The Blade Among Blossoms

The cloth cracked and whipped in the air, fluttering with a sharp sound, and in an instant nothing could be seen.

“What a pity…” I sighed, feeling as though I had just missed out on ten thousand taels of gold.

At that very moment, the sound of bricks and tiles breaking apart came from above my head. I looked up, and saw a massive hole torn into the roof. The cold moonlight poured through like a blade striking down. A silver streak of light shot from the hole, colliding in midair with a black shadow.

Wan Ling had already burst through the rooftop, and was now entangled in deadly combat with Gui Ying.

Both were peerless masters of assassination. When their figures clashed, it was almost impossible to distinguish one from the other. I squinted, straining my sharp eyesight, but I could only glimpse fractured afterimages of their movements. Wan Ling’s long skirt rippled like waves in the air, yet every time her form descended gracefully, her blade arrived faster than the trailing hem.

The moonlight cast across her face, illuminating her skin like flawless jade, her brows sharp as arrows.

With a tearing sound, her crescent blades ripped through the night air, aimed directly at Gui Ying’s face. For any ordinary assassin, such a strike would have already ended in death beneath her knives. But Gui Ying was no ordinary man. He was the Gui Ying, the one whose name had eternally dominated the top rank of the assassin’s ledger. How could such a blade wound him?

The air shimmered with his afterimage; in an instant, Gui Ying had slipped past the deadly strike and reappeared at Wan Ling’s back.

Her left shoulder was cut open.

Gongsun Yanshu’s brows furrowed tightly, his worry plain in his eyes. He seized a longsword and leapt up to join the fray. But at that moment, a sharp “Stop!” rang out. It was Wan Ling, halting him.

“I don’t need you.” She refused his aid. And truthfully, it was understandable. This was not merely a struggle for life and death—it was a duel of honor, the first and second-ranked assassins of the underworld crossing blades. To her, interference was an insult.

Wan Ling bit down on her lip, and suddenly cast away the blade in her right hand. I blinked, startled. Though she was ambidextrous, her right hand was always the swifter and more precise—yet she deliberately abandoned it.

The battle resumed, the two figures locked again in furious exchange. They were too fast, too deadly; to the untrained eye, there was nothing but flickering shadows. Even my sharp vision could barely follow.

Then, I felt it—a strange sensation, as if the very air around us had thickened, trembling through the grass at our feet. The flow of energy pulled upward into the night sky.

A crisp snap cut through the silence. Gui Ying’s neck twisted at an impossible angle. His body plummeted from midair, lifeless. Wan Ling, breathing heavily, descended just as gracefully, her fingers pressed together in a sealing mudra.

I had guessed correctly. Wan Ling was indeed an illusionist—and not an ordinary one, but a master of considerable skill.

After Gui Ying’s death, the number of assassins infiltrating the palace dwindled to nearly none. Perhaps the Lakchi tribe had finally drained their coffers, unable to pay for further killers. Or perhaps they had at last realized the futility of trying to kill Gongsun Yanshu. Either way, it left behind a faint sense of melancholy.

After all, the cause of this blood feud had been none other than Gongsun Yanshu himself. The Lakchi tribe’s vengeance was understandable.

But within the Western Jin Prince’s manor, peace reigned for the first time in months. Yanshu grew bold once more, daring to venture out drinking and carousing again. Occasionally, he returned to the brothels, his days brimming with indulgence and pleasure.

That, after all, was the proper way of life for a profligate son.

Yet he was unlike the other pampered heirs. When they went out, they insisted they were single—perhaps with a few concubines tucked away, but never a proper wife—so as to tempt the young ladies. But when Yanshu went to drink and flirt, he always warned the courtesans:

“Keep your distance, my sisters. My wife at home doesn’t like me getting too close to other women. If she gets angry, she’ll come after you with a cleaver.”

The remark drew waves of laughter.

