Chapter 1: C1. Childhood Sweethearts.

Chapter 1

The autumn air was sharp and biting, yet perfectly clear—a mid-September gift from the heavens. It brought with it a certain restlessness, a vibrant hum that filled the veins of the young nobles who flocked to the polo ground. Energy, indulgence, and competition simmered beneath the surface, ready to boil over.

To the west of the capital sprawled the famed polo ground. Once the playground of a Great Xia Dynasty general obsessed with the sport, the fields had been confiscated by the Heavenly Family after his fall from grace. Ever pragmatic—and endlessly hungry for coin—the imperial household slapped a price tag on access and placed eunuchs in charge. Over the years, this once-private arena transformed into a hunting ground for noble children thirsty for glory, where spectators sipped their tea and whispered intrigues.

The grounds themselves were a vision of opulence and power. The field, a sea of green, was bordered by brocade-draped pavilions. The centerpiece was the towering Star-Gazing Pavilion, reserved exclusively for the imperial family. To its left lounged the men, full of bravado and casual dominance. To the right, the women played their own games of glances and veiled ambitions.

In the far Luoxia Pavilion, a group of ladies clad in colorful skirts awaited the start of the match. The air buzzed with speculation.

"Will it begin soon?" a delicate voice asked, more out of impatience than curiosity.

"Patience," came the reply, dripping with condescension. "The eunuchs are ensuring the field is safe. Once that's done, the players will enter."

"But," another chimed in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "have you heard? Imperial Uncle might make an appearance today."

"Of course, at least half of the ladies attending today's game came to see him," another responded.

That last comment hung in the air, setting hearts fluttering and tempers flaring. Cao Shao—the Imperial Uncle. Younger brother to the Empress, a military star with a face to match his renown. To say he was desired would be an understatement. Half the women present had come just to catch a glimpse of him.

A woman in red, her lips curling in a knowing smile, leaned closer to her cousin. "He might be charming," she said softly, "but he’s spoken for. His heart belongs to Li Yunzhu of Duke Ningguo’s mansion. Childhood sweethearts, destined by their families to wed." She paused for effect. "If not for her grandfather’s death and their two years of mourning, they’d already be married."

Her cousin, newly arrived in the capital, widened her eyes and whispered back, "And where is this Li Yunzhu?"

The woman in red smirked and subtly gestured. "See the girl in green? That’s her."

The cousin, barely concealing her curiosity, tilted her fan and stole a glance.

West of the Star Observation Tower stand four distinct pavilions, each capable of comfortably hosting about ten guests. Between them lies a corridor lined with ornate chairs, a space meant to enhance the scene’s aesthetic charm. On busier days, when crowds swell beyond capacity, the pavilions are reserved for the elite, relegating women of lesser status to the corridor—a clear, unspoken hierarchy in action.

Today, fortune has worked its quiet magic. The woman in red—her father merely a fifth-grade military attaché—has managed to claim a spot in the farthest Luoxia Pavilion. She sits with a quiet defiance, as though the distance doesn’t sting, though the prime seats in the Qingfeng and Guihe Pavilions remain the domain of the truly privileged, the daughters of noble houses stationed closest to the towering hub of attention.

Her cousin, reaching lazily for her tea, freezes mid-motion as her gaze flickers toward the corridor stretching toward the Qingfeng Pavilion. Something unexpected breaks the monotony of the scene—a fleeting glimpse of Li Yunzhu, whose presence defies the predictable choreography of passage and power.

Li Yunzhu, draped in the stark simplicity of mourning attire after the somber rituals at Duke Ningguo's mansion, was an understated vision of allure. The plain white jacket and jade-green gauze skirt, modestly adorned with embroidered lotus patterns, seemed almost irrelevant—her raw, natural beauty seized attention with a force that couldn’t be ignored.

The cousins, dumbstruck, found themselves helplessly ensnared by her magnetism.

The woman in the red dress maintained her poise, her movements deliberate as she nudged her cousin's arm, urging her to straighten up with a subtle yet commanding gesture.

