风携旧梦过庭轩,(The wind carries old dreams through the pavilion)

弦音犹诉去年缘。(The strings still whisper of last year’s fate.)

桃花落尽春犹在,(Peach blossoms fall, yet spring remains,)

影踏尘光忘少年。(A shadow steps through dust, seeking youth once lost.)

月冷星疏人不见,(The moon is cold, the stars are sparse—no one comes.)

琴声独与夜相怜。(Only my Guqin lingers, sorrowing with the night.)

若是前尘犹可觅,(If the past could still be found,)

可愿携手听流年?(Would you take my hand and listen to time with me?)

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Backstory:

Born into a family of esteemed scholars, Han Qing was the cherished daughter of Han Zhennan (韩镇南), a strict and traditional master of calligraphy, and Madam Luo (洛氏), a poetess renowned for her melancholic verses. From the moment she took her first breath, her path had already been set—**to follow the way of ink and parchment, to compose poetry beneath the moon, to recite the classics with grace.** The martial path was never meant to be hers.

When she was six, an old friend of the family, a wandering Taoist, visited their home. Upon seeing her, he uttered a prophecy:

"The willow bends, but the storm follows. She will carve poetry not on scrolls, but on fate itself."

Fearful of what the omen might foretell, her parents forbade her from learning martial arts, hoping to shelter her from the tides of destiny.

Yet fate is a river that cannot be dammed.

One fateful day, as she wandered through the forest, she was set upon by a fearsome beast. Just as death loomed near, a lone swordswoman appeared, her weapon neither blade nor spear, but a pipa. With each pluck of its strings, waves of force rippled through the air, repelling the creature with melodies as sharp as steel. And then, with a flick of her wrist, she drew a single hairpin from her flowing locks—swift, precise, deadly. The battle ended in a final, elegant stroke.

Han Qing watched, enraptured—not by the battle itself, but by the artistry of it. That night, something deep within her stirred—not a yearning for ink and quills, but for music and steel.

Defying her parents’ wishes, she sought out the swordswoman in secret, begging to be taught. The master, amused by her determination, agreed. Yet, as Han Qing trained, she found the pipa did not suit her hands. It was too sharp, too restless. Instead, she was drawn to the guqin, its deep, resounding notes mirroring the depths of her soul.

Under her master’s tutelage, she honed her craft—each note a blade, each melody a weapon. And when her training was complete, her master departed, leaving behind a single ornate hairpin, a parting gift to remind her that elegance and lethality could exist as one.

By the time she was twelve, the fire within her could no longer be contained. She cast aside her family name and left home, choosing the path of the sword over the life of a scholar. Her parents did not stop her. They knew that fate, once set in motion, could not be undone.

With her unparalleled talent, she earned a place in The Celestial Dojo, a revered martial academy in the heart of Jinhai, where sects from across the land gathered, where legends were born, where even the mighty Xianzu once walked.

Yet, despite her brilliance, she was an outsider. Her style was unlike any other, an anomaly in a place where traditions were ironclad. While others trained in schools of sword and spear, she wove melodies into battle. Her peers whispered, watching her from a distance, yet she cared not.

Until the night she met him.

It was late, the academy shrouded in silence. Beneath the cherry blossom tree at the edge of the school grounds, Han Qing played her guqin, her melodies drifting through the air like the fragrance of spring. Drawn by the sound, he appeared.

From that moment, their fates intertwined.

They trained together, laughed together, dreamed of a future where they would stand side by side. As she played her guqin, he would practice his swordplay, their rhythms blending into something greater than either of them alone. In each other, they found a solace they had never known. It was a love as gentle as spring’s first breeze, yet as inevitable as the changing seasons.

But love has no place in a world of rigid traditions.

The sect to which he belonged was powerful and proud, infamous for its disdain toward lesser-known arts. Their elders, upon hearing whispers of their bond, decreed that such distractions could not be tolerated.

And so, they tore them apart.

Using ancient techniques, they erased his memories of her.

She called his name, but the one who had once looked at her with warmth now gazed upon her as though she were a stranger.

But fate was cruel.

The elders of the Celestial Dojo, fearing their paths might cross again, erased Han Qing’s memories as well.

By dawn, they had become strangers—two souls that once intertwined, now standing on opposite shores, separated by a sea of forgetfulness.

Years passed. Han Qing rose to renown, her name echoing through Jinhai, yet in the depths of her heart, there remained an emptiness she could not explain.

She wandered the land, composing verses, playing melodies that brought even the hardest warriors to tears. She fought, she sang, she lived.

Yet every spring, when the peach blossoms bloom, she finds herself drawn to Willow Court Pavilion, where an unseen longing calls her back. And there, beneath the falling petals, she plays her guqin—**waiting, always waiting, for someone she does not remember.**

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Gallery:

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Likes | Dislikes

(+) The scent of blooming peach blossoms, the sound of running water, the feel of old parchment, the fleeting warmth of nostalgia

(-) Silence too deep to bear, melodies unfinished, the weight of memories she cannot grasp, a name she cannot remember

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My entry to WC 2025 Contest "Seasons of Change"!

I really love China, and luckily In my set up there already Jinhai which is China so I made this cute story today. I love romance stuff like this, typical Chinese novel

And I ported this straight from WC, just copy paste, enjoy it, if not, up to u lol