The streets of Beihai were hushed under the curtain of night. Lanterns swayed gently on their posts, their golden light flickering like fireflies across cobbled paths. Shopfronts had long closed, their wooden shutters drawn tight. Occasionally, a patrol of soldiers passed in the distance, their iron boots echoing faintly, but none gave the two figures more than a glance.
Zhao Ming and Lu Qianyi walked side by side, saying little.
Each was caught in their own current of thought—hers turbulent and knotted with conflict, his steady, yet tinged with quiet concern. The borrowed cloak rested on her shoulders, and the scent of sandalwood still clung faintly to its folds. She clutched it a little tighter without realizing it. Zhao Ming's hands were behind his back, his steps measured, his eyes occasionally scanning the rooftops—more from habit than worry.
Though their arms nearly brushed, a small, invisible distance remained between them.
It wasn’t discomfort. It was something else. Something more fragile.
When they finally reached the stone gate of the Murong Estate, the guards bowed without question and pushed the heavy doors open. Lanterns lining the garden path within lit their way—soft amber pools against the dark. Insects hummed among the flowerbeds. Somewhere deeper in the estate, a dog barked once, then fell silent.
Zhao Ming glanced toward the servants' quarters. A young boy was lighting a row of lamps, his eyes drooping with sleep.
“You there,” Zhao Ming called softly. “Fetch Steward Luo and tell him to prepare a guest chamber.”
The boy straightened, startled. “Yes, Young Master!” He scurried off, nearly tripping over his own sandals.
“Come,” Zhao Ming said, turning to Lu Qianyi. “Let’s wait in the main hall.”
She nodded wordlessly and followed him inside.
The main hall of the Murong Estate was grand yet tastefully reserved. Polished wood floors reflected the light of the hanging lanterns. Ink scrolls of calligraphy lined the walls—some bearing poetry, others proverbs about honor and virtue. A large bronze incense burner sat at the center, its trail of smoke rising like a dragon’s breath, filling the air with a faint note of lotus and pine.
Zhao Ming gestured toward a nearby seat. “Please, Miss Lu. Rest.”
Lu Qianyi sat quietly, her hands folded on her lap, eyes scanning the room with the curiosity of someone entering another family’s shrine.
Zhao Ming moved toward the side table, where a small tea set rested on a carved tray. With practiced grace, he poured cool water into a kettle, set it over the brazier, and began to prepare the leaves. His movements were deliberate—not hurried, not overly formal. Just enough reverence to match the late hour and the weight in the air.
The soft clink of porcelain and rustling of tea leaves were the only sounds for a while.
Then, Lu Qianyi’s voice broke the quiet. “I’ve been wondering something.”
Zhao Ming raised a brow. “Hmm?”
“What exactly is your place here… at the Murong Estate?” Her tone was careful—not accusatory, but curious. “You speak with authority, and yet you don’t bear the Murong name.”
Zhao Ming didn’t answer right away.
He lifted the kettle and poured hot water into the teapot with a quiet, measured grace. Steam curled upwards in delicate threads, briefly catching the light from the lantern above. His eyes remained focused on the swirling tea leaves as he spoke, voice calm and even.
“I first met Lady Murong Xue by chance, in Zhou County,” he said. “It wasn’t anything grand—just one of those strange coincidences that leave a mark. She was on her way north, I was recovering from a long journey.”
Lu Qianyi’s brow twitched subtly. “Just a chance meeting?”
He smiled faintly. “That’s how it started. After that, I left for Anxi. But fate—or something like it—decided we’d meet again. In Penglai.”
The teacups were ready. He placed one gently before her.
“She and her sect were escorting cargo by sea, and I happened to be headed in the same direction. I offered to join their fleet. Not long after we set sail, we were ambushed.”
“Ambushed?” Lu Qianyi leaned forward, her interest piqued.
Zhao Ming nodded. “Pirates, or perhaps rebels—hard to say. They came fast and without warning. Most of the crew panicked. I helped organize the defense on deck alongside Murong Xue. We fought them off and protected the main ship. After that, I suppose… things changed.”
