After three years of dedicated reform, the court had settled and the people lived in peace. Yet Zhao Zhaoming’s heart remained like a winter lake. Silent and still. It wasn’t until the fourth year of his reign that he once again ventured beyond the palace, with a mind as light as early spring mist.

That night, his carriage rolled quietly through the western hills. The crescent moon hung low. Willows swayed in the wind. All seemed serene, until the flames of torches suddenly flared and shouts tore through the silence. A gang of bandits had surrounded the path, blades flashing in the darkness.

Zhaoming tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. But before he could act, an arrow whistled through the air and struck the gang leader squarely in the shoulder. A figure in white galloped forth and leapt from the horse into the fray.

It was a woman. Tall and steady, her movements flowed like water. She wore a simple silver cloak, her hair tied high. Her face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat.

Her swordsmanship was graceful yet precise. Every strike clean and without hesitation. In just moments, the attackers were on the ground.

As Zhaoming watched in silence, she approached the carriage, keeping a respectful distance.

“Is the young gentleman inside unharmed?” Her voice was calm and clear. Not soft or delicate, but composed and firm.

Zhaoming furrowed his brow slightly and lifted the curtain.

Firelight caught her face for the first time.

She wore no cosmetics, yet her skin was fair and luminous. Her eyes were clear as autumn water. Her brows gently arched. There was no hint of artifice, no attempt to flatter. She was simply beautiful, in a natural, unassuming way. Like jade unpolished. Like moonlight through silk.

Under the moonlight, he noticed the embroidered emblem on her outer robe. The crest of the Ministry of Rites.

She was the daughter of Minister Lan, Chief of the Ministry of Rites, a man known for his incorruptible service through two reigns. Her mother was from the distinguished Yang family. From a young age, she had been trained in swordplay, horseback riding, and the classics of governance. She often accompanied her father on inspection tours. The common folk in the western regions respectfully called her the “White-Robed Young Master.”

Zhaoming remained silent for a moment.

“No,” he said at last, eyes never leaving hers. “Thank you, miss, for your help.”