Love Cut by the Blade

Three sharp claps of the wooden clappers — ta-ta-ta!
Three beats and the wedding procession began. A vermilion bridal sedan glided into the center; at its flanks the matrons tossed out sugared treats.
Sunflower seeds, candied dates — the onlookers scrambled and snatched them up. I wedged a few into my palm and popped them into my mouth; the taste was pleasant.
Gongsun Bai looked at me in puzzlement. “Isn’t this a phantasm? Why can we eat things inside it?”
I stuffed a date into his mouth. “We cannot alter what has already occurred; for Qin Yan this is fixed fact. To change it risks the collapse of the illusion. For us spectators, to follow the script and nibble a bite does no harm. Don’t you want one? If not, give it back.”
Gongsun Bai hurriedly shoved the sweet into his own mouth.

We had lingered in that phantasmal scene for more than two days. Though time in the vision and time in the real world run by different clocks — what feels like forty-eight hours there may be but two hours out here — the pangs of hunger are genuine.
I reached for a few more treats, when Gongsun Bai suddenly dragged me to the roadside and whispered, “He comes.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The other lead of the tale — Zhao Jin.”

I turned where he pointed and found, amid the throng, a tall youth standing. Though young, he lacked the frail look of boys; he stood large and broad, muscles taut, with straight, powerful arms. His build was exaggerated, yet his face was still that of a lad: round cheeks, thin lips, brows sweeping into the temples. His eyes were a fine almond shape, black and clear.
Strapped to his back was a monstrous object, wrapped in oilcloth; only the silhouette of a great blade could be made out. The haft was long — nearly half a head’s length. He stood among the gawkers, watching the spectacle.

I could hardly believe his years. “He looks like a child.”
“If memory serves, he is only sixteen. Yu Hanjun is twenty; Qin Yan, seventeen.”
“Sixteen and bold enough to snatch a bride in public? Truly the scions of the realm are prodigies…” I muttered to myself.

Zhao Jin pushed into the crowd. He heard the murmurs: “Isn’t that the second scion of the Sword-Forging Manor? What a display — to snatch a courtesan with such fanfare!”
“Mark my words: she’ll be Lady Yu soon enough. What matter if once a courtesan? Everyone knows she was the First Beauty Under Heaven!”
“Heh, beauty begets such trouble.”
“…”

Zhao Jin, roused by the talk, called out, “Is this new bride truly so fair?”
The crowd, seeing a youth ask, laughed and teased him: “Fair, of course. How else could she have ensnared Young Master Yu’s heart?”
“But you, lad — don’t be deceived; this woman ruins men,” one voice warned.
Zhao Jin shrugged, scorn upon his face. “That title ‘First Beauty’ is mere hype.”

Then, without warning, disturbance broke out. A horse, spooked by a string of firecrackers, bolted. The beast panicked among the press; hats and shoes flew like leaves. Some leapt to seize its bridle, but the horse threw its rider and charged the bridal sedan.
With a thunderous smash the mad horse struck the palanquin. The litter shook violently; the curtain whipped aside and a woman in phoenix crown and bridal robes was flung out — Qin Yan.

The air itself seemed to freeze.
She flew into the midair, skirt billowing, jewels chiming, her red veil gone. As she fell, another figure sprang forth and caught her sure.
It was Yu Hanjun.

Yu Hanjun, with a single deft movement, drew her into his arms. In midair they spun like dancers, then alit with graceful balance. The crowd erupted in applause.
“Such a match of youth and beauty!”
“A union made by heaven!”

Even the usually impassive Qin Yan could not help the flush that colored her face. She lifted her head and measured Yu Hanjun with her eyes.
Here stood the man she called lover and husband — the one she would cherish and guard for her life. To wed him was to escape the Hell of Spring Breeze Pavilion; a new life awaited if only he took her hand.
She could not help but smile.

Now I see plainly why they called her the First Beauty Under Heaven. Some are fair in motion, some in stillness; Qin Yan was both. Her beauty was not the apocalyptic, banner-falling sort that conquers armies, yet its ordinary perfection intoxicated. When she smiled she became a vision: still as a sleeping goddess at dawn, moving like a sprite in the moonlight.
No wonder she was crowned First Beauty.

That smile ensnared me. The crowd too seemed enchanted, rigid as though struck; breath held. Even Zhao Jin — the boy who had mocked the title — stood stunned. He had scoffed at the name as mere rumor; even when the horse hurled her out and her face was revealed he maintained an air of hauteur. Yet at her full, shining smile to Yu Hanjun he froze as if struck by lightning.

Yu Hanjun checked her for injuries, steadied her, and was about to set her back into the sedan when a voice thundered from behind: “Stop!”
Zhao Jin forced his way through the press and stood before Yu Hanjun, bowing to announce himself: “I am Zhao of the Sword-Forging Manor — Zhao Jin.”
Yu Hanjun, surprised, returned the bow: “I have long heard your renown. I am Yu of Yuluo Pavilion, Yu Hanjun.”

Yuluo Pavilion and the Sword-Forging Manor were both houses of renown, each great in its field. Yuluo ruled the shadowy craft of killers; the Manor forged blades that made warriors drool. If one must weigh power, the Manor perhaps had the advantage.

Yu Hanjun spoke with courtesy: “Pray tell, what brings you? Today is a day of joy — will you join in our cup?”
Zhao Jin lifted his eyes; they were cold as a coiled snake. He looked straight at Qin Yan and declared, “I want her.”

Qin Yan stood as if struck. Yu Hanjun thought he had misheard. “What?”
Zhao Jin set his burden upon the ground and unwrapped the oilcloth. A black blade gleamed — a great cleaver of midnight. The difference between common and rare reveals itself at once. A true blade possesses a chill, a thirst, a corpse-like hush. The moment Zhao Jin revealed that weapon, the crowd stepped back as if fingers had been laid upon their throats.

“This blade is called ‘Poison Doom.’ Three years forging the blank, three years shaping the haft, three years tempering, three years grinding. Twelve years of the Sword-Forging Manor’s toil; this ‘Poison Doom’ is their masterpiece, a godly sword not seen in generations. I dare say no blade could stand ten rounds before it.” Zhao Jin extended his hand toward Yu Hanjun. “Give me the woman at your side, and I will give you ‘Poison Doom.’”