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, 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 knelt upon a ta with an open scroll before him. A brush was held steady in his hand, and a bowl of bitter Jia, long since chilled by the morning air, sat upon the an beside him.

There was a sharp irony in the draught: a prince named for excellence now seeking refuge in the dregs of a bitter tea, a shadow prince who shared with those sodden leaves not only a name, but the iron strength to survive the cold.

But now, his name was Han Zhi.

A prince by the blood of Emperor Xian and Empress Xianmu—carrying the weight of both Han and Cao lineages. But unlike most princes of his station, Han Zhi was more often found buried in scrolls of strategy or ancient poetry than on the blood-stained battlefield or at a lavish 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 burst in, waving a scrap of silk strip. “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 with the depth of a puddle,” a new voice cut in.

Chen Jue stepped into the room, a draft of biting autumn air clinging to his heels and tugging at the hem of his forest-green robes. Like Xiahou Ba, he was Han Zhi’s sworn brother and fellow disciple, though his tongue was often just as sharp as Han Zhi's.

“But that’s your true charm, Ba,” Chen Jue added with a faint, mocking smile. “If you were actually clever, we wouldn’t have anyone left to blame when things inevitably go wrong.”

Xiahou Ba laughed loudly. “Better to be a funny goat than a lonely wolf!”

Han Zhi allowed himself a small formal 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 their group alive.

They gathered in the reading room, morning light slipping through the lattice windows and catching on the specks of dust dancing in the air. Scrolls and manuscripts were scattered across the An tables, the scent of old ink and paper soothing the mind.

“Hey, Jue,” Han Zhi asked, his tone shifting to business. “Did you review the Wu strategy notes from yesterday?”

Chen Jue nodded, setting a small bamboo 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 bamboo and uncover the hidden intent within 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, kneeling beside him. “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.

“Fufufu, that’s right. Priorities? Fair enough. Wei Ping? He’s doing a better job humiliating himself every time he throws a tantrum,” Wang Kai muttered beside him.

Xun Ce cut in, his voice dripping with disdain, “Just think about it... he is a man with a mind so vacant, he’d offer meat porridge to a corpse and wonder why it doesn't thank him. His followers aren't just starving for food; they are starving for a leader who isn't fundamentally broken in the head. To follow him is to follow a man who cannot tell the difference between a crown and a jester’s cap.”

“That reminds me,” Luo 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.’”

A brief silence followed.

Then—

“Tch—!”

Ruan Ji clicked his tongue, though the corner of his lips had already begun to twitch. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, shoulders trembling.

“You...” he managed, his voice caught between restraint and laughter. “Even when you feed someone, you still find a way to lecture them?” He shook his head, but the laughter slipped through anyway—short, sharp, enough to make him stagger a little. “Ah—damn it... you’re making my stomach hurt.”

Ruan Ji held his side, turning as if to leave, yet still caught in the aftershock of amusement.

“You'll take responsibility if I fail to concentrate during my cultivation later,” he added, half-grumbling, half-laughing. “That’s it—I’m leaving, before I start taking that as sacred doctrine.”

“Wish you all the best, monk,” Han Zhi sighed.

With a lazy wave of his hand, Ruan Ji walked off, still shaking his head faintly, leaving behind the lingering echo of a laughter not quite finished.

Everyone laughed. Even Huang Kai, Ma Chenxi and Lian Shan hid their smiles behind a sigh. But the laughter didn't last long.

Two minutes after Ruan Ji departed, Wang Er arrived, breathless. “Zhi-ge, you’ve been summoned to the hall by Emperor Cao Rui.”

Han Zhi raised an eyebrow. “Cao Rui? This early in the morning?”

“Yes. Your Highness... wants to know about certain rumors going around.”

The room went still.

“Rumors about me?” Han Zhi asked.

“Inevitably, it’s from that mentally disabled person. I mean, really, who else?” Xun Ce added in a mocking tone.

Wang Er only gave a slow nod.

Han Zhi rose, smoothing his robe and rolling up the bamboo scroll before him. Before leaving, he glanced at the table, at the scrolls, and at his friends.

“Illogical. I’m not above the law. Then let’s see... if rumor is sharper than the brush.”

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.

˚⊱✿—✦✦✦—✿⊰˚

Autumn, 231 CE — The Cai Estate, Wanzheng District, Xuchang

Meanwhile, in Xuchang, word of Han Zhi’s summons reached its destination—like a cold wind carrying whispers of fear.

Inside a modest residence scented faintly of sandalwood, Cai Zhaoji clutched the imperial order tightly. Her eyes glistened. “Xiao Zhi... they want to try him like a criminal,” she whispered, tears falling onto the lacquered desk. “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 they carried 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 scroll, 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, hoping her foster brother still had room to escape. But not everyone could hide their fear. Xin Chang, Xianying’s younger brother, hurled a bamboo slip 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’ll tear his mouth apart! Don’t stop me this time, Sister!”

“Chang!” Xianying’s voice was sharp, a warning. But for once, Xin Chang didn't care about his sister’s composure. He paced like a wounded animal, unsure where to put his fury.

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 smoothed his silk robes, his movements elegant—almost delicate—as he adjusted a stray strand of hair. He watched the commotion without a flicker of panic, his eyes half-lidded, radiating a flamboyant, aristocratic grace.

“Calm yourselves. All this shouting is ruining the fragrance of the tea—and frankly, it’s quite unrefined,” He Yan said, his voice smooth and slightly playful. He took a slow sip, his gaze lingering on the horizon. “That boy isn’t some dry leaf that catches fire easily. He’s a quiet flame—and if the wind blows just right... he’ll set Wei Ping’s entire field of lies alight with a single spark.”

A servant at his side looked bewildered. “Master He Yan, are you not worried?”

He Yan tilted his head, a cynical yet beautiful smile dancing on his lips. “Han Zhi is my nephew, and I am the adopted son of Cao Cao. In this world, there are those who play with fire, and then there are those who are the fire. Anyone who touches him had better be ready for a very... scorched... reputation. And I, for one, have never been fond of forgiveness. It’s such a droll, tasteless virtue, don’t you think?”

He set the cup down with a deliberate, soft click.

“They think they can bring him down with rumors?” He chuckled, his eyes glowing with a sharp, dangerous intelligence. “That boy’s not a lion. He’s a wolf in slumber. And Wei Ping is about to learn that waking a wolf is a very, very loud mistake.”

In the back courtyard, Xin Chang struck a weathered wooden post with his bare fists. “If my sister stays silent, I’ll rip that Wei Ping’s tongue out myself! Ah-Zhi has never spoken ill of anyone, and they dare—!”

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... an uncle’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.