Among Asia's four great dark arts—gender swaps, plastic surgery, makeup, and Photoshop—China's mastery of the latter two borders on sorcery. Especially in this era of rampant networks, where a thousand-mile romance sparks over wires, and you can't tell if the face on the screen belongs to man or woman till it's too late.
That's how you end up with a bowl of spicy hot pot, a hundred yuan shortchanged, and those UC shock-jock editors peddling clickbait.
So here's fair warning to all you readers and netizens: court love online with caution—meetups are your emergency antidote. Girls, guard yourselves fierce on the road. Boys? Double that vigilance. After all, who's to say if the one across the line is flesh or phantom.
Women always probe: "Do you love my looks or my soul?" Pick the shell, and you're done for. Pick the core, and it's a sly heh—touch your heart, does it sting? Pretty faces are a dime a dozen; souls worth a damn? One in ten thousand. Without that pretty shell, who'd bother peering inside? An ugly soul swinging a golf club looks like he's tilling weeds; a handsome one picking his nose? Adorably roguish.
Confucius taught three thousand, sages seventy-two among them. But he doted on Zi You for his fine features—then soured on Zai Yu, that ugly troublemaker. Zi You muddled through life; Zai Yu's name echoes through ages. Thus, the Master reflected: Judging by looks lost me Zai Yu.
So yeah, sizing folks up by their faces? Human nature, plain as day. Especially for us ink-slingers—few authors cut dashing figures. Fan meets? Cue the dropouts, unfollows, blocks in droves.
Back in the Warring States' Hundred Schools era, gauging a man's mettle boiled down to two paths: word on the street, birthing the recommendation system; or ink your thoughts, drawing kings to your door in quests for worthies.
Duke Xiao of Qin's Call for Talents kicked off a realm-shaking fan fest. The duke himself wasn't hard on the eyes, nor was Shang Yang—so their meetup sealed the deal.
Han inherited Qin's mold. Late Eastern Han: land one of the crouching dragon or fledgling phoenix, steady the throne; snag both, and it's game over. Zhu Ge Liang? Noted heartthrob. Pang Tong? Infamous eyesore. They pitched to Cao Cao, Sun Quan, Liu Bei—face-to-face flops every time. Till Zhang Fei clocked the ugly mug's spark: Holy hell, that's genius. Only then did he shine.
And so, in Qin Moon, the first fan meet unfolds: the Qin King, drawn by The Five Vermin, seeks Han Fei.
In the Purple Orchid Pavilion, Han Fei spotted Wei Zhuang returning, freshly minted in Tian Ren He Yi.
"I'll take you to meet someone," Wei Zhuang said, his icy tone thawed just a hair. After all, might be my brother-in-law someday—gotta play nice.
Han Fei stared, gobsmacked. Did I see that right? Frost-face cracking a thaw? And he has friends?
If I'm right, it's gotta be the other Ghost Valley holdout, Han Fei thought, channeling his inner sleuth.
"First off, your aura's off—clearly a scrap. Wood chips on you? Tian Shu watchtower exclusive. No wounds, so not foes. Foe-free means friends. And you? Friendless as they come. Ergo: your Shixiong, Qin King's head sword tutor, Ge Nie." Han Fei beamed, smug. Nailed it—hit me with that prize.
"But the mud on your boots? Outskirts thicket only. Grass blades nicked by a keen edge—famed sword, that. Ge Nie packs no relic blade. So: you and Ge Nie tangled a third party. And you lost."
Wei Zhuang's budding goodwill soured to murder. Too much knowing—time for silencing. But no—hold it together. Must hold.
"With me. Now." He snatched Han Fei's collar, hauling him off like a wayward pup.
Outside the Qin King's courtyard, Ge Nie stood sentinel, sword cradled cool as stone.
Han Fei straightened his robes. "Greetings, Master Ge Nie."
"You know me, Ninth Prince?" Ge Nie arched a brow.
"Who else could befriend this glacier? Seven states scoured, you're the sole contender," Han Fei quipped.
"Moreover, he's not dragging me to you—someone else's the draw. As the King's prime blade arm, you're posted here? Means he's close too." Han Fei's detective mode hummed on.
Ge Nie dipped his head, bowing aside the path. "After you, Ninth Prince. Young Master Shang awaits within."
What spooks net-folk at meets most? One: confirm it's a chick. Two: photo real-deal or catfish?
Qin King Ying Zheng and Han Fei shared the jitters.
Ying Zheng mulled: Penning Five Vermin? Must be a wreck—bald from brain-strain, pocked like plague. All-nighters fry the scalp, scramble sleep—hair thins, zits bloom. Forgivable.So... eyes elsewhere first. Back to him, chat neutral. Ease the icebreaker cringe.
Han Fei fretted: Qin wolves? Hope not some bear-shouldered toe-jammer. Bow low on entry, chin tucked—no spoiling the dream.
Thus the courtyard tableau: Han Fei in purple, head bowed, tallying ants on flagstone—How to break the hush? Ying Zheng in white robes, sky-gazing opposite—Opening line?
I'm the intruder—he's host. My move. But no backing down.
"You're waiting for me?" Han Fei ventured.
"Yes. For you." Ying Zheng replied.
Voice solid—probably easy on the eyes. But voice actors ain't all lookers. No pivoting. No peeking.
Ying Zheng weighed: Straight to talents, then. Cushions the looks-drop.
"I've heard of well-bottom frogs glimpsing but a sliver sky. How, in this tumbledown yard, do you plot the realm's weave?" the King asked.
