The Winds and Clouds of the Desert

Winter had descended upon the small oasis nestled between the great nations, a place now teeming with refugees from every direction—Heghe, Fentian, and other wandering tribes. Most of them were the elderly, the weak, the sick. They had no clothes to protect them from the cold, and their exposed skin was covered in bruises and frostbite, their hollow eyes reflecting a dim, flickering hopelessness, barely alive in the biting wind.

Twenty of them sat in a circle around a meager campfire. One person took a bite from a piece of hard bread, then hesitated, sniffing it as if savoring its scent, before reluctantly passing it to the next. That person also took a bite and passed it on. The bread, covered in dust and saliva, went around the circle—its taste mattered little, for what they sought was merely survival.

At first, each refugee ate whatever they had, and when hunger struck, they fought one another for food. But this endless cycle of stealing left most of their provisions spoiled, and many lives were lost in the scuffles. Eventually, someone suggested pooling their food. Each day, each person would receive only one bite—no stealing, no hoarding, no overindulgence. If one had a large mouth, they were fortunate; if smaller, that was their fate. Slowly, this fragile truce took hold. Humanity is a resilient creature—so long as there is a breath of hope, it will endure.

"You brat! How dare you take two bites?" A sharp shout broke the silence, followed by a slap that landed hard on the young boy's face. It was a man who struck him. "Throw him out!" In this circle, anyone greedy enough to take more than their share was expelled, left to starve. The boy, stars dancing before his eyes, knelt stubbornly on the ground, refusing to leave. Though young, his gaze held a fierce determination.

"Stop it! I won't eat my share today." The familiar voice belonged to Zhanbie's elderly mother. "Mine can go to him. He is still a child—please, forgive him!" She embraced the boy, both of them marked with bruises.

The child remained stubborn, refusing to cry in her arms. "Grandmother! I will repay your kindness!"，Fentian.

Year 332, Zijian Day, the closing of the borders.

On the bustling streets of Heyan, the capital of Fentian, it wasn't the teahouses or taverns that were most numerous, but rather the martial arenas and apothecaries. Since the Bloody King Ruowen began recruiting soldiers, waves of eager warriors had flocked to the city. In this nation, only the strongest were deemed worthy of joining the army. In a way, Ruowen's decree of 'Nine Pardons, One Execution' brought not only a bloody upheaval to this fragile land, but also a rapid accumulation of wealth and monopolization. No matter how many dared to prove their strength or cunning, in the end, the victor was always the national army—the Huangtian Wild Corps.

At this moment, in the training grounds of the Heyan Palace, a martial contest was underway. The Bloody King Ruowen sat arrogantly on his throne, his sharp gaze fixed upon the hundred fierce warriors below. These were the men who had emerged victorious from across the nation in the past thirty days—each capable of slaying their opponent in less time than it took for a cup of tea to cool, each with a body count of no less than fifty. Now, like starving beasts, their eyes glowed red with ferocity as they stared at Ruowen atop the platform.

Ruowen smirked derisively—these men clearly had the audacity to challenge him.

"Chengxiang!" Ruowen called. "Let’s begin! Show me what kind of men you have gathered."

Chengxiang bowed and stepped before the hundred warriors. "Fentian conscription accepts all capable men. The selection begins now! Vanguard, step forward!"

At his command, the hundred men retreated to the waiting area. With a loud clang, ten soldiers rushed onto the stage. "The vanguard must face ten opponents at once! Who will step forward?" Chengxiang called. Immediately, dozens of men stood up. Chengxiang smiled. "Very well! One at a time!"

By midday, the stage had become a sea of blood. After three hours, only nine remained standing—panting, drenched in blood.