But her cousin caught red-handed in the act of stealing a glance, blushed a furious pink. Fidgeting, she adjusted her posture only to risk another daring peek. "She's *breathtaking*," she murmured, her voice low and tinged with awe.

The red-dressed woman nodded, her lips curling into a faint smile of both acknowledgment and envy. "She is," she admitted, her voice carrying a knowing edge. "The first time I saw her, I couldn’t look away either. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Only a beauty of her caliber could turn Imperial Uncle's head..."

Here’s the translation with the requested tone:

Her cousin butted in, sharp and demanding, “How?”

The woman in the red dress, not missing a beat, let a sly smirk creep onto her lips before answering, her words laced with teasing mystery. “You’ll see soon enough. After all, we’re both here, aren’t we?”

The elders didn’t mince words when they gossiped about it: the Imperial Uncle was utterly obsessed with Li Yunzhu, so smitten he couldn’t even muster the backbone to think for himself.

*

Li Yunzhu couldn't have cared less about the idle chatter of the cousins or the busy crowd that ebbed and flowed around her. Her attention barely skimmed over the scene at Qingfeng Pavilion—packed to the brim with gaggles of noblewomen trading veiled barbs and counterfeit smiles. A glance toward Guihe Pavilion, quieter and less congested, sparked a flicker of consideration in her eyes.

Just as she shifted to sidestep the mob at Qingfeng Pavilion, a voice rang out, smooth yet weighted with the commanding tone of practiced dominance. “Yunzhu, over here!”

The call came from Sun Yurong, seated at the head of the pavilion like some self-anointed queen. Her golden hairpin caught the sunlight, and the jewels dangling from her ears swayed with an arrogance that seemed almost palpable.

A painted smile curled on Yurong's lips as she turned to the pale, doe-eyed girl tucked into the farthest corner of the room. “Seventh Sister,” she drawled, her words dipped in saccharine condescension, “I had no idea Yunzhu would grace us with her presence. How remiss of me not to save her a seat. Since Qingfeng Pavilion is mine for the day, we certainly can’t send her elsewhere. You’ll understand if I ask you to make room.”

Miss Sun Qi—timid, marginalized, and the daughter of a concubine—flushed a mottled green and red. She rose on unsteady legs, her gaze darting to Yunzhu with a silent plea, as if hoping for some intervention.

The other ladies in the pavilion exchanged looks. A few simpered at Sun Yurong’s display of authority, their laughter ringing hollow. The rest watched Yunzhu, their expressions tense, wary of the defiant streak for which she was known.

Yunzhu, unfazed, let her gaze drift lazily to the empty seat. A subtle smile touched her lips as she asked, her tone a perfect blend of innocence and pointed mockery, “Yurong, are you sure you want me to sit here?”

Sun Yurong’s answering smile was tight, forced. “Of course. We’ve been friends since childhood, haven’t we?”

Memories flared in Yunzhu’s mind—childhood afternoons marred by Sun Yurong’s petty cruelty, the elder girl’s delight in tears she caused but never cared to wipe away. Friendships born of proximity rather than choice were hardly worth the name.

Yet, she moved to take the offered seat, her every step deliberate, her voice cutting like silk through the brittle atmosphere. “You went to such trouble asking Seventh Sister to move. It would be rude not to accept your ‘sincere’ invitation. After all, sincerity like yours should come without regret, shouldn’t it?”

The faintest flicker of unease broke through Sun Yurong’s mask, but before she could retort, her ally Miss He seized the opportunity to intervene. Clicking her tongue, she sneered, “Miss Li, how unbecoming. Yurong’s invitation is full of warmth, yet here you are, posturing like the mistress of the house. Do you not feel ashamed?”

Yunzhu’s eyes narrowed, her smile sharpening like a blade. “Ashamed?” she echoed, her voice calm but laced with steel. Her gaze flicked to Sun Yurong. “What do you think, Yurong? Am I rude?”

