Yu Hanjun

Long after, when I had witnessed the entirety of Qin Yan’s life, my mind would often wander back to that afternoon when she was carried away by Luan Feng.
If—if she had simply gone with him, never to return—would all the tragedies that followed have been spared?

It was at that moment that Jiang Han appeared. His sword-edge whistled through the air; clad in snow-white robes, he thrust forward with lightning speed, his blade piercing Luan Feng’s abdomen. Fortunate for the thief, his reflexes saved him; though he twisted aside, he still bore a deep and bloody wound.

Luan Feng had remained at large for so many years as the infamous flower thief for no reason other than his unmatched lightness skill. Yet however fine one’s qinggong, in the face of true strength, it is but empty shadow. Jiang Han’s sword was swift as thunder, and Luan Feng spent every ounce of energy merely to evade.

Qin Yan, watching from the side, saw that Luan Feng could endure no more. Her voice rang out sharp and sudden. The cry drew Jiang Han’s attention; his sword paused for the briefest instant—enough for Luan Feng to leap back, seize the chance, and vanish into the forest.

Qin Yan looked upon his bloodied figure as he disappeared, and her lips curved in the faintest smile. She mouthed a single word: Go.

With clenched teeth, Luan Feng darted into the trees and was gone.

Jiang Han did not give chase. Instead he turned to Qin Yan, his eyes filled with concern. “Are you hurt, girl?”
She gave no answer—only lifted her gaze to the boundless blue above.
Such skies, such freedom… she feared she might never behold them again.

The Spring Breeze Pavilion was far; Jiang Han, a man of upright virtue, dared not hold her close, dared not fly her back by qinggong. And so the two walked, step by slow step, side by side.

Qin Yan moved with deliberate slowness. She lingered over each cloud, each blade of grass, each wildflower, as though engraving them into memory. Jiang Han urged her not once—he merely accompanied her in silence.

By a brook they stopped; Jiang Han stooped to fill a flask. In that instant, a shadow burst from the woods. Strong arms swept Qin Yan up from the stone where she sat, carrying her deep into the forest.

The embrace was one she knew well.
Wind roared in her ears. Qin Yan lifted her chin and gazed into those bright eyes—Luan Feng.

This time he had donned men’s attire again, hair bound at the brow, and in that guise his handsomeness shone. His wound had been bound with cloth, yet blood seeped still as he sped among the trees.

Catching her gaze, he laughed lightly. “Well? Do I not look half-decent?”

Qin Yan smiled faintly. “I heard the great Luan Feng, famed flower thief, never plucks twice. Why then return?”

Feigning vexation, he said, “Because I felt… someone wished to come with me.”

Qin Yan answered not, only tightened her arms about his neck, whispering with steady resolve: “Take me away.”

Luan Feng landed upon a thick branch, eyes scanning the distant city. “Then hold on!”

He gathered strength and leapt. But ere they touched ground, the air filled with a whistling hiss.

Hidden weapons!

Two diamond-shaped darts struck his thigh. Jiang Han’s cold voice rang out: “Luan Feng! I spared you once. Why dare you return?”

Luan Feng plummeted like a falling leaf. At the last moment he rolled, using his own body as a cushion, shielding Qin Yan from harm.

Clenching his teeth, he wrenched the darts free, and even then managed a grin. “Naturally—for the sake of beauty.”

Qin Yan’s face blanched.

Jiang Han said sternly, “Miss Qin Yan belongs to Spring Breeze Pavilion. Out of respect for our shared rivers and lakes, I will let you go again—leave now, and I shall not claim your life.”

Luan Feng’s voice was firm: “I leave not without her.”

Steel clashed; moonlight flashed. Sword and shadow met in deadly dance. Yet Luan Feng was no match. Blow after blow drove him to the cliff’s edge—until Jiang Han’s blade pierced his chest, and the thief toppled into the abyss below.

Jiang Han sheathed his sword and turned back to Qin Yan, voice gentle. “Are you unharmed?”

Her answer was a stinging slap across his face.

He faltered, bewildered.

Her eyes blazed. “I was so close to freedom. He promised to take me away. Why—why did you stop him?”

