Chapter 3 — The General's Wild Daughter

He had once cradled his mortally wounded deputy in his arms amid the chaos of the battlefield, and carried heavy battle standards weighing a hundred catties without a flinch. Yet, when faced with me newly born, even his breathing became cautious and feather-light. Mother looked at his uncharacteristic hesitation, unable to hold back a soft chuckle.

You were always such a formidable hero, weren't you?

Father stared down at me, his voice lowered to a pitch that hardly sounded like his own.

She is far too small.

Mother handed me over to him. Father instinctively stepped back half a pace. Everyone present in the chamber watched him closely. The formidable Great General of the Northern Frontier was displaying an urge to retreat for the very first time in his life. Mother arched a delicate brow.

Do you not dare to hold her?

Father instantly straightened his posture, his spine rigidly proud.

I dare.

He extended his hands to receive me, his movements as stiff and mechanical as if he were accepting an imperial edict. Nestled within the crook of his arm, I abruptly stopped crying. Father lowered his gaze to study me. Sensing intuitively that this towering figure was my father, I slowly reached out a tiny hand and grasped one of his calloused fingers. Father's entire frame froze completely. Mother observed the touching scene with a gaze brimming with profound tenderness, fully convinced from that moment onward that the general's estate would be blessed with a gentle, adorable little girl. A daughter who would nestle softly against her heart, admire blossoming flowers by her side, choose delicate dresses, and share quiet, girlish confidences. Father harbored the exact same sweet illusion. In fact, he immediately ordered the household staff to clear away and re-inspect every single sharp object in the entire residence. A tiny silver bell was hung beside my cradle, and rows of miniature dresses were neatly folded and arranged within the wardrobe. Every morning upon waking, mother's very first task was to gaze at me. She would trace my eyelashes, admire my tiny fingers, and watch the soft pout of my lips while I slept. The more she looked, the more deeply delighted she became. On the day of my one-month celebration, throngs of distinguished guests filled the grand estate. Esteemed madams gathered around to shower me with praise.

This child is extraordinarily pretty.

Just look at her eyelashes, an absolute replica of the general's lady.

She will undoubtedly grow into a refined and exceptionally graceful young woman.

Mother's eyes curved into crescent moons of pure joy. Father stood close by, listening to the compliments with immense pride and satisfaction. Someone playfully teased him.

The general has finally been blessed with a precious pearl. Will you ever be able to bear marrying her off in the future?

Father's expression darkened abruptly. The guest fell silent on the spot. Mother gently nudged him with her elbow.

Today is a joyous occasion, do not go about frightening our guests.

Father nodded obediently.

As my lady commands.

Everyone burst into hearty laughter. I was lying in my cradle, fast asleep. Who could have known that someone would bring along a miniature wooden bow, tied around their waist as a playful trinket for a young boy? The tiny bow swayed gently, the bowstring twanging with a faint, crisp sound. The noise was so minuscule that none of the surrounding adults paid it any mind. But I instantly opened my eyes. Mother was looking down, engaged in conversation with another guest. Only father caught the movement. I stared fixedly at the miniature wooden bow, my limbs immediately twitching with restless energy. The silver bell chimed merrily as I kicked out. Father's eyelid twitched. He took a sudden step forward, physically blocking the tiny bow from my field of vision. I instantly closed my eyes, settling back into apparent tranquility. Father lingered beside the cradle in profound silence for a long while. Mother raised her head, looking up at him in confusion.

What is the matter?

Father looked down at me sleeping soundly, then glanced at her radiant face. In the end, he said nothing aloud. He merely reached out and unfastened the silver bell from the cradle, replacing it with a much smaller, lighter piece of jade. Yet that very night, long after everyone in the estate had fallen into slumber, father witnessed with his own eyes as I clutched the piece of jade and kicked my covers entirely off the bed.

Following my one-month milestone, the general's estate transformed entirely into a soft, cushioned sanctuary. Mother instructed the servants to line my cradle with three thick layers of embroidered silk padding and hung scented sachets in the corners of the bedchamber. The sachets were deliberately kept free of heavy, cloying perfumes, scented only with a touch of calming orchid grass. She often remarked that a young maiden must be nurtured by delicate fragrances from her earliest days. Father listened to these instructions with utmost attentiveness, nodding solemnly. The very next day, he ordered the military signal horns in the outer courtyard to be moved much further away. Mother nodded in profound satisfaction. Yet the following morning, though the horns remained silent, I refused to awaken. The wet nurse sang lullabies for half an hour straight, but I slumbered on like a stubborn little stone. Mother sat beside the bed, gently poking my cheek.

A-Ning, wake up now, mother wants to dress you in a new gown.

