It was only later, when he was eating at Prince Zhao's residence, that he pieced together the truth from the occasional snippets of Qin Qianluo's thoughts.
She was not a general in her previous life, and she disliked the wooden plaques in the military camps that read "Defend the Border".
That was something I used to pester her to carve together. Every time we finished carving, I would proudly hold the wooden plaque up in front of her, not caring that I would get pricked by splinters.
"Look, our handwriting is so similar! Even the force we use is the same!"
Little did she know that her hand holding the carving knife was trembling quietly, her fingertips turning white even from gripping the wood grain.
The horizontal strokes he carved all had a slight tremor at the end, and afterwards he would secretly rub his sore wrists.
She didn't like the magnolias in the courtyard either. I once thought she loved the purity of the flowers as much as I did, and in spring I would always break off branches with morning dew and give them to her.
When she first entered the palace, she wore a moon-white dress embroidered with delicate lotus scrolls, the stitches so even they looked like they were painted. I stared at her for a long time at a banquet.
Seeing this made her ears turn red before she finally managed to stammer, "It makes you look like someone from the moon, even more beautiful than Chang'e in the palace."
She later learned that it was her mother who had chosen it for her. These belated truths felt like a fine needle dipped in cold water, gently pricking her heart. It didn't hurt, but it made her feel suffocated.
A bitter taste rose from my chest to my throat, and even the Fenjiu I drank down had an indescribable bitterness, as if it contained sand, making my throat ache.
It turns out I never truly understood her, those feelings of "being most compatible with her".
I love guns, and she practices shooting too. I despise Confucian scholars, and she criticizes old ministers, but little do we know that she is criticizing those hypocrites who "talk about benevolence and righteousness but ignore the starving people."
I love magnolias, and she often stands under the flowers, but all of this is just wishful thinking and self-deception on my part.
But aside from swallowing that bitter feeling, he gripped the gun tightly, his nails digging into his palms, and told himself...
"As long as she's doing well, what does it matter if she understands or not?" What can be done about it?
Fortunately, we want to eliminate the flames of war from the Tianxuan territory, and we want the people to be able to grow crops on their own field ridges and eat while listening to the croaking of frogs.
The desire to be able to close the door at night without fear of being awakened by gunfire is a genuine and shared sentiment.
Every time I discussed matters with the two of them at the Prince Zhao's residence, watching the two characters "Taiping" slowly unfold on the map, the ink, in varying shades, was full of expectation.
As Qin Qianluo pointed to the newly recovered Yunzhou land, her fingertips tracing the rivers on the map, she smiled and said, "In a few more years, the people here will have surplus grain in every household."
The children can go to school to read and write, and no longer have to flee famine with their parents.
The corners of her eyes were lined with laughter, and even her voice was lighter. This realization was like a pebble falling into still water, rippling out circles of comfort and diluting the bitterness.
The most unforgettable time was the time we fought against Japan together.
The sea breeze carries a salty, fishy smell, swirling up blood and sand from the mudflats, which stick to your clothes, forming hard scabs that sting your skin when the wind blows.
Even now, when I think of those bloody scenes, my fingertips still feel the chill of the battlefield, and I can even smell the mixture of gunpowder and blood in my dreams. I always wake up clutching a gun.
That was the first time I had ever seen Qin Qianluo like that. At that time, she had not yet married Su Jinyun, and my feelings for her were still hidden in my heart.
It felt like he was carrying a red-hot branding iron, and he didn't dare to look at her too intently, for fear that the affection in his eyes would be revealed if he wasn't careful.
He could only use the excuse of "sparring" to watch her from afar, watching her back as she held the scimitar, feeling both sweet and bitter inside.
Normally, she always has a smiling face and a cheerful demeanor towards everyone.
When a soldier in the camp broke his leg while practicing shooting and cried in pain, she would squat by the bedside and personally change his dressing, her movements as gentle as if she were afraid of breaking glass, her tone even more gentle than that of a medical officer.
Even the phrase "If it hurts, just yell it out. Don't hold it in. It's not shameful for a man to cry." is meant to be comforting.
The old soldier in the kitchen caught a cold and was coughing so badly he couldn't straighten up and didn't even have the strength to tend the fire.
She could roll up her sleeves and help with the fire. When ash got on her clothes or strayed from her hair, she would just laugh and brush it off. Even when ash flew into her eyes and made them red, she didn't care.
"What's a little dust? It's much cleaner than the smoke from the battlefield."
Even when I occasionally acted out and teased her, saying things like, "Your shooting is too slow again. Next time I'll definitely knock your gun out of your hand and make you drink three jars of wine for losing," she would still do it.
All she would do was tap on my gun barrel, her eyes crinkling as she said, "Then you'll practice with me for another half an hour. If you lose, don't try to renege on your promise. Not a single drop less from the three jars of wine is allowed."
But that day in the coastal village, I saw those Japanese pirates charging into the thatched huts with their knives raised, howling, their blades stained with the blood of the people.
Even chickens and dogs were hacked to pieces, and the smile in her eyes vanished instantly, as if splashed with ice water, leaving only a hard, cold line at the corner of her mouth.
The knuckles of the hand gripping the double-edged scimitar gradually turned white, and even the rope wrapped around the hilt was deformed from being squeezed so tightly that the fingertips were worn red.
When the first Japanese pirate swung his blood-stained sword at her, her curved sword flashed out of its sheath with a "whoosh," the blade gleaming in the sea breeze, carrying an icy chill, as fast as lightning.
She cleaved the opponent's blade in two, the blade grazing the Japanese pirate's neck, warm blood splattering onto her moon-white sleeve.
Like a dazzling red poppy that has bloomed, spreading out and even the silk threads are soaked through.
I stood beside her and could clearly see the change in her eyes.
At first, there was a coldness towards the invaders, like a frozen lake, without a ripple.
But when she caught sight of the child who had been abducted by the Japanese soldiers, who looked to be only four or five years old, with two pigtails, crying and clutching the corner of his mother's coarse cloth clothes.
The child's face turned deathly pale with fright, snot and tears streaming down his face. Without warning, the Japanese pirate raised his sword, the blade gleaming coldly, and pried open the child's small hand.
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