Caught off guard, Sun Yurong stiffened. She had planned to mock Yunzhu from her throne of false hospitality, not defend her. Still, she rallied, her voice oozing false sweetness. “How could that be? You’ve always been kind, even to those undeserving of your time.”

The air between them buzzed with unspoken hostility, a battlefield dressed in silk and smiles. Yunzhu studied her, a long, assessing look that made Sun Yurong’s carefully painted confidence falter. “On second thought,” Yunzhu said with a shrug, her tone breezy, “it seems I’ve misread the mood. Perhaps I should take my leave.”

Without waiting for permission or protest, she turned and strode toward Guihe Pavilion, her steps light, her poise unshaken.

Behind her, Miss He fumed, her words hissing through clenched teeth. “Arrogant, insufferable!” Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, admonishing her failures to embody the virtues of humility and propriety.

Sun Yurong, meanwhile, leaned back in her seat, her lips curving in a bitter smile. “Well, what can one expect from the granddaughter of a border hero and the daughter of an imperial confidante?” she murmured, feigning indifference.

But the flicker of resentment in her eyes told another story. Her father, Qi Guogong—a title stripped of its former glory—was a bloated relic of better days, clinging to a cushy role that served more as a prop for their lineage than a source of true influence. Sun Yurong’s grandeur was a facade, and she knew it.

Li Yunzhu, meanwhile, reached Guihe Pavilion without a backward glance, leaving behind the simmering tensions and petty theatrics of Qingfeng Pavilion. Some battles weren’t worth fighting—not when the victors wore crowns of ash.

*

Later, Li Yao and Cao Shao—Li Yunzhu's eldest brother and her so-called half-fiancé—entered the field astride their horses, their red robes a bold, unified statement. The duo led their team, each rider burning with purpose, while their rivals, clad in green, eyed them warily from across the arena. Ten players on each side, the battlefield was primed for competition.

Li Yao was a beast of a man—nearly two meters tall, his commanding presence like a storm on the horizon. With a face carved from stone and a physique forged by years of rigorous training, he was every inch the image of his late father, the old Duke. A general’s dream, Li Yao had the makings of a legend on the battlefield, but off it? He was a terror to the daintier women of noble society. They shrank from his raw, unapologetic masculinity, whispering their nervous awe behind fluttering fans. No love letters found their way to him, no stolen glances lingered—despite his position as the Emperor Yuanqing's personal bodyguard and heir to the illustrious Ningguo Dukedom. He was a man who commanded respect, not flirtation.

Riding alongside him was Cao Shao, a striking counterpoint to Li Yao's brute force. Equally tall and no less impressive, Cao Shao balanced scholarly refinement with a soldier's edge—a man who could pen poetry with one hand and wield a blade with the other. Ladies adored him, their hearts captured by the seamless harmony of intellect and strength he embodied. He wasn’t just handsome; he was magnetic, the kind of man who drew sighs from even the most composed women in the room.

Before the match began, Cao Shao exchanged a courteous word with Li Yao before spurring his horse toward the northern viewing platform. Dressed in crimson robes cinched with intricate embroidery, a jade crown securing his hair, and a crescent staff resting effortlessly in his grip, he looked every bit the picture of imperial elegance. His approach was like a whispered promise, pulling every eye to him—married women, betrothed maidens, and hopeful singles alike. They held their breath, their gazes shamelessly locked onto the young Imperial Uncle.

But Cao Shao, ever the enigma, did not stop beneath the Guihe Pavilion as some might have prayed. Inside, Yunzhu sat at the center of attention, a vision in her own right, flanked by unfamiliar noblewomen. Yet Cao Shao’s eyes sought her out with unerring precision.

It had been two and a half long years since he had last seen her—his visits to the Ningguo mansion interrupted by mourning for the late Duke. Now, as he beheld Yunzhu again, all the carefully rehearsed greetings he had prepared evaporated. His stare lingered, unguarded and undeniable, betraying the emotions he had tucked away.

