Time slipped away like a breath dissolving into the wind—silent, weightless, gone before I could hold it. Sometimes I wonder when the years began to fade, when laughter turned into echoes I now chase through memory. It feels like only yesterday I was running beneath the sun, my heart unburdened, my dreams still young. And now, I find myself in my forties, standing amid the quiet remnants of all that once was.
Time is a fleeting visitor. People cross paths, smile, and part as though it means nothing. Yet not everything disappears. Some moments refuse to fade—they linger softly in the corners of my heart, like the last light before dusk.
As I sat by the window in my study, I watched the courtyard where the parasol tree (梧桐, Wútóng) stood in silence, its golden leaves drifting gently to the earth. Each fallen leaf seemed to whisper of passing time, of a life that slips away without sound. They could not resist their fall, yet there was grace in their descent—as if the tree had willingly surrendered its brilliance to the embrace of autumn, offering itself to the quiet poetry of decay.
Watching them, I could not help but see a reflection of myself. Once, I too had reached toward the sun with unshaken vigor, believing the seasons would never turn. Yet now, like the leaves, I have begun to drift—slowly, quietly—toward the earth of my own memories. Perhaps this, too, is a kind of beauty: to fall, not in despair, but in grace; to return one's warmth to the world that once gave it. The leaves may vanish, yet their golden traces linger, painting the ground like echoes of a life once touched by light.
"Jun…"
The soft voice pulled me from my reverie.
"What are you looking at?"
There he was—smiling at me, that gentle curve of his lips carrying a warmth that could thaw even the coldest silence. He was beauty made flesh, a figure that seemed untouched by time, as though the gods themselves had carved him to defy decay. His onyx eyes shimmered like still water beneath moonlight—sharp yet tender, distant yet achingly familiar.
The firmness of his jaw, the quiet grace of his posture, all spoke of strength refined by years and battles untold. No one who saw him would ever believe this man had walked through blood and smoke. Even I, who had stood beside him through every storm, still found it hard to believe that he had lived longer than the old parasol tree in the courtyard—older, perhaps, than the memories that tree once sheltered.
He was an Adonis, beloved by women, envied by men. Yet he chose to hide that face behind a bronze mask, as if beauty were a sin he must conceal. Only with me did he remove it—only in my presence did he bare the truth of who he was. To see him unmasked was both a privilege and a wound; a gift so fragile I dared not breathe too deeply, lest it vanish like a dream.
"Emm… I'm welcoming the early autumn," I said, my voice a little unsteady. I didn't know why I felt so nervous, or why my heart began to pound so fast and loud each time I spoke to him. It had happened often enough that I once thought my health was failing, that perhaps my heart itself had grown weak. The physician told me it might be due to exhaustion—stress, grief, the lingering weight of too many burdens. And yet, deep inside, I knew it was something else. Something within me had begun to stir—quietly, restlessly—as if a part of my soul had awakened from a long slumber whenever he was near.
He chuckled softly, the sound warm and low, carrying through the still air like ripples across water. I forced a smile, pretending not to notice how the faint curve of his lips made my chest tighten. It was foolish, I told myself. After all we had endured together, after all the blood and silence between us, I should have grown used to his presence by now. Yet somehow, the more I tried to hide it, the stronger that uneasy warmth grew—subtle, persistent, like autumn sunlight slipping through the cracks of a closed window. I turned my gaze back to the courtyard, hoping he wouldn't see the faint tremor in my hand.
He walked closer, then slipped off his outer robe and draped it gently over my shoulders. The lingering warmth of the fabric wrapped around me like an embrace—fleeting, yet unmistakably his. For a moment, I froze. His scent rose faintly, clean and familiar, a quiet comfort that reached deeper than I wished to admit. He noticed, a small grin tugging at his lips.
"Don't catch a cold," he murmured, his breath brushing against my ear. A shiver coursed through me—uninvited, uncontrollable. He smiled again, the corners of his eyes softening. "I'll make some tea for you."
