The courtyard was still cloaked in gray when Lu Ming stepped out barefoot onto the packed earth. A faint mist curled around the garden stones, and dew clung to the training poles like beads of glass. The world had yet to wake, but his blood was already stirring, eager.
Behind him, Sun Rong stumbled out carrying two wooden practice swords, yawning so wide it looked as if his jaw might unhinge. His hair stuck out in odd angles, his tunic half-fastened.
"Young master," the servant groaned, dragging his feet, "the sun hasn't even thought about waking. Could we not… start a little later? Say, after breakfast? Or after two breakfasts?"
Lu Ming smirked but said nothing. The air was brisk, biting against his skin, and it filled him with something sharper than coffee ever had in his first life.
A steady tread approached from the side gate. Zhao Yunliang entered, already armored in his simple leather vest, sword belted at his hip. The guard's hair was bound neatly, his eyes alert despite the hour. He gave the courtyard a slow, approving glance.
"Good. You're awake before the city," Yunliang said. His tone was flat, but there was the faintest spark of approval in it. "A man who cannot rise with the dawn will never outlast an enemy who can."
Sun Rong groaned again and muttered, "Then may all my enemies oversleep…" but quickly straightened when Yunliang's gaze flicked his way.
"Warm-up first," Yunliang commanded. "Jog the perimeter of the courtyard. Twenty laps."
"Twenty?" Sun Rong nearly dropped the practice swords.
But Lu Ming simply started running. His steps were awkward at first—his body still soft from years of indulgence—but determination smoothed the rhythm. He felt the earth under his feet, the air tearing through his lungs.
In my second life, I relied too much on wit, on manipulation, on alliances. When the fighting came, when blades cut through the smoke, I was always the weakest man in the room. That ends now.
By the fifth lap, sweat beaded at his temples. By the tenth, his breath came ragged, his thighs burning. Sun Rong had already collapsed against the wall, wheezing dramatically.
"Young master, leave me here to die… bury me beneath the plum tree…"
Lu Ming barked a laugh despite the ache, forcing his legs to keep moving. "Get up, Rong. If I can run, so can you."
Sun Rong groaned but dragged himself back onto the path, shuffling after him like a condemned man.
When they finished, Yunliang didn't let them rest. "Stretch. Loosen the body before it stiffens. Battle does not wait for your muscles to recover."
They bent, twisted, pulled, until every joint felt aflame. Chen Ronghua appeared at the veranda with a folded cloth in her arms. She set it down with a scowl, watching the boys sweat like oxen.
"You'll break his bones before he's even of age," she snapped at Yunliang, though her voice carried more worry than venom.
Yunliang didn't look at her. "Better his bones ache now than his body fail him later."
Lu Ming straightened, chest heaving, and gave the maid a faint grin. "I'll survive, Ronghua. Don't worry."
She pursed her lips but said nothing more.
"Now," Yunliang said, drawing the practice swords from Sun Rong's limp hands and tossing one to Lu Ming. "Sword drills. Ten basic swings. Do not think of flourishes. Do not think of beauty. Strength first, form second, speed last."
Lu Ming tightened his grip. The wood felt heavy, unfamiliar, but he adjusted, feet planting in the dirt.
Yunliang stood before him, demonstrating a clean downward cut. His movements were stripped of anything unnecessary—no twirls, no wasted arcs. "This is all you need to kill a man. The rest are lies told by poets."
Lu Ming mirrored him. The first swing was clumsy, unbalanced. The second struck with more control. By the fifth, his arms screamed. By the tenth, his shoulders felt like fire.
"Again," Yunliang ordered.
They drilled until Lu Ming's tunic clung to him with sweat, until his palms blistered. Sun Rong tried to follow along but dropped his sword twice, each time muttering oaths that made Chen Ronghua swat at him with her towel.
Finally, Yunliang nodded. "Better. Remember this: in battle, flashy moves will kill you. A man who can cut the same way a thousand times, without faltering, is the man who wins."
Lu Ming met his gaze, chest heaving. Consistency. Foundation. That's what I never had before. This time, I'll build it.
