When I first heard this, I was stunned and quietly turned my head to look at the civil officials sitting upright next to me.
The old scholar of the Hanlin Academy had mostly white hair, and even his beard was covered with snowflakes.
Even the Grand Historian who compiled the History of Ningxia showed an expression of "something I've never heard of before, yet I find it exquisite."
He stroked his goatee and nodded repeatedly, a smile playing on his lips, suggesting he possessed genuine and profound knowledge.
Unfortunately, I grew up in the military, and the first lesson the veterans taught me was, "If you're not convinced, fight; there's truth in the barrel of a gun."
My spear can pierce through enemy armor, plunge into a horse's belly and overturn it, and carve a bloody path through a chaotic army, but it cannot penetrate the pedantic knowledge of classical Chinese texts.
I've never been interested in those elaborate details like "wispy patterns" or "layered scale carvings."
Why waste words when a spear can solve the problem? On the battlefield, amidst the flashing blades, who cares whether the dragon on your arrow shaft has any fine lines?
The most important thing is to survive and bring our brothers home safely.
But Qin Qianluo's thoughts were different.
Unlike the dry, archaic language of the civil officials' memorials, or the blood-stained words of the soldiers' military reports, it was not like the official documents of the court officials.
It was like a small pebble just scooped up from the bottom of a mountain stream, carrying a bit of cool, moist air, that it was thrown into my still pond with a "plop"—a pond that held only killing, scheming, and life and death.
It stirred ripples in my heart, which had been hardened by the flames of war.
Even the pressure of her fingertips on the hilt of the sword unconsciously loosened a bit, as if she was afraid that if she squeezed too tightly, she would disturb this rare softness.
As the palace banquet ended, the candlelight dimmed, and the palace lanterns outside the hall lit up one by one, casting a warm glow on the blue bricks.
Qin Xiang led her outside, and as they passed by me, she suddenly broke free from Qin Xiang's hand and looked up at me with her little face.
Perhaps my armor still had some dust from the frontier, shimmering finely under the lamplight, and her eyes were full of sparkling curiosity, like they held stars.
I was about to say, "Watch your step, the floor is slippery," when I heard her inner voice again, as soft as a ball of cotton.
"Wow, the general's armor is so shiny! It's even shinier than the bronze mirror on my dressing table!"
"Well... your hands are so rough, your fingers are covered in calluses. You must be practicing shooting every day; you must have suffered a lot."
I subconsciously looked down at my hands; the calluses on my palms were so thick they could spark when rubbed.
There's a small, unhealed scar on my knuckle, from when I was practicing shooting a few days ago and it got rubbed raw by the gun barrel. It's covered with a thin scab and feels a bit rough to the touch.
When I looked up again, the little girl had already been dragged away by Prime Minister Qin with a smile. After taking a few steps, she would turn back to look at me, her little braids swaying.
The silver beads on her earrings shimmered, leaving only a swaying, moon-white silhouette. The magnolia petals on her skirt fluttered with her steps, like magnolia petals blown by the wind.
It gently brushed against my heart, leaving a slight itch.
I couldn't help but raise my hand to touch the corner of my mouth, and then I smiled.
He lived for seventeen years, fought in five wars, experienced the wind and snow at Yanmen Pass and the candlelight in the Golden Palace, crawled out of piles of dead bodies, and also spent sleepless nights worrying about food supplies in his military tent.
For the first time, I felt that the wind in the palace was softer than the spring breeze blowing across the grasslands beyond the Great Wall. It was so soft that it made my heart itch, and even the chill on my armor dissipated.
On my second day off, I found myself, almost by accident, wandering into the "Juya Bookstore" in the south of the city.
The shopkeeper was startled when he saw me burst in dressed in military uniform with snow on my shoulders, and he quickly came to greet me.
"General, are you here to buy military books? The newly arrived 'Commentary on the Art of War' is freshly bound."
My Adam's apple bobbed, but I couldn't say "yes." I just mumbled, "Find a book about wood carving, something...something about 'layered scale carving' and 'wild silk pattern'."
The shopkeeper was taken aback for a moment, then smiled, squinting his eyes and teasing, "Has the general changed his ways? Has he also taken up the refined tastes of a scholar and started studying carving?"
My ears burned, and I turned my face away to look at the books on the shelf. My fingertips traced the thread-bound books one by one, but I didn't see the knowing smile on the shopkeeper's lips as he turned to look for a book.
As he carried the yellowed copy of "The Book of Trades" back to his residence, he passed by the street corner outside the Prime Minister's residence and saw Qin Qianluo squatting by the wall, feeding pastries to a lame little raccoon cat.
Sunlight fell on her moon-white dress, like a layer of scattered gold. She coaxed her softly, "Eat slowly, no one will take it from you, there's more."
The raccoon timidly rubbed against her fingertips, and she smiled, her eyes crinkling and upturned, like a happy little fox.
I stood under the old locust tree for a long time, watching until she carried the raccoon cat through the vermilion gate of the Prime Minister's mansion, before turning and leaving.
As I ran my fingertips along the textured surface of the book's spine, I suddenly realized that those densely packed "wispy lines" and "slanted engravings" didn't seem so difficult after all.
It was only later that I learned that she carried memories of her past life.
I didn't quite understand the "profession" and "system" she occasionally muttered to herself, only catching bits and pieces of "drug enforcement officer," "undercover mission," and "sacrifice."
It's like looking at an old scene through a window veiled in moisture; every word is imbued with an indescribable heaviness.
Until one morning court session, she stared blankly at the "Zhenxi Army" banner fluttering outside the hall, her eyelashes drooping so low that she didn't even notice when Prime Minister Qin quietly touched her arm.
Suddenly, a thought popped into my mind: "The national flag in my past life was also this red."
I suddenly realized that this little child, who always loved to secretly hide osmanthus cakes and whose fingertips were so tender they seemed to drip with moisture, actually harbored a complete vision of another life filled with sword fights and bloodshed.
This is truly amazing. It's like a storyteller telling tales of "the past lives recorded on the Three Lives Stone" while striking his gavel, and it actually happened right before my eyes.
It fell into my heart, a heart that only holds killing and territory, creating a soft ripple that lingered for a long time.
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