On the table before me lay the tea set he often used, preparing a brew whenever I was reading or lost in thought. He had once been hopeless at it—his early attempts far too bitter or too weak—but over the decades, his hands had learned the patience and balance it required. Now, the tea he brewed was the finest I had ever tasted: calm, fragrant, and steady—much like the man himself.
He stood by the table, his back turned toward me, sleeves flowing like water as he prepared the tea. The faint fragrance of the leaves drifted through the air, carrying warmth and memory. Something stirred in my chest, soft and aching, and before I could stop myself, I recited softly—almost to the moonlight spilling through the window:
"Before my bed, the bright moonlight,
I mistake it for frost upon the ground.
I lift my head and gaze at the brilliant moon,
Then lower it, thinking of my old home.
If this season is over… Will there still be my home?"
At the sound of those words, his hands faltered. He did not turn immediately, but I saw his shoulders tighten, his breath catch ever so slightly. He understood—the hidden sorrow beneath the poem, the longing I dared not name. Yet he said nothing. He only resumed his motion, steady as ever, the tea swirling in quiet grace beneath his hands.
When he finished, he brought the cup to me. I reached for it, but before my fingers could touch the porcelain, his hand caught mine.
"What are you thinking?" he asked softly. "Your home will always be here."
He pressed my hands against his chest. Beneath my palms, his heartbeat thudded steady and strong—an anchor I had clung to for so long. His gaze met mine, dark as onyx, glimmering with something too deep, too consuming—love, perhaps, or something perilously close to possession.
I smiled, though the ache in my heart deepened.
If you knew what I was about to do, would you still say the same?
If you knew the truth, would you still look at me with those eyes, warm as spring after a long winter?
Living with him in this quiet corner of the world had been the gentlest dream I ever dared to hold. How I cherished our days—when I read and he brewed tea; when I wrote and he ground my ink; when I recited poems and he recorded them in his hand; when he painted and I traced his strokes with calligraphy; when I played the guqin, and he sat beside me, listening as though eternity itself could pause for us.
Those were the moments I wished could last forever—a life far removed from the cruel tides of politics and war. A life of peace, of laughter, of tea steam curling between us like morning mist.
But dreams are fragile things. The sins of my ancestors bind me still, weaving blood and duty into the fabric of my fate. My path was carved long before I could choose it, and it leads only into shadow. I could never let him bear that weight.
I do not wish for him to understand my burden—only that he might one day live free of it. If I must vanish into darkness for that freedom, then let it be so.
Even if I am forgotten, even if he never forgives me—
let him live. Let him smile. Let him find peace beneath the same moonlight that once shone upon us both.
When did the story begin to unravel?
Perhaps it began long before my time—at the very birth of the Gifu Dynasty itself.
My name is Yang Jun, of the Yang Clan. The Yang Clan was one of the oldest and most powerful lineages in the land, a family whose name had shaped the empire for centuries. For generations, the clan served as the pillar of Gifu, holding the seat of the Prime Minister and guarding the imperial bloodline with unwavering loyalty.
From the dawn of the dynasty, the head of the Yang Clan was entrusted with the Black Qilin Seal—a relic so rare and sacred that it became both the clan's glory and its doom.
The seal was carved from a single piece of obsidian jade, unearthed from the heart of Mount Qingya, a volcano whose fire had long since gone silent. They said no other jade like it existed under heaven. The surface bore a scene of divine power: a Qilin roaring to the heavens, meeting the Dragon in the clouds above, while a hundred ghouls writhed beneath its hooves. It was not a simple emblem, but a declaration—the Qilin shall guard the Dragon, even through death itself.
The Qilin became the symbol of the Yang Clan. They were the shield behind the throne, the loyal shadow that protected the imperial Fu Clan. And the Black Qilin Seal was the proof of their devotion—an artifact of absolute authority, second only to the Emperor's Dragon Seal. With it, one could overturn decrees, summon armies, or, if one so desired, plunge the world into war.
