Sword Shattering a Thousand Mountains

Qi Jingfan remembered meeting Qu Qingmo for the first time, in a plum garden at dusk. The wind and snow were bitterly cold, but the little girl, who was about as tall as he was, felt wonderfully warm. She took his hand, gave him her short jacket, and stood in front of him to shield him from the wind and snow. With rosy cheeks and a wooden peach-wood sword in hand, she naively promised to protect him.

Later, he died in the snow, in a winter just as cold. The snow lingered on the branches without melting, while bright red blood trickled from his chest. The young boy closed his eyes and never saw her face again.

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The late crown prince of Great Qi, a falcon of the Eder grasslands, a cold and handsome man nearing twenty, took a wife.

A slave, a servant, a concubine, a subject.

Everyone knew she belonged to him, but her heart was never at ease for a single day. She did everything she could to escape.

So they clashed at every turn, ready to fight. She tore down the sheep pen, smashed inkstones, and even burned the bamboo slips he used to read memorials, defying him at every opportunity. She refused to call him her husband, always gazing across the Gobi grasslands toward the homeland she missed.

And there was also the childhood friend who had grown up alongside her, their bond as innocent as it was close.

Later, the royal court was consumed by fire. She finally escaped as she had wished, and returned to the homeland she had longed for.

When they met again, she put away her sword and dressed once more as a woman. Standing beside her father and brothers, cheeks flushed, she gave a huff and still refused to call him her husband.

Qi Jingfan spent more than ten years crossing Tong Pass, subduing thirty-three cities, and bringing peace and prosperity to the land.

During that journey came plague, severe drought, and floods. At the most difficult time, he lay dying in her arms.

She cut her wrist and fed him her blood, leaning down to whisper in his ear,