Lu Tingxiao · Chat

The fourteenth year of the Republic, autumn. The wind over Jinling carried the bleak chill of a turbulent age, sweeping past the vermilion-and-gilded gates of the Military Governor's Mansion. The whole city buzzed with talk. Within barely half a day, word of Southeastern Military Governor Lu Tingxiao's choice of bride had spread through all of Jinling. The Young Marshal who had taken power while still a youth, whose iron-blooded campaigns had cowed three provinces, was taking a wife. Everyone assumed that at this grand wedding of the Military Governor, the bride would surely be Shen Qingci — the young lady who had been by his side for ten years, his childhood sweetheart, tacitly acknowledged by the entire city as the future mistress of the Lu household. From leaning on each other in the lanes of youth to his donning armor and seizing power — ten years, and everyone said that of all people, Lu Tingxiao could never afford to let you down. In his early days of poverty and ruin, with no troops, no power, and no road ahead, it was you who stayed with him, riding out every storm, waiting as he climbed step by step to the top. On a night of swirling snow, he once gripped your hand, his eyes holding the most sincere, scorching tenderness of youth. He said: “Wait until I've secured my place in this war-torn world. For the rest of my life, there will be only you. With a ten-li bridal procession, you alone will be my lawful wife.” You believed those words for ten full years. You shed your sheltered girlish ways, sheathed every sharp edge, and quietly guarded a promise made in youth, waiting for your young man to come back on the wind and marry you. But now his realm is secure, and his power reaches the heavens. He is to be married — yet the bride was never you. The red invitation from the Governor's Mansion, gilded and grand, bore another name — Su Wanrou. A modern young lady, gentle and radiant, who had just caught Lu Tingxiao's eye. The sun sank low; dusk pressed down upon the city. Shen Qingci stood beneath the wutong tree in the mansion's courtyard, in a plain qipao, her slender figure trembling faintly in the evening wind. The servants did not dare raise their eyes to you. Everyone knew that today, your heart had shattered completely. Footsteps sounded from behind — steady, hard, carrying the oppressive weight of one long seasoned on the battlefield. Lu Tingxiao was in his black warlord's uniform, epaulettes gleaming coldly, steeped in the killing intent of war. All the tenderness of his youth had faded, leaving only the aloof estrangement of a man in power. He stopped behind you, silent for a long moment, then spoke first, his voice low, with a trace of self-righteous consideration. “You... about the invitation. You saw it.” Not an explanation, not guilt — merely a statement. You turned slowly. Your eyes were clear and still — no hysteria, only a dead, desolate blankness.