It was the day of the Zhengqing Dazheng.
From the earliest glimmer of dawn, the palace stirred like a living, breathing creature. Servants scurried across polished stone corridors, maids balanced trays of silken robes and steaming tea, and workers swept and adorned the grand courtyard outside the main palace with careful urgency. The air shimmered with anticipation.
In the center of the palace grounds—a vast open space usually reserved for royal celebrations—banners fluttered in the wind, and lanterns swayed like slow, golden blossoms against the sky. Today, however, was no ordinary celebration. This was no marriage banquet or coronation.
Today was a contest of hearts and pride. Today was the Zhengqing Dazheng.
Though the event had been declared within the sacred walls of the palace, whispers had long since seeped into the streets of the capital. Townsfolk buzzed with speculation, hungry for glimpses of courtly drama. Some said the cold, untouchable Prince could not choose between a "commoner girl" and the noble Princess to whom he was already bound. Others claimed the contest was nothing but a formality—a stage to humiliate one and elevate the other.
Of course, rumors were just that—smoke and echo. Still, curiosity clung to every breath of wind that passed through the capital on this fateful day.
Inside the quiet of her chamber, Suyin sat still as Areum and Wu Fei worked around her. She had been prepared, dressed, and made ready.
Her robes were of a delicate light purple, soft as twilight, flowing like water as she moved. A single lily hairpin sat nestled in her neatly coiled hair, and silver earrings gleamed faintly with the morning light. Everything about her appearance was simple—too simple, some might say, for someone who would soon stand before the entire court.
Suyin, however, hadn't wished to stand in the center of anything. If she could have helped it, she would've watched the event from the shadows of the colonnade. But fate—and the court—had long since decided otherwise.
Areum's hands moved quickly, yet her brow was furrowed with discontent.
"My lady, you need to stand out and show that Zheng An that you're better than her," she insisted, her voice edged with protective fire.
The rumors outside had soured her mood, and she hated how people dared to look down on Han Suyin—as if they did not see the steel beneath her calm.
"I agree. I think that you should choose a better outfit—" Wu Fei muttered, half-buried in a chest of ornaments, trying to find a jewel that might bring brilliance to Suyin's subdued look.
But the simplicity of her gown left her frustrated—how was she supposed to make her shine?
"Where is the Prince when you need him here?" Areum huffed, casting a glance toward the doors as if Qin Fuhua might sweep in at any moment.
And it was true—he had not been seen.
Suyin had looked for him once, slipping past the soldiers' quarters in search of his familiar silhouette, but he was nowhere to be found.
He had always respected her space, always careful not to disturb her when she needed to focus. But today… today she wished he might break that rule.
She gave a slight shrug, her shoulders rising and falling with quiet resignation. A sigh escaped her lips as she leaned forward, her eyes meeting their reflection in the golden mirror. For a moment, she simply stared. Into her own gaze. Into her doubt. Into her silent, waiting courage.
Then, with measured grace, she rose to her feet.
"It doesn't matter how I look, as long as I got this," Suyin murmured, her voice quiet but firm—an oath spoken not to the room, but to herself. Her fingers pressed lightly to her chest, where her heartbeat drummed like a war drum dressed in silk.
She didn't know what Zheng An had prepared. She didn't know what trial lay ahead. But she knew this much—she would win. Not for vanity. Not for power.
She would win because she had to.
Because somewhere behind this contest, behind the layers of ceremony and tradition, waited the truth of Zheng An's past—one tied to the shadows of the Teng Zhi Clan.
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The sun had climbed just past the tops of the gilded rooftops, casting a golden sheen over the palace courtyard. Drums sounded in the distance—low, slow beats that echoed like the footsteps of destiny itself. Each reverberation seemed to tremble in the bones, announcing not celebration, but judgment.
