The shaft of the black iron spear struck the wooden stake with a dull "thud," causing the moss on the stake to fall off in a flurry.
Even the smallest light cavalry guards, when they flipped and leaped onto their saddleless horses, moved as nimbly as a willow leaf brushing against the wind.
When it landed, it only stirred up a few specks of dust, and not a single drop of morning dew fell from the horse's mane. The short knife hanging beside the saddle was still swaying gently.
They never neglected their training in the most basic firearms and cannons, and they were always among the first to use the new weapons developed by the Ministry of Works.
My father once spoke to me in the warm chamber of the imperial study, his fingertips tracing the edge of a dragon-patterned inkstone.
"This is one of Ning Chao's trump cards, which he will never easily reveal unless the country is on the verge of collapse and foreign invaders are knocking on the gates."
At that time, snow was falling outside the window, and hexagonal ice crystals clung to the vermilion window frame, melting into thin streams that meandered down and accumulated into small puddles on the windowsill, reflecting the flickering candlelight inside the room.
I looked at the solemnity in his eyes and watched his fingertips repeatedly caressing the edge of the inkstone.
That inkstone was passed down from the late emperor. The edges were worn, but he had kept it shiny.
Only then did I realize that every shout and every move of this army carried the weight of the nation.
That was the source of strength that the Emperor dared not easily entrust, yet had to hold firmly in his hands; it was a shield for the stability of the Ning Dynasty.
The Crown Prince would occasionally come to the training ground; the golden dragon embroidery on his blue brocade robe dazzled the eyes in the sunlight.
It always stood out from the surrounding black armor, which was covered in dust and stained with sweat.
His steps were clearly reluctant, his boots scraping the ground as he moved slowly, as if each step was on a felt-good patch of needles.
Most likely, it was only after the emperor sent people to urge him three or four times that he finally showed up, clutching the warm, smooth mutton-fat jade thumb ring.
When his gaze swept over the soldiers' sweat-dampened brows and mud-splattered armor, his brows would unconsciously furrow, and his eyes would always hold a hint of disdain, as if to say, "How can such rough work be worthy of my attention?"
Even his speech was perfunctory, and when responding to the soldiers' salutes, he only nodded slightly.
His fingers continued to rub the jade thumb ring repeatedly, as if he disliked the dust that had gotten on his hands.
This gave me an opportunity—if he saw me mixed in with the group, he would frown, walk up quickly, grab my sleeve, and pull me out.
The fingertips brushed against the intertwined branches embroidered on my cuff, the force carrying an undeniable strength.
He kept repeating to himself, "My imperial sister should be learning needlework and etiquette, how can she be mixing with such uncouth people here?"
The conversation was full of emphasis that "wielding swords and spears is beneath my noble status," as if my holding a gun was some shameful mistake, a disgrace to the royal family.
I seized the opportunity when he was away to secretly tuck the hem of my palace dress into my plain silver waistband, revealing the soft boots with dark patterns embroidered on my ankles.
That was something Atao secretly changed for me. She dismantled the original intricate lotus embroidery pattern, leaving only a few dark threads, afraid that the bright colors would reveal the flaw.
I crouched low and mingled at the back of the female soldiers' ranks, trying to keep myself as short as possible. When I followed them in practicing horse stance, my knees ached and trembled, but I dared not move an inch.
I was afraid the instructor would notice my awkwardness in my movements, and even more afraid that my elder brother, the Crown Prince, would recognize me.
When practicing with the gun, the blisters on my palms would burst and scab over, with blood seeping out and sticking to the gun barrel, causing excruciating pain when the wind blew.
I wrapped the cloth tightly around my hand and held it again, gritting my teeth and enduring the pain as the grain on the wooden handle dug into my flesh. I only dared to loosen the cloth during breaks and gently breathe on the wounds on my palms.
Seeing the bloodstains mixed with sawdust, I felt an overwhelming joy.
Occasionally, when the coach calls on him to correct his posture, he has to lower his voice by three points compared to usual and vaguely reply, "Yes, thank you for your guidance, Coach."
His fingertips gripped the gun barrel tightly, and he memorized every key point the instructor had made.
After each training session, I would hide in the bamboo grove behind the armory, lean against the cool bamboo poles, and wait for the wind to dry my sweat-soaked undergarments.
The bamboo leaves rustled overhead, as if covering for me, and the dappled bamboo shadows fell on me like a gentle veil, concealing this unspoken joy.
I would secretly take out the little wooden gun I kept in my bosom—it was carved by Ah Tao from scraps of wood, and the tip was rounded so it wouldn't hurt my hands.
She had also tied a red rope she had braided to the gun barrel, saying it was "for good luck, so that shooting practice would go smoothly."
When no one is around, I quietly recall the moves I practiced during the day, mimicking them in the air, imagining myself dancing with the silver snake-like spear flowers, just like King Zhao.
At that time, I never thought that, apart from my elder brother, the Crown Prince, there was no one else in the world who would criticize "how women should and shouldn't be."
I never imagined that the feeling of holding a gun barrel would be a thousand times more exhilarating than holding a needle.
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