When Ruo Jun gave birth to her first child, all she saw were the child’s violet eyes—an undeniable mark of the bandit leader’s bloodline. It confirmed everything she had suffered, making her feel filthy, inside and out. She believed she had birthed a demon, a cursed spirit.
By the time Ruo Wen was seven, he had never touched even a finger of his mother’s hand, nor the hem of her clothes. By the time he turned ten, his half-sister, Qing Chun, was already eight. As a child, Ruo Wen wasn’t strong enough to fight or participate in raids. He could only scavenge the leftovers after others had eaten, gathering scraps from bowls and plates to fill his belly. His sister, Qing Chun, often hid nearby, her eyes sunken from hunger, staring at him with her violet-black eyes, unblinking.
“What are you looking at!” Ruo Wen would shout at her. Qing Chun was often so hungry that her eyes were hollow, yet she still licked her lips and stared at him. Ruo Wen, after a while, started to feel uneasy under her gaze, sleepless at night. The discomfort was worse than hunger. Eventually, he began to share his food with Qing Chun every other day. She survived, not starving to death. Thanks to fate, both of them had healthy bodies, spared from disease and plague.
Ruo Wen’s father was the leader of a group of two thousand bandits in the northern desert, a man named Hou. Hou loved beautiful women, summoning a different one every night. But even someone as stunning as Ruo Jun had only held his attention for a single night. Many years later, at the age of forty-eight, Hou’s hair had started to turn yellow and white. As he sat in the grand chair of the arena, watching a young boy with two consecutive victories, he turned and saw those same violet eyes staring boldly at the world around him. For a moment, Hou felt like he was in a dream.
“What’s your name?” Hou asked, unable to stop himself.
“Ruo Wen,” the boy answered without emotion, kicking aside the fallen opponent and leaping down from the arena. He calmly picked up two bags of dried provisions.
Hou suddenly reached out, pressing his hand on the bags, his bloodshot eyes glaring at the boy.
Ruo Wen raised an eyebrow. “I won. This is mine.”
Hou chuckled. “How old are you?”
"Fifteen," Ruo Wen replied. At fifteen, he had no weapon, his body covered in wounds, yet he won his battles through sheer physical strength.
Hou nodded. "Next time we have business, you’re coming along!"
Ruo Wen began accompanying the bandits on raids. Among the younger generation, he was the most conspicuous—not only for his strength, but also because of his eyes, which mirrored the leader’s: violet, flashing with cold light before fading into crimson, leaving a trail of corpses in their wake.
Whenever Ruo Wen rode back to camp at dusk, Qing Chun would stand by the roadside, waiting for him. As soon as his black horse entered the corral, she would quietly step aside and softly call, "Brother." Ruo Wen never acknowledged her, but as he passed her, he would always drop something—sometimes food, sometimes a jeweled hairpin, and in winter, he would toss her a cotton cloak. But he never spoke to her.
Ruo Wen's first weapon was a sword, a ceremonial blade once used by the priestesses of the Iron Thorn tribe. It had never been unsheathed, incapable of taking a life. His mother had brought the sword with her when she was taken captive, always keeping it by her side. In Ruo Wen's memory, that sword had always fascinated him. During one of the prize divisions after a raid, he passed on choosing any of the captured women and instead asked for his mother's sword.
This confused everyone. Out of curiosity, Hou took the sword to test it, but even after swinging it three times, he couldn’t cut the rope tied to a wooden stake. Frustrated, Hou threw the sword on the ground and asked, "A dull blade—what do you want it for?"
Ruo Wen picked up the sword. In his youthful arrogance, he hadn’t yet learned to conceal his abilities in front of the leader. He abruptly turned and with a single strike cut through the rope tied around the stake. The fierce energy of the strike sent dust flying, and sparks danced along the severed rope, drawing gasps and cheers from those watching. Ruo Wen raised his sword to the sky, a smug grin on his face. "I can awaken it. From now on, this blade will follow me into battle!"
0 Comments