The last of the wine had grown tepid, its fragrance dulled beneath the smoke of guttering candles. The laughter and clash of words that had filled the banquet hall earlier now softened into murmurs of courtesy. Servants slipped between tables with lacquer trays, lifting away bones stripped bare, pouring one final cup for those who lingered.
General Lu Zhi rose slowly from his seat at the head, his robe of dark silk catching the faint gleam of lamplight. His weathered face carried the same stern authority that had bent soldiers to his will across countless campaigns. Yet when he raised his hand, the hall hushed at once, as if the crack of a whip had fallen.
"Tonight," Lu Zhi began, his voice steady, carrying over the hush, "has been a feast of both wine and words. We have drunk deeply of friendship and sharpened our minds in verse. Let it be remembered that the Han endures only so long as pen and sword serve together. May each man here keep his duty close to heart."
He lifted his cup in a final toast. All rose to mirror him, the rustle of robes like wind across a field. Cups clinked, heads bowed.
The dismissal was understood. One by one, guests began to step back from the low tables, offering bows and ritual words of thanks. Officials of the civil faction clustered near Zhao Cheng, murmuring consolation for his earlier humiliation; captains of the frontier slapped each other on the shoulders, their laughter coarse but satisfied.
Lady Yuan gathered her daughter Lu Lan, preparing to leave. Lu Ming followed at a measured pace, every gesture composed though his pulse still hummed faintly from the night's contest.
At the dais, Lu Heng was already preparing his farewell. He bowed deeply toward his elder cousin. "General, my household thanks you for your hospitality. May the heavens grant you strength in your labors."
Lu Zhi returned the gesture with formal gravity—but then, as their eyes met, something unspoken passed between them. His gaze lingered a heartbeat longer, steady and deliberate. The faintest curve of his mouth softened the iron lines of his face.
"Cousin," Lu Zhi said in a tone pitched just above private, "the night has been long, yet some matters require the quiet after guests depart. If your household does not press you, remain a while. Let the others return first."
The words were mild, almost casual, but Lu Heng knew them for what they were: a summons cloaked in courtesy. His brow furrowed slightly, then smoothed as he inclined his head. "As you command."
Lady Yuan, standing a pace behind, caught the exchange at once. She nodded discreetly, tugging Lu Lan closer. "Come, children," she said with a practiced smile, "let us wait in the courtyard for Father. The night air will wake us after so much wine."
The family obeyed without question. Lu Ming bowed once more toward the dais, then turned to follow his mother and sister. As he stepped from the hall, he felt the weight of eyes at his back—not hostile, not protective, but measuring. Lu Zhi's gaze.
Outside, the courtyard was hushed, lanterns casting golden pools across raked gravel. The winter air bit cooler than the warmth of the feast, carrying away the heavy scent of roasted meats. Carriages stood ready beyond the gates, horses stamping in the shadows. Servants whispered among themselves, waiting for their masters to emerge.
Within the hall, meanwhile, the tide of guests flowed steadily outward. Minister Zhao and his son were among the last to leave, their departure marked by a frost that clung to the silence around them. Zhao Cheng's face was carefully composed, but his hands clenched the folds of his robe too tightly. His father's lips moved in curt reprimand as they stepped past the threshold into the night.
The final bows were exchanged, and the wide doors swung shut with a sonorous thud. Only a handful remained: Lu Zhi, his wife seated quietly at his side, a few trusted attendants, and now Lu Heng waiting patiently for what would come next.
The noise of the banquet dissolved into silence. The hall, once crowded with voices, now seemed vast and hollow, shadows stretching long across its painted beams.
Lu Zhi's hand rose again—not in command this time, but in invitation. "Cousin," he said more softly, "come. The night has not ended yet. Let us speak where the walls are thicker."
With a gesture, he signaled attendants to guide the remaining family members waiting in the courtyard toward the main hall deeper within his estate.
Lady Yuan exchanged a glance with Lu Ming. There was gravity here she could not yet name, but she gathered her children and followed.
As they passed beneath carved gates and through covered walkways, the noise of the city beyond felt impossibly far away. Only the echo of their footsteps accompanied them, mingling with the faint sigh of winter wind through bamboo.
The banquet was over, but the true business of the night was just beginning.
The main hall of Lu Zhi's estate was not built for display, unlike the grand banquet hall. It was quieter, more austere: tall pillars lacquered dark red, the rafters hung with only a few plain lanterns. On the walls were no silken screens, but maps—old campaign charts of the northern frontier, diagrams of troop dispositions inked by Lu Zhi's own hand.
Here there was no pretense.
Lu Zhi entered first, his robe whispering across the polished floor. His wife followed with unhurried dignity, her presence a calm anchor that softened the hall's martial severity. Lu Heng entered next, his face solemn. Behind him trailed Lady Yuan, Lu Xian with his easy grin now muted, Lu Lan blinking curiously at the change in atmosphere—and Lu Ming, who stepped into the chamber as though into the heart of some vast wheel finally turning his way.
Attendants lit fresh candles and withdrew. The heavy doors closed with a resonant thud, leaving only family within.
