On the third day after the successful trial of the fire lance, Zhao Xu summoned the Privy Council and the commanders of the Three Commands to Chui Gong Hall.
I sat behind the beaded curtain.
The atmosphere in the hall was tenser than usual.
The generals stood straight-backed, their expressions uncertain—half believing, half doubting. They had all heard of the "fire weapon," but none had seen it with their own eyes.
Zhao Xu said little.
He had the eunuchs bring the fire lance forward and place it on the table before the steps.
"I want three hundred made," he said.
His voice wasn't loud, but every person in the hall heard it clearly.
"Within half a month. Then—send them to Huanzhou."
Silence fell.
Then Gao Zunxian, Commander of the Palace Guards, spoke:
"Your Majesty… we have yet to test this weapon. If—"
"Then we test it," Zhao Xu said, rising to his feet. The jade beads of his crown swayed lightly. "Now. To the training ground."
He didn't look toward the curtain.
But I saw his hand tighten slightly.
A small habit.
He did that when he was nervous.
The wind at the training ground was sharp.
Most of the ancient locust tree's leaves had fallen. A few yellow ones clung stubbornly, trembling in the cold.
The canal in the distance had frozen over.
The grounds felt emptier than before.
Director Shen had already set up the fire lance.
Copper tube. Iron bands. Wooden stock.
Rough.
Untamed.
The generals gathered near the target.
Layered wood, iron plate, leather armor—
thicker than before.
"Your Majesty," Gao Zunxian said, "if this weapon truly pierces armor, we should produce it immediately. But… we wish to see it ourselves."
Zhao Xu nodded.
"Director Shen."
The man stepped forward, carefully loading the weapon.
His hands were bandaged—but steady.
Powder.
Packing.
Projectile.
Fuse.
Each movement deliberate.
When he finished, he stepped back, holding a fire starter.
Waiting.
Zhao Xu glanced at the curtain.
At me.
I stood.
"Your Majesty," I said, "I wish to try."
Silence.
The generals lowered their heads—but I could feel their eyes.
The Empress?
Firing a weapon?
Zhao Xu looked at me.
There was something in his eyes—
not surprise,
not concern.
Something else.
"Granted."
One word.
I stepped forward.
Director Shen hesitated, then handed me the flame.
His hands trembled slightly.
I lifted the fire starter.
This was nothing like the guns I knew.
No trigger.
No sights.
Just a tube—
and an explosion waiting to happen.
Back in America, I used to go to the shooting range every weekend.
Pistols.
Rifles.
Even an AR-15 once.
I had been told I had good control.
I never thought that would matter here.
I took a breath.
Braced the weapon against my shoulder.
Cold metal against my cheek.
Hard wood against my shoulder.
Feet apart.
Weight forward.
Body steady.
Muscle memory.
I aligned the barrel.
Estimated the aim.
Then—
I glanced back at him.
He stood three steps away.
Watching.
Hand clenched.
I smiled.
Then turned—
and lit the fuse.
"—hiss—"
One.
Two.
Three—
BOOM—
The explosion was louder than I expected.
Smoke burst upward.
My shoulder jolted violently—
not like a modern rifle,
but raw force.
Crude.
Unforgiving.
The weapon nearly flew from my hands.
I gripped it tight—
nails digging into wood.
My ears rang.
Then—
a sharp intake of breath from the generals.
The smoke cleared.
The iron plate—pierced.
The leather—torn.
The wood—cracked.
The projectile had embedded deep into the earth behind.
Silence.
Then movement.
Gao Zunxian stepped forward, inspecting.
Touching.
Turning.
"…This…"
His voice trembled.
Not fear—
excitement.
I lowered the weapon, shaking out my shoulder.
It would bruise.
Zhao Xu came to me.
"Does it hurt?" he asked softly.
"Not really."
"You're lying."
"…A little."
His expression—
a mix of concern and pride.
"You used weapons like this in America?"
"Better ones."
He studied me.
"A-Heng… you're incredible."
My ears burned.
He turned to the generals.
"You've seen it."
His voice was steady.
Commanding.
"This weapon pierces armor. It breaks cavalry. It will go to Huanzhou."
One by one—
they knelt.
"We obey."
Afterward, the field emptied.
Only us remained.
"Give me your hand," he said.
I did.
He examined my palm.
Red.
Bruised.
"You said it was nothing."
"It is nothing."
He looked at me.
That same complicated expression.
"You went shooting every weekend?"
"Mm."
"Why?"
"…Because it was fun."
He frowned.
"Girls play with guns?"
"In my world, girls do everything."
He shook his head—
but smiled.
"Don't do it again."
"Why?"
"Because you'll get hurt."
"…But you let me try."
He hesitated.
Then—
quietly:
"Because I knew you'd do well."
I froze.
He remembered.
Everything.
"You said it before," he added. "I remembered."
My heart skipped.
"Zhao Xu…"
"You said every word. I remember all of them."
The wind was cold.
But I wasn't.
That night—
he stood behind me.
"Don't move."
His hands rested on my shoulders.
Warm.
Gentle.
He massaged slowly.
Carefully.
"You learned this?"
"I watched the physician."
"…You're the Emperor."
"Emperors are still people."
Silence.
"A-Heng."
"Mm."
"When you stood there today… I thought—this must be what you were like in America."
"…What?"
"Strong. Steady. Not afraid."
"Why should I be afraid?"
"It explodes."
"I'm used to it."
"I know."
Pause.
"But this is the Song Dynasty. You're the Empress. You didn't have to do it."
I turned to him.
"I'm your Empress. Your battles are mine."
He went quiet.
Then leaned forward—
resting his forehead against my shoulder.
"I know… but I don't want you hurt."
"I'm not hurt."
"You're bruised."
"…How do you know?"
"I saw."
My ears burned.
"You—were looking?"
"I wasn't. It just… showed."
"Don't look!"
"I already did."
"Zhao Xu!"
He laughed.
Soft.
Warm.
"A-Heng."
"Mm?"
"Next time—don't do it."
"…Okay."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He held out his little finger.
I laughed—
and hooked mine with his.
"One hundred years. No changing."
"One hundred years."
That night, I wrote:
Today, I fired the fire lance.
My shoulder bruised—but it doesn't hurt.
He said I shouldn't do it again.
He said I looked strong.
He said he remembers everything I've ever said.
He said—even an Emperor can care for someone.
The winter moon outside was pale and bright.
I touched the bruise on my shoulder—
and remembered the warmth of his hands.
One hundred years.
No changing.
He was still that boy—
watching ants in the garden.
Just taller now.
When he looked at me—
there were stars in his eyes.
I closed my eyes.
Tomorrow—
I'll make him osmanthus cakes.
Extra sweet.
He likes sweet things.
[End of Chapter 45]