Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Setting Out

Zhao Chun kept her eyes forward as she walked behind Wo Man.

“We leave tomorrow,” Wo Man said. “Have you packed everything?”

Zhao Chun knew the question was meant for her. “Everything’s ready.”

After that, Wo Man fell silent. They returned to the rooms without another word. Wo Man looked worn thin when they arrived, so Zhao Chun excused herself at once and hurried back to her own quarters.

Wo Man was her mother in name, but not by blood. By this world’s customs, that still made her Zhao Chun’s legal mother.

In her previous life, Zhao Chun had been an ordinary person in the modern world. She earned decent money, and on holidays she could still go home to spend time with her parents.

Maybe life had been too smooth. After she finally saved enough for a down payment, she was diagnosed with leukemia. The illness worsened terrifyingly fast. Before a matching bone marrow donor could be found, she was dead.

Right before she died, she’d half-joked that she would finally see the Underworld—whether Black-and-White Impermanence and Ox-Head and Horse-Face truly existed. Instead, she didn’t even catch a glimpse of the Yama King’s little imps. When she opened her eyes again, she was a baby who couldn’t even speak.

People here called the woman who had given birth to her Madam Li. When Zhao Chun was just past one year old, Madam Li fell ill and died abruptly. After that, a wet nurse raised her.

At first, Zhao Chun assumed she’d been thrown back into ancient history. The longer she lived here, the more wrong that seemed. The realm was fractured into rival states, but it wasn’t the Spring and Autumn or the Five Dynasties. And there were people who could split stone with their bare hands—martial warriors, the world called them.

A strange, unreal world, she’d thought. A world where force decided everything.

As she grew, she learned to gauge martial warriors more clearly. They were stronger than ordinary people, but they still had to train with weapons. Without technique, brute strength didn’t amount to much.

And in an era like this—war everywhere, disputes without end—martial warriors could turn that strength into rank and power, climbing from nothing to high office.

Her father, Zhao Jian, was proof. Born a commoner, he’d fought his way up on sheer martial might until he was granted the title of Grandee and given a commandery to govern.

After tasting that kind of success, of course he wanted his descendants to walk the same road. Zhao Jian had spent most of his life clawing upward. He’d collected more than a few women along the way, which meant he had children everywhere. Among them were real martial talents—the kind he kept close and raised himself.

Zhao Chun wasn’t one of them. She wasn’t suited for the martial path. And even in a culture that worshiped strength, women who trained were still rare.

Zhao Jian had countless sons and daughters by different mothers. Among all Zhao Chun’s half-sisters, only one—Zhao Nian—could keep up with the boys, playing with spears and blades alongside her brothers. That alone said everything about how few girls walked the martial road.

In a world where men commonly kept multiple wives and concubines, women already started at the bottom. Add martial strength to the mix, and the gap between people became an uncrossable ravine.

Zhao Jian’s inner quarters were crowded, but he was neither tender nor kind. He was vain, greedy for glory, quick to anger. In that household, it wasn’t unusual for a Madam to be beaten to death for displeasing him.

Zhao Chun learned early not to put her life in anyone else’s hands. Even though she had no gift for martial arts, she forced herself to train year-round—every day, without missing one.

Swords were the only weapons she could manage. Sabers were too heavy. Spears were too long. There was no chance to learn anything more exotic. In the practice yard, the one who taught swordwork was Instructor Zheng, a woman who had fled from Lu State as a refugee and happened to be a swordsman herself. She saw Zhao Chun’s relentless effort, understood how hard women had it, and was willing to teach her properly.

From the ages of six to 10, Zhao Chun trained under Instructor Zheng’s watch. She could perform several complete sword sets now.

But her strength was still lacking. Her swordwork looked right, yet carried little real force—nothing like what you’d need on a battlefield. Still, she kept at it. Even imperfect skill was better than none if her life ever depended on it.

Last month, the Royal Capital had issued an order: every commandery and county under its rule was to send children between the ages of eight and 12 to be examined by the Ling Zhen Sect temple within Chu Kingdom. Zhao Jian had children in that age range. The moment he heard, he erupted.

“There could be any number of promising martial talents among my children,” he raged. “If that temple snatches them away, what will the Zhao Family use to rise?”

Madam Zhao tried to calm him. “It’s the king’s command. We can only obey.

“In recent years, more and more Daoists have been walking through the Royal Capital. If the king didn’t value them, would things look like this?

“In the end, he’s just getting older. He’s begun to seek immortality.”

Her own children were already grown. This summons didn’t involve her directly.

“If immortality truly existed,” Zhao Jian snapped, “even Heaven’s servants would be cultivating.

“They speak of escaping the world, but they’re really chasing wealth and rank. The king has gone muddled with age. Those Daoists have bewitched him.”

He only dared say such things in front of Madam Zhao. He didn’t have the courage to let them reach anyone else.

Among the Zhao Family children of the right age, there happened to be three boys and three girls. Zhao Chun was one of them.

She didn’t resent being called up. Surviving in troubled times was never easy. She trained to protect herself—to have some footing in the world.

