The attendants helped Tilan and Jichang mount their horses, and the soldiers reformed their ranks, preparing to return to Chiran Bay Wharf before nightfall completely descended.
Tilan removed the silk shawl from her shoulders and handed it to Gongye. The sea wind suddenly rushed into her thin, gold-embroidered crimson gauze dress, as if she were about to be swept away like a dandelion seed riding the wind.
Gongye stared blankly at the bright blue frost-return brocade shawl in her hands, then suddenly burst into loud sobs. She threw the shawl into the dust and tightly gripped the reins of Tilan’s ibex-horse, refusing to let go. “Your Highness, I will go with you!” she cried. Everyone was stunned, unsure of what had caused this sudden outburst.
The girl on horseback was even paler than Gongye, yet she shook her head with a faint smile. “Gongye, have you ever lied to me?” Gongye shook her head, choking back sobs.
“Then have I ever lied to you?” Tilan asked again.
Gongye remained silent, only shaking her head, her face streaked with tears.
“So, what use would it be for you to come? Let go,” Tilan said with a bitter smile.
But Gongye stubbornly clung to the reins, refusing to release them. Tilan reached out and gently touched Gongye’s slender yet strong hand, giving it a tender squeeze. Then, without warning, she raised the decorative golden whip in her hand and struck Gongye’s hand sharply.
Jichang had never imagined Tilan could muster such strength, and Gongye likely hadn’t expected it either. Startled by the sudden pain, she instinctively loosened her grip. In one swift motion, Tilan flicked the whip again, this time striking the horse’s flank. The nimble ibex-horse broke free from the crowd and, following the direction of the sea breeze, galloped straight toward the pine forest behind the temple.
The attendants and soldiers were caught off guard and scrambled to give chase, but the ibex-horse quickly left them far behind.
Just as Jichang was about to spur his horse in pursuit, Tang Qianzi stopped him urgently. “I’ll go!” he insisted. Seeing the anxiety in Tang’s eyes, Jichang dismounted and handed him the whip. Without another word, Tang Qianzi raced off, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.
Deep within the dense forest, amidst the deep green darkness, flashes of crimson and gold fabric fluttered as Tilan rode. A chilling wind whistled past her ears, reminding her of the swift arrows that had rained down during the Night of the Panxiao Rebellion. Gritting her teeth against the pain of thin branches tearing at her skin and the blind fear, she wrapped the reins around her hand, leaned low, and clung tightly to the horse’s neck, urging it onward. The ibex-horse was an intelligent and loyal creature; if they ventured deep enough into the forest, it would lead her to water, to the legendary lake.
She heard the rustling of leaves and the roars of wild beasts, but the ibex-horse was swift as the wind, quickly leaving those terrifying sounds far behind. It leaped over low shrubs and continued its relentless gallop.
“O gods, if you still have pity on me…” Tilan clutched the dragon-tailed deity pendant at her chest, her cheek pressed against the warm neck of the horse, murmuring a prayer.
The ibex-horse darted like lightning through the trees, breaking through tangles of vines. Its hooves sometimes splashed through puddles, other times struck sparks against the stone slabs of ruins. Ever since leaving the temple, the path had been descending, as if the horse were racing unhesitatingly toward a path of destruction. Tilan felt the damp, cool air around her growing colder, almost condensing into dew. Perhaps it was already night—or perhaps they were drawing closer to the lake at the heart of the island.
From far behind, she heard someone calling her name.
He had almost failed to find her.The deeper they ventured into the forest, the denser and more menacing the trees became. Pines had long since disappeared, replaced by thick, grotesque plants whose spear-like leaves and blossoms were tangled in moss and vines, indistinguishable in type or number, like writhing, bloated spirits exuding a foul odor of decay. Tilann stood at the end of the path, as still as a drop of water upon her horse, her figure swallowed by the eerie green miasma. Even the fresh bloodstains and slightly torn finery she wore were dyed a murky hue.
Hearing the hoofbeats approach, she lifted her face and smiled radiantly. "You've come." With that, she casually turned her horse and lightly nudged its flank, urging the mountain antelope horse forward.
Tang Qianzi spurred his horse to overtake her, then turned to block her path from the front, seizing her mount's bridle. "Your Highness, come back with me." "It's too late, Zhenchu," Tilann replied with a smile. "It's getting dark, isn't it? We've been out for about two hours now. If we turn back, traveling in the dark will only slow us down, just in time for the nocturnal beasts to emerge. Our only path is forward." "Going forward is also certain death. They're probably already searching the woods for us. It's better to turn back." Tilann shook her head. "Not far ahead is the lake. At night, beasts dare not approach the water." "Why?" he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Tilann readjusted the golden xieluo flower that had slipped from her temple. "Do you remember the story Gongye told? The lakeshore blooms with xieluo flowers like fire." She chuckled softly, patted her horse's neck, and the animal darted forward gracefully.
"What exactly are you trying to do?" he nearly shouted in anger. "Thousands of lives depend on you out there!" But she didn't answer him, only turned back with a smile that spread like wild roses blooming across the spring plains, dazzling even in the darkness. That smile reminded him of the night years ago when he had raised his sword toward her but could never bring it down. He owed her, even if she remained oblivious to it.
He sighed and caught up to her again, taking her reins. "I'll lead the way." The two mountain antelope horses followed one after the other, disappearing into the deepening green mist.
The prison-like gloom of the forest seemed endless, yet at some point, the surroundings began to change subtly. The green remained, but it now glowed with a faint, phosphorescent light, as if countless tiny lanterns were lit behind the dense leaves. After another half-hour, the last trace of daylight vanished, yet that cool, eerie glow continued to illuminate their path.
