Zhàn's first visit to Guanghan Palace was at the age of eight. He thought it was a dream, staying awake for three days, afraid to wake up.
Eleven years later, he sat in the grand hall, receiving the reverence of ministers, and that dream became something he wished to wake from, but couldn't.
...
In 287 AD, Nàjǐng, Crown Prince of Yúnpèi, ascended the throne at nineteen and was honored as King Róng.
On the day of the coronation, King Róng’s father, the Grand King Nàqǐdá, removed his splendid robes, took only two attendants, and left Guanghan Palace. No one knew where he went, or if he would return. That day, the sorcerer Fǎtián of Níngdū, draped in a long white robe, sighed at the young and enraged king sitting on the throne, saying, "My king, men may hold onto splendor, but splendor can never hold onto men."
Nàjǐng was perplexed—what dissatisfaction could his father still have to abandon this vast and flourishing kingdom?
Fǎtián, hearing this, bowed thrice without answering, retreating to observe the stars.
Nàqǐdá was only thirty-six then, in his prime, so why was he eager to relinquish the jade seal? Before leaving, he left only four words for his son: "Do well, do right."
Well? What did it mean? Nàqǐdá, the thirty-second King of Yúnpèi, had never been considered a "good" ruler. Despite his profound wisdom, he lacked what was needed to govern a nation, for to govern, one needed the Three Ruthless Traits: a ruthless heart, a ruthless sword, and ruthless self-sacrifice.
A ruthless heart can take decisive action, rule with authority founded in strict justice.A ruthless sword fights without mercy, possessing strength and fearlessness in battle.Most crucially, ruthless self-sacrifice means understanding human nature, self-restraint, and prioritizing the people above all, aligning oneself with reason, tradition, and unity for the greater good.
These traits, Nàqǐdá knew he could not embody.
Indeed, few kings in the world could truly achieve them. Yet, while others were unaware, Nàqǐdá knew it well, and this awareness only made him feel powerless, even ashamed. He brooded over it day and night, growing increasingly gaunt, until one day his eldest son, Nàjǐng, came of age. Without hesitation, he removed the trappings of kingship and gracefully set off on a journey.
He believed his achievement lay not in ruling a nation but in chronicling history.
In the mind of a historian, splendor is but a fleeting dream.
In 307 AD, after twenty years of wandering, Nàqǐdá, Róngruò, and their servant Róng Huò had traversed every oasis, recording the customs and culture of various peoples along the way. Through these twenty years of wind and rain, they not only witnessed the world’s grandeur but also came to know the desert like the back of their hands.
That year, news arrived from Yúnpèi: King Nàjǐng was gravely ill, and ministers knelt in fervent pleas to establish a crown prince. Guanghan Palace lay in desolation for thirteen days, but Nàjǐng refused. Upon hearing this, the Grand King, Nàqǐdá, returned to the kingdom.
"Greetings, Father!"
Kneeling by the ornate bed was a gaunt boy, no older than nine, with bright, unwavering eyes.
Nàjǐng lay on the bed, his expression indifferent. "Why do you not call me 'Father King'?"
The boy kowtowed heavily. "Between father and son lies only the love of kin; between king and son lies the contention for inheritance. Zhàn knows his place!"
Upon hearing this, Nàjǐng was delighted. "Good, good. This child is clever. Since my father has you recognize me as your father, I will not wrong you. What is your full name?"
The boy replied, "I had no name. After meeting the old master on the snowy plains, I took 'Zhàn' as my name."
Nàjǐng pondered for a moment before saying, "Yúnpèi is ruled by the Nà Clan. Since you have become my son, from now on, you shall be called Nàzhàn."
The boy looked at Nàqǐdá sitting to the side. Seeing his nod of encouragement, he quickly expressed his gratitude.
"Thank you, Father King!" This time, he called him "Father King."
It was Zhàn’s first time in Guanghan Palace. After meeting Nàjǐng, Róng Huò led him, accompanied by a large detachment of palace guards, to the Founding Tomb of the Realm, where he kowtowed thrice, nine times in total.
A month later, King Róng issued an edict: "My son Nàzhàn, born of Consort Sù, who was exiled for a great transgression, did not know she was pregnant, leading to the Seventh Prince’s abandonment. After a long search, through the blessings of heaven, my son has returned to Guanghan, recognizing his ancestry and returning to the clan. I hereby bestow residence at Héguāng Palace, and place him fifth in the line of succession."
