Between Duty and Desire

Chapter 1

For three years, Evelyn Hastings struggled to penetrate the guarded world of Alexander Braveheart, the tough-as-nails military commander. Resigned to the futility of her efforts, she decided to retreat from his life entirely.
But upon her return from a life-changing journey, the news of Alexander's upcoming engagement hit her like a slap—she was mocked mercilessly, a target for whispers and laughter.
In a bid to reclaim her pride and dignity, and to fulfill the last dream of a dear elder, she resolutely chose a path of independence and accepted Alexander’s proposition.
“Marry me,” he proposed, his voice commanding yet oddly comforting. “By marrying me, you’ll regain everything—your pride, your dignity, everything you thought you lost.”
Evelyn lifted her gaze, the corners of her lips twitching in an almost amused smile. “Meet me at the civil affairs office tomorrow at nine. I’ll be waiting.”
Initially, she found the idea of being a military wife appealing. After all, there’d be plenty of downtime to indulge in her favorite games like Angry Birds and Plants vs. Zombies, or even explore the realms of World of Warcraft.
However, it wasn’t long before a particular someone began monopolizing the computer. His bold assertion that “warfare is a man’s domain and women should just cheer from the sidelines” didn’t sit well with her.
Then one quiet night, as the moonlight filtered softly through their window, she found him holding her closely, his eyes closed in contentment.
A teasing voice interrupted the stillness, cutting in lightly: “Hey? If you’re alive, you better make some noise.”
Without even opening his eyes, he groaned in response, “Ugh.”
Curious, she pressed on, “So, that classmate you mentioned… is she pretty?”
“Of course! She was the prom queen, gentle and kind. A lot of guys chased her... and she—ah!” He winced as a sudden jolt of pain shot through his thigh.
Looking up, he met her stormy glare, filled with a mix of irritation and jealousy. Inside, he felt a twinge of desolation—this woman was truly intimidating. If she asked you a question and you didn’t answer, she sulked. But if you did, she became furious! Just the other night, she insisted on watching a horror movie at an ungodly hour.
Then came the day when Alexander turned to her with a serious question: “Do you love me?”
“Is that a serious question? Do I have to remind you how unattractive you are? You can’t just ask something so cheesy without feeling embarrassed!” Evelyn’s tone held playfulness and disbelief.
He bristled, defending himself, “But remember that night I confessed my love for you? You didn’t blush at all! Not even a little.”
And so their banter continued, a reflective dance of feelings masked in humor.
The true essence of this story revolves around Evelyn and Alexander, two souls intertwined amidst the intricacies of military life. Their journey is filled with battles, both outside and within, where not all secrets can be unveiled.
Expect tanks and explosions, romance and rivalry—if you’re one to swoon over dashing military personnel in a world rife with action and adventure, step right in.

Chapter 2

On the Great Bridge, you gaze into the distant landscape, while those observing you from above drift in and out of focus, their eyes cast toward your silhouette. The moonlight decorates your window, and yet, you have become an ornament in another's dreams.
Long ago, I seem to recall learning this poem, often savoring those plain words, which always held a unique flavor. Perhaps it was overly sentimental, but each time I recited those lines, my eyes would grow misty, likely moved by the story woven within them.
I remember her eyes, beautiful like a lone star amidst a rainy night, their glimmer dispelling the murkiness around; and the quiet, clear smile that lingered at her lips, like a mountain spring emerging with gentle resolve and unwavering passion.
And it is from a tranquil, beautiful evening in this city, by the small bridge as the rain falls gently, that her story and his begin...
Although **Zeltrane** may not be as vast as the **Western Highlands** or boast fresh air, it still attracts many who strive to make this city their home. These individuals range from spirited young professionals to seasoned blue-collar workers, white-collar executives, and ambitious entrepreneurs, all eager to establish their foothold here.
This small city is considered one of the most bustling urban centers in the country and serves as a national trade hub. Its scenery isn't particularly breathtaking; it is said that long ago, it was merely a desolate quiet town. However, with the nation’s burgeoning economy and prosperity, the landscape has transformed dramatically—once-lush trees and barren hills are now replaced by towering skyscrapers, and the fresh air has gradually been consumed by luxury and fierce competition.
Nevertheless, **Zeltrane** abounds with talent, giving rise to countless esteemed entrepreneurs and promising young individuals across various sectors.
Take **Simon Montgomery**, the daring leader of the **Montgomery Consortium**. He is the quintessential dark horse—young and handsome, a true prince in the hearts of many women. He took over his father’s mantle at a young age and has significantly boosted the family business. There are even whispers of a union with the local real estate mogul **Hastings Clan**, with his fiancée, the city's recognized beauty, **Evelyn Hastings**. She is the darling of the Hastings Clan and a rising star in the fashion industry, often seen as the perfect match among many of **Zeltrane**'s ambitious young elite—a true power couple.
I recall the excitement in the air when news of their engagement broke—**Zeltrane** practically erupted with cheers and envy. The city’s gaze was fixed on this couple, showering them with admiration and adoration.
Then there’s **Alexander Braveheart**, another dazzling dark horse. He hails from a distinguished lineage; his grandfather was a military commander, while his grandmother was a retired official. His father supervises the local tax office, and his mother is a renowned fashion designer, yet he runs a massive clothing firm himself. Clearly, he is the quintessential golden boy with a silver spoon.
What stands out most about him, however, is his name—**Alexander Braveheart**. At just thirty-one, he serves as the chief strategist of the **S Legion**, with a bright future ahead of him. He embodies the spirit of **Zeltrane**'s most eligible bachelor.
Among the numerous renowned businesses here, the **Wind Corporation** stands out. Rumor has it that the head, **Fergus Windrider**, is an elderly recluse living in a lavish estate. With no heirs and a daughter who passed away years ago, he remains a figure shrouded in mystery, plagued by speculation.
**Fergus Windrider** is known for his eccentric disposition and often volatile temperament, leading to the dismissal of employees on whims. Yet, despite his temperament, he commands respect and intrigue, alongside the **Montgomery Consortium**, making him a notable figure in the industry, often lamented for his solitary existence in his twilight years.
Still, those are merely rumors. Recently, whispers surfaced that **Fergus Windrider** may actually have a granddaughter. A reporter captured a glimpse of a young woman resembling **Fergus**'s late daughter outside his grand villa. Whether she truly embodies the heiress of the **Wind family** remains unresolved.
As the night cools and a gentle breeze sweeps through, it is here that everything begins in this city...

