The streets of Jiangdu teemed with unease. Merchants whispered of advancing armies, mothers clutched their children closer, and guards patrolled with tense eyes. War had crept so near that even the air tasted of ash and iron.
For the first time in months, Liang Yue was allowed beyond the manor walls. Her father had sent her with servants to purchase medicine and grain from the marketplace, supplies desperately needed for the wounded soldiers filling their estate. Though she walked veiled, her posture betrayed her noble birth. Commoners glanced with curiosity but kept their distance—noble houses were both feared and resented in these troubled days.
Yue moved among the stalls, her gaze alert. The air was alive with noise: hawkers calling out prices, horses neighing, the clang of blacksmiths forging weapons. Yet beneath it all lingered tension, like the string of a bow pulled taut.
As her servants haggled for grain, Yue's attention was drawn to a commotion near the northern gate. A group of soldiers had dragged in a prisoner, a tall young man with disheveled hair and bloodstained robes. His hands were bound, but his back remained straight, his dark eyes cold as steel.
The crowd murmured. "A spy from the northern armies," one soldier spat. "Caught near the burned villages."
But Yue saw something different. Despite the grime and chains, the man's bearing was proud, almost regal. His gaze did not waver even as the soldiers shoved him to his knees.
For reasons she could not name, her heart skipped.
The commander barked, "Name yourself!"
The prisoner's lips curved into a faint, bitter smile. "Names mean little on a battlefield. Call me what you like. I am only a man who survived what others could not."
The soldiers snarled and struck him with the butt of a spear. Yet the man did not cry out—he only laughed softly, the sound sending a strange shiver down Yue's spine.
One of the servants tugged at her sleeve. "Young Mistress, we must go. It is dangerous here."
But Yue's gaze lingered. Something about the man—his defiance, his unbroken spirit despite chains—stirred a memory of her own vow beneath the blossoms. If no one else will protect the Liang, then I will.
The commander finally ordered the prisoner dragged to the barracks for questioning. The crowd dispersed, muttering about spies and traitors. Yet Yue could not shake the image of his eyes, sharp as a blade, cutting through the noise of the world.
Later that evening, the manor was restless. More refugees poured into the city, their stories grim. Yue helped distribute medicine in the hall, tending to the wounded soldiers. She moved quietly, but her mind kept drifting to the man at the gate.
Who was he?
Meanwhile, in the barracks, the "prisoner" sat cross-legged despite his chains. His name was Wei Chen, though he had not spoken it aloud. He bore no loyalty to the northern invaders, nor to the corrupt southern court. His loyalty was only to vengeance—against the sect that had destroyed his clan, leaving him wandering the war-torn world with nothing but his sword.
He had allowed himself to be captured, curious to see the strength—or weakness—of Jiangdu. But the memory of a veiled girl in the crowd lingered in his mind. She had not looked at him with fear or contempt. Her gaze had been sharp, questioning, almost… familiar.
Wei Chen smirked faintly. "So fate wishes to play this game," he murmured.
The next day, Yue returned to the courtyard for training with Old He. Her arms ached from practice, her breath ragged, but her spirit only grew sharper. Each strike of her wooden sword felt more alive, as though it carried not just her strength, but her will.
"You grow faster than I expected," Old He said, watching her with narrowed eyes. "But you must be cautious. Great talent draws great danger."
Yue nodded, though her mind wandered to the man in chains. Danger has already come, she thought. If he is truly an enemy, why do I feel drawn to him?
That night, under the pale glow of the moon, she dreamed of blossoms falling across a battlefield. A lone swordsman stood amidst the carnage, his blade gleaming crimson, his eyes steady and unyielding. She reached for him, but the distance between them stretched like an endless road.
When she awoke, her heart was racing.
And somewhere in the barracks, Wei Chen stared at the same moon, whispering to himself, "We will meet again."
The threads of destiny tightened, pulling two lives inexorably closer.