In truth, Zhàn was not Nàjǐng’s illegitimate son, as the edict claimed. He knew well he was but an orphan without name or lineage from the snowy plains, with no royal blood. Yet, in the face of that decree, he never questioned it—no doubts, no curiosity, no extra actions. At eight, he was already quiet, merely observing all that lay before him.
Zhàn grew up in Guanghan Palace, but no prince was as humble and eager to learn as he was. He also knew how to win over hearts, and within a year, Héguāng Palace became a place where other young princes often lingered.
At fifty-seven, the Grand King Nàqǐdá greatly favored Zhàn, even personally teaching him statecraft and history, and inviting the foremost military general of the court to instruct him in martial arts.
Ten years later, at eighteen, Zhàn married his first consort, Yújié, at Héguāng Palace.
Before the wedding night, Nàqǐdá asked him, "Have you fallen in love with this woman?"
Zhàn simply smiled. "Of course, I love her."
"But I heard," Nàqǐdá continued, "that you prefer Yúhào."
Zhàn raised an eyebrow. "Yúhào is already engaged to the Twelfth Prince."
Nàqǐdá was puzzled. "The wood has not yet formed into a boat—why give up so easily?"
Zhàn smiled back. "Grandfather, the auspicious hour has arrived. Your grandson can wait no longer. I must take my leave!"
In the year 317 AD, the Twelfth Prince of Yúnpèi, Nàsuì, staged a coup during the Royal Hunt, attempting to surround and capture seventy-nine members of the royal family, yet his plan ultimately failed. The Fourth, Sixth, Seventh, and Tenth Princes, having already learned of the plot, united their forces, and within seven days shattered Nàsuì's ambitions. The entire household of Nàsuì was executed, with the sole survivor being his consort, Yúhào. In that same year, she remarried, becoming the wife of the Seventh Prince, Nàzhàn.
Once more, Nàqǐdá stood at the threshold of the bridal chamber, asking, "Have you fallen in love with this woman?"
Nàzhàn smiled as before, "Of course I love her."
"Why did you not marry her in the first place?" Nàqǐdá pressed.
Nàzhàn replied, "Without her, how could Twelfth Brother have lowered his guard?"
Nàqǐdá burst into laughter. That night, he personally gifted Nàzhàn the newly revised The Desert Compilation as a wedding present.
Nàzhàn had never intended to be king. He risked his life to quell the traitorous ministers of the Nà Clan, not for personal ambition but to repay the kindness of the old master who raised him. Yet, while he often traveled incognito among the people, deeply concerned for their wellbeing, he knew that no one within Guanghan Palace could truly bear the weight of the kingdom’s grandeur.
His first child was born, bearing the surname Nà, and it was as if a root had taken hold within Guanghan Palace. His second child, then his third, also bore the name Nà. It was strange—though lacking royal blood, his father still granted them royal status and succession rights. This filled him with both gratitude and bewilderment, and he devoted all his energy to assisting his father in governing and restoring order.
However, a year later, King Róng passed away unexpectedly, without issuing an edict regarding succession. The entire Guanghan Palace fell into discord. In the end, it was left to the Grand King to decide. Nàqǐdá, then sixty-seven, lay on his deathbed. With great effort, he opened his dry eyes, gazing intently at the seventeen princes and their mothers kneeling before him, each one stricken with fear.
"Huò'er, do you want to be king?" he asked the eldest prince.
The eldest prince, Nàhuò, then twenty-six, replied, "I do."
"Why?"
"To reign over the world—who wouldn’t desire that?"
"Good! Ambitious." Nàqǐdá smiled faintly, then turned to the Fourth Prince, "Zhūn'er, do you want to be king?"
Nàzhūn, then twenty-four, answered, "I do!"
"Why?"
"To command the loyalty of thousands—who wouldn’t want that?"
Hearing this, Nàqǐdá did not smile. Instead, he sighed and turned to the Seventh Prince. "Zhàn'er, do you want to be king?"
Nàzhàn was surprised, but soon regained his composure. After a moment's deliberation, he replied, "I do."
Nàqǐdá smiled but did not ask him "why." He remained silent for a long while, closing his eyes as if he had fallen asleep, scaring the royal physician beside him, who quickly reached out to check his breath. But just as the physician’s hand approached, Nàqǐdá awoke, continuing to ask the other princes the same questions—"Do you want to be king?" and "Why?"
