The Phoenix that devours fate

CHAPTER 3

HAOFENG

The golden dusk bathed Beijing in a haunting glow, its radiance stretching across the rooftops like molten amber spilling from the heavens. The streets pulsed with life—merchants haggling over silk and porcelain, the distant chime of temple bells threading through the air, and the unceasing clatter of wooden wheels against cobblestone roads. Yet, amidst the chaos, she ran—her laughter trailing behind her like a fleeting melody, too soft, too ephemeral, as if it belonged to a world untouched by mortal hands.

She ran ahead, her laughter weaving through the evening like a melody crafted by the heavens. It was a sound that did not belong to this world—too soft, too fleeting, as if it had been spun from moonlight and whispers of the wind.

I chased after her, my breath uneven, my heart pounding—not from exertion, but from the sheer, overwhelming presence of her.

Lumin.

The first daughter of the kangxi Emperor. The jewel of the imperial family.

She was sixteen. A girl untouched by time, yet burdened by fate. A delicate flower that had been confined behind palace walls, raised to be the perfect lady, the perfect daughter, the perfect wife to some noble she had never met.

And yet, she was here, running through the streets of a world far beneath her, free in a way she had never been allowed to be.

I was twenty-six. A man shaped by hardship, calloused by years of labor, by battles fought not with a blade, but with the struggle to survive. Compared to her, I was nothing—a commoner with no name of worth, no lineage to boast of.

But in this moment, none of that mattered.

She turned back, eyes glistening beneath the glow of the lanterns. And for a single breath, I forgot the rules of the world.

She was beautiful. Devastatingly so.

Her skin, pale as the first snowfall, gleamed beneath the fading sunlight, unblemished by the cruelty of time. Her lips, soft as blooming plum blossoms, curved into a smile that held both mischief and tenderness. But it was her eyes that struck me the most—large and dark, framed by lashes so thick they cast shadows upon her cheeks. They were eyes that had seen too much, understood too much, despite belonging to a girl so young.

She was born to sit upon embroidered cushions, draped in silks finer than any man could afford. Born to be served, to be worshipped as the daughter of the Son of Heaven himself.

And yet, she had chosen to love me.

"Haofeng," she called, her voice lighter than the autumn breeze.

I caught up to her, reaching for her wrist, my grip firm but gentle. "You're running too fast," I said, trying to steady my breath.

"And you're too slow," she teased, a dimple forming at the corner of her smile.

I shook my head, exhaling a soft chuckle. "Or maybe you're just too young."

She gasped, eyes narrowing. "You make it sound like I am a child."

"You are," I mused, unable to resist the way amusement played across her features. "A sixteen-year-old princess running through the streets of Beijing, hand in hand with a commoner. If your father knew—"

"Then let him know," she interrupted, lifting her chin. "Let the whole world know."

There was a fierceness in her that startled me.

She was a girl raised to obey, to bow, to lower her gaze in the presence of men more powerful than her. Yet when she stood before me, she was more.

I exhaled slowly, brushing my thumb against her wrist. "Lumin…"

Her fingers tightened around mine. "Do you regret it?" she asked suddenly. "Meeting me? Loving me?"

The question nearly stole my breath.

Regret? How could I ever regret something that had given me life?

I reached for her cheek, my touch featherlight. "No," I whispered. "Never."

Her lips parted, a sharp inhale escaping, as if she had been holding her breath for an eternity. Then, without hesitation, she surged forward, burying herself into my chest. My arms wrapped around her instinctively, pulling her close, feeling the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat against my own.

It was foolish. It was reckless.

But it was love.

A love that defied the heavens themselves.

We stood there, beneath the ancient tree, the world fading into silence. I closed my eyes, pressing my lips against the crown of her head, letting the scent of her hair—the delicate fragrance of orchids and fresh spring rain—sink into my soul.

For a moment, I allowed myself to believe.

To believe that this was real.

That we could stay like this, forever.

That fate was nothing more than a story written by men, and we could rewrite it in our own ink.

But dreams always end.

