Time slips like falling petals or flowing water, brushing past fingertips, gone in a flash.
In the blink of an eye, it was the fifteenth of the first month, the Lantern Festival. As if spring arrived overnight, pear blossoms bloomed across thousands of trees, and goose-feather snow fell, draping Ye City from the Wei King’s Mansion to the distant Farewell Pavilion in silver.
Ji Qingyan, clad in a scarlet fox-fur coat, sat in the pavilion, her cheeks flushed with a tipsy glow, her alluring phoenix eyes gazing toward the end of the post road.
Three days ago, Ji Yanqing had returned her sword Chengying. But seeing her long-lost blade didn’t bring the expected joy.
Holding the heavy sword, she felt a pang of loss, as if reclaiming Chengying meant letting something else vital slip away.
She knew if she didn’t leave now, she might never.
So, at the third quarter of the Tiger Hour, in pitch darkness, Ji Qingyan packed, scaled the wall, and left the Wei King’s Mansion.
Her lotus feet tapped the eaves, and with a leap, she vanished among the tiles.
At the city gate, she spotted an open tavern, its faded banner fluttering in the winter wind. Empty tables and chairs sat as intoxicating wine aroma wafted from jars, tempting a sip.
In the bitter cold, liquor was a fine warmer and sorrow-soother.
Luckily, Ji Qingyan carried a few taels of silver from her sect. Living and eating at the mansion’s expense, she’d spent nothing and even earned some.
She’d thoroughly fleeced the Heir.
A jug of liquor was affordable.
But her scarlet fox-fur coat cost at least three thousand taels—priceless, even. Not to mention the Heavenly-tier sword Xiaolian at her waist.
Swords listed in the Sword Registry weren’t measured in silver. Martial lords had slaughtered sects for such blades, stirring bloodbaths.
Ji Qingyan sighed, placing silver on the counter, taking the filled wine gourd, uncorking it, and gulping deeply.
Liquor could be bought, but Ji Yanqing’s kindness could only be repaid in kind—a debt so heavy she couldn’t fathom settling it in this lifetime.
Even a life-saving debt, to her, required saving him five or six times to balance.
But as a heroine, tailing the Heir like a lovesick girl instead of upholding justice was absurd.
With Ji Yanqing’s survival instincts, sleeping with ten Transformation Realm guards at his door, not even a fly could get through.
Even a top-tier Purple Plume assassin couldn’t breach the Gan brothers and Mo Pang to take his life.
And any threat that could endanger him? She’d likely die rushing in with her sword.
Burdened by thoughts of repayment, Ji Qingyan wandered to the pavilion outside Ye City, a place for farewells.
Gazing at the snow-covered structure, she stepped in, brushed frost from a stone bench, and sat quietly.
For some reason, this outsider felt a friend would come to see her off.
…
Clop, clop—
Hooves crunched through snow, drawing nearer from the woods.
A strikingly handsome youth in a dark gray gilded cloak gripped the reins of a rare steed, galloping toward the pavilion.
It was the Wei King’s Heir, Ji Yanqing.
Yesterday, a rare sunny day, he and Xie Lingwan visited Nanshan Temple to pray for the New Year and have a monk divine his marriage fate.
His birth details were ready.
The monk, after reading Ji Yanqing’s fate, paled. He’d seen peach-blossom fates, but Ji Yanqing’s were unprecedented in number and peril.
This wasn’t a mere peach-blossom calamity but a legendary peach-blossom Shura field—one misstep, and he’d die by a beauty’s sword.
Whether waist or loins, the monk didn’t specify, but both seemed likely.
‘No field is over-plowed, only oxen die of exhaustion.’
Given Ji Yanqing’s status and notorious reputation, the monk dared not speak plainly, lest he anger the Heir and stain the temple with blood.
But Buddha cherishes life. Not warning him would be akin to killing—a grave sin.
So, the monk said tactfully, “Your Highness, your charm and peach-blossom fate are unmatched in my seventy years. Mind your health, avoid sordid places, and your romantic blessings will envy others.”
Ji Yanqing smiled, nodded, and donated thousands of taels for incense, earning goodwill.
But Xie Lingwan pursed her lips, nails digging into her snowy skin, nearly drawing blood, far from pleased at his “blessings.”
Perhaps on a whim or long-held worry, Xie asked the monk to read her fate. After giving her birth details, the monk nearly ascended to paradise, face ashen.
Her fate was graver than Ji Yanqing’s, but she seemed to know his fear and didn’t press.
Taking a gold ingot from her sleeve, she placed it on the table, saying icily, “You’re quite accurate.”
A different woman from the one with Ji Yanqing.
That evening, Ji Yanqing probed Xie’s hidden secrets, but she deflected with seductive smiles, her creamy shoulder resting on his knee.
In Canglan Goddess Chronicles, the story centered on the male lead. Xie, though stunning, was a minor character with little screen time.
Ji Yanqing knew little of her past.
They talked into the night, and he only gleaned it involved an old Xiao family matter. Xie played dumb, unwilling to elaborate.
He didn’t press, staying up with her by the fire.
Returning to his chambers past the Ox Hour, he’d barely closed his eyes when a spy reported Ji Qingyan had left Ye City, sitting in the Farewell Pavilion, as if waiting.
Ji Yanqing dressed, mounted his Night-Shining Jade Lion, and raced to the pavilion.
After a swift ride, he spotted her scarlet figure.
Hooves stilled, snow still fell.
In the pavilion, Ji Qingyan saw the youth approach through the snow, her lips curving, her smile blooming like flowers, time freezing in that moment.