The city of Jiangdu stirred beneath the red glow of dusk, its streets buzzing with merchants closing shop and soldiers patrolling the walls. From the highest balcony of the Liang manor, a young woman gazed at the horizon where smoke rose faintly from the northern borders. War drums had been echoing for weeks, and even within the once-proud manor, the sound brought unease.
Liang Yue tightened her grip on the wooden railing. At seventeen, she carried herself with the quiet grace of a noble daughter, but her heart burned with restless fire. The House of Liang, once a pillar of the Eastern Kingdom, was crumbling. Their soldiers had been sent to the front lines, their lands taxed beyond measure, and whispers in the court said the Liang name would soon vanish from history.
Inside the grand hall, her father, Lord Liang Zhong, argued with his ministers.
"Another request for troops? Do they wish to strip us bare?" his voice roared, though exhaustion weighed on his shoulders. He was once a hero on the battlefield, but age and politics had dulled his blade.
Yue listened from the shadows of the corridor, her fists clenched. She hated the helplessness in her father's tone. A family with such a proud legacy, reduced to begging scraps of honor from corrupt officials—was this the fate of the Liang?
Later, in the quiet of her chamber, Yue unrolled a silk scroll. The moonlight glinted on ink strokes that described basic sword forms. It was forbidden for noble daughters to train in martial arts—her place was supposed to be at the weaving loom, not the battlefield. But Yue had no patience for waiting to be married off while her family fell into ruin.
She rose, sliding a wooden practice sword from beneath her bed. Her late mother had left her nothing but the scroll and a whispered promise: "Yue, blossoms must bloom even in the harshest winters. One day, this path will protect you."
In the courtyard, she moved through the forms in silence. Her steps were clumsy, her blade unbalanced, but her eyes burned with determination. Sweat trickled down her brow as she practiced, stroke after stroke, until her arms ached.
From the shadows, an old servant watched silently. He dared not interrupt, but his heart trembled. This young mistress… she carried a fire too bright for the walls of this fading house.
As Yue's wooden sword cut through the night air, a single blossom from the courtyard tree drifted down, landing at her feet. She bent, picking it up, and whispered, "If Heaven will not protect the Liang, then I will."
Far beyond the manor walls, beyond the borders of her sheltered world, another pair of eyes gazed upon the same moon—the eyes of a swordsman wandering the war-torn roads. Fate had begun to weave its crimson thread.