Extra Story: Wei Qin’s Hidden Affection

Though I despised the bitterness of the lotus heart, I cherished the taste of the lotus seed you placed in my mouth. Though I detested this mortal world, detested the wretched struggle of living—still, I loved you, loved this world because you were in it…

In the darkness, Wei Qin abruptly opened his eyes, cold sweat streaming from his brow. It had been a long time since he’d had this dream. Ever since he’d been by Xiangbao’s side, that nightmare had not returned.

He rose and left the tent. Night had fallen deep and heavy.

At some point, a thick fog had descended, dense and unyielding. On this northern campaign, the weather had grown colder with every step; Wu and Yue must still be in the throes of autumn, yet wading through rivers and marshes, it was as if he’d crossed into the next season entirely.

Through the chill of the mist, the sky’s pale, waning moon could be seen.

For three months, they’d marched, fought scattered skirmishes, and now Wu’s army was camped just three li from Linzi, the capital of Qi. Killing had become routine for Wei Qin; blood, to him, seemed no different than water.

He looked up toward the distant city—Qi’s capital was almost invisible in the shrouded fog. The sovereign of Qi must be sleepless tonight. The Wu army had breached several cities on their advance, and now, with the enemy at the gates, those within Linzi must be living in constant dread. Wei Qin pressed his lips together, unconsciously reaching for the peace knot that hung at his neck, a talisman Xiangbao had given him.

His… sister…

His knuckles whitened; Wei Qin clenched his fist with force.

Outside the arena, she had struck him hard across the face. She had wept for him, held him tightly, told him that nothing—not even vengeance—was worth the price of his life.

It was the first time anyone had ever spoken to him that way.

After the age of ten, he had survived by killing and thievery… The son of a traitor, a mark of disgrace that followed him, making life impossible in Wu. The cruelest irony was that, when all was finally revealed, he learned his father was no traitor at all, but a great hero of Wu.

But by then, he had drifted to Yue. What kind of man was Yao Li? To Wei Qin, it no longer mattered.

All he knew was that, to carry out his own ruse, his father had not hesitated to kill his wife and son; for the sake of his heroic legacy, he’d abandoned his family, even sacrificed them. So Wei Qin could only accept that his father had truly betrayed the country, had truly died… Though in the end, he really had slit his own throat in the golden hall, declaring, “I killed Qing Ji for the peace of Wu, not for wealth or rank…”

Ha. Truly, he achieved his heroic name.

And what of himself? As the son of the hero Yao Li, he had drifted among the markets, bullied by even fiercer street children, even forced to survive in the blood-soaked arena.

Until… he met her.

After tomorrow’s battle, he could return to Wu. With that thought, the heavy armor on his shoulders seemed less cold.

Just then, a melody drifted to his ears—a flute’s song, tinged with yearning sorrow, lingering in the air.

Listening, Wei Qin’s heart trembled. He suddenly remembered that day, the endless snowfall… Wen Zhong had revealed the wretched truth buried in his heart—Xiangbao was his sister. Then, the man in general’s armor thrust a cold blade straight through his chest, and he fell into blood and snow…

He remembered Xiangbao’s tears—clear as crystal, more beautiful than the world’s finest jewels.

He had never told her that, among the many people in that bustling market, he had chosen to steal her purse because he’d always known that the famed courtesan Mo Li, and she, were both his sisters. Mo Li had known, which was why she’d always kept him at arm’s length. He hadn't expected, though, that before Mo Li died, she would reveal the truth to Wen Zhong.

The flute’s mournful notes wept and pleaded. Wei Qin shook his head fiercely, banishing old memories, then frowned. Though it was his first time leading troops, he knew well that such sorrowful music could only dampen the army’s morale. Following the haunting melody, he found the flutist by an earthen slope, a hundred paces from camp. It was a young man, a stranger—likely a common soldier.

“Lord Sima!” Realizing who stood before him, the youth jumped up, kneeling on one knee in salute.

“What is that tune?” Wei Qin gestured for him to rise, asking calmly.

“Parting Song,” the young man replied, a bit self-conscious, bowing his head.

“Parting Song…” Wei Qin murmured, momentarily lost in thought. “Do you have someone you’re longing for?”

“Mm.” The youth’s answer was muffled, tinged with shyness.

“What sort of person?” Wei Qin, seeing his bashful look, asked again without meaning to.

“A girl from my village—plain, a little slow, ha…” The young man relaxed, a smile breaking through, sweet despite his embarrassment. “When I went off to war, she walked me to the village’s edge by lantern light, crying her eyes out. She made me promise to marry her when I returned… ha…”

Wei Qin’s heart clenched. “And you promised.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes. Seeing her cry like that… I had no choice.” The youth’s smile faded a little. “But… whether I can return is not up to me. I do worry about that silly girl—if I don’t come back, what will become of her…”

“Don’t play the flute in camp again—it unsettles the troops.” Wei Qin ended the conversation.

“Yes, my lord.” The youth bowed deeply. “It was careless of me.”

“Go back and rest. There’s a tough battle tomorrow. If you want to come home alive, you need to be ready to win.” Wei Qin’s tone turned commanding.

“Yes!” The young man’s eyes brightened, and he answered with a hint of joy before turning to leave.

Watching the youth’s light step vanish into the fog, Wei Qin pressed his lips together. He felt, faintly, a twinge of envy. That young man longed for victory, for triumph, for the day he would see his betrothed again. But what about Wei Qin? What had brought him to this battlefield?

