Chapter 1: Between Dust and Ink

“This is not the tale of gods. Nor is it a legend etched between the sky and the stars. This is simply a story from a world that knows no miracles. And among the thousands of souls that once shook an era, history may record only a fraction. For sometimes, those who carve history are not the ones who fight, but those who sit upon the throne… and erase the names they do not wish to remember.”
Autumn, the year 231 CE — the sixth year of Emperor Cao Rui’s reign over the Cao Wei Dynasty.
Luoyang, an autumn morning. Peach leaves had begun to fall, dancing with the soft wind. In a quiet corner of the imperial library, a young man sat cross-legged with an open scroll before him, brush in hand, and a cup of jasmine tea—long gone cold—by his side. His name was Han Zhi, a prince by the blood of Emperor Xian and Empress Xianmu—of both Han and Cao lineage. But unlike most princes, Han Zhi was more often found buried in books of strategy or ancient poetry than on the battlefield or at a banquet table.
“Zhi! Zhi! I found a verse that matches your overly diplomatic way of talking!”
The sharp, bright voice of Xiahou Ba broke the stillness. A round-faced man with mischievous eyes came in holding a scrap of paper. “Listen to this! *‘When blossoms fall upon the wind toward the stars—that is when the soul forgotten by history… tries to speak directly to the heavens.’* Fits you perfectly, you troublemaking savior! Hahaha!”
Han Zhi merely raised an eyebrow and slowly closed the scroll in his hands. “Did you find that in some ancient manuscript, or on the back wall of a public latrine in the West Market?”
“Uh… that’s not important. What matters is that it’s good, right?”
“Amusing—for someone shallow,” Chen Jue, Han Zhi’s sworn brother and fellow disciple, remarked as he entered. The cold autumn air followed him in, tugging at the hem of his green robe. “But that’s your charm, Ba. If you were too clever, we wouldn’t have anyone to blame when things go wrong.”
Xiahou Ba laughed loudly. “Better to be a funny goat than a lonely wolf!”
Han Zhi allowed himself a small smile. That was why he valued Xiahou Ba—the fool who lit up their days, the jester who never realized he was the warmth that kept the group alive.
They gathered in the reading room, morning light slipping through the lattice windows, catching on the specks of dust dancing in the air. Scrolls and manuscripts were scattered across the table, the scent of old ink and paper soothing the mind.
“Hey, Jue,” Han Zhi asked, “did you review the Wu strategy notes from yesterday?”
Chen Jue nodded, setting a small scroll on the table. “There’s odd movement in the west. But it’s not Wu that’s suspicious—it’s a new faction, supposedly backed by Wei Ping.”
Han Zhi said nothing. He stared at the scroll, as if trying to pierce through the sheepskin and uncover the intent hiding in the ink.
“If he really is scheming something, why doesn’t he just come to me directly?” he murmured, perhaps to no one.
“Because you’re too calm to quarrel with,” Li Yue said suddenly, taking a seat. “To someone like him, your calmness is… unnerving.”
“Or annoying,” added Xun Ce. “Remember when you went silent for five days after being harshly criticized? He thought you were plotting revenge, when you were really just reading a book on naval tactics.”
“I don’t refrain from responding because I’m weak. I stay silent because I have priorities,” Han Zhi said quietly.
“Priorities? Fair enough. Wei Ping? He’s doing a better job humiliating himself every time he throws a tantrum,” Wang Kai muttered beside him.
“That reminds me,” A Lo Ban rumbled from the corner, “back when we camped in the north, Wei Ping forgot the provisions. You stayed silent for three days. On the fourth, you gave him food, but with a note that said: ‘Learning from one’s own foolishness is the meal of the great.’”
Everyone laughed. Even Ma Chenxi and Duan Shan hid their smiles with a sigh.
But the laughter didn’t last long.
Wang Er arrived, breathless. “Zhi, you’ve been summoned to the hall by Emperor Cao Rui.”
Han Zhi raised an eyebrow. “Cao Rui? This early in the morning?”
“Yes. He… wants to know about certain rumors going around.”
The room went still.