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
In the end, aside from the seventeen-year-old Prince Nàyánxīng, who was too young to answer, all the other princes replied that they wanted the throne. Their mothers knelt behind them, cold sweat dripping down their backs. In the quiet room, the frantic rhythm of beating hearts was clearly audible.
Nàqǐdá looked at them, pulled a scroll from under his pillow, and suddenly declared loudly, "The Seventh Prince, Nàzhàn, is born with remarkable talent, having rendered meritorious service to the late king. Today, by the decree of destiny, I bestow upon you the foundational strategy for the kingdom as reference. May you, upon ascending the throne, uplift the nation and leave your legacy for the people!"
Upon these words, the room erupted in commotion, and even Nàzhàn himself was taken aback. When his hands accepted the scroll, Nàqǐdá passed away with a smile.
The old master left him with a colossal mess, and this was Nàzhàn's immediate thought.
Nàzhàn was an orphan, roaming the deserts and snowfields since he could remember, without any real impression of his parents. In that chaotic town, when children lost their parents, others would often take them in. The lucky ones would be adopted by wealthy families, enjoying a life of comfort. The unfortunate ones would be passed between households, repeatedly experiencing separation, death, or abandonment.
People in that town never resented those who abandoned others. For abandonment was merely the end of one person’s charity and the beginning of another’s wandering—it was not a sin. Everyone was adrift, and who could truly accompany whom? But they despised the nobles—those dressed in silk, living in warmth and luxury, indulging in revelry, and never sparing a thought for the poor.
Back then, Nàzhàn was still young. He only knew to run when he saw the nobility; run too slow, and he’d surely get a beating. He remembered once a child, unable to bear it, shouted at a young lord, "I've done nothing wrong. Why are you hitting me?" At the time, it echoed Nàzhàn's own feelings. But that young lord replied, "I was born noble, and the poor are like dogs beneath my feet. If you’re unhappy, pray to the heavens to make you a noble in your next life." After saying that, the child was beaten to the point of crippling. That incident remained etched in Nàzhàn’s heart for his entire life, yet he never spoke of it.
At eight, he entered Guanghan Palace, ending his life of wandering. At nineteen, he ascended the throne, ending his outsider’s peace.
To be king is to be caught in a net, and peace was no longer an option.
The grand coronation was neither as terrifying nor as joyous as he had imagined. At nineteen, Nàzhàn sat with calm indifference in Guanghan Hall, crowned by Sorcerer Fǎtián, while the Róng brothers of Níngdū composed his proclamations and edicts. It was a glorious day, yet inexplicably, he remembered that child who had been beaten crippled.
With a wry smile, the handsome face hid a brewing storm.
Nàzhàn reigned for fourteen years, during which the nation flourished and the palace prospered. As for women, he treated them with a mix of affection and political pragmatism, forming alliances through marriage. His heart, incapable of feeling true happiness, could only be asked if it felt content. For fourteen years, he always answered: Content.
Until he turned thirty-two. On a bright, sunny day, he met Huáng Běishuāng—a woman twelve years his junior. Beautiful, intelligent, perceptive, she was like a deep pool—uncompetitive, unjealous, silent, without passion, serene and cold—leaving him hesitant about whether to approach.
Huáng Běishuāng loved to cultivate jiěmǎ trees, and after entering the palace, it became her greatest passion.
Jiěmǎ trees, the strange flora of the desert, were once described by a poet:"A tree of tender blossoms, embracing a fleeting spring night, yet the spring night is all too brief; the general departs. Cultivating the bond of three lifetimes, but fleetingly gone. Tears of love plant the jiěmǎ tree; a sword without emotion severs entanglements. A tree of tender blossoms, beneath them, longing entwined, the scent of the flowers is sweet…"
"There's someone... I'm unsure whether I should seek him. And if I find him, whether I should go to meet him."
One night, while playing chess beneath the moonlight in Huáiyuè Pavilion, she sat across from him, frowning in concentration over the game, perhaps never even hearing his question.
Nàzhàn laughed softly, watching her place a piece on the board. Then he said, "Your strategy is too narrow, constrained by the pursuit of territory without a vision for victory. How do you expect to win like this?"
She looked up, smiling faintly. "Your Majesty's schemes and strategies are far beyond my reach. As long as the defeat isn't too miserable, it matters not if I win."
