The Inferno of Resentment

The aftermath of that colossal misunderstanding was devastating. From that moment forward, Zhao Jin carried a heavy grievance against Qin Yan deep in his heart. His resentment poisoned every interaction, corroding what little tenderness had once existed between them. Even the two children Qin Yan had borne him—his own flesh and blood—were tainted in his eyes, mere thorns lodged in his heart, reminders of a humiliation he could not forgive.

In the years that followed, Zhao Jin forced himself to forget Qin Yan, to treat her presence as nothing more than a shameful scar on his otherwise illustrious life. He withdrew his protection from her, no longer caring whether she lived well or poorly. At times, he even turned a blind eye as Zhao Tingting, his official wife, unleashed her malice on Qin Yan. In Zhao Jin’s mind, these torments were not only acceptable—they were fitting punishments for the woman who had dared to tread on his pride.

Yet fate has a way of planting sparks even in long-dead ashes.

One bitter winter, Zhao Tingting, desperate and consumed by jealousy, made a bold and cruel attempt. She had been married to Zhao Jin for years, yet her womb remained empty. While she held the title of wife, mistress of the manor, she knew titles could wither quickly without heirs. Watching Zhao Jin’s concubines grow in number only fed her anxieties. The thought haunted her: Without a child, how long before I am replaced?

In her desperation, she turned her envy toward Qin Yan. Qin Yan’s children were living, breathing proof of the love—or at least the passion—Zhao Jin once had for her. Tingting reasoned that if she could take those children as her own, her place would be secure.

That night, she cornered Qin Yan, her voice low, laced with venom.
“Hand them over,” she demanded. “They are mine now. You’re unworthy of raising the heirs of this house.”

For years Qin Yan had borne every insult, every humiliation, with a meek and yielding silence. But when Zhao Tingting reached for her children, something primal erupted within her. For the first time, her submission shattered.

“No one will take them from me!” Qin Yan’s voice, hoarse and trembling, was steel for the first time in years.

The confrontation exploded into violence. Qin Yan fought with the ferocity of a cornered beast—scratching, clawing, biting. She used her nails, her teeth, her very body to shield her children. The clash was brutal. By the end of it, Zhao Tingting’s face was a bloody ruin, her scalp torn where strands of hair had been ripped away.

That evening, Zhao Jin returned to find his wife in disarray—her face streaked with scratches, her scalp raw and bleeding.

His eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

Tingting’s sobs were pitiful, her words a flood of accusations, but Zhao Jin cut her off with a cold, detached voice.
“Do not lay a finger on those children again,” he said. “They have a mother already. If you cannot bear one of your own, it is no reason to tear another’s child away. Force it again, and you will find yourself the one cast out.”

Tingting froze, disbelief washing over her features. For the first time, Zhao Jin had chosen Qin Yan’s side over hers.

It was a fleeting mercy, but it would not last.

Then came the fire.

From Qin Yan’s perspective, it was vengeance—a final blaze to annihilate the cage that had bound her for eight long years. But from Zhao Jin’s eyes, the inferno would be remembered differently: as the night his world, and his pride, nearly turned to ash.

That day was meant to be glorious.

For the first time since the forging of the legendary blade Duming, the Swordsmith Manor had birthed another divine weapon—Tu Ri, the Slayer of Suns. The name, bold and dramatic, evoked tales of Hou Yi drawing his bow against the heavens. In truth, the blade had been tempered in molten fire for eighty-one days, its edge glowing like the heart of the sun itself. Its radiance was so blinding that none dared look at it directly. Thus, it earned its fearsome name.

But Tu Ri was more than a weapon—it was Zhao Jin’s triumph. Proof that he was not a frivolous playboy, not the wasteful heir the elders whispered about. It was his declaration: I, Zhao Jin, am worthy to lead this house into a new age of glory.

The unveiling ceremony was a spectacle. Messengers spread the news far and wide; heroes and dignitaries flocked to witness the birth of the blade. Lanterns blazed in the courtyard, and thousands of firecrackers roared into the sky. For Zhao Jin, whose reign as lord of the manor had always been shadowed by doubt, this was his moment of vindication.

The feast was lavish, the laughter loud. Cups clinked, and countless congratulations poured in. But soon, as wine loosened tongues, the conversation turned elsewhere.

