Chapter 2
Wei Zhen-ting sat straight-backed on his warhorse, ignoring the persistent throb where stitches pulled at his left side, each breath a reminder the wound hadn't fully closed.
The capital city of Shangjing stretched before him, its vermilion walls gleaming in the afternoon sun.
After ten years of mud and blood and makeshift camps, the sight of civilization struck him with unexpected force.
The thunder of drums preceded them, announcing their arrival.
Imperial banners snapped in the spring breeze as the honor guard formed neat rows ahead of his returning army.
His men had polished their armor until it shone, a far cry from the battle-scarred appearance they'd worn just weeks ago on the northern mountains.
Ten years, he thought. I left this city as a boy of twelve and return a man of twenty-two.
“The people have lined the streets for three li, General,” said Adviser Liu, the army strategist waving his perpetual feather fan, even on horseback. “The Emperor has declared today a holiday in your honor.”
Zhen-ting nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “Our men deserve the welcome. Make sure the wounded are visible in the procession. I want the capital to see the price of their peace.”
Liu grinned. “They're already calling it 'Wei’s Peace.' The poets have been composing victory odes since the messenger birds arrived.”
“Poetry,” Zhen-ting muttered. “As if there’s anything poetic about what we did.”
The massive gates swung open, and the cacophony hit him like a physical force—thousands of voices raised in celebration, gongs and drums and cymbals creating a wall of sound. Flower petals rained down from rooftops and balconies as the procession entered the city.
Zhen-ting forced himself to straighten, to project the confidence expected of the Great General Who Guards the Nation. His men deserved this triumph, even if every muscle in his body ached for rest and quiet.
As they moved through the broad avenue toward the Imperial Palace, he couldn't help but notice how the crowd reacted to him.
They cheered, yes—but there was fear mingled with the adulation.
When his gaze landed on any particular citizen, they invariably stepped back, eyes widening.
Mothers pulled children closer. Men bowed deeply, their gestures carrying a hint of protective deference.
The Bloody General, he thought wryly. They look at me like I might order their execution for applauding too quietly.
He had heard the rumors, of course. That he drank the blood of enemy commanders. That he could kill ten men with a single sword stroke. That his eyes glowed red in battle.
The truth was far more mundane: he was simply a boy who had joined the army too young, who had learned to fight because the alternative was dying, and who had risen through the ranks because he refused to waste men’s lives on futile gestures of bravery.
A flutter of white caught his eye—a small child, perhaps five or six, breaking free from her mother to toss a handful of peach blossoms toward his horse. For just a moment, the sight transported him backward through time.
Another child. Another handful of offerings. But not flowers...
The memory surfaced unbidden: rain-slicked streets, his twelve-year-old knees muddy from kneeling before a silk-robed girl, not much younger than himself. The gentle press of coins into his palm. A voice, soft but firm: “I'm not buying you. This is a gift, freely given.”
Her face had been partially concealed by her attendant’s umbrella, but he remembered the kindness in her eyes. The way she'd looked at him—not with pity, but with something like recognition.
Shen Yun-yao. The Chancellor’s daughter.
He had carried that memory through battlefields and winter campaigns, through promotions and wounds and endless nights of strategy.
Her small act of kindness—refusing to purchase him as a servant when he'd been desperate enough to sell himself for his mother’s burial money—had preserved the last shred of his dignity when he'd had nothing else.
“General?” Liu’s voice pulled him back to the present. “We're approaching the palace gates.”
Zhen-ting nodded, pushing the memory aside. “The men know the protocol?”
“Yes, General. Though...” Liu glanced meaningfully at Zhen-ting’s left side, where the fresh stitches lay hidden beneath his armor. “The Master of Ceremonies did mention that wounded heroes might be permitted to remain mounted during the formal presentations.”
“I will dismount at the outer courtyard like everyone else,” Zhen-ting replied firmly. “A few stitches won't kill me. The Emperor honors us with his welcome. We honor him with proper respect.”
Liu sighed but nodded. After eight years fighting alongside Zhen-ting, he knew better than to argue about matters of protocol. Despite his common birth, the general had studied the classics more diligently than many scholars, determined never to embarrass himself in the presence of his betters.
As they approached the final stretch of road, Zhen-ting allowed himself to voice the question that had been burning in him since they'd received orders to return.
“Liu,” he began casually, “you have family connections in the capital, don't you?”
“My cousin serves in the Ministry of Rites. Why?”
“What news of the great families? Has much changed in our absence?”
Liu gave him a sidelong look. “Interested in politics now, General? I thought you despised court intrigues.”
“Just curious about how our... patrons fare.” He kept his tone neutral. “Chancellor Shen, for instance. Still in favor?”
“Chancellor Shen?” Liu raised an eyebrow. “Very much so. Three Emperors have relied on his counsel. He has three daughters and two sons, I believe. His eldest son has made a name for himself since coming first in the Imperial Examinations.”
Zhen-ting nodded, feigning only mild interest. “And his daughters? All well-matched, I imagine?”
Liu scratched his chin thoughtfully. “The family’s been in mourning.
First the grandmother, then the grandfather.
All five children had their marriage arrangements delayed.
The Chancellor is well known for his strict adherence to ritual propriety.
The eldest miss...” He frowned slightly.
“No, she never married. Her betrothed died years ago—some childhood arrangement. Before she could even come of age. Bit of a shame, they say she’s quite beautiful. ”
Zhen-ting’s pulse skipped a beat, though his face betrayed nothing. She’s not married. After all these years.
“A shame indeed,” he murmured.
The palace gates loomed before them now, enormous red doors emblazoned with golden dragons. Imperial guards in gleaming armor stood at attention, their spears catching the afternoon light.
For ten years, Zhen-ting had fought the Emperor’s wars. He had given his youth, his blood, and nearly his life to secure the borders of Great Xi. When offered rewards—land, titles, gold—he had accepted only what was necessary to care for his men and their families.
But now, as the gates swung open to welcome the conquering hero home, Wei Zhen-ting knew exactly what reward he would request.
“Liu,” he said quietly, “after the official reception, help me arrange a private audience with the Emperor.”
“A private audience?” Liu looked surprised. “For what purpose?”
Zhen-ting’s eyes set straight ahead, toward where the dragon throne lay beyond the many courtyards.
“There’s something I wish to request of His Imperial Majesty. A personal matter.”
The trumpets blared, announcing their arrival. As Zhen-ting dismounted, wincing slightly at the pull of stitches in his side, he permitted himself a rare moment of vulnerability. Ten years he had waited, climbing from orphaned beggar to the Empire’s greatest general.
Now, perhaps, he had finally become worthy of the girl who had once shown kindness to a desperate boy.
The Emperor awaited, and Wei Zhen-ting, the Bloody General, the nation’s greatest hero, felt his heart race with an emotion he hadn't experienced since childhood:
Hope.