There is no fault in loving someone, but unfortunately, desire is not the whole of life. Qing Yun, Huang Bei Shuang, and Na Zhan, all raised in the world of politics, understood this truth deeply. And because of this, none of them could live as wildly and freely as Ruo Wen.
At this moment, Fentian had firmly established its rule. Ruo Wen, commanding 5,000 elite soldiers and building an army of 100,000, stood confidently in the He Yan Palace, gazing toward the faraway, unseen Yunpei. No one knew what he was thinking.
“Your Majesty, General Mang Hu requests an audience!” a slender maid bowed to him, but before Ruo Wen could respond, Mang Hu’s rough voice already echoed through the hall. “Chief! Chief!” His tone was as wild as ever.
Ruo Wen waved his hand, and the maid quickly withdrew.
In Fentian, only those in the Mad Yellow Army of Heaven still called Ruo Wen “chief”—a privilege granted exclusively to them. No one knew exactly why, but it greatly pleased the 4,000 loyal warriors who had followed him from the beginning. This special treatment made being part of the Mad Yellow Army of Heaven the highest honor in Fentian, where only the strongest ruled.
“Chief, we’ve got something good for you, something you’re guaranteed to like!” Mang Hu exclaimed with barely contained excitement, clearly anticipating a reward. His physique rivaled that of Zhan Bie, broad-shouldered and muscular, with arms strong enough for archery from a distance.
“What on earth is it?” Ruo Wen asked lazily.
“A woman! A really good one!” Mang Hu’s voice was almost too shrill with excitement.
At this, Ruo Wen burst into laughter. Two seductive women, barely clothed and covered in bruises, emerged from behind him—evidence of a harsh encounter. Mang Hu, however, seemed neither surprised nor ashamed, merely chuckling dryly.
The two women were none other than Ruo Lan and Fei Wen, who lazily gathered the scattered clothes from the floor. Fei Wen teased, “Brother Mang Hu, what kind of woman excites you this much? Better than us?”
Mang Hu sneered and clapped his hands. “Bring her in!”
A moment later, four guards pushed in three women with torn clothes. They were filthy, covered in dust and scars, their bodies marked with blackened wounds. Ruo Wen raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. He stepped forward, lifting the chin of the woman in the middle and asked in a low voice, “Where did they come from?”
Mang Hu, thrilled by Ruo Wen’s reaction, replied eagerly, “This morning, Wolfhead and I were digging for treasures behind the tombs of He Yan Mountain. We didn’t expect to find these three women who survived cremation. How about it? Doesn’t she look just like that Huang Bei Shuang?”
Ruo Wen laughed and released the girl. “What’s your name?” he asked.
The girl, who seemed around eighteen or nineteen years old—about the same age as Huang Bei Shuang—had clear, gray-blue eyes that showed no fear as she looked straight at Ruo Wen. Her voice was firm and steady as she replied, “I am Ge Xin Wei.”
She was the ninth princess of the Rain Tribe, a royal of the former Masui Kingdom. Her father, King Ge Er Jin Qin, the forty-first ruler, had no sons and thus designated his thirteen siblings as his heirs. Ge Xin Wei, born of a concubine, was at the bottom of the succession line. At nineteen, she had always been belittled by her sisters and abused by her brothers. In the autumn of 331 AD, the Yellow Calamity descended, annihilating the Rain Tribe. Their ancestral tombs burned for thirteen days, and the land was devastated. After Fentian’s establishment, a month later, the sole surviving Princess Ge Xin Wei and her two maids were captured and presented to Ruo Wen, the Mad King of Fentian. For reasons unknown, they were spared from execution.
The boundless desert was a world painted in red—whether it was the sand or the clouds, under the scorching sun, everything glowed like burning embers, distorting the air with invisible smoke. In such a place, it was impossible for anyone to breathe. But the world was also blue—whether the sand or the clouds, under the cold moon, everything froze like a sharp blade, reflecting the heart-chilling pain of time and separation. Here, too, breathing was impossible.
That night, Guang Han Palace was colder than ever.
Na Zhan lay in the arms of Zhen Qu You Jia, allowing her to gently wrap his weary body in silken warmth, like a mother cradling her child. For once, he no longer thought of the unanswered farewell in Huai Yue Pavilion. You Jia smiled down at the sleeping king, her expression soft and tender. Even someone as rational as Na Zhan couldn’t know that when a woman loves you, she can become your wife, but if she loves you enough, she can become your mother, giving you everything you need without asking for anything in return.
Though Na Zhan did not understand this, he still cherished her.
At Huai Yue Pavilion, there was no sound of the flute. Huang Bei Shuang sat by the pavilion, watching as Qing Yun carefully fastened a pair of pearl earrings on her. His touch was gentle, but her heart was heavy.
“The color of snow suits you,” Qing Yun remarked.
Huang Bei Shuang smiled faintly and turned away to sit by herself.
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