"Footwork now." Yunliang traced a square in the dirt with his boot. "Stand inside. Move corner to corner. Step—not leap. Always balanced, always ready. A sword is nothing without the feet that carry it."
The drills continued. Forward, back, left, right. Balance, posture, breath. Over and over until Lu Ming's legs shook as if they belonged to someone else.
The sun finally crested the horizon, bathing the courtyard in gold. Chen Ronghua set a tray of water down with a pointed glare, though she hid the faint pride in her eyes.
"Enough for today," Yunliang said at last. "Eat. Rest. Then again tomorrow. And the day after. Strength is not built in a day. It is earned one dawn at a time."
Lu Ming bowed slightly, sweat dripping down his nose. "Thank you, Yunliang. I'll be here at dawn."
Yunliang gave the faintest nod, the closest thing to a smile Lu Ming had ever seen on the man.
As the guard departed, Sun Rong collapsed flat on the dirt, arms splayed. "I'll never eat again. I'll never walk again. Just bury me here. Tell my father I died a martyr to exercise."
Lu Ming laughed, hauling him up by the arm. "You'll live. And tomorrow you'll curse me again. But that's how we grow."
Sun Rong grumbled incoherently, but as Lu Ming glanced back at the courtyard—the sweat-stained earth, the rising sun, the smell of morning—he felt something he hadn't felt in two lifetimes.
Hope.
He was still catching his breath when Chen Ronghua reappeared, arms crossed. "Young master, the steward came earlier while you were out here trying to kill yourself. Your father ordered you to prepare. This evening, the family will attend a banquet at General Lu Zhi's residence. He has just returned from campaign, and all Lu clan branches are expected to be present."
Lu Ming's pulse steadied. A banquet—not in their home, but in Lu Zhi's hall, beneath the eyes of his soldiers and allies. That meant spectacle. That meant politics. That meant danger.
His father would be there. His mother, his elder brother, his younger sister. Their family would walk into the lion's den together.
Lu Ming wiped the sweat from his brow, eyes narrowing with resolve."So be it."
The Lu residence stirred as dusk fell. Servants moved briskly through the courtyards, lanterns flaring to life one by one, painting the walls in amber. Outside the main hall, the Lu family gathered in their formal attire.
Madam Chen adjusted her daughter's cloak with fussing hands, tugging the hood up against the evening chill. "Lan'er, remember to sit quietly beside me. Do not chatter unless spoken to."
"I know, Mother," Lu Lan replied, though her eyes were wide with excitement. She had dressed in pale green silk embroidered with plum blossoms, her cheeks lightly rouged. At ten years old, the girl could hardly contain her eagerness—her first real banquet outside the family estate.
Lu Heng stood nearby in dark riding robes, his face carved in its usual stone. He checked the buckles on his belt, then glanced at his sons. "Mount up. We ride behind the carriage. Keep your posture straight—remember where you are going."
"Yes, Father," Lu Xian said evenly.
Lu Ming followed suit, bowing his head. His horse waited at the gate, glossy hide steaming faintly in the cool air. He swung into the saddle with less grace than his elder brother, but determination steadied him.
Ronghua lingered at the veranda, arms folded, watching him climb up. "Don't go embarrassing yourself, young master," she muttered under her breath. But there was no venom in it—only concern.
The steward stepped forward. "The lady and young miss will ride ahead in the carriage. Master Heng, the young lords—your horses are ready."
The lacquered carriage rolled out first, its lanterns casting a soft glow on the cobbled street. Madam Chen and Lu Lan sat within, veiled by embroidered curtains. Behind, the men of the Lu family formed their escort: Lu Heng at the front, Lu Xian beside him, and Lu Ming trailing a length behind. The rhythmic clop of hooves echoed into the night.
The streets of Luoyang bustled even at this hour. Shops spilled lamplight into the road, hawkers calling their wares to lingering customers. But beneath the city's brightness, unease lingered. Lu Ming caught snatches of conversation as they rode—peasants muttering about food shortages, whispers of unrest in the countryside.
"…crops failed in Henan again…""…heard the fishermen on the Yi River haven't eaten in days…""…Yellow Heaven bless us, the officials won't…"
The words made his chest tighten. In his first life, he had ridden to such banquets oblivious, thinking them mere social games for nobles. He had not understood that each rumor, each whisper, was the sound of storm clouds gathering.
This time, he vowed, he would listen.
Their path wound north toward the military quarter, where Lu Zhi's compound loomed. Torches lined the entrance, soldiers posted at rigid attention. The gates bore banners stitched with the Lu family crest, proud yet austere—a reflection of the man himself.
Even before entering, the difference was clear. This was not the gilded decadence of the eunuchs' mansions. Lu Zhi's residence radiated discipline. Every guard's uniform was immaculate, every horse stabled in neat rows. Efficiency and order bled from the walls.
A steward in formal robes greeted them at the gate. "General Lu Heng, the household welcomes your presence. Please, this way."
They dismounted. Servants led the horses aside while Madam Chen and Lu Lan were helped down from the carriage. Together, the family stepped into the courtyard, where lanterns burned bright against the dusk. Other guests were arriving as well—minor lords, military officers, scholars of the Han court. Clusters formed quickly, families recognizing their allies, others exchanging cool nods across the space.
Lu Ming trailed half a step behind his brother, observing. Already he noticed the invisible lines of power. Which clan greeted Lu Heng warmly, which barely inclined their heads. Who lingered near Lu Zhi's retainers as if hoping for favor, who eyed them warily from a distance.
In his last life, all this had been a blur. He had eaten, drunk, and laughed without care. Now he saw the battlefield hidden beneath silk sleeves and painted smiles.
They entered the banquet hall, and the sound of strings and flutes swept over them. The chamber was vast, its beams carved with coiling dragons, lanterns casting a soft glow across silk banners. Musicians played in one corner, while servants poured wine into bronze cups that gleamed beneath the firelight.
At the far end, Lu Zhi himself stood in formal robes, white streaking his beard but his back straight as a sword. He spoke with another official, his voice carrying authority without effort.
"Master Lu Heng," the steward announced, "and family."
Lu Zhi turned, his stern expression softening just enough to acknowledge them. "Heng. It has been too long."
The two men clasped forearms—a warrior's greeting. "Too long," Lu Heng agreed. "Your campaigns bring honor to the Han."
Lu Zhi's gaze swept over the family. "This must be your daughter. And your sons—Xian, Ming. You grow into your father's shoulders."
Lu Ming bowed respectfully, careful to keep his expression composed. "General."
Lu Zhi gave a faint nod before turning back to his duties as host, directing them to their seats.
They settled at a table near the hall's center. Lu Xian was quickly drawn into conversation with the son of another officer, their tones measured and polite. Madam Chen whispered softly to Lu Lan, pointing out the various wives and daughters across the room. Lu Heng remained silent, observing the room with the same hawk's gaze he brought to the battlefield.
Lu Ming sipped his wine lightly, watching. His eyes traced the interplay of laughter and side-glances, the careful weighing of words, the subtle maneuvering of families hungry for power.
And then he noticed him.
Zhao Cheng.
The son of Minister Zhao swept into the hall as if he owned it, his robe of crimson silk embroidered with golden clouds. A small entourage trailed him, sycophants laughing too loudly at every word. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his expression perpetually fixed in a smug half-smile.
Even before their eyes met, Lu Ming remembered the bitterness of his second life—how Zhao Cheng had hounded him, mocked him, sabotaged him whenever the chance arose. How, in the end, Zhao Cheng's petty games had been one more thorn that drove him deeper into ruin.
Their gazes locked across the banquet hall. Zhao Cheng's grin widened, faintly wolfish.
Lu Ming did not look away. He only raised his cup, calm, the barest flicker of a smile on his lips.
The game had already begun.
The banquet began in earnest once all the honored guests had arrived. Bronze bells chimed thrice, and the servants moved like a well-rehearsed army. Trays of lacquer and jade flowed into the hall—steamed river fish glazed with ginger, duck lacquered to a golden sheen, venison with peppercorn and wine. Bowls of fragrant rice were set down, cups refilled before they ever ran dry.
The music swelled: zithers and pipes blending into a melody that curled like smoke through the rafters. Dancers followed, their sleeves drifting like clouds, their bodies bending with the grace of water reeds. For a moment, the hall seemed to breathe as one—officials laughing, officers drinking deeply, wives and daughters murmuring among themselves.