I remained completely motionless. Father returned from the outer grounds, the morning dew still clinging to his boots. Fearing he might startle me, he crept into the room with supreme stealth. Who would have expected that the jade pendant at his waist would tap lightly against his leather bracer, producing the faintest of sounds? My eyes snapped open instantly. Mother froze in place. Father froze as well. I opened my wide, grape-dark eyes and stared intently at his waistline. Father looked down at himself. He was not wearing his saber today, only a leather bracer. The smile on mother's face slowly grew rigid. Father hastily unbuckled the bracer, concealing it swiftly behind his back.

Perhaps the child merely woke up by coincidence.

Mother scooped me up into her arms, her voice remarkably soft.

Is that so?

I stretched my tiny hand past mother's shoulder, making a grab for the bracer hidden behind father's back. Everyone in the room lowered their gaze discreetly. Mother's arms tightened around me. Father gave a quiet, awkward cough.

This child possesses quite a bit of strength.

Mother shot him a cool, unamused look. Father hastily corrected himself.

Her fingers are remarkably nimble, taking after her mother.

Only then did mother's expression soften fractionally. From that day onward, she poured even greater dedication into molding me into a gentle, delicate young maiden. Long before I had even learned to speak, she would carry me out daily to admire the blossoming flora. When the crabapples bloomed, she carried me to view them. When the peonies burst forth, she brought me to gaze upon them as well. As the colorful koi fish in the pond blew bubbles at the surface, she would wrap me up snugly like a little bundle and sit beneath the veranda pillars, murmuring softly.

A-Ning, do you see? This is what we call refined elegance.

When you grow up, you must never spend your days thinking of running and jumping about, you must never soil your dresses, and you must never touch your father's rough belongings.

Nestled securely in her arms, I blew a tiny saliva bubble. Believing I had understood every word, mother smiled with boundless tenderness. Yet just then, a sudden gust of wind swept across the courtyard, carrying the distant sound of guards drilling in the outer grounds. My legs kicked out involuntarily, my tiny foot striking precisely against mother's wrist. The embroidered handkerchief in her hand slipped free, fluttering through the air over the balustrade and landing near the edge of the fishpond. A vibrant koi fish breached the water's surface, caught the corner of the silk in its mouth, and dragged it beneath the ripples. Mother stared at the pond in stunned silence for a long while. Father happened to be passing by at that exact moment; he bent down and fished the drenched fabric out of the water. The handkerchief was soaked through, a delicate peach blossom embroidered upon its surface. He attempted to offer a comforting word.

The fish simply appreciate my lady's exquisite embroidery skills.

Mother slowly raised her gaze to fixate on him. Father wisely shut his mouth. From that day forward, mother began to harbor lingering doubts as to whether I might simply be far too spirited for my own good. The senior maids comforted her, insisting that overflowing vitality in a child was a sign of great fortune. The wet nurse chimed in as well, swearing that with eyelashes as lovely as mine, I was destined to grow up gentle and serene. Reassured by these words, mother regained her enthusiasm, sewing an even greater number of dresses for me. My entire wardrobe soon became a sea of soft, blush-pink hues. Pale rose for spring, ivory white for summer, soft butter-yellow for autumn, and a plush little rabbit-fur collared cloak for the freezing winter months. Mother's greatest delight was dressing me up immaculately and holding me before the vanity mirror to admire our reflections. In the glass, I looked porcelain-fair and exquisite, like a carved jade doll with wide eyes, a refined bridge of the nose, and cheeks as soft as rice cakes. Every time mother looked at me, her heart melted all over again.

Look at her, she clearly resembles me in every way.

She would turn to declare to father with absolute conviction. Father nodded dutifully.

She does.

Mother would continue.

Therefore, her temperament will undoubtedly mirror mine as well.

Father hesitated for a fraction of a second. Mother narrowed her eyes. Father hastily added.

Most certainly yours.

At that precise stage, I had just learned to roll over. Before father's words had even faded, I executed a smooth roll across the embroidered cushions, followed swiftly by another, hurtling straight toward his boots. There I wrapped my arms tightly around his footwear. Those were the heavy-soled boots father wore during martial practice, thick-bodied and dark, their edges still caked with a faint layer of mud. Mother's face turned stark white. The wet nurse hurried forward to scoop me up, but my grip was unyielding. Father dared not move a muscle, forced to stand rigidly rooted to the spot. Mother drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

Xia Zuiyuan.

Father responded instantly.

I shall go change my boots at once.

Mother stated coldly.

I told you to pick up our daughter.

Father bent down, gently and meticulously lifting me into his arms. Nestled against his shoulder, I grew unusually still, gently rubbing my small cheek against the rough collar of his tunic. Father's entire demeanor instantly melted into utter softness. Watching this, a bitter ache blossomed in mother's chest. After all, I was the daughter she had endured such immense hardship to bring into the world.