“One more step, just one more, and you’ll be in my arms,” he said, pulling down the robe from his shoulders, revealing his strong, bare chest as he sat on the bed, his voice unreadable.
But Huang Bei Shuang remained where she was, still half-kneeling, her face lowered, her expression hidden from view.
She didn’t step forward.
Outside, the shadows of the withered branches swayed against the wall, dancing with the wind.
“I was thirteen when I had my first woman,” Na Zhan spoke casually, “She’s now my Consort Shu, five years older than me.”
Huang Bei Shuang said nothing, still kneeling on the floor.
“A man and a woman—it’s all about conquest and submission,” he laughed darkly. “For example, if she doesn’t submit the first time, there will be a second. If she resists for one night, I’ll take her again the next. The more she remembers the pleasure, the more I’ll claim her, until she can’t help but give in…”
“But you’ve already abandoned her,” Huang Bei Shuang interrupted, still not raising her head, her bitter smile faint. “Consort Shu often comes to my palace to listen to my flute, not for anything else, but just to catch a glimpse of you in passing.”
Na Zhan stood naked, only a step away from her, his gaze falling on the jeweled hairpin that held her black hair in place. He reached out and pulled the pin free, letting her hair cascade down like a waterfall.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
She didn’t move.
“Perhaps I should use the same method to conquer you.”
She laughed softly. “Then I’ll give you the same ending—neither wife, nor chess piece, nor possession. Your Majesty, I will be nothing more than a fleeting moment in your life, never to be remembered.”
He was silent for a moment, then reached out, pulling his robe back on.
“You know, if you don’t take that step forward, I could have you executed for disobedience,” he said, sitting down and lifting her chin with a mocking, arrogant touch. “But I won’t execute you, nor will I give you a second chance to trample my dignity. Tell me, what should I do?” His fingers pressed against her lips as if punishing her, the soft flesh yielding under his rough touch. Suddenly, he spoke coldly, “Huang Bei Shuang, you’ll kneel at my feet all night, loyally, until dawn.”
She nodded slightly, her head still bowed as she knelt fully before him.
Na Zhan slowly, deliberately, removed his fingers from her lips. He shifted on the bed and reached for the small wooden xun, lifting it to his lips and beginning to play.
The sound of the xun was lonely—neither as airy as the flute nor as graceful as the bamboo pipe—it was like a deep, stifled groan, its melody rising and falling in the opulent Yunyu Hall. Huang Bei Shuang listened with her head bowed, as if she could see the endless desert sands rising in waves, rolling and hissing in the wind, only to settle, leaving behind the winding trails of a new moonlit dune.
There was no tenderness in the Yunyu Hall, no lingering passion in the emperor’s bed.
On that cold winter night, Na Zhan laughed at himself. All his life, he had never known the hunger of desire. And there she was, beautiful and calm, kneeling at his feet the whole night, refusing to take that single step forward. That tiny gap, like an uncrossable chasm, would indeed be the last impression she left him.
The song of the xun echoed through the night, sleepless, as it always was with her.
Year 331 of the Common Era, winter arrived with a biting frost. As the chaos of war loomed over the desert, Huang Bei Shuang led a long procession out of Yun Pei. At the gates of Guangping City, her people gathered to see her off, but she never once looked back.
Within ten days, she fulfilled his expectations, drawing Fen Tian’s army away and encircling Fu Ping.
When the news reached him, Na Zhan sat atop his warhorse, gazing into the direction of Mizhan.
Huang Bei Shuang would never know that no matter whose hands she fell into, as long as he won in the end, she would never escape him—just like Yu Hao from all those years ago.
And he had all the patience in the world to wait for the day they would meet again.
…
Who knows how many years passed, but in the Guan Ying Palace, the twenty-one Zelkova trees blossomed year after year, their vibrant petals falling like rain. Perhaps these worldly flowers could never compare to the pure whiteness of the drifting snow, but who could say for sure? Even snow, after thousands of years, had never carried such a fragrance.
He often stood alone in the Huaiyue Pavilion, gazing at the beautiful Zelkova trees. Only after countless years had passed did he suddenly realize that human loneliness was nothing more than waiting for the flowers to bloom, and wandering after they had fallen.
Waiting, wandering, wandering, waiting…
Victory had long since become something bland, and the day he would see her again never came.
The wind blew gently, the water lay still, and a solitary shadow lingered by the long corridor.
Grandfather, blood does not control fate. My life—is it fortunate or unfortunate?
Grandfather, many years later, I can still see you standing by the door, smiling and asking, "Did you fall in love with this woman?"
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