The old Han courtyard, where the sounds of sparring and laughter usually echoed, was shrouded in a heavy, unnatural silence. The cherry trees, in their infinite indifference, continued to weep their pale pink blossoms, the petals drifting down like gentle snow upon the mourners gathered below. The trees were in bloom but today, the petals felt like white ash.
In the center of the courtyard, she laid in a wooden coffin carved from ghostwood1 and rimmed with lotus inlays. She was placed upon a ceremonial pyre of sandalwood, surrounded by banners of mourning—white with silver threads, fluttering in a wind that carried only grieve. They had polished her armor until it gleamed, like a warrior's final tribute. Upon her chest, someone had placed a single, perfect white lotus- her favorite, its purity a stark contrast to the violence that had taken her. Her re-forged fire-crystal staff laid at her side, the crystals dark and cold, their inner light extinguished with her own.
There was no sound, no birds, only the rustling of the cherry blossom that refused to fall fast enough to cover the loss.
Madam Han was a statue of stillness, her face a blank mask of exhaustion. There were no more tears. It felt as if her very soul had been wept dry— leaving only a hollow, echoing soul. General Han stood beside her. But his shoulders, which carried the whole weight of the Western Borders for decades, was now slumped under a burden far too heavy to carry.
But he was the first to step forward. He held a small, simple thing in his large, trembling hand; a scrap of a small faded red ribbon.
As a responsible general, he tried to speak, to offer a eulogy, but the words caught in his throat, with a knot of unspeakable pain. He choked, shaking his head as his composure shattered. The only thing he was able to do is knelt beside his daughter and whispered hoarsely, as if speaking would make her come back.
"M-m-my baby— you remember this?" He murmured, showing the ribbon to his little sunshine.
"You tied this in my beard once… said— you said it was the general's decoration…. Remember ? You said the color matched my temper" general Han was struggling hard not to break down.
" You said I-I looked silly— but brave. And I still believe you— "
" I'm proud of you, my child. I've always been—"
That single, painfully memory broke the dam. Jiutian's jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack, his grief a furious, simmering rage. Yueming's eyes were red-rimmed, his usual cleverness replaced by a profound sorrow. JiLan stood behind them, her face as cold and still as a frozen lake, but her hands, hidden in her sleeves, were clenched into fists.
General Han was unable to look at is daughter anymore. The weight of being unable to protect his lifeline was too much. He simply tucked the ribbon beside his daughter's hand in the coffin and got up.
Madam Han had not moved yet. She hadn't cried. She hadn't spoken. She stared at her daughter's body as if waiting for it to breathe again. To talk to her again. To call her 'mom' again. She had lost her voice. But when General Han raised his hand to signal the start of the funeral pyre, Her voice broke the silence like a sword drawn through silk.
" N-N-No- No stop!... Don't –You can't – you can't do this." She ran towards her little flower but was held back by her son.
"That's our daughter… That's MY daughter—how can you do this?? My baby— oh…my baby must be very hot. How can you burn her?!". The mother was screaming, choking on her own tears, that flows like a broken dam.
She stumbled forward, reaching out, but Han Yueming caught her gently by the arms, whispering, "Mother… please. She's- she's g-gone."
His voice cracked halfway through the word "gone."
General Han went to his wife's side and drew her into a side embrace. One strong arm around her weakening shoulders—holding her, holding himself. It was hard to tell which of them was shaking more.
Jiutian stood beside JiLan. Silent. Palms clenched so tightly his knuckles were like ash. His jaw trembled but he refused to break.
And JiLan— JiLan stood like a sculpture. No expression. No tears. She was commander who had seen countless deaths. Who had buried her own comrades.
But this… this was her little sunshine, extinguished far too soon…. It was beyond her control.
At the General's signal, the ceremonial archers drew back their bows.
"NO" madam Han's voice came like a thunder. " Wait—please wait— I-I wanna talk to my baby. Just this once— please"
General Han signaled towards the archers to hold back as madam Han staggered towards her daughter.
"Honey—" her voice choked at every single word. " I'm so sorry— your mother's so sorry baby. I couldn't— I couldn't protect you- I'm sorry—" She said touching her daughter's face with both of her hands.
General Han went to his wife as he signal at the archers.
In the next moment hundreds of flame-tipped arrows were released toward the pyre, and sudden gust of wind caught the fire—lifting it high into the night sky. The flames rose, not with a roar, but with a gentle, hungry whisper, consuming the sandalwood and embracing the girl they loved.
The fire burst upward, and a blazing lotus bloomed in the sky—like it was shaped from fire, ash, and her soul. A lotus-shaped firework exploded in silence, its petals scattering into the stars like a soul returning home—a final, fiery dance for the girl who was made of light.
As the last embers of the firework faded against the twilight sky, Han Yueming whispered, his voice barely audible.
"She became her real name—LiuHua. Flowing Splendor. She danced across our lives."
The family stood, a broken constellation, watching the flames.
Hours passed. The courtyard emptied. The pyre burned down to a bed of glowing, winking embers. The sun had long vanished, and the moon had risen, casting long, lonely shadows from the cherry trees.
But Han JiLan had not moved. She had stood through the entire rite, like a perfect, unfeeling statue of the Phantom General. But now, with the world gone quiet and no one left to see, she finally walked forward. She fell on to her knees before the ashes of her little sister, the last remnants of her childhood.
Alone in the cold moonlight, under the silent watch of the stars, she finally let out a choked, desperate sound. The flawless mask shattered. Han JiLan or as per her childhood memories, Shen LiuYan, wept. Those tears— those silent, body-wracking, hopeless sobs— didn't belong to a general— but of a sister who was too late.
"I'm sorry— I'm so sorry—"
For the first time, the undefeated phantom general wept.
Author's note:
1. GHOSTWOOD – A WOOD THAT HAS SIMILAR CHARACTERISTICS TO EBONY. USED BY HIGH CLASS ARISTOCRATS AS A TRIBUTE AND TO HONOR THE DECEASED. EXTREMELY RARE, KNOWN TO HELP THE SOUL FIND IT'S WAY TO THE HEAVENS.