Lu Ming sat between his father and brother, quiet but attentive. He took measured sips of wine, enough to appear sociable but never cloud his mind. His gaze roved the hall, absorbing the placement of guests, who spoke with whom, whose laughter was too loud, whose silence too sharp.
It was in the middle of this warmth, as the entertainment lulled and the hall's mood turned mellow, that Zhao Cheng struck.
The minister's son rose languidly, cradling his cup, and let his voice cut across the music.
"Honored elders," he said with an elegant bow that barely concealed his smirk, "we have eaten well, we have drunk deeply. But a banquet should not only feed the body—it should nourish the spirit. Would it not gladden the heart to see the young generation of our noble houses display their talents?"
The musicians hushed, their zithers fading into silence. All eyes turned toward Zhao Cheng.
He continued smoothly, sweeping his arm toward the assembled sons of Lu, Zhao, and the other families. "Surely among us are poets worthy of the court, scholars fit to dazzle the Han with their wit. Why not let them share a verse or two, for the pleasure of our elders?"
The suggestion was innocuous on its surface, but Lu Ming felt its weight land squarely on his shoulders. Zhao Cheng's eyes, sharp as a predator's, lingered on him a beat too long.
Poetry. The favored trap of gatherings like this. It was the kind of game where the privileged sons flaunted their learning, showing off polished couplets memorized from tutors. In his first life, Lu Ming had been goaded into such displays more than once—his verses clumsy, his delivery mocked. He remembered the sting of laughter ringing in his ears, Zhao Cheng's voice the loudest of them all.
Not this time.
Lu Ming reclined slightly in his seat, his expression calm, as though Zhao Cheng's words had nothing to do with him. He let the silence stretch, sipping his wine slowly.
When he finally spoke, it was not to Zhao Cheng but to the head of the hall. "General Lu Zhi," he said mildly, "this is your banquet. Do you share in Zhao Cheng's suggestion?"
The shift was subtle, but its effect rippled instantly. A murmur ran through the hall. Lu Ming had thrown the question back onto the host himself, forcing everyone to glance toward Lu Zhi.
For a moment, the general's heavy brow furrowed, unreadable. Before he could speak, however, several of the men closest to him—ministerial allies of Zhao Cheng's father—leaned forward with oily smiles.
"It is only the playful folly of youth," one chuckled. "Let them amuse themselves. It will lighten the mood."
"Yes, yes," another agreed. "After all, what is wine without a little verse? Surely, General, it does no harm."
Their words were honeyed, but Lu Ming caught the barbs beneath. To them, this was more than a pastime—it was a chance to belittle the military circle, to show that the sons of swordsmen were dull compared to the sons of courtiers.
Lu Zhi's eyes narrowed faintly. He looked toward Lu Heng.
The hall seemed to hold its breath.
Lu Heng's gaze turned toward his second son. His expression was cool, unreadable as always. In truth, he doubted. He had not seen Ming display any scholarly brilliance before—indeed, the boy had been a source of constant disappointment in his earlier years.
But now, as the torchlight played across Ming's face, Lu Heng saw something he had not expected. Not fear. Not shame. But a calm steadiness, as though the boy were not walking into a trap but standing above it, looking down.
Lu Heng gave the smallest of nods.
The gesture was not missed. Lu Zhi, watching closely, caught it and inclined his head. "Very well," he said. "Let the young ones offer their verses. We shall see what the spring generation brings forth."
A ripple of amusement spread through the hall. The stage had been set. Cups clinked, whispers spread like fire in dry grass.
Zhao Cheng's smirk widened. He turned his gaze back to Lu Ming, eyes glittering with the hunger of a predator who believed the kill already in his teeth.
"Then," Zhao Cheng said, voice thick with triumph, "why don't we begin… with Brother Lu Ming?"
The hall stirred again, heads turning, eyes alight with expectation.
But Lu Ming only set down his cup, slow and deliberate, and raised his eyes to meet Zhao Cheng's. Calm. Relaxed. As though this was not a challenge but merely the start of a game he had already prepared to win.