Would she… would she be waiting for him to return?

“Report!” A sudden shout rang out from ahead.

“Come closer and speak,” Wei Qin commanded, still unused to the tone of authority.

“Yes.” The man approached, head lowered, his face obscured by mist.

“What is it?” Wei Qin asked.

“Qi has launched a night raid, set fire to our supplies. The men at the front, exhausted from days of marching and fighting, can hardly stand to resist…” the man reported anxiously.

A night raid? Wei Qin frowned.

In that moment of distraction, the kneeling figure suddenly sprang up, sword flashing toward Wei Qin with murderous intent.

An assassin!

Wei Qin stepped back, drew his sword in a flash. In the blink of an eye, warm blood splattered his face. He wrenched his blade free from the man’s belly, and the body collapsed at his feet. Before he could wipe the blood from his face, he sensed dozens more assassins closing in from the mist.

Parrying the onslaught, Wei Qin sneered coldly. That day, at Mount Fujiao, he had ambushed Fan Li just like this—hadn’t he?

Xiangbao’s gentle smile flickered before his eyes. Wei Qin raised his sword and charged the assassins.

“On the battlefield, be careful.”

“This is a peace knot—back home, the elders say a loved one’s hair keeps you safe. You must come back, safe and sound.”

He had to return safely.

Wei Qin slashed, blood spraying three feet. A head tumbled in the mist, rolling to his feet. He stomped on it, licked the blood from his lips, and grinned at the killers closing in.

Yes, he had to return safely.

Somehow, the fog had lifted. The cries of battle thundered around him—the Qi army had surely begun their assault.

The eastern sky grew pale; the ghostly crescent moon still clung above.

Bathed in dawn, Wei Qin stood in heavy armor, a crimson cloak billowing in the icy wind, his armor spattered with blood, his delicate face stained a shocking red.

His murderous aura was so fierce even the assassins shrank back, retreating a step.

“We’re all desperate men—what’s scarier than death? Charge!” someone shouted, and the rest, roused by his call, surged forward.

Desperate men? Wei Qin laughed softly. His blood-stained lips curled into a bizarre smile, his flaming cloak blazing like hellfire, ready to consume all.

With that chilling grin, Wei Qin stood his ground—wherever his sword fell, flesh was torn asunder.

Who was the true desperate man? It was he—he who had nothing left!

It was as if he were back in the arena, that slaughterhouse, surrounded by the nauseating stench of blood, broken limbs, hideous heads…

What could be worse than death? Loneliness. Endless, hopeless loneliness!

The empty coliseum, crowds all around—laughter, shouts, cheers, drumbeats—everywhere people, all watching, watching as he, a child, struggled in the filth. They laughed, they applauded…

Kill! Kill! Kill!

A life steeped in blood… those ugly faces…

“My lord! The Qi army is upon us!” A shout from his lieutenant jolted Wei Qin from his hellish trance.

The veins in his wrist throbbed—he snapped to himself. The moon had vanished, day had broken.

All around, blood trickled in a broken line…

“I understand.” Nodding, Wei Qin hefted his still-dripping blade and strode toward the main camp. Killing—it was nothing new, was it?

Armored for war, Wei Qin turned and marched straight into camp.

Slashing all the way, blood everywhere—soldiers fell beside him, Qi and Wu alike…

Wei Qin’s eyes were red with slaughter. Any enemy he saw, he killed, swinging his blood-soaked sword like a man possessed. Suddenly, ahead, he saw a Qi general raise his blade against a young Wu soldier. The boy looked on in terror and despair, unable to escape.

Something slipped from the youth’s arms, trampled beneath hooves—a broken flute, the one that had played the Parting Song.

“There’s a girl from my village—plain, a little slow. When I left for war, she walked me to the edge of the village, crying her heart out, making me promise to marry her when I returned… ha…”

“Whether I return is not up to me. I worry about that silly girl. If I don’t come back… what will happen to her…”

Now, he was Left Sima, not a mere assassin. An assassin needed only to complete his mission, caring nothing for his comrades’ fates. But now, he had to win—and protect his men.

“If I don’t come back… what will happen to her… what will happen…” The pained, helpless voice echoed in his mind.

Wei Qin leapt forward, sword raised, blocking the general’s blow.

Shielding the youth, Wei Qin fought the mounted enemy. Suddenly, a blade whistled through the air behind him—Wei Qin turned in alarm as a cold sword swung at him—

The wielder was the flute-playing youth.

“Why?” Agonizing pain pierced his chest; blood gushed out as Wei Qin gritted his teeth.

“I am from Qi.”

The youth did not look at him, only bowed his head.

A spy from the enemy? Wei Qin’s vision blurred with blood. Swallowing the metallic taste, he laughed—a rare act of kindness, and this was his reward. Ha, truly, the wicked live the longest.

The peace knot at his neck slipped loose, falling to the earth.

This world was a hell for him; living was but a wretched struggle, and death held no fear. But Xiangbao—Xiangbao was here, in this world. If he died, he would never see her again, no matter how much he despised life. But Xiangbao was here…

If he died, she would surely leap up in anger—scold him for disobeying, for breaking his promise not to risk his life…

If he died, she would weep…

Would she?

He didn’t want to see her cry.

A cold flash split the air—a blade swept toward him, shrouded in mist. Wei Qin set his jaw, raised his arm to block, blood spraying in all directions…

Xiangbao, I will not die.

Because… you are still alive.