Hoofbeats on the sand, crimson prints beneath. Yet these marks can capture neither sorrow nor farewell. Beneath the black garments is Qíng Yún's broad chest, his breath tinged with melancholy, his solitude filled with helpless regret. He said nothing, only looked ahead, while upon his chest rested her warm tears. He pulled his cloak around her, covering her within his embrace, creating a quiet world without wind or sound. And in such moments, she was always speechless, for this indulgence was simply too sweet, too comforting...
She stopped crying. One hand wrapped around his waist, her face pressed closer, her nose wrinkled slightly, showing a sleepy expression. He smiled and tightened his hold on the reins.
People feel loneliness often because they meet someone; the deeper the encounter, the greater the loneliness. People feel anxious often because they love; the deeper the love, the greater the unease. Yet, above material desire, these emotions are too fleeting and intangible—like mist, there but impossible to grasp...
The snowy plains.
As dusk fell, General Jī Huá escorted the king of Tiāndū back. The group arrived, weary and dusty, showing no significant losses but looking exhausted. Once Qíng Yún carried Huáng Běishuāng into his tent, he never came out again. Jī Huá and Miǎo Jǐng understood the king's state of mind well and stood watch silently outside without uttering a word.
Qíng Yún sat beside the bed, tending to Huáng Běishuāng's wounds. Despite the emergency care given by Ruòwèn days earlier, the injuries still festered.
"Disgusted?" Huáng Běishuāng asked.
Qíng Yún shook his head.
On her body were not just deep cuts but bruises of all sizes, a sight that was deeply distressing.
"Hungry?" He finished applying the medicine and covered her with a blanket.
"I'm cold," she said softly.
Qíng Yún smiled tenderly, stripped off his clothes, and slipped into the blanket, wrapping her gently in his arms, his large hand resting on her waist. "Still cold?" he asked.
"My heart is cold," she smiled bitterly.
Qíng Yún's hand moved to her chest. "Still cold?"
Huáng Běishuāng flinched, her hands quickly prying his away, her eyes filled with terror as her breath grew rapid. She looked at herself, stunned, her heart pounding as though it would burst.
Seeing her reaction, Qíng Yún seemed to understand something. His gaze shifted, and his hand once more rested on her chest, firmly—this time, no matter how hard she tried, she could not pull it away.
Her habitual fear, her recurrent nightmares, all came flooding back at that moment. What Ruòwèn left her were only nightmares—that rough hand seemed forever imprinted upon her chest, an unmovable burden.
"Let go, let go!" she shouted.
"No."
His hand moved gently, like a spring, comforting her, loving her, cherishing her. "Trust me, you can forget. You can." He whispered softly in her ear. His affection was too deep to be shared; he wanted her for himself alone. His searing palm gradually soothed her racing heart, and his moist kisses, repressed and fervent, entangled with her lips.
They were lonely people. They had fallen alongside the stars when they were born, and thus, in the brilliant world of humanity, they could only see each other. And even that was its own kind of loneliness.
The scorching sun burned above, clouds like flames lighting the earth.
Finally breaking through Zhào Huái's encirclement, Gé Xīnwēi had no energy left to deal with the sweats. She stood on the city wall, staring at the distant horizon for a long time before releasing a shattering scream—a cry from her very soul, an anguished scream for what could no longer be saved. Dressed in pure white robes, with the marks of wear evident, her timeless beauty remained unchanged, her obsessions reduced now to empty silence.
"Your Majesty!" A lady-in-waiting who had been standing silently for a long time approached slowly, "Yúnpèi has sent a treaty for an alliance! Please make a decision, Your Majesty!"
Without turning her head, Gé Xīnwēi merely waved her hand, "No need to say more. Féntiān will support Yúnpèi."
The lady-in-waiting nodded, adding, "But, Your Majesty, the situation in Féntiān is unstable internally. Rushing into war may not be wise!"
Gé Xīnwēi snorted, "It's just a show, shouting along with them. Who said we need to actually send troops?"
The lady-in-waiting, suddenly enlightened, replied quickly, "Understood, Your Majesty!" She then hesitated for a moment before adding, "Please take care of yourself, Your Majesty. You must remember, emotions may fade, but life continues."
Hearing this, Gé Xīnwēi's expression shifted slightly, her hand moving down to her abdomen. Ruòwèn, whom she abandoned, and the treasure they had once abandoned together... Ruòwèn, without you, does this child still have a fate to be born? Without you, does he cease to be your shame and enemy, becoming instead another you?