Lu Zhi gestured to the cushioned seats arranged near the dais. "Sit. There is no need for ceremony here. We are blood, not guests."
They obeyed, though Lu Heng still kept the straight-backed posture of a guest at court. Lu Ming seated himself quietly beside his sister and mother. His eyes roved over the hall: maps, weapons on display, the faint smell of parchment and oil. This was not just a general's home; it was his war-room.
When all had settled, Lu Zhi rested his hands upon his knees, studying each face in turn. At last his gaze fixed on Lu Ming.
"Young one," he said, his voice even, "tonight you stood before a hall divided—soldiers on one side, courtiers on the other. Few men twice your age could have borne such weight. Fewer still could have done so without faltering."
The general's lips curved in something like a smile. "And yet you sat calm as still water. Your verse was firm, your poise firmer. In that hall, you brought not only honor to your father's house, but strength to all who still believe the blade is not lesser than the brush."
Lady Yuan's eyes softened, pride shining faintly. Lu Lan wriggled with suppressed excitement. Lu Heng, however, stiffened. He raised a hand almost defensively.
"Cousin," he said carefully, "my boy did well, yes. But he is still young, untested in the world's storms. To raise him too high, too fast—this will only bring jealousy, and eyes upon him that no youth can bear. I beg you, do not reward him beyond measure. Let him grow slowly, like a sapling sheltered before the gale."
Lu Zhi chuckled low in his chest. "Spoken like a father indeed. But tell me—do you think the gale will wait for the sapling? When the storm breaks, it will not ask if your son is ready."
His words hung heavy, the unspoken truth beneath them clear: the Han was already shuddering, cracks spreading through its foundations.
For a moment, silence reigned. Then Lu Ming set his cup down, his voice calm but steady.
"If I may speak, Uncle."
All turned to him. Even Lu Heng's eyes widened—his son, daring to interject at such a table?
Lu Ming bowed slightly. "You ask whether the storm will wait, Uncle. I believe it will not. That is why I wish no gold nor rank as reward tonight. Instead, I ask something else: your aid in uncovering truth."
Lu Zhi's brows rose a fraction. "Truth?"
Lu Ming nodded. "In the markets, in the countryside—there are whispers. The Yellow Turban rabble grows not only in numbers but in discipline. They move as if guided, not scattered. Their reach spreads faster than rumor should allow. Yet when petitions reach Luoyang, the court delays, dismisses, or claims no danger exists."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "And worse, among the garrisons, soldiers mutter of missing rations, of supplies diverted. Men starve while ministers grow fat. If such rot is left unchecked, when the storm comes, it will not be from beyond our walls—but within them."
The hall fell still. Lady Yuan's hand tightened in her lap. Lu Lan blinked, not quite comprehending the gravity. Lu Xian looked between father and brother, lips pressed tight.
Lu Heng's face darkened. "Ming!" he snapped, his voice sharp. "Such talk in front of the general—have you no sense? These are matters beyond you. You risk your tongue, and worse, our household, by speaking thus!"
He half-rose, as though to seize his son's sleeve.
But Lu Zhi lifted one weathered hand, halting him with the ease of a commander stilling his troops. "Let the boy speak, Heng. He is young, yes—but his eyes see clearly."
Lu Heng froze, torn between outrage and obedience, then sank slowly back into his seat.
Lu Zhi leaned forward slightly, his gaze boring into Lu Ming. "So you have heard the same rumors." His voice lowered, heavy with unspoken weight. "You are not wrong. The Yellow Turbans are no longer a rabble, but a fire spreading beneath dry grass. And the eunuchs—" His mouth tightened into a hard line. "—they fatten themselves while bleeding the sinew from our armies. Rations rot in warehouses, arms diverted, supplies sold to merchants. I have pressed the court, again and again, and met only walls. Walls manned by men who profit from those same eunuchs."
His wife placed a steadying hand on his arm. Lu Zhi exhaled slowly, mastering himself, then looked back to the gathered family.
"You must all understand," he said gravely, "these matters are knives unsheathed. Even to speak of them openly is to draw eyes we cannot shake. I work where I can, quietly, but I cannot promise victory. The tide in the capital runs foul, and one man cannot hold it back forever."
He let his gaze pass over each of them, lingering longest on Lu Ming. "So I tell you now: be cautious. Guard your tongues. Trust little beyond these walls. And above all, do not let pride draw you into folly. The storm is already upon us. One careless word could drag your whole house beneath the flood."
The hall was silent but for the hiss of candle flames.
Lady Yuan inclined her head, voice calm though her knuckles were pale against her robes. "We hear and obey, General. Your warning will be heeded."
Lu Heng bowed stiffly, though unease still clouded his eyes.
As for Lu Ming—he bent forward in a respectful bow, but his heart beat with something fierce and steady. In his past life, he had ignored such signs until too late. Not this time. Now, at least, his uncle's eyes were open to the rot. That was a beginning.
The main hall doors creaked open. Candles guttered as the night air slipped in, cool and fragrant with plum blossoms. Servants hurried forward with lanterns to guide the Lu family back to the outer courtyard.
