The Blade's Covetous Flame

The second time I stepped into the illusion, it was not as before. Previously I had employed the art of causality, tracing the threads of cause and effect. This time, however, I used “sympathetic resonance”—another facet of the Posa technique, a method that allows one to feel as another feels, to share breath and heartbeat.

Last time, when I entered Qinyan’s memories, I spent over ten long years within that dreamscape, while in the waking world only a single day had passed. If Zhao Jin’s heart-illness stretched back as far as the cradle, how many more days might I have lost in search of its root? Thus came this method: bind two strands of hair, and I would be drawn directly to the wound in his heart. No wandering, no needless detours—straight to the marrow of the truth.

As our hair tied together, Zhao Jin’s thirty-odd years of life unfurled before me like a painted scroll. Emotions—joy, rage, sorrow, delight—flickered past like a lantern spinning in the wind. I caught the turning of seasons, the fleeting of friends, the rise of his arrogance, the faint shadows that had gathered year after year. Then the illusion seized me and pulled me into the chosen hour.

My body dropped like a stone. Gongsun Bai, wiser from the last venture, sprang with feline grace onto the branches of a tall tree, robes billowing like a crane’s wings. I, however, had no such elegance; I landed flat on my face, dust rising around me.

“Petty man,” I muttered, spitting grit from my teeth, “he never forgets a slight.”

When I lifted my head, I saw Shaodu’s main thoroughfare alive with the chaos of festival. Lanterns swayed from the eaves, firecrackers burst in sputtering chains, smoke and laughter twined in the air. The din of hawkers and the clatter of drums made the street tremble. I knew this day well—it was Qinyan’s wedding day.

This was my second time witnessing the scene. The first had been through her eyes; now I stood within Zhao Jin’s. Only when two halves joined could the whole picture be seen.

Zhao Jin, then sixteen, strode along the crowded street in silk robes, a youth already accustomed to command. He carried himself with idle confidence, amused as he listened to the townsfolk murmuring of the “Number One Beauty Under Heaven.”

At first, the title made him laugh. As the only son of the Sword-Forging Manor, he had been raised in luxury, bathed in admiration since birth. From jade curios to rare gemstones, no treasure had ever been beyond his reach. Nor had the pleasures of flesh been denied him; he had tasted beauty since thirteen summers, and had grown weary of it. He had seen countless women famed as “beauties” in one region or another, their names gilded by flattery. What novelty could another claim bring?

And yet this was no noble lady but a courtesan—a woman of the brothels, a body sold to many. That such a woman dared take on the title “Number One Beauty”—was it not laughable? Nothing more than a trick to raise her price in the marketplace.

Still, curiosity lingered. He pushed closer, mingling with the crowd, eyes fixed on the bridal sedan. He admitted, the woman had secured a remarkable fate: she was to wed Yu Luo Ge’s Yu Hanjun, not the heir but still a favored son. For her, the second half of life promised rich clothing and endless meals, a future free of want.

Then the horses screamed, startled by firecrackers. The palanquin jolted. Red silk fluttered as the bride was flung into the air.

Her veil tore free, and the crowd gasped. A face pale as snow and radiant as dawn was revealed, framed in the flaming red of her wedding robes. The delicate brows, the luminous eyes, the lips curved like peach blossoms—indeed, she was no common beauty. For a breath, the throng held its voice in awe.

Even Zhao Jin’s chest tightened. Yes, she was fine—better than he had expected. But to him, a boy already dulled by abundance, she was merely “above average,” nothing to truly warrant the title.

Then Yu Hanjun moved. With effortless grace he soared upward, robes streaming behind him, and caught her from the air. The crowd erupted in cheers at the heroic rescue. The bride, still trembling, lifted her gaze toward him and smiled faintly.

That smile struck Zhao Jin like a spear. His heart lurched, blood roaring as if a hundred horses trampled within. A fevered heat filled his chest, and with it came a feeling he had never known: desire not of the body, but of possession.

This girl, this woman—she must belong to him.

Zhao Jin had never been denied. The Manor was called “a nation within the nation,” and he its crown prince. In sixteen years, there had been nothing he could not obtain, no treasure he could not purchase, no pleasure denied his hand.

He recalled his boyhood hobby of collecting stones. No matter the rarity, no matter the cost, he had them all bought and piled high. Others, seeking his favor, gifted crystals and gems. And when his interest waned, those precious stones turned worthless in his eyes, left to gather dust in some dark storeroom.

This woman was no different from those stones.

Possession urged him forward—but futility checked his stride. She already belonged to another, pledged before Heaven and men. What could he do at another man’s wedding?

Yet the frustration did not linger. It curdled into arrogance, then into cruelty. So what if she was another’s wife? There was nothing in this world money could not buy. If it could not be bought, it could be seized. And if it could not be seized, then it could be destroyed.

His mind set, he stepped boldly to Yu Hanjun, drawing forth the Sword-Forging Manor’s prized blade—Du Ming. This blade, forged with the Manor’s full strength, had been meant for a great general. Yet Zhao Jin now offered it as a mere token for exchange.

Yu Hanjun faltered, but the gleam of the blade was irresistible. After a long breath of hesitation, he agreed.

Zhao Jin’s smile widened. He had been right: even the noblest love bows before overwhelming wealth and power. In that moment, as Yu Hanjun surrendered so easily, Zhao Jin’s thrill dulled—desire is fiercest when resisted. Too easy a victory cheapened the prize.

But Qinyan’s reaction was not what he expected.

Though she was the core of this bargain, she had no voice. One moment she was a bride; the next, a commodity. Most would weep, collapse, or scream. She did neither. She stood, still as a blade, and when her lips parted, her words were sharper than steel.

Her voice rang out, clear and cutting:

“First congratulations—to the gentleman, for exchanging an unwed concubine for a peerless treasure.”
“Second congratulations—to the gentleman, for casting off a lowly woman.”
“Third congratulations—to the gentleman, for such swift and ruthless resolve—truly the mark of a general.”

Each phrase landed like a dagger. Her tone was soft, her words courteous, but every syllable was poison. Yu Hanjun’s face twisted with each congratulation, as though it was he, not she, who had been discarded.

Zhao Jin’s eyes narrowed. Yes, she wielded no sword nor spear. But she carried another weapon—the blade of words, the soft knife that cuts the heart unseen. And in truth, that knife may wound more deeply than any edge of steel.