Around them, the military attachés' daughters—bold and unrestrained by the strictures of civilian nobility—watched unabashedly. They admired Cao Shao’s commanding presence openly, envying Yunzhu for the bond she shared with such a man.

Yunzhu, for her part, could not deny a flicker of sentiment. Cao Shao was handsome, after all—a childhood playmate who had indulged her every whim with patient affection. She had missed him, though she’d never say it outright.

After all, by the tender age of thirteen or fourteen, many girls secretly cast their eyes on potential husbands. And now, with her hair pinned and her heart teetering between propriety and fondness, Yunzhu found herself wondering—just what kind of man would Cao Shao prove to be?

------TN:

[1] In Chinese ancient culture, 女子十五岁及笄 (nǚzǐ shíwǔ suì jíjī) means "a girl is 15 years old and has her hair done up in a bun with a hairpin."

[2] At that age, they would have a ceremony called 及笄 (jījī), which marked their coming of age. During the ceremony, the girl's hair would be combed up into a bun and secured with a hairpin. This signified that she was now a young woman and ready for marriage.

------

Li Yunzhu was no stranger to the rigid dance of aristocratic expectations, nor was she one to resist them. By thirteen, she had already mastered the art of scrutiny, having assessed the eligible young disciples of the capital’s elite families with a precision that bordered on clinical. Her conclusion? Cao Shao stood unrivaled, a paragon among them, surpassing the rest in every conceivable way.

As the cherished legitimate daughter of Duke Ningguo, Yunzhu knew her worth and demanded nothing less than excellence. She didn’t just deserve the best—she *was* entitled to it. Naturally, Cao Shao was the only contender worthy of the title *future husband.*

Cao Shao, to his credit, was no fool; he returned her favor with eager approval. Their families, united in mutual admiration, had all but signed the dotted line. To Yunzhu, the matter was settled—Cao Shao was her fiancé, whether he’d said the words aloud or not.

Yunzhu left her seat with deliberate grace, making her way to the southern guardrail of Guihe Pavilion. Below, in a moment calculated to perfection, Cao Shao nudged his horse forward into the sunlight, his sharp, chiseled features catching the autumn glow like the polished edge of a blade.

Yunzhu let her gaze linger. His complexion—smooth, flawless, unmarred by the indulgences that plagued lesser men of his class—pleased her immensely. *Let’s hope he keeps it that way,* she thought, imagining him ruined by arrogance or neglect like others she’d deemed unworthy.

The match’s whistle pierced the air, signaling the beginning of the game, but Yunzhu was focused elsewhere. Her tone was crisp and cutting as she called out, “What are you doing here, Cao Shao?”

The young man, well-trained in the art of verbal sparring, chose caution over sentimentality. Masking his intentions with brotherly levity, he countered, “It’s been too long, Sister Yunzhu. I was afraid you’d forget me if I didn’t remind you who I was.”

Her response was a measured smile, the kind that conveyed amusement and authority in equal measure. But before she could press further, Cao Shao retreated, an adept player both on and off the field.

Returning to her seat, Yunzhu turned her attention to the game, her eyes scanning the chaos with keen interest. Cao Shao had skill, yes, but her brother Li Yao held her concern. Polo was no mere pastime; it was a battlefield of hoof and muscle where mistakes were met with blood.

Meanwhile, on the field, Li Yao’s mind burned with fury. Recent mourning had left his family on edge, and the tense situation at the northwest border only added fuel to his fire. He suspected his father’s decisions were colored by old grudges—punitive, personal slights aimed at denying him the honor of joining the troops. To Li Yao, the polo field was no longer a game; it was war.

The polo stick in his hand became a spear, his horse a charging war steed. The ball, a target he claimed with unrelenting ferocity. His hand snapped the ball from the fray, the sharp crack ringing out like gunfire. The leather bent to his will, seams straining under his force. Cao Shao, caught off guard, could do nothing but watch as Li Yao’s raw aggression tore through the game’s rhythm.