In the distance, through the gaps in the trees, Tang Qianzi spotted a flickering orange-red light—clearly a fire. But as they drew halfway, it disappeared. He had no idea where they were headed, simply letting the two mountain antelope horses guide them downward along the steep, sunken terrain. The crisp sound of hooves striking the ground grew more frequent until they broke into a gallop, riding side by side like a swift wind. Amid the violent jolting, he reined in his horse with one hand while keeping a firm grip on Tilann's reins with the other. Just as he moved to pull her closer, he suddenly felt weightless, hurled into the air by an immense, unexpected force.
The two mountain antelope horses leaped one after the other, soaring over dense shrubs taller than a person. In the silent, wild forest, a vast light surged toward them, blinding him momentarily.Tang Qianzi’s body slammed heavily onto the saddle before tumbling sideways into the grass, where sharp blades of foliage scratched his face. Pushing himself up, he noticed that Tilán had also been thrown to the ground, half of her body submerged in water. He rushed over, but as he reached to lift her by the shoulders, his hand froze mid-air, unmoving.
All around, silence reigned, the night mist flowing like a veil.
Dense clusters of trees crowded the lowest depression, where a stretch of water suddenly unfolded—a vast, dark eye of a deity gazing at the starry sky, both lucid and profound, its expanse startling to behold. Countless tiny silver lights rose from the water’s surface, drifting like smoke or willow catkins, floating upward toward the heavens. Beneath the shimmering lake light lay a pool of thick, ink-like darkness, as if concealing unfathomable secrets.
The two rock antelope horses, having run too far, were parched with thirst and had already charged straight into the lake, burying their heads to drink deeply.
Tilán cupped her hands to gather water. The lake’s surface was dark as lacquer, reflecting the sky, yet the water itself was transparent and untainted, trickling through her fingers with a clear, lonely echo. She laughed with irrepressible joy, like a carefree child. At last, she had found it—this legendary lake rumored to connect with hidden waterways to the sea and conceal countless treasures.
Across the vast, misty expanse, a small flame suddenly ignited on the opposite shore, its reflection rippling across the dark, silvery water all the way to the lake’s center. In an instant, two or three more flames lit up in succession, shattering the shimmering glow.
Suddenly, Tang Qianzi grabbed Tilán and pulled her several steps back from the shore. By the light of those flames, he noticed faint ripples parting the lake’s surface, moving toward them.
It was a person, walking up from the depths of the lake, gradually revealing their head, neck, and bare upper body.
“Zhenchu… what’s wrong?” Tilán, held tightly in Tang Qianzi’s embrace, asked in confusion.
But Tang Qianzi did not answer.
Indigo-purple hair clung wetly to sharp cheekbones, with intricate tattoo patterns coiling from the forehead down to beneath the eyes. The figure appeared quite young, their sleek muscles covered in smooth, wet skin that glimmered with the grayish-blue hue of deep-sea fish. Their posture was slender and upright, and with each step, they moved like the subtle flexing of a fir-wood bow, exuding a silent strength.
It took every ounce of Tang Qianzi’s will to suppress the cry of shock rising in his throat.
The desperate pirates from the Eastern Continent paid no heed to the legends of the Dragon-Tailed God. They would venture into these dense woods, bite down on fish-bladder air sacs, and dive into the lake in search of their dream treasure troves. Now he understood completely why some of them never returned; why others ended up wandering the ports, drowning in drink, only to be found dead on the streets one morning; and why those who made it back home could never again form a coherent sentence.
The lake’s shore sloped gently, and the dark waters parted before the figure as they approached step by step, revealing a fish-tendon crossbow in hand and sharp, steel-like scales below the waist. There were no legs—instead, a long, powerful draconic tail extended from the lower body, coiling upright on the ground like the descendants of ancient mythical dragon gods. Though the Eastern Continent never revered merfolk as deities, few had ever laid eyes on their true forms. Such otherworldly beauty—when the struggling ancestors of the Western Continent first witnessed it millennia ago amid storms and waves, they could find no other name but “Dragon-Tailed God.”
“What is that?” Tilán frowned, listening intently to the sound of the water.The creature that appeared half-divine and half-human now stood merely twenty paces away from them.
Tang Qianzi calculated inwardly: the fish-tendon crossbow had both an impressive range and formidable force; launching a reckless attack would be futile. Even if he managed to engage the merman before them, Tilan, being blind, would face extreme danger if she tried to escape alone. For a moment, he found himself at a loss, and could only wrap an arm around her as they retreated a few more steps. A mountain antelope horse, seemingly having drunk its fill, ambled leisurely as it grazed, gradually drawing closer to them, completely unaware of the peril.
Seeing Tang Qianzi’s intent to retreat, the merman did not advance further. Instead, he raised the crossbow in his hand toward the side. A sharp whistle cut through the air, and another mountain antelope horse still drinking by the lake let out a pained whinny before collapsing, dead—likely the arrowhead had been poisoned. The merman then drew a line in front of himself with his blue-webbed hand, his expression indifferent, as if marking a boundary not to be crossed. With a twist of his serpentine tail, he turned and slipped back into the lake. Soon, Mirror Lake returned to tranquility, and the mountains and forests were cloaked in ink-like darkness. Were it not for the dead horse still lying in the water, Tang Qianzi might have thought it all a dream.
The fires on the opposite shore gradually died out, yet scattered lights flickered here and there as new flames ignited one after another—perhaps mermen in the distance were relaying messages to one another.
A sudden hiss , like the sound of kindling catching fire, sent another chill down his spine. Tilan, initially stunned, quickly understood and broke free from his arm in a burst of joy, running toward the sound.
A brilliant flower of flame swayed in the wind, its petals and stamens vividly distinct, illuminating the nearby withered branches that stood stark as iron. The tree bore no leaves, its branches rigid and pointing straight toward the sky, sporadically adorned with fist-sized, luminous white buds. Under the firelight, they gleamed with a cold shimmer, and upon closer inspection, they were coated in an extremely thin layer of ice.
Tilan gasped softly in awe and reached out toward the warmth of the flame, only to be singed instantly. She drew a sharp breath, pulling her fingers back to blow on them gently.
