The elderly woman, now over seventy, was none other than General Li Shiyun, the sole female general of her time. Once a commander under the empire's banner of smoke and fire, she had led legions of soldiers, carving out peace in the midst of chaos.
But the years had been unkind, and war never ceased. Despite pouring her heart and soul into countless campaigns, each victory came at a cost. She lost more with every battle—friends, family, students, and comrades.
Yet the old general retained her commanding presence. Though her face was lined with wrinkles, her deep-set eyes still radiated a sharp intelligence and unwavering determination. Around her, a group of young women in traditional Han clothing practiced martial arts with fierce concentration. She watched them with a wry smile, their earnest faces evoking memories of her own youthful days.
Her own youth, however, had been consumed by war. Her husband and four sons were all lost to the battlefield. Of her sons, two bodies were recovered, but her husband and the other two were never found, their final resting places a mystery.
Recently, rumors had reached the capital—malicious whispers that her husband and two sons hadn't died, but had defected to the enemy. The king sent her a secret letter of reprimand, full of accusations and bereft of evidence. Soon after, envoys arrived to strip her of her command. Fearing public backlash, the king refrained from using force, instead assigning one of her own disciples—a mediocre but politically well-connected officer from the capital—as her replacement.
With her military duties removed, she now had time on her hands, but the general refused to retire to the capital. There, a spacious mansion bestowed by the king awaited her, along with distant relatives. Yet she had no desire to return. As long as her two grandsons served in the army, she felt her family was still close by.
Her once-black hair had turned silver, often neatly tied into a bun and wrapped with a white kerchief. Lately, though, she let it flow freely, strands of white dancing in the breeze. Dressed in simple linen robes, her figure remained upright and healthy despite her age. At her waist hung an old straight-bladed sword, its once-glorious sheen now dulled from disuse. It was her weapon of choice in her youth, now a relic gathering dust.
Her once-piercing gaze had softened, her vision blurred by time. Her voice, once commanding, had grown hoarse, yet it carried a gentleness that had not been there before. Sleepless nights often plagued her; she would sit alone, a candle illuminating her weathered face, lost in memories of a life filled with triumph and loss.
With time, her appetite diminished, and exercise no longer interested her. Loneliness had become her constant companion, leaving her with no one to share her thoughts on victories or regrets. Even her grandsons visited only briefly before duty called them away again.
The general had taken to reminiscing, making it a nightly ritual. She would sit in the pavilion under the stars, lighting a solitary candle, poring over yellowed battle reports. As her fingers traced the names of fallen comrades, she relived the splendor of past battles and the bittersweet camaraderie of her brothers and sisters-in-arms. Though solitary, these memories were a treasure that kept her soul full.
When the stars appeared, she often wandered to a secluded corner of the camp, gazing at the heavens. What she pondered in those moments, no one could say. She knew that even legends faded, their stories reshaped or forgotten over time. A decade, a century from now, she would be no more than a tale, perhaps unrecognizable from the truth.
Still, she forced herself to stay active, walking farther each day. She refused to waste away in obscurity like so many of her old comrades, determined not to become a burden on her descendants.
Occasionally, she would pass by village women doing laundry, stopping to listen to their endless gossip. Though trivial, it added some color to her otherwise dull days. Inevitably, the gossip would veer toward the latest competitions at the field hospital, often escalating into heated debates. The general, intrigued, started attending the matches herself. Before long, she became a regular fixture.
Unable to blend in with the chatty village women, she found a quiet corner to watch. Little Hong, a boy from the village, often chose the same secluded spot. His eyes were filled with a burning admiration for the martial skills on display in the camp. After each match, he would grab a tree branch and swing it wildly, imagining himself as one of the warriors in the arena.
Lately, Little Hong had become fixated on two soldiers, the towering Big Meng and the smaller but agile Kael Meng. He would sneak over during their breaks, offering them water or helping wipe the sweat from their brows. Despite their repeated refusals to take him on as a student, Little Hong persisted with unyielding enthusiasm.
Every morning, before the first light of dawn, a thin figure could be seen running laps around the camp, building strength and endurance. At first, Little Hong struggled to complete five laps, his small frame drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Yet he refused to quit, gritting his teeth and pushing himself forward. Observing the soldiers' matches closely, he began mimicking their techniques, slowly picking up the basics of combat.
However, his intense training left him constantly hungry. To sustain himself, Little Hong returned to an old skill—catching fish in the river. With deft movements and practiced ease, he dove into the water, hauling out his meals one by one. After eating, he would resume his practice, a cycle of training and replenishment that became his new routine.
Whenever he encountered the general, Little Hong would share part of his catch—a simple boiled fish with a sprinkle of salt. The old woman found herself unexpectedly enjoying the humble dish, though she couldn't quite stomach the pity in the boy's eyes. It was clear he saw her as a lonely, homeless elder. Then again, she thought with a rueful smile, he wasn't wrong.
From a distance, the general often watched Little Hong wield his wooden stick. His movements were still clumsy, but the determination in his strikes caught her attention. Her lips curled into the faintest of smiles."Interesting," she murmured.
Unlike the soldiers, who trained for only two hours a day, Little Hong pushed himself relentlessly. His progress quickly became apparent, and soon, even the soldiers began using him as an example. The small boy was a source of embarrassment for some; the squad leader, Kenji, frequently scolded lazy soldiers by comparing them to Little Hong.
But such praise brought trouble.
One day, as Little Hong jogged past a group of soldiers resting in a circle, one of them—a tall man—called out,"Hey, kid! Come here!"
Wary, Little Hong approached cautiously. He had learned to be careful around soldiers."What do you want?"
The tall soldier sneered."I heard you've lost your mind. You think you can challenge our boss?"
Another soldier clapped him on the shoulder in mock sympathy."Poor kid. If you like getting beat up so much, maybe I should introduce you to my family's old sow. She'd put up a better fight than you!"
The group erupted in laughter, some falling to the ground, slapping their knees. Others mimicked Little Hong's movements, limping around with exaggerated swings of an imaginary sword.
Little Hong's face turned crimson, but he clenched his fists, refusing to lash out. He knew anger would only amuse them further.
Taking a deep breath, he straightened his back, his eyes flashing with stubborn defiance."Words are cheap," he said, his voice steady."If you're so tough, face me one-on-one."