Lotus Blooms in Winter

Book Two: Baobei

Darling, don’t worry…

…I’ll be alright.

CHAPTER ONE : Escape

750 years ago.

The Eastern Sea Palace was a realm of untold splendor. Its crystal halls shimmered with the refracted light of the ocean, and the walls whispered with the soft echoes of ancient power. For most, it was a place of wonder and awe. 

For Ao Bing, it was a prison of glass. Fragile, transparent, and impossible to break.

As the youngest prince of the Eastern Sea, Ao Bing had spent his childhood striving to earn his father’s approval. The Dragon Emperor, Ao Guang, was a figure of immense authority—stern, commanding, and impossible to please. The weight of his expectations pressed heavily on all his children, but it especially seemed to bear down on Ao Bing with particular cruelty.

“Jianyu, again!” 

The Emperor’s voice split through the training courtyard like a crashing tide, reverberating off the polished stone pillars that lined the space. The air, thick with the lingering scent of incense and sweat, pressed against Ao Bing’s skin as he fought to steady his breath.

His fingers trembled against the shaft of his spear, slick with perspiration. The sharp sting of exertion burned through his shoulders and arms, his muscles quivered with fatigue. He had lost count of how many times he had drilled this form, how many times his father had barked corrections in that unyielding tone that carried neither patience nor warmth.

“But, Father—” Ao Bing’s voice came out raw, the words barely formed before they were crushed beneath the weight of his father’s fury.

“Enough!” Ao Guang’s golden eyes burned like fire beneath the waves. “Your brothers have mastered this spear form effortlessly. Are you incapable of the same?”

Ao Bing’s gaze flickered to the edge of the courtyard, where his older siblings stood like statues carved from the same jade and steel that shaped their father. Ao Jia, the eldest, kept his spine rigid, his hands clasped tightly behind him. He nodded once toward their father—hesitant, measured—but the sharp angles of his face softened when his eyes met Ao Bing’s. A flicker of something that looked like pity passed through his features, quickly buried beneath the weight of duty.

Ao Yi, standing beside him, was unreadable. Arms crossed over his chest, he observed in silence, his blue eyes betraying nothing. But there, just for a heartbeat, Ao Bing caught the faintest shift in his expression, a small crease between his brows: a flicker of understanding.

A lump formed in Ao Bing’s throat, but he swallowed it down. There was no room for hesitation, no space for weakness. He tightened his grip on the spear and forced his aching limbs into motion.

“I’ll try again,” Ao Bing muttered, his voice barely audible.

“You’ll succeed, or you’ll disgrace this family!” the Emperor snapped, before turning away.

The wind stirred, cool against the heat of Ao Bing’s skin. The courtyard, vast and unyielding, seemed to close in around him. He raised his spear once more, steadying himself against the burden of expectation, against the knowledge that no matter how hard he fought, it would never be enough.

Later, alone in his chambers, Ao Bing stared out of his window, watching the fish flit through the coral gardens below. Bioluminescent anemones pulsed with a soft glow, their delicate tendrils swaying with the current, but he barely saw them. The water shimmered beyond the glass, the gentle sway of kelp and drifting currents at odds with the storm of thoughts in his mind.

The day’s failures played over and over in his mind, each one a sting to his pride. He gritted his teeth, his fingers tightening against the windowsill. He had tried. Again and again. But no matter how many times he corrected his stance or adjusted his grip, his father’s disappointment had clung to him.

His brothers never seemed to falter beneath their father’s scrutiny. They bore the Emperor’s sharp words like armor, deflecting them, compartmentalizing his relentless criticism with an ease that felt impossible to Ao Bing. He wished he could do the same, but the words lodged in his chest like fish hooks, pulling at something raw and tender inside him. He was too young to bear this weight alone—only the equivalent of a twelve-year-old mortal—but his father expected him to be more. 

To be as unshakable as the ocean itself. But Ao Bing wasn’t like his father, or even like his brothers.

In the quiet moments, when the palace’s grandeur felt the most hollow, he thought of his mother.

She had been the only softness in his world. Where Ao Guang was commanding and relentless, she had been gentle and patient, like a calm tide against jagged cliffs. Her laughter had been like the lapping of waves, warm and soothing, and when she held him, the world had felt safe, even in its vastness.

When he was very young, she would pull him into her embrace, smoothing his silver-white hair as she whispered lullabies that spoke of the vast, unending sea "The ocean can be kind," she had once told him, cradling his tiny hands between hers. "And it can be cruel. But a ruler does not need to choose between the two. A ruler must know when to be one, and when to be the other."

He had wanted to be like her.

But too soon, she was gone.

A sickness, swift and merciless, had taken her from him before he could even begin to understand what loss truly meant. One day she had been there, a steady presence beside him, brushing salt from his cheeks, singing him to sleep. The next, her chambers had gone dark and cold, the scent of her magnolia-infused oils lingering like a ghost in the empty space she left behind.

His father had buried his grief beneath duty, becoming even more exacting and distant. His brothers, already older, had found their own ways to cope—throwing themselves into their respective roles, But Ao Bing had been just a child. And unlike them, he had no armor. He felt too deeply.

Compassion had become a scarce resource in the palace, and there were days when Ao Bing wondered if he had imagined the warmth she once brought. His father never spoke of her. His brothers rarely did. It was as if she had never existed. And yet, for Ao Bing, the loss never faded. It festered.