“Tilan!” Tang Qianzi grabbed her hand, preventing her from getting closer.
“Zhenchu, what does it look like?” Tilan wasn’t angry; instead, she turned to him with a radiant smile, her face glowing.
Just as he was about to answer, she rose on her tiptoes and playfully covered his mouth with both hands, laughing, “No, don’t tell me.” At that moment, the flame flower burned even more fiercely, becoming too brilliant to look at directly. A sudden mountain gust swept past, and with a soft puff , the flame extinguished. In the dissipating white smoke, its true form was revealed: a large, pale blue flower, its multiple petals cupped like a bowl, with slender, silky stamens resembling moth antennae.
Tang Qianzi caught sight of the pure gold floral hairpiece beside Tilan’s temple and suddenly understood—this was Xieluo, the extraordinary flower that, when dried and steeped in wine, could grant a dream with just one bloom. What cannot be obtained remains out of reach; what cannot be kept slips away beyond recall. This flower offers a brief three hours, allowing one to relive fleeting moments of happiness and behold faces never to be seen again in this lifetime. Yet, so many are willing to pay the steep price for it. This addictive, poison-like flower, together with strong liquor, fills the bottomless voids in countless hearts, night after day.
“Zhenchu, you promised you would take me away.” Tilan lifted her profound, sightless eyes, as if looking at him, yet seeming to see straight through him. The night wind carried the distant crackle of leaping flames."I did say that one day I would take you away," he reassured her, his hand steadying her shoulder.
Her smile deepened, though her tone grew somber. "I forced you to say that. Perhaps you weren’t willing." "Why say such things?" he sighed.
She continued to smile. "I never imagined that one day, things between us would turn out like this. When you first saw me, you probably thought, 'What an annoying child,' wishing you could cast me aside like a burden." Tang Qianzi was momentarily speechless, as the floodgates of memory burst open, roaring forth from distant years.
They were both so young back then. He, the oldest at sixteen, already bore the weight of Ji Chang and five thousand soldiers' lives, with nothing to rely on but the sword in his hand. Rain fell from a crimson sky, flames soared, and even the raindrops seemed tinged with red. Fresh blood splattered across his face, blurring his vision, but there was no retreat. Behind him were the trembling figures of eleven-year-old Ji Chang and six-year-old Tilan, huddled together.
People said he had saved Tilan, but he knew it wasn’t him who had spared her life—it was his own feeble sense of pity. He had never possessed the selflessness to protect others. On that blood-soaked night, amidst slaughter and schemes, to protect himself and Ji Chang, he would have cut down a hundred Tilans without hesitation.
In the violent whirlpool of a chaotic era, they were nothing but ants swept along by the current, too weak to protect even themselves, forced to cling together. He and Ji Chang were entangled by the snares of fate, inseparable. Though they spoke of loyalty and duty, their hearts were starkly clear—without it, they would not survive.
"Right, Zhenchu? You thought I was a burden back then, didn’t you?" Tilan tilted her face toward him, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.
He snapped out of his reverie and replied firmly, "No." Tilan seemed startled by his answer, her smile fading to reveal a desolate look of surprise. As he reached out to take her hand, she turned and walked away.
Beside the extinguished Xieluo flower, a bud swelled slightly, thin ice cracking and snaking across its surface, causing the dark branches to tremble. After a tense moment, the tip of the pristine bud suddenly split open, and a tongue of flame flickered from within. Then, the icy fragments shattered and scattered, and all the tightly furled petals burst into a brilliant, blazing bloom, radiating intense light and heat.
Tilan reached out, grasped the stem, and plucked the flower despite the searing pain. "Zhenchu, you know, those who cannot see despise being deceived the most." He felt a sudden chill sweep through his entire body.
"I know you were only sixteen then, afraid of death, unaware of whose child I was, unwilling to be implicated, and fearful I might reveal your whereabouts." Cradling the flame-like flower, she remained with her back to him, refusing to turn around. He could not see the expression on her face.
Tang Qianzi opened his mouth to speak, but managed only an "I" before she shook her head quietly, and he fell silent."I was still young when I returned to the capital from Fengnan. You dared not tell me then, and I understand your reasons. At that time, I was arrogant and willful, blind to the hardships you endured, and in my anger, I would have surely made things difficult for you. Later, as we grew closer... those distant events need not be dredged up again, need they? I’ve thought through all the reasons on your behalf, Zhenchu. I understand the logic, yet I still cannot resign myself to it." Her voice trembled with sorrow, yet she felt the suppressed tremor in the chest of the person behind her.
She turned abruptly, her hands reaching up to touch his cold, dry cheeks, where her fingers brushed against a tear he himself had not noticed. A single drop, quivering delicately on her fingertip.
It was then that Tang Qianzi realized the heart of the Xieluo flower was brimming with clear night dew. The moment Tilan dipped her tear-stained fingertip into it, the dew transformed into molten silver. A brilliant white light pierced through the flames, which gradually dimmed and finally extinguished, leaving only a flower like a glass cup, gently cradling a pool of cold, jade-green water.
Tilan suddenly threw her head back, as if to drink it all in one gulp, but instead, she poured the cup of night dew urgently over her forehead. The water splashed and scattered like a flurry of snowflakes, nearly obscuring her face. Even from several steps away, Tang Qianzi could feel the bone-chilling cold. Yet Tilan showed no fear, letting the dew cascade like a spring, flowing over her wide-open eyes, freezing into tiny, clear blue ice beads on her lashes and hair, only to melt away in an instant.
Tang Qianzi vaguely sensed that this was a startling turn of events, yet he clung to a sliver of hope, unwilling to believe it. He dared not step forward to touch her—her solitary, resolute figure seemed as fragile as a reflection in water, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
She stood with her head held high for a long time, her butterfly-wing-like lashes holding droplets of water, blinking several times. Her posture remained as still as stone, her eyes wide and fixed on the sky. Tang Qianzi could only see her silent, faint smile, an expression of utmost joy, yet tears streamed unrestrained down her face.
