Beneath the Plum Blossom
Early spring in the capital city of the Eastern Wei Dynasty was quiet and cold. The imperial gardens had not yet thawed from winter’s breath, and the plum blossoms—resilient and pale—bloomed defiantly against the grey sky.
Lady Xu Qingyan, daughter of Minister Xu, stepped out from the path of her attendants and into the winding plum grove. She wasn’t supposed to be here. After offering her seasonal respects to the Empress Dowager, she should have returned to her carriage, like any obedient daughter of the court. But the suffocating scent of incense and flattery had driven her elsewhere.
She wandered deeper, her silk cloak trailing lightly across the stone path. The grove was nearly silent, save for the wind threading through the branches—and the distant sound of a blade slicing air.
She paused. There, beneath an ancient plum tree, stood a young man in dark robes, a sword in his hand. He moved with elegant precision—each motion sharp, measured, as if every strike had a purpose. No wasted flourish. No vanity.
He didn’t notice her at first. Or perhaps he did, but simply didn’t care.
Only when he finished his final stroke and resheathed the blade did he turn his head, the silver edge of his gaze brushing her like cold steel.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
His voice was low, quiet. Not threatening, but not inviting either.
“I could say the same of you,” Qingyan replied calmly, lifting her chin. “This grove is closed to the guards.”
“I’m not a guard,” he said.
He stepped fully into view then. His face was pale, angular—beautiful, but distant. A scar, faint and clean, crossed the left side of his jaw, and his eyes were like still water under ice: reflective, unreadable.
Qingyan frowned slightly. She’d seen many sons of noble families, but none who dressed like this—plain robes, travel-worn boots, and no crest upon his chest. And yet… something about him felt powerful. Dangerous, even.
“Then who are you?”
He didn’t answer immediately. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t. But then he said, without expression, “Jin Zhenyu.”
The name struck a chord. Jin—like Prime Minister Jin, the Iron Serpent of the court. But that man had only one son: the brilliant, cruel young master Jin Yuanzhao.
She studied him. “You’re his son?”
A pause. “Not the one people speak of.”
Ah. An illegitimate son.
It explained the absence of a crest. The lack of ceremony. The scar. Yet even without the protection of a name, he carried himself like someone no one dared touch.
“You fight well,” she said.
He turned his back to her. “I fight because I have to.”
That made her smile—small, intrigued. “A lonely answer.”
“I don’t need company,” he said without turning.
“And yet, fate brings us both here,” Qingyan mused. “Beneath the plum trees, no less. Perhaps the blossoms have a different plan.”
He looked over his shoulder at her. This time, something flickered in his gaze—just for a second. Recognition, perhaps. Or interest.
“Then the blossoms are mistaken,” he said.
A faint call echoed through the trees—her maidservant, calling anxiously.
Qingyan gave him one last look, then turned away. “We’ll see.”
As she disappeared down the path, Jin Zhenyu stood beneath the tree, the scent of plum blossoms lingering on the cold air.
He did not believe in fate.
But something about the girl in white silk unsettled him—like a thread had just been pulled in a tapestry he thought was finished.
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End of Chapter One
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