Subtitle: When trust is forged in blood, every step becomes a calculated move.
The morning fog clung to the capital's rooftops—thick, unmoving, shroud-like. It carried the cloying sweetness of sandalwood from distant temples, mixed with the sharp tang of medicinal herbs brewing in apothecaries—a scent that spoke of both prayer and poison. Inside the safe house, the air was still, broken only by the soft rasp of breathing. Chu Hongying's eyes snapped open.
One heartbeat she slept; the next she was violently awake, her senses screaming. A sharp, burning pain lanced through the blood oath mark on her inner arm, a brand that felt alien, yet intimately her own. She pressed her palm hard against the searing skin, and beneath the pain, she felt it—a second rhythm, a steady, unwavering pulse that was not her own, yet beat in perfect synchrony with her heart. The sensation was unnerving, a constant, living reminder that her solitude had been permanently breached.
The door slid open without a sound. Gu Changfeng entered, his usual flamboyance subdued, his clothes damp with the morning's chill. "They're everywhere," he said, voice low. "The Shadow Guard has doubled. I counted no less than six new watchers on the surrounding roofs. They no longer even bother to hide." His sharp eyes moved from Chu Hongying's tense form to Shen Yuzhu's pale, sleeping face and back. "And the city whispers. The markets are alive with a new tale—that the mighty General and her clever strategist are not content with defending the border, that they treat with the Northern Di, seeking to unleash another catastrophe like the Lu family's fall."
Lu Wanning, who had been meticulously grinding herbs in a stone mortar, did not look up. She set aside her pestle and brought a steaming bowl of medicine to Shen Yuzhu's side. "It is a classic tactic," she stated, her voice as calm and clear as water. "They sow discord while tightening the vise. They wish to see if fear can fray the edges of a magic as potent as a blood oath. They test the tensile strength of your trust."
On the low couch, Shen Yuzhu stirred. His sleep was never peaceful, but now his brow was furrowed, his breathing shallow. He was trapped in a familiar yet terrifying dreamscape—flames licking at the edges of a half-burnt map, its strange symbols curling to ash. Beyond the fire stood a weathered bronze gate rising from endless mist. And always, the small, determined figure of a girl trudging through deep snow, her small back straight, her identity just out of reach. He gasped, his eyes flying open to meet Chu Hongying's guarded stare. The dream's urgency spilled over. "The map..." he rasped, his voice raw with sleep and sickness. "You have it, don't you?"
Chu Hongying went perfectly still. Her fingers, resting on the wooden table, clenched until her knuckles shone white. This secret was hers alone, a burden carried for years, a truth she had shielded from even Zhao Dashan, the subordinate who had followed her through a hundred battles. How could he possibly know? Had the blood oath forged a bridge between their minds, allowing memories to seep through?
The silence in the room stretched, thick and heavy. Finally, with a movement that was both resigned and resolute, Chu Hongying stood. She walked to the corner of the room, turned her back to them, and from a hidden pocket sewn into the innermost layer of her garment, she retrieved a flat package wrapped in waxed oilcloth. Returning to the table, she unfolded it with deliberate precision. The remnant map lay exposed—a charred, brittle piece of parchment, its surface covered in intricate, spiraled patterns that seemed to shift and writhe in the flickering candlelight, as if alive with a slow, dormant-seeming energy.
The four of them gathered around the table, their shadows merging and twisting on the walls like restless spirits. Shen Yuzhu reached out, his long, scholar's fingers hovering over the blackened edge. As his skin neared the parchment, a faint, resonant hum emanated from the Wolf Soul Pact etched between his shoulder blades, a silent answer to a forgotten call. "This is not a chart of mountains and rivers," he whispered, his voice gaining a thread of certainty. "It is a fragment of a Spiritual Vein Sealing Chart. It does not record lands, but the flow of power beneath them."
He paused, letting the immensity of his statement fill the small room.
"And the point it was designed to seal..." His gaze, clear and intense despite his illness, locked with Chu Hongying's. "...is the Bronze Gate of legend."
Lu Wanning, who had been examining the map with a scientist's detachment, recoiled almost imperceptibly. "The Bronze Gate? That is a myth, a story to frighten children." She recovered her composure swiftly, but a new wariness had entered her eyes. "Trust is the thread that binds a blood oath," she said, her voice cooler now. "But truth is often a sharper blade, capable of cutting the strongest bonds."
Gu Changfeng, who had been listening with a cynical smile, dipped his finger into his cup of cold tea. He drew a single, glistening line across the wooden table, separating Chu Hongying and Shen Yuzhu. "So the board is revealed," he mused. "The Emperor holds the black stones, the Seventh Prince the white. And you, my dear General—" he nodded at Chu Hongying, "—are the prized 'wild card' they both seek to capture and control." His smile turned razor-sharp as he shifted his attention to Shen Yuzhu. "And you, brother? Are you a player, or merely another piece on the board?"
As dusk began to bleed into the sky, a visitor arrived. He was a man of indeterminate age, his face smooth and expressionless, his movements utterly silent. He presented a single sheet of heavy, perfumed paper. The script was elegant, flowing, an art in itself. It extended an invitation from the Seventh Prince to view a recently acquired antique artifact, praising the General's discernment and the strategist's renowned intellect.