Thinking this, she smiled—gently and maternally—took a deep look at the sun's afterglow, then pulled her fur robe tighter around her. "Let's go," she said calmly. One by one, they left the city wall.
The wind blew cold on that wall, gray-yellow bricks absorbing the fading red light—shadows layered unevenly as if recalling the many who once stood there, contemplating the world beneath, pondering the sorrow of standing atop it all.
Ruòwèn, though you were a catastrophe, heaven rejected, earth denied. But...
On the Yellow Springs Road, if you were to turn around, would you see—there is someone, giving you her eternal soul?
Jiāndū.
Nàzhàn leaned against the bed, gazing at the bright moon beyond the window. Night deepened, the moon glowed, and fatigue settled in. He offered a wry smile, his face touched by the cool moonlight, his eyes briefly showing detachment. He reached into his robes and pulled out a jade flute, running his fingers over it repeatedly in contemplation.
"Who among gods and ghosts dares tread this hallowed hall? Who remains unbent, untouched by three bows?"
He remembered that day when the shaman sang a dirge in the great hall, silencing the ministers and warriors. On that day, none who laughed continued to laugh, no one dared to lift their heads, except her.
Nàzhàn leaned against the bed, raising the jade flute to his lips and began to play. He was well-versed in flutes and xūn, but ever since hearing her song, he had not touched his flute again. Now, on so many nights, there was no longer her spring-like figure in Huáiyuè Pavilion atop Cháng'é Mountain. He truly wondered, if he, Zhǎnwáng, was this world's vengeful spirit, then who was her Jìngtiānwáng? Would she still look at him with the same gaze?
Tomorrow, Yúnpèi would declare war on Tiāndū one last time—Jiāndū and the snowy plains would meet along a parallel line. Yet no matter what, he knew Tiāndū would not fall easily. Even if Yúnpèi broke through the border defenses, with hundreds of thousands of troops stationed, they would only pull each other into decades of smoke and warfare. Then Yúnpèi would no longer be what it was, Tiāndū would no longer be what it was—nothing would remain as it once was...
This was not the outcome he desired. War never nurtured the people; war only bred those nobles in power. And yet, how could mere nobles bring prosperity to the world?
Born with a phoenix's fate, he often pondered which path could truly be traversed, which kingdom could silence the song of calamity.
Gods, ghosts—I ask, what laughter do you mock?
The next day, Huáng Běishuāng awoke, but Qíng Yún's figure was nowhere in sight. Her heart chilled slightly, and she sat up, wrapping herself in the quilt, surveying the simple yet solemn tent around her. As she sat there in a daze, a ray of sunlight suddenly pierced through. She squinted, unable to make out who had entered.
"Nāxiù, you're awake!" An excited voice, tinged with sobs, called out. As the tent flap closed, she finally saw—it was Yèpèi. Yèpèi carried a basin of water as she hurried over, tears falling uncontrollably.
"When Master Qíng brought you back, we were overjoyed. We waited outside all night without sleep!" She set the basin down, gathering the loose strands of Huáng Běishuāng's hair. "Let me help you tidy up, so Liánhùan and the others can come in to see you."
Huáng Běishuāng nodded and moved to sit by the table, allowing Yèpèi to help her wash. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she suddenly let out a self-mocking smile. "Yèpèi, have I grown old?"
Yèpèi froze, "How could that be! You are always the most beautiful!"
Huáng Běishuāng shook her head. "Silly girl, I wasn't talking about my appearance. I mean my heart. Why is it that after seeing the sunlight, seeing you, seeing myself, I still feel this deep, tranquil emptiness, like a bottomless pool? Have I lost something?"
Yèpèi paused, then replied, "Nāxiù has lost nothing, please don't overthink."
Soon, after her hair was combed and she donned her light green robe, Yèpèi looked at her, feeling a pang of sadness. Nāxiù had changed—become colder. The determination that used to fill her eyes was now replaced by a serene aloofness. She was more beautiful, yet more distant, devoid of the vibrant light of dreams.
Huáng Běishuāng slightly tilted her head to look at Yèpèi, gently extending a hand to wipe away the tears at the corner of her eye. "Don't worry, I am still myself. Let them all come in."
Yèpèi nodded, turned towards the door flap, and gestured for those outside to enter. Twelve people immediately rushed in.
"Nāxiù!" They forgot to kneel, unable to find words, staring at her in stunned silence.
