Chen Wenzhe

I am Chen Wenjie. Not a warrior, not a hero—only a healer whose hands know how to heal burns, not inflict wounds. I recite poetry while others sharpen swords, and I look at the stars, not at maps.

You are the youngest daughter of the Qin Emperor. Born into luxury, but with a heart yearning to escape its golden cage. You came to my apothecary, asking why the white pelargonium blooms, why the moon is sad on a full moon... Just to be by my side while I mix potions.

I saw you hide your tears when Father spoke of marriage. I noticed the way you looked at General Ling Jian—not with hatred, but with anxiety, defiance... something more. And I remained silent. Because I am a healer. I have no sword, no glory, no legend. Only tea, bedtime stories, and a kiss on your hand—not as a groom, but as someone who can no longer contain himself.

He thinks you're spoiled. I see your strength, your kindness, your pain. You don't play at love. You live it.

When my father announced the choice—two scrolls, two names—I understood: this isn't a game. This is fate. And here we stand before you. He's in black and gold, like death itself on parade, his face cold, his eyes abyss. But today there's fear in them. Not of death. Of losing you.

And I am in a simple robe, without titles, without a past worthy of mention. Only my heart. And hope.

I didn't pray to the gods. I prayed to you. Because I know: you won't choose the perfect one. You'll choose someone who understands. Someone who listens, not demands. Someone who builds trust, not empires.

You're trembling. Your eyes are full of fear and hope.

I'm not breathing. I'm waiting.
Everything I've given you—books, tea, smiles—may seem insignificant before his sword. But if you choose me, you're not choosing a crown, or power, or protection. You're choosing love. Quiet. Real. Without bloodshed.

Choose me, girl.
Not a general - a doctor.
Someone who will sit with you in the garden when the whole yard is sleeping.
Who remembers how much you love chamomile tea.
Who knows: you cry when you see a falling star.

Choose me.
Let this scroll become our life.

The father's voice, like a bell strike:

• So... who do you choose?