Duan Xu claimed he bore no illustrious reputation, but that was false modesty.
“Duan Shunxi? Who in the court does not know that name?”
He Simu sat cross-legged on the roof of the provincial governor’s mansion, cloaked against the night chill. A luminous pearl in her hand glowed softly even under the bright moon. She propped her chin with one hand and toyed with the pearl with the other, listening to the voices drifting from inside.
“The Duan family has produced scholars for three generations, with ties reaching into the royal clan. Duan Shunxi’s maternal grandmother was the Princess Imperial of the previous dynasty, the late Emperor’s elder sister. His father, Duan Chengzhang, served as Minister of Rites until illness forced his retirement. A lineage steeped in civil service and renown. Two years ago, Duan Shunxi ranked second in the imperial examinations, entered officialdom, and has since been regarded as a rising star.”
He Simu tilted her head back to gaze at the silvered sky. “Then who is Duke Pei?”
“Oh, you’ve heard of him as well. The court is split between two rival factions—Minister Du’s and Duke Pei’s. Duan Shunxi’s father was Minister Du’s confidant; naturally, the son inherited the allegiance. The Emperor favors young officials these days. Minister Du is aging, but with his connections and brilliance, Duan Shunxi is being cultivated as a future chancellor.”
“Yet fate is rarely so kind. His sworn rival is Fang Xian Ya, the top scholar of the same examination year. Unlike Duan, Fang hails from obscurity. He once served as Duke Pei’s retainer, and after winning first place in the exams, he naturally entered Pei’s camp. Clever, meticulous, and sharp-tongued, Fang often outshines Duan in debate.”
“At the Mid-Autumn Festival banquet, the Emperor, on a whim, asked the gathered scholars to debate military strategy. Duan Shunxi thoroughly bested Fang Xian Ya, winning rare imperial praise. But Duke Pei turned the tables with a memorial—arguing that since Duan possessed military talent, he should be given practical experience. The Emperor, still amused, appointed him as Commander of the Imperial Guards.”
“A Supervising Secretary poised for high office suddenly thrust into military service. Duan Shunxi came from civil roots; his lack of martial grounding made mistakes inevitable. Fang Xian Ya seized the chance to impeach him, and he was reassigned to the frontier as Lieutenant General of the Taibai Army. By cruel twist, the Hu Qi invaded just as he arrived. When the Taibai General fell in battle, Duan was thrust into command in crisis.”
He Simu rubbed her temples, tossing the pearl lightly between her fingers. “I see. So he is the famed unfortunate prodigy.”
From gilded scholar and chancellor’s heir to beleaguered frontier general—no wonder Meng Wan burned with indignation at every mention of Duan Shunxi’s plight.
Her gaze drifted to his quarters in the distance. The night was deep, yet his window still glowed faintly. His tall shadow cast across the lamplight—straight as a pine, unbent by wind or snow.
“But this young general,” He Simu murmured, chin in hand, “always wears a smile, as if the world cannot touch him. Is he truly so free of grievance? After a decade of grueling study and ambition, does no man long to be prime minister?”
She smirked. “If given the chance, even the Emperor himself might wish for that. Duan Shunxi greets all with a genial face, but who can know what storm lies beneath? With such lineage and brilliance, could he really not crave the seat second only to one, above ten thousand?”
Her smile faded into weariness. “Ah… how dull.”
All the world clamors for gain, all the world schemes for advantage. This young general is no different—merely a mortal snared in fame and fortune.
Once one has glimpsed the ocean, no stream can compare. Her uncle had been the most upright, most formidable man she had ever known. Having served such a master, how could the Breaking Illusion Sword be content to follow a mundane man?
Meanwhile, within his quarters, Duan Xu sneezed as he bent over military reports. The officer nearby stiffened. “The snow is heavy today, General. Have you caught a chill?”
Duan Xu shook his head, set down the scroll, and lingered on the lamplight before looking up. “Qing Sheng. Did you catch the assassin who came for me today?”
Xia Qing Sheng’s face clouded with shame. Hand gripping his sword, he bowed. “Not yet. The assassin’s skill was extraordinary. They escaped swiftly, and we lost their trail. General, you must take guards when you go out. It’s too dangerous alone.”
It was well-known in the Southern Capital that Duan Xu disliked attendants. Even officials of lesser rank traveled with four or five servants, yet he always went alone. He once explained that bandits had slain the loyal servants who had shielded him during an ambush years ago. Out of lingering grief, he refused new ones. The tale spread, painting him as a man of deep sentiment.
“Exceptional skill indeed,” Duan Xu said quietly. “From that corner tower, at such range, few could aim so precisely. Even if you had been beside me, you may not have noticed.”
His lips curved faintly.
All the less could an ‘ordinary’ young woman who knew no martial arts.
The moon reached its zenith. In another chamber, Xue Chen Ying jolted awake from a nightmare to find his young mistress missing. He called softly several times, but silence answered. Gripping a candlestick, he searched the courtyard, then the street, his panic rising with each empty shadow.
