The Warlord’s Shadow

The Tianhua capital glimmered under a rare break in the snow, the morning sun turning the frost-laden rooftops into sheets of glass.

The streets, though still blanketed with slush, were lively—hawkers shouting from their stalls, carriages rattling over the cobblestones, and the ever-present murmur of gossip winding through the alleys.

It had been three days since Han Jin's drunken escapade in the Vermilion Lantern District, yet the city was still abuzz with his name. Half the capital whispered of his brazen defiance with admiration, the other half with disdain. Either way, he was a topic too enticing to let go.

But today, the usual tavern tales and scandalous chatter gave way to something heavier—a name spoken in lower, more reverent tones. Mu Qing. The empire's bloodstained jewel was coming.

In the Chancellor's estate, where the stone walls loomed grim and unyielding, Han Jin was sprawled on a cushioned divan in his chambers, a vision of indolence.

His black-and-gold robes were wrinkled, his hair slightly tousled from a night of restless sleep, and he lounged as if the world beyond the window barely existed.

Lian Xue knelt beside him, dressed in a deep crimson robe that pooled around her like spilled wine. She was pouring tea into a jade cup with steady hands, but her face was drawn, her eyes betraying a sliver of unease.

"Third Young Master," she said softly, her voice as delicate as the steam rising from the cup. "The runners say Mu Qing's retinue crossed the outer gates at dawn. She'll be here before noon—with General Mu Feng and a hundred iron riders."

Han Jin plucked the cup from her hand, swirling the tea idly as if she'd just told him the weather forecast. His lips curved into a lazy smile. "Noon, huh? The warlord who painted the plains red with 380,000 corpses, riding in like a bride-to-be. Should I roll out a carpet or sharpen my sword?"

Lian Xue's hand lingered on the teapot, her knuckles whitening slightly. "They say she's... cold," she murmured, her eyes flicking up to meet his. "Beautiful, yes, but sharp as a blade. The maids whisper she once killed a man for spilling her wine."

Han Jin chuckled softly, the sound rich with amusement. He took a slow sip of tea, letting the bitterness sit on his tongue.

"Xue'er, I've faced Father's glares and Wei Kang's tantrums. A woman with a sword?" He flashed her a devil-may-care grin. "Just another spice in the stew."

Her lips pressed together, unconvinced, but before she could argue, a heavy knock sounded at the door. It swung open to reveal Guan Tao, the estate's captain of the guard.

His leather armor creaked with each step, and the massive notched axe slung across his back seemed almost too heavy for the doorway. His scarred face was impassive, but there was a flicker of respect in his eyes.

"Third Young Master," he rumbled. "The Chancellor calls for you. He's in the main hall—wants you there when Mu Qing arrives."

Han Jin exhaled theatrically, stretching with a languid groan before rising to his feet. He gave Lian Xue a wink, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear. "No need to worry, Xue'er. I'll be on my best behavior."

Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing, merely watching him with a faint crease between her brows. With a casual wave, he strolled out, Guan Tao falling in step beside him. The man's heavy boots thudded against the polished stone floor.

"Your best behavior, huh?" Guan Tao muttered. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Han Jin smirked. "Afraid? Of me? Or of her?"

"Both," the captain grunted.

The main hall was a grand, cavernous chamber with lacquered wood beams and hanging lanterns swaying gently from the ceiling. Silk screens painted with dragons coiled along the walls, and at the center stood a massive jade table, polished to a mirror sheen.

At its head, Han Zheng sat with his hands resting heavily on the armrests of his carved chair. His indigo robes were immaculate, and his neatly trimmed three-inch beard gave him the bearing of an unyielding patriarch.

Beside him sat Han Bo, the eldest son, his dark blue robes draping over his broad frame. His face was weathered from years of battle, stern and humorless.

Across from him stood Han Yi, the second son, dressed in pristine scholar's robes, the green silk uncreased despite his relaxed posture. He was idly rolling a jade ring between his fingers, sharp eyes flickering over a scroll without much interest.

Han Jin sauntered in, hands clasped behind his back, his grin infuriatingly carefree.

"Father! Brothers! All dressed up for my bride, I see. Should I feel honored or trapped?"

Han Zheng's gaze snapped to him like a lash, cold and cutting. "Sit, Han Jin," he commanded.

"This is no farce. Mu Qing's arrival changes the game. The Emperor's edict binds her to us. You will not disgrace this family with your foolery."

Han Jin's smile didn't waver. With a mock bow, he slid into a chair with deliberate slowness.

Han Bo barely glanced at him, his voice a low rumble.

"She's no plaything, little brother. I've fought beside her kind—iron-blooded, unyielding. One wrong word, and she'll have your head before you can blink."

Han Yi, still toying with his jade ring, gave a faint smirk.

"Or she'll outthink you. She's no brute—her tactics at Iron Pass were vicious but brilliant. 380,000 men erased, and she took not a single notable loss."

Han Jin leaned back, stretching out his legs as if he were bored. "A blade and a mind, huh? Good. I'd hate a dull wife."

Han Zheng's voice cut through the banter like a blade. "Enough."

His knuckles whitened against the armrest.

"She's here for the Emperor's will, not your games. Mu Feng's power grows with every battle. The throne wants her leashed—and you are the leash."

Before Han Jin could retort, a deep horn blast echoed through the estate. The hall stilled. Servants rushed to the side screens, peering through the slats as the gates groaned open.

Han Jin rose with a leisurely stride, walking to the window. Outside, through the swirling snow, a column of iron riders emerged, their armor dull and scarred from countless campaigns.

Banners of black and crimson snapped in the wind. At the head rode General Mu Feng, a giant of a man in black plate armor, his helm crowned with a crimson plume. His presence was like a storm front rolling in—grim and unyielding.

And beside him was Mu Qing.

She rode a black destrier, the beast's hooves striking sparks from the icy stone.

Her armor was sleek midnight steel, etched with silver vines that glimmered faintly in the pale sun. Her hair, black as pitch, spilled over her shoulders from beneath her helm. But it was her eyes that struck him—a glacial blue, sharp and unyielding, like the edge of a blade in winter. Her face was pale, flawless, yet utterly cold.

The beauty in her features was almost cruel.

Han Bo's voice was low. "The butcher of Iron Pass. Her hands don't shake."

Han Yi murmured, eyes narrowed. "And her mind doesn't falter. She doesn't waste movement or mercy."

Han Zheng turned sharply. "Come. We greet them."

Han Jin smoothed his robe with an exaggerated flourish.

"No nonsense, Father. I'll be a saint."

But when Mu Qing dismounted, her eyes meeting his, he knew—this was no saint's game. It was going to be war. And he'd make damn sure it was one he enjoyed.