Chains of Desire

Zhao Jin had always believed that nothing in this world was beyond his reach. If he wanted gold, he could buy it. If he wanted power, he could seize it. And if he wanted people—men or women alike—he could have them without the slightest effort.

So when he exchanged the legendary blade Dooming—a peerless weapon forged with the strength of his clan—for a woman from the brothel, ninety-nine out of a hundred people would have said he was insane. But Zhao Jin did not think so. In his eyes, as long as something made him happy, even for a fleeting moment, then no price was too high.

At sixteen, he had never felt the wild rush of desire as he did that day. When he first saw her—Qinyan—flying out of the bridal sedan in her crimson gown, her veil torn away by the wind, her beauty had struck him like a hammer against his chest. His heart had thundered in a way it never had before. That strange, unsteady rhythm had terrified him, yet also thrilled him. For the first time in his life, Zhao Jin had felt a need he could not name.

But now, as she trailed behind him like a discarded pet, that heart-pounding thrill was gone.

In the arms of Yu Hanjun she had shone like the first star of dusk—radiant, unyielding, her smile like a blade that cut through the crowd’s gasps. But the moment she landed in his hands, that brilliance shattered. She was no longer the proud bride who had laughed at fate with her cruelly beautiful words. Instead, she was a simpering woman with downcast eyes and a smile that reeked of desperation, no different from the countless courtesans who bowed and scraped in smoky halls.

Zhao Jin felt cheated.
This wasn’t the woman who had stolen his breath. This was a hollow reflection, a beautiful shell without the spark he craved.

His interest vanished like smoke. He turned from her with cold disdain and told her to leave.

But Qinyan did not.
Step by step, she followed him. Whenever he glanced back, she plastered on a flattering smile, as though terrified he might change his mind and discard her altogether. Her eagerness made him feel nothing but disgust. Perhaps she thought herself clever, choosing to cling to the man who had more power than Yu Hanjun. Perhaps she believed she had traded up, that her fate had somehow improved.

Zhao Jin sneered inwardly. Very well. He would take her back, toss her into the inner courtyards with the rest of the women who warmed his bed from time to time, just another ornament in his endless collection. She was nothing more than another stone in the heap he had gathered when he was younger, shiny at first, but ultimately just a rock.

That night, they rested in a ruined temple.

The winter air was merciless. Wind howled through the broken windows, carrying with it the scent of ashes from long-dead incense. Zhao Jin, who had grown up both in silken chambers and on the rough roads of the martial world, was accustomed to hardship. He had slept under trees, trained in mountain caves, and could summon heat through his inner strength. With a flicker of will, he gathered qi in his dantian, his body radiating warmth like a living furnace.

Qinyan, however, was not so fortunate. She was no martial artist, only a delicate woman who had once worn bright silks and heavy makeup to please the wealthy. Now, clad only in a thin undergarment after discarding her cumbersome bridal robe, she shivered violently in the bitter wind. She curled behind the half-broken statue of a bodhisattva, hugging herself as if she could squeeze the warmth back into her bones.

For a while, Zhao Jin merely watched her, amused. She looked pitiful, her lips trembling, her fingers stiff and blue. Then, an idea—half mischievous, half cruel—sparked in his mind. He released more heat into the air, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, the warmth began to seep into the space around him.

At first, Qinyan resisted, curling tighter against the cold stone. But instinct betrayed her. Inch by inch, her body leaned toward the warmth, toward him. And when she finally realized, her head jerked up in alarm. She found herself nestled against his chest, her arms clutching him like a lifeline.

Her whole body went rigid. Shame and fear warred across her features. But she did not move away. She knew as well as he did that if she left the furnace of his body, the cold might very well kill her before morning.

So she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.

Zhao Jin felt the stiffness in her frame, the forced rhythm of her breathing, and he laughed silently. So this was the real her. Not the dazzling bride. Not the fawning courtesan. But the frightened, desperate girl beneath. This, he thought, was more intoxicating than any mask she wore.

He wanted more.

He opened his eyes in the darkness and spoke, his voice cold and sharp as steel.

“Take off your clothes.”

Because of the strange connection of the ritual, I could feel every flicker of Zhao Jin’s mind as though it were my own. On the surface, outsiders might think he was merely a lustful young man, driven by base instinct. But I knew better. His emotions were layered, complicated: thirty percent excitement, twenty percent calm calculation, fifty percent delight.