Tilan lowered her head and looked around, her gaze lingering greedily, as if trying to seize the sight of the lake’s reflection, the trees, and the flickering lights with her eyes alone.
Finally, her gaze returned, firmly fixed on him, unwavering.
For ten years, she had known him. In the darkness, she had listened as his clear, youthful voice deepened into the warm, steady tone of a man—like reaching through an iron cage to grasp a handful of sunlight. She had imagined his appearance countless times, tracing it with her fingertips. His shoulders were slender, unlike a military man’s, more like a scholar in armor, his brows and eyes naturally concealing a heroic spirit, like the sharp edge of a sword, revealed only in the moment it was drawn, a flash of chilling brilliance.
This moment, she had envisioned and rehearsed repeatedly, like an oyster swallowing a grain of sand, polishing it into a pearl—a process of pain, yet with deeply buried hope and sweetness. She had imagined ten thousand scenarios, but never this one.
Her lover, always by her side yet never seen, now beheld for the first time in her life—his expression was not the steady warmth she had always known, but one of guilt and retreat.
Tilan began to speak, her body trembling, yet her voice was surprisingly calm.
“When I was eight, Gongye told me there was a strange rumor among the pirate villages: using the night dew collected from the heart of the valerian flower could restore the sight of a blind singer, turning them back into an ordinary person. But if the valerian was still burning, the dew couldn’t be gathered, and by the time the flame naturally extinguished, the dew would have long evaporated. If you doused the flame with water, the dew would wash away with it; if you buried the valerian in ice and snow, the proud flower would instantly wither and shrivel into a charred lump. There was only one way in the world to extinguish the valerian’s flame and preserve the dew… It’s laughable—it required a long-standing lie and a single tear from the liar.” At the mention of the word “lie,” Tang Qianzi’s expression shifted violently. Tilang looked at him, feeling as though the very ground beneath her feet had begun to tremble. All these years, whenever he or Ji Chang had taken her hand and led her anywhere, she had never questioned or feared it. Even if the whole world deceived and misled her, she had always believed that he, at least, would never lie to her. She wrapped her arms tightly around her own shoulders, as if without that grip, her body would fall apart, scattering into dust at the slightest release. Hearing her own voice, she was startled—it sounded like someone else, detached and calm, narrating without emotion.
“How absurd. True blind singers are rare in this world, appearing perhaps once in a century. Those who gain fame and receive royal favor naturally have no desire to become ordinary again. And those who remain unaware, living out their lives quietly in the countryside, have likely never even heard of this legend. Even if a blind singer wished to regain their sight and managed to find a valerian flower, who would be willing to accompany them as the liar? Throughout history, this legend has never once been reliably fulfilled—it’s so far-fetched it’s almost ridiculous. But I am someone destined to spend my life locked in a dark room. Even the faintest glimmer of light, the slimmest thread of hope, I’d stake my life on it. By some stroke of fortune, I actually won this gamble—only I always thought the liar’s tear would come from my own eyes. I never imagined it would be yours.” She had never spoken so much in one breath, nor had she ever imagined that tearing open an old wound could feel so excruciatingly, bloodily liberating."For ten long years, though you schemed against me, the kindness you showed wasn't entirely false. Yet you never imagined this girl, even kept in the dark, had already outmaneuvered you. I kept silent, revealing the truth only to Gongye, guarding against any interference. Did it never occur to you why I would confide such a life-and-death matter solely in you?" He gave a bitter, slight nod. "Now I understand. Had I known you were a blind singer, I wouldn’t have hidden it from Ji Chang. With his ambition and temperament, he would have done everything to bring you back to the Eastern Continent to serve him. On the journey back, ships must stop for rituals—this was likely your only chance to set foot on Minzhong Island legitimately. I always knew you were clever, but I never realized to this extent."
Tilan spoke each word deliberately: "I will never dream again, Zhenchu. From now on, I am neither a princess nor a blind singer—only myself. Will you still come with me?"
He hadn’t expected such a question and froze momentarily before replying, "Yes." The moment he spoke, he knew it was wrong. A girl in her teens is sharp; his unconscious hesitation had betrayed the insincerity in his words. He could only watch as the light in her eyes dimmed, growing cold beyond retrieval.
"Go back to your lord," she said, refusing to look at him, her tone laced with scorn. "I will never be manipulated by any of you."
Night deepened, the hour when xieluo flowers bloomed, their shimmering lights swaying and connecting, setting the lake ablaze with fiery trees and silver blossoms, radiant and translucent. Tilan turned her back and walked alone into the dense shadows of the trees. She counted her footsteps, each step like a chasm, layer upon layer, separating the joyful, laughing past far behind her.
But then she heard him call her name—Tilan.
Not an explanation, not a defense, just her name. A voice so tender and sorrowful, two syllables that pierced like ten thousand arrows.
Her steps faltered, and then she ran recklessly, as if pursued by beasts. Thick branches whipped her, stinging sharply.
Moments later, hoofbeats closed in like the wind, and before she knew it, she was lifted by the waist and placed before the saddle. Struggling but agile, she twisted around, drew the dagger from Tang Qianzi’s waist, and pressed it wildly to his throat, nearly slicing off half his jaw. Shocked, he reached to seize the blade. Pressed close together, the long knife slipped in the struggle, slashing a deep gash across his right knee. Blood instantly welled up and overflowed.
He gritted his teeth in silence, but she was terrified by her own actions. Seizing her moment of shock, he reclaimed the dagger, sheathed it, and held her tightly without loosening his grip, ignoring the reins. The mountain antelope horse, unable to bear their combined weight, moved slowly, wandering aimlessly through the forest. In the boundless, profound darkness, the eerie green trees emitted a strange, faint glow.