"Is that all?" Ruowen seemed displeased, sipping his wine with boredom. Beside him sat Ruolan and Feiwen, while on his right sat the only surviving member of the Masui royal family—Princess Ge Xinwei. She watched Ruowen, her eyes filled with confusion. It had been fifty days since her capture, yet Ruowen had never so much as looked her in the eye. He hadn’t touched a hair on her head, yet strangely kept her close, dressing her in red, forbidding her from moving freely or speaking. They were fed only once a day. Initially, she had resigned herself to death, but her beauty had inexplicably spared her. She watched this man, who exuded malice and cruelty, constantly provoking the flames of rage deep within her.

"The deputy general must face fifteen opponents! Step forward, warriors!" Chengxiang wasted no time announcing the next round. From the remaining forty, several more stepped forward, and once again blood and flesh flew.

The selection seemed to have no intention of pausing, continuing until deep into the night, when it was finally time for the general’s duel. Chengxiang stood on the stage, ordering the bloody ground to be cleared before calling out in a powerful voice, "The general must face twenty opponents! Step forward, warriors!" This time, only seven men came forward. Each was formidable, their eyes locked not on the stage but on Ruowen, their teeth bared in silent challenge.

It was late into the night, and Ruowen, always more restless after dark, looked down at the defiant eyes below and smiled coldly. He flicked off his black cloak, leaping down to the stage. With each step he took forward, the seven men followed.

Chengxiang, seeing the look in his leader’s eyes, knew he had killing intent. There would be no peace until his blade had tasted blood. He quickly withdrew to the sidelines.

Ruowen faced the seven, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "Come! The one who survives will be the general!" He drew his treasured blade, its edge glinting with a hungry light.

The seven men exchanged glances, then charged as one. "Kill Ruowen!"

A flash of red light filled the stage. Ruowen’s lips curled into a chilling smile as he lunged into their midst, his blade swinging with ferocious speed. His strikes were relentless, the silver blade tearing through flesh without hesitation. His eyes, once deep violet, turned a dark crimson. His cold, handsome features were splattered with warm blood—anyone who stood before him was destined to be cut down.

The seven were no ordinary warriors, but in the end, they became mere tools for Ruowen’s fury. The stage was soon a pool of tears and blood. Ruowen finally stopped, his chest heaving, his breath hot. Beneath him lay the broken, lifeless bodies of his foes. He stood there, savoring the blood on his lips, his dark eyes slowly fading back to violet, his black hair sticking to his sweat-drenched forehead, unaffected by the cold wind.

"Chengxiang, start the selection again," he said with a sly smile, flicking the blood from his blade with a crosswise slash.

Silence reigned under the starry sky. The fourteen vanguards and deputy generals stood to the side, their eyes wide, barely daring to breathe. "Do you see? Before the strongest, all else is meaningless!" Chengxiang called to the stunned warriors, his tone half-smiling. Few outside the Huangtian Wild Corps had ever witnessed their leader's prowess firsthand.

Yet the one most shaken by this display was Ge Xinwei. In that moment, she understood why Ruowen commanded the Wild Corps, why Masui had been destroyed. Ge Xinwei, raised in the palace, well-read and knowledgeable, had never been valued by her father or brothers. Her humble birth and her mother’s weakness had made her a target of relentless abuse. She had even thought of escaping, only to witness Ruowen’s massacre—an inferno that reduced her family to ashes. Thirteen days after, she emerged from the charred remains, realizing that those arrogant nobles had died without dignity. They were unworthy. From that moment, a strange calm filled her heart, and her reverence for power was born.

"Your Majesty!" Ge Xinwei called out, her voice breaking the silence, her eyes on the blood-soaked Ruowen.

Ruowen’s face darkened as he turned. "I believe I told you—speak, and I will kill you."

Ge Xinwei shivered at his words, but she had made up her mind.

"Your Majesty, I wish to speak. I want to shed this red garment. I am not a shadow—I am Ge Xinwei." She began removing her red robes piece by piece.

Watching her bare herself, Ruowen’s eyes darkened. From the beginning, it was her eyes—though different in color—that reminded him of Huang Beishuang’s spirit.

Standing naked before him, Ge Xinwei declared, "Your Majesty, I am no one’s substitute."

