At the foothills of the Yan Mountains, at the Yuan military camp,

As dusk slowly spread over the land like a silk veil, the last light of day stretched shadows into long, uncertain lines. In the stony courtyard at the center of the border camp stood a figure in dark, layered wool and leather clothing, like a shadow given form.

Han Ruo, the leader of the Han family and known as the Golden Armored General, practiced swordplay alone. Each strike and defensive maneuver cut through the tension left by the day, slicing away the chaos that swirled in his mind.

In the Wei Empire, the families of generals were the veins of the empire—powerful, respected, yet closely watched. These families had risen through war and maintained their existence through the sword. The Han family was among the most prominent—until their fall.

The sword seemed to create its own wind with every movement, whispering the savage song of battle. Han Ruo’s movements were fluid, almost like a dance, but any unfortunate soul facing him knew they could not escape the edge of his blade.

His eyes were dark and deep. His soldiers had never seen him smile. Outside of issuing commands in battle, he never raised his voice. His calm, icy tone was enough to crush the spirit of any soldier who erred. He had to be this way—his family’s stable life depended on his hands.

The foundation of a general’s family was measured in blood, discipline, and loyalty to the emperor. But in the Wei court, power was always a threat. The higher a general rose, the more he was seen as a potential danger.

The Han family had fallen victim to such fear.

Even as a boy who had seen only ten winters, Han Ruo bore the weight of his family’s fate. His disciplined training bore fruit over the years, yet beyond his physical exercise, darker battles raged in his mind.

After his father’s death, he upheld the Han clan’s word:
Blood may be shed, but a promise is never broken.

His marriage to the princess of Xiango was a necessary act of that promise. In the final days of his life, Han Ruo pondered the political schemes of the Wei Empire and the false accusations against his father.

With each strike, he balanced himself physically and mentally. Escape from this marriage was impossible. This union with the daughter of his enemy was not merely a political game—it was a step in protecting his father’s honor and the family’s reputation. Under the hazy light of dusk, his eyes scanned distant tribes, the Xiango borders, and the uncertain future. In the silence, he could hear only his own breath and the sharp clang of steel—but he could not escape the shadows within his heart.

Years ago, during peace negotiations, the Khan of Xiango and his heir were poisoned. The blame had been placed on his father, as if he, his brother, and uncle had orchestrated it. Forged documents and manipulated evidence labeled them traitors, leading to their execution. As a son of a father who loved his country, Han Ruo knew they were innocent. The soldier loyal to his father had fled to the tribes and sought refuge in Xiango. Every attempt to find him had failed.

Years of victories in battle restored his family’s honor, yet the false accusation against his father remained unresolved. When Xiango realized it could not win against the Wei Empire, it reluctantly agreed to a marriage alliance. The emperor did not want further war, but for Han Ruo, the only inevitable path was marriage to the daughter of his enemy.

This marriage would not be blessed by the heavens; it would not bring love or peace. Ruo was ruthless, yet he did not harm women, and he protected children. Still, his new bride did not come from a respected family. Her family had killed their own people during the chaos in Xiango. While seeking the head of Khan Karaçay, he would marry the daughter. He sensed other dark plans at work and felt uneasy.

With a single, precise motion, he sheathed his sword and drew a deep breath. The camp air carried the smoky scent of fires, horses, and freshly butchered sheep. Hours of training had not calmed him—though the wars were said to be over, Ruo remained unsettled. After recent conflicts, the states were exhausted, but the Wei Empire marched from victory to victory, sharpening its enemies.

“General, have you finished training?”

Han Ruo turned to see Chen Bo, his lifelong attendant and comrade in arms. Chen Bo had been both his closest friend and trusted aide, relied upon as much as luck and skill in battles.

“Finished,” Ruo said, his voice deep and firm. Though one might expect him to be breathless, he stood as calm as if fully rested; his fatigue and mental turmoil never showed outwardly.

Chen Bo’s tone carried concern. “Sir, your wedding day is approaching. You haven’t chosen a group to escort the bride.”

Ruo gazed toward the horizon, thinking of raiding nomads and uncertainties along the border. While he should personally escort the bride, delegating the task made more sense under the circumstances. He sighed and said to Chen Bo, “Select a group of ten. Lead them. Take the bride to the capital. My family is aware of the wedding.”

His family had opposed this marriage. The emperor’s decree left no choice—defiance meant death, and the Han household had seen enough death already. The most opposed was his mother. The problem wasn’t just marrying the enemy’s daughter—it was that she had a wild past, unlike the noble Yuan Qingling, whom his mother had long prepared as his bride.

Ruo never considered Yuan Qingling as more than a sister. Childhood encounters had always brought them together whenever he returned home. His mother had spent years plotting their union. Fortunately, the wars had kept such plans at bay… until the imperial decree.

Chen Bo frowned. “Sir, won’t you attend the wedding ceremony?”

Han Ruo remained silent for a long moment. Then, with a sharp but resolute tone, he said, “I am dealing with border issues. I doubt I’ll make it to the ceremony.”

Chen Bo opened his mouth to argue but remained silent. The general’s decision was final. Questioning it was both forbidden and unwise. A soldier’s duty was to follow orders without fail.

Looking up at the sky, Han Ruo felt a gnawing unease. His bride waited somewhere in the unknown wilderness. Responsibility and premonition trapped him in a quiet, stern solitude. This wedding was not just a marriage—it was a mission to protect his family’s honor and the Wei Empire’s plans.

Was it safe to send her to the capital? The question gnawed at him like a wolf.

He ate his evening meal quietly—sheep meat, bread, and wine brought to his tent. The tent’s simplicity reflected both his military discipline and the coldness of his soul: a table, bamboo shelves filled with scrolls, a bed adorned with thick furs instead of silk, and a copper basin and pitcher for washing. Had he chosen a wife he loved, she would have lived here with him—but Han Ruo wanted none of that.

In this game, women were also pawns. But after his father’s deeds, he felt no pity. Even so, despite the enmity between their states, the emperor had chosen her for the marriage.

The marriage with the princess of Xiango could not be a simple act of peace. Upon receiving news, the emperor had quickly married off the crown prince, shifting the pieces of the court. A young prime minister’s daughter had been hurriedly made a crown princess. The forced union with the crown prince was a political calculation in plain sight.

Even the crown prince, a childhood friend, had subtly expressed his unease in letters to Han Ruo. Neither of them could avoid this marriage, but the weight fell heavier on Ruo. Marrying the enemy’s daughter would forever overshadow the false accusations against his father and entangle his name in a union tainted by politics.

This marriage was no blessing from the heavens—only a chain.