I looked at the small wooden gun in my palm, the red string gleaming in the sunlight, and suddenly remembered the warmth that the gun barrel transmitted during each practice session.
That was the passion that belonged to me, hidden within the cold wood.
I recall the brightness in King Zhao's eyes when he sheathed his spear; it was the unwavering resolve of his beliefs.
Thinking of Ling Shuang and A Tao covering for me, I felt the warmth of companionship.
These images flooded in like a tide, suddenly making a corner of my heart clear.
The wind was whipping the gun tassels, making them flutter and sway in the breeze like dancing flames, burning a fiery heat in one's heart.
In the distance, King Zhao was practicing with Yao Guang. When the spear thrust straight, it made a sharp sound as it cut through the wind, and when the short sword parried, it made a crisp metallic sound. The clanging and clattering sounds drifted over on the wind.
The chill was tempered with exhilaration; it was a contest between the strong, and also a test of trust between partners.
I watched their figures. King Zhao thrust his spear swiftly, the tip of the spear whistling through the wind with a metallic hum, each move carrying a sharp force capable of piercing through armor.
But at the very moment Yao Guang raises her shield to block, she always quietly withdraws three-tenths of her fierceness—that is not retreat, but the tacit understanding of those who have been through many battles, and the unspoken protection between comrades.
Yao Guang's short sword flashed like a cold light as it was drawn from its sheath. Her footwork was as steady as a rock, and every spinning counterattack precisely targeted an opening.
Sparks flew as the blade grazed the gun barrel, the movement swift and clean.
They stood in the center of the training ground, their movements without the slightest hesitation. The midday sun struck their cold, hard armor, splashing up tiny, dazzling rays of light.
The light flowed along the patterns on their shoulder armor, enveloping their upright figures, making them appear like two blazing flames, shining even brighter in each other's reflection.
Even the sound of the wind rustling through the banners became the most resounding backdrop to this sparring session.
Suddenly, a wave of heat welled up in my eyes, and I clenched my fists hanging at my sides—it turned out they weren't just practicing martial arts; they had been waiting all along.
When I saw through the so-called rules that my elder brother, the Crown Prince, spoke of, I realized they were nothing but paper cages.
When I no longer cower under the gaze of my elder brother, the Crown Prince, and no longer see my identity as a "princess" as a shackle.
When I truly understood: the pointing fingers of others felt like needles pricking me, and the shackles of "women are not allowed to carry weapons" weighed me down, making it hard to breathe.
You should grip the gun tightly, straighten your back even more than the gun barrel, and use the tip of the gun to cleave through the thorns inch by inch, forging your own path to survival.
After all, no one is anyone's appendage, nor a vague footnote in history books; each person is a true strongman who can carve out their own destiny.
Later, when the Crown Prince began to oversee the country, the desk in the Eastern Palace study was completely filled with memorials—the pile was even higher than the Emperor's former study.
The items were neatly arranged but still overflowed the countertop, blocking most of the morning light coming through the window.
Only at the edges of the yellowed pages, a faint gold border appeared, as if adding a layer of shimmering light to the busy room.
His most treasured piece was a set of Hetian jade paperweights, with lotus patterns carved on the bluish-white jade surface.
The texture still retains the warmth from his years of caressing, but now it's been pushed to the corner of the desk and covered in a thin layer of dust.
The mutton-fat jade thumb ring, which he used to hold in his hand until it shone, still carried a familiar warmth from the curve of his fingertips. He rarely touched it anymore, and it just lay quietly beside the inkstone.
The edges were stained with undried ink, like a forgotten old object, exuding a sense of loneliness.
Sometimes when I pass by his study, I can hear him sighing softly as he looks at the memorials to the throne.
The weariness in that voice couldn't be hidden even by the heavy brocade curtains; it drifted far away, mingling with the candlelight in the hall.
Perhaps because my elder brother, the Crown Prince, had taken over most of the burden of state affairs, my father and mother finally had some free time and often took me out of the palace to relax.
We visited the market on Zhuque Street. As soon as we reached the street entrance, the sweet aroma of melting amber sugar syrup from the copper ladle of the sugar painting master wafted through the air, carrying with it the lively atmosphere of the marketplace.
It was a vibrant fragrance unlike anything ever heard in the palace, mingled with the aroma of wheat from the nearby steamed bun shop and the clinking of silver ornaments from the jewelry stall, creating a lively atmosphere that warmed one's heart.
The master sat upright on the stool, the bluestone slab in front of him was wiped clean. He turned his wrist lightly like flowing water, the sugar liquid as thin as silver threads, drawing strokes on the stone slab.
First, draw the tiger's head. Dip the wide-open tiger eyes in brown sugar, and they instantly become sharp.
Next, draw the tiger's body, with smooth lines like wheat fields swaying in the wind, and fine, well-defined tiger stripes.
Finally, add powerful tiger claws, and in an instant, a majestic tiger leaps out, even the curve of its tail exudes agility.
The onlookers couldn't help but clap and cheer. As I leaned closer to watch intently, the master even smiled and added an extra ribbon to my sugar tiger.
The sweet aroma of the solidified sugar syrup enveloped my hands. Holding the sugar tiger, I walked through the crowd, and seeing the peonies that the flower girl by the roadside was offering in full bloom, my steps became lighter.
We also visited farms on the outskirts of the city, where the wheat fields were in full bloom. When the wind blew, they surged into a golden sea, carrying the fresh fragrance of new wheat.
It's so pungent it makes your nose itch and you can't help but want to sneeze.
The farmer stood on the edge of the field, rubbing his calloused hands, with damp mud still clinging to his fingers, yet he laughed heartily.
"This year's rainfall has been plentiful, and the wheat ears are so heavy that they bend the stalks. We can harvest two more bushels of grain per acre, so the harvest will be excellent!"
The girl beside him had her trousers rolled up, seemingly unconcerned about the mud splattered on them. Sweat streamed down her face, dripping into the paddy field and splashing up tiny droplets, but she showed no fear whatsoever.
"If you don't mind, young lady, come in the fall and try the steamed buns made from the new wheat. They're fresh out of the steamer, and you can taste the wheat aroma with every bite. They're so sweet, you can taste the honey inside!"
As she spoke, she broke off an ear of wheat, rubbed out the grains, and handed them to me. The warm grains rolled in my palm, carrying the warmth of the sun and full of vitality.
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