For Cao Shao, there was a sliver of solace in the chaos. As long as Li Yao didn’t interfere with his pursuit of Yunzhu, he could tolerate the younger man’s theatrics on the field. After all, his mother had made it clear: once Duke Ningguo returned victorious from the border, the marriage proposal would be sent. It was only a matter of time.

Smiling faintly, Cao Shao pushed aside the sting of competition and joined Li Yao in defending their team. Even as the game raged on, his gaze drifted back to the pavilion where Yunzhu sat, serene and watchful.

*

After ten days of relentless grind at the northern frontier, Duke Ningguo, Li Yong, finally marched his troops into Ganzhou.

The dynasty—once a towering colossus forged over two centuries ago—had fallen into disrepair, its brilliance tarnished. By the time of the late emperor, the barbarians had carved their way through the northern frontier, turning the dynasty’s former strength into a brittle façade.

The veterans of the "Uncle Generation," once the embodiment of steel-clad valor, were now reduced to legends—distant echoes of battles where Hu cavalry broke under their might. Yet courage alone could not halt the steady march of history; the dynasty’s weakened sinews betrayed their bravery, ceding territory to the Hu inch by bloody inch.

But fate, capricious as it was, delivered a savior in the waning days of the late emperor: a shrewd and calculating chief minister whose audacity breathed new life into a faltering empire. Under his stewardship, the treasury swelled, the people prospered, and the military sharpened its edge.

Twenty years ago, Emperor Yuan Qing seized an opportunity born of infighting among the Hu tribes and embarked on the monumental task of reclaiming the lost borderlands. Today, only the prefectures of Shuo, Gan, and Su remained in enemy hands.

It was in this crucible of ambition and bloodshed that Li Yong found himself. The fire in his chest burned hotter with every passing battle. No longer content with the courtesies of court, he sought the front lines with a vigor that belied his age. Civilized yet deadly, the Duke had spent over a decade yearning for this moment—to carve his name into the annals of history, blade in hand.

They thought he was a relic, a dusty scholar unfit for command?

This time, he’d prove them wrong. Even the old ghosts in Jiuquan would bow to his mastery of war!

*

Yet reality struck with merciless precision. By mid-September, his attempt to storm Ganzhou City ended in humiliating failure. By October, a botched ambush targeting Hu supply lines left his forces crippled. Losses mounted. A reckless gambit in mid-October saw Li Yong leading over 10,000 cavalry into a canyon, only to be surrounded by Hu forces. The trap snapped shut, and the Duke teetered on the edge of ruin.

Salvation came in the form of reinforcements. The Great Imperial Uncle, Cao Xun, charged into the fray with Shuozhou’s finest, turning the tide after two grueling hours of combat. The Hu soldiers were annihilated.

But not before Li Yong paid the price. An arrow pierced his left shoulder, and a blade had grazed his right side. Captured but alive, the Hu general seemed intent on using him as a trophy. Immobilized, Li Yong could only watch as Cao Xun and his men descended upon the battlefield like divine retribution.

He couldn't move and could only watch as Cao Xun's men descended like divine soldiers from the sky.

Through the chaos, Li Yong spotted Cao Xun—a figure drenched in blood, sword in hand, cutting down Hu soldiers with an almost supernatural ferocity. For a fleeting moment, the sight unsettled him.

Cao Xun, the man he had known as a boy, had transformed. Their fathers had been comrades-in-arms, sharing the same rank and battlefield glory. Despite being a decade younger, Cao Xun had earned his stripes under his father’s tutelage while Li Yong watched from the sidelines, restrained by his own father’s overprotective hand.

Now twenty-nine, Cao Xun was no longer the spirited youth Li Yong once knew. Thirteen years had passed since their last meeting, and the young man had grown into a seasoned warrior whose resolve rivaled that of their forebears.

This side of Cao Xun made Li Yong feel very strange.

