Chapter 5: Roots in the Wasteland

Days bled into weeks as the Li clan's exiled caravan crawled away from the Empire's heart like a wound banished to rot unseen.

Mountains gave way to barren foothills, where the wind carried more dust than rain, and thin trees clung to rocky soil like beggars with brittle bones.

The Imperial Guards, now weary of endless escort duty, grew lazy — some drifted behind or rode ahead, grumbling about the cold and bribes they'd never get. It was the perfect mercy Qingling needed.

One dusk, as a chill dusk wind cut through their thin tents, she gathered Li Zeyan and the eldest sister-in-law, Lady Meng, near a scraggly thicket beyond earshot of prying eyes.

Li Zeyan leaned against an ancient pine, arms folded over his mended ribs. He looked half wild now — shaggy hair tied roughly with twine, battle-scarred hands darker than iron. Yet in his eyes burned the same iron will Qingling first glimpsed under palace lanterns.

"What secret plan drags my battered family into the weeds at dusk?" he murmured, watching her keenly.

Qingling crouched, brushing aside dry leaves until she exposed a patch of damp soil hidden from the road.

"This place is forgotten by the Emperor's map. We can use it — if we dig roots here, no one will starve again."

Lady Meng gasped. "Dig roots? There's nothing but rock and weeds—"

Qingling only smiled. Her palm pressed flat to the earth — her mind slipped into the evergreen warmth of her Pavilion. A single thought: Release.

Before their stunned eyes, she drew out handfuls of tiny pale-green seedlings — rare wild herbs she'd nurtured in secret. She planted them with swift, sure fingers, covering them with earth and patting the soil smooth.

"This soil is poor, but with a little ash and compost, these will thrive. Honeysuckle for fever, wild onions to fill our bellies, spring herbs to sell at the next market we dare reach. Enough to barter for salt and cloth."

Lady Meng dropped to her knees beside her. "Is this… witchcraft?"

Qingling laughed softly. "No, sister. It's hope with roots."

Li Zeyan knelt too, ignoring his stiff back, and cupped one fragile sprout between calloused fingers. He turned it gently, studying its tiny white veins in the dusk glow.

"Once, I commanded an army of ten thousand. Now I guard seedlings in a ditch." His low chuckle was rough but warm. He looked at Qingling — really looked — as if seeing her for the first time, not just as a miracle doctor or stubborn wife, but as the buried heart of a future he could still fight for.

"You never commanded loyalty like you do now, Your Highness," Qingling teased, brushing dust from her knees. "Plants obey me better than soldiers ever did you."

His answering smile was small but real — a priceless coin amidst ruin.

"Then lead, Consort Yan. And I shall guard what you grow — till my last breath."

Lady Meng wiped her eyes, voice cracking with a laugh.

"We have no palace, no title, but we have you two. That will be our new kingdom."

Night swallowed the hills, but the secret garden, tucked in rock and hidden from the Empire's greed, glowed in Qingling's mind like a torch against the dark.

Three nights after Qingling secretly planted her hidden garden, the wasteland repaid her hope with cruelty.

It came on a windless night — no moon, only distant wolves howling like spirits hungry for flesh. The camp slept in ragged clusters around dying embers, exhausted from hauling their remaining carts over boulders all day.

In the deepest dark, a shrill scream split the silence. Then the clash of steel, a child's shriek, a man's dying groan.

Qingling jerked awake, blade already in her hand — an old dagger, once ceremonial, now her only shield. She pushed past Xiaoyu, who clutched her sleeve in terror, and stumbled into chaos.

Bandits. Starved-looking men with rusted blades and wild eyes, swarming like rats among the scattered tents. One wrenched a bundle from a crying mother's arms — another slashed open bags, scattering precious scraps of grain into the dirt.

At the heart of it, Li Zeyan fought like a cornered wolf. Barefoot, hair loose, a stolen spear in his hands — each swing dropping a bandit with bone-cracking force. But for every man he felled, two more closed in, drawn to his blood like sharks.

"Form a ring around the women!" he roared at the few loyal guards still standing. His voice cracked on the last word — he hadn't fully healed.

Qingling didn't waste breath screaming. She darted to Lady Ruo, who lay half-shielding her child behind a wagon.

"Stay hidden. Don't move. Don't make a sound!" Qingling ordered, her voice the same calm steel she once used to command panicked soldiers buried under rubble.

One bandit lunged at her, thinking her an easy prize. Qingling ducked under the blade, drove her dagger up into his thigh, then grabbed a broken cooking pot and smashed it into his temple. He crumpled without a sound.

We cannot fight them all, she thought. But we can turn this.

She scanned the shadows, mind racing — then her eyes caught the faint outlines of two carts near the camp's edge. One was stacked with dry branches and firewood for the next day.

Her Evergreen Pavilion pulsed in her thoughts: Fuel. Fire. Bait.

Without hesitation, Qingling dashed through the melee, ducked a swinging blade, and pressed her palm to the cart's side.

With a silent thought, she released a trickle of dry oil she'd hidden inside her Pavilion for medicine brewing. It soaked into the wood instantly.

She grabbed a fallen torch and, heart hammering, touched it to the cart's base.

WHOOSH.

Flames leapt high, bright and greedy in the night — the sudden blaze searing the bandits' eyes. They stumbled back, cursing. A few, terrified of the spreading fire, turned and fled into the hills.

Li Zeyan, breathless and bleeding, caught the distraction immediately. He bellowed a rallying cry:

"Strike now! Kill them all or drive them off!"

Loyal guards lunged into the confusion. The sisters-in-law hurled rocks and sticks, fierce in their desperation. Even the children hissed curses, clawing at attackers' legs.

Within heartbeats, the ambush turned on its head. The bandits, who thought the exiled clan easy prey, scattered like frightened dogs, chased into the wilderness by fire and iron.

Only when the last echo of footsteps faded did Qingling collapse to her knees by the burning cart, shoulders shaking. Not with fear — but with the raw, stubborn relief of the living.

Li Zeyan limped over, blood trickling from a cut above his brow, half of him smeared with ash and victory. He knelt beside her, his shadow flickering in the firelight.

"You fight like a demon," he rasped, voice roughened by smoke.

Qingling let out a shaky laugh. "Better a demon on your side than at your throat, Your Highness."

He reached out, hesitant — then brushed a lock of her soot-streaked hair from her cheek. His thumb lingered, tracing a smear of dirt as if it were the most precious jewel in the wasteland.

"Stay alive, Consort Yan," he murmured. "Stay alive, and I will carve out a place where no emperor's greed can touch you again."

Qingling's lips curved into a tired but fierce smile.

"Then guard your warrior wife well, husband. I still have seeds to plant and kingdoms to topple."

Behind them, the fire hissed and roared — consuming old wood and spilled grain — but in the ashes, a new promise burned brighter than fear.