"Sit down. You all are like brothers and sisters to me."
The thirteen of them sat.
"Was it Qíng Yún who saved you?" Huáng Běishuāng asked.
"Yes!" They nodded in unison.
She smiled. "I'm glad you're all safe."
The group gazed at her as Liánhùan spoke, "Nāxiù, what are your plans now?"
Huáng Běishuāng picked up the teacup on the table, took a sip, moisturizing her parched lips before asking, "What is the current state between Tiāndū and Yúnpèi?"
Liánhùan quickly replied, "On the battlefield, Tiāndū still holds the upper hand. However, now that Féntiān has allied with Yúnpèi, and southern refugees have begun supporting Yúnpèi, I fear this war won't end within a year or two! Additionally, though Tiāndū's minor prince lacks military strength, he has sealed off the borders, and over time, this will have no small impact."
Upon hearing this, Huáng Běishuāng's expression darkened before she asked, "Has His Majesty declared war?"
Liánhùan paused, "Which... which Majesty?"
She couldn't help but laugh. "Zhǎnwáng!"
Liánhùan shook his head. "We've only heard the sound of war drums, but no formal declaration yet. The two armies have been at a stalemate for some time now."
Huáng Běishuāng nodded, "That is just like him."
Yèpèi and the three maidservants exchanged a glance before one asked, "Nāxiù, do you mean—"
Huáng Běishuāng said, "His Majesty is someone who can embrace the world yet forsake himself. He never wished for war, has always avoided it. Despite setting up so many schemes, in the end, it's likely all just to force Qíng Yún to negotiate."
The thirteen of them fell silent, saying nothing more.
They fought merely for the Ěrnàqì people—no more than seven thousand souls—and now, no matter who wins, their situation would remain unchanged. Thus, they faced war with a detached indifference. This was inevitable. People are fickle; when the pain does not fall on oneself, empathy is fleeting, at best offering the afflicted a shallow sympathy.
"Your Highness!" Someone called from outside the tent. "Róng Huò, the old man, wishes for the honor of seeing Your Highness."
Huáng Běishuāng found the voice familiar, and upon hearing the name, she smiled. "The wise Elder Róng sees the world clearly. How could a mere mortal like me be worthy of meeting an immortal sage? Truly, I am unworthy of such a sight."
Her meaning was clear—she would not see him. During her time beside Qíng Yún, the old man was detained in Màikǎ, a border town near Gūhé, strategizing logistical calculations for him. Qíng Yún’s evaluation of him was rather interesting: "Sour, yet genuine; cowardly, yet capable of reading the tides of fate."
Huáng Běishuāng's response was merely to tease the old man, knowing full well that with such people, the more respect you showed them, the more they took advantage; the more difficulty you imposed, the more they restrained themselves.
Sure enough, Róng Huò hesitated outside. He had long heard of the brilliance of the Guānyǐng Queen, the many heroes in the desert who vied for her favor, and now he withdrew his arrogance, responding earnestly, "Your Highness must be jesting with me. I, Róng Huò, have spent my life chronicling history. Before a remarkable individual like Your Highness, how could I dare be presumptuous? Please, I humbly beg for an audience."
Huáng Běishuāng couldn't help but laugh. "Very well, let the gentleman come in."
Zàipíng at the door gently lifted the flap for Róng Huò to enter.
Róng Huò coughed nervously before stepping in. When he looked up—
Huáng Běishuāng, her eyes as deep as they were knowing, held a faint smile. Her slender hand gently grasped a teacup, bringing it to her lips before smiling softly, "Life is much like this bitter tea. Those who first taste sweetness must inevitably endure the bitterness that follows, while those who taste bitterness first come to know sweetness. This is true for everyone, but as for you, Elder Róng, sweetness and bitterness coexist, a single sip encompassing the vicissitudes of life."
Róng Huò froze at the door, unmoving, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind regarding this exquisite woman.
Thirteen years ago, the Sage of Níngdū, Róng Ruò, left Yúnpèi, wandering the desert until he succumbed to illness among the northern Ěrnàqì people. He personally gifted a copy of The Desert Chronicles to a mere six-year-old girl before passing away with a smile. Twelve years later, the girl became the Guānyǐng Queen within a year of marrying into the royal family, her fame spreading throughout the land. It was she who drew the fierce soldiers south, she who forced Tiāndū to withdraw its forces halfway, and she who severed the alliance between Gé Xīnwēi and Yān. Her deeds—hers, hers, and hers alone—a mere woman. Could she truly be the infamous beauty who caused such chaos?
She was serene and beautiful, sitting there with just a faint smile, yet Róng Huò felt as though the wind carried a gentle fragrance of water.
"Please, Elder Róng, have a seat."
His words snapped him from his reverie. With a touch of hesitation, Róng Huò sat down.
"Since falling into the young lord's hands, I've been most curious about Your Highness. Now that I've met you, I see you are indeed extraordinary, the very dragon among people. No wonder the young lord is so enamored. Truly, I am in awe." He took a sip of the bitter tea.
"Ah, Elder Róng, I've heard you are a stubborn man, and it seems true. You say you've 'fallen into' His Majesty's hands, but why not say His Majesty recognized your talents and gave you the opportunity to excel? As history unfolds, there are always shadows of doubt. Serving His Majesty, you should weigh each decision with care—every one could save lives. Are you not satisfied with that? Isn't all this His Majesty's painstaking effort?" Huáng Běishuāng's gaze remained on him, her words merciless.
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Róng Huò had already submitted to her in his heart, but facing such sharp words, he could only laugh. "To have such a wife, what more could the young lord ask?"
"I am not his wife!" That was a sore point, for amidst the ongoing conflict between the two nations, her status remained delicate.
Róng Huò spoke, "Your Highness, Tiāndū and Yúnpèi are like fire and water—not because they cannot coexist, but because each governs independently, each pulling at opposite ends of the desert. You must know this is an unyielding balance. Once disrupted, the world will be left in perpetual turmoil. Moreover, the young prince of Tiāndū is His Majesty's own brother. Even he knows that, once he departs, the palace's chaos cannot be quelled by those feigning madness for self-preservation."
Huáng Běishuāng fell silent.
Róng Huò smiled. "The greatest fortune of my life has been meeting Jìngtiānwáng. How could my modest writings ever compare to his brilliance? And now, I am honored to meet Your Highness as well. It seems love and loyalty do not fade before the weight of a nation nor dissolve in enmity—such is true happiness. I once asked His Majesty, 'Between the world and beauty, which would you choose?' He answered, 'Both.' Not long after, I asked again, 'Between the world and beauty, which would you forsake?' His Majesty replied with a smile, 'Neither.'"
With a sigh laden with complex emotion, Róng Huò continued, "Your Highness, the vast desert can foster conquerors but not emperors. In this, I agree with Zhǎnwáng: neither Zhǎnwáng nor His Majesty will ever be rulers of a united land, though they are both paragons of heroism, deserving the title of king. Yet, even the greatest wisdom cannot encompass the human heart, and such fragmented lands can never be truly unified. Do you understand this too, Your Highness?"
Huáng Běishuāng looked at him, smiling faintly without answering.
The room remained steeped in silence, the fragrance of tea casting a momentary enchantment. Suddenly, Qíng Yún strode in, carrying a stack of documents, followed by several generals and Miǎo Jǐng. He sat beside Huáng Běishuāng, his expression stern.
"Your Majesty!" Liánhùan and the twelve others knelt quickly.
"Rise." Qíng Yún nodded, tossing the documents onto the table, saying nothing more. It wasn't until he saw Róng Huò that his gaze turned cold. "Elder Róng, you are here as well."
Róng Huò stood up quickly, nodding his head.
Huáng Běishuāng reached over to help Qíng Yún remove his armor, setting it aside. She glanced at Liáozhèn and Jī Huá standing nearby and thought to herself: with both generals absent from the battlefield, the contents of these documents hardly needed to be read.
Turning her head, she leaned towards him, "A truce agreement?"
Qíng Yún pursed his lips without answering, but Miǎo Jǐng beside him nodded quickly.
"As expected... Did you accept it?" she asked.
Qíng Yún glanced at the documents on the table before replying, "It's not that simple."
"You refused?" she inquired again.
He remained silent.
Huáng Běishuāng leaned closer. "What terms were offered?"
Miǎo Jǐng quickly answered, "To reply to Your Highness, Zhàn promises an unconditional ceasefire, with no debts on either side, and no accountability for the territories our forces have taken during the southern campaign, nor for the resources acquired from Hùghé."
She nodded. "And the agreement's outcome?"
Miǎo Jǐng responded, "The territories remain unchanged, Hùghé's royal family is restored, and there will be no more war for fifty years."
Huáng Běishuāng smiled. "Hùghé is hollowed out already; it's not worth keeping. Given the situation, those terms are reasonable."
Qíng Yún turned, anger in his eyes, "Fifty years! What a joke!"
She looked at him. "The young prince of Tiāndū is your brother, currently at Zhào Ruì's mercy. Though it may not be his choice, he is now your enemy. Regardless of victory or defeat, you'll return to Tiāndū, and by then, all traitors must be executed to restore royal order. He's only sixteen—could you really do it?"
Qíng Yún's gaze turned icy, his frustration evident as he struck the table, "Leave us, all of you!"
Liánhùan, the twelve others, and Miǎo Jǐng quickly left without hesitation or a backward glance. Their thoughts were simple: no matter what happens, Jìngtiānwáng is no longer alone. Even amidst chaos, someone is there beside him, and the same goes for her.
When they were finally alone, Qíng Yún sighed, pulling her into his arms. "What did you think of meeting that old sour Róng Huò?"
Huáng Běishuāng smiled, "Elder Róng praised you. And here you are, ungrateful, calling him sour."
Qíng Yún's hands rested on her back, his fingers entangling in her soft hair. "Did he praise you as well?"
Huáng Běishuāng felt a touch of embarrassment, softly replying, "Just some useless words, I'm not telling you."
Qíng Yún laughed heartily, drawing her closer. All he wanted was a sweet kiss, and she was always willing to give it.
For a long time, they stayed close, their frustrations slowly dissipating.
Qíng Yún sighed, speaking softly, "Lǐng'er has always remained indifferent to worldly affairs. He is my brother by birth, and because of that, he became a pawn for Zhào Ruì. I failed to protect him."
Knowing how remorseful he was, Huáng Běishuāng placed her hand on his furrowed brow, speaking gently, "You've hesitated to send troops back to the kingdom for this reason, haven't you? Quelling the rebellion is trivial, but with your brother in Zhào Ruì's grasp, should either perish, both must die together."
Qíng Yún took her hand, pulling her onto his lap, resting his head on her chest.
"Tell me, what are your thoughts?" he asked.
Huáng Běishuāng paused in silence before responding, "Do you love me?"
"Deeply."
She smiled. "Do you wish to accept Zhàn's truce proposal?"
Qíng Yún was quiet for a moment before replying, "I've considered it."
"Then agree to it. The young prince of Tiāndū and the Guānyǐng Queen of Yúnpèi—let them be exchanged as hostages. Send Qíng Lǐng to Zhàn; this way, his life will be spared, and he won't remain under the influence of power-hungry ministers." She looked at him. "And as for me..."
"And you, you'll stay by my side," Qíng Yún interrupted before she could finish. "It sounds like a good plan. Once the war is over, I can ransom Lǐng'er back with gold and silver. But in doing so, I won't be able to make you my wife." He touched her lips with his finger. "I see through it, Shuāng. You don't want to be my queen."
Qíng Yún's warm fingers pressed against Huáng Běishuāng's lips. She leaned back slightly and spoke, "Qíng Yún, I truly feel exhausted. The world belongs to you all—what am I in comparison? What does status mean? It is a desecration of love. What is a queen, really? No matter how much I long for a simple yearning, I cannot achieve it—not by Zhàn's side, nor by yours. Because you are a king, I cannot be your wife. Without that title, I would no longer have political value. I could be free—free to love you, to journey with you, to witness the world's storms through clear, unburdened eyes. I would not be kneeling in court, nor dwelling in the queen's palace, but I would still be at your side, no longer a pawn in anyone's game."
After hearing her words, Qíng Yún wrapped his arms around her tightly.
"Marry me! I swear I will love you forever!"
She hesitated, her eyes growing misty. "I know, I know, Qíng Yún. But you understand, don't you? To marry or not—it is no longer about love. Marrying you is loving you, but it is love that tires me. Not marrying you—how could I not love you? But this way, I will not be so weary. How many loves have scattered like swallows, how many lifelong vows turned to ash? Titles cannot bind the heart—why should I be burdened by it? You understand, don’t you, Qíng Yún?"
He gazed at her for a long time, as if words were caught in his throat, until all he could do was silence them with a kiss.
His hands lingered, unsure where to rest, hesitating, fearing that in satisfying her, he might also lose her.
"Make me a promise—you will never leave me."
He said.
"I promise, I will never leave."
She replied.
Qíng Yún's informal reply reached Zhàn, who sighed in relief. Although he did not immediately withdraw his troops from the front line, the hostility of days past had dissipated somewhat. As the blazing sun set, he, along with Wū Jìhǎi and a contingent of iron cavalry, set out for Féntiān.
They were greeted by the Queen of Féntiān, Gé Xīnwēi.
"Welcome, Zhǎnwáng!" Gé Xīnwēi bowed in greeting.
Standing behind Zhàn, Wū Jìhǎi was almost stunned. Apart from her azure eyes, she resembled the queen. One could only imagine how deeply Ruòwèn had once been captivated.
Zhàn took his seat at the head of the grand hall and smiled at Gé Xīnwēi. "I've long heard of Your Majesty's happy news. It was a shame I couldn’t come sooner to offer my congratulations."
Gé Xīnwēi smiled faintly. "Your Majesty is too kind. What brings you here today?"
Zhàn glanced around the hall before speaking, "Firstly, to congratulate Your Majesty on an heir. Secondly..." He paused. "May I ask if you have built a tomb for Ruòwèn?"
Gé Xīnwēi's expression dimmed. "I have not. The people cannot accept it. For now, I have built only an unmarked grave."
"Oh!" Zhàn nodded. "Today I have come to discuss one matter. If Your Majesty agrees, it could bring joy to all."
Gé Xīnwēi looked at him, her gaze questioning.
Zhàn smiled and said, "I wish to support Your Majesty in restoring the Màsuí dynasty, with the Yǔ Clan of the Mùgè lineage continuing their rule. As for Féntiān, let it be a nightmare that came and went with him. What say you?"
Gé Xīnwēi laughed heartily, pausing only after a long while. "Your Majesty, forgive my rudeness. I understand very well that the world refuses to acknowledge his existence, and now desires to erase him entirely. In the end, he is a scar too deep to heal."
Seeing her momentary loss of composure, yet her lack of fear in facing the truth of his words, Zhàn felt a newfound respect for her. He nodded, "Since Your Majesty understands, are you willing to make a stance?"
Gé Xīnwēi ceased her laughter and spoke coldly, "Certainly. To receive Yúnpèi's support is an honor for the Màsuí royal family. Upon the restoration of the dynasty, we shall remain allied with your nation."
Zhàn was satisfied by her response, raising his wine cup to toast her.
Year 332, summer solstice.
Féntiān, having existed for less than a year, was erased from history, and the traditional Màsuí nobles restored the Gé dynasty. The ruler was the Ninth Princess, Gé Xīnwēi, an unmarried queen, with child. The father was unknown, and none dared to mention him. Rumors spoke only of a divine birth—a child sent by heaven, bestowed by the earth. In time, this truth became an open yet unspoken secret in the annals of Màsuí history.
Dust blew across the desert—how many times had it happened? Qíng Yún and Zhàn stood face to face like the unyielding ridges of heaven's spine. He always wore black, a gentleman's elegance. Zhàn always wore red, the somber attire of royalty. The game they played had seen no change in winners or losers. Their power, however, favored the side adorned in bright colors. Yet that side always seemed to stand a chasm away from true happiness.
Qíng Yún sat at the table, looking at Zhàn. Between them lay the exchanged agreements, sealed and signed. Neither victor had won, nor had either loser truly lost. Though life was never a draw, an outcome would always be reached. And now, it seemed that to accept it, they needed but a glance.
Zhàn finally lowered his gaze, reading the most conspicuous line on the agreement:
"As part of the exchange, Guānyǐng Queen Huáng Běishuāng must reside in Tiāndū; otherwise, all agreements are nullified."
This was the fundamental condition laid down by Qíng Yún. Zhàn looked at it and smiled.
After imprisoning the treasonous chancellor Zhào Ruì, Qíng Yún's first act was to exchange hostages—sending his brother Qíng Lǐng to Zhàn’s camp. As for Zhàn's queen, once he signed the agreement, their relationship would be severed entirely. Fifty years of peace—fifty years without seeing each other—awaited his stamp.
No matter how many times the blooms of the jiěmǎ trees would return, they would all fall eventually.
Zhàn thought for a moment, then took out his seal and stamped it firmly. Looking at Qíng Yún, he said, "Let her people see her off."
Qíng Yún smiled, lifted the agreement, stamped it, and replied, "There is no need. Her people never gave her anything, save for farewells."
Zhàn lowered his gaze, speaking softly, "I am still her husband. Should I not see her off as well?"