Hearing this, Nàzhàn said no more. On the board, he advanced step by step, each move fiercely contested, no longer giving her any quarter. Within half a cup of tea, he defeated her thoroughly. A flash of frustration and reluctance passed through her brow, and seeing this, he smiled, feeling a sudden stir in his heart. She was the only woman he had never touched, and also the only one by his side who never sought his favor. Why was she so cold?
"Do you enjoy playing hard to get?" After the defeat, she repaid him with a tune on the flute. As he listened, Nàzhàn posed the question while her gaze drifted off into the distance, as if she hadn’t heard him.
"Answer me!" Nàzhàn grew angry, striking the stone table with his palm.
The leisurely melody ceased abruptly. She looked at him, face pale with shock.
Did he want her? Did he desire her? His emotions surged in that instant.
"I can only answer one question," she said softly after a long silence, avoiding his gaze.
Nàzhàn sneered, standing up and wrapping his arms around her from behind, his lips brushing against her neck. "Speak."
"You asked if you should go searching for someone—and whether you should see him if you found him. You also asked if I’m playing hard to get."
He paused, his hands gripping her waist tightly. "Answer the first question."
She smiled, exhaling gently. "Your Majesty, the fact that you wonder whether to seek him means you’re already in pursuit—you simply don’t know whether to meet him or not. But meeting someone shouldn't cause such hesitation unless there’s a debt between you two. Why not ask yourself whether you owe him anything? If you don’t, then what is there to fear? And if you do..."
"If I do, then what?" he pressed.
"There’s nothing a king cannot repay in this world," she replied.
Upon hearing this, he suddenly tightened his grip, making her wince. She let out a small gasp. "Your Majesty..."
He wanted her.
"Now answer the second question," he whispered in her ear.
"I said I would only answer one," she replied.
"No matter how you answer the second, you won’t be punished," he said hoarsely.
But still, she did not turn back. Though held firmly in his embrace, the breeze from Cháng'é Gorge blew against her face in the moonlit night. It was utterly quiet. He held her like that—all night.
How he longed to ask, Do you love me?
Beloved, if you blush, I shall grow all the bolder, holding your slender waist through a night of passion;
Beloved, if you walk away, I shall hurt all the more, inviting loneliness under the moonlight’s pain.
In the emperor’s chambers, how many towers see blossoms bloom for his favor?
Songs echo through the deep palace; who knows which way her heart leans as petals fall in pairs?
But my only fear is this, dear beauty—
That you feel neither shame nor desire, nor stay, nor yield, nor love, nor sorrow, nor pain, nor wonder!
In Nàzhàn’s life, only one thing truly made him tremble—
When he ascended the throne, there was unrest across the court, each faction acting on its own, forcing him to make sweeping reforms. It was then, to his horror, that he discovered that among Emperor Nàjǐng’s nine consorts and seventeen sons, only the youngest, Nàyánxīng—born of Consort Tán—was of true royal blood. The remaining fifteen princes, excluding Nàzhàn, were adopted or conceived from borrowed lineage, orchestrated by concubines seeking to protect their positions from power-hungry princes.
This scandal ran so deep that it could shake the very foundations of the royal court. He was terrified then, but didn’t panic. Over the course of seven years, he quietly exiled thirteen of the false princes and won over his brothers' sons and nephews. Seven years was all it took to quell the palace turmoil and uproot the malicious influences. He intended to let this secret be buried forever. But unexpectedly, when young Prince Nàyánxīng turned eleven, he and his mother vanished overnight to avoid harm.
The child was the old master’s grandson and the only son of King Róng.
Should he go searching for him? And what should he do once he found him?
Return the throne? He was unqualified for it. Grant him a title? He wasn’t truly a strategist. The child had grown up in fear and knew nothing but hiding from the world. Even if given the realm, he would be incapable of ruling it.
Yet, as Huáng Běishuāng had said, there was nothing a king could not repay. If the boy truly had the destiny for it, and if he could shoulder the burden, what harm was there in returning the crown?
Huáng Běishuāng was indeed a rare beauty. Years of tangled matters unraveled in a single word from her lips...
That year, as winter approached, Huáng Běishuāng and Jìng Tiānwáng ended all ties. Without hesitation, he declared her his empress, bestowing upon her the name Guānyǐng—Guān, meaning "to tame"; Yǐng, meaning "sincere heart." Regrettably, it was but a name...
"Consort Shuāng loves the scent of shuǐshù blossoms."
