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Thread: Crossroads Of Time

  1. #1
    Junior Member chocolatesoda's Avatar
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    Wink Crossroads Of Time

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    Author's Note: This is an original time-travel WuXia fanfiction. Any similiarities to actual events/people or other (fan)fictions are merely coincidences. Please comment/message. It would mean an awful lot to me! Thanks for reading. I really hope you will enjoy it!!!

    ------------------------------
    Summary:

    Summary: Bianca Elizabeth Zhao used to be your run-of-the-mill modern Asian American, whose life was scientifically proven (by a third grade science fair project) impossible to become any less exciting than it already is. Besides the one exciting moment in which a teacher suggested a visit to a psychiatrist over her third grade science fair project, her seventeen years of life was spent in Dullsville, USA. It was the day her mother suggested a visit to her native country, China that her life changed forever. Flung across space and time, Bianca found herself inhabiting the body of an ancient general’s daughter in the Song dynasty facing an impending marriage, Ruan Piao Yu. In her quest to escape from a time period in which toilet paper was considered a sacred national treasure, Bianca’s path crossed with the infamous leader of the Silver Flames sect, Ouyang Lue. Arrogant, ruthless, and yet oddly mesmerizing, Ouyang Lue was almost too difficult for a modern, hot-blooded girl to resist. Bianca was swept into a romance with the dangerous rebel that changed her perspectives forever.

    The casting in this story is flexible. No specific actors are selected.


    Bianca Zhao \\ Ruan Piao Yu 阮飘语

    The protagonist of the story. A blindly optimistic, adventurous, and often oblivious girl who prides herself on her ‘modern sensibilities’. Primarily clueless at finding herself in the bizarre world of Ancient China, she swiftly adapts into the different environment. Contrasting to girls of the era in which she finds herself in, she dives headfirst into an initially unreciprocated romance for the handsome, impassive Ouyang Lue. When she loves, she loves without doubts or misgivings, but her determined nature soon lands her in mortal peril.

    Ouyang Lue 欧阳略

    Ouyang Lue’s strikingly handsome exterior disguises a ruthless, reticent youth. He is contemptuous towards worldly matters, having shed his youthful innocence in his childhood. He does not hesitate to kill those who oppose him, and usually shows no signs of repentance after murdering someone in cold blood. Although he appears to be without the slightest hint of kindness, Lue does act with surprising compassion at times, even to the utter disbelief of himself. This phenomenon, which has a tendency to happen wherever Ruan Piao Yu is concerned, questions whether his heart is truly as cold as most were led to believe.

    Ruan Meng Ning 阮梦宁

    Piao Yu’s older cousin, Meng Ning, is a lovely, demure girl who dreams of a steady home life and a caring husband. Born to a life of privilege, she represents the refinement and poised elegance of aristocratic status. However, after Ouyang Lue inadvertently rescues her from lethal danger, she fell swiftly for his arresting magnetism.

    Bai Wei Xuan 白伟玄

    A filial, obedient son, he tries to honor his arranged marriage with the general’s daughter, Ruan Piao Yu before hearing news of her escapade. He was not the most outstanding of men, but he was a thoroughly competent one. His honesty and kind heart puts him light years ahead of Ouyang Lue in terms of compassion, whom, in turn, far surpasses him in Martial Arts.

  2. #2
    Junior Member chocolatesoda's Avatar
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    Default Prologue

    Prologue

    Northern Song – 1125 AD

    Howls of unearthly winds whipped through the dauntingly silent woods, shrieking its utmost fury into the shadowed trees. The moon unconcealed itself in a veil of morose clouds, as though in recognition that this was not a night suited for cheerful luminance. A distant clap of thunder broke into the stillness as glaringly vivid streaks of lightening made their way across the silhouetted skies. Pelts of raindrops began to descend into the darkness.

    The boy stumbled on his path through the rain-sodden soil of the wintry woods. The wind assailed upon him mercilessly, proving itself a formidable foe as the boy sank onto his knees. His teeth were instinctively chattering, and he huddled against a tree for warmth, his lacerated flesh pleading for relief. He tightened his fists subconsciously. A drop of liquid seeped down from the slash on his right shoulder, immediately accompanied by a wave of burning agony that he chose to ignore. Once upon a time, he would have looked upon his current predicament with fear. He would have been frightened of the mosquito-ridden woods, the limitless darkness, and the pain that shook his entire body. Night had once been an environment that inspired terror - an unknown place that was too dark, too cold.

    But not now. Now was not a time for fear, nor for childhood apprehension. Now was a time for survival. His former life belonged to the realm of masked memories. They were better left forgotten by their beholder. The young boy within him was slaughtered forever, massacred by vindictive blades and the spilled blood of loved ones. As the lure of unconsciousness leaked into his sleep-deprived mind, the boy compelled his thoughts away from the shattered, dead past. Reminiscing served no purpose. All that was left was the burning will to stay alive.

    He made a valiant attempt to stand, but his muscles, after three days of malicious labor, refused his imperative urgings. With the last burst of effort, he dug his bloodied hands into the soggy earth, hauling his body forward. The conceited aristocrat he had once been would never have allowed himself to be stripped so completely of dignity by crawling in mud. However, dignity, he realized a few days ago, had little place in the new life he was about to embark on.

    Footsteps approached him, as well as a blazing torch of fire that sparked alarm. He screamed inwardly to flee from the forthcoming light, but strength had deserted his beaten, bruised body. Two figures emerged before him, blocking his route. The boy’s eyes flaccidly traveled from the men’s lavish boots to their costly attire, and finally, to their faces which were accentuated by the firelight. He met one of the men’s dark orbs with his own gaze, straining to keep his head up.

