The Fire of Eight Years’ Patience

Qinyan lived with her two children in relative peace.
Under her and Xiaohui’s care, the twins grew day by day. Zier resembled her mother so closely that she looked like a miniature reflection—clever and adorable. You’er bore the features of Zhao Jin; those sword-like brows and starry eyes hinted at the handsome man he would one day become.

When the twins turned two, an uninvited guest came to the Snow-Bound Pavilion—Zhao Tingting.

As Zhao Jin’s lawful wife, Zhao Tingting had long ceased troubling Qinyan. In recent years, Zhao Jin had ceaselessly taken concubines; seven or eight new mistresses now filled the rear courtyard. Busy contending with them, Zhao Tingting nearly forgot Qinyan’s existence.

As a wife, Zhao Tingting could hardly be faulted. From birth, she had been raised to become Zhao Jin’s spouse, trained to know all his preferences. If she had any flaw, it was this: though married to Zhao Jin for four years, she had borne no children.

She had consulted countless physicians, consumed countless medicines, yet to no avail. At length, she abandoned hope of conceiving herself, turning instead toward Qinyan—the nameless woman who already had two children.

That day, Zhao Tingting confronted Qinyan with condescension:
“You are but a woman without name or title. The children you bore will never be recognized. Rather than let them waste away, hand them over to me. I will give them the Zhao family’s surname, the status of true Zhao heirs. Far better than leaving them to follow a courtesan mother.”

For years, Qinyan had endured slights with cold indifference. But this time, fury flared. She seized the teacup on the table and hurled it, drenching Zhao Tingting’s face. The two women fell upon each other, clawing hair, scratching faces, locked in a savage brawl.

At last, Qinyan sank her teeth into Zhao Tingting’s arm, refusing to release her grip.
“If you dare set your sights upon my children again, I will kill you.” She spat out blood, her eyes scarlet as though bleeding. “Do you hear me, Zhao Tingting? Touch my children, and I will kill you!”

The murderous gleam in her gaze shook Zhao Tingting, who withdrew in humiliation.

When Zhao Jin learned of this matter, he warned Zhao Tingting sternly: never target the two children. Though without status, they were still Qinyan’s offspring and better kept at their mother’s side. Zhao Tingting nodded repeatedly, but her eyes blazed with fury. She gave up schemes against the children directly, yet began venting her malice upon Qinyan instead.

In the fifth year of Qinyan’s stay at the Sword-Casting Villa, Zhao Tingting claimed the Snow-Bound Pavilion required repairs and drove Qinyan and her family into a tumbledown thatched hut. Even Xiaohui, her lone maid, was reassigned to the kitchen as a servant. That same day, an old washerwoman came bearing a basket of soiled garments.

“Our Villa does not keep idlers. Qinyan, you are neither the Master’s wife nor of any rank, yet you have eaten and drunk here freely all these years. It will not do. Our Lady says that low-born folk itch when idle. From this day, you shall toil in the laundry. Remember—only if you finish your work shall you have food to eat.”

Qinyan cast a glance at the basket of dirty clothes and said nothing.
Years ago, she had done such work many times. Washing laundry was nothing—she had even scrubbed latrines. Back then, she had not only borne such labor, but also the abuse of Bai Xuezhi. Compared to those days, life now was far better. Moreover, she had her children. Zier and You’er, clever and considerate, always came to help, their tiny hands plunging into icy water to lather garments into suds.

“Mother, did I wash this clean?”
“Yes. Zier is wonderful, and You’er is a good boy.”

So long as her children remained by her side, no hardship could break her.

Meanwhile, Xiaohui often smuggled food to them. Her work in the kitchen gave her the chance to intercept supplies. Knowing Qinyan and her children often went hungry, she hid morsels in baskets and slipped them into their hut. One day, beaming with excitement, she whispered to Qinyan:
“Sister, I can help you escape!”

It turned out Xiaohui had befriended a procurement worker named A Zheng. Infatuated with her, he often tried to please her. From him she learned that during supply runs, workers could enter and leave the Villa freely. Together they hatched a plan: at the next procurement, he would smuggle Qinyan and her children out hidden in baskets. If successful, Xiaohui agreed to return his affection.

No one expected Qinyan’s refusal.
“Xiaohui, thank you for your kindness. But I am not ready to leave.”

“Why not?” Xiaohui pressed, bewildered. “Sister, you are unhappy here. Your children suffer disdain every day. Why not go? Everything is arranged! Tomorrow at the hour of the ox, a slop bucket will pass through each courtyard. You and the children can hide inside, and A Zheng will see you safely out. You’ll be free!”

By candlelight, Qinyan leafed through a music score, page by page, while her children slept curled upon the couch.
“It is not yet time.”

“Not yet time? Then when? Sister, you have lived here eight years! In these eight years, have you ever known a single day of joy?”

With a snap, Qinyan closed the book. “Never.”

“Then why not leave?”

“I will leave—but not now. When I depart, it shall be through the great gates of the Sword-Casting Villa, in full daylight, with the world watching. The Villa will blaze with lamps in my honor, and those who once shamed me shall taste their just punishment.”

Xiaohui’s lips parted, uncomprehending. Qinyan offered no further explanation.

But I knew—she was waiting. Waiting for a conflagration to engulf the heavens.

In the sixth year of Zhao Jin’s rule as Villa Master, he finally forged a second blade, named Slayer of the Sun. Eight full years had passed since the first weapon, Venomous Nether, had been bartered away.

Those eight years of Qinyan’s life could be divided into three parts. The first: her early days in the Snow-Bound Pavilion, carefree, provided for. That peace lasted two years. The second: her pregnancy and childbirth—bearing the dragon-phoenix twins, Zier and You’er, both inheriting their parents’ finest traits. Zier, her mother’s likeness; You’er, his father’s image. If Zhao Jin had ever looked upon them, he would have marveled at the strength of bloodlines. But he never did. They grew to six years old without ever meeting their father’s gaze. The third part: Zhao Tingting’s vengeance. For three long years, Qinyan was treated as a servant.

Now came the day of triumph. With Slayer of the Sun complete, the Villa erupted in celebration. Fireworks thundered, blossoms of flame filled the skies. Zhao Tingting, as mistress of the household, shrewdly won hearts by granting money and holidays to every maid and servant—every one save Qinyan. She alone was ordered to the kitchens, to labor for the banquet that night.

Qinyan offered no protest. She quietly obeyed.

While all others reveled, drinking and feasting beneath a sky of fireworks, Qinyan moved with torch in hand through every corner of the Villa.
The phosphor storehouses, the furnace towers—she knew them all.

For eight years, she had committed every inch of this place to memory. And now, when vigilance lay drowned in wine, her hour had come.

The fire began in the kitchen, then roared forth like thunder, carried by trails of oil, leaping skyward until half the heavens blazed.

The Sword-Casting Villa—once thought the safest place against fire—was utterly unprepared. For on this night, every soul was lost in drink, and none had foreseen this.