After a long while, he finally said, "Go." She looked up at him, her defiance gone, replaced by wariness and confusion.His expression remained inscrutably calm as he spoke slowly, “If you were to disappear, even if they couldn’t find you after searching the forest, they would inevitably seal off Chiran Bay. Either way, you wouldn’t escape. If you’re determined to leave, you must come back with me. Wait until the fleet reaches Quanming, and then find a way to depart. Go anywhere you wish—just don’t stay in the Eastern Continent. Whether it’s Prince Xu or Prince Chang, if either side finds you, you won’t be able to leave.” “And what about you?” “I cannot leave Jichang at this time.” “What kind of person is Jichang? Don’t you know? In public, he appears careless and easygoing, but in private, he doesn’t hide from you. Even I, a blind woman, can guess his ambitions. Even if I were willing to let Gongye sacrifice her life for me, what would Jichang do to you if you returned to Quanming and couldn’t find me?” Tilan’s voice grew increasingly impassioned. “He’s gone to such lengths just to secure a blind singer to strengthen his influence. Even if he can’t have me, he won’t let me marry the emperor—he wants to conceal his ambitions, fearing I might expose his secrets.”
Tang Qianzi replied indifferently, “For now, he has no other generals to rely on besides me. He won’t harm me.” Tilan sneered, “That may be true now, but once we return to the Eastern Continent, won’t there be plenty of people currying favor with him? If you let me go now, it’s an act of disloyalty to him. You know his circumstances over the past decade, and he naturally suspects you might pledge allegiance to the new emperor. Who’s to say he won’t dispose of you once you’re no longer useful?”
He fell silent for a moment before saying, “You need not concern yourself with this.” Tilan laughed bitterly in her fury. “What has he promised you that makes you so willing to risk your life? A noble title? A share of the empire? If this is how it is, why did you put on such an aloof act during the military examinations back then?”
He looked at her, a strange sorrow in his eyes. “I still have a mother in the Eastern Continent. If I were convicted of a crime, she would be implicated as well.” Tilan had no retort. Her heart grew cold, inch by inch, and she finally understood. Whether for his mother, for Jichang, or for himself, Tang Qianzi’s fate had long been inextricably tied to the Eastern Continent. He had no choice but to walk the treacherous path of power struggles, with no end in sight. If he couldn’t emerge unscathed, everything would be lost.
And she was a crucial piece in this intricate game. If she withdrew, the entire plan would collapse, and Tang Qianzi’s fate would be sealed—death. He knew this well. Yet, no matter what, she would never stand by and watch him die, and he knew that too. His posture of compromise and concession was merely a calculated move, ensuring that no matter how she struggled, she could never escape his grasp. This path was chosen by Jichang and him, yet she was bound to walk it with them. Even if she cast off the shackles of her innate suffering, he still refused to grant her freedom.
Tilan’s face turned deathly pale. She nearly raised her hand to strike him across the face but instead clenched her fist at her side. “Tang Qianzi, you are despicable!” Her voice was a low, strained hiss, nearly voiceless.
He turned his head away, unable to bear looking at her any longer. His chest ached with a sharp, icy clarity. In the end, she would yield.On the afternoon of the following day, the soldiers advancing through the dense forest came face to face with Princess Tilán and General Tang. Only one of the two chamois horses remained, carrying the princess. Though the edges of her dress were slightly torn, she still maintained her dignity. The young imperial guard general, however, bore a ghastly wound on his right leg. Having walked the horse for too long, his entire trouser leg and the bandage wrapped around it were soaked in blood. Strangely, the princess, who had been blind since birth, had regained her sight. It was said that she had fallen from her horse, struck the back of her head, and lost consciousness. When she awoke, she could see again. Though the story was peculiar, it was regarded as an auspicious omen. The princess's maid, Gongye, rushed forward, embracing the princess's knees and weeping uncontrollably. The palace attendants and eunuchs who accompanied them also wiped their tears frequently, calling it a miracle bestowed by the Dragon-Tail God.
That night, the royal fleet set sail, navigating through the Yingge Strait and heading northwest. Their lights shimmered like a floating city upon the sea.
On the twenty-third day of the sixth month of the first year of Tianxiang, fifty massive ships sailed in single file into Quanming Port in Zhongzhou.
As the ships approached the shore, they saw the docks obscured by a sea of banners and resplendent canopies. Emperor Xu had dispatched twenty thousand soldiers to welcome them. At the forefront of the crowd were five hundred court ladies, gathered around two palanquins.
Ji Chang stood by the ship's railing, wearing a seven-jeweled golden crown and a crimson brocade robe. Embroidered on his left shoulder was a vivid golden dragon, exuding an aura of unparalleled nobility. Spotting the palanquin with its crimson base and golden dragon motifs from afar, he chuckled softly to Tang Qianzi beside him, "Everything has changed, yet this remains the same." Having been away from his homeland for ten years, Tang Qianzi was filled with a mix of emotions, but his anxiety overshadowed them, and he could only manage a faint smile.
The color and design of the palanquin were of the highest honor, second only to the emperor's black-based golden coiling dragon palanquin, and identical to the one Ji Chang had used when he arrived in Quanming a decade earlier. Since Tilán had not yet been formally enfeoffed, her palanquin was jade-green, woven with vibrant peacock patterns.
The palace attendants escorted the princess out of the cabin. She wore a dress of gold, red, and peacock blue, her head and face veiled by eighteen layers of black gauze that draped all the way to her ankles, symbolizing purity and tranquility. The edges of the black gauze were densely adorned with obsidian beads the size of peas. Though small, each bead shimmered with a rainbow-like iridescence under the sunlight, like the captivating gaze of a beautiful woman—what was commonly called a "double rainbow eye."
A long ladder was lowered from the ship, and eunuchs unrolled a colorful carpet trimmed with golden threads. From below, the onlookers saw a handsome young nobleman in red descending the ladder first, followed by a slender, delicate girl. The layers of black gauze enveloping her fluttered like dark clouds in the wind, revealing the brilliant hues of her crimson and emerald skirt beneath. This was undoubtedly the Princess of Zhuni, sent for a political marriage. Instantly, the crowd knelt, cheered, and roared with excitement, their voices shaking the earth.