“Rumors about me?” Han Zhi asked.
Wang Er only gave a slow nod.
Han Zhi rose, smoothing his robe and rolling up the book before him. Before leaving, he glanced at the table, at the books, at his friends.
“Then let’s see… if rumor is sharper than the pen.”
Chen Jue stood to walk with him. “Don’t make your face too cold, or Cao Rui will think you really intend to be emperor.”
“I’ve never even intended to be important,” Han Zhi replied as they stepped out, his robe trailing lightly behind him.
Outside, the Luoyang sky blushed red, as if warning that the dust of politics and the ink of history were about to meet on the same page of fate.
---
Meanwhile, in Xuchang, word of Han Zhi’s summons reached before he himself could—like a cold wind carrying whispers of fear.
Inside a modest residence scented faintly of sandalwood, Cai Zhaoji clutched the imperial order tightly in her trembling hands. Her eyes glistened. She had seen too much death born of politics. And Han Zhi… to her, he was not just a son. He was the last flicker of peace from a world long gone.
“Xiao Zhi… they want to try him like a criminal,” she whispered, tears falling onto the wooden desk where she used to write her poems. “But… he’s just a boy trying to be strong without hating the world.”
She hid her face in her sleeve. Her sobs were not loud, but the grief of a mother who knows that the politics of men are far crueler than the wounds of war.
“My child… he doesn’t know how to hide his heart. If they read him like an empty book, they will break him…”
Beside her, Xin Xianying closed her eyes, her left hand tightening on the hilt of her sword. Her voice was calm, but her grip betrayed the storm beneath.
“Steady yourself, Aunt Zhaoji. You know who’s behind this—it’s Wei Ping. He wants Zhi to be the scapegoat. But Zhi is no child who can be toppled by slander alone.”
She turned toward the window, toward the same red sky, and hoped her sworn brother still had room to escape what was coming.
But not everyone could hide their fear.
Xin Chang, Xianying’s younger brother, hurled the scroll to the floor and stomped on it, his face burning with rage.
“That bastard Wei Ping! If anything happens to Ah-Zhi… I’ll storm the palace myself! I swear I’ll tear his mouth apart! Don’t stop me this time, sister!”
“Chang!” Xianying’s voice was sharp.
But for once, Xin Chang didn’t care about his sister’s composure. He paced like a wounded animal, burning with anger and fear, unsure where to put it all.
Meanwhile, in another corner of the courtyard, a laugh floated lightly through the air.
He Yan sat beneath a bare plum tree, a cup of tea in hand. He watched the commotion without a flicker of panic, eyes half-lidded as he savored the aroma.
“That boy isn’t some dry leaf that catches fire easily,” he said after a sip. “He’s a quiet flame—and if the wind blows just right… he’ll set Wei Ping’s entire field of lies alight.”
A servant at his side looked bewildered.
“Master He Yan, are you not worried?”
He Yan simply smiled, gazing up at the reddening sky.
“Han Zhi is my younger brother, and I am the adopted son of Cao Cao. Anyone who touches him had better be ready to face me. And I… am not someone who knows how to forgive.”
He set the cup down slowly. The Luoyang sky might be red from dusk… or perhaps as a sign that tonight, the fate of the realm would shift.
“They think they can bring him down with rumors?” He chuckled softly. “That boy’s not a lion. He’s a wolf in slumber.”
In the back courtyard, Xin Chang struck a weathered wooden post with his bare fists. His breath was ragged, his fury like a furnace.
“If my brother stays silent, I’ll rip that Wei Ping’s tongue out myself! Ah-Zhi has never spoken ill of anyone, and they dare—!”
His hands bled from the blows, but he didn’t care.
And far away, in the shadow of Luoyang’s walls, Han Zhi walked toward the palace—carrying his silence, his wisdom, and the scars that had long been tempered into courage.
With light steps and a robe that billowed softly, the wind from Xuchang seemed to carry voices to him.
A mother’s prayer.A sister’s worry.A friend’s anger.And… a brother’s faith.
The Luoyang sky promised nothing. But if the pen and the rumor were waiting for him, Han Zhi would not walk into them alone.