The moment Chu Hongying's fingers touched the paper, a subtle pressure settled in the room. The incense used to scent it was cloyingly sweet—crafted to calm and pacify. But as she scanned the graceful words, her eyes caught on a small, carefully inserted slip of parchment tucked into the fold. She pulled it out. It was a fragment, its edges burnt, its texture and color a perfect match to the half-map hidden against her skin.
"He knows," Gu Changfeng stated flatly, his earlier humor gone. "He knows you have it, and he's showing you he holds the other half. It's not a request; it's a demonstration of power."
Shen Yuzhu was seized by a fit of coughing, his body trembling with the effort. When it subsided, he looked up, his face ashen but his gaze unwavering. "It's an open challenge. He dangles the key before us, knowing we have no choice but to reach for it."
"I'll go alone," Chu Hongying declared, her hand instinctively finding the familiar, cold comfort of her Wind-Splitter Spear's hilt.
"No." Shen Yuzhu's refusal was immediate and absolute. "The spiritual patterns on that map are written in a language my pact understands. I can sense traps you cannot see, perceive nuances you would miss." He met her stubborn glare, his voice softening, though it held an iron core. "We swore an oath, Hongying. I will not let you walk into that man's web alone."
Gu Changfeng and Lu Wanning exchanged a long, silent look, a whole conversation passing between them in an instant. "I'll scout the perimeter," Gu Changfeng said, his tone deceptively light. "See what other surprises our gracious host has prepared. Do try to remember the vows you made while your blood was mingling."
Lu Wanning moved to her medical kit, retrieving several small pouches. She pressed two pills each into Chu Hongying and Shen Yuzhu's hands. "The red counteracts most common poisons," she instructed. "The green, held under the tongue, will help you resist bewitching fragrances and clouded thoughts." She paused, holding up a third, jet-black pill. "And this one... is for a final resort. It ends threats, permanently and quickly."
Later, as the full weight of night settled and the cold deepened, Chu Hongying approached Shen Yuzhu with a heavy, dark wool cloak. The act felt foreign—wrongly tender. On the battlefield, she covered the dead with their cloaks, a final, respectful gesture. To perform this same action for a living, breathing man—a man whose mind was a labyrinth of secrets—felt profoundly disquieting. Her hands, usually so sure with a spear, fumbled with the simple clasp. As her cool fingertips brushed the vulnerable skin of his neck, both of them froze, the brief contact sending a jolt through the strange connection between them.
"If this is a trap," she whispered, her voice a low, fierce promise meant only for him as she straightened his collar, "I will not hesitate. I will fight our way out, no matter the cost."
He looked down at her, at the fierce determination etched into every line of her face, and a faint, genuine smile touched his lips, momentarily erasing the shadows of sickness. "I know," he replied, his voice equally quiet. "And this time, it will be my turn to protect you."
The Seventh Prince's estate was a monument to silent opulence. They were led by the same expressionless servant through a series of courtyards that were beautiful, immaculate, and utterly devoid of life. The only sound was the whisper of the wind through barren ornamental trees. They were finally shown into a vast, circular chamber. The walls were bare stone, the floor polished to a mirror shine. The air was cold and carried the faint, metallic scent of old blood and rusted iron, a smell that transported Chu Hongying instantly back to the frozen battlefields of the North.
In the center of the room, dominating the space, stood a massive disc of polished bronze, its frame carved with coiling, unrecognizable beasts. It reflected the entire chamber, capturing their own tense, wary forms in its flawless surface.
The mirror's surface rippled without warning, like liquid metal struck by a falling drop. Their reflections warped, stretched, and then shattered into fragments that reformed into new, horrifying images—
A Chu Hongying with eyes of glacial ice stood poised, her spear not held in readiness, but actively leveled at the heart of the man beside her.
A Shen Yuzhu, his face a blank, emotionless mask, held a single, deadly golden needle, its point aimed unerringly at Chu Hongying's throat.
It was a vision of perfect, mutual betrayal, a nightmare given form.
As one, they recoiled, stepping back and away from each other, the instinctive fear of the image overriding their will. The moment the distance between them widened, the blood oath marks on their hands flared with a sudden, painful heat. A wave of warmth, fierce and possessive, surged through the invisible bond, pushing back the vision's psychic chill, forcefully reminding them of their pledge.
The air in the chamber grew deathly cold. From the very depths of the distorted mirror, a voice emerged, cultured, gentle, and utterly devoid of human warmth, filling the space around them:
"The board is set. The pieces are in place. I await your first move."
[The Game Begins]
In a secluded study deep within the Prince's estate, a single, polished jade piece was placed onto a carved board with a soft, definitive click.
Miles away, in the highest room of the imperial palace, the Emperor's finger paused, then tapped lightly on the arm of his dragon-carved throne. His eyes were fixed on another, smaller bronze mirror, its surface shimmering with the same unnatural light.
Two soft, separate clicks, one distant, one near, echoed each other through the fog-shrouded night, a synchronized start to a deadly contest.
The game was in motion, and the stakes were not territory or titles, but the very hearts and wills of those who played.
General, strategist, healer, scout—all were now players, whether they wished to be or not.
Chu Hongying's fingers twitched, and her spear, leaning against her leg, emitted a low, almost inaudible hum in response.
And in that suspended moment, poised on the edge of the unknown, she could have sworn she heard the very wind hold its breath—not the magic of the sigils, but the entire, watchful city of the capital itself, waiting, watching, and holding its breath in unison for their next move.