The cold wind raised goosebumps across her skin, but Ruowen simply smiled. "You wish to be my woman?"

Ge Xinwei’s gaze remained unwavering. "I do."

His laugh echoed in the cold night air, finally subsiding. "Then lick clean every drop of blood on me."

That night, another woman joined Ruowen’s bed, but unlike the others, her heart burned with a desire as fierce as fire.

I am willing to kneel at your feet, to lick away every drop of your blood, I am willing to stay by your side, to cherish the calluses on your palms; In that moment, I am willing to give you all of myself.

For those haunted eyes of yours, For the sword in your hand that destroys gods and saints, I shall wait as you crush everything beneath you, as you lay waste to the world, Until all is reduced to ashes and the day dawns when all beings stand equal!

The next day, Ruowen sat upon the throne in Heyan. Around him were Barbarian Fox, Wolfhead, Chengxiang, and Fallen Eagle. They watched the woman who had dared to offer herself to their leader under the moonlight kneel in the center of the hall.

Ge Xinwei knelt, clad in yellow robes, her expression resolute. Her voice rang out clearly.

"Chaos is upon us, and warlords rise. Yet I, Ge Xinwei, know that only the Bloody King shall reign supreme. Therefore, to help Your Majesty ascend to the peak of the vast desert, I humbly present my suggestion: Fentian cannot long endure without order, without edicts, without structure. Otherwise, it will struggle against the northern Tian Du and southern Yunpei. Thus, I propose the establishment of three armies and two ministries before war breaks out. The three armies are: the Zhenyuan Army, consisting of fifty thousand troops, to guard Fentian; the Nanfa Army, with one hundred thirty thousand troops, to conquer Yunpei; and the Chiguo Army, the Huangtian Wild Corps, the king's personal guard, loyal only to the throne. Each army has its purpose: Zhenyuan to stabilize the country, Nanfa to crush enemies, and Chiguo to secure the throne. As for governance, one is the Treasury, managing funds and supplies, and the other is the Recruitment Office, handling personnel. These three armies and two ministries shall ensure stability and strength, aiding Your Majesty in claiming dominion over all lands!"

Ge Xinwei's voice grew louder as she spoke, kneeling on the ground, her body still remembering the wild pain of the previous night, the emotionless possession by Ruowen, and the humiliation of sharing his bed with two other women. Yet, to her, the man whose image was reflected in her icy blue eyes was a god—a god capable of destroying all that was unjust.

Ruowen looked at the woman kneeling below him. To save her life, she had never dared disobey him in the slightest, not uttering a word for more than a month. And now, she dared, before all eyes, to seduce him with that unripe body of hers—and she had succeeded. The memory of last night lingered, reminding him of the moment he captured Huang Beishuang. However, she was indeed not Huang Beishuang, for her eyes bore an ambitious gleam.

Hmph! Women, like serpents, come in every variety.

"Oh! Not bad for someone of royal blood!" Ruowen sneered, "Silent for so long, only to make a shocking move when you do." His tone carried a hint of mockery, though it was unclear who it was aimed at.

"Damn, this girl is interesting!" Wolfhead couldn't help but sigh. "More interesting than that Huang Beishuang!"

Barbarian Fox, who always seemed to enjoy echoing Wolfhead, added, "Indeed! Huang Beishuang came from a slave lineage, while this one is from a ruling family. Though it only took a moment to break her, she is, after all, still a princess!"

Chengxiang joined in, "A princess daring enough to strip herself naked—I’ve never even heard of such a thing!"

"How was she, Chief? Don't get too addicted." Fallen Eagle, the youngest, grinned lasciviously at Ge Xinwei, taunting her.

These men, crude and untamed, stood in the grand hall, mocking her brazenly in front of Ruowen, yet Ge Xinwei remained unshaken. She looked at Ruowen and spoke coldly, "Your Majesty, what is your opinion of the former Masui royal family?"

Everyone fell silent at her sudden question, only to hear Ruowen's dismissive response, "Trash."