Lu Qianyi’s fingers traced the rim of her cup absentmindedly. She didn’t look at him.
“Lady Murong Xue took notice,” Zhao Ming continued. “I wasn’t just a traveler or mere scholar anymore. I’d proven I could be trusted with their lives. When we reached Beihai, the Murongs invited me to stay as their guest. One thing led to another.”
“And now… you’re courting her,” Lu Qianyi said quietly.
There was a pause.
“Yes,” Zhao Ming answered with quiet certainty. “She’s a remarkable woman. Steady, composed. She’s not easy to win over—but she sees beyond titles and birth.”
Lu Qianyi didn’t respond. She sipped her tea, but the warmth did little to soothe the dull ache growing in her chest.
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Something tightened in her throat. A strange weight settled behind her ribs, as if she’d swallowed her own breath without realizing it.
She hadn’t expected anything. She told herself that.
And yet… the bitter taste on her tongue wasn’t from the tea.
She kept her expression neutral, but Zhao Ming noticed the way her gaze dropped toward the floor.
He didn’t press. He simply leaned back, giving her space, unaware of the small ripple his words had caused beneath her composed surface.
A soft knock echoed from the entrance.
Moments later, the boy servant returned, leading a tall man with graying hair neatly tied back in a scholar’s knot. Steward Luo walked with the measured steps of someone accustomed to a life of quiet authority. A young maid trailed behind him, hands clasped demurely in front of her silk apron, eyes darting between the unfamiliar lady guest and Zhao Ming.
Steward Luo bowed politely. “Young Master Zhao, Miss.”
Zhao Ming rose and gestured toward Lu Qianyi, who had just placed her teacup down with careful precision.
“Steward Luo, this is Miss Lu, daughter of Grand Tutor Lu Zhi. She’ll be staying the night at our estate. She was out late and didn’t bring her carriage. It’s nearly curfew, so I’ve asked her to stay as a guest.”
The steward, to his credit, didn’t let surprise show on his face. Instead, he nodded with quiet efficiency. “Understood, Young Master.”
“One more thing,” Zhao Ming added, glancing at the boy servant. “Send word to the governor’s estate—let Governor Kong’s people know that Miss Lu is safe and staying the night here. Be discreet, but make sure it reaches them.”
“Yes, Young Master,” Steward Luo said with a bow. “I will personally ensure the message is delivered and return once the guest quarters are prepared.”
With a final nod, the steward turned and exited with the boy and the maid in tow, their footsteps soft against the polished wood floor. The hall grew quiet again, save for the distant flicker of firelight and the soft crackle from a brazier in the corner.
Zhao Ming sat down again, hands folded calmly in front of him. “Miss Lu.”
Lu Qianyi looked up.
“There’s something you should do,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Write a letter to your father. Tell him to be cautious in Luoyang. The court is a sinking ship, and the waters are rising. If things worsen, he should leave before it’s too late.”
She furrowed her brows. “Leave? But—”
“I know it goes against his ideals,” Zhao Ming said gently, cutting off her protest before it could build. “But staying in Luoyang out of loyalty won’t serve him—or the people—if he’s executed or imprisoned by one of the factions. You said it yourself: the eunuchs are fighting the generals, and the nobles are playing both sides. There is no safe ground.”
Lu Qianyi’s lips parted, but she couldn’t find the words. Her father had always spoken of duty, of loyalty to the Han, of restoring order and integrity to the bureaucracy. The idea of him fleeing felt… wrong. And yet—
“I can help,” Zhao Ming said. “If he agrees to leave, he should head for Xuchang. There’s a Murong branch there, one of their trading houses. I’ll arrange a letter of introduction. If he needs to vanish from Luoyang, that’ll be a good first step. From there, I can help move him somewhere safer—south, if need be.”
The firelight danced in Zhao Ming’s eyes, but his voice remained calm. Practical. Assured.
Lu Qianyi swallowed. Her heart was conflicted—torn between duty to her father’s ideals and the gnawing fear that Zhao Ming’s warning might come true. That by the time she returned to Luoyang, the halls of power would be soaked in blood.
She nodded slowly.
“I’ll write it tonight.”