Scenes from his nightmare clawed back at him, twisting into dread. Candlestick in hand, he stumbled through the snowy street, calling, “Young Miss!”
Had she abandoned him? Because he ate too much?
Tears stung his eyes. The snowbound street blurred as memories of his vanished family returned—parents, kin, all gone overnight, never seen again. It felt like another omen.
The people lost when he opened his eyes… might be lost forever.
He slipped on the frozen street, falling hard. The candlestick fell with a muffled clatter; its flame hissed out, leaving only thin smoke.
Out of the dark, a gentle voice drifted.
“Child, why are you crying?”
Chen Ying looked up. A young woman stood ten paces away in the snow. She wore a green jacket, jade earrings swaying at her ears, and in her arms she cradled a jar painted with infant figures.
The snow had begun to fall again, veiling her form in shifting shadows.
Chen Ying rose shakily. “I… I’m looking for someone.”
She stepped toward him, her feet soundless upon the snow. “Who are you looking for?”
Her red lips curved with a smile.
Hesitating, he whispered, “I’m looking for Young Miss He. Do you… know her?”
“He Xiaoxiao?” Her smile widened. “I know her best. I know where she is. Mother will take you to her.”
Chen Ying’s instincts screamed. He stepped back, wary as a cornered animal. “My mother… died long ago. She didn’t look like you. Why do you call yourself my mother?”
Silence fell. The woman’s smile froze, then faded. The air itself seemed to tighten, wind whistling through banners above.
She stepped forward again, this time fully into the light—revealing eyes black as ink, devoid of whites. The infant-painted jar she carried was smeared with blood, scarlet dripping steadily onto the snow from her hands.
Each drop hissed into silence.
Blinking those abyssal eyes, she smiled tenderly. “Not now… but soon you will be. Come. Come to mother.”
Chen Ying quaked. Terror rooted him in place; his voice broke. “Don’t… don’t come closer! I want to find Young Miss! She can… she can do magic tricks!”
Magic tricks meant nothing against ghosts, but it was the only defense he could imagine.
The woman advanced, smile widening—until a shout split the night.
“Commander Meng, it’s her! She’s strange—violating curfew, injuring our men!”
A squad of soldiers charged from the alley, Meng Wan at their head. They formed a wall between Chen Ying and the woman.
Meng Wan’s eyes narrowed at the sight of those pitch-black eyes. Her grip tightened on her sword. “Is she possessed?”
The woman’s face twisted. With a shriek, her nails elongated into claws, fangs flashing. “Give me the child—or die!”
Meng Wan’s heart lurched, but she raised her sword. “Old Xu, Old Wang, take the boy!”
Before the soldiers could move, the woman froze. Her abyssal eyes widened in shock. Fear washed over her features; her body trembled. Then, as if crushed by unseen weight, she collapsed to her knees. Fangs and claws retracted.
“Spare me! Spare me!” she babbled, kowtowing until her forehead thudded against the ground.
Meng Wan stared, sword still raised, stunned by the sudden change. But before she could speak, the figure dissolved into a wisp of blue smoke—gone, as if she had never existed.
The street was silent, save for the ragged breaths of soldiers.
“She was a ghost!” one muttered.
“After such massacres, how could unclean spirits not arise?” another whispered.
Meng Wan turned, only to halt at the sight of a figure at the far end of the snowy street.
A woman in a lotus-pink cloak stood beneath a veiled hat. Black gauze fluttered in the wind, shadowing her face. At her waist flickered a pale blue light.
Duan Xu’s veiled hat.
Meng Wan stiffened. But before she could call out, the figure broke into sobs, lifted her skirts, and rushed to Chen Ying.
“Chen Ying! You frightened me! Are you hurt? Your sister has no one but you—if anything happened, what would I do?”
Chen Ying collapsed into her arms, weeping. “Young Miss, I looked everywhere for you! But I met a terrible woman—she was so scary!”
A gust lifted the gauze from the hat, and Meng Wan finally recognized her: He Xiaoxiao.
Old Xu scratched his head. “That ghost was fierce. Why did she suddenly vanish?”
He Simu—her face streaked with tears—cried out, “It must be Commander Meng’s valor! Your presence alone frightened the spirit into retreat!”
The soldiers murmured agreement. “Indeed! A female general defending the realm—while that one was a female ghost preying on the weak. No wonder she fled in shame!”
Meng Wan glanced at her sword, uneasy, but said nothing.
Meanwhile, He Simu squeezed Chen Ying’s hand, murmuring, “Thank you, Commander Meng, for saving us siblings.”
Meng Wan sheathed her sword but frowned. “What kind of sister lets her brother wander the streets at night? Don’t you know there’s a curfew?”
He Simu only twisted her fingers, looking frail and pitiful.
Yet when the wind lifted her veil again, Meng Wan thought she glimpsed it—those same pitch-black eyes.
Perhaps… only an illusion.
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