The training courtyard behind the Lu residence was already alive with the sharp whack of wooden staves striking posts and the hiss of sand scattering under boots. Morning sunlight slanted over tiled roofs, bright but not yet oppressive, catching on motes of dust kicked up with every strike and pivot.
Zhao Yunliang stood with arms folded, his shadow long against the wall, expression carved from stone. His single eye watched every movement without mercy.
"Again," he barked.
Lu Ming's shoulders burned, his breath came ragged, and yet he reset his stance. The wooden staff in his hands felt heavy as iron after the endless repetitions. Each strike, each thrust, had to land at the exact angle Yunliang demanded. A misstep was met with the dull crack of Yunliang's cane across the ground near his feet—a warning.
Beside him, Sun Rong was a mess. His hair stuck to his forehead, his shirt plastered to his skin with sweat. He made a noise halfway between a grunt and a whimper as he stumbled through the forms, his strikes uneven.
"This is torture," Sun Rong groaned, letting his staff droop. "Young Master, we'll die here before we ever face an enemy."
Yunliang's gaze snapped to him. "If the drills break you, the battlefield will grind your bones to dust." His voice carried the weight of a man who had watched too many die.
Sun Rong looked as if he wanted to argue, but a single glare from Yunliang silenced him.
Lu Ming swallowed, lungs burning, yet raised his staff once more. He had fought real wars in another life, commanded men who trusted his orders even when they bled for them. That weight—the weight of lives lost for a misjudged path, a delayed supply—pressed on him now as he moved. The body of Lu Ming might only be sixteen, but his soul carried decades of battle.
Not strength of arms alone decides victory, he reminded himself, striking again. But discipline. Preparation. Knowledge.
The sound of sandals against stone interrupted the rhythm. Chen Ronghua entered the courtyard carrying a tray of tea and damp cloths, her back straight as ever, her expression both composed and scolding.
"You will kill them at this pace, Master Zhao," she said, setting the tray on a low bench. Her eyes flicked to Lu Ming—soaked with sweat but steady—and then to Sun Rong, sprawled in the dust like a defeated dog. "And you," she snapped at Sun Rong, "if you cannot hold a staff, perhaps I'll give you a broom instead."
Sun Rong lifted his head weakly. "Sister Ronghua… this is no training, this is murder…"
Ronghua's lips twitched, but she kept her voice cool. "Better pain now than panic later when blades are drawn." She held out a damp cloth toward Lu Ming.
Lu Ming accepted it gratefully, wiping his brow. His chest heaved, but his eyes were alight, focused. He could not afford to waste the opportunity to learn from Zhao Yunliang.
Yunliang finally relented, allowing both youths to sit. He himself remained standing, posture that of a commander even in peacetime. His one eye softened faintly as he regarded Lu Ming.
"When I was your age," Yunliang began, his voice low but steady, "I thought strength of arm was everything. I trained until my hands bled. On my first campaign, I watched boys my age freeze at the clash of steel. They broke, and others paid the price. That day, I learned that training does not stop at muscle. The mind must be steeled, the spirit tempered."
Lu Ming listened intently, feeling the weight of the words. He thought of soldiers under his command in the last life—those who had faltered, those who had held the line.
"General Zhao," Lu Ming said slowly, choosing his words, "you are right. But even spirit is not enough. Men can march bravely and still starve. A brilliant swordsman trapped in the wrong terrain is a dead man. Sometimes"—his gaze sharpened—"a war is decided before the blades cross, on maps and in whispers. Supplies, timing, alliances. The blade is only the final seal."
Yunliang studied him in silence. The courtyard grew still save for the buzzing of cicadas in the trees. Finally, Yunliang gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
"You speak like a man who has seen battlefields burn," he said. "Not like a sheltered young master."
Chen Ronghua glanced between them, faint surprise flickering in her eyes. Sun Rong, sprawled in the dust, groaned loudly. "Please, spare me your philosophies while I die here…"
That drew a chuckle from Lu Ming despite the ache in his muscles. He tossed the damp cloth at Sun Rong's head, earning a muffled yelp.
"You'll live," Ming said. "And tomorrow you'll move faster."
"Tomorrow?" Sun Rong wailed.