Chapter 3

Alexander Braveheart once said that if it hadn't been for that silent night, that intoxicating solitary moon, he wouldn’t have been waiting for such a beautiful encounter, or for her. Thus, he felt thankful for that night and the gentle crescent moon.
As the Qingming Festival approached, a persistent drizzle draped the world in a soft haze, cocooning everything in a tender melancholy reminiscent of the rain-soaked alleys of the South. The strands of spring rain fell gently from the sky, while a cool breeze flowed like a stream from a hot spring, inviting yet chilly, soft as a delicate sponge. A droplet quickly formed on a fingertip, a crisp chill reminiscent of a finely-crafted crucifix sliding across the palm…
The once bustling city finally slipped into silence on this rainy night, devoid of the daytime clamor. The city could almost be described as beautiful and peaceful, especially on a night with such hazy, gentle rain.
Zeltrane was a picturesque city, cradled by mountains and alongside a majestic river known as the Great River, which split the city in half, arching across its center like a dragon soaring through the clouds. Numerous impressive bridges spanned the river, each with its own unique design—some were graceful arches, while others were immense suspension bridges. They varied in age, some newly built, while others held the timeworn marks of history.
One such bridge, a grand stone arch, featured railings that were both impressive and weathered, displaying intricate carvings of dragons spitting pearls. The bridge bore the wear of countless storms through the ages, its slightly faded railings telling the silent stories of its long existence.
What truly defines a bridge? Some say it’s the most convenient pathway from one end to another, while others believe it represents the last beautiful view when one finds themselves in a dead end.
Yet, is it really so? No one can provide a definitive answer; perhaps it is whatever you choose to see it as.
In the dim light cast by a few streetlamps, the darkening night held a light drizzle. A person stood in the rain for some time, shoulders barely dampened by the falling drops.
A Military Hummer rumbled slowly toward the bridgehead, its speed steady and calm until it came to a halt near the entrance of the bridge. Following closely behind was another jeep, which also paused at the entrance.
“Commander,” a vibrant young officer jumped out of the Hummer quickly, clad in a new, sharp green military uniform that shone brightly under the feeble streetlight. He approached the back seat, opened the door, and respectfully called out, “Sir.”
Moments later, a tall and statuesque figure stepped out of the rear of the vehicle, dressed in a crisp, impeccably sharp military uniform, a simple military coat draped over his shoulders. He wore an impressive military cap atop his head and polished military boots that gleamed in the streetlight.
At first glance, he stood well over six feet. Beneath the cap, his face was angular and resolute, striking in its intensity, accented by bold brows and a pair of piercing, steady eyes reflecting the determination of a soaring eagle. His high nose and thin lips were complemented by the long fingers covered by white gloves, while his sun-kissed skin glowed mysteriously beneath the yellow glow of the streetlights, giving him an aura of undeniable charisma. His tall, commanding presence exuded calmness alongside a palpable sense of justice and conviction.
The man stepped from the vehicle, lifting his proud head as he fixed his unwavering gaze upon the Stony Arch Bridge, before swiftly redirecting his focus and striding forward. The officer followed immediately, with two soldiers descending from the jeep trailing closely behind.
He reached the center of the bridge, halting abruptly, his dark eyes sparkling as they reflected the glimmering, elusive waters below.
“Commander, what are you looking at?” the officer called out, noticing the rain and cold temperatures. “You haven't eaten, either.” He craned his neck, standing on his tiptoes, trying to peer down at the river. Besides the gently flowing water, there was nothing else in sight.
The man slowly withdrew his gaze, locking eyes with the officer before responding in a deep, measured voice laced with elegance, “Young Melvin.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer replied promptly, standing at attention.
“When was the last time we returned?” the man asked in a low voice.
“Report, Commander, it was last year on the fifth of May, coinciding with the Dragon Boat Festival. End of report,” the officer answered before lowering his salute.
The man’s eyes glimmered again as he looked back at the gently swaying river and mused solemnly, “So we have been away for nearly a year.”
“Report, Commander, it has been three hundred seventeen days since our last return,” the officer affirmed, recollecting the duration with clarity.
The man remained silent, staring deeply at the river while quietly gazing at the colorful reflections from the lights on both shores, and of course at the faint solitary moon hanging in the sky. It was rare on a night filled with falling rain to witness such a majestic sight of the moonlight.
Perhaps due to the weather, there were few pedestrians on the road, with only the occasional figure briskly passing by, too rushed to notice the few individuals standing by the bridge.
Suddenly, a loud clatter broke the silence, the sound of something tumbling to the ground.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” a desperate voice called out.
The man lifted his gaze across the bridge to see a young artist bent over, desperately apologizing. Beside him lay an easel on the ground, with a few sheets of white paper scattered about, along with an unfinished painting that was too damp to make out clearly, even showing a few splatters. Beside the painting was a couple of pencils and a black backpack.
A figure was frantically bowing down, continuing to apologize, while a woman on the other side stood, looking overly composed. The man shifted his gaze upward, longing to see her face…

