Chapter 2: The Last Days of Peace

[A week before everything started.]

The scent of peonies and ink curled in the air as you tapped your brush against the edge of your writing desk, watching the ink ripple through the water bowl. A half-written page of absurd conspiracy theories lay before you, the characters smudged where you had laughed too hard at your own wit.

"What if General Tang's sudden disappearance was because he ran away with a French opera singer? Or perhaps the British have secretly funded the triads just to keep the silk trade unstable? And what of the Minister's new wife? The timing is… suspicious."

You twirled the brush between your fingers, grinning. It was all nonsense, of course. But in a world where every whisper in the halls could shift the tides of war, was it really?

The Liang estate had always been an oasis of elegance—private, heavily guarded, draped in silks and tradition. But lately, you had noticed things. Unwelcome things.

The sudden influx of Japanese officials, their rigid postures standing stark against the flowing architecture of your home. The way their banners appeared in the city more frequently, their rhetoric creeping into polite conversation like a slow poison. And most of all, the way the estate, once impenetrable, now had too many foreign voices in its halls.

You pushed away your scrolls and rose to your feet, stepping onto the balcony. Below, the gardens were in full bloom, the koi pond undisturbed. But beyond the estate walls, the city murmured with change. You put your hair behind your ear as a pleasant breeze met your cheeks and your silky dark hair went out of place. Of course you could get it done with the help of your servants again but they'd always chosen boring, elegant hairstyles which you felt suppressed your free spirit. The sunlight filtered by the trees directly fell into your brown eyes and blinded you.

You squint to see farther and down in the courtyard, a parade of soldiers moved through the streets, their polished boots clicking against the stone. Not Chinese. Japanese. The people watching from the sidelines did not cheer. They merely watched.

For the first time, a tiny, unwelcome unease stirred in your chest.

A voice interrupted your thoughts.

"Miss Liang, you're needed in the main hall."

You turned, your silk robes catching the lantern light. The servant bowed, hesitant. You sighed and followed, the heavy sleeves of your embroidered robe whispering against the wooden floors.

The reception hall was less yours than it had been before.

Once, it had been filled with calligraphy and scrolls of honored ancestors, but now, subtle signs of occupation bled into the décor. A foreign map tacked onto a side table. An ashtray filled with cigar remnants—Japanese-made. A faint but distinct sense of intrusion.

And at the heart of it all, your father.

General Liang sat at the head of the room, his grip tight on his chair's armrest as Japanese officials lounged in his home as if they belonged there. His uniform was immaculate, his presence still commanding, but you could see it now—his power, once absolute, was waning.

Seated among the officials was Hasegawa Kenji.

His presence was quieter than the rest. No boasting, no loud gestures—just watchful, composed stillness. His uniform was crisp, his gloves pristine. But unlike the other men, he did not leer or exchange indulgent smirks when you entered.

Others did.

A high-ranking official let his gaze roam over you, his lips curling slightly. You caught it immediately—the way his eyes lingered.

The heat of anger flared in your chest.

You did not drop your gaze.

Instead, you smiled. Slowly, deliberately.

"If you're looking for something, General Aoki, I'd be happy to have it served on a platter."

The room stilled.

Aoki's smirk twitched, his amusement flickering into irritation. The air grew charged.

"Liang Yue," your father's voice cut through the tension, low with warning.

You barely glanced at him.

"My apologies, Father. I merely thought our guests required something else to stare at besides war maps and strategy."

Aoki's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. You had insulted him in front of his peers.

Kenji, still seated, exhaled a short breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but close. His dark eyes flickered to yours, assessing, intrigued.

"You are bold," he murmured in fluent Chinese.

You turned to him, unimpressed. "And you are observant. I suppose we all have our gifts."

Kenji tilted his head, gaze unreadable, but you did not miss the flicker of something else beneath the surface.

You had no patience to decipher it.

As you turned to leave, your father's voice stopped you, colder than before.

"Yue," he called, his tone quieter, but still laced with authority. You turned back, eyeing him curiously. He wasn't looking at you, but rather at the intricate patterns in the wood beneath his fingers. The room fell into a heavy silence. The Japanese officials, still seated, watched you with an unnerving intensity, their eyes now fixed on your every move.

"You may not realize it now," General Liang continued, his voice low but sharp, like a blade being drawn from its sheath, "but everything you do from here on out—every word, every gesture—it matters more than you know. The course of this estate, and perhaps the empire itself, will turn on the smallest of actions."

His gaze flickered up, and you caught the glint of something inscrutable in his eyes. "There are more games at play here than you're aware of, Yue. Be careful where you step, or you might find yourself trapped in a position you can't undo."

Before you could process his words, he gave a subtle gesture to Kenji's teacup, still sitting untouched on the table. "Refill his tea," he ordered.

A chill crept through you. Why had your father called for you to do this? Why not one of the servants? It was such a simple, menial task. You didn't move immediately, your mind racing with questions. His words were still lingering in the air, heavy with meaning. Was this just a casual request, or was there something more? Why had he singled you out in front of the officials?

Kenji's dark eyes flickered to you as you approached, his composed gaze never leaving your face. You moved mechanically, refilling his cup, your fingers slightly trembling as you did. The weight of your father's cryptic warning pressed down on you with every step.

When you finally returned to your place, you couldn't shake the feeling that your role in this game was already set in motion, whether you understood it or not.