade, and the corner of his lips curved in a faint smile — yet that smile was more heartbreaking, more piercing, than any cry of grief.

In that moment, something seemed to lodge in Huang Yu’s chest, making it impossible to breathe. His eyes stung and burned, and he found himself overwhelmed by an urge to weep — though he had no idea why he should want to weep. The person before him wore robes white as snow, graceful and otherworldly — the very image of someone all the world should long for and admire. Yet looking at him, Huang Yu only wanted to cry.

Many years later, Huang Yu would still be unable to forget Yu Wuyuan on this particular night — would still find himself thinking of that one smile. A smile that seemed to carry a thousand thousand years of loneliness and ten thousand thousand years of sorrow, yet still kept itself light and cloudlike, as though none of it mattered. No matter how many years went by, that smile always struck him with a weight of heartache impossible to put into words. And whenever that happened, he would always pull the person he loved close without any explanation and say: “In truth, we ordinary mortals are far more fortunate than any ‘Tianren’ could ever be.”

In the Bai Kingdom’s capital city, tonight was Mid-Autumn. A luminous moon hung in the sky above, its pale light pouring down like silver gauze, bathing heaven and earth in a soft, white radiance. Shadows of osmanthus trees swayed gently, and faint fragrance drifted through the air. In a scene such as this, families ought to have gathered in celebration, or friends come together in merry drinking — yet across the entire Bai Capital there was little laughter to be found. After bowing to the moon and offering prayers, no one could summon the spirit for lighthearted conversation. Every heart was weighted with the same anxious question: had Ding City, out on the front line, been broken through by the Wind-Mo combined army?

The Bai Kingdom’s royal palace. The Yi Dan Palace.

In the great hall, only the Bai King remained. He stood in the center of the hall, hands clasped behind his back, gazing in silence at the portraits of the Bai clan’s rulers throughout the generations that hung within this hall — gazing at the jade annals beside each portrait recording the achievements of ancestors through the ages. After a long while, he seemed to have grown weary of looking. The Bai King closed his eyes.

A very soft sound of a door being pushed open came from the entrance. The Bai King, eyes still closed, opened them all the same.

“Langhua, you are disobedient again.” The Bai King’s words carried the tone of a reprimand, yet his voice was threaded through with a kind of doting indulgence.

“Father King, why are you sitting here alone?” A young girl in fire-red palace robes strode into the hall with large, energetic steps, as though a burst of scarlet sunrise had come flooding in. A breath of vitality entered the silent Yi Dan Palace along with her. “You have cancelled this year’s annual autumn banquet. Are you worried the Feng State army will break through Ding City? Even so, don’t just sit here — you’d be better off personally leading troops to Ding City and fighting the Feng army to a decisive battle! These ancestors have all turned to ash long ago. No matter how much you implore them, they won’t be able to come back to life and help you drive off the enemy!”

“Langhua, be respectful!” The Bai King scolded — though clearly with little real effect, and in truth he had no heart to be severe with his beloved daughter.

“I’m only saying the truth. What use is it to pray to these ancestors of yours — can it be they truly have divine power and are secretly aiding the Bai Kingdom right now?!” The young girl’s voice rang like silver bells struck against each other — entirely pleasing to the ear — and she spoke without the slightest hesitation.

The young girl was petite and dainty in figure, with long, elegantly arched brows like new crescent moons, bright and lively almond-shaped eyes, a delicately upturned nose, and small, cherry-colored lips. Her complexion was immaculately fair and tender, and set off by the fire-red silk of her garments, that snow-pale skin held a faint, translucent blush — more than worthy of her name “Langhua.” She was like a snow-white blossom blooming amid crimson clouds, beautiful enough to entrance the heart and beguile the eye. This was none other than the Bai King’s most beloved daughter, Princess Langhua — Bai Langhua.

“Langhua.” The Bai King shook his head with mild helplessness. When it came to this most cherished of daughters, he had never been able to bring himself to be truly stern. “Why aren’t you back in your chambers resting — what are you doing coming here?”

“Tonight the moon is so beautiful, and yet no one in the palace is enjoying it — everyone looks so worried and downcast, it’s dreary to look at!” Langhua pursed her lips. “Father King, our Bai Kingdom has an army of several hundred thousand soldiers — what is there to fear from the Feng State? Stop beseeching these ancestors, and instead send your daughter to Ding City. Your daughter will make the Feng army retreat!”