Chapter 4

Draped in a striking red trench coat, her long black hair cascaded down her shoulders like dark silk, flowing and thick, covering her narrow back. Her face, serene and detached, was as flawless as porcelain yet bore a timeless elegance, mingled with an air of melancholy. Her cold, starry eyes shimmered with a captivating, glass-like brilliance, void of warmth. The red coat reached her knees, and on her feet were black boots, the flat soles dusty from neglect—the signs of a hurried departure evident.
She was indeed an extraordinary beauty, but what struck Alexander Braveheart was not her appearance, but the subtle sorrow nestled between her finely shaped brows. Although faint, it lingered, making her appear ageless yet weighed down by a profound weariness, as if lifetimes of experience enveloped her. The chilly wind played with her hair, hinting at a story of hardship and wandering.
Standing alone beneath the dim glow of a streetlamp, just short of five feet five inches compared to his six-foot stature, she seemed fragile, her frame delicate. The easel beside her had toppled, papers scattered in a disarray thanks to a passerby. Light rain fell softly, dappling her hair with moisture.
In the stillness of the evening air, the sound of the apologetic stranger filled the space as he bowed, repeatedly insisting, “I’m so sorry, ma’am! I’ll pay for the damage!”
The woman’s reaction, however, was strikingly calm. Her elegant face remained devoid of expression, her gaze fixed on the half-finished painting on the ground. After a moment of silence, she knelt gracefully, gently picking up the artwork. A hint of regret shadowed her brow as her delicate fingers reached into her pocket, retrieving a clean tissue to carefully brush away the smudges, then righted the easel with measured care.
“I’m so sorry! Here, let me help,” the stranger suddenly realized. He hurriedly bent to gather the scattered papers and pencils.
“Here, how much do I owe you?” he asked, handing her the items. He inadvertently looked up at her, and his breath caught in his throat.
She didn’t respond. Slinging her backpack over one shoulder and lifting the easel, she turned her back on him and took a slow step away, her pace deliberate.
“Ma’am! Your pencils and paper! I haven’t paid you yet!” The stranger’s voice cut through the air, but she continued on as if his words didn’t reach her.
A swift gust of chilling wind whipped through, causing Alexander to instinctively shield himself as something flew in his direction. He reached out, catching the half-finished painting that had suddenly drifted into his hands.
The scene depicted a simple bridge under a night sky, the strokes capturing the essence of the Great River nearby, framed by lonely streetlamps standing vigil by the water’s edge. It was an amateur yet beautiful piece—a vision of tranquility that he couldn’t truly appreciate; maps of military terrains were his domain, but the gentle curves of this landscape spoke to him in ways he didn’t fully understand.
This was indeed a work still in progress. The right corner held a barely started line of text: “Lonely ancient bridge, lonely night, desolate winds and rain.” The next line incomplete, with the signature absent. Each stroke was confident, flowing like a gentle stream, revealing artistry that emitted strength yet held fragility.
As he lifted his gaze, he noticed the mysterious woman had halted. Her slender frame was silhouetted against the soft, falling rain, obscured softly in ethereal solitude.
Caught in his contemplation, she turned slowly, her gaze drifting to the emptiness of his palms, then to the painting, her indifferent eyes meeting his for the briefest moment. The chill of the wind sent her hair dancing across her face, framing her delicate features in shimmers of dark silk that billowed like the coat that flared around her.
Shifting the easel to her other hand, she adjusted her backpack once more, and without a word, turned again, continuing her journey down the gloomy street.
Her retreating form was elongated by the yellow haze of the streetlight, a small silhouette gradually fading into the depths of the misty night, the rain casting a veil over his eyes—a poignant sense of longing hanging in the air.
As she vanished into the shadows, a fragrance lingered; faint yet lingering, as if it carried a story of loss and yearning.
Alexander lowered his head, his attention returning to the painting. Despite the faint smudges, he felt an inexplicable admiration. The imperfections seemed to add to its beauty, resonating with him. He watched as the woman became nothing but a tiny red dot swallowed by the enveloping darkness.
The moisture-laden air mingled with the chill of early spring, the remnants of winter's touch still biting at his skin. He inhaled deeply, easing the exhaustion he’d carried for weeks, the brisk wind sweeping away a weight he hadn’t realized he bore.
The small, vibrant speck of red finally disappeared into the gray void of night, leaving Alexander to silently collect his thoughts—his gaze sinking back to the canvas in his hands contemplatively.

