Chapter 1 — Frostroot Heir

In the bone-deep chill of early spring, the capital of the People’s Republic of Zhao stirred awake under a sky the color of old iron. Frost still clung to the palace roofs like the ghosts of yesterday’s snow.

Inside a heavy silk carriage rumbling down the stone road toward the Yun clan’s ancestral estate, Yun Xueyan sat alone, eyes open, unblinking. Her fingertips drummed once on the lacquered armrest, then fell still.

Outside, crowds pressed tight against the procession, craning their necks for a glimpse of the Frostroot Heir — the only daughter of Great General Yun Qingzhao, the Empress’s sworn sister and the pillar that propped the northern borders.

If they expected the girl inside to peek through the curtains, to wave or smile, they’d be disappointed. Yun Xueyan never bothered with pointless gestures.

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Twelve years.

That was how long she had lived at the Xuantian Immortal Sect, since her mother sent her away at age six — to be honed into a blade no enemy could dull.

A blade, not a flower. Never a flower.

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Her father’s letters had come faithfully — lines of gentle ink about home, about her baby brother Yun Zhen she’d never met. Her mother’s letters were rarer, shorter — single lines carved in neat brushstrokes: Cultivate well. Do not embarrass the Frostroot.

Xueyan never found this cold. She found it… efficient.

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She shifted her gaze to the silk-covered box on the cushion beside her. Inside lay her formal robes for tonight — deep frost blue, silver vines embroidered at the collar, the mark of the Yun Matriarchal Line. Tonight, all Zhao would gather to witness her Coming of Age Ceremony — the ritual that crowned her the official heir.

Coming of age.

In truth, she had been old since birth.

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Outside, the wheels jolted. Han Ye’s voice cut through the thin clamor — steady, calm:

> “Mistress, trouble ahead.”

She didn’t move. “How long?”

“Moments.”

He was her shadow, her blade in the dark — a loyal dog who barked only when it mattered.

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Through the small carved window, she glimpsed the source: a slave market, pressed against the street like rot on a flawless jade tile. It stank of cheap incense and bruised flesh. Ropes coiled around wrists and necks — mostly men, some barely old enough to stand.

In the center, a vassal princess in red brocade held a whip high above her head, shrieking at an older merchant woman. Between them, on his knees, was a young man. Shackled, barefoot, hair falling in his eyes. Calm — too calm for his filthy state.

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The whip cracked once — not at him, but at her carriage window. The lacquered wood shuddered. Xueyan’s eyes narrowed by a fraction.

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Han Ye was already half out of the saddle.

“Want him dead, Mistress?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she studied the boy’s hands. In his palm gleamed a jade token — faint, but unmistakable: the mark of the Yue Lin Pawn, a name she’d glimpsed in the original manuscript. This broken, discarded pawn would one day be bait — the Female Lead’s bait — used to twist the Male Lead’s loyalty, to bloody the Frostroot name.

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In the original plot, this boy’s end was pitiful. Humiliated, tortured, cast aside like garbage. Worse, he’d be turned on her, used in petty assassinations that only made the original Yun Xueyan look more monstrous — and more alone.

Illogical. Wasteful.

If she must carry this story on her back, she would prune the rotting branches. Even if it was tedious.

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“Buy him,” she said flatly.

Han Ye didn’t blink. “Yes, Mistress.”

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The vassal princess shrieked as Han Ye strode through the mud, cutting through the noise like a drawn blade. Her whip struck him — a mistake she regretted instantly as Han Ye’s hand closed on the leather strip and yanked her off balance. The chained boy didn’t flinch — his eyes stayed on Xueyan’s carriage.

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Money changed hands. The merchant bowed so low her forehead touched her own knees. The princess spat curses in a foreign tongue until Han Ye flicked a silver coin at her face.

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Inside the carriage, Xueyan watched it all with a mild detachment. Through the narrow window she met the boy’s eyes — dark, resigned, yet somewhere inside them… a glint. Not hope. Something sharper, older. Like he already knew he was a pawn waiting to be placed on a board.

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The boy was dragged forward. The princess wailed her insult, but no one dared block the Frostroot carriage. Power was simple here: the bigger the crest on your robe, the deeper the bow.

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Han Ye opened the door.

“He’s yours now.”

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Yun Xueyan leaned forward slightly, taking the boy’s chin between two fingers — studying him as if he were an alchemy ingredient, a beast worth appraising. He didn’t resist. His skin was cold under her touch.

“Name.”

His lips moved — cracked but clear:

> “Zhao Fei.”

She noted it silently. No Yun, no blood worth claiming. But a use? Maybe.

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“Get in,” she said. “Try to run — I’ll sever your tendons.”

Her tone held no threat. It was just truth. He didn’t protest. As he stepped in, Han Ye shut the door and swung onto his horse again.

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The wheels rolled on, carrying the Frostroot Heir toward her ancestral estate, her birthday banquet, her waiting father and brother, and the web of whispers waiting to tangle her feet.

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Outside, the crowds whispered:

> There goes the Frostroot Daughter — cold as the snow that birthed her.

Inside the carriage, Yun Xueyan’s eyes drifted shut for a moment. In that dark hush behind her lids, she remembered for an instant the tiny dorm back at her real-world university — papers, cold instant noodles, her friend’s hysterical cursing about “Fix my plot!”.

She had agreed, didn’t she?

So she would fix it — piece by piece, pawn by pawn.

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