Their fathers were both esteemed military generals, each bearing the title of duke. Hardened by decades of blood-soaked campaigns, they forged a bond of camaraderie on the battlefield that ran deeper than mere friendship. Cao Xun's father, a few years younger than Li Yong's, had his first child later in life, making Cao Xun a full ten years junior to Li Yong. Yet, a decade's difference was nothing to Li Yong, who always regarded Cao Xun as a brother

By the time Cao Xun turned sixteen, Li Yong was already married and juggling fatherhood. While Li Yong's father, ever the cautious strategist, kept his son away from the command of troops, Uncle Cao saw something raw and untamed in Cao Xun. He took the boy under his wing, shaping him into a warrior. When Emperor Yuan Qing once questioned Cao Xun's ambitions, the boy, unflinching and brash, responded with biting conviction: "A family means nothing if the borders are left to crumble."

From that moment forward, Cao Xun proved himself, following Uncle Cao into the fiery chaos of the border skirmishes. When death finally claimed Uncle Cao on the battlefield, it was Cao Xun who stepped up without hesitation. With steel resolve, he honored both bloodline and duty, defending the border city as if his life alone held it together.

*

After slaying the last of the Hu generals, Cao Xun slid his bloodstained sword back into its sheath. His sharp, unrelenting gaze locked onto Li Yong as he strode forward, each step deliberate and commanding.

Li Yong felt a flush of shame rise in his chest.

To Cao Xun’s men, Duke Ningguo might have been useless on the battlefield, but his sheer elegance and striking looks had a way of excusing even his most humiliating failures. Even now, in his current sorry state, his noble aura seemed more a result of casual misfortune than any real disgrace—a dragon caught in the shallows, biding its time.

But Cao Xun saw through the facade. He’d always known Li Yong was more than just a pretty face.

Without a word, Cao Xun knelt down, the heavy silence between them crackling with unspoken tension. His hands were steady, deliberate, as he untied the ropes binding Li Yong.

Li Yong winced but forced himself to keep his composure. He watched as Cao Xun began inspecting his wounds, his movements rough but precise. Smiling bitterly, Li Yong broke the silence. “More than ten years since we last met, and this is how we find each other again. I never would have imagined it.”

Cao Xun’s sharp eyes flicked up to meet his. “Victory and defeat are just the ebb and flow of a soldier’s life,” he replied, voice firm but measured. “Brother Li, don’t let it weigh on you.”

Li Yong’s bitter smile lingered, but his injuries demanded more of his attention. The wound on his waist was manageable—nothing a few bandages couldn’t handle. The arrow in his shoulder, though, was a different story.

Cao Xun worked with methodical efficiency, first binding the waist wound. Throughout it all, he addressed Li Yong as “Brother Li,” a term that carried a weight Li Yong hadn’t quite accepted.

Memories stirred in Li Yong’s mind. Cao Shao—Cao Xun’s younger brother—was only twenty, the same age as his daughter. The thought had never crossed his mind until recently, when the marriage proposal had been accepted.

The title "brother" had made some sense before. But now? Now that his daughter was set to marry Cao Shao, things were muddled. When the wedding happened, Cao Shao would call him father-in-law. And Cao Xun? Would he have to start calling Li Yong “uncle”?

Cao Xun, oblivious to the storm brewing in Li Yong’s thoughts, furrowed his brow at the man’s deepening frown. “Brother Li, what’s wrong?” he asked, his tone uncharacteristically soft.

Li Yong shook his head quickly, brushing the thought away. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, clearly reluctant to elaborate.

The truth was, his daughter wasn’t married yet, so there was no need to overthink things now. Let Cao Xun call him whatever he wanted.

---

Author’s Note:

Hehe, update!

**Notes:**

1. The male lead is 12 years older than the female lead, so don’t expect idealized characters here.

2. This is a work of fiction. There’s no real-world equivalent, even if there is a certain powerful chief assistant of the state. He’s different from the father-in-law in my last story and doesn’t get much screen time.

Hope you all enjoy~