Standing beside a cold and ornate carved pillar, Nàzhàn held a wooden xūn in his hand. He was in high spirits, thinking of inviting her to play a duet. But what greeted him left him astonished—
Steam rose from the warm pool, where she lay languidly, half submerged. Maidservants filled the air with sweet chatter as they scattered handfuls of shuǐshù blossoms across the water, filling the entire bath with their heady fragrance. Her hair, black and glossy, cascaded down her damp, tender skin. Who knew what she was thinking then, but suddenly, she turned slightly and smiled—a smile full of allure.
Nàzhàn set down the xūn, leaning back in amusement. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to summon her to share his bed.
There she was, immersed in the water, her beauty unveiled, unaware of it herself. Lazily, she extended her arm, picking up a jade flute by the poolside and bringing it to her lips. Her hair draped over her arm, falling to her chest, and in Nàzhàn's eyes, there bloomed a faint three-petaled lotus.
Anger surged, uncontainable. That lotus was an affront!
In that moment, he remembered nothing. He turned, returning to his chambers, ordering Zhújùn to deliver a sheer, transparent nightgown to her.
"Your Grace, His Majesty summons you."
Zhújùn held the nightgown in his hands, bowing respectfully at the door.
Huáng Běishuāng, freshly bathed, leaned against the bed, reading. Upon hearing his words, she was stunned.
"Your Grace, His Majesty summons you." Zhújùn lifted his head slightly, seeing her dazed expression, and repeated his words.
She finally returned to her senses, smiling faintly as she nodded. The maidservant Yèpèi took the gossamer gown from Zhújùn, who sighed in relief and backed out, head bowed. "This servant shall wait outside."
Huáng Běishuāng turned to Yèpèi, still smiling.
"Will Your Grace go?" Yèpèi asked.
"Such a formal summons—I’d be sentenced to death if I didn’t," she replied.
"And...will you wear this?" Yèpèi’s face flushed as she unfolded the ethereal garment. It was transparent, as light as a wisp of smoke, bewitchingly elusive.
Huáng Běishuāng traced a finger across the nightgown, softly reciting, "Wearing this, with light makeup, walking down the corridor, under the moonlight—whose chambers shall I enter? Be I concubine or mistress, all are but his charms beneath."
"Does Consort Shuāng still feel like singing? Or have you... made peace with it?" Yèpèi asked.
Huáng Běishuāng laughed heartily. "Silly girl, bring me my ceremonial robe for tomorrow’s journey."
Yèpèi and Zàipíng exchanged a glance, gently setting the nightgown upon the bed. A breeze from outside ruffled it, yet no one paid it any mind...
Walking down the corridor, under the moonlight, Huáng Běishuāng wore a rich purple and red ceremonial robe, the long embroidered golden train dragging across the floor with a soft rustling sound. Zhújùn led the way in silence, his mind full of thoughts. This was the second time he led Huáng Běishuāng to Yúnyǔ Hall. The first time had been with Zhēnqú Yòujiā. Since then, it had been nearly half a year since Huáng Běishuāng was last summoned.
And now, tonight, unexpectedly.
Nàzhàn reclined by the edge of the bed, half his face obscured by the yellow gauzy curtain. He had apparently bathed, for droplets of water still glistened across his chest. He did not lift his eyes to look at her, only focused on toying with the wooden xūn in his hands.
"Why aren't you wearing the nightgown?" he asked, his voice laced with faint irritation.
"Tomorrow, I depart for Mízàn; it may be a journey of no return. I wish for Your Majesty to see me now, as it may be the last impression I leave you."
Nàzhàn's eyes turned cold as he pushed aside the bed curtain. She knelt half-upright by the side, radiant in her beauty, her gray, distant eyes resembling a chessboard, where each step was calculated, each move deliberate.
"Take one step forward," he commanded, pushing the blanket off his lap, sitting upright, his disheveled hair draped behind him as he gazed at her, his expression blank. She moved one step forward.
Nàzhàn gave a faint smile, beckoning. "One more step forward."
She rose again, moving one step closer.
His gaze fell on her skirt, embroidered with a hundred birds surrounding a phoenix—gold thread that shimmered alluringly under the moonlight.
"One step. One more step, and you can come into my arms."
He pulled down his robe, revealing his powerful form, sitting on the bed with an inscrutable expression.
Huáng Běishuāng remained in place, still half-kneeling, her head bowed, her expression unseen.
She did not move forward.
