Flames of the Swordsmith Manor

Her name was Zhao Tingting, and she was ugly.

The first time Zhao Jin laid eyes on Zhao Tingting, he was seven years old. She was still called Wu Tingting then. Her father had been the manor’s most formidable swordsman, the right arm of the previous lord. When an accident claimed his life, the man left nothing behind but a single daughter.

The old lord pitied the orphan. He adopted her as his foster child and bestowed upon her the family name Zhao.

From that moment, Wu Tingting became Zhao Tingting, and in title, she was Zhao Jin’s cousin.

The manor lord brought the girl before his son, placing a firm hand on Zhao Jin’s shoulder. “Son,” he declared, “from today, you must treat Tingting well. She is not only your younger sister, but also your future wife.”

The words were so blunt, so mercilessly clear, that Tingting’s cheeks flushed crimson. She was only six, still in the haze of childhood, yet she already grasped enough to know what “husband” and “wife” meant.

Zhao Jin glanced at her round, awkward face. Her features had yet to form, her nose too flat, her eyes too wide. Without hesitation, he shouted, “I don’t want her! She’s ugly!”

The girl froze, lips trembling, and then the tears gushed forth. Her cries echoed down the stone halls.

The old lord’s face darkened with shame. In fury, he seized a whip and lashed Zhao Jin twenty times.

The boy endured it with clenched teeth, his heart brimming with grievance. He had only spoken the truth—why was he punished?

That night, his mother, the lady of the manor, tended his wounds with ointment. Her touch was gentle, her voice low. “Foolish child. Why quarrel with your father? Even if you marry that little girl, what does it matter? You can still have many women. Look at your father—besides me, he has eighteen wives. Yet only I bore him a son. Remember this, Jin: women can be countless, but the one who bears your child must be cherished.”

Zhao Jin listened. From then on, he never again called Tingting ugly to her face. More accurately, he learned the art of ignoring her.

For he was Zhao Jin, sole heir of Swordsmith Manor, born to claim whatever he desired.

But Tingting heard only one thing from the old lord’s decree: You will be his wife one day.

From then on, she carried herself as if she already bore that title. Because Zhao Jin had once called her ugly, she devoted herself to transformation. Even as a child, she studied cosmetics, clothing, and ways to disguise her flaws. Every girl near Zhao Jin became her enemy.

Yet her efforts were wasted. Zhao Jin’s indifference cut deeper than cruelty. No matter how she tried to draw near, he treated her as if she were a stranger.

When Zhao Jin turned thirteen, a foreign girl was gifted to him—a Hu tribeswoman with hair the color of gold and eyes like clear skies. That very night, Zhao Jin took her to bed.

The news crushed Tingting. She wept for nights, her pillow soaked. She told herself she ought to be tolerant, like the lady of the manor—close one eye, open the other. As the young master’s wife-to-be, she would never have him to herself.

But she could not endure it.

Her love for Zhao Jin was carved into her bones. It had nothing to do with status. If he had been a merchant, a beggar, a nameless wanderer—she would still have loved him.

And Zhao Jin would never understand.

Jealousy twisted her thoughts. In the dark hours, she imagined seizing a knife, cutting the Hu girl’s throat, killing every woman who dared to smile at Zhao Jin.

One night, her restraint broke.

She stormed into his chamber, her hair disheveled, her eyes blazing. Zhao Jin, handsome even in his youth, raised an eyebrow at the intrusion.

“Why do you like that foreign woman?” she shouted. “Is it only because of her beauty?”

Zhao Jin frowned, baffled. “She was given to me. What harm in trying? I’ve never seen a woman like her before.”

“You may sleep with her,” Tingting cried, “but you cannot love her! The manor lord said it—I am your future wife! You are not allowed to love anyone else!”

Zhao Jin’s irritation spiked. He loathed when others bound him with his father’s words—especially Tingting. His father had been loyal, yes, but loyalty to a dead man had shackled Zhao Jin to this girl.

He saw her tears brimming, threatening to spill, and sighed. “Enough. Don’t cry. I’ll send her away. Will that make you happy?”

The next day, the Hu girl was given to a stable hand as his wife.

Tingting exhaled in relief, a smile breaking through her tears. Perhaps he does care for me, she thought. He sent her away for my sake.

But she did not realize—if Zhao Jin could discard another so easily, he could discard her too.

For to him, women were nothing more than stones scattered along the road. Until one day, one woman repaid him with fire.

The blaze that followed scarred the history of Swordsmith Manor. The forges, the iron storehouses, even the Treasure Pavilion that held centuries of forging secrets—all consumed by flame.

To blame Qin Yan entirely was unjust. She had sparked only a single flame. The rest was negligence—gunpowder stored carelessly, drunks shirking their duties. The blaze had been inevitable, born of rot festering within.

Treasures vanished. Lives too. Seven or eight of Zhao Jin’s wives and concubines perished. Tingting was lured into the Snow Pavilion by Qin Yan; the others, bedridden with fever, suffocated as smoke filled their chambers.

As for Qin Yan—three charred bodies were found in the kitchens: one woman, two children, locked in a final embrace. Faces burned beyond recognition, they were assumed to be Qin Yan and her twins.

Yet from ruin came a grim fortune. The blaze stripped away waste and excess, burning off the fat of a bloated household.

Zhao Jin himself was transformed. With his wives and lovers gone, he stood alone, tempered like steel.

Later, when he distributed rewards to those who had shown valor in the flames, one name lingered: Xiao Hui, the fifteen-year-old maid who had once served Qin Yan.

He asked her, “What do you desire? Freedom? Silver?”

The girl blushed, her eyes downcast. Instead of answering, she clutched his sleeve with trembling fingers. “I only wish to serve you.”

Her voice was soft, yet it carried a determination that startled him. For a moment, he saw not the child-servant she had been, but a woman stepping into her fate.

Two years later, Xiao Hui became Lady Hui—the only wife Zhao Jin would ever take.