The rain that had stopped in the afternoon began again at night, drumming wildly against the eaves of Tao Temple. Inside, the lamplight flickered. Suddenly, the tightly shut door burst open, and a girl’s figure rushed out into the downpour—“Second Miss!”
Another maid cried out from within, chasing after her. The open doorway spilled light across the curtain of rain, revealing the girl ahead as though caught in a vast net of silver threads.
The rain was heavy. She wore only a plain green short jacket, no undershirt, no outer robe. In moments, it clung to her body, outlining her slender form.
The maid hurried forward with a cloak, wrapping it around her and holding her tight, shouting in alarm: “Second Miss, what are you doing? Your illness isn’t healed yet!”
Chen Danzhu turned her head, bright eyes scattered like stars, her face streaming with rain. She looked at the girl clutching her: “Jingxin.”
The maid grew more frantic. “Miss, I’m Ah Tian! Who is Jingxin?”
Had her mistress fallen into a nightmare? To wake suddenly, half-dressed, running outside, calling her by some strange name?
Chen Danzhu shook her head violently, her long black hair spraying mist in the rain. She cried out: “What year is it now? What year is it?”
Terrified, Ah Tian clung to her and answered: “It’s the third year of Jiancheng, the third year of Jiancheng.”
The third year of Jiancheng. Yes. Chen Danzhu drew a deep breath, forcing herself to be calm, and embraced Ah Tian in return. “Don’t be afraid. I’m fine. It’s just that… now, I must go home.”
Ah Tian pleaded: “Miss, it’s pouring rain, and the night is dark. Let’s wait until tomorrow to return, all right?”
No. If she waited until tomorrow, her elder sister would already be gone. Chen Danzhu’s brows rose sharply. “Do you not understand me? I said I must go home now. Prepare the horses!”
Though only fifteen, Chen Danzhu rode daily, drawing bow and loosing arrows. She was strong. With a twist of her shoulder, Ah Tian stumbled back, unable to resist.
Second Miss Chen was notoriously stubborn—Ah Ttian knew this better than anyone. She dared not block her again. “Please wait, Miss. Put on your rain-gear. I’ll wake the others and ready the horses.”
Tao Temple stood on the mountain, where horses could not be kept. The Chen family’s grooms, guards, and carriages were all stationed below.
Chen Danzhu did not dash out half-dressed again. She gestured for Ah Tian to hurry, then returned inside, stripping off her soaked clothes and wiping herself roughly with a dry cloth. When Ah Tian came back, she found her mistress half-naked, rummaging frantically through chests- she could no longer remember where her clothes from ten years ago had been stored.
Ah Tian, half-panicked and half-amused, wrapped her in a quilt. “If you keep this up, you’ll truly fall ill.”
Chen Danzhu recalled why she had come to Tao Temple this time. It was not, as people said, to recover her health, but because she had quarreled with her father, Chen Liehu, demanding to join the army like her brothers and brothers-in-law. He had scolded her harshly, and in anger, she fled here.
Tao Mountain was the Chen family’s land, and Tao Temple was their ancestral temple. The mountain lay on the road into the capital, with streams and travelers passing through. She loved the bustle and often came to play.
But this time—when she returned, she would find only corpses.
Chen Danzhu inhaled deeply. Ah Tian dressed her properly. Outside, footsteps gathered—maids and servants, lanterns in hand, rain-cloaks and straw hats ready, faces still heavy with sleep.
Why did Second Miss insist on returning home in the middle of the night, in such rain? Perhaps she was simply homesick? Second Miss was spoiled, after all. At home, her word was law. Her mother had died giving birth to her. Her father, Grand Tutor Chen, grieving, never remarried. The old matriarch was frail and long withdrawn from household affairs. His two brothers could not interfere in the main branch. And Grand Tutor Chen doted on this youngest daughter. Though the eldest daughter cared for her, Second Miss was raised willful and unchecked.
They dressed her in rain-gear and wooden clogs, and together braved the storm down the mountain.
Servants had already gone ahead to alert the household. By the time Chen Danzhu’s party reached the foot, torches flared, horses and guards stood ready.
“Second Miss, the rain is too heavy,” a guard called. “Please take the carriage.”
But Chen Danzhu had already seized a horse. “The carriage is too slow. I’ll ride. The rest of you stay here.”