Upon hearing his answer, Ge Xinwei smiled bitterly. "Ge Xinwei was born among this trash. For nineteen years, I endured humiliation and abuse. Though nominally the Ninth Princess, in reality, I was worth less than a servant. A servant, at least, was not constantly bullied. But I, Ge Xinwei, could be used by anyone to vent their anger, to beat and insult as they wished. The greatest injustice in this world is when the strong are ruled by the weak, when the incompetent oppress the talented." She lifted her head to meet Ruowen's gaze. "But, Your Majesty, you have the power to restore the true order—that of the strong reigning supreme. Ge Xinwei has unwavering faith in this."

When she finished speaking, no one responded for a long time. Those standing on either side of the hall stared at her in disbelief, almost overwhelmed by the intensity of her words. Ruowen, from his throne, looked down at Ge Xinwei, and a thought crossed his mind—when he finally captured Huang Beishuang, it would certainly be interesting to compare the two of them.

After a moment, Ruowen spoke. "Chengxiang, follow her suggestion and proceed with the establishment of the three armies and two ministries. Also, Fallen Eagle, ensure your spies are well-coordinated—I want to be informed of every move other nations make! As for Ge Xinwei..." He looked at her, "You shall stay by my side. I want to see what kind of tricks you have up your sleeve!"

Year 332, Guan Chou, Princess Ge Xinwei of Masui was named Fentian's first strategist, granted control over Ruowen's harem without title or rank. Within ten days, she established the three armies and two ministries, restructuring the state's pillars. Thus, Fentian transitioned from a bandit enclave to a formal ruling power. Seven days later, the Nanfa Army turned eastward, seizing the critical fortress towns of Quancheng and Yuguo between Fentian and Yunpei, creating a pincer against the Yunpei forces stationed in Heghe.

"The storm! Run!"

On a small oasis to the south of the desert, chaos erupted as thousands of people rushed westward. A rare storm had struck, and the tiny, barren oasis could not withstand it. Those who could not escape in time would be buried beneath the sand, soon to become part of the desert, trampled underfoot.

"Grandma, hurry!" A scrawny boy pulled at an elderly woman, half-conscious and already trampled, her ankle shattered. She weakly grasped the boy's small hand on her shoulder. "Good boy, go on without me. I will wait here."

The boy's face was streaked with tears, yet he still clung tightly to her tattered clothing. "Grandma, I will take you!"

The old woman closed her eyes, her lips blackened, speaking in broken phrases, "I will wait here... My son will come for me. My son... will return. This place is closest to Heghe... He will come for me."

The boy struggled to drag the old woman forward, but none of the fleeing refugees stopped to help. Situations like theirs had become all too common—compassion was a luxury no one could afford.

The old woman's face scraped along the ground, torn and bloody. "Good boy, I'm so tired. Find him for me, and bring him to me, will you?"

The boy looked down at her, touching her face with his bloodstained hands. "Grandma?"

The old woman lay on the ground, repeatedly trampled as the boy's frail form failed to shield her. "What's your name, child?" she whispered.

"I'm Samant."

"Samant, my son went to Yunpei as an envoy. He's a great hero. His name is Zhanbie. Find him for me, will you?" With those words, she fell silent, her lifeless body swaying gently in the wind.

Samant hesitated, placing his hand near her mouth for a long moment. Tears filled his eyes, and suddenly he bolted, disappearing into the fleeing crowd, leaving behind only the woman who lay as if asleep, repeatedly trampled underfoot.

That day, the raging sandstorm swallowed the lonely, desolate oasis, taking with it countless restless souls. A mound of yellow sand rose like a mountain—a silent tomb amidst the vast desert.

What is an ordeal? It is a cycle—an endless loop of suffering.

What power toys with mortals, making them start again, no matter how far they go? The blood, the tears, the prayers, and the exhaustion—it all must be repeated. But for what? Who knows?