Just as the teapot had begun to cool, soft footsteps approached once more.
The young Murong maid who had accompanied Steward Luo earlier now stepped lightly into the hall. She bowed with graceful precision. “Young Master Zhao, Miss Lu. The guest chamber has been prepared.”
Lu Qianyi stood, smoothing her robes with a quiet sigh, her personal maid stepping beside her. Though her expression remained composed, there was a heaviness behind her eyes—thoughts lingering in Luoyang, caught between past duty and an uncertain future.
Zhao Ming rose and offered a polite bow. “Rest well tonight, Miss Lu. If you need anything, you may inform the steward. The Murong family may not have palace luxury, but we value hospitality.”
Lu Qianyi gave a small nod. “Thank you, Mister Zhao.”
Without another word, the Murong maid turned, holding a lantern high to light their way. Shadows danced across the lacquered hallway as the two maids and Lu Qianyi disappeared down the corridor, the hem of her dress trailing like mist behind her.
The silence that followed seemed deeper now.
Zhao Ming stood alone in the stillness of the main hall, the flames in the nearby brazier gently flickering, casting his long shadow across the floor. He exhaled, then turned and walked toward his own quarters.
The walk to his room felt slower tonight, each footstep echoing faintly in the quiet corridors of the Murong estate. When he arrived, the familiar scent of sandalwood greeted him—subtle, grounding.
But Zhao Ming didn’t sit. Instead, he walked to the window, opening it slightly to let the night air in. Beihai’s breeze carried the scent of salt and pine. In the distance, faint lanterns still flickered along the harbor, like stars resting upon the earth.
His mind returned to the earlier conversation. The mention of Kong Rong’s idealism, his deep ties to the Han, and his desire to uphold tradition and virtue in an era where such things were crumbling like dried leaves… Zhao Ming respected the man’s intellect, but the truth was undeniable—Kong Rong had no army. No force. Only words.
And in this world, words alone could not win battles.
“If I keep waiting for others to protect what I believe in…” Zhao Ming murmured to himself, “I’ll end up like Kong Rong. Or worse.”
He turned away from the window, his expression sharpening with resolve.
It was time he built something of his own.
He needed a force. Not a grand army to seize the throne—but a unit loyal to him, capable of defending what he held dear. And to do that, he would need allies. Trusted men. Resources. Strategy. And he would need the Murong family.
The Murongs were more than just merchants—they had escorts, men-at-arms, and connections that spanned trade routes and territories. If he could gain their full support, he could carve a foothold in the chaos ahead.
He lit a nearby lamp, sat at his desk, and drew a fresh sheet of paper.
The brush moved with deliberate care as he began writing.
“To Xue’er,
I hope this letter finds you well. The voyage from Penglai to Beihai feels like it happened just yesterday, yet so much has changed since then…”
He described Beihai’s condition—Kong Rong’s isolated strength, the looming threat of regional warlords, and the undercurrent of unrest.
“I have spoken with Governor Kong. Though virtuous, he is… exposed. Idealism without a sword is a candle in a storm.
I believe the time has come for me to take the first step in building my own force—not for conquest, but to protect the people I care about. I plan to speak with Uncle Zhen and see if the Murong family might lend their strength in this endeavor.”
He paused, his hand lingering over the parchment.
“There is much I want to tell you in person. I miss our time on the ship, even the storms. I miss your voice when you scold me, and the way your eyes look when you're trying not to smile.
I miss you, Xue’er.”
He signed his name and folded the letter carefully, sealing it with a wax imprint—a token from Penglai she had once teased him for keeping.
When it was done, Zhao Ming leaned back in his chair. Outside, the wind stirred again, brushing past the paper screen like a whispered omen.
Tonight had begun with casual dinner conversation, yet it had opened new paths in his heart—paths of duty, ambition, and perhaps something deeper, something that stirred each time Lu Qianyi looked at him with her guarded eyes, or whenever thoughts of Murong Xue danced unbidden in his mind.
The world beyond Beihai grew darker with every passing day. But within this estate, amidst its aging walls and warm lantern glow, Zhao Ming was quietly shaping the future he intended to protect.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, change was coming.