She is not of this world. In her previous life, she was a modern-day terminally ill patient who fought with all her might to live, undergoing every possible treatment, yet still could not defy fate’s cruel tricks.
In that life, she had only lived to twenty years old. Her memories were dominated by hospitals.
When she crossed over to this world, she opened her eyes to a hellish beginning—the Hu people invading, the Son of Heaven fleeing south.
In the days to come, Luoyang would burn and be devastated, Chang’an would be destroyed and abandoned, the prosperity of eight commanderies surrendered to the Hu invaders, and half the realm’s mountains and rivers would be wailed over by wild ghosts.
She became Zhao Zhen’s daughter. During her time in the hospital, she had loved reading, and he was a historical figure she greatly admired. She knew his future, as well as the future of the original body’s owner.
Zhao Zhen remained in the northern lands. All those who had fled south believed he was dead, for that was a land of death. To prevent the Hu people from pursuing them, the court had destroyed bridges and blocked roads, buying time for the imperial court’s southern migration.
But Zhao Zhen did not die. This war would have no reinforcements and no provisions.
Outside the city were the man-eating Hu people; inside were his people, calling out for their general.
It was a pyrrhic victory.
His eldest son also died in the battles that followed.
Yet he held the isolated city, raised his banner, and the abandoned refugees of the northern lands flocked to him. He recaptured the cities seized by the Hu people, reorganized his troops, and protected the people.
He stood alone.
He unified the north.
In the history books, Zhao Mingzhao was taken to Jiankang by Yu Xuandu. As Zhao Zhen’s only descendant, Yu Xuandu could not protect her. At thirteen, she was married to the crown prince as a concubine.
In the history books, Zhao Mingzhao, like the modern-day Zhao Mingzhao, did not live past twenty.
Zhao Zhen’s achievements were illustrious, yet his later years were lonely. While he lived, the northern lands remained peaceful, but after his death, everything fell into disarray once more.
The northern lands descended into hell again.
She refused Yu Xuandu and chose to head north. This path was one she chose herself.
It was merely the choice of an insignificant being unwilling to sink into oblivion amidst this shattered land.
The road ahead promised known horrors—the iron hooves of the Hu people, severed reinforcements, hunger and cold, mountains of corpses and seas of blood.
Yet it also held unknown variables—
She simply wanted to live, to live past twenty. She wanted to experience what it felt like to grow old slowly.
That suffocating sense of helplessness in the hospital, waiting for death to arrive—she never wanted to experience it a second time.
Rather than slowly withering away in a gilded cage in the south, she would go north.
Even if it meant sinking together with the Divine Land.
Between heaven and earth, only the endless howling of the north wind and the sounds of this procession moving forward remained.
Zhao Mingzhao sat beside her grandmother.
The old lady had eaten some porridge. Exhausted from the journey, she now drifted into a fitful sleep, her withered hand clutching Ming Zhao’s small hand tightly, as if it were the only piece of driftwood she could grasp in the boundless darkness.
Ming Zhao did not pull away, allowing the cold, slightly trembling touch to linger.
She lifted a corner of the felt-covered carriage’s side curtain and looked outside.
The procession was even more scattered than she had roughly estimated earlier. The true Zhao clan members, not counting servants and retainers, numbered only a little over ten, mostly the elderly, weak, women, and children, with very few able-bodied men.
The prosperous and powerful Zhao clan had already begun migrating south in batches when rumors grew tense, taking most of their wealth and robust young men with them.
Those still following the grandmother north were either distant relatives from minor branches with meager family assets, who would have had little to rely on even if they went south,
or those who had received the Zhao family’s kindness, were closely tied to Zhao Zhen’s branch, could not bear to sever ties, and still held loyalty and righteousness in their hearts.
Most of them were crowded onto the large carts at the rear, their faces ashen, eyes evasive. Occasionally, they glanced toward the foremost felt-covered carriage carrying the old madam and her, their gazes mostly filled with bewilderment and a numb resignation to fate.
“Northward—it was the old madam and the young mistress who insisted…”
She overheard the hushed, uneasy voices of clansmen drifting from behind. “Young Master Zhen will surely…”
The words were soon swallowed by the wind, but the unspoken fear and disapproval lingered in the frigid air.
What truly supported this procession were those clustered around the vehicles, marching on foot.
There were about seventy or eighty former retainers and household soldiers of the Zhao residence. Most wore worn leather armor or simple cloth garments, their weapons a motley assortment, yet their steps were steady, their eyes vigilantly scanning the surrounding wilderness.
Leading them was a burly man with a scarred face named Zhao Yong. He had once been a centurion under Zhao Zhen’s command. After retiring due to injury, he had stayed at the residence as the head of the household guards.
Now he walked at the very front, his back ramrod straight, occasionally glancing back at the convoy with a calm, unflustered gaze.
Another thirty or forty were scattered routed soldiers who had joined along the way.
Most had discarded their armor and helmets, their clothes tattered, their faces bearing the lingering terror of defeat and a deep-seated ferocity. Their weapons were the most broken and incomplete.
They walked spontaneously on the outskirts of the procession. Rather than guards, they resembled a pack of desperate lone wolves who had temporarily found direction.
For them, following this daring northbound procession offered a faint glimmer of meaning—or perhaps the tragic resolve to perish together—compared to aimless flight.