My eyes fluttered open.

The golden warmth of Beijing was gone, replaced by the suffocating weight of reality. The scent of orchids faded, replaced by the damp earth beneath me. The laughter, the touch, the love—it all disappeared into the empty night.

I was not in the streets of Beijing. I was not holding my beloved beneath an ancient tree.

I was lying beneath the vast, starless sky, my arms wrapped around a child too small to understand the weight of the world he had been born into.

Lumin was gone.

I stared at the heavens above, my heart a hollow ruin.

How cruel it was, to be given a glimpse of a life that could never be.

My grip tightened around the infant nestled against me. His tiny breath was warm, steady, unbothered by the ghosts that haunted his father. He was innocent, untouched by sorrow, unaware that the woman who had given him life had already left this world.

I let out a slow breath, pressing my forehead against his.

I had lost her.

But I would not lose him.

The past was gone, untouchable, lost to the whims of fate. But the future—his future—was still mine to shape.

And no matter how much the world tried to take from me, I would never let it take him.

The child lay undisturbed, his small frame wrapped in the worn fabric of a makeshift blanket. His breath was soft,as if the weight of the world had not yet found him. For now, he is untouched by suffering.

I exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through my unkempt hair. The air inside the house felt thick, laced with the lingering remnants of firewood and the faint traces of my own exhaustion. Every muscle in my body ached, worn from days of labor and nights of unrest.

The need to wash clung to me like a second skin. My robe, heavy with sweat and the dust of toil, felt suffocating against my flesh. Just a brief moment—to cleanse, to breathe.

I stepped toward the bathing area, a crude space behind my dwelling. The morning air was sharp, biting against my exposed skin as I loosened the sash at my waist. The fabric slid down, pooling at my feet, leaving me bare beneath the golden morning light.

The reflection in the iron pot rippled as I reached for the wooden ladle. My body, sculpted by years of hardship, bore the evidence of a life shaped by struggle. Broad shoulders, chiseled by relentless labor. A chest carved from raw strength, each muscle defined beneath taut skin. My abdomen, lined with firm ridges, tensed as I lifted the ladle, letting the first stream of water cascade down my body.

The shock of cold ignited every nerve, trailing over the deep contours of my torso. The water clung to me, tracing the sharp lines of my collarbones, slipping down the grooves of my stomach before vanishing into the dirt below. My arms, hardened by the weight of wielding both blade and burden, flexed as I reached for another pour.

Droplets ran over the curve of my biceps, tracing along the sinews of my forearms before sliding between my fingers. The faint morning sun caught the moisture against my skin, glistening over the expanse of my back, where old scars remained

I closed my eyes, allowing the chill to seep into my bones, grounding me in the moment.

Then—a sound.

Subtle, yet distinct.

A footstep.

My grip tightened around the ladle. Every fiber of my being went still.

Another step. The dry leaves near my home rustled—too deliberate to be the wind, too slow to be an animal. My eyes snapped open, gaze shifting toward the direction of the disturbance.

My body did not tense, nor did my breath falter. Years of hardship had taught me that fear was a luxury I could not afford. Instead, my instincts sharpened, muscles coiling beneath dampened skin, prepared for whatever—or whoever—approached.

I reached for my robe, draping the damp fabric over my shoulders, the chill clinging to my flesh. My fingers curled slightly, the weight of anticipation settling in my stance.

Who dares to step upon my land?

And more importantly—why?

Droplets of water, crystalline under the break of dawn, traced the ridges of my chest, following the carved hollows of hardened muscle before vanishing beneath the loosely fastened robe slung over my hips, light pooling over the sculpted lines of my abdomen, accentuating the taut sinew that lay beneath sun-kissed flesh. My hair, heavy with water, fell unbound across my back, strands curling where they clung to my skin, black as a raven's plume. The wilderness stretched before me in endless silence.

A presence lurked at the forest's edge.

Between the towering boughs, where the roots of ancient trees wove through the earth like the veins of a slumbering beast, a lone figure emerged from the morning mist. Robes, once fine, now dulled by the dust of long travel, bore the unmistakable sigil of the imperial household. His stance was unshaken, his purpose unwavering.