Chen Ronghua shook her head but her lips curved in a faint smile. "Stop whining, Sun Rong. Every moment you waste complaining is another strike you must repeat later."
Lu Ming leaned back on the bench, sipping the tea Ronghua had poured. His mind turned even as his body begged for rest. Yunliang's drills were harsh, but they revealed much. If he continued, his body would grow stronger, sharper. But strength alone was not enough.
He would need maps—every scrap of terrain, every road between the capital and the provinces. He would need whispers from the market, taverns, servants' gossip.
His gaze drifted to Sun Rong, who lay flat on his back staring at the sky, chest heaving. The boy might complain, but he went to the market daily, spoke easily with other servants, and was liked by most. That network could be used, Lu Ming thought. Better yet, expanded.
A flurry of footsteps broke his reverie. A servant, cheeks flushed from haste, hurried into the courtyard. He bowed low.
"Young Master," the servant said, voice slightly breathless, "Master and Madam await you in the main hall for breakfast."
Lu Ming set aside the cup, wiping his hands on his robe. The shift in the servant's tone—polite, formal—told him this was no casual summons.
He rose, muscles stiff but steady. "Very well."
As he left the training yard, the cries of cicadas swelled with the morning heat, and in his mind gears were already turning—plans, whispers, the map of power slowly unfolding.
The Lu family's main hall carried the hush of early morning. Shafts of sunlight angled through the latticed windows, striking lacquered beams and polished floor tiles, casting the room in a quiet glow. The long table was already set: bowls steaming with congee, pickled vegetables, and dishes of braised pork whose savory aroma lingered in the air.
Lady Yuan sat poised at the left, her posture graceful, her gaze warm. Lu Heng sat at the head, broad-shouldered and stern-faced, as immovable as a mountain.
Lu Ming entered, saluted with a bow, and took his seat. A servant ladled tea into his cup, then the room settled into silence broken only by the muted clatter of chopsticks.
For a time, no one spoke. Lady Yuan, however, seemed to take great pleasure in tending to her son, gently reaching across with her chopsticks to place tender slices of pork belly in his bowl. "You've grown thin from training," she said softly. "Eat more."
Lu Ming lowered his head in gratitude. "Yes, Mother."
Across the table, Lu Heng ate in silence, his gaze unreadable. The weight of his presence alone kept the room still.
It wasn't until the bowls were nearly emptied that Lu Heng finally spoke. His voice was deep, deliberate.
"Ming'er."
Lu Ming straightened instantly. "Yes, Father."
"You did well at your uncle's banquet," Lu Heng said, his tone flat, almost reluctant. "But you have drawn eyes to yourself. Too many eyes." His gaze narrowed, hard as flint. "From this day, you must tread carefully. Reckless pride will bring ruin faster than cowardice."
Lu Ming bowed his head, his heart steady. "I understand, Father."
Lady Yuan broke into a light laugh, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, husband, you speak as though scolding him. Yet your stern face cannot hide your pride."
Lu Heng snorted, though a faint shadow of color touched his ears. "Pride is useless on the battlefield," he muttered.
Lady Yuan ignored him, turning to her son with a smile. "Your father may act stern, but he is pleased. I heard from the generals who attended—their admiration was clear. To silence Zhao Cheng so neatly before the civil faction? That pleased them greatly. They said our Ming'er gave face to the military men."
Lu Ming dipped his head politely. "I only acted as circumstance demanded."
Lu Heng scoffed, though there was no bite in it. "Do not let flattery cloud your judgment. Still… I suppose you did not shame us." His gaze softened a fraction before hardening again. "But remember this: Zhao Cheng is not a man who forgives humiliation. Nor are his allies. Your path ahead will not be without teeth."
Lu Ming inclined his head. "I will remember."
The moment stretched. Then Lu Heng leaned back, folding his arms. His eyes flicked briefly toward Lady Yuan before returning to his son.
"Your mother has told me," he said, tone edged with disapproval, "that you wish to bring a woman from a brothel into your courtyard."
The air in the hall thickened. Lady Yuan's expression remained serene, but Lu Ming caught the faint quirk at the corner of her lips.
"Yes," Lu Ming said evenly. "Her name is Zhao Lingqi."