    Ouyang SiMing observed the sprawled boy before him with a light curiosity, carefully concealed behind a mask of neutral nonchalance. The boy was approximately eight or nine years old. His ill-worn garments were coated with several days worth of dirt and grime. Further examinations proved that blood was entwined with the filth that enveloped his attires. His gashed face was barely distinguishable beneath rivers of dripping vermilion and swollen flesh. His cheeks were gaunt, with the look of one who had not consumed anything for days. It seemed that fortune was on his side for allowing him to live this long.

    There was no doubt that this boy was fleeing from something, or someone. Enemies, he reasoned, eying the boy’s ragged appearance. Ouyang SiMing was a keen observer, and he did not fail to notice the boy’s distinctive manner. With disregarding to his distraught appearance, the air he projected, even from a brief time of scrutiny, was that of an aristocrat. The way he studied those around him differed from children of an ordinary upbringing. No, this was no ordinary child. All of a sudden, the boy’s eyes met his, and he was unmistakably startled. The boy’s irises were a fiery amber, mirroring the scorching fires of resolution within. Despite his decades of experience in the martial arts world, he had never seen eyes of that particular shade. He wondered how much of it was due to the fire’s light.

    “What’s your name?”

    The boy stared. The man was speaking in Chinese, a language that was taught to him since he was young. The boy managed to find his voice. “Yelü…” He croaked in a hoarse voice before halting his words. With his last thread of ability left to reason after days of fatigue, he managed to bite his words back. Mutely, he stared at the tall, middle-aged man. His saber was strapped casually to his waist, and his manner hinted of a man who had more than his fair share of experiences in the Martial Arts world and revered little of it. Dark brows and a stern, commanding demeanor intimidated the boy. His servant stood to the side, observing silently.

    The man frowned slightly, his thick brows knitted, “…lü?”

    The boy realized that his cracked voice before had not completely voiced his former words, allowing him room to withdraw them. His mind wheeling, he searched for a word that was similar to the pronunciation of the last syllable in his surname.

    “Lue, sir.” He improvised swiftly. “M-my name is Ah Lue.”

    “Ah Lue?”

    Understanding that the man was inquiring after his surname, the boy rapidly continued, “I-I prefer not to speak of my village, sir. You see, a few years ago, a seer prophesied that the surname of our village would bring terrible bloodshed,” He lied, compelling sincerity into his voice. He feigned an expression of remorse as he proceeded with his narration, “We did not believe him…until a few days ago, when our village was attacked by bandits.” At that, he gave a little sob and was silent.

    The man held back a chuckle, realizing why the boy did not invent a counterfeit surname as well as his name. One word in his name that was not his own was already difficult to remember, not to mention be able to respond instinctively. To add an unfamiliar surname as well would be suicide to his previous deception. Hiding a smile, he pretended to believe him. “Oh, is that so?”

    “Yes, sir.” The boy hid his relief that the man didn’t recognize his lie.

    “Are you homeless now, Ah Lue?” The man inquired lightly. “Where are your parents?”

    “M-my father fled to the west of…of our village.” This time the boy didn’t feel the need to simulate an emotion of sorrow. Now the feelings were truly genuine as he told the man, “My mother was killed in battle.”

    “In battle…” He mused at the usage of the word that was too massive to describe a single fight with bandits. “With the heathens you mean.”

    He nodded as the man continued, “Do you wish to come with me, Ah Lue? Do you know who I am?”

    He shook his head. “No sir.”

    The man quietly gazed at him, until the boy felt the stranger before him was evaluating him somehow. He struggled to hoist his body up into a more imposing position than one where he was slumped in the dirt. “My name is Ouyang SiMing. Since you do not wish to utilize your previous family name, I suggest that you make use of mine from now on.”

    Ouyang SiMing. The name sent a tremble of shock throughout the boy, chilling his blood in acknowledgment. He recognized the name, for in truth, there were few in the world that wouldn’t. Ouyang SiMing was the leader of the Silver Flames – a principal sect that was chief to more than 17 separate individual sects, commanding a legion of fighters in the Martial Arts world rivaling the size of the militant force belonging to the emperor Gaozong himself. Rumors spread like wildfire in matters in which Ouyang SiMing was involved in. They said that as a man he was ferocious, but as a warrior he was invincible. He was an imperative figure in the Martial Arts world, commanding a force more immense than the pugilistic world had ever known. He kept the minor sects in line with his superior Martial Arts, ruling from the Salt and Rice sects of the common people to the Martial Arts multitudes. The man represented power itself.

    And to use his surname…the thought nearly suffocated him. To use the name of a Chinese was the act of traitorous betrayal itself, but the time for honor and duty was past. Those were virtues to value in a lovely, buried past, but held no place in the reality he was facing. His mother was Han. He attempted to appease his guilty conscience as he pondered over the fact. With Ouyang SiMing came protection, which was crucial until he possessed the ability to evade from his pursuers by himself.

    “Ouyang Lue.” He spoke his new name aloud, as though for Ouyang SiMing’s approval. The formidable man nodded it in agreement. The boy repeated it slowly, tasting it, letting it wash away his war-torn history. “Ouyang Lue.”

    As Ouyang Lue rode away on the back of his patron’s additional stallion, his exhaustion arrived at its zenith. His clenched his fists tightly. He was a survivor, a fighter. He would not perish in vain like so many in his homeland. One day, the Han General Ruan would pay for his deeds. Her only son would avenge his mother’s death with the demise of her murderer. With that, the exiled former Prince of Liao Dynasty fell into a deep slumber.

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