But at least there had been one person who had understood. His Second Uncle, Ao Qin, the Emperor’s younger brother, was nothing like his stern oldest sibling. 

He carried none of his brother’s harsh edges, his presence a stark contrast to the cold austerity of the imperial court. His long robes, embroidered with waves and silver fish, always seemed slightly disheveled, as if he had been caught in the middle of something far more interesting than political affairs. His laughter, rich and genuine, echoed through the grand halls like a melody, lightening the oppressive weight that often hung over the palace.

When Ao Bing stumbled in his lessons or failed to meet his father’s expectations, it was never his brothers who came to find him. Never his tutors, never the royal attendants. It was always Ao Qin.

He would appear without fanfare, moving through the coral-laced gardens with the ease of someone who had long since abandoned the rigid formalities of court. Sometimes, he would bring a small gift—a polished shell, a delicate trinket from the mortal realm, or a book filled with stories of places Ao Bing had never seen. But more often than not, he brought only his presence, which was comfort enough.

“Your father’s heart is heavy,” Ao Qin would say, resting a steady hand on Ao Bing’s shoulder, his touch light but grounding. “He wants to prepare you for the weight of your royal duties. But you mustn’t let his harshness consume you. You have a kind heart, Jianyu. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”

Ao Bing exhaled, opening his eyes again. He traced the shifting lights of the ocean, the ghostly outlines of the distant reefs. His Second Uncle had never demanded strength from him, had never expected him to harden himself into something unbreakable. He had simply seen him—his grief, his struggles, his desperate need to hold onto something kind in a world that rewarded only power.

Tomorrow, Ao Bing would return to training. He would hold his spear and face his father’s expectations once more. But for tonight, he let himself feel the loneliness of a boy who had never learned how to harden his heart.

During a particularly low moment, Ao Bing met Li Nezha in a chance encounter outside of the Crystal Palace walls.

The Third Prince of the Heavenly Kingdom was everything Ao Bing was not: carefree, rebellious, and irreverent. At first, neither of them knew who the other was. They did not want to let the other know of their royal lineages in fear they would be found out. It was a rare and fragile thing, this anonymity, and neither of them wanted to break the illusion.

So they met in secret, slipping away from their gilded prisons whenever they could. They shed their titles like discarded robes, leaving behind the weight of expectation, duty, and bloodlines. When they were together, they were not the Youngest Son of the Eastern Sea and the Third Prince of the Heavenly Kingdom—they were just two boys, finding solace in the quiet freedom of each other’s company.

Together, they were only just Jianyu and Zhenwei.

Their meetings became a routine neither of them spoke of but always understood. Some days, they chased each other along the riverbanks, kicking up sprays of water, their laughter echoing into the wind. Other days, they sparred until they were breathless, neither holding back in a way they never dared with their official tutors. Li Nezha fought with a wild, unrestrained joy, unafraid of imperfection, while Ao Bing fought with quiet, precise determination—two opposites, clashing and colliding in harmony.

But it wasn’t all battles and mischief. Li Nezha would talk about the heavens, about the rigid rules of his father’s house, about how he felt about being groomed for war. Ao Bing would listen, gaze unreadable, before murmuring his own secrets—how his father’s approval always felt out of reach, how he envied the ease with which his brothers carried themselves, how the walls of his home sometimes felt like they were closing in.

It was a strange kind of friendship—built on secrecy and unspoken truths. In a world where they were expected to be warriors and rulers, they had found someone with whom they could simply be. Li Nezha was a whirlwind, dragging Ao Bing into a world that felt impossibly far from the suffocating corridors of the palace. For the first time in years, Ao Bing felt free.

One particular night, the two boys lay sprawled on a grassy hillside, the sky above them a vast canvas of glittering stars. The chill of the evening air didn’t bother them; their laughter and the lingering adrenaline from the day’s adventures kept them warm.

“What do you think it’s like?” Li Nezha asked suddenly, his voice unusually quiet.

Ao Bing turned his head to look at him. “What’s what like?”

“To just...live.” Li Nezha stretched an arm toward the sky, tracing imaginary constellations with his finger. “No titles, no expectations. Just… living.”

Ao Bing frowned, his gaze drifting upward. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”

Li Nezha turned on his side, propping his head on his hand. “Come on, Jianyu. Don’t tell me you’ve never wondered. If you could be anything else in the world, anything at all, what would it be?”

Ao Bing hesitated, the weight of the question settling over him. “Maybe… I’d sail around the world,” he said softly. “Out at sea, away from everything. Just the water and the horizon.”

A bit embarrassed about his answer, Ao Bing stopped himself from going any further. He expected the other boy to say something snarky or sarcastic, but instead he simply said, “That sounds nice.”

“What about you?” Ao Bing asked.

“I think I’d want to be a nomad,” said Li Nezha. “Just me, traveling the realms. Chasing adventure!” He laughed at himself. ‘‘Sounds so ridiculous when I say it out loud.”

“So I’d sail the seas and you’d wander the land,” said Ao Bing wistfully. 

Li Nezha sighed and looked back up at the stars. “Would you join me once you’re done sailing around the world?”

Ao Bing let out a small chuckle. “Sure.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment, filled only by the sound of crickets in the distance. 

In that moment, it felt like the stars were closer.

Author’s Note: