Chapter One: Returning to the Old Residence

The cold wind howled, yellow sand swept across the sky, and moonlight spilled impartially over this desolate land. Prisoners clad in tattered clothes, weighed down by heavy shackles on their wrists and ankles, lay half-collapsed in earthen pits, shivering without cease.

The trenches were strewn with white bones, gaping eye sockets like enormous black holes threatening to swallow one whole. The parched earth beneath was soaked with blood, and ominous crows circled overhead, searching for their next meal.

One by one, young bodies were contorted into grotesque shapes, and hard, cracked buns were tossed beside them as though a reward.

Curses, weeping, moans, the sounds of bodies colliding, and the sharp crack of whips slicing through the air all intertwined. Red welts streaked down, and the female prisoners’ pale, delicate skin lay exposed to the wind, only to be seized by greedy hands and brutally kneaded.

At last, leering eyes turned to Wen Zhiyan and her mother and sisters. The bailiffs, tall or short, fat or thin, strode over with wicked grins, raising their whips high.

After days of exile without water or food, Wen Zhiyan was weak. She managed to intercept a few of the lashes, but had no strength for resistance, and was dragged and thrown violently aside.

It was unclear who started it, but before Wen Zhiyan could react, foul hands seized her. As she struggled, she saw her mother and sisters pushed to the ground, their clothes torn away, fabric fluttering in the wind, the women’s mournful cries mingling with the men’s excited groans.

The sight drove Wen Zhiyan to fury. She shoved away the man rooting about her neck and kicked the fat bailiff off Lady Wen. The effort nearly exhausted her, and she staggered, barely able to stand, but bent down to pull her mother up.

"Yan'er!" Lady Wen, seeing the men returning for another assault, let tears stream from her eyes, gazing earnestly at Wen Zhiyan.

"Yan'er, don’t seek revenge. Run. You must escape, do you understand?"

Lady Wen’s grip was painfully tight, as if she poured all her strength into that grasp. Wen Zhiyan saw a thousand words in her mother’s eyes, but finally, as if making a momentous decision, Lady Wen swiftly removed her wooden hairpin and plunged it into her own neck.

Blood sprayed across Wen Zhiyan’s vision.

"Mother—!"

Wen Zhiyan abruptly sat up from her bed, gasping, clutching her chest to restrain her trembling. Cold sweat streamed down her back.

She took a long time to calm herself. These scenes had haunted her dreams countless times over the past two years; every time she relived it, despair and pain seized her heart anew.

After her mother fell, her sisters followed suit, and all the lives of her remaining kin vanished before Wen Zhiyan’s eyes.

That puppet-like existence, she remembered with perfect clarity, and knew exactly why she had gritted her teeth to survive. But—

Tears spilled from her eyes, yet the wish she had clung to in order to live was now utterly impossible.

Wen Zhiyan looked around. This was the boudoir she had lived in for over a decade. Once resplendent, the room had always been perfumed with fragrant incense, silk drapes layered at her bedside, even the cushions on the rosewood chairs woven from the finest silk, soft and smooth.

Her father had arranged all this for her. She loved martial arts and was carefree and unrestrained, but her father insisted on raising her as a delicate lady of the inner chambers. Wen Zhiyan had never liked it, yet she undeniably grew up softer amid the cloying scent.

Her childhood pride in besting everyone in the household proved little more than the guards and servants humoring her with feeble tricks—thus, she was no match even for a few bailiffs.

So when the edifice of fate collapsed, she was powerless to resist.

The once-luxurious room was now thick with cobwebs; all valuables had been confiscated, leaving only the bare bed and an old stool. On the door hung the remnants of two torn white seals. Wen Zhiyan glanced at the ruined bed, then at the hard, bare floor where the rug had been removed, surveying the emptiness. She threw her head back and laughed bitterly.

"By the Mandate of Heaven, the Emperor decrees:

General Wen Chongyi, entrusted with the nation, betrayed his oath and colluded with foreign enemies, divulging military secrets and causing unrest at the border and suffering among the people. His crimes are grave, a peril to the realm. In accordance with the late Emperor’s instructions, he shall be severely punished as a warning.

Henceforth, all male members of the Wen clan, regardless of age, are sentenced to death, to uphold the law. As for the female kin, though weak and innocent, the law is impartial. With the clan guilty, they are to be consigned to the army as camp followers, serving for life as a mark of chastisement.

Let this serve as an example to all officials: fulfill your duties and preserve the peace of the empire. Thus is the decree."

Wen Zhiyan whispered the edict she knew by heart; fate’s gears had turned from that moment on.

The once-esteemed Wen estate became the object of scorn, dozens of kin lost their lives, and she, raised as the cherished daughter of the household, became a drifting reed, battered and trampled yet ever tenacious.

Cold water splashed over her face as she lifted her head from the basin, letting droplets fall. She wiped the dust from the mirror, and a thin, pale face stared back.

She washed her face, shaped her brows, swept on rouge, pinned up her long hair with a plain hairpin. Tasks once performed by maids, Wen Zhiyan now did herself with practiced ease.

After dressing, she reached beneath the bed and slowly pulled out a box, brushed off the dust, and opened it to reveal a brand new embroidered dress.

She had once disliked the color for being too plain; she loved red, preferred bold attire to the gentle style of a noble lady. When her father gave her the dress, she hid it under the bed, and it escaped confiscation.

Her old clothes fell away, and the new dress enveloped her. The hardships of the past two years had left their mark—not only scars, but she had thinned considerably, the garment hanging loosely on her frame.

Today was a momentous day; no matter what, she must dress with care.

She walked lightly to the kitchen, opened the door with anticipation. Dust billowed, but Wen Zhiyan seemed not to notice the ruin and disorder, stepping inside.

Her smile twisted into something fierce, her gaze sharpened, though her voice remained calm and almost teasing.

"Two years. This farce, which cost dozens of lives, should finally end today."

She flung open the lid of the large pot, stared at its dusty interior. The fierce smile faded, replaced by an expression of quiet dignity.