paksimmy13
The Nine-Story Pagoda was a wonder in Xi’an.
Towering above all other buildings, it stood as a testament to the engineering brilliance of the imperial official who once arrived from the pace to construct such a marvel. Commissioned by the Emperor himself for his only daughter’s surviving children, it became the new home of the Hua Cn—a pce of refuge after fire and ruin.
Tucked behind its towering silhouette y a small servants' quarter and kitchen within an enclosed courtyard. A modest guest house stood to the side, sheltered in its own garden enclosure. Armed guards were ever present, yet peace reigned within. Wonder bloomed here—alongside the occasional explosion or two from one of Dailu’s experiments.
Hua Daisheng, the young Lord of Qianhu, bore the weight of a title—Prince—bestowed by the Emperor. His sister, Hua Dailu, became Princess in name, a cold consotion for children who lost their parents and their people to the devastation of war.
For many years, Daisheng was guided by the wisdom of Han Zhenyuan, the Lord General, in governing their ancient ancestral nd—homend to cns of foxes, mountain dragons, tigers, haetae, wolves, dogs, and horses. Even after the destruction of the ancestral pace, the siblings lived in safety under the watchful care of Zhenyuan and the Old Tortoise—two elders tasked with raising them into the leaders they would one day become.
But the old general died.
And as Daisheng approached his majority, the Old Tortoise took up the mantle of regent, preparing the boy to take his father’s seat—the ancient seat of the Hua forefathers.
Daisheng proved himself a worthy heir. He carried on the general’s vision and oversaw the rebuilding of Qianhu. Stone by stone, memory by memory, the lost wonders of Xi’an began to rise once more under his careful governance.
Every morning, the Prince left before the sun to convene with the officials of Qianhu and preside over the Monarch’s Court. Dailu, meanwhile, buried herself in her books, tending to their Aunt and working at the Medica. He had promised her, as children, that she would live a quiet, gentle life—that her responsibilities would be hers to choose. And he had kept that promise, even as the years hardened him into the head of their broken family.
Their Aunt—beloved, though mad—lived in a secluded garden, surrounded by patient servants. Daily checks and gentle examinations ensured she had not harmed herself or forgotten that she had. Her mind, shattered by grief, remained fragile. But she was family. She was loved.
Despite it all, Daisheng rebuilt not just their lives, but those of the people as well. He restored what he could, but chose to leave much of the old ancestral pace untouched—burnt-out remnants left as silent reminders. He did not have the heart to erase what was lost, nor the arrogance to pretend it had never happened.
As Dailu grew older, Daisheng began to notice how others looked at her. His sister—so focused on duty and study—was beautiful. Rarely so. The curled red mark on her brow, shaped like a fox’s tail, only made her more unforgettable. Proposals came—first from Qianhu, then across the province of Baiju.
But Daisheng would never barter his sister’s joy. He would never force her into a political marriage or bind her to a man she didn’t choose. Still, the burden weighed on him. Rebellion stirred in the distance—in Jinxiu—and Dailu, as a titled Princess of the Imperial Court, carried her own dangerous obligations.
Daisheng resigned himself to one thing above all: his sister would never become a peace-offering bride.
Not while he still breathed.
