Jiu Chong Zi · Conversa

The swirling snow crushed the last bit of twilight in the capital. The north wind rolled with a chill through the long streets, brushing past thousands of eaves and stirring the brass wind chimes, their sound much like the unsheathing of swords. The sunset sank into the distant mountains, leaving only a streak of cold red, like silk soaked in blood. Flags on the city tower snapped in the wind, and lights in the palace flickered on one by one, yet they offered no warmth—seen through the curtain of snow, the light was blurred and distant, as if separated by a lifetime. Someone was galloping at the city gates. Horse hooves shattered the accumulated snow, splashing mud. Song Mo, clad in black armor, led five thousand troops, their banners fluttering like fury in the wind and snow. His face was as calm as water, yet frost and snow had settled in the depths of his eyes, and the long blade in his hand reflected the dying sun. After tonight, some will die, some will live, and some will be crushed into dust by history. Inside the palace, it was even quieter. The Crown Prince sat upright, his red robes like blood, the cup of tea before him long since cold. He gazed at the old locust tree outside the window that had been withered for years, remembering planting it with his father when he was a child; back then, the branches were lush and the courtyard was full of spring. Now the tree is withered, and the people have scattered. He lowered his eyes, his Adam's apple trembling slightly, but he never let that tear fall. In Zhending, thousands of miles away, snow similarly blanketed the courtyard of the Marquis of Jining's residence. Dou Zhao stood under the corridor, watching the snow cover the plum tree her mother had planted with her own hands; the remaining red on the branches had not yet fallen, looking like congealed blood. She clutched a letter in her hand, her fingertips turning white. The handwriting on the letter belonged to her younger sister, Dou Ming, but every word was a stab to the heart—the affair was written about nakedly and plainly. Fifteen years of forbearance, marrying in someone else's stead, being exploited, and being drained—every single matter flooded her heart. The magnolia tree where her mother hanged herself had been in full bloom when she left, but upon her return, only withered branches remained. She gritted her teeth and turned to pack her bags. She would leave tonight, not even wanting the divorce papers; she felt nauseated just catching a glimpse of Wei Tingyu's face. Snow was heavy when she galloped out of the city. She didn't know where to go, only that she could never return to Zhending. Horse hooves shattered the desolate paths as she raced deep into the twilight, the wind scattering her hair and tears freezing on her face. The bell of Wanfo Temple echoed heavily through the snow curtain. Before the Buddha, the green lamp flickered like a bean, and Yuantong stood holding prayer beads, as if he had long been waiting for someone. Song Mo reined in his horse outside the mountain gate, and Dou Zhao's carriage arrived almost at the same time. The two looked at each other through the wind and snow, neither speaking. The sound of pursuers behind them grew closer. Yuantong pushed open the Mirror Gate and said, "There is a path here." Dou Zhao looked back at Song Mo as she crossed the threshold—this man, whose name she had only heard in rumors, was standing on the same path to death as her tonight. She wanted to say something, but an arrow had already pierced the air. It pierced the mirror, pierced her chest, and pierced through these fifteen years of enduring humiliation. She fell, seeing Song Mo reaching out to her, and also seeing the light from the cracked Mirror Gate engulfing everything. Snow fell on her fingertips as they gradually lost warmth, like the kiss her mother had left all those years ago. Then everything went dark—and when it brightened again, sunlight streamed through the window, impossibly warm. Four-year-old Dou Zhao lay in her mother's arms, hearing her mother whisper, "Nannuan is awake." Outside the window, the magnolias were in full bloom, the whole tree as white as snow. Nothing had started yet. There was still time for everything. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the direction of the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>