Good pivot to chops—dodges the gap-crash. No instant regret tabs.
Han Fei nodded inwardly: Yeah, skills first—else the chasm swallows us.
"Some, sight unseen of oceans, crown streams supreme. Others spy a lone leaf and grasp the fall's full blaze," Han Fei countered.
"So you're the leaf-seer?" Ying Zheng approved. Sharp riposte.
I could coast on charm, but nah—talent's my grind. Though genius walks lonely.
"To tread ten thousand li unveils heaven's span. I've wandered," Han Fei said.
Ying Zheng pondered: Worthies clash with courts, go hermit-wild. They're wary. Draw 'em in personal.
"Why wander? Homeland spurn you?" the King probed.
"To chase one truth!" Han Fei shot back.
Why roam? Korea's soil runs in my veins deep. So I return—to heal it.
"What truth?" Ying Zheng pressed.
Saving Korea? Think you got shots left? Ditch it—join Qin. Forge our eternal opus.
"I met a teacher. Asked him: Does some power beyond mortals truly tug fates from the shadows?"
I'm Korea's Ninth Prince—destiny chains me here. So I quizzed Master Xun: Way to shatter chains? Redeem Korea's doom?
"Your teacher's reply?" Ying Zheng urged.
How'd Xun school you to transcend?
"He said: Yes."
Xun swore fates bend—so back to Korea I came.
"What power?" the King chased.
Xun map the break for Korea? Or Confuxian fixes for its rot?
"I pressed just so!" Han Fei echoed.
Craved the how—to save Korea, snap our dooms. Confuxian aid? Spill it.
Ying Zheng tensed—Confucians meddling too? "And his words?"
From the King's edge, Han Fei caught the Confucian chill. "So that's why you wait here?"
I didn't clock Confucian moths flaming for Korea pre-arrival. But they won't blunt Qin's edge. Still—probe their play. "You haven't answered."
Can't chase this thread—dooms Confuxians to wreck. Sidestep. "Why here? You too, spurned by home?"
Ying Zheng flushed faint: My Qin's mess—think you don't know? Can't air it. Just scouting. "Merely roaming. Clearing the head."
Han Fei mulled: Fellow princes, you—crowned, me not. But throne narrows your gaze to court squabbles. Nudge him. "Heart in a well? Sky shrinks too."
Ying Zheng warmed to the caution, but: Thanks—but you miss why I'm in Han. Not just flushing court snakes. "You don't grasp me."
Self-preservation's my cage. I glimpse your end, can't warn. A man like you—shouldn't fade that way. "Or answer what you dread the truth on: You'll die."
Ying Zheng's brow knit: Korea gutsy enough to ice me in Xin Zheng? Han Fei—sure that's your line? "What'd you say?"
He'll twist it wrong—let him. "It's when... and how."
Now's Korea too cowed to try. Not this death—mine later. Qin's fall. Ying Zheng leaned in: "You know?"
Seen your end, Qin's crash. Mine too. Korea's doom. Won't buy it's locked. I'll rewrite. But buy my tale? "I swam time's river once, spied my grave. Believe it?"
Ying Zheng smirked inward: Spot our ends, Qin's wreck? So? I'm King—fates fold to will. Man beats heaven. "No."
Cut from my cloth—defies dooms. I've eyed my own death; hope you shatter yours. "Death's no terror—least to one who's danced it once."
"Everyone dies, don't they?"
We bow not to fates. All perish, sure—but we wrestle the weave.
"What're you driving at?" Ying Zheng pressed.
Twins in spirit—bold, unbreakable. But what vision? What warning?
"You hounded that mortal-transcending force puppeteering fates from void—what is it?"
Not Korea's fix you crave? Confuxian scheme?
Ying Zheng knotted: Korea? Meh. Confuxians? That's the thorn. "Yes."
"Peak to chasm, sea to mulberry fields—summer's lush to winter's bare, realms' rise and rot, lives' flicker and fade: all veiled enigmas. Decade spins spring to fall; century clocks birth to bier; millennium mourns dynastic churn; ten thousand years? Stars wheel eternal. Mortals, peering through a day's lens at eons' vault—ain't that the frog's folly?"
Heaven shifts ceaseless. Time's the cruelest fate—our scrabbles? Dust before it. Same ends all. So what's defying worth? What's the prize fate? Futures? Endless forks. My glimpse? Maybe time's feint. Before it, I'm well-frog too.
"That's your answer?" Ying Zheng echoed.
Time? That's the gist?
"This force? It's here—floods the world. Still your heart, listen: it's a song!"
Time's might enfolds us. We strain to reshape—yet pause, heed what we've wrought. Our verse in the grand score.
"You hear it?" Han Fei urged.
So, King: Will you, now and ever, halt the endless wars? Pause, survey the road carved, the lands claimed—let them breathe, renew?
Ying Zheng fell mute. I'd rest the blade, aye—but whim won't stay the tide. Era forges heroes as heroes forge eras—intertwined. It shoves me on; I remake it. Unification calls—can't linger now.
He turned, facing Han Fei full. "Master Han Fei."
Han Fei met the Qin King's gaze, a pang twisting: Sans stations, we'd be brothers true. But fate's a tyrant. He bowed deep. "Han Fei greets the Qin King."
Can't be lord-vassal, kin—but echoes we stay. I heard. Grateful for the nudge—I'll heed. Ying Zheng bowed in turn. "Ying Zheng, instructed."
*God, what a grind—line-by-line from the anime (Д`)彡┻━┻
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