The Fox, the General, and the Palace of Secrets

Grass grew lush in March, and orioles took flight in April.
The sky above the deep sea shimmered with layers of brocade clouds, while peach blossoms along both shores dipped their petals into the water, blooming like fire.
The sun hid shyly behind the clouds, faint and round—like a salted duck egg.
Though it blazed high, there was no warmth in it.

Sky and water mirrored each other, weaving together in rippling light. In the mirrored surface of the pond shimmered a face—so breathtakingly beautiful that even heaven might hesitate to touch it.

I stared at that reflection and thought bitterly,

Bai Xi really is beautiful.
The one and only nine-tailed fox of her kind, a creature born of divine allure and immortal tragedy.

As I was lost in thought, a voice called softly behind me.

“Miss Qiao, what are you doing out here?”

I turned.

“Qin An,” I said with a faint smile. “You’re back.”

Never had I imagined that one day, Qin An and I would sit side by side, drinking tea and chatting as if nothing had ever happened.

The chef at the General’s Mansion was truly skilled—his lotus pastries were fragrant and flaky, the sweetness just right. I found myself eating two more pieces before I realized it.

Seeing my appetite, he pushed the plate toward me.

“You like these?”

I nodded silently.

Only two days ago, I’d nearly killed him.
In the underground prison, Bai Xi had taken over my body—I had nearly strangled him, even torn a piece of flesh from his neck with my teeth.
Yet here he was, hosting me in his home, offering fine food and comfort, as though none of it had ever happened.

If there was ever an example of returning good for evil, it was this man.

The kinder he was, the more terrified I became.

Bai Xi’s hatred had gone quiet for now, but I knew that silence was only temporary.
The next time she surfaced, who knew what chaos she’d bring—and when she did, not only would Qin An suffer, but so would I, the poor mortal vessel she inhabited.

So, forget romance. Finding Bai Xi’s flayed skin—that was the only thing that mattered.
And for that, I had to stay close to Qin An… and somehow make him bring me into the imperial palace.

Lost in thought, I barely noticed when his voice sounded beside me again.

“Miss Qiao, what are you thinking? You’ve been staring into space.”

Before I could react, he reached over, gently brushing a stray willow fluff from my hair.

I flinched and laughed awkwardly. Without meaning to, I blurted out,

“I was thinking about when you might take me into the palace.”

Qin An froze. His expression darkened for a heartbeat before smoothing back into calm composure.
Only the faint tremor in his hand betrayed him as he poured the tea.

“May I ask,” he said casually, “why you wish to go to the palace?”

I quickly touched my face, feigning nonchalance.

“I heard your emperor is choosing new concubines. I’d like to be chosen too. Though I’ve missed the official selection, perhaps I can still try my luck. Tell me, with a face like this—eyes where they should be, eyebrows where they belong—do you think the emperor might like me?”

Qin An’s eyes flickered with something unreadable—hurt, perhaps.

“Bai Xi… don’t do this.”

My heart turned to stone.
Of all things, I hated being mistaken for Bai Xi the most.

“I’m not Bai Xi,” I snapped through clenched teeth.

He sighed.

“Forgive me.”
Then he drained his tea in silence, staring blankly into the empty cup.

The air thickened between us.

The last time Bai Xi had surfaced, in that cell, she had confessed her love to him—and revealed her true identity. Since then, he had taken to calling me by her name.

Even when I explained that I was Qiao Qiao, not Bai Xi, he’d only smiled that infuriating smile, as though I were playing coy: “I love you, but I won’t admit it.”
So he kept visiting, kept bringing tea and pastries, kept pretending.

In my twenty-five years away from Mount Xuhe, I’d met countless men—vain ones like Gu Yi, fussy ones like General Lan, lovesick ones like Chen Rui.
But none so stubborn as Qin An.

The warmth of our earlier tea faded into an awkward chill.

Knowing I’d caused it, I tried to fix it.

“Qin An,” I ventured, “I heard you’re betrothed to the most beautiful woman in Xihan—Princess Jinxiu. Tell me, what does she look like?”

He blinked, caught off guard, but answered truthfully.

“I don’t know.”

“What? Isn’t she your fiancée?”

“I have never acknowledged her as such.” His lips tightened, his voice colder. “It was the late emperor’s scheme, meant only to chain my family’s loyalty. A forced union—utter nonsense.”

I stared in disbelief.
So the marriage everyone envied was nothing but a political farce.

He went on, eyes shadowed.

His father, General Qin Shuo, had been one of the founding heroes of the realm—too powerful, too respected. The emperor, fearing rebellion, had sought to bind him by blood, sending beauties to his bed.
But Qin Shuo sent every one of them back untouched.