In addition, there were several dozen loyal servants, maids, and cart drivers who had vowed to follow the old madam to the death. Altogether, the procession numbered around a hundred and fifty or sixty people, men and women, old and young.
This was all.
There were no legendary tales from the history books—no rallying cries that summoned thousands of heroes in an instant.
Only the tangible reality of a little over a hundred people willing to follow a faint light toward death in desperate straits.
They all had nowhere else to go.
Ming Zhao lowered the carriage curtain and leaned back against the wall.
Among these hundred or so, those who genuinely believed they could find her father or that heading north held any hope of survival were few and far between. Most were driven by a sense of duty toward the Zhao clan’s last vestige of kinship, bound by loyalty and righteousness.
Her grandmother’s prestige, her father’s reputation, and the shocking words of an eight-year-old girl who declared she would rather sink with the Divine Land—these were like fragile ropes, temporarily binding these people together.
But could these ropes withstand the jolts of the road ahead, the impending hunger, cold, fear, and especially the blades of the Hu cavalry?
She did not know.
She simply tightened her grip on her grandmother’s hand.
Outside the carriage, Zhao Yong’s low voice could faintly be heard arranging the night watch and scout cavalry for reconnaissance.
Among the routed soldiers, someone grumbled quietly about the meager rations, only to be sharply rebuked by Zhao Yong. After a brief stir, the silent march resumed.
The sun dipped westward, and the sky quickly darkened. Winter nights in the northern lands arrived early and with brutal intensity.
The wind grew stronger, whipping fine snowflakes against the carriage canopy with a rustling sound.
The procession halted in a wind-sheltered hollow to spend the night. There were no tents, only a few struggling campfires flickering uncertainly in the cold wind, illuminating weary, vigilant faces.
Rations were strictly distributed—each person received only a small, half-piece of cold, hard mixed-grain cake and a mouthful of cold water.
Ming Zhao helped her grandmother out of the carriage and sat down by the nearest fire. The elderly woman tightened her heavy fur coat but still shivered slightly from the cold.
Ming Zhao broke her own portion of flatbread in half and handed the softer part to her grandmother.
Her grandmother looked at her with heartache—when had her precious granddaughter ever suffered like this? “Zhaozhao, you eat it. Grandmother can’t even finish her own portion. You’re still young—don’t starve yourself. We still have a long journey ahead.”
“Alright.” Ming Zhao began to eat. Since coming to this world, she had gained a healthy body but had also endured hardships she had never experienced in her previous life.
Nearby, several young servants from the Zhao household huddled around the fire, rubbing their hands for warmth and whispering among themselves.
When they saw Ming Zhao approaching, they grew uneasy and fell silent.
“Young mistress…”
Ming Zhao sat down beside them, extending her small hands to warm them by the fire. The flames illuminated her youthful face.
“Earlier, I thought I heard you saying that heading north… can we really reach Father there?”
The servants exchanged uneasy glances. A bolder youth named A Shi stammered, “Young mistress, we… we’re just worried. We’ve heard the north is in complete chaos—the Hu people are killing everywhere, and the roads are cut off…”
“Mm,” Ming Zhao replied. In truth, she was also anxious, but she dared not show it. The group didn’t need another frightened child—they needed a pillar of strength. Her gaze settled on the flickering flames. “The roads are cut off. The bridge to the south has been dismantled. The court won’t let us pass, nor will they let Father return.”
The color drained from the servants’ faces.
“But my father must still be alive. We’ll head toward the city where he is stationed. He defended Huguan—we’ll go there to find him.”
Her youthful voice carried a strange power, cutting through the cold wind and reaching the ears of the gradually quieting crowd around them: “If we head south, we’d just be fleeing with the others. Would they give us boats? We have no other choice—this is our only path to survival.”
The firelight danced across their young, bewildered faces.
A Shi and the other servants were stunned, staring blankly at the small figure beside the fire.
Her words sank into their hearts, which had been filled with fear and confusion, stirring a dull echo within.
Heading south, fleeing with the others—would they give us boats?
No.
They had seen people on the official road fighting over ferry boats, even pushing each other into the water. They had witnessed the retainers of high officials brandishing clubs to drive away refugees who approached their carriages.
In the eyes of those nobles, what difference was there between insignificant servants like them and the wild grass by the roadside?
They likely didn’t even have the right to approach the ferry crossing.
“Huguan…” A Shi murmured the name, a faint glimmer appearing in his eyes. “Young mistress, are you saying the general defended Huguan?”
Huguan was a strategic pass connecting the northern regions to the Central Plains, with treacherous terrain.
If it could truly be held, it would serve as a barrier.
“Yes.” Ming Zhao nodded firmly. Of course not—if Huguan had been held, why would the court have fled in such haste?
But information was scarce now. How could they know? Merely knowing the name of a place was considered knowledgeable.
Yet at this moment, she had to give them a clear goal—a name that could ignite hope.
Humanity was strange—fragile yet resilient.
Only with hope could people cling to their instinct to survive.
“My father excels at defending strategic positions. Huguan is a natural fortress—difficult for Hu cavalry to breach. As long as it’s held, the north can catch its breath. We won’t go anywhere else—we’ll head straight for Huguan.”
On that road, Zhao Zhen was indeed there.