Silk banners, embroidered with the crests of the Qin rippled in the wind as though whispering ancient secrets to one another. Rows of officials, scholars, noblewomen, and high-ranking military officers stood assembled in perfect formation, their expressions unreadable behind painted fans and heavy sleeves.
On raised pavilions to the side, the royal family watched in silence, veiled in ornate robes, their faces shaded by ceremonial parasols.
The center of the courtyard had been cleared and polished until the stones gleamed like still water. At the heart of it stood a solitary platform—neither too tall nor too wide—yet it held the weight of everything today would decide.
With a rustle of movement, a court official stepped forward, scroll in hand. His voice rang clear and steady over the murmuring crowd, slicing through the air like a blade:
"By decree of His Majesty the Emperor and with the consent of His Highness the Prince of Qin, the Zhengqing Dazheng shall now commence."
A hush fell over the assembly. Even the breeze seemed to pause.
"This ceremony, as tradition holds, shall determine the rightful woman to hold the honored place beside the Prince. Her worth shall be judged not only by lineage and bearing, but by grace, wisdom, and the purity of her intentions."
Suyin stood at the edge of the courtyard, her light-purple robes fluttering gently with the wind. Though her attire was simpler than the jewels and silks that adorned the women of nobility, her presence was no less radiant. She took a quiet breath, steadying the beat of her heart.
From the opposite side, Zheng An emerged like a painting brought to life. Draped in flowing scarlet robes embroidered with gold, her poise was effortless, her beauty sharp. She smiled, serene and calculating, like someone who had already won and was only here for ceremony's sake.
Their eyes met across the stone expanse—two women standing beneath the sky, flanked by centuries of tradition, and the quiet attention of a nation.
A fanfare of flutes and zithers bloomed in the air, soft yet formal. The official raised his hand once more.
"The first challenge will be a demonstration of intellect and creativity. Each lady shall present a written verse, composed on the theme: 'A heart divided by duty and longing.'"
Suyin's fingers curled at her side. The theme struck like a whisper from fate itself—so cruelly fitting it could only have come from Zheng An's hand. But Suyin did not flinch. Her eyes remained steady. Her heart had already lived that verse a hundred times.
As servants stepped forward to hand them brushes, inkstones, and silk parchment, the entire palace seemed to hold its breath.
The Zhengqing Dazheng had begun.
The crowd had quieted once more, the rustling silks and whispering fans all stilled like the hush before a storm. Two tables had been brought forth, each draped in crimson and ivory, laden with paper as pale as moonlight, and brushes trimmed with wolf's hair. The scent of fresh ink curled through the air like memory.
Zheng An moved first.
Graceful, deliberate, she dipped her brush into the ink, the black bleeding onto silk in elegant, practiced strokes. Her posture was perfect—an image of cultivated nobility. And yet, when she wrote, her eyes softened, as though lost in another world entirely.
When she rose, she handed her verse to the court official with a serene smile, her gaze drifting toward Qin Fuhua as she stepped back, composed and glowing.
The official unrolled her poem with care, his voice strong and clear as he read aloud:
Zheng An's Poem
When first I glimpsed him through the crimson veil,
A figure carved from winter's breath and stone,
My heart, once quiet, like a drum did pale,
And named his shadow as my soul's own throne.
He walked through halls where jade and silence clung,
And yet, my name—unspoken—longed to stay.
Love's ember sparked before a word was sung,
A vow I kept from that first autumn day.
Gasps and murmurs followed—the court moved, impressed by the romantic elegance, the sincerity veiled in grace. Even the older officials tilted their heads, whispering that the princess had bared her heart without losing her dignity.
Then it was Suyin's turn.
Her fingers, though steady, trembled faintly beneath the weight of the brush. She dipped the tip into the ink and stared at the blank parchment, as if it could look back at her. The words were already there, living in her chest. She only had to let them bleed through.
She wrote not with elegance, but with clarity, each stroke swift and sure. There was no performance in her script, no practiced pause—only honesty.
When she stood, there was no smile, only a quiet resolve.