A royal messenger.

A slow, heavy weight pressed against my chest, tightening like an iron vice. So… they have found me.

For years, I had lived with the certainty that this day would come. That no matter how deeply I buried myself within the heart of the wilderness, no matter how far I strayed from the throne's reach, the past would one day rise to devour me whole. The crime I had committed was not one that could be washed away by time. I had taken what was never meant to be mine.

The messenger did not bow. Did not greet me with the reverence reserved for men of worth. His face was a mask of duty, void of emotion, his posture rigid with the weight of the words he bore. And when he spoke, his voice rang through the clearing like the toll of a funeral bell.

"The Emperor summons you."

The words hung in the air, heavy and inescapable.

My fingers curled into fists, nails pressing into the flesh of my palms. There was no mercy in an imperial summons. No salvation. This was not a call—it was a decree. A verdict. A noose already tightened around my throat.

For I had committed the greatest sin against the Son of Heaven himself.

I had taken his daughter.

And for that, I was to die.

---

The Night We Fled

The heavens had been blind the night we ran—an abyss of darkness stretched above us, swallowing the stars whole, as if the gods themselves had turned away their gaze. The palace, a kingdom carved of jade and gold, loomed behind us, its towering walls meant to keep those like me out, to keep those like her locked within. But that night, she was neither a princess nor a prisoner. She was mine.

Lumin.

Sixteen years of life had been spent in a gilded cage,her future a thread already woven into the empire's grand design. Yet in the shadows of that night, she was nothing more than a trembling figure at my side, her breath ragged, her fingers—so small, so desperate—clutching at my hand as though it were the only tether keeping her from being swept away.

"No matter what happens," she had whispered, voice fragile yet fierce, "don't let go."

And I never did.

We ran.

Through the silent halls of the palace, past the slumbering guards whose lives would be forfeit should they wake too late to stop us.The breath of night turned sharp against our skin, we vanished into the labyrinthine streets of Beijing. The scent of rain clung to the air, lanterns swaying in the wind, their flames flickering like dying stars.

But the Emperor's wrath was swift.

His men came with fire, branches torn from the palace's sacred gardens, their ends aflame with fury. Their voices crashed through the streets, a thunderous decree demanding our return, their calls for blood slicing through the night like the bite of steel.

We waded through the rice paddies, the cold water rising to our knees, thick with the scent of earth and rain. Lumin, once draped in the silks of royalty, now wore only determination in her eyes, her body trembling from exhaustion, yet she did not stop. She did not falter.

For days, we fled.

Through the tangled wilderness, where the trees grew tall enough to scrape the heavens and the rivers cut through the land like veins of silver. Through villages where the faces of the nameless turned away, unwilling to see the sin we carried. The empire stretched vast and unyielding behind us, but our will burned brighter.

Southward, we ran.

Until Shanghai loomed before us.

Yet even within its towering walls, its streets teeming with merchants and nobles, its docks brimming with ships bound for distant lands, there was no safety to be found. The Emperor's reach was not hindered by distance. His wrath did not sleep.

And so, when the city turned its back to us, we turned to the only refuge left—unclaimed heart of the forest.

Beneath its ancient boughs, hidden beneath a sky veiled in green, I carved a world with my own hands. A home. A sanctuary.But not a prison for our own making.

And there, amidst the whispers of leaves and the hush of distant waters, our son was born.

---

The messenger's words echoing in the stillness between us, their weight undeniable.

The Emperor summons you.

The past had caught up at last. The sins I had buried beneath the earth had risen like ghosts to reclaim their due. I had spent years preparing for this moment, yet now that it was here, there was nothing left to prepare. There would be no running this time.

Slowly, I lifted my gaze, locking eyes with the man who had come to deliver my fate. He did not waver. Did not flinch. He had seen the condemned before.

My hands clenched at my sides, tendons taut beneath the skin.

If this was my reckoning, so be it.

But they would not take my son.

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