“This child of mine…” The Bai King couldn’t help but let out a short laugh at those words. Looking at his beloved daughter’s expression of eager, barely-contained enthusiasm, he was both fond and somewhat exasperated. “Truly a newborn calf with no fear of the tiger! You’re a girl — what do you know of the art of commanding troops? Stop talking nonsense!”

“Father King, how can you look down on your daughter!” Langhua took hold of the Bai King’s arm and hung half her weight on it, refusing to let go. “Though your daughter is a woman, I have trained in blade skills and archery since childhood and have read widely in the military texts, and I am confident I would be no worse than any of my brothers! And besides, what of it that I am a woman? Xiyun, princess of the Feng Kingdom, and Qiu Jiushuang, the Frost General of the Imperial Kingdom — are they not both women? Yet they are renowned generals whose names have spread throughout the realm!”

“Good, good, good — my Langhua is also very fine.” The Bai King fondly patted his daughter.

“Father King, you still don’t think much of your daughter!” Langhua, sharp as ice and bright as snow, could easily see through the Bai King’s perfunctory manner. She reached out with both hands, grabbed the Bai King by his beard, and refused to give up. “Father King — just send your daughter to lead troops to Ding City! Your daughter will absolutely not disappoint you!”

“Langhua, stop your nonsense!” The Bai King pulled his daughter’s hands away and, with rare seriousness, straightened his expression. “Do you think the battle of Ding City is like the games of house you played as a child? That is a battlefield! A field of carnage where a single blink can cost you your life!”

“Father King…” Langhua would not relent and looked about to say more, but the Bai King cut her off with a wave of his hand.

“Go back and rest!” The Bai King said, simply and plainly, his face stern.

Langhua looked at her father’s expression and knew that no matter what else she said it would be futile. A surge of frustration rose in her chest. She tossed her head and turned to leave. “Fine, I’ll go! I’m furious — tomorrow I won’t eat!”

The Bai King watched his beloved daughter storm out of the great hall and heard her willful parting words, and could not help but shake his head with a helpless laugh. But the smile had barely spread before thoughts of the battle ahead returned, and that brow of his knotted once again.

And Langhua, who had stormed out of the great hall, stamped her feet against the green stone floor with every step, as though she intended to pound a great hole straight through it. But no matter how hard she stamped until her soles throbbed and ached, the stone floor remained the stone floor. It did not turn to stone powder simply because she was Princess Langhua. So she reached out her hands and yanked furiously at the flowers and plants along both sides of the path, tearing at them one by one and hurling them aside. All along the way she walked, she left a trail of torn blossoms in her wake.

This was too much! Father King always refused to trust her! All her brothers had been sent off to lead troops — two had gone to Ding City, four had gone to Wangyu — and she alone had been confined to this deep palace, spending every day keeping those consorts of her father’s company over tea and chess. Utterly, completely, unbearably dull! If only she could be allowed to lead troops, she, Princess Langhua, would absolutely not lose to that Xiyun princess of the Feng Kingdom! The very thought of that Xiyun princess and that Chunran princess made Langhua’s chest tighten even further with irritation.

To think — she, Bai Langhua, had been adorably striking since childhood. As she grew a little older, her features became all the more lovely and unrivaled in beauty. When she was ten years old, at the grand wedding ceremony of the Young Master — her brother — she had performed a dance on the Langgan Stage that entranced tens of thousands of subjects and ministers, earning her the title of “Flower of the Langgan Stage.” In another year or two she would certainly grow even more beautiful, until she became the peerless “Langgan Flower” of the entire Dong Chao empire… And yet — the Hua Kingdom’s Hua King, wishing to celebrate his beloved daughter Princess Chunran’s birthday, had held some kind of peony flower banquet, inviting all the royal nobility and aristocrats of the entire Dong Chao to attend. And there Princess Chunran had made a brief appearance at the banquet, and had caused everyone present to marvel at her as though she were a divine being, with people saying things like even a peony fairy couldn’t compare to one-third of her beauty — and so on and so forth. From that point on, the people of the entire Dong Chao had privately (without her consent) proclaimed that Princess Chunran the first beauty under heaven, and forgotten entirely about her, the Langgan Flower!