Qíng Yún's eyes chilled. "That title is long forsaken. She has no husband."
Zhàn looked at him, nodding. After a moment, he suddenly extended a hand. Qíng Yún hesitated for a long time, only responding when Miǎo Jǐng nudged him from the side. He stood and took Zhàn's hand.
The two held each other's grip for a long moment before finally releasing.
Then, the drums sounded, echoing across the heavens.
A soldier rushed between the two armies, throwing down his sword and shouting excitedly, "The truce is here, the truce is here—!"
His jubilant cries resonated upward, lifting his spirits high. Upon hearing the news, the soldiers on both sides were stunned into silence for a long while, then an oceanic roar broke through the skies, and amidst that grand shout, Qíng Yún and Zhàn each turned away.
They were not gods or spirits. Even if they had once been… that was in the past.
They lived on, and what had once been unfulfilled was now enough.
Perhaps the meaning of life was never in the ultimate gains or losses but in the waves of the heart and in the meeting of souls. They walked away, back to back, until the three armies writhed like boiling water. Then they laughed, without turning back, riding away. Each had chosen, often relying on a moment's promise.
A promise made, thus kept; kept, thus it was enough.
...
Standing on the walls of Guangping at the border, Zhàn watched the distant departing Tiāndū army, a scene of dust and ash.
Until the end, Huáng Běishuāng refused to see him, and none of the letters he sent received any response. She left him, carrying the title of Guānyǐng Queen, with neither sentiment nor hesitation.
Huáng Běishuāng...
Zhàn squinted, gazing at the resplendent palanquin. He had never understood what she meant to him, nor had there ever been an answer to his place in her life.
Throughout his life, he had had many women, but none had stood shoulder to shoulder with him. He still remembered when he was young, the Grand King had said, "A great king cannot have a woman equal to him. The pinnacle of power requires solitude, and enduring solitude. The comfort women provide can never extend beyond the night. When dawn breaks and passion fades, all he could do was step into the great hall, receive the homage of thousands, tread upon his land, hold the sword in his hand, and keep conquest in his heart, leaving love only for the next life."
Love, left for another life...
The Guanghan Palace without Huáng Běishuāng had only the lonely jiěmǎ trees, where every blooming season a consort stood among them—Yòujiā.
However, within two years, Yòujiā died of sorrow, leaving behind a son, Nàzhòng, third in line for the throne. Since becoming Zhàn's consort, she had managed the three palaces without error, her meticulous care and devoted love for the king had brought her glory. The ministers, after much deliberation, decided to bury her beside Zhàn in the Guānhòu Mausoleum, originally built for the Guānyǐng Queen but left vacant, now to hold another beauty.
Yet what did it matter if she was a beauty? She was his love, but not his greatest love. She was his woman, but only in death did she replace another to become his wife. What did it matter if she was beautiful, waiting for him under the blossoms that fell like snow beneath the jiěmǎ trees, always asking herself if she could never bear resentment. That existence, filled with an ethereal sentiment—how could it ever truly dissipate?
She always wanted to ask: Have you ever loved?
If you have, then who was she?
If not, then who are you?
All these questions echoed in that desolate tomb, carried away with the handful of dust.
Who was the happy one?
The night fell, the dream clear and cold, eyes as frigid as ice...
Leaning against shadows, smiling.
Drunkenly adrift, lips full of sorrow.
In the wine was the sky, rain faint and misty...
Beauty! Crescent moon!
Soft whispers...
Who does it favor?
Year 332, in the warmth of autumn—it was once again the season of political marriages.
The Ice Thorn Palace of Tiāndū, after enduring the unchanged turmoil reminiscent of past dynasties, once again feigned tranquility. In the court, Běijìng Tiānwáng, who presided alone, smiled faintly, his calculating gaze fleeting over the genuine and false of human hearts.
He was the youngest ruler to assume the throne in Tiāndū's history, yet he had governed the longest—twelve years now, with diligence and wisdom, making Tiāndū stronger. The fifty-year ceasefire meant he would no longer seek conquest or expansion. In other words, he began to govern the heart instead of lands, rule the people instead of soldiers.
He still held great military power, and the resources gained from the pillaging of Hùghé and other nations in the previous year's war greatly benefited Tiāndū. Under such conditions, anyone seeking to stir up trouble would find it difficult.