If she was chosen by the temple, she wouldn’t have to marry. Even if she spent her life behind monastery walls, it was better than living by the three obediences and four virtues. At least the choice would be hers.

But Zhao Chun’s thinking wasn’t like the locals’. She came from another world. The two half-sisters summoned alongside her didn’t feel the way she did.

Daoists were usually poor, cutting off worldly ties and living alone. Her sisters were used to servants swarming around them, used to reaching out for clothes and opening their mouths for food. Bitter cultivation sounded unbearable. They prayed to be rejected so they could return home.

The boys, meanwhile, were determined to walk the martial path.

Out of the six of them, Zhao Chun was the only one who truly hoped to be chosen.

That night, she lay awake for the first time in a long while. Her standing in the Zhao Family was low. Her future would likely be a rushed marriage alliance, nothing more. Entering the temple was the best road she could see. If she wasn’t chosen, she would need another plan.

She was only 10. Her life had barely begun.

She turned toward the wall. Moonlight spilled through the window, bleaching the room pale. In the faint light, she could just make out a few insects drifting and dancing.

One step at a time, she told herself. She pulled the quilt up and forced her mind empty. Tomorrow would be long. She needed her strength.

At dawn, with orange-gold clouds just forming on the horizon and the distant mountains still wrapped in night, someone came to wake her.

Her bundle was already packed and waiting on the rack beside the bed. It wasn’t as if she had no one to serve her, but Zhao Chun never let servants into her room. She wasn’t used to it. She washed, dressed, and tied her hair herself.

Ping Yang Commandery, where the Zhao Family lived, wasn’t large. Even so, there were more than 800 children in the right age range. Families with status rode in four-wheeled carriages. Those with money rented mule carts. Commoners were packed into ox carts arranged by the authorities.

For once, Zhao Chun was glad she’d been born into the Grandee’s residence. At least she didn’t have to cram into an ox cart with a dozen others.

She’d lived in this world for years, but this was her first real journey. Not long after she climbed into the carriage, curiosity got the better of her. She lifted the curtain and looked out.

The convoy rolled forward at a steady pace. Ping Yang’s tall city gate shrank behind them. The long wall, dark as a snake, dwindled into a thin black line and finally disappeared.

The Zhao Family carriage traveled at the front. Mule carts and ox carts followed behind in order. Some children leaned out to look, young faces half-hidden at the windows.

Two girls shared Zhao Chun’s carriage, both just past 11: Zhao Yue and Zhao Mian. Like Zhao Chun, they were born to a minor lady, but they had better luck. Their mothers were still alive, and someone still doted on them.

Zhao Chun had trained since she was six. She was taller than most girls her age. Her skin was fair, but not delicate—rougher than the Misses raised in the inner quarters.

She settled into the ride easily, more curious than bothered. Sitting in a carriage didn’t trouble her.

Zhao Yue and Zhao Mian were another story. They looked listless from the start. They’d barely passed the city gate before Zhao Yue complained twice about dizziness and a tight chest.

“I’ve never ridden in such a crude carriage,” Zhao Yue muttered, leaning against a cushion. The jolting had turned her little face pale. “The city roads are paved. Out here it’s all ruts.”

Zhao Chun didn’t answer. Zhao Mian seemed slightly better. She still looked uncomfortable, but she had enough energy to clutch her bundle and talk. “We’ve barely started. I heard even good horses, running day and night, take three days to reach the Royal Capital. At our pace, it might take half a month.”

Zhao Yue went stiff at the news, then slumped backward. Her lips moved as if she wanted to argue, but she didn’t say another word.

The carriage fell quiet. Zhao Chun had expected this. She drew a book from her bundle—Jin–Chu Strange Tales: One Hundred Explanations—and read with full attention.

The written language here resembled classical Chinese in places. In her last life, she’d dealt with enough writing and documents that the script came to her faster than it did for most.

“You’re Zhao Chun?” Zhao Mian asked at last.

At 11, she couldn’t stay quiet for long. She rummaged through her bundle until there was nothing left to fiddle with, then tried to make conversation.

Zhao Chun had just finished a ghost story. Without looking up, she answered, “Mm.”

Zhao Jian had so many children that Zhao Chun didn’t recognize most of them. If Madam Zhao hadn’t gathered them before they left so they could at least see one another’s faces, Zhao Chun wouldn’t even have been able to match names to people.

Zhao Mian was the same. She’d only learned who Zhao Chun was yesterday. This sister never joined the Zhao Family daughters’ gatherings. Among the girls, she was practically invisible.

“What are you reading?”

Zhao Chun closed the book long enough to show her the cover, then opened it again and returned to the page.

A journey this long meant endless hours trapped together. If Zhao Chun indulged a Miss like this even once, the girl would cling to her from dawn to dusk. Zhao Chun didn’t want the trouble. She chose to seem withdrawn and taciturn, keeping everyone at arm’s length.

After being shut out, Zhao Mian couldn’t very well keep pressing. She huffed and turned away, sulking in silence.