Ah Tian quickly mounted another horse. As her mistress’s maid, riding was essential—she could follow.
The guards said no more, surrounding Chen Danzhu as they galloped toward the city, leaving Tao Temple behind.
The rain was relentless. Chen Danzhu felt it seep through her cloak, sting her face. Every drop reminded her—this was no dream.
She no longer cared whether it was a dream or reality. Even if it were, she would fight to change it.
Ahead, through the storm, the vast city loomed, glowing like a lantern of glass in the rain.
Wu was a city that never slept. For decades, though the realm had been torn by wars—first the five kingdoms clashing, then the Three Kings “cleansing the court,” and now the imperial court charging them with rebellion—life in Wu remained untouched.
Those battles had little to do with them. Wu had the natural barrier of the Yangtze River. Guard the river mouth, and not even wings could carry an enemy across. The few who tried were quickly driven back. True, the Grand Tutor’s son had died in battle—but soldiers die in war; it was simply misfortune.
Only days ago, with imperial forces pressing closer, Prince Wu reluctantly imposed a curfew at his father’s urging. Complaints followed swiftly. Commoners grumbled at the inconvenience; officials warned that it would cause panic. Hearing their protests, Prince Wu regretted the order and considered reopening the night markets, restoring life to its usual rhythm.
What was there to fear from the emperor’s troops? The emperor held barely a dozen commanderies, his armies fewer than those of a single vassal state. Besides, Zhou and Qi were also resisting the court.
No one believed the imperial army could truly break through. No one imagined disaster would strike within mere days: a sudden flood swept across Wu, chaos erupted, hundreds of thousands of soldiers crumbled before the waters, and the capital fell. Prince Wu was slain.
Chen Danzhu drew a deep breath, coughing as the wind drove rain into her lungs.
“Miss!” Ah Tian shouted. “We’re almost there!”
Chen Danzhu looked ahead. The city of glass and light loomed before her. Whether the gates were shut or curfew enforced mattered little to the Chen family’s guards.
They called at the gate. Hearing it was the Grand Tutor’s household, the sentries asked no questions and let them pass.
Anger flared in Chen Danzhu—was this how they guarded the city? Yet sorrow followed. What use was her scolding? Wu, blessed by geography, rich and well-defended, had grown complacent.
She tightened her grip on the reins, spurring her horse through wind and rain toward home—her home near the palace walls. Yes, the very mansion that in another life had become General Li Liang’s residence.
The Chen family had been slaughtered, their estate burned. After the emperor moved the capital, the ruins were rebuilt and gifted to Li Liang.
Now, as Chen Danzhu’s party approached, guards from the estate came out to check. Seeing Second Miss return, they were startled.
“Missing home in the middle of the night?”
“She’s only been gone three days—never seen her so homesick before.”
Their whispers followed her as she dismounted, soaked through.
Chen Danzhu gazed at the familiar courtyard. She had not been gone three days—she had been gone ten years.
“The master just retired to bed,” the steward said, hurrying forward. “Shall I wake him?”
It might trouble his health, but surely he would rejoice to see his daughter return in the night.
But seeing her father was not what mattered most. Chen Danzhu strode inside, asking: “Where is my sister?”
The Grand Tutor had two daughters and a son. The elder, Chen Danyan, was married and lived happily with Li Liang in their own mansion within the capital. She often visited her natal home, but rarely stayed.
That Second Miss knew her elder sister had returned was surprising—the steward explained: “Word was you went to Tao Temple. The eldest miss worried, so she came back this afternoon.”
Chen Danzhu sighed inwardly. Her sister had not returned out of concern for their father, but to steal his seal.
“I must see her.” She rushed forward.
Through the storm, lanterns flickered. A group of figures emerged.
“Ah Zhu!” A woman’s voice pierced the wind and rain. “Why have you come back?”
Chen Danzhu looked ahead. Amid shadows of trees and swaying lamps, a tall woman in white approached. She froze for a heartbeat, then ran forward. “Elder Sister!” She threw herself into her sister’s arms, rain and tears soaking the white robe, clinging to the warmth of that embrace. She had thought her wish fulfilled only in death, reunited with her family in the underworld. Never had she dreamed she could return to the living, to her sister’s embrace once more.