Of course, a wastrel must also shop for trinkets—something amusing for this maiden, some pretty trifle for that girl. Yanshu had once been unmatched in this regard, purchasing in scores, because his mistresses were countless. But now he had changed entirely. Everything he bought, no matter how rare, was only in single pieces—and every single gift went straight to Lady Li.

Wan Ling accepted only the money. Everything else she tossed out the window, not leaving behind a single trinket.

As the three-month contract neared its end, only half a month remained. Perhaps making one final desperate attempt, Yanshu brought Wan Ling along to a music house. That night, a disguised assassin—skilled in bone-shrinking and mimicry—took the guise of a courtesan, playing the zither. Mid-performance, the woman suddenly drew a dagger, aiming for Yanshu’s heart.

But Wan Ling, herself disguised as a singer, was already at his side. She seized a pipa and smashed it down, killing the assassin in one blow.

In later retellings, this story twisted. The pipa became a kitchen knife, the bent blade said to be from chopping down Gongsun Bai’s concubines one by one. And thus, Wan Ling earned her title: the Jealous Shrew.

She didn’t care. One evening, as the sunset bled into the horizon, she told Yanshu plainly:

“I’ve received word. They’ve abandoned their pursuit of you. You’re safe now.”

Yanshu’s gaze drifted from the distance, finally resting on her face. He smiled—a true, unguarded smile. Smiles are cheap, but not when they come from the lips of a debauched prince. His was genuine.

“Wan Ling,” he said, “will you continue this work? Be my guard forever.”

Wan Ling froze, startled by the suddenness of it.

He pressed on: “Don’t pretend. Everyone in Shaodu knows my feelings for you. How could you not? You just refuse to face it. I truly love you. Will you accept me? Marry me, become my rightful Lady Li.”

I must admit, the words were skillfully chosen. Brief but pointed, heartfelt yet clear. Coupled with his status—the lord of the Western Jin Palace, beloved by Prince Yongle, with a handsome face besides—few women could refuse.

But Wan Ling was not just any woman.

Her answer was not blushing silence. Instead, a crescent blade glimmered in her hand, pressed to his throat, no more than an inch away.

Her voice was sharp as ice: “I’ve heard the tales of the Western Jin Prince. A man of vast appetites, who collects women like treasures. If you want a fighter, Madam Feng of the Eastern Garden knows the Thunder Palm. If you want an acrobat, Lady Hou of the Southern Court can bend bones and leap mountains. And now? You think your courtyard lacks a bodyguard, so you want to add me to your collection?”

Yanshu’s face drained pale, then flushed red. At last, he laughed bitterly. “This is the fruit of my own sins.”

The blade at his throat did not waver.

“I was foolish once,” he whispered, his tone like a lover’s murmur. “I thought women were fleeting illusions, ornaments to wealth and power. I believed I could have any I desired. But then I met you…”

The blade pressed closer, biting at the pulse of his neck. A mere twitch would spill his blood.

“Don’t say such things to me,” Wan Ling’s eyes flared, hard as steel. “I’m not a child of three.”

She sheathed her blade and strode away, leaving Yanshu standing stunned, his robes rustling in the wind.

From that day onward, Yanshu grew only more attentive. Her rejection had not broken him; it only strengthened his resolve. The contract bound her to his side for fifteen more days, and he used every one of them to press his pursuit.

Every day, he presented her with treasures—exquisite antiques, mountains of gold and silver. If Wan Ling desired it, he bought it. Of course, she desired only money. But even wealth grows wearisome in excess.

Yanshu, though known for bluntness, was not always crude. He realized if he laid out the deeds to the Western Jin Palace or stacked silver notes until they reached the ceiling, he might truly win her heart—but such vulgarity was beneath him.

And so, he sought refinement.

Yet still, Wan Ling refused. She tossed every ornament and jewel back out the door. Then, one day, Yanshu heard she favored a rare plant: Lan Jin Grass. Though called a weed, in the spring and autumn it bloomed with tiny blue flowers. Hardy in life, but fussy in soil, it grew only at the borders of Beiji and Xihan.