The young Samant, perhaps due to his youth, was simple, and perhaps due to his simplicity, he understood gratitude. Clutching the token his grandmother had left him, he resolutely left the refugees, heading south.

He walked for a long time, his body covered in frostbite so severe that his appearance was unrecognizable. Only his eyes, clear and unwavering, remained untouched. He walked through the desert for three days until he finally reached the outskirts of Yunpei.

"I want to see the king!" he shouted at the guards standing by the gate.

The guards, accustomed to seeing such refugees, burst into laughter. "Get lost, kid! The king has no time for you!"

Samant was kicked to the ground, his eyes fixed on the blazing sun above. "Good boy..." He remembered his grandmother's words. No one had ever praised him or held him, and he didn't even remember when his wandering had begun or how old he was—eight, perhaps nine. No one had ever cared enough to tell him he was a good child. Tears filled his eyes and fell into the parched earth.

"Let me in!" He jumped up, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.

Startled, the guards closed in on the frail figure, ready to strike again.

"What are you doing?" A man with a braid approached—he seemed of higher rank. "Where did this boy come from?"

"Yunzai, this kid says he wants to see the king! Must be crazy, so we were just sending him off," one of the guards laughed.

"I'm not crazy! I want to see Zhanbie!" Samant cried.

"Zhanbie? Who's that?" The guard laughed even harder. "Ever heard of him?"

None had. The man called Yunzai, however, narrowed his eyes. "Which Zhanbie?"

"A great hero—the envoy to Yunpei!" Samant shouted.

The guards laughed louder. "We're all heroes, but never heard of an envoy named Zhanbie! Get lost, or we'll use you for target practice!"

The boy was dumbfounded. How could he know that the great hero his grandmother spoke of had long been imprisoned in the Guanghan Palace, unable to see the king, his heroism a mere dream?

Yunzai hoisted the boy onto his shoulder. The guards were surprised. "Yunzai, what are you doing?"

Yunzai threw a small bag of gold to them. "He's just a child. Let me handle it."

With that, he carried Samant into the city.

On that day, Yunpei fortified its borders, expanding the frontier, quietly preparing for war. Within three days, they had drawn Xueyuan, Ruoshui, and Guazhou into the battle zone, creating a defensive line separating Heghe from Yunpei. From a strategic standpoint, the war could not be allowed to touch Yunpei's territory.

On the fourth day, Queen Huang Beishuang of Guangying received an encrypted message: "Someone from Heghe has come seeking Zhanbie. The person is a nine-year-old child. If received, enter Ning in three days; if refused, return immediately."

After much thought, Huang Beishuang gave orders to allow the audience.

It was not Yunzai who escorted Samant to the Guanghan Palace in Ningdu. Midway, the escorts changed several times, but they never stopped moving. In just three days, the boy found himself before the throne, his face filled with shock. Huang Beishuang sat beside Zhan, watching this frail child. She knew that anyone who stepped from that hellish wasteland into Yunpei would be equally overwhelmed by the dreamlike splendor and peace, as though they had entered a fantasy.

The child collapsed to the floor, staring blankly at the king upon his throne.

"Bring Zhanbie out!" Zhan leaned back in his chair and gave the command.

The boy looked up anxiously, scanning the room. Within a few minutes, Zhanbie appeared. Though his face showed signs of anxiety and exhaustion, his body was well-fed. During his long confinement in the Guanghan Palace, he had eaten and slept well, his only deprivation being his freedom. The soldiers behind him gave him a push, and he stood before Samant, staring at him in confusion.

Samant knelt on the ground. "Brother! Grandma is dead!" he cried, holding out a dark purple belt left by Zhanbie's mother, embroidered with the words, "Heaven-sent child, named Zhanbie." It was indeed his mother's. At the sight of it, Zhanbie was overcome with emotion, lifting Samant up by both arms. "Nonsense! My mother can't be dead. She said she'd wait for me to return!"

Samant burst into tears. "Grandma is still waiting for you! She's waiting beneath the yellow sands!"