Once, it was the highest honor—a token of faith, trust, and eternal duty.
But centuries turned faith into fear, and trust into doubt.
For there cannot be two suns shining upon the same sky.
The Dragon and the Qilin—once bound by fate—became rivals in silence. The imperial Fu Clan began to see the Yang Clan not as guardians, but as threats. The other noble families, too, came to believe that whoever held the Black Qilin Seal held the true power of Gifu.
The Emperor might have worn the crown, but the world whispered another truth—
that the real ruler of Gifu was the Yang Clan.
And thus, what was once a divine covenant became a curse that stained their name through the ages.
Even though I bore the name "Yang," I carried none of the clan's roots within me. I was an outcast—an unwanted branch of a great lineage. For I was the illegitimate son of Yang Bao, the clan head at that time.
I never knew my mother. She took her own life on the day I was born. The servants used to whisper that her face resembled mine so closely it was as though I had inherited her sorrow along with her features. Perhaps that was why I could never bear to look at my reflection; the mirror always showed me a ghost I had never met.
My father, Yang Bao, was the middle son of the main branch—a man of influence and pride. My mother, on the other hand, had been an orphan, sold into a brothel in the red-light quarter. She was a rare beauty—her skin pale as polished jade, her lips the color of ripe pomegranates, her eyes wide and bright with a soft brown hue. Every night, young men of the capital gathered just to hear her play the guqin, and the sound of her music was said to linger like wine on the breath. If fortune favored them, one might even earn a night in her company.
My father was one of those men.
At that time, my father had already been promised to the Wu Clan, whose influence stretched across the southern provinces of Gifu. His marriage to Wu Niang, the daughter of that powerful house, was arranged to strengthen the alliance between two great families.
But fate is cruel in how it toys with the heart.
He met my mother by chance, in a place where noble men were never meant to linger. The glow of lantern light, the faint scent of incense, the sound of her guqin—they drew him in like a moth to flame. They said that when he first saw her, she was dressed in white silk, her fingers gliding over the strings as if weaving moonlight into song. Perhaps it was that moment when his heart was taken.
And she, too, was captivated by him—by his gentleness, his noble bearing, his words that promised a world beyond her small, caged existence. Against all reason, they fell in love.
Even after his marriage to Madam Wu Niang, their forbidden affection did not fade. They met in secret, bound by desire and delusion. Until one day, she conceived me.
Fearing the stain of scandal upon the Yang name, my father took her into the household as a concubine. It was meant to silence tongues, to preserve his honor. But in truth, it was the beginning of her misery.
She, who once believed in love, now found herself trapped within gilded walls—enduring scorn, humiliation, and cruelty from those who despised her presence. And yet, she bore it all, still believing in him.
Like a fool blinded by love, she never realized that the man she cherished was also the hand that would destroy her.
From the moment she entered the Yang Residence, her suffering began. She was tormented both in body and spirit. Her once-celebrated beauty was hidden away, locked in the most secluded wing of the estate—never again permitted to step beyond its walls.
Her name was erased from the family records, her existence unspoken. The men who had once adored her music and beauty in the red-lit brothel no longer remembered her face. Even the man she had loved with all her heart—the one for whom she had sacrificed everything—never came to see her again.
Every day, she endured humiliation at the hands of Madam Wu Niang, who took cruel pleasure in her pain. Even the servants mocked and scorned her, for in their eyes she was nothing more than a blemish upon the Yang name.
When the time came for her to give birth, she faced it alone. No warmth, no compassion—only agony and despair. And still, he did not come.
As the night deepened and her screams faded into silence, she chose to end her torment by her own hand.
And thus, when dawn broke, only one life remained—mine.
The world welcomed me not with love, but with the echo of her death.