There is a kind of destiny that is always filled with hardships.There is a kind of journey that is always full of twists and turns.There is a kind of man who is never lonely.There is a kind of woman who never falls.
There is a kind of ballad, one that sings only of "ifs."
If…
In the barren wastelands, far from the fertile lands of virtue and bounty, the northern desert had the most bandits. And what do bandits do? They plunder, burn, and kill without reason. Even if they aren’t hungry, and even if you have nothing left, if you’re not one of them, you are either prey or their enemy.
Huang Bei Shuang hadn’t always understood this twisted way of life, at least not so deeply. But now, whenever the storm season hit, she couldn’t help but recall things she should have long forgotten. It seemed like an eternity ago that she had scoffed at the thought—two men had touched her body in her lifetime: one she loved fiercely, the other she hated with equal intensity; one she respected deeply, the other she feared greatly.
The rear gate of the Ice Thorn Palace’s mountain quietly opened. Dust and sand on the stone pillars swirled with the wind before settling back on the ground. As the dusk deepened, Ye Pei lit the path ahead while thirteen others followed silently behind Huang Bei Shuang, their figures fading into the heavy evening clouds.
“Nashou, someone’s there!” Ye Pei suddenly whispered after they had walked for an unknown distance.
Huang Bei Shuang smiled, pulling her soft fur cloak tighter and calmly gazing at the figure standing in front of them.
“I knew you’d come,” she said softly as she approached.
The figure turned slightly, revealing a pair of deep blue eyes that met hers—it was Ge Xin Wei.
“Huang Bei Shuang!” she called her by name, then turned to stare at the solitary, unmarked grave standing between them.
“Are you here to pay your respects?” Ge Xin Wei asked after a moment.
Huang Bei Shuang hesitated briefly before replying, “No, I’ve come only to reflect.”
Ge Xin Wei scoffed bitterly. “You no longer feel pain, so why reflect?” She reached up to push back her windblown hair, her eyes briefly filled with sorrow before she smiled and said, “Huang Bei Shuang, you’ve lived a brilliant life. What wounds could you possibly have left to hold onto? At least, you’ve never suffered the way I have… Do you know? I envy you, I really do.”
She confessed her jealousy, but it was no longer because Huang Bei Shuang had once been her replacement. As the glowing sunset dimmed, their similar faces grew distinct in the shifting light. Here, at Ruo Wen’s unmarked grave, they had both come to confront their pain, yet some things had long since been etched into their souls, transcending the realms of sorrow and suffering.
Only when the sky had completely darkened, and the shadow of the sunset had turned into moonlight, did Ge Xin Wei rise to leave. She glanced back to see that Huang Bei Shuang was still standing by the grave, lost in thought. After a long, silent gaze, Ge Xin Wei suddenly threw out one last remark: “My son will make Ruo Wen’s name live again!”
Her voice was charged with barely controlled intensity, a mix of obsession and defiance. She didn’t know why she said it—perhaps in a fleeting moment of desire to unsettle her. But she was mistaken again. Huang Bei Shuang remained standing there, unmoved. She pulled a jade flute from her sleeve and began to play softly. The wind caught her cloak, swirling it around her body like an embrace, while her gaze drifted far away, elusive.
The sound of the flute carried through the wind and sand, transporting her back to the past.
Ge Xin Wei closed her eyes and finally departed…
If they had never met—
Huang Bei Shuang gazed at the unmarked grave before her, thoughts swirling. If they had never met, would her life have been free of Qing Yun, Guan Ying, Fu Ping, and the blades, spears, and swords that followed?
Ruo Wen was born amidst chaos, surrounded by piles of gold, jewels, and fine wine. The debauchery of men seeking pleasure filled the night until a piercing cry broke through the clamor, making heads turn. In a corner, a pale-faced woman, soaked in blood, stared blankly at the newborn at her feet. After a moment, she kicked the infant away in disgust, curling into a ball, muttering, “Why? Why are the eyes purple…?”
Why were the eyes purple?
That question sealed Ruo Wen’s fate from the moment he was born, doomed never to receive his mother’s love.
Ruo Wen’s mother, named Ruo Jun, came from the slave tribe of Iron Thorn, famous for their sword-making. On her nineteenth birthday, she had been chosen as a priestess for the hunting festival, dressed in sacred white garments, praying earnestly to the gods. But fate had other plans. That night, nearly two thousand bandits slaughtered the entire tribe of Iron Thorn, who were offering sacrifices to the gods by forging swords. Only a few young women survived, sold off to distant lands or driven to take their own lives in despair. Ruo Jun was among them, spared only because of her rare beauty, kept by the bandits for their pleasure. Over the course of ten years, she had served countless men, a fate worse than death. She had tried to end her life many times, but every attempt had failed, each one serving only to amuse her captors further.
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