Tang Qianzi followed closely behind Ji Chang but couldn't help glancing back at the ship. On the deck by the railing stood a maid in gray-blue clothing, her face veiled. Seeing him turn to look, she spun around and walked away, as if unwilling to meet his gaze.
"Is that Tilán?" Ji Chang also turned to look and asked in a low voice.
Tang Qianzi nodded silently. Having influence among the merchants of the Eastern Continent, he had already arranged for a trusted fleet owner to rent a small residence for Tilán in Quanming, ready to take her there as soon as she disembarked. He had also arranged for several attendants to serve her in the residence. Though their backgrounds were dubious, they were loyal and reliable—connections he had made years ago in Bipoluo, capable of shielding her from prying eyes. No one would see Tilán, and Tilán would see no one else.Ji Chang smiled, his gaze sweeping over the girl in black gauze beside him. "And who are you? Gongye?" Through the layers of veils, the girl's demeanor remained as serene as still water, her head dipping almost imperceptibly in a slight nod.
The palace maids stepped forward to assist the princess, clustering around her like pearls and jade, their layered silk robes rustling. In the blink of an eye, they had already drifted far away from them. Tang Qianzi turned his head on horseback to look back, but the figure of Tilán, disguised as a slave girl, was no longer visible by the ship's side.
This departure marked the beginning of a journey through a thousand miles of mortal dust.
The dowry brought by the Zhuni princess was exceedingly lavish, filled with rare and exotic treasures, which were now being carried off the ship in an endless stream. It included six types of precious incense—highland blood cinnabar, agarwood, lignum aloes, frankincense, storax, and musk-scented beeswax—each in twenty boxes. There were also six varieties of precious gems—Yingge Sea pearls, chrysoberyl cat's eye stones, rose quartz, aquamarine, tourmaline, and diamonds—each in twenty boxes. Even the boxes themselves were made of century-old ebony, more valuable than gold. Additionally, there were ten coral trees each of red and white, standing as tall as a person, a hundred pieces of tridacna shell cups and dishes, a bed and dressing table crafted from five-colored glazed glass, twenty-four stacks of hawksbill turtle shells, a single screen, twenty barrels of refined rosewater, ten cool mats of Dongling jade, ten emerald-feather quilts, ten pure white rhinoceros horns, fifty pairs of ivory tusks, and countless pieces of jewelry and clothing.
The officials and palace attendants tasked with managing the princess's dowry numbered over three hundred, yet not a single one was to be brought into the imperial city. The role of escort for the bride was temporarily assumed by Prince Chang, and neither wet nurses nor slave girls were to accompany her. It was said that many of the attendants who had served the late Empress Zizan, who had passed away the previous year, remained in the Eastern Continent and could be summoned for service. The attitude conveyed was one of humility and compliance. Only when the detailed list, spanning seven or eight feet in length, was carefully examined did it become clear that it matched precisely the dowry brought by Princess Zizan a decade earlier—once again, it was of empress rank.
During the several dozen days of travel from Quanming to Tianqi, the bride observed a vow of silence and seclusion. Apart from the nearly hundred palace attendants and eunuchs who had previously served Zizan, along with a few court ladies from the Eastern Continent, no one else was permitted even a glimpse of her.
On the nineteenth day of the seventh month of the first year of Tianxiang, Prince Chang and the Zhuni princess entered the court at the Zichen Hall in the Tianqi Imperial City.
It was midsummer, and the world outside the hall was bathed in blinding white sunlight. Ji Chang lowered his gaze to the vermilion steps beneath his feet—a vivid, almost menacing red that seemed to swirl and writhe with the rising heat, as if ready to devour anyone in its path. A scorching hot wind surged forth, lifting the dragon-embroidered crimson robe from his shoulders and causing its sleeves to flutter violently.
The wide doors of Zichen Hall were engulfed in the glaring daylight, appearing as a deep, unfathomable black. That was the seat of the throne where his ancestors had ruled the world. Within those spacious halls lay buried the humble, obscure years of his childhood—unspeakable and unbearable. A faint, indifferent smile curled at the corner of Ji Chang's lips as he lightly adjusted his robes and stepped into that darkness without hesitation.
For a moment, his vision was shrouded in a murky blackness, as if someone had covered his eyes with a hand. Gradually, his sight adjusted, and countless faces emerged one by one from the profound shadows—familiar and unfamiliar, drawing closer and closer. Only then could he clearly see the civil and military officials lined up on either side, with a red carpet woven with gold and silver thunder patterns and swastika motifs leading straight to the highest point at the far end of the hall.
Ji Chang strode forward, while Tang Qianzi took his place at the end of the military officials' line, awaiting the proclamation.At first, the officials flanking him wore the deep purple robes of lower ranks, their shades fading gradually through dozens of rows until the higher-ranking blue robes came into view. Further ahead, however, the rows abruptly ended. Where the vermilion-robed imperial princes and royal heirs should have stood—a group that in previous years would have numbered over a dozen in the capital—now lay empty, devoid of any presence. Only the crimson carpet continued its path forward. Like a great wave washing away sand, after eight years of war, the once-flourishing royal family seemed to have few survivors left.
At the head of the blue-robed officials, on one side stood five unfamiliar generals in noble attire, all in the prime of their youth, including one woman. On the other side stood a solitary figure, initially obscured by the civil officials behind him, who now turned slightly and offered Ji Chang a slight bow, revealing the five layers of sheer silk robes he wore.
Ji Chang’s heart tightened, but he responded with a lazy, smiling nod.