Very well. If she could not be the first beauty, then she would apply herself diligently to her studies, hoping to earn herself the reputation of a talented woman. After all, inner beauty lasts far longer than outer beauty. What use was Princess Chunran’s beauty — she was nothing but an ornamental vase of a beauty, all appearance and no substance. When Langhua one day produced a poem or essay of matchless brilliance, she would undoubtedly be the one and only woman of supreme literary talent under all the heavens. But she had barely made the slightest hint of this ambition when her fourth brother dealt it a devastating blow in a single sentence — saying something about how before her, Princess Xiyun of the Feng Kingdom had already, at the mere age of ten, composed “The Ten Strategies of the Jing Terrace,” outshining the Feng Kingdom’s top-ranked scholar, and had long since earned herself the title of greatest literary talent under heaven — and had laughed at Langhua for her ignorance all the while.

Sob, sob, sob… Very well. What did being a literary talent amount to anyway — physically unable to restrain even a chicken, one would surely be scared out of one’s wits the moment one encountered some formidable criminal or bandit (ahem, perhaps slightly inelegant phrasing, but she had not said it aloud — no one would ever know that Princess Langhua was capable of such language!), and all dignity would be thoroughly lost. So she decided to study martial arts, and read extensively in the military texts, determined to become a woman general renowned throughout all the realm — valiant in bearing and high-spirited in manner… riding into battle on horseback, slaying enemies and capturing enemies, marshaling troops and deploying formations on the battlefield, taking cities and seizing territory, expanding and extending the borders, making the Bai Kingdom, under her command, into a powerful nation like the Imperial or Feng states! And she would establish imperishable merit, have a statue erected in the Bai Kingdom’s royal ancestral temple, be revered by generations to come, leave her name written in the annals of history, and let her legacy carry its fragrance for ten thousand ages… What a glorious vision… But just then — she had not even finished reading one military text when news came that the Feng Kingdom’s Wind-Cloud Cavalry had crushed the Hua Kingdom’s Golden Robes Cavalry in a great battle. For a time, the whole world was singing the praises of Princess Xiyun, who had personally built the Wind-Cloud Cavalry — talking about how she had directed the Feng army to hold back the Imperial army and sweep aside the Hua army, how she had used a stratagem to trap the Feng State’s army in the Youxia Valley for three days and three nights… And before the legend of Princess Xiyun had even finished being told, the Imperial Kingdom produced someone called Qiu Jiushuang, who single-handedly commanded ten thousand troops to capture two cities from the Nan Kingdom, and with five thousand soldiers seized two hundred li of fertile land in Wangyu…

Sob, sob, sob, sob, sob… No. She could not lose heart. She absolutely could not feel inferior! What was Hua Chunran — she was merely beautiful. And what use was empty beauty — she didn’t have Feng Xiyun’s talent and martial skill! And what was Feng Xiyun — even if she was of incomparable talent and unrivaled martial skill, she didn’t have Hua Chunran’s world-class beauty. The fact that no one had ever spoken of her looks was proof enough — she was absolutely average-looking, and might even be terrifyingly ugly, like a demon come back to the world! (Privately, Langhua very much hoped this was the case.) So — she, Bai Langhua, would meticulously tend the natural beauty she had been born with, and moreover be versed in poetry, skilled in song and dance, and continue to diligently practice her martial arts and master the military texts. She would become a Princess Langhua of perfect excellence in every dimension — beauty, talent, martial skill, intelligence, virtue, artistry… ten times over.

But… she raised her head and looked up at the bright moon in the night sky. Langhua let out a long sigh of profound discontent. Even if she were perfect in every way — what then? She was still trapped in this tiny Bai Kingdom’s tiny royal palace, being its tiny Langgan Flower! Meanwhile Hua Chunran still basked in her dazzling glory as the first beauty of Dong Chao, adored and coveted by every young man under heaven. Feng Xiyun’s name spread further still — every man and woman, old and young, spoke of her with expressions full of admiration. And moreover — of the four greatest young masters under heaven, the most distinguished, Huang Chao and Lanxi, one had taken that Hua Chunran, and the other had become engaged to Feng Xiyun. Only she — already seventeen years old — had never laid eyes on a single outstanding and talented young man, save for her own insufferably self-important brothers.

Sob, sob… This was all Father King’s fault. Loving your daughter doesn’t mean loving her like this — he had locked away someone as exceptional as her inside the deep palace, letting her see nothing of the world and letting the world see nothing of her. How was she supposed to let her name — her beauty, her talent, her martial skill, her intelligence, her artistry — spread to every corner of the realm?

Therefore… Langhua clenched her fists. I have endured this for too long already. Father King, just because you won’t let me go — does that mean I can’t go myself?!