Frustrated, the emperor turned his attention to the next generation.

Qin An’s birth, too, was steeped in legend.

His mother, Lady E Xiang, had long been barren. But one night twenty years ago, she dreamed of a cataclysmic thunderclap splitting the heavens. A storm of fire poured from the sky, and from it descended a black horse bearing a man in black armor.
She knelt, kowtowed three times.
The man said only, “My name is Qin An. Remember it.”

That same night, in the imperial palace, a concubine named Lady Hui dreamed of a woman instead—
a goddess who stepped across a hundred blossoms, flowers blooming beneath her feet.

“My name is Jinxiu,” she said.

When the emperor learned of both dreams, he was convinced it was fate—he decreed their marriage the will of heaven itself.

Qin An was to wed Princess Jinxiu at twenty.
But he’d spent those years at war, and she, sequestered deep within the palace.
The two had barely met.

Looking at the bitterness on his face, I wondered if he truly doubted his own worth—believing all he had was owed to his father’s shadow: his title, his fame, even his unwanted betrothal.

Trying to cheer him up, I patted his shoulder.

“Don’t take it so hard. Maybe the late emperor wasn’t just thinking politically. Maybe he took one look at baby-you and fell in love at first sight—decided right then you’d make a fine son-in-law.”

Qin An nearly fell off his chair, as if struck by lightning.

Ah. Perhaps not the best phrasing—but the meaning was kind!

The following days grew busier.
Qin An shuttled endlessly between the barracks and his mansion.
Still, every day, he made time to return for lunch with me.

He was generous to a fault, piling food into my bowl until I couldn’t bear to refuse him.
After a few days, the horse he rode was thinner, and I—decidedly rounder.

When he left for the barracks, I wandered the estate.

With thirty or forty servants, gossip was as abundant as the spring grass.
I’d listen idly to tales of widows and matchmakers, slowly developing a taste for the art of rumor myself.

But I never expected one day I would become the subject of their whispers.

Behind a rockery, two maids whispered furtively.

“The General’s been running himself ragged lately—still comes home for lunch every day, poor man.”

“It’s because he’s worried about that guest, Miss Qiao. Afraid she can’t handle the local food.”

“Can’t handle it? She’s been eating too well! I swear her belly’s gotten rounder.”

I froze, instinctively touching my own stomach.

“Her belly?” the other gasped. “You don’t mean…”

Their voices dropped to anxious murmurs. Even my fox ears couldn’t catch every word, but I caught enough to know they’d reached some very scandalous conclusion.

The paler of the two trembled.

“No, no, I have to report this to Madam E Xiang!”

“Be careful,” the other whispered tearfully. “Don’t get yourself silenced!”

I smacked my forehead. What nonsense are they talking about now?

For days, I obsessed over it—until the realization hit me like a thunderbolt.

Of course!

This was Xihan—the land of gossip.
From emperor to beggar, everyone loved a juicy rumor.

And everyone knew that Qin An was the emperor Zhuo Yuan’s closest confidant—almost his favorite.

So here I was, a nameless woman living in the general’s home, dining with him daily, whispering together in gardens.

If Zhuo Yuan wasn’t jealous yet, he’d hardly be human.

And when an emperor grows jealous, entire families disappear.

No wonder the maids looked ready to faint—they were worried the whole mansion would be executed for my sake.

One afternoon, Qin An returned for lunch as usual.
The maid came to fetch me to the front hall, but I feigned illness, lingering until I thought he’d be gone.

When I finally turned around, he was standing right behind me.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said quietly, his eyes wounded.

I stammered, waving the iron chain around my wrist.

“Ah—no, not at all! I was just… stuck. The shackle caught on the pillar, see? I was trying to untangle it.”

He walked over, took the cold chain gently into his hands, and said softly,

“Forgive me. I couldn’t break it for you. I couldn’t give you your freedom.”

Awkward, I laughed.

“It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

He looked at me deeply.

“If there’s anything you want, just say it. If it’s within my power, I’ll do it.”

Perfect.

“Then when,” I asked eagerly, “will you take me into the palace?”

“Why would you go there?”

“To be empress, of course.”

He stared. Silent. Then sighed, eyes heavy with pain.

“So that’s truly what you want? Do you know what you’re saying? The palace is a sea without shore—hearts are treacherous, affections fleeting. It’s full of schemes and cruelty. You’d be walking into a cage.”

He reached out to take my hand.

I knew he meant well.
But I wasn’t going there to be anyone’s concubine—I was going there to steal.

So I smiled faintly and squeezed his hand in return.

“I understand. But no matter the danger, I have to go.”

He flinched, silent for a long while, then slowly withdrew his hand.