What thrilled him was not the thought of her body, but of her fear—the raw, unpolished truth in her expression. For Zhao Jin, Qinyan’s beauty was secondary. It was her soul, her hidden vulnerability, that ensnared him. He wanted to strip away her disguises, to uncover her most secret self, even if he had to use cruelty to do it.

Later, when I tried to explain this to Gongsun Bai, he rolled his eyes.
“So what you’re saying,” he said dryly, “is that in the end, it’s still about getting her naked.”
“You don’t understand,” I protested. “It’s about comprehending his inner world, about how he sees her—”
“Please,” Bai interrupted with a scoff. “Men are ruled by their loins. Don’t dress it up with philosophy.”

I had no answer.

The rest of that night’s events were not fit for children’s ears. Suffice it to say that by dawn, Qinyan had become Zhao Jin’s woman, and he had claimed her not just with his body but with his power.

The next morning, he returned with her to Sword-Casting Manor.

The first thing he did was kneel before his father, the old manor lord. News of Zhao Jin’s reckless trade—exchanging Dooming for a courtesan—had already spread like wildfire through the martial world. The old lord was furious. He whipped his son three hundred times with his own hand, each strike cracking against flesh until blood soaked Zhao Jin’s robes. He had even considered severing one of Zhao Jin’s arms as punishment, but in the end, pity and fear stayed his hand. After all, Zhao Jin was his only son.

Still, the punishment was severe. Zhao Jin was banished to the Furnace, the underground forge where molten rivers of lava flowed day and night. Every weapon of the manor had to be born from that inferno, hammered and tempered amidst suffocating heat. Most smiths could only last a single day before collapsing. But the old lord decreed that Zhao Jin would work there for ten months—three hundred days without respite.

It nearly broke him.

The air was thick with burning sulfur, his skin cracked and peeled until blood mixed with sweat. Many nights he returned to his quarters and sank into the bath, watching pieces of his own flesh float on the surface of the water. Yet even then, amidst pain and exhaustion, his thoughts wandered to Qinyan.

When servants reported that she had been placed in Snow Pavilion with a maid called Xiaohui, that she had outwitted Zhao Tingting’s petty schemes again and again, he laughed despite himself. That’s my woman, he thought. Fierce, clever, unwilling to bow.

Zhao Tingting, his betrothed cousin who had grown up beside him, was furious. She had always imagined herself his rightful wife, and she had long tormented every other woman who came near him. But with Qinyan she could find no victory. Beauty, wit, and sheer willpower placed Qinyan far above her.

One day, when Tingting brought food to Zhao Jin in the furnace and saw the wounds covering his body, she burst into tears. But when Zhao Jin told her sternly never to trouble Qinyan again, her grief turned into rage. The very next day, she doused Qinyan with scalding water. Qinyan responded by smashing a teapot across her head, leaving her bleeding and humiliated.

From then on, tales of Qinyan’s defiance became the only joy Zhao Jin had while enduring his punishment. He heard she wandered the manor like a lioness surveying her domain. He heard she studied the rare texts of the library, hungry for knowledge. He heard she turned every trap Tingting laid into a victory of her own.

Ten months later, when Zhao Jin finally emerged from the furnace, he was no longer the pampered heir but a scarred, hardened man. His first act of freedom was to seek her out.

He found her in Snow Pavilion, sitting in a garden overflowing with blossoms. She wore a simple white gown, a book resting against her chest as she napped beneath the afternoon sun. For a long moment he only watched, struck by the serenity of the scene. Then, unable to resist, he lifted her into his arms.

Xiaohui moved to bow, but he silenced her with a gesture.
“Don’t wake her,” he murmured.

Qinyan stirred anyway, blinking up at him with eyes that glistened like a startled doe’s.
“Ah… Zhao Jin, it’s you.”

He laid her gently on the bed, sitting beside her, studying the softness she had gained. She had grown plumper, her waist no longer delicate but full beneath his hand. The thought that he had endured torment while she had eaten and slept well stung him with a strange, petty jealousy. He pinched her waist lightly, as if to remind her.

Her cheeks flushed as she pushed his hand away. “You came at the right time,” she said softly. “I want to ask you something. When will you let me go? You once promised me freedom. I think… it’s time.”