The Edge of the Throne: A Broken Vow
Deep winter had seized the capital. Crows shrieked into the night wind, which whipped sheets of icy snow mercilessly against the manor windowpanes. Outside the Marquess of Địnhyuăn's estate, a dozen guards had been silently dispatched, sinking into the snow without a sound or a cry for help.
Inside the study, the candlelight flickered. Shěn Huái sat in plain, unadorned robes, his expression dark and glacial. He held a crimson brush, crossing another name off a roll of court officials. He did not look up when the study door was pushed open, but the sleeve arrow hidden in his left cuff silently aimed at the threshold.
"The Marquess Shěn's hospitality is exactly like his sister's—quick to show its claws."
A voice, as melodious as jade striking stone but chilling to the bone, broke the silence. Standing in the doorway was a man in a black brocade robe, a scabbard-less black saber hanging from his waist. His features were elegant and handsome, almost scholarly, were it not for the absolute, lifeless stillness in his eyes.
"You trespass upon my manor and murder my guards in the dead of night. Are you tired of living?" Shěn Huái finally set down the brush, the killing intent in his gaze surging.
"On the contrary. My name is Xiè Wēilóu. This midnight visit is merely to honor a promise." The man unslung the black cloth parcel from his back and placed it gently on the desk, his movements soft, as if he were setting down a fragile dream.
Shěn Huái slowly raised his eyes, recognizing the visitor—Xiè Wēilóu, the infamous Lord of the Listening Rain Tower, the most scholarly face in the martial arts world, hired to do the dirtiest work. A certified madman.
"These are your sister's ashes. Shěn Xī entrusted me with this: if she died, I was to bring her home." Xiè Wēilóu spoke calmly, as if concluding a simple business transaction.
Shěn Huái's eyelid twitched violently. The pretense of a man unmoved by a collapsing mountain instantly fractured. He stared fixedly at the black parcel, his fingers involuntarily curling into his palms.
"Open it." Shěn Huái's voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried an appalling coldness.
Xiè Wēilóu raised a long, elegant eyebrow. His fingers delicately peeled back the black cloth, revealing an ornate sandalwood box and a piece of tattered, discolored fabric. His voice held a hint of unexpected hoarseness. "The fire in Ghost Wail Valley was too fierce. This was all I could recover when I found her."
Shěn Huái ignored the box. His trembling hand reached for the dirty scrap of cloth. The fabric was stiff with cold, sharp enough to cut, crusted with soot and blood. Scrawled across it in charcoal were nine shaky characters. It was not the last testament of a General, but a note a child might write when caught misbehaving, begging her brother's forgiveness:
"Brother, it really hurts this time. I want to go home."
It felt as though someone had carved a knife straight through his breastbone. A sharp, metallic taste rose in Shěn Huái's throat. He tried to look away, but his neck was locked, his gaze riveted on the words. Something deep inside his mind was violently torn open—not the General who commanded legions, but the little sister who cried after nicking her finger while practicing swordplay, burying her tear-filled face in his chest and sobbing: Brother, I miss home…
"Xī'er…"
Shěn Huái's voice was a ragged sound. He clutched his chest, his knuckles white. His breathing hitched. The calculating, fox-like eyes that read the hearts of men were forced into a desperate, crimson haze; tears trembled in his sockets.
"My condolences, Marquess." Xiè Wēilóu leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, a complex trace of pity in his eyes.
When Shěn Huái finally regained a semblance of his cold composure, he glared at Xiè Wēilóu. "How did Shěn Xī become entangled with a man like you?"
"Entangled?" The unexpected grief in Xiè Wēilóu was replaced by irritation. His eyes narrowed. "And what is wrong with being 'entangled' with me?" He stepped closer to the desk, picking up a single gold leaf and tapping it with his finger. His voice echoed like a stone dropped into a deep well. "You lived comfortably here in the capital, Marquess, sitting safely above the fray. But did you ever truly know… how she survived on the frontier?"
He didn't wait for an answer, instead turning slowly to look out at the swirling snow. His tone became as cold as an unsheathed blade, and a hint of raw savagery crossed his delicate face.
"The supply line broke that year, and refugees stole the military grain. She took her men, recovered the lot, and brought it all into the camp. The people who knelt in the snow begging for mercy—she didn't even spare them a glance. Her only order was: 'The news must not leak.'"
Xiè Wēilóu paused, his finger tracing the grain of the wood.
"The next day, a nearby village was gone."
Shěn Huái's breath caught.
Xiè Wēilóu scoffed, then continued. "The enemy's water well changed color one night. Within three days, half their vanguard camp was decimated. Your official military report stated, 'A sudden plague, Heaven aids our army.'
"The supervisor the court sent constantly restrained her, picking apart her orders, demanding she take a fortified city within three days. He drank celebration wine later, and died in his tent that night. The army reported he 'succumbed to exhaustion.'
"...And when it came to interrogating captives, she always complained my assassins' blades were too slow."
He looked up at Shěn Huái, his voice light and airy.
"Marquess Qín, you received pristine military merit reports. What she left behind was blood she could never wash from her own heart. The darkness in your sister's soul is no less than mine."
Shěn Huái clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He knew. Of course he knew. These were the necessary evils, the desperate acts she committed to keep the Shěn family standing and the border from breaking.
"In those times, I was simply the blade she hired."