Jiang Han had no words. From afar came the thunder of hooves—Madam Li and her guards. Qin Yan was seized and led back to the Pavilion.

For driving off the flower thief, Jiang Han was granted a thousand taels. Li Mama handed the silver without hesitation; whatever she paid, she knew she would earn back tenfold through Qin Yan.

When Jiang Han prepared to depart, he bid farewell to the Pavilion’s courtesans. Many were taken by his handsome bearing, offering coy glances and secret smiles. He declined them all.

At last he came to Qin Yan’s chamber. She sat before her mirror, painting her face—already beautiful, but with powder and rouge she was dazzling beyond measure.

Jiang Han dared not meet her eyes. “Miss Qin Yan, I am leaving,” he said softly.

She did not look up. “Then go. Why bother me?”

“I came only to bid farewell,” he answered, “and to thank you for your grace these days.”

She rose suddenly, stepping close. Her gaze locked onto his. “Oh? You wish to thank me? And with what?”

Jiang Han was struck dumb.

She leaned near, breath warm upon his ear. “If you truly wish to show thanks—on the tenth day of the tenth month, at my debut—come, and buy me.”

Jiang Han’s body went rigid. Qin Yan laughed aloud.

The tenth day of the tenth month—Qin Yan’s first night. Li Mama spared no expense: a grand stage, invitations to nobles and merchants alike.

Upon the splendid dais, dancers swayed, enticing the crowd. At last Qin Yan appeared, draped in heavy gold-threaded robes, her body supple, her skin snow-white, her eyes brimming with unspoken allure.

When her dance ended, Li Mama leapt upon the stage, naming a price so high it seemed madness. Enough silver to wed a dozen virtuous wives—yet here it bought but a single night with a courtesan.

Dozens vied at first—merchants, lords, men of rank. As bidding climbed, fewer remained, until only two tycoons contended.

One, past fifty, round and sweating, with twenty wives already.
The other, older still, hair white, toothless—yet greedy for the sixteen-year-old maiden.

From afar, Gongsun Bai and I watched. Their lecherous visages sickened us.

And we saw Qin Yan—still poised, still graceful. Yet her body trembled, her eyes reddened, her nails dug into her skin as she forced herself calm.

She was afraid. What girl would not be? She was but meat upon the block.

At that instant, a clear voice rang like jade: “Have I not yet placed my bid?”

All turned. A silver silhouette strode into the hall, long sword at his waist, black hair bound high, a faint smile upon his lips as though spring breeze touched the world.

It was Jiang Han.

Li Mama’s face twisted in shock. “You? This is no place for a mere hired guard—leave!” But mid-word she froze, paling as if seeing a ghost.

For Jiang Han had raised a jade medallion. His smile was mild. “Now—do I qualify?”

Li Mama’s knees near buckled. For upon that medallion was engraved the sigil of Yuluo Pavilion.

Yuluo Pavilion—its name was known across the jianghu, a league of assassins feared and whispered about. It was said: if their price were met, not even the Son of Heaven himself would escape. Their vendetta knew no end; once a contract was taken, pursuit would continue until the last assassin drew breath.

And this Jiang Han, this “mere guard,” was in truth none other than the Pavilion’s Second Young Master—Yu Hanjun.

The hall fell deathly still.

Qin Yan trembled, staring as Yu Hanjun walked toward her. In her eyes flickered terror—and something else, a spark of anticipation.

“You came,” she whispered.

Yu Hanjun inclined his head. “I do not break my word.”

Her brows arched. “The price for me is no trifle.”

“I can pay it.”

Her face hardened; she sprang to her feet. “So you can pay for one night! But tomorrow, the day after, for countless nights hence—I shall still be sold like cattle. Will you come every day?”

The smile faded from Yu Hanjun’s eyes.

Indeed—men ever savor the thrill of one heroic act. Yet when a woman demands they remain, demands responsibility—they falter.

And perhaps it was unfair. After all, courtesans sold but a single night, never more. Yet in that moment, Qin Yan’s plea laid bare a truth: what she sought was not silver, but freedom.