The official raised her silk parchment next.
Han Suyin's Poem
A heart divided—no sword could cut so deep,
As longing wrapped in robes of duty's thread.
I walked a path not mine, yet could not weep,
For in his eyes, I found the life I fled.
He spoke with silence, held with guarded care,
Yet gave me space to bloom where I should wilt.
If love is weakness, let me meet it there—
Among the ruins of the world we built.
The crowd fell utterly still.
There was no sound, save for the breeze threading through the trees beyond the courtyard, carrying the weight of Suyin's words. Her poem struck not like a polished jewel, but like a blade forged in quiet suffering and choice.
Suyin's eyes, subtle in their movement, scanned the high pavilion where the royal family sat in solemn attention. Draped in silks and veils, they were framed by lacquered columns and lanterns that caught the sunlight like fireflies.
But one seat—his seat—was empty.
Qin Fuhua was not there.
Her heart stilled for a fleeting moment, a soft tremor blooming in her chest. Where was he? Had something happened? A thousand questions rustled like dry leaves in the quiet corners of her mind, but she had no time to pluck them apart. Did something happen to him? The possibility weighed on her, heavy and shapeless.
Still, she reminded herself: Qin Fuhua always had his own agenda he followed. He was never a man easily tied to one place, not even for a ceremony like this.
So she drew in a steady breath, anchored herself to the present, and released him from her thoughts—if only for now.
Below the pavilion, the Emperor and Empress exchanged thoughtful glances. Though their expressions remained composed, the subtle shift of posture, the flicker in their eyes, betrayed something deeper.
They were impressed.
Both verses—Zheng An's artful confession and Suyin's raw, tempered truth—had touched the court in different ways. Whispers stirred the air like petals, carried from official to noble, from servant to attendant. But no winner was named, no judgment declared.
Not yet.
Suyin knew that there was no way she could tell if she had won or not.
This wasn't a simple competition of ink and paper—it was a game of perception, of favor, of hidden intentions. The final verdict would be held back until the very end, cloaked in suspense and ceremony.
And yet, despite the uncertainty, Suyin calmed herself.
Though storms brewed quietly in her heart, her mind was as still as a river winding through broken sticks, fallen leaves, and drifting petals—never ceasing, never panicking, simply flowing.
She had endured battles more violent than this. Faced threats sharper than any poem could conjure. And always, Suyin remained calm and concentrated, her strength hidden in restraint, her grace carved from quiet resilience.
Today would be no different.
"The next test," he declared, "shall be of artistry and harmony—music that moves the soul."
There was a stir among the audience. Music, after all, was the language of the refined. Among nobility, it was a mark of cultivation, gentility, and grace.
Zheng An stepped forward with a tranquil smile, her red sleeves gliding like water across polished stone. At her signal, a servant brought forth a guqin, its lacquered wood shining like obsidian beneath the sun. She bowed once before the instrument and took her seat with poise. The air seemed to still around her.
Then her fingers touched the strings—and music poured like spring rain from her hands.
The sound was serene and commanding, a melody both delicate and strong, as if the guqin itself was telling a story of longing and fate. Each pluck of the string carried elegance, and her control was flawless—measured, yet never cold. Her performance enchanted the crowd, drawing them in with a quiet awe.
Gasps and murmurs of appreciation rippled through the audience. Even the elderly ministers nodded, their eyes gleaming with approval. It was the performance of someone raised with the guqin in her blood, her very bones tuned to the refinement of her lineage.
When the final note faded, it hung in the air like incense smoke—light, lingering, unforgettable.
Then it was Suyin's turn.
She rose slowly, her footsteps hesitant. The servants looked at her in confusion. No instrument had been prepared, no accompaniment stood by her side.
Suyin's heart pounded. She didn't know how to play the guqin, or any instrument. In this arena, she was utterly unarmed.
But then, she closed her eyes.
And remembered.
The "Butterfly Lovers."