Hearing this, Zhanbie's rage boiled over. He turned to Zhan, pointing an accusing finger. "It's all because of you! You imprisoned me! If you had sent the troops, Heghe wouldn't be in this state!"

Zhan merely laughed. "Hmph! If Tian Du's army could easily take Heghe, then Yunpei's heavenly soldiers could have done the same! If you can only survive by relying on others, you might as well have died from the start!" His words were like a bucket of cold water thrown over Zhanbie, leaving him trembling with fury but unable to vent it. Zhan leaned back leisurely. "You shouldn't blame me. Keeping you here saved your life. Don't forget—it was Tian Du who conquered Heghe!"

Zhan's words sent a simultaneous shiver through two people. One was Zhanbie, the envoy of Heghe, who now seemed to awaken from a dream, his fists clenching, eyes blazing with hatred. The other was Queen Huang Beishuang of Guangying, who turned to look at the king with sudden foreboding.

"I'm leaving!" Zhanbie shouted.

Zhan smiled lightly. "Wu Ji Hai, return his black bow, provide him with a horse, and order all city gates not to hinder him!"

Zhanbie looked at Zhan, then bowed deeply, taking the belt from Samant's hands and stepping out of the hall.

Samant stood there, bewildered, unsure of what to do.

Huang Beishuang nodded at Yepei, who approached and took Samant by the hand.

"Good boy! Where is your home?" Huang Beishuang asked with compassion.

"No home!" Samant answered.

"No family either?" Huang Beishuang asked without surprise.

"None!"

"Would you like to stay with me?"

"If I stay with you, can I live in this beautiful place?" Samant asked, wide-eyed.

"That depends on His Majesty," Huang Beishuang smiled.

Zhan turned to look at them, smiling. "What can you do? I don't need useless people!" He was evidently in a good mood, even teasing the child. Samant, thinking that if he performed well, he could stay in this dreamlike place, quickly knelt and said, "Your Majesty, my name is Samant, and I can sing!" In recent days, he had received proper care, and his voice had regained its former clarity.

"Oh?" Zhan laughed, and the officials in the hall laughed as well. "Then sing for us!"

Thus, the young Samant stood in the grand Guanghan Palace, singing aloud the song of ordeal that his grandmother had taught him. Though he did not understand its meaning, his innocent voice deeply moved Huang Beishuang.

Heavenly spirits, heavenly spirits! Tell me, why do you laugh? The yellow sands drift, the blood tears flow, White-haired wanderers beg for gruel in their dreams. Earthly ghosts, earthly ghosts! Tell me, why do you weep? Cold winds howl, blood rain falls, Emaciated bones paint a scene of despair.

It is an ordeal approaching, A fate sealed. Clinging to a worthless life, Waiting for the spirits to claim it.

Who are these spirits, That we await at the palace doors? Who among us has not knelt thrice? If not, then who are they?

The boy sang with abandon, his voice ringing high, while the expressions of those in the hall grew darker and darker. No one dared to interrupt; they kept their heads bowed, wishing they could disappear. Only Huang Beishuang turned her gaze deeply upon Zhan.

Who among us has not knelt thrice? Of course, it was the king! By the end of the song, it was clear that the lyrics compared the king to a spirit.

The king sends his men to war; the soldiers march into battle; the people are sacrificed. Who is innocent?

The boy's voice reverberated throughout the hall, echoing amid Zhan's silence and Huang Beishuang's steady gaze, lingering until his voice grew hoarse.

That night, Yepei arranged for Samant to stay in the guards' quarters of Guangying Palace, training under Lianhuan. For Samant, this was the best reward—an opportunity he had never imagined while struggling for survival among the refugees.

Fate often reveals itself in the most inexplicable ways.

Huang Beishuang stood by the window, her face full of worry. After a long time, a shadow approached from the window, blending into the shadows of the trees. "Nashou, why have you summoned me?"