Xiè Wēilóu recalled a memory—
On a bitter cold night on the frontier, Shěn Xī, covered in blood, sat atop a pile of the dead and tossed him a heavy bag of gold leaves.
"Lord Xiè, that was a decent job. You earned your due." she had teased.
Xiè Wēilóu took the gold and sat beside her, offering a jug of the Northern wastes' strongest liquor. A cynical, scholarly smile touched his lips. "General Shěn, your methods for murder and theft are smoother than my own assassins. You truly lack any pretense of a noble lady."
Shěn Xī grabbed the jug and took a long swig. The harsh liquor made her eyes sting, perhaps masking the tears beneath. "Nonsense. If my hand wasn't quick enough, I'd be the one dead," she rasped, wiping her mouth. "If I die, who will pay the Lord Xiè's wages?"
"We are the same kind," Xiè Wēilóu told Shěn Huái, a faint, almost imperceptible regret in his voice. "She was the open demon, and I was the hidden Yama. After every drink, she paid, and I killed. Between us… it was merely a transaction of naked gold."
"A demon…"
Shěn Huái struggled to reconcile the image of his little sister with that word. He slumped back into his chair, his hand stroking the cold, splintering surface of the sandalwood casket.
"For five years, her letters home held only a few words, always 'I am well,' 'Do not worry.' In those letters, she was the perfect Marquess's daughter, the undefeated female General. But I knew it was all a facade for me." Shěn Huái's voice trembled, a deep, unconcealable sorrow pouring out.
Shěn Huái retrieved a small chest from a shelf and opened it for Xiè Wēilóu. It was full of gold leaves. His voice was nearly a plea: "Tell me about her. Tell me about the woman you saw."
He poured wine for Xiè Wēilóu and then for himself. "Tell me the things she never dared put in a letter. When she hurt, when she was drunk… even when she was ordering a killing. What was she truly like?" In that moment, he shed the Marquess's dignity, leaving only the sorrow of a brother who had lost his kin.
Xiè Wēilóu's hand paused over his cup. He looked at the vulnerable man before him, and the sharp edge of offense he had felt earlier softened slightly. He was silent for a moment, his fingers stroking the cold hilt of his saber, his gaze drifting far away.
"She actually… cried a lot. But only when she was drunk."
He recounted a night when she was intoxicated. Instead of her usual icy demeanor, she leaned against the battlements, staring towards the distant capital.
Her eyes blurred with drink, she asked him: "Xiè Wēilóu, you make so much money. What do you plan to do with it?"
Xiè Wēilóu, sitting next to her, calmly cleaned his blade. "Build the Listening Rain Tower higher. From a greater height, you can see the ants more clearly."
Shěn Xī laughed—the first truly relaxed laugh he'd ever witnessed, though it was brief. "That's good. You have something you want."
She took another deep swallow of liquor, her voice husky like smoke. "I don't. I'll likely die on the battlefield. That is the fate of a General." The words were light, but the last syllable shook violently.
His polished blade reflected the firelight, faintly revealing a secret depth in his own eyes. For an instant, he wanted to say something, but the north wind swallowed the words. He only offered a soundless scoff, then grabbed his own bowl and drank. "If it's a General's fate, you must accept it, fear or no." He never asked if she wanted to leave, nor offered to take her.
—He knew she would never go.
"What happened next?" Shěn Huái whispered.
"Next, Ghost Wail Valley. She was surrounded. When I arrived, she had only a sliver of life left."
Xiè Wēilóu's voice dropped low. She had a wound in her abdomen, blood soaking the ground, and one of her mangled legs was on fire. She was clutching the piece of charcoal. Seeing him, she didn't ask for aid. She struggled to tear the corner of her robe and used the charcoal to write the message, then pressed the scrap of cloth and her last gold leaf into his hand.
"This job—take me home." She smiled, her voice barely a breath. "Don't complain about the pay… I have nothing left."
Xiè Wēilóu looked at the single gold leaf, feeling the strange heat of it for the first time.
He tried to carry her for treatment, but she shook her head, using her final strength to grip his hand. That hand, icy cold from years of killing, was her sole anchor.
"Xiè Wēilóu, in the next life… be a good man."
It was the last thing she ever said to him—a prophecy, or perhaps a joke.
The study fell into a long, profound silence.
Xiè Wēilóu collected his thoughts, the deep shadow in his eyes vanishing, returning him to the inscrutable Lord of the Listening Rain Tower. He looked at Shěn Huái, a self-mocking, cold smile on his lips.
"The story is told. The payment is taken. We shall not meet again." He closed the casket, shouldered his long saber, and turned to leave. His spine was perfectly straight, as if bearing an invisible, heavy burden.
As he reached the door, Shěn Huái suddenly spoke: "Can you ever be a good man in this life?"
Xiè Wēilóu's steps faltered slightly, pressed down by the wind.
"A good man?" He laughed softly, the sound as thin as falling snow.
"A good man wouldn't have lived long enough to retrieve her body." With that, he pushed the door open, his silhouette swiftly devoured by the swirling snow.
The hand she had gripped last remained tucked into his sleeve, never to be revealed again. He was still the Lord of the Listening Rain Tower, but the killing blade now carried a faint, indelible scent of strong liquor.
Inside, Shěn Huái clung to the cold casket like a sacred treasure, pressing it to his cheek. His tears finally broke, and he cried like a child.
"You've come home… Xī'er, I brought you home… no one can hurt you anymore…"