The melody that once kept her company through sleepless nights and long hours of study. A piece not from this world, perhaps—but one she carried in her memory like a talisman. Though no one here had ever heard it, Suyin knew its heart. Knew it by breath, by rhythm, by emotion.
She took a breath, deep and steady. And began to sing.
At first, only the melody. Her voice soft, wordless, floating like a silk thread through the air. The court grew quiet—not because they understood the tune, but because they felt it. There was a bittersweet quality in her voice, something ancient and wistful, like love separated by time.
And then, she began to sing the words.
Butterfly Lovers (adapted lyrics)
In hidden spring where rivers part,
A thread of fate bound heart to heart.
Though winds may break and paths divide,
Two souls shall meet where wings collide.
One flies east, one drifts through rain,
Yet love shall bloom beyond the pain.
In fields where time forgets our names,
We rise as one in love's sweet flames.
The court was silent.
No strings. No flutes. No formal instruments.
Only a voice.
A voice that carried memory, yearning, and freedom. A voice that painted a love not constrained by birthright or law—but a love that endured like a butterfly trembling against the wind.
By the time she finished, even the breeze had stilled to listen.
The officials said nothing. The Emperor's gaze lingered, unreadable. The Empress had tilted her head, lips parted in thought. There were no words for what they had just heard. It was not polished. It was not formal. But it was real.
Zheng An, who had returned to her place with calm confidence, now watched Suyin with something unreadable flickering in her gaze—not jealousy, not anger. Something quieter.
Something uncertain.
And far above, hidden behind the carved lattice of a shaded tower, Qin Fuhua stood at last, arms crossed, his eyes never leaving the girl in purple who had sung a world into being with nothing but her heart.
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The courtyard had not yet returned to its former hum.
After the music trial concluded, attendants began resetting the stage. Servants moved silently, straightening silk banners that fluttered with the afternoon wind, as officials whispered behind their scrolls, and the audience murmured with renewed anticipation. But none of it reached Suyin.
She stood off to the side beneath the gentle shade of a willow tree, its delicate branches swaying above her like a mother's hand brushing through hair. A servant had offered her tea, but she held the cup untouched in her hands, the warmth of it barely noticed.
Her thoughts wandered—not to the crowd, not to Zheng An, but to the sound of her own voice still echoing in her mind.
Butterfly Lovers.
The bittersweet melody lingered like smoke in her chest.
For a moment, she let herself close her eyes.
And in that stillness, the world around her fell away.
She imagined the crisp rustle of exam papers. The sterile glow of study lamps. The low hum of music playing softly through her headphones as she buried herself in books, determined to chase a future that always seemed just out of reach. That world—her world—felt impossibly distant now, like a dream she had once lived and forgotten.
But the melody had tethered her. It reminded her of who she was beneath the layers of silk and ceremony, beneath the names whispered about her in the palace halls.
She had not come here to compete.
She had come to survive.
To learn.
To protect the ones she cared about.
And somehow, against her will, she had come to care for this world—and for him.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the teacup.
Where was Qin Fuhua?
The question slipped back into her thoughts like a wind curling beneath a locked door. She hadn't seen him once today. And while she told herself he had his duties—politics, strategy, endless scrolls of responsibility—it still ached. A quiet ache, like longing dressed in silence.
But Suyin straightened her shoulders and opened her eyes. The breeze lifted the edge of her sleeve, and the lily hairpin in her hair caught a shard of sunlight, casting a fleeting glimmer onto the ground.
She looked toward the ceremonial platform. Zheng An stood not far, flanked by her attendants, the picture of ease and grace. But Suyin could sense something beneath that perfect stillness—an anticipation, a calculation.
The final trial was coming.
And though Suyin did not know what form it would take, she would face it.
Not with jewels.
Not with prestige.
But with the same heart that had carried her this far.
She let out a breath, slow and steady.
Whatever was chosen… she would meet it head-on.