Huang Beishuang furrowed her brows, seemingly struggling internally, before softly saying, "Jianglei, stop Zhanbie. Do not let him cross the border."

Without a word, Jianglei vanished.

"Consort Shuang!" Yepei suddenly appeared behind her, startling Huang Beishuang.

Yepei walked over and gently closed the window. "It's cold. Don't catch a chill."

Huang Beishuang ran to the bed, pulling the blanket around herself, looking helpless. Yepei signaled for Zai Ping Daoqiu to bring hot water to wash her.

The three said nothing further, but Huang Beishuang, like a frightened bird, curled up in the blanket, showing only her jade-like feet. After a long silence, she finally spoke, voicing her unease. "His Majesty is deliberately provoking Zhanbie. If he leaves, he will surely attempt to assassinate Qingyun."

The three exchanged complex glances. Yepei spoke. "Consort Shuang, by doing this, you are breaking the pact with His Majesty, and it will not earn you favor with Qingyun either. Why do it?"

Huang Beishuang buried her head in the blanket in frustration. "If I can... must I not follow my heart?"

Yepei smiled. "Consort Shuang, you and Qingyun—that is not love. Your time together was too brief; you barely knew each other. To me, it was just a fleeting passion."

Huang Beishuang looked up. "Not love?"

Yepei replied, "To love someone but leave them—that is a sin, one that will keep you unhappy forever. Look at you. Though you had a thousand reasons, was your departure truly carefree? You haven't forgotten, yet you haven't lived without joy either, have you? How could that be love?"

Huang Beishuang was left speechless. She looked at the white blanket, recalling that fleeting night. Was that not love? She touched the lotus blooming on her arm—it still burned like fire. Was that not love?

"Rest well, Consort Shuang," Yepei and the others said, leaving after washing her. Huang Beishuang, looking less lost, called out to Yepei.

"If it's not love, then that's fine. Call it what you want, but there's one thing I know. Qingyun is the only man in the world I will share a bed with."

If what I have for you isn't love, then I shall have no love in this lifetime.

Qingyun! My contradiction, do you know?

All the world's tribulations, they say, are but the spinning wheel of fate.

If being with you will be my ruin, I hope that day comes soon. Then I won't need to long for you so desperately.

Both Fentian and Yunpei were stirring, and Tian Du would not remain idle. At this moment, King Jing Tian had equipped the most formidable army to date. With Heghe secured, Tian Du's treasury showed not a trace of deficit.

Qingyun stood in the training grounds, practicing his swordsmanship. His strikes were swift and precise, the blade flashing like lightning. Sweat covered his forehead. Kneeling at the edge of the grounds were several officials.

Qingyun paid them no heed, his focus unbroken.

Qingyun paid them no heed, his focus unbroken, as he continued to practice his swordsmanship. His strikes were swift and precise, the blade flashing like lightning, sweat dripping from his brow. Among the officials kneeling at the edge of the training grounds, an older minister clenched his teeth, then raised his head resolutely.

"Your Majesty! Please, heed this old servant's words—withdraw from the front lines and return to the Frost Palace in Tian Du!" His voice was loud, trying to pierce through the shrill whistle of Qingyun's blade cutting through the raging wind.

After a long moment, Qingyun still gave no response. The elder minister remained steadfast, repeating his plea.

"Your Majesty! You have no queen in your harem, no heir to the throne, nor have you named a crown prince. How can you risk yourself by leading the army into battle? If anything happens to you, what will become of the ministers and the people of Tian Du? I implore you, please return to the palace and oversee the affairs of state!" With that, the old minister, along with the others, kowtowed loudly to the ground.

"Hmph!" This time, Qingyun did stop, taking the towel hanging beside the basin to wipe his sword, casting a sideways glance at the ministers on the ground. "Cursing me to death before the battle has even begun?" His voice was full of dissatisfaction.

The ministers were alarmed, hastily raising their voices in plea, "Your subjects are merely concerned for Your Majesty's safety, with no ulterior motives whatsoever!"