During these days of peace, in the governance hall of the Ice Thorn Palace, the ministers would always raise the same question at the end of each daily agenda: when would Tiānwáng appoint a queen? Until today, he still had no wife or children. What he needed most was a true heir to stabilize the people's hearts.
But whenever this question was asked, he always gave a deep smile, his gaze seeming to drift to a distant place.
That day, after court, Qíng Yún, dressed in black, passed through the long corridors of the Ice Thorn Palace, heading for the mountains at the back. Beneath the newly planted jiěmǎ trees on the mountainside stood a serene figure in simple garb, waving to him gently.
It felt like coming home, and he rushed over.
Huáng Běishuāng saw the leaves tangled in his hair, knowing he must have hurried to see her without noticing the falling leaves. She smiled faintly, brushing them away. "It is the season of political marriages again—why does Your Majesty refuse the offers from various nations and tribes?"
Qíng Yún grasped her hand, frowning slightly. "Do you wish for me to accept them?"
Huáng Běishuāng shook her head without a word. He was, after all, a king. Though she herself did not wish to be queen, should she let him be a king without a queen for life?
Qíng Yún glanced at the jiěmǎ trees behind her, their first buds sprouting. He patted her face and smiled. "Do not let your thoughts wander, Huáng Běishuāng. You are imprisoned in my heart, and no other woman in this world could ever take that place."
She laughed, taking his hand, tracing each line of fate crossing his palm—lines entwined with her own fate.
Qíng Yún always gave her the life she desired. He knew her wishes were simple—no more than a measure of tranquility and peace. When he provided it, she, in turn, was willing to give him even more.
Whether it was day or night, they stayed together as much as they could. She listened to his political maneuvers, offering sincere advice. He listened to her play melodies more mysterious than the moon, and in return, painted her brows to match the gentle curve of the crescent.
They loved freely, even though love itself was never truly free.They cherished their time together, even though every union must ultimately end.And yet, what did it matter? A lifetime—what did it matter?
The one held within the heart is both a captive and a love, yet it is true!Under the heavens, who else is mine? Only this prisoner—no other can rival such affection!
Though not his queen, she bore him children; though not his wife, she grew old beside him.In the early months of the following year, Huáng Běishuāng gave birth to twins—a boy and a girl. The girl was named Qíngxuě, and the boy Qíngfēng. Within three days, Jìng Tiānwáng declared Qíngfēng as the crown prince, announcing he would never appoint a queen.
That same year, in Màsuí, the unmarried Queen Gé Xīnwēi gave birth to a child—violet-eyed, black-haired, lips tightly sealed, without a cry. Only after three slaps from the maid did he let out a loud wail, piercing the air and invoking a sky filled with crimson light. For a moment, thunder and lightning tore across the heavens, and the entire nation was thrown into turmoil. The sorceress Yīn Fāng proclaimed that he would be a god of destruction, a spirit born of blood. The queen, upon hearing this, rejoiced and abandoned the royal surname of the Yǔ Clan, naming him Ruòwèn.
...
How many people bore that time deeply in their hearts? How many took that history to their graves, never forgetting?By 333 AD, the historian Róng Huò once again began writing. After a year, he completed The Chronicles of the Desert Kingdoms North and South, divided into two volumes. The first, "Mandate of Heaven," summarized the policies, foundations, and cultures of the five major nations—Yúnpèi, Tiāndū, Hùghé, Mízàn, and Màsuí. The second, "Battlefield Chess," was written more freely, lacking the sharpness of official history, resembling instead the swift tales spun by storytellers in teahouses. It mainly recorded the political upheavals of 331 to 332 AD.
The Chronicles of the Desert Kingdoms North and South spread among the people in 335 AD, becoming essential reading for scholars in every nation. However, just as Huáng Běishuāng’s The Desert Compilation lacked its final page, the lower volume of The Chronicles, "Battlefield Chess," disappeared after leaving Tiāndū’s Ice Thorn Palace. Many who had lived through that tumultuous year were unsurprised, saying it was destiny.
That year, great powers fought for supremacy, bandits roamed the land.
That year, there was no distinguishing who was just.
It always seemed that that year might have been but a strange dream.
Yet who knew that chaos would still follow chaos, and after all the love and hatred, what
remained was merely a song.
Only the vast desert stretches a thousand miles,
The boundless wilderness holds shifting truths.
Do not ask for new kings,
Do not seek the old emperors!
How many times have scholars searched and searched,
Only to pass each other by in haste,
Leaving everything to the winds of talent and wit!