Outside, the bare branches cast chaotic shadows upon the wall, trembling as the wind passed by.
"At thirteen, I had my first woman," Nàzhàn said indifferently from the bed. "She is now my Consort Shū, five years older than I."
Huáng Běishuāng remained silent, kneeling.
"Between a man and a woman, it’s about conquest and submission..." He let out a low laugh. "For instance, if she doesn't submit once, we can try a second time. If she resists one night, we have another night. If she refuses to forget my pleasure, I shall claim her all night until her desires betray her..."
"But you have already abandoned her," Huáng Běishuāng said softly, without lifting her head, her gaze lingering on the dark shadow beneath the bed. She let out a bitter smile. "Consort Shū often comes to my palace to listen to the flute, not for anything else, just to secretly catch a glimpse of you when you visit."
Nàzhàn stood up, naked, only a step away from her. In his line of sight, he saw the jeweled hairpin securing her black hair. He reached out, pulling the pin free, her dark tresses cascading down like water.
"Raise your head."
She didn’t move.
"Perhaps I should tame you the same way."
She laughed softly. "Then I shall repay Your Majesty with the same ending. Neither wife nor pawn nor self. Your Majesty, I shall be but an evanescent memory in your fleeting passions."
He was silent for a moment before reaching out to pull his robe back on.
"You realize, don't you, that by refusing this step, I could sentence you to death?" He sat, lifting her face with his fingers, his gaze insolent, arrogant. "But I cannot sentence you to death, nor will I grant you a second chance to trample on my dignity. So tell me—what should I do?" As he spoke, his fingers pressed against her lips, soft against his rough touch. Then, coldly, he said, "Huáng Běishuāng, kneel at my feet—all night—loyally at my feet until dawn breaks."
Obediently, she nodded, lowering herself entirely.
Nàzhàn’s fingers slowly—ever so slowly—left her lips. He shifted slightly on the bed, his hand finding the small xūn, and lifted it, playing softly.
The xūn's melody was lonely, unlike the ethereal sound of a flute or the elegance of a shawm. It was like a deep sigh, ebbing and rising within the opulent Yúnyǔ Hall. Huáng Běishuāng listened, her head bowed, as if seeing before her waves of yellow sand lifted by the wind, rolling layer upon layer, rustling endlessly, until at last, as one opened their eyes, a crescent dune extended far beyond sight.
No love songs echoed within Yúnyǔ Hall; the bed of supposed entwinement was barren of intimacy.
In the winter night, he scoffed at himself—what did it even mean to feel hunger for passion? The woman—beautiful and composed, untouched by turmoil—knelt at his feet through the entire night, refusing to step closer. That single step, as if separated by a chasm, became a Stygian river. On the far shore, perhaps, indeed lay the last memory she left for him.
The xūn's mournful tune resonated, sleepless through the night; with her, there was always no sleep.
In the winter of 331 AD, a harsh frost arrived. War loomed in the great desert, yet Huáng Běishuāng led her long retinue away from Yúnpèi. At the gates of Guǎngpíng City, her people saw her off, but she did not look back once.
Within ten days, she fulfilled his expectations, drawing away Féntiān's forces and laying siege to Fú Píng.
That day, upon receiving the news, he sat atop his warhorse, gazing in the direction of Mízàn. Huáng Běishuāng would never know—he had always thought, no matter whose hands she fell into, as long as he emerged victorious in the end, she would never escape his grasp, just like Yùháo in the past.
And he had enough patience to wait for the day he would see her again.
...
Who knows how many years had passed? In the Guānyǐng Palace, the twenty-one Jiěmǎ trees bloomed year after year, flowers raining down in vivid hues. Perhaps these earthly blossoms could never compare to the pure white of falling snow, but who could say that the drifting snow—though it may swirl for a thousand years—had ever borne such fragrance?
He often stood alone in Huáiyuè Pavilion, gazing at the beautiful Jiěmǎ trees. It was only after an unknown length of time that he realized loneliness was no more than the anticipation before the flowers bloomed, no more than the wandering after the petals had fallen.
To wait, to wander, to wander, to wait...
Victory had long since become a dull memory, and the day he would see her again never came.
The breeze was soft, the waters clear; beside the long corridor, a lone shadow stood in solitude.
Old Master, blood does not defy fate. My fate—was it fortune? Or misfortune?
Old Master, even after so many years, I can still see you standing by the door, smiling and asking: "Have you fallen in love with this woman?"