"That's good! The battle is imminent, and I don't need your nonsense disturbing me further!" Qingyun sat to the side, and a maid hurriedly brought over a cup of tea for him to rinse his mouth.

Lowering their heads in worry, the ministers spoke in unison, "If Your Majesty insists on not returning to the palace, then allow us to arrange for concubines to attend to you, so that you might have an heir soon and bring stability to the people's hearts."

On this matter, it was not strange that the ministers were so insistent. Qingyun was not incapable of leaving an heir, yet he strangely refused to appoint any concubine formally, and none of the women who served by his side had any official status. This might not have been a problem—His Majesty could ennoble whomever he wished when the mood struck him. The biggest issue, however, was that King Jing Tian never allowed any woman he had been with to bear his child. Though surrounded by beauty, not a drop of favor lingered. Now twenty-five years old, the only time a woman had carried his child was when the late Queen Nan Gong was pregnant, but due to an accident, the child was stillborn. Since then, no woman had carried Qingyun's child.

Yunpei's King Zhan, at thirty-three, already had sixteen princes and three princesses. Even the deposed King Gu Cha of Heghe had thirteen children, and the ruler of the theocratic nation Mizang, King Youguang, had already established a crown prince. Yet in Tian Du, King Jing Tian—a leader of unparalleled talent—had no children, no queen. If it were peacetime, there would be room for gradual persuasion, but with war looming, who knew what the future held? For a king, leaving an heir was of the utmost importance.

"Your Majesty..." When they received no response, the ministers began again, only to be interrupted by Miao Jing, the second-in-command of the Mangliu Army, who burst into the training grounds, his shout of "Your Majesty!" drowning out the elderly ministers.

Qingyun looked down at Miao Jing for a long moment before asking coldly, "Have you caught him?"

Miao Jing grinned. "Your Majesty entrusted me with this task—how could I fail? I have already confirmed with Ronghuo."

Qingyun smiled. "Where is he?"

"In the dungeon! This fellow is truly a character—it took the entire Mangliu Army three months to finally catch hold of his tail," Miao Jing replied.

Qingyun stood, a smile playing on his lips. "Lock him up securely. This is the trump card that will send Zhan to the depths of hell!" He then turned his gaze toward the row of elderly ministers. "When you're old, it's time to retire!"

The ministers prostrated themselves on the ground. "Your Majesty!"

Qingyun frowned, then suddenly smirked. "How many women have you found?"

Hearing this, the ministers were overjoyed, quickly replying, "Twenty! All of them are beautiful and come from prominent families."

"Haha!" Unexpectedly, Qingyun burst into laughter. "Twenty! Are you trying to kill me in bed?"

At this, the ministers' faces turned pale, and Miao Jing beside them laughed so hard he nearly fell to the ground.

Qingyun looked at the ministers, pausing before speaking, "A bunch of useless fools, neglecting important matters to focus on this nonsense. How much money did you take from these women's families? Are you not eating enough? From now on, anyone who dares interfere with my private affairs can pack up and leave. Don't speak of loyalty and filial piety while harboring such filthy thoughts! Get out!" As soon as he finished speaking, the ministers hastily scattered like smoke.

"Hahaha!" By now, Miao Jing was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his face.

Qingyun paid him no mind, sitting down again and watching the falling leaves drift from the sky.

After finally containing his laughter, Miao Jing stood beside Qingyun and spoke earnestly, "Your Majesty, they are not entirely wrong. A king without an heir—it just doesn't make sense!"

Qingyun closed his eyes. "You don't understand. In that cold Frost Palace, among royal brothers, there is only intrigue, no affection."

Miao Jing fell silent. "Your Majesty!"

Qingyun smiled then, his eyes distant. "Only a woman I love is worthy of bearing my child."

Miao Jing raised a brow, puzzled. "Your Majesty, can you truly love someone?"

"That question..." Qingyun pondered for a moment before replying softly, "Who knows?"