Chapter 1: Red Sleeves Adding Fragrance

The full moon hung in the night sky like a silver plate, casting an ethereal glow through the windows of Zhao Yang's wedding chamber. Nine bridal chambers had been prepared, each adorned with red silk and auspicious symbols, their curtains fluttering gently in the spring breeze.

Zhao Yang sat alone in the central chamber, dressed in his crimson wedding attire, a cup of untouched wine before him. His handsome features, refined through years of cultivation and battle, reflected both anticipation and bewilderment. How had fate brought him here? From an abandoned orphan to the Great General of the Qin Dynasty, now awaiting nine brides—his nine martial sisters from Xuanqing Palace.

"Nine wedding chambers, nine beautiful brides," he murmured, shaking his head with an incredulous smile. "The commoners are calling me the greatest philanderer in the cultivation world, yet they don't understand the truth behind it all."

The room was filled with the sweet scent of wedding incense, lotus flowers, and red candles that burned with steady flames. Outside, the sounds of celebration gradually died down as midnight approached. His nine martial sisters—now his brides—would soon arrive, each from their separate chambers, to complete the wedding ritual.

He sipped the wine, its warmth spreading through his body. The sweet fragrance in the air grew stronger, carrying notes of plum blossom and something else... something strangely familiar that stirred memories from his childhood at Xuanqing Palace.

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness washed over him. His limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. The cup slipped from his fingers, spilling red wine across the wedding bed like scattered petals.

"What's happening?" Zhao Yang struggled to move, but his body refused to obey. His martial training allowed him to recognize the truth immediately—he had been drugged. But who would dare to drug the Great General on his wedding night? And where were his nine brides?

As consciousness wavered at the edges of his mind, he heard the softest rustle of silk, like autumn leaves dancing in the wind. Through heavy-lidded eyes, he glimpsed a red shadow slipping through the curtains—a figure moving with such grace that it seemed to float rather than walk.

"Who's there?" he managed to whisper, his voice barely audible.

The figure approached slowly, deliberately. A woman in a magnificent red bridal crown, her face hidden behind a veil of red silk beads. Through the haze of the incense and his own clouded consciousness, Zhao Yang could make out her slender figure draped in resplendent red wedding attire, the kind reserved for the most noble of brides.

As she moved closer, he caught sight of her legs—long, graceful, and as fair as the finest jade—revealed momentarily through the slit of her red skirt. The way she walked, each step precise yet flowing, awakened something in his memory. He had seen this gait before, this unique way of moving that combined dignity with ethereal grace.

The mysterious bride knelt beside the bed. A slender hand with fingers like white jade reached out, gently caressing his cheek. The touch was cool yet seemed to burn his skin, sending a jolt of recognition through his paralyzed body.

"Do you not recognize me, unruly disciple?" The woman's voice was soft as a spring breeze, carrying both authority and tenderness.

Zhao Yang's heart pounded against his ribcage. That voice—it carried the weight of mountains and the gentleness of a mother's caress. It belonged to someone who had shaped his life from childhood, someone he respected, feared, and... what was this other feeling that had always lingered beneath the surface?

The mysterious bride leaned closer, her breath fragrant as orchids. "Have you forgotten the one who raised you? Who taught you to cultivate? Who watched over you every step of your journey?"

Her slender fingers untied her veil, letting it fall away. In the dancing candlelight, she slowly removed her elaborate red headdress, revealing a face that could topple kingdoms and cause immortals to fall from grace—a face he knew all too well.

"Master?" Zhao Yang whispered, disbelief and confusion warring in his mind.

The woman smiled, a rare expression on her usually stern countenance. She was Murong Qingxue, the Mistress of Xuanqing Palace, his master and the woman who had raised him since he was abandoned at the foot of Xuanqing Mountain at age ten. Yet tonight, she appeared transformed—not as the strict, aloof cultivator who had guided him with an iron hand, but as a woman of breathtaking beauty, her eyes holding emotions he had never before seen expressed so openly.

"Your nine martial sisters have agreed to this arrangement," she said, her voice carrying a tremor that betrayed her composed exterior. "Tonight, I wished to speak with you alone, before they join us."

With graceful movements, she began to untie her red outer robe. The silk whispered as it slid from her shoulders, revealing an inner garment of equally rich crimson. Zhao Yang struggled against his paralysis, confusion and something else—something he didn't dare name—flooding his mind.

"Master, what is the meaning of this? Where are my martial sisters? What have you done?"

Murong Qingxue placed a finger against his lips, silencing him. "They are safe, waiting in their chambers. As for what I have done..." Her voice trailed off, and for the first time in his life, Zhao Yang saw uncertainty in his master's eyes. "I have watched you grow from a helpless child to a man who commands armies and captures hearts. I have seen you win the affection of your nine martial sisters, each powerful and beautiful in her own right."

Her fingers traced his jawline with a touch as light as butterfly wings. "What you do not know, unruly disciple, is that there is a tenth woman whose heart you have claimed."

The room seemed to spin around Zhao Yang as he looked into her eyes—eyes that had watched over him for years, eyes that now held an emotion he had never expected to see directed at him from his stern master.

"There are truths about your past, about your parents, about your place in Xuanqing Palace that you have yet to discover," she continued, her voice steady despite the emotion in her eyes. "Truths that I have kept hidden for your protection, and perhaps... for my own heart's protection as well."

The incense smoke curled between them like serpents of fog, and through it, Zhao Yang thought he could see tears glistening in his master's eyes. Was this real, or a hallucination caused by the drug in his system?

"Rest now," she whispered, leaning close until her lips nearly brushed his ear. "When you wake, your wedding will proceed as planned. Tonight was merely... a moment stolen for myself, before I must return to being merely your master."

As she spoke, her inner robe slipped slightly from one shoulder, revealing skin like polished jade. The movement, the scent of her skin, the way her hair fell in a silken cascade—it all sparked a powerful déjà vu in Zhao Yang's mind. He had experienced this before, in fragments of dreams and half-remembered moments throughout his life.

"I know you," he whispered, fighting against the paralysis with all his strength. "This feeling, this moment—I've felt it before, haven't I?"

A sad smile touched Murong Qingxue's lips. "Perhaps in another life, my unruly disciple. Perhaps in dreams that speak truer than waking thoughts."

She leaned down, her face hovering inches from his. For a moment, Zhao Yang thought she might kiss him, and his heart raced at the thought. Instead, she merely gazed into his eyes, as if memorizing every detail of his face.

"Sleep now," she said softly. "When you wake, remember this as nothing but a dream—a beautiful, impossible dream."

As consciousness slipped away from Zhao Yang, the last image he saw was his master's face, beautiful and sorrowful, and the last sensation he felt was a single tear falling from her eye onto his cheek, burning like fire against his skin.

In his fading thoughts, he struggled to place the familiarity of her movements, her scent, the look in her eyes. Why did it seem as though he had known this side of his stern master all along? And why did his heart respond with such confusion and yearning?

As darkness claimed him completely, the red silhouette of Murong Qingxue merged with memories of his childhood—of a stern voice coaching him through cultivation techniques, of a shadowy figure watching over him as he slept, of rare moments when he caught a glimpse of tenderness in her usually cold eyes.

The mystery would remain for now, a red thread connecting past and present, leading to revelations yet to come. But one thing was certain—the relationship between Zhao Yang and his master was far more complex than he had ever imagined, colored with shades of emotions he had never dared to name.