"By order of the magistrate," he announces, each word precise and unyielding, "war approaches our borders, and the army requires reinforcement."
The murmurs begin immediately, low and uneasy, like something restless moving beneath the surface.
People shift closer to one another, voices overlapping, fear spreading faster than the wind.
He does not pause.
"From this day forward, every household is required to send one able man to serve in the military. Those who refuse to comply will be judged as defiant to the state and punished accordingly."
The air grows heavier.
The officer's gaze sweeps across the crowd, cold and indifferent, as if none of us are people—only numbers waiting to be taken.
"Punishment will be death."
He lets the words settle.
Then he adds, his tone unchanged, "Death will be carried out upon the entire household."
Silence falls.
It is not quiet.
It is suffocating.
Then everything breaks at once.
A woman cries out, dropping to her knees as she clutches her son.
An old man argues loudly, his voice shaking with anger that has nowhere to go. Others begin pleading, asking questions no one intends to answer.
"No… this cannot be…" someone whispers behind me.
"They cannot take my son…" another voice cracks.
I stand still.
My hands feel cold.
Going to war is not service. It is disappearance. Men leave, and most do not return, and those who do come back changed into something quieter, heavier, like they left parts of themselves behind.
There is no promise of survival.
There is not even a promise of a body to bury.
My chest tightens.
I turn.
My feet move before I decide anything, carrying me back toward our house as the noise behind me grows louder, more desperate.
The wind howls through the village, but it does not drown out the fear.
It feeds it.
My father and mother are already seated at the table when I enter, though neither of them is drinking anymore.
The tea has gone untouched, cooling between them as silence stretches tight across the room.
They heard.
Of course they did.
"Did you hear?" I ask, though the answer is obvious. My voice sounds steady, but something inside me feels unbalanced, like I am standing on uneven ground.
My father does not hesitate. "I will go."
The words land too easily.
I stare at him. "How can you say that so calmly?"
He meets my gaze without flinching. "Then what do you suggest? That we wait here for death to arrive at our door?"
My mother leans forward, her hands trembling slightly as she grips the edge of the table.
"We can speak to the magistrate," she says quickly. "Explain your condition. They cannot force a man who can barely walk to fight."
"There is no use," my father replies, his tone quiet but firm. "The order is clear. Whether I can fight or not does not matter. I am still a man of this household."
My chest tightens further.
"There is no way I will let you go," I say, the words coming out sharper than I intend. "You are not well, and your leg—"
"Enough," he cuts in, his voice hardening. "If I do not go, then who will? Do you expect us to accept execution instead?"
The room falls silent.
Because he is right.
If he does not go, there is no one else.
And if no one goes—
We die.
I lower my gaze for a moment, my thoughts moving too fast, circling the same point without finding a way out.
My hands curl slightly at my sides, nails pressing into my palms as if pain will force clarity.
There is only one answer.
I take a breath.
"I will go."
The words leave my mouth before anything can stop them.
Silence crashes down again.
My mother chokes on her tea, coughing as she stares at me in disbelief. "What did you just say?"
"I said," I repeat, more firmly this time, "I will go in your place, Father."
For a second, my father simply looks at me.
Then he laughs.
It is short.
Cold.
"That is not amusing," he says. "Do not speak nonsense. How can a girl serve in the army?"
"I will not go as a girl," I reply, my voice steady. "I will go as a man."
My mother's face pales instantly. "What are you saying?" she hisses, her voice dropping as she glances toward the door. "Lower your voice. If someone hears this—"
"I am not joking," I cut in. "I will disguise myself. I will take your place."
My father's expression darkens.
"Watch your words carefully," he says, each syllable controlled. "Do you understand what you are suggesting? If you are discovered, they will not only kill you. They will execute all of us."
"I will not be discovered," I reply, refusing to look away. "I know medicine. I can serve as a physician in the camp, and I can defend myself if needed. You taught me both."
His hand slams against the table.
The sound echoes through the room, sharp and sudden.
"Gu Qingli. Enough."
I flinch.
It is small.
But it happens.
In all my years, I have never heard him raise his voice like this. He has always been calm, patient, guiding rather than commanding.
This is different.
"You will not gamble your life on something so foolish," he continues, his voice low but filled with restrained anger. "I will go. That is the end of it."
"But—"
He raises his hand.
I stop.
The words die in my throat as he shakes his head once, firmly, already turning away from me. The conversation is over for him, whether I accept it or not.
He stands and walks toward the inner room without another glance.
My mother hesitates beside the table, her eyes lingering on me with worry and fear.
"Do not speak such dangerous thoughts again," she says softly. "You do not understand what you are inviting."
Then she follows him.
The door closes.
And I am left standing alone.
The room feels too quiet now.
Too small.
My vision blurs slightly, and I blink, realizing too late that my eyes have filled with tears. I wipe them away quickly, annoyed at myself more than anything else.
In twenty years, I have never seen my father angry.
He has always been steady, always patient, always someone I could rely on without question. He taught me everything—how to heal, how to fight, how to think.
And now he walks toward death as if it is nothing.
My hands clench.
His leg is injured.
His body is not strong.
There is no world where he survives a battlefield.
I lift my head slowly, my jaw tightening as the weight of it settles into something sharp and unyielding.
There is no choice.
If he goes—
He dies.
And I will not let that happen.
I stand there for a moment longer, the silence pressing against my ears, before I finally turn away.
My feet move on their own, carrying me toward my room as the weight in my chest settles into something heavier, something harder to ignore.
The door slides open, and I step inside, closing it behind me with more force than needed.
My father's voice still echoes in my head, sharper than I have ever heard it, and it does not sit right with me.
He has always been patient, always steady, even when things were difficult, and yet tonight there was no softness left in him.
I sit down slowly, my fingers brushing against the edge of the bed as memories rise without invitation.
He taught me everything.
Not just how to read herbs or treat wounds, but how to move, how to strike, how to stand my ground when others would not.
There was a time when he moved like the wind itself, precise and controlled, his strength quiet but undeniable.
Then the bandits came.
I was still a child, too small to understand everything, but I remember the blood, the way he stood between us and them without hesitation. I remember the fight ending, but not without cost.
His leg never healed the same after that.
From that day on, the sword was set aside, and the physician took its place.
My chest tightens.
I look down.
Something feels wrong.
My hand moves to my waist, fingers brushing over empty space where something should be.
I freeze.
The pendant.
It is gone.
I straighten immediately, checking again as if it might appear if I look harder, but it does not.
The cord is missing, the familiar weight no longer there, and a cold unease settles deep in my stomach.
It was there.
I had it when I left Lady Zhou's house.
My grip tightens.
The forest.
The fight.
My jaw clenches as the answer settles into place without effort.
I lost it there.
For a moment, I consider going back.
Then I let out a quiet breath and shake my head.
Only a fool walks into that forest at night after crossing paths with a man like that.
I am not a fool.
I sit back slowly, the tension in my body refusing to ease as I lie down, my eyes fixed on the ceiling above me.
The wind outside has not calmed, rattling the wooden frame slightly, as if the night itself is restless.
The military camp lies far to the north, beyond the mountains, where the air is thinner and the land less forgiving.
It is not a journey meant for a man with a damaged leg.
I close my eyes briefly, then open them again.
"I am not letting him go," I say quietly into the darkness.
My voice does not waver.
"I will go instead."
And this time—
I am not asking.