The scent of sandalwood drifted through the grand corridors of the Jiāng estate in Tianjin, clinging to every carved screen and lacquered cabinet. Lili, no more than ten at the time, remembered the house as a labyrinth of locked rooms and hushed secrets. It pulsed with the silent authority of her father, Jiāng Zhiwei, whose wealth and lineage stretched back to an era of crimson banners and whispered power. This was the man ministers deferred to, the man whose slightest nod could shift fortunes. Yet within these walls, his dominion extended beyond business and politics—into the very marrow of his children.
On that winter afternoon, snow curled against latticed windows, muffling the city's bustle. Lili's velvet shoes made no sound on the polished stone as she followed a maid carrying a brass tray of rice porridge. The girl's eyes flicked anxiously toward a door at the far end of the north wing—a reinforced wooden slab with iron hinges, out of place among the delicate decor. Behind it, her older brother, Jiāng Liwei, had been kept for weeks.
Their father believed brilliance was forged in confinement. Liwei, barely thirteen, was to master wéiqí (围棋)—the ancient board game—until he could read twenty moves ahead, until strategy flooded his dreams. A private tutor sat with him from dawn's pale glow to the midnight hush, drilling dìngshì biànhuà (定式变化), making him replay the ancient qípǔ (棋谱) of Chinese masters, stone by stone. Outside meals and brief washroom breaks, Liwei's world was a black-and-white battlefield.
The maid paused before the door.
"Young miss… he refused lunch," she whispered.
"Master says no dinner unless the qípǔ is flawless."
Lili pressed her palm to the cold wood, imagining her brother's hunched figure, fingers raw from endless placements of slate and shell. She pictured Father's stern profile: silver-rimmed glasses, mouth a thin line. The family doctor had warned that isolation and sleep deprivation might fracture a child's mind, but Father dismissed it as Western melodrama. Genius, he said, required a crucible.
Summoning courage, Lili approached Father's study. Its heavy doors were etched with dragons in mid-flight, their jade eyes gleaming. She found him bent over ledgers, calligraphy brush gliding like a saber across paper. The room smelled of ink and cold tea.
"Bàba," she began, heart pounding.
"Could Liwei walk in the courtyard tomorrow? Fresh air—"
Zhiwei's gaze snapped up, steel and ice.
"Wéiqí is zhànzhēng (战争)—war. War offers no courtyards, only victory."
He stood, towering, immaculate in a charcoal changshan.
"Do you question my methods?"
"No, Father, but he is tired—"
"He will thank me when he plays at the Míngrén Sài (名人赛). When he defeats the strongest players, and the nation chants his name."
Zhiwei's voice softened, almost tender.
"Our bloodline must stay at the summit. Weakness is a debt we cannot afford."
His hand rested on Lili's shoulder with deceptive gentleness. She felt the weight of dynastic expectation settle on her bones—sharper than any reprimand.
That night, the mansion lay silent under snow.
Lili crept to the forbidden wing, keys stolen from the steward's drawer jangling like anxious crickets. She slipped inside Liwei's prison. The single lantern cast long shadows over a qípán (棋盘) speckled with half-finished shapes.
Her brother sat cross-legged, eyes ringed dark as bruises, murmuring qíxíng móshì (棋形模式) under his breath.
"Liwei," she whispered.
He startled, focus breaking; tears welled but did not fall.
"I brought baozi."
He shook his head.
"If the tutor sees, he'll report me. Father will…."
His voice cracked.
Lili set the steamed bun beside him anyway.
"One bite won't cost victory."
She touched his hand—ice-cold, trembling from caffeine pills the tutor forced upon him to stave off drowsiness.
A floorboard creaked. Lantern light flared as the door swung wide.
Zhiwei filled the threshold, coat swirling like a storm cloud.
In that instant, Lili saw the real face of power—not in banquets or boardrooms, but in the fury that burned behind her father's controlled exterior. He strode in, seized the baozi, crushed it between gloved fingers.
"Compassion breeds failure," he hissed.
"Get out."
He dragged Lili by the wrist into the corridor. Behind them, Liwei cried out—not for rescue, but in apology.
The door slammed, the click of locks reverberating like a gavel.
Father marched Lili to the ancestral hall. Rows of portraits watched: stern men with scholar's hats, women in phoenix-embroidered robes. Zhiwei knelt before the altar, forcing Lili to mirror him.
"Swear," he ordered,
"you will never undermine our legacy again."
Lip quivering, she swore.
Incense smoke curled between them, asphyxiating.
She realized her father's obsession was not truly with wéiqí but with control—the board merely a microcosm of empire.
Days bled into weeks. Liwei emerged thinner, gaze distant. He spoke in murmurs of qíxíng móshì (棋形模式) and rìběn (Japanese) strategies he had memorized by force. Lili watched him become a prodigy, watched sponsorship offers pour in, watched Father smile a rare, satisfied smile.
But the triumph felt hollow.
Lili knew the cost carved into her brother's spirit: the twitch in his left eye when clocks ticked, the way he flinched at locked doors.
She vowed then that she would never allow her future children—or herself—to be forged in such fires.
Return to the Present
A distant clap of a qízǐ (棋子) snapped Lili back to the garden's warmth.
Tourists clustered around a public wéiqí table, laughing, carefree.
She touched Liu's arm, eyes glossy with memory.
"Are you all right?" he asked softly.
She nodded, forcing a smile.
"Just—old ghosts."
Liu sensed the heaviness and led her toward the lotus pond.
"Whatever shadows follow you," he said,
"you're not alone now."
For the first time, Lili believed him.
She inhaled the crisp air, tasted freedom on her tongue, and felt the iron door of Tianjin click open in her mind, its hinges rusting to dust.