The man’s outer four layers of robes were of the palest azure, while the innermost layer was a luxurious, solid azure brocade. The hem was embroidered with a qilin motif, its fierce horns as vivid as blood, the startling crimson faintly visible through the outer robes—the emblem of the Duke of Qinghai. The Fang family, hereditary Dukes of Qinghai for fifty-three generations, traced their origins to Fang Jingfeng, who had risen from humble beginnings alongside Chu Jing, the founding emperor of the Zheng dynasty, making them the only non-imperial dukes in the empire. Each generation’s eldest son of the Duke of Qinghai was sent to the palace to be educated alongside the crown prince, a testament to their exalted status and influence.
In the summer of the thirty-second year of the Lintai era, the previous Duke of Qinghai, Fang Zhiyi, was quelling a rebellion in Tulin County in the central region of the Eastern Continent. His eldest son, Fang Jianming, then twenty, was serving under the Prince of Xu in the northern city of Shuang Huan. Renowned for his unparalleled achievements, he was the most trusted among the Six Wings generals. In July, Fang Zhiyi fell in battle, and the counties of Liushang and He’an fell in succession, nearly wiping out the Fang bloodline. Fang Jianming inherited his father’s title on the battlefield, becoming the fifty-third Duke of Qinghai and the lord of Liushang County.
Ji Chang recalled that Fang Jianming was roughly his age, his face still retaining the dignified handsomeness of youth, though a faint scar now curved at the corner of his lips, lending him a perpetually ambiguous smile that made one instinctively hesitant to meet his gaze. Upon closer inspection, his eyes, seemingly gentle, held a deep, vigilant stillness—the mark of a seasoned veteran.
Ji Chang took a few more steps as protocol demanded, moving beyond the rows of officials before stopping and kneeling in reverence.
"Little Qi, you’ve returned," the voice from the highest seat at the far end of the hall called out, using Ji Chang’s childhood name. A decade apart had deepened the voice, yet it remained clear and resonant, like the toll of a bell. The face and features of the speaker were obscured, lost in the depths of shadow, his black imperial robes adorned only with the cold, piercing glint of pearls and jade on the throne and the golden dragon motifs embroidered on his attire.
"By Your Majesty’s boundless fortune," Ji Chang replied, lifting his head with a faint smile.
Everything unfolded as Ji Chang had anticipated. Emperor Xu bestowed upon him the Ning Palace in the western part of the city, with an annual stipend of three million dan of grain and a household of seven hundred servants. The necessary furnishings had already been dispatched in a steady stream from the imperial treasury.
Tang Qianzi was promoted to deputy commander of the Huangquan Pass for his meritorious service in protection. During the eight years of quelling the rebellion, the Six Wings generals had distinguished themselves with outstanding military achievements. Apart from Fang Jianming, who retained his ducal status, the other five were appointed as commanders of the four major garrisons—Huangquan, Chengcheng, Mohe, and the Capital Region—as well as the Imperial Guard, all holding crucial strategic positions. Their deputies, naturally, were also exceptional military talents.Tang Qianzhi expressed his gratitude before the emperor, standing shoulder to shoulder with Ji Chang. They exchanged a glance, both having anticipated that Tang would be transferred out of the Imperial Guard and assigned to a post far from the capital, but neither had expected such a high-ranking position. Tang’s late father had once served as a deputy general at Huangquan Pass. With this appointment, his widowed mother in Qiuye would surely find great comfort.
Just then, a court official entered the hall to announce that the princess of Zhuoni was fully adorned and requested an audience. Many among the court officials showed faint surprise.
Ji Chang remarked with a light smile, "Such is the custom of the Western Continent when marrying off a daughter. Upon arriving at the groom’s home, the bride reveals her face to the groom for the first time, then discards the black veil to display her beauty to the guests." Emperor Xu nodded in agreement. "When the empress and I wed, it was the same." The civil and military officials fell silent, watching as a figure, graceful as a butterfly, ascended the steps slowly. The scorching wind, fierce as flames, sent crimson pomegranate blossoms swirling through the air, striking the eighteen layers of her black veil with a rustling sound.
The seven years of Chu Zhongxu’s marriage to Princess Zizan of Zhuoni were the most arduous of his life.
The day after their wedding, he led his troops to battle, and from then on, his life was consumed by the chaos of war. Zizan once teased him, saying, "The assassins visit more often than you do." Yet it was merely a jest, not a complaint. Before that, she had suffered a miscarriage due to an assassin’s attack and had been injured several times. Though she was not a woman who could command armies, she possessed a steadfast and resilient courage. While the world placed its hopes on Chu Zhongxu, hailing him as the Restorer King, she refused to become a burden to him.
As the decisive battle approached, Zizan was slowly poisoned within the palace. She endured two days and three nights of excruciating pain before her death, not yet twenty-four years old, and carrying a six-month-old fetus in her womb. The day before she passed, she no longer recognized those attending to her. In her feverish delirium, she murmured softly. When her ladies-in-waiting leaned in to listen, they realized she was calling Zhongxu’s name—faint and feeble, until her last breath.
When the news reached Zhongxu, he was in the far northern wilderness, where leaden clouds surged silently across the sky like ten thousand warhorses charging with gagged bits. At the edge of the vast expanse of snowy grit lay the Scarlet Plains battlefield, where later generations would speak of bloodshed so intense that pestles floated upon it. The end of the eight-year-long chaotic era was near, yet Zizan could not wait. His tears refused to fall, instead flooding inward, drowning his heart. Over the years, he had single-handedly turned the tide, unstoppable in his advance, trampling countless lives and ambitions beneath his steed's hooves. People revered him as heaven's favored son, yet in the face of capricious fate, he was but a speck of dust. What he despised was forced upon him; what he cherished could never remain.
He ascended the throne, transforming from Prince Xu to Emperor Xu. On the seat beside the throne, reserved for the empress, nestled within phoenix-patterned ceremonial robes, lay only a spirit tablet, surrounded by an array of gold, jade, and brocade.
For his sake, Zizan had endured every hardship a woman could bear, yet in the end, she could not even preserve her own life or that of their child. All he could give her were a few empress seals that would never be used, a lengthy posthumous title, and a few hundred cold, iron-like characters in the annals of history. Late into the night, as he reviewed memorials and military reports, someone would still tiptoe forward to drape a warm robe over his shoulders—but it would never be her again.