“What of heirs?” one elder asked. “Lord Zhao, you are five-and-twenty now. A strong age. The manor cannot wait forever for its next successor.”

Others joined in, their smiles cunning. “Indeed, Zhao’s bloodline must endure. We know many fine maidens, daughters of noble families. If the manor needs—”

Zhao Jin’s smile froze. Beneath the table, his fists clenched. He heard not concern but schemes—greedy fathers eager to thrust their daughters into his bed, to tether their lineage to his rising star.

He rose, his robe whispering in the sudden hush. His gaze swept the room, cold as steel.
“You need not worry,” he said. “I already have heirs. A son and a daughter, born of Qin Yan. After tonight, she will be granted her rightful place, and they will be acknowledged as children of the Zhao clan.”

A stunned silence fell. Whispers rippled.

But before anyone could respond, the sky outside split with flames. A roar, like the earth itself catching fire, echoed through the night.

“Fire!” someone screamed. “The manor is ablaze!”

The crowd surged to their feet, chaos breaking the carefully woven order of the night. Servants rushed to fetch water, while guards ran to contain the blaze. But this was no ordinary fire. It was everywhere—dozens of points across the estate igniting at once, flames leaping from building to building with unnatural speed.

Zhao Jin’s eyes widened. His first thought was not of the sword, nor the guests, but of a single name.
“Qin Yan.”

He turned sharply. His wife, Zhao Tingting, grabbed at his arm, tears streaking her painted face.
“Husband! We must leave—it’s not safe!”

“Where is Qin Yan?” Zhao Jin snarled, shaking her off. “What did you do with her?!”

“I—” Tingting faltered, panic flashing in her eyes. “Come with me, please, we must—”

But Zhao Jin had already wrenched free, sprinting toward the Snow Pavilion.

What he did not know was that Qin Yan had been forced out of the Snow Pavilion long ago, driven into the servants’ quarters at the edge of the estate. The pavilion he now ran toward was but an abandoned husk, empty of life, swallowed by flames.

“Qin Yan!” he shouted, the heat searing his throat. He nearly called for his children but stopped, realization striking him like a blow. He had never given them names. His children—his blood—and he had never named them.

The fire roared back, mocking him. He stumbled through the blazing halls, choking on smoke, searching desperately, but found nothing. No trace of her.

Outside the inferno, high in the branches of a tree, I watched alongside Gongsun Bai. The flames painted the night sky crimson, sparks rising like a thousand fireflies of death.

“Foolish man,” I muttered. “Always blind until the moment of loss. Only now does he call her name, only now does he run through fire for her. Where was this urgency all those years before?”

Bai gave me a sidelong glance but said nothing. The truth hung heavy in the smoke.

Meanwhile, fate twisted the knife again.

Not long after Zhao Jin abandoned the Snow Pavilion, Qin Yan herself appeared—drawn by the chaos, her face pale, her children nowhere in sight. And there, in the frenzy of smoke and fire, she encountered Zhao Tingting.

“Where is he?” Tingting cried, her voice breaking. “Where is my husband? Where is Zhao Jin?”

Qin Yan’s eyes flickered, and in that moment, she chose cruelty—or perhaps mercy.
“He went inside,” she said softly. “He’s still searching.”

Tingting did not hesitate. With tears streaming down her face, she turned and plunged headlong into the flames.

From my perch above, I saw the fire swallow her whole.

It was, perhaps, her final act of desperation. For years she had watched her husband drift further and further from her grasp, watched him chase shadows of other women while never once giving her his heart. And now, in this last moment, abandoned for another yet again, she chose the only escape left.

The blaze became her shroud, her grave, and her release.

Watching this, I felt a tug of something dangerous inside me. As a dreamweaver, I was bound by law and discipline: I was meant to seek only the threads of cause and effect, never to interfere. But here, as Qin Yan’s story unfolded in fire and sorrow, I felt my resolve falter.

I had already seen her memories; her past was laid bare before me like a map. All it would take was one motion, one flick of my will, to alter the strands of fate.

It was temptation itself—like casting a thief into a vault of gold and asking him to resist.

And so, I reached out, parting the threads of time. With a sweep of my hand, Zhao Tingting’s entire life spread open before me, every joy and pain etched into the canvas of her memory.

And I, for the first time, chose not merely to watch—but to take.