Lu Heng walked ahead with Lu Zhi, still murmuring low words about troop matters. Behind them, Lady Yuan gathered Lu Lan close and motioned for the carriage. The lacquered vehicle rolled into view, drawn by two sturdy bay horses.
"Lan'er, up you go," Lady Yuan said firmly, ushering her daughter to the step. The girl obeyed with only a small pout. Then Lady Yuan looked back at her second son. "Ming, ride with me."
Lu Ming inclined his head. "Yes, Mother."
Lu Xian was already swinging into his saddle alongside Lu Heng. The men would ride home on horseback, as custom dictated. That left the carriage for the women—and for Lu Ming. The coachman cracked the reins, and the vehicle began to roll out through Lu Zhi's courtyard gates, wheels crunching over gravel before settling into the steady rhythm of the road.
Inside, the lantern-glow was soft. Lady Yuan sat with poise, hands folded in her lap, but her eyes lingered on Lu Ming with a quiet intensity. Lu Lan fidgeted beside her, glancing curiously between mother and brother.
At last, Lady Yuan spoke. Her voice was calm, but not without warmth. "Ming'er, tonight you showed a side I had not seen in you before. Before, you would have flared at Zhao Cheng's jibes, eager to strike back. Yet tonight you endured his barbs like still water, and when you finally spoke, your words cut him deeper than any blade."
She studied him, as though weighing her own son anew. "Tell me… what has changed within you?"
Lu Ming met her gaze. In his first life, he had never been asked that question—never been given the chance to answer. He could not reveal the truth of rebirth, not even to her. Instead, he bowed his head slightly, letting a faint smile touch his lips.
"Mother, I was foolish before. Perhaps I have grown, at last. To fight every insult with fire is to burn myself before I ever touch the enemy. I have learned that water wears down stone more surely than flame."
Lady Yuan's lips curved, though her eyes lingered, sharp with intuition. "Mm. A neat answer. Perhaps true."
"Of course it's true!" Lu Lan suddenly piped up, clapping her hands together. "Brother has changed because of Sister Lingqi!"
Both Lady Yuan and Lu Ming turned their heads toward her. The girl grinned impishly, unbothered by the scrutiny. "Everyone knows! Brother spends all his spare silver at Lingqi's pavilion. Even Zhao Cheng fumes because she picked Brother instead of him. Isn't it obvious?"
Lady Yuan exhaled slowly through her nose, a sound equal parts amusement and exasperation. "Lan'er…"
"What? It must be because of her!" Lu Lan pressed on eagerly, then clasped her hands beneath her chin. "She is the most beautiful woman in Luoyang, they say. Brother must be in love. Mother, isn't it romantic?"
Lady Yuan gave a soft laugh, the kind that made Lu Ming suddenly remember how young his sister truly was. Then she turned back to her son. "So. Is there truth in this, Ming'er? Has this courtesan moved your heart?"
Lu Ming hesitated only briefly. In his first life, Zhao Lingqi had indeed become entangled in his fate, though not as wife or concubine. But now… now he wished to shield her from the ruin that once awaited.
His voice was quiet, measured. "Yes, Mother. I would not deny it."
Lady Yuan's expression softened, though she remained composed. "I see. Then tell me, do you mean to bring her out from the brothel?"
Lu Ming bowed his head, a flicker of tension coiling in his chest. "If you would allow it."
Lady Yuan studied him for a long moment, her eyes unreadable. Then she inclined her head slightly. "Very well. I will see the girl myself. If she proves worthy, I shall bring her into our household. But understand this, Ming'er—her status could only ever be that of concubine. Never more."
Lu Ming raised his eyes, steady and resolute. "I understand."
Lu Lan beamed, bouncing slightly where she sat. "Then I want to see her too! If she is truly as beautiful as they say, I must—"
Lady Yuan reached out and pinched her daughter's ear with surprising swiftness.
"Ow—owowow! Mother, let go!" Lu Lan squeaked, squirming in her seat.
Lady Yuan's voice was stern, though her eyes glinted with humor. "Enough nonsense. If you gossip like the street vendors again, I will have you confined to your chambers for a fortnight."
"I won't! I won't do it again!" Lu Lan yelped, clutching at her ear once released. She sulked, cheeks puffed, but her gaze flicked back to her brother with a conspiratorial grin.
Lu Ming watched the exchange in silence. His chest tightened with a warmth he had not felt in two lifetimes. In his first life, such moments had slipped past him, drowned in reckless pursuits, squandered in folly. Tonight, he drank it in: his mother's stern grace, his sister's childish stubbornness, the simple rhythm of a family carriage under the moonlight.
The horses' hooves struck steady against the paving stones. Outside, the lanterns of Luoyang gleamed like fallen stars scattered across the dark. Within the carriage, the laughter faded into comfortable quiet.
Lady Yuan finally leaned back, eyes half-lidded with thought. "Ming'er… I do not know what flame has tempered you into this steel, but I see it. Remember this: a man who can master himself will one day master the world. Do not falter, my son."
Lu Ming bowed his head deeply. "Yes, Mother."
And for the first time in many years, he meant it with all his heart.