Emperor Xu watched as the young woman entered the Zichen Hall, step by step. Though her face was obscured by layers of black silk, her posture was so light it seemed she might take flight at any moment. The identical black silk and resplendent attire evoked the seventeen-year-old Zizan on her wedding day, traversing the desolate years to approach him, her red lips beneath the veil still curved in that same tender, warm smile as in days past.
The young woman did not glance around or hesitate, walking directly toward the end of the crimson carpet. Her steps were soft and silent, only the black silk rustling like clouds.
In Jichang's eyes, a quiet laughter simmered, though it never surfaced on his face.
Gongye was the same age as Tilan, with an identical figure and equally lovely features. Dressed in royal attire, the disguise was seamless.
His elder brother had been wise and astute since childhood, renowned and illustrious. His ascension to the throne was widely anticipated. Zhongxu would never have guessed that his younger brother, who had seemed meek and unremarkable for years, would wear a mask of obedience right under his nose and swap his bride for a slave girl. And this was only the beginning.
In the eyes of the common folk in the streets and alleys, Prince Chang was a self-admiring, elegant youth of noble bearing, seemingly untouched by any misfortune. Yet among the four princes who once stood shoulder to shoulder, Jichang was so dim as to be hardly worth mentioning. At just twenty-one, he had known since childhood that the most desolate and sorrowful state in life was not having nowhere to turn, nor being abandoned by all, but rather, "everyone has it, only I do not."
He had never wished to ask anyone for anything, knowing full well that most desires would go unfulfilled, and even if granted, what he received would be meager and broken. Now, a cruel, vengeful joy surged within him—a richness and satisfaction he had never known. This joy spoiled him instantly, and from that day forward, nothing else could ever fill the chasm in his heart.
Jichang watched as the young woman approached gracefully, as if seeing all his wishes materialize, resting upon her slender shoulders, radiant and dazzling.
The young woman, who had been clasping the black silk at her chest, slowly loosened her grip. The pale ink-colored gauze drifted like smoke, lifted away one by one by the air currents, layer upon layer falling to the ground like countless translucent cicada shells abandoned in the silent hall. And her face became clearer, bit by bit.
She was not Gongye.Ji Chang suddenly felt as if he had just stepped into the Purple Palace Hall from outside, his vision dark and blurred, unable to make out anything clearly. Despite the overwhelming shock, his face remained eerily calm.
In that fleeting moment, a young girl passed by his side. She slowed her pace, her skirts swaying like the swirling blossoms on the Papar River during the Sweet Rain Festival. A familiar, soft voice, one he had known for years, brushed past his ear with a gentle breeze. She spoke in the language of Zhu Li, her voice barely audible: "For Soran... I promised my uncle." She moved past him and continued forward, stopping only when she reached the foot of the emperor’s throne, where she lifted the last two layers of black veil herself.
Emperor Xu gazed at the girl’s face, his sharp brows trembling with emotion, almost on the verge of calling out "Zizan."
Her eyes were as bright and heavy as gemstones, her curls dark and enchantingly lush, and around her neck hung the Zhu Li royal family’s mermaid emblem pendant. How strikingly similar her appearance and aura were.
Yet, in just a moment of dazed confusion, he reminded himself—Zizan was already dead.
This girl before him was stunningly beautiful, almost to the point of severity. In her gaze, there was none of Zizan’s gentleness and warmth. Any resemblance was merely due to bloodline. She was exquisitely beautiful, but no one in this world could ever be like Zizan—utterly untainted by worldly dust.
The girl turned her head slightly, as if searching for something, her expression reminiscent of the little girl who once sat upon the giant Kua Fu’s shoulders.
Tang Qianzi felt as though a blazing red blade had pierced through his chest in an instant. The blood surging through his heart boiled, dried up, leaving not a single drop, burning a hollow emptiness through his very core. When the wind blew, the ashes inside scattered, stirring up a sharp, relentless pain.
He opened his mouth, but her name would not come out. Her name was that crimson blade piercing his heart, obstructing the flow of blood—every beat a heavy, dull ache.
Tilan.
She had always been stubborn, proud, and willful. He had thought of her as a child. Her hatred for him, he assumed, was nothing more than childish resentment.
But he never imagined that her heart had already turned desolate, like a vast, barren land silently cracking apart, dying inch by inch, beyond redemption. She refused to remain dependent on him, to be manipulated at his will. Tragically, even though she hated him to the bone, she could not bring herself to abandon him and leave him in peril. So, she lied to Ji Chang, shifting all blame onto Lord Yingjia, yet sparing his life. She would rather trample and ruin her entire life right before his eyes, just to make him see: Look, it was all for you.
She was only fifteen.
It was he who had bound the wings of a flying bird with thorns. It was he who forced her onto this path of mutual destruction. It was he who had handed her over to someone else.
The girl bowed to Emperor Xu, then turned gracefully to face the court. A wave of startled murmurs rose among the officials.
Like a sailor far out at sea, sitting atop the mast and reminiscing about the lover he once brushed past in his youth—the features that were once etched into his heart had blurred, yet whenever he thought of her, he still called her the most beautiful woman in the world. Such was her peerless beauty.
She looked at him and Ji Chang, her eyes deep and still as a well. Only he could understand the cold, mocking smile hidden within them.
In the seventh month of the first year, the Zhu Li princess of the Keluoti clan was taken and enfeoffed as the Shurong Consort. The consort’s name was Tilan, a niece of the deceased Keluoti clan woman. She delighted in extravagance, daily cutting gold foil into layered petals and floral adornments, the falling petals like drifting snow. The palace attendants vied for the duty of sweeping them up, some even resorting to bribery.
—"The Chronicles: Imperial Consorts—Shurong Consort of the Keluoti Clan"
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