Lu Heng's brow furrowed. "You dare name her."
Lu Ming did not flinch. "I do. I intend no dishonor. But I will not deny what I want."
Silence pressed down until Lady Yuan broke it with a soft chuckle. "My husband, must you glower so? He is young, yet he chooses carefully. This Lingqi, I have heard whispers of her beauty. If she is worthy, why not consider?"
"Worthy?" Lu Heng repeated, voice rough. "A courtesan?"
Lady Yuan's eyes flashed with mischief. "And what were you doing before our marriage, hm? Shall I ask about the names you once kept company with?"
Lu Heng coughed into his fist, gaze darting aside. Lu Ming hid a smile behind his teacup.
At last, Lu Heng growled, "Do as you will. But first I will have her background checked. I will not allow poison to enter my household."
"That is only wise," Lady Yuan agreed smoothly. "I shall send Mama Wu to the Jade Pavilion to inquire. She has a sharp eye for people, and her tongue is sharper still. If this Zhao Lingqi passes her judgment, then we may consider."
Her gaze slid toward Lu Ming. "Would you like to accompany Mama Wu? It may leave a better impression with Madam Xu if you appear in person."
Lu Ming thought briefly, then nodded. "If you permit it, Mother, I will go."
"Good." Lady Yuan's smile deepened. "Then it is settled."
But Lu Heng wasn't finished. His voice cut through the warmth like a drawn blade.
"One more thing, Ming'er." His gaze locked onto his son's with the weight of command. "If I see your performance falter—if you grow lax in your training, or careless in your studies—I will send you to the militia barracks. No excuses. No pleading. Do you understand?"
The hall seemed to still, even the servants holding their breath.
Lu Ming bowed low, voice firm. "I understand, Father."
Lu Heng held his gaze a moment longer, then grunted and returned to his tea.
Lady Yuan, satisfied, reached for another slice of pork and slipped it into Lu Ming's bowl. "Eat, Ming'er. You will need your strength. The days ahead will not be gentle."
Lu Ming raised his head, eyes steady, and took the meat with quiet gratitude. Inside, though, he felt the edges of a smile.
Every piece was falling into place.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard of the Lu residence. Lu Ming adjusted the collar of his robe, checking himself once more in the bronze mirror before stepping out. Today's errand was not one to be taken lightly; even if the surface pretext was a matter of "checking a courtesan," beneath it lay politics, power, and danger.
Waiting outside his study, Chen Ronghua stood with arms crossed, brows knit tight. She looked him up and down with the exasperation of a stern elder sister.
"So it's true," she said flatly. "You are actually going to the brothel yourself."
Lu Ming met her gaze with quiet calm. "Yes."
Her frown deepened. "Do you have any idea what people will say? A young master from a reputable family striding into the Jade Pavilion? It is not proper."
"It is necessary," Lu Ming replied. "Mama Wu is loyal, but she cannot handle Madam Xu. Negotiations there are never about etiquette—they are about leverage. Without me present, we risk gaining nothing."
Ronghua's lips tightened, but she said nothing. She was not wrong; the Jade Pavilion of Willow Mist was no ordinary pleasure house. In his past life, Lu Ming had learned the truth: it was a front for one of the most sophisticated information guilds in Luoyang. Madam Xu, its mistress, was a woman of sharp wits and endless appetite—for coin, for secrets, for advantage. Sending Mama Wu alone was like sending a lamb to parley with a wolf.
Ronghua huffed, throwing up her hands. "Very well. But if scandal follows, don't expect me to smooth it over."
A faint smile tugged at Lu Ming's lips. "Since when have you ever smoothed over my scandals?"
She smacked his arm, though her eyes softened, reluctant affection seeping through her sternness. "Just… be careful. You've drawn enough eyes already."
Lu Ming inclined his head, then walked toward the carriage yard.
Mama Wu was already waiting near the carriage, her figure upright despite her years, her expression as severe as carved stone. Draped in a plain yet spotless robe of dark green, she exuded the authority of a woman who had long overseen the inner court of a noble household.
"Young Master," she said with a bow, her voice firm, measured. "I will be accompanying you. It is by your lady mother's order that I look into this girl."
Lu Ming returned the bow with respectful deference. "I am grateful for your guidance, Mama Wu. Today I trouble you with this matter."
"It is my duty," she replied briskly. Her eyes narrowed just slightly, as if to remind him that she served Lady Yuan first, and him second.
Lu Ming did not mind. In truth, he respected her. In his past life, Mama Wu had stayed by his mother's side until the very end—unyielding, loyal, and uncompromising. But loyalty could also mean inflexibility. He knew she would clash with Madam Xu's cunning. That was why he needed to be present.
The driver adjusted the reins. Sun Rong, bright-eyed despite the morning's training, climbed onto the seat beside him, swinging his legs with an eagerness that earned a disapproving glare from Mama Wu.
Lu Ming stepped into the carriage, its interior lined with pale silk cushions. Mama Wu seated herself opposite him, posture stiff as if even in a moving carriage she must uphold decorum.
The wheels creaked forward, carrying them out of the Lu compound and into the bustling streets of Luoyang.
The city thrummed with life. Vendors cried out from stalls laden with pomegranates and dried persimmons. Carpenters and masons hauled timber and stone, their sweat mingling with the dust of the road. Aristocratic carriages rolled by, their guards pushing back commoners with curt barks.
Lu Ming leaned against the side of the carriage, watching the familiar sights with a mind half in the present, half in memory.
The Jade Pavilion. Willow Mist. Zhao Lingqi.
In his last life, he had first laid eyes on her beneath the glow of red lanterns, her laughter light yet tinged with steel, her gaze sharp enough to pierce silk screens. She had chosen him—deliberately, defiantly—over Zhao Cheng and over the eunuch patrons who hunted her. A choice that had sparked a feud, a choice that had dragged him into endless conflict.
Yet he had never once regretted it.
He remembered the softness of her skin, the weight of her body against his, her trembling breath as she gave herself to him—not out of compulsion, but out of will. She had claimed him as much as he claimed her. Later, when she became an assassin under shadowy contracts, their paths crossed again. By then, blood had washed away her innocence, but a shard of that night had always remained between them.
He had ordered Zhao Cheng's death in that life. Zhao Lingqi had been the one to carry it out. When she questioned his disdain for courtesan-shaming, he had told her simply: Some women are forced, some grasp at their fate with both hands. I blame neither. Only scum like Zhao Cheng deserve blame.
Her silence then had been more eloquent than any vow.
The wheels jolted over a stone rut, shaking him from his reverie.
"Young Master," Mama Wu said sharply, eyeing him. "Are you prepared for what lies ahead? Madam Xu is not a simple woman. She will test you."
Lu Ming smiled faintly. "All the better. If she is not tested herself, she will think us easy prey."
Mama Wu's expression did not soften. She gave a small "hmph," folding her hands atop her lap.
Lu Ming leaned back, gaze drifting to the carriage window. The streets thinned, giving way to a quieter quarter of the city. Ahead, painted signs and silk banners hinted at entertainment houses, perfumed halls where music spilled like wine into the street.
The Jade Pavilion of Willow Mist was the jewel among them, a sprawling complex veiled in carved lattice screens and drooping willow trees, red lanterns swaying gently from its eaves. Even by day, it exuded an air of scented secrets.
Lu Ming's chest tightened with anticipation, memory and present overlapping until he forced them apart. This time, he told himself, things would be different. This time, Zhao Lingqi would not be left to fend for herself.
A sudden knock on the carriage window snapped him from thought.
"Master!" Sun Rong's voice came sharp, urgent. "We're almost at the Jade Pavilion—but there's a problem!"
Lu Ming pushed aside the curtain. Sun Rong half-turned from the driver's bench, his boyish face tense. He pointed ahead toward the brothel's front gate.
There, standing in polished armor and crimson cloaks, were two of Zhao Cheng's personal guards. Their stance was unmistakable—alert, watchful, deliberately visible.
Mama Wu's lips pressed into a thin line. "So. The Zhao brat moves quickly."
Lu Ming's gaze hardened, his hand tightening on the window frame.
Of course Zhao Cheng would not let matters rest. Of course he would not allow Zhao Lingqi to slip from his grasp so easily.
But this time, Lu Ming thought coldly, the board was different. This time, the game belonged to him.