Chapter 5

“Chief, it’s getting late. You should head back,” Young Melvin suggested, shaking off his awe as he faced Alexander Braveheart.
Alexander Braveheart briefly glanced at Young Melvin, then calmly folded the sketch he had been studying and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. He moved with purpose towards the car, each step echoing a quiet intensity that commanded respect.
The soft glow of the moon, accompanied by a gentle drizzle, draped the solitary ancient bridge in a gauzy mist. Faint lights flickered around this quaint space, casting delicate reflections in the shallow puddles on the ground, reminiscent of the shimmering neon lights that decorated the night sky. Yet, these colorful glimmers held an unusual chill, lacking the warmth one would expect from a vibrant city.
As the sound of the car's engine faded into the distance, the ancient bridge returned to its peaceful stillness. A baffled passerby remained, staring blankly at the spot where the woman had vanished, confusion painted across his features.
Amid the continuous rain, a refreshing scent of damp grass wafted through the quiet night air, particularly invigorating for Alexander as he sat quietly in the car. He gazed out at the bustling nightlife beyond, inhaling deeply the crisp aroma. Despite the tumultuous journey behind him, he found value in these fleeting moments of serene tranquility.
The driver kept a steady pace, neither rushing nor dragging, with the window rolled halfway down. Wrapped snugly in his coat, Alexander felt comfortable, the chilly gusts of wind doing little to cool the fire within him. He marveled at the land he dedicated himself to, watching as every blade of grass and tree thrived, and buildings sprang up—the ground beneath his feet transforming day by day into a thriving realm. The smiles of the people grew ever brighter, and the sweat, effort, and challenges he shared with his comrades seemed trivial compared to the joy they found in their hard work bearing fruit. Safeguarding the nation and its citizens was their most sacred duty.
A sudden, radiant smile broke across Alexander's handsome, resolute face. The tension that had been etched into his features smoothed into a gentle arc of delight, adding an unexpected charm that would surely attract the affections of many.
“Chief, what’s got you smiling?” Young Melvin asked, his body swaying slightly as he turned his head to face Alexander, revealing a wide grin that showcased his bright white teeth. His words were peppered with a distinctive Northeast accent, his sturdy build reminiscent of a Northern warrior. His hearty laughter danced through the night air, invigorating the stillness.
Alexander slowly returned his gaze from the window to meet Young Melvin’s curious eyes. “Did I actually smile?” he asked, feigning surprise.
“You did! I’m certain! Don’t believe me? Ask Old Man Xavier. He’s been eyeing you in the mirror for ages!” Young Melvin nudged the driver, Old Man Xavier, with an arm. “What do you say, Old Man?”
“Haha, Chief, you indeed smiled just now. We haven’t seen you this happy in a long time. These training sessions have been grueling lately; you always wear that serious face, and it leaves us feeling quite anxious,” Old Man Xavier chuckled.
Faithful to Alexander for nearly five years, Old Man Xavier had stood by him since Alexander was first appointed head of the military district in a city until now serving as the Chief of Staff of the Legion, becoming a steady pillar of support.
“I know,” Alexander replied, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

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