Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

O Siming, goddess of fates concealed,
mask of glass streaked in blood.
Unseen threads guide our steps,
we carry the weight of ruin.

Wen Kexing wanted to bite something, to kill, to tear, to slash—to crush a throat and feel that satisfying snap. Anything to drown out this suffocating rage, this bitter taste of failure clawing at his insides.

The iron collar dug into his neck, heavy and cold, forcing his head down. Chains pulled his arms tight behind him, cutting into his skin, shoulders screaming from the strain. Kneeling on rough stone, his knees throbbed, the jagged edges biting through fabric, grinding into bone. He felt every bruise, every cut—a rabid animal caught and caged, put in his place, ready to be disposed of at any moment. The stench of blood and incense clogged his nostrils, thick and nauseating.

He stared at the floor—cracked stone marred by stains and time. Tiny fissures spiderwebbed across the surface, dark lines that seemed to lead nowhere. Dust gathered in the crevices, undisturbed. He traced the patterns with his eyes, willing himself to focus on anything but the weight of eyes upon him. If he concentrated hard enough, maybe he could sink into those cracks, disappear into the void beneath. The floor was safer. If he didn't look up, he could pretend. Pretend this wasn't happening. Pretend he hadn't failed.

Around him, guards shifted—the scrape of boots on stone, the clink of metal, breaths too loud, too close. Spears hovered near his back, sharp points pressing, taunting. If he could just get his hands free—just one hand—he'd make them pay. His fingers twitched, itching for violence, for the sweet release of snapping bones under his grip. He craved it like air.

Pathetic. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be the savior, the hero. Instead, he was on his knees, chained like a beast. Filthy. Worthless.

But none of them mattered. Only one person did.

He didn't need to look up to know Zhou Zishu was there. A Xu. Just three steps away, maybe less. He could feel his presence—a steady flame in the suffocating darkness. The pull was too strong, a thread woven tight around his heart, tugging, relentless.

Taking a ragged breath, he forced his head up, muscles protesting.

His gaze crawled up from the cracked stone, across the distance. Three steps. Three eternal steps to the figures before him.

Prince Jin stood there, draped in robes that glittered with gold, his smug sneer sharp enough to cut. In his trembling hand, he held Zhou Zishu’s flexible sword, the blade pressed lightly to the man’s neck.  

Beside him stood Zhou Zishu—A Xu—draped in black like a shadow carved from the night itself. His hair was tied up in a flawless crown knot, each strand perfectly in place, erasing the natural unruliness Wen Kexing had grown to admire. The severity of his appearance felt wrong, too polished, too much like a puppet crafted to fit someone else’s vision. Relief and dread twisted inside Wen Kexing, a knife lodged deep in his gut. A Xu was alive—alive but bound by that careful, obedient mask, standing still while his own blade was turned against him.  

Wen Kexing’s blood boiled. It wasn’t just the sword or Prince Jin’s triumphant posture—it was this lifeless version of Zhou Zishu, his sharp edges buried beneath perfection. The fire that made A Xu who he was had been muted, forced into something precise and hollow.

Fury ignited, raw and consuming. Visions flashed—tearing Prince Jin apart, slow and methodical. Crushing his windpipe with a satisfying crunch. Watching the light fade from his eyes as he realized no amount of gold could save him. Feeding his remains to the crows. The thought brought a vicious smile to Wen Kexing's lips.

Prince Jin caught the expression and his scowl deepened. “Look at it,” he sneered, his voice cold and sharp, addressing the room at large. “A filthy creature groveling on the floor. And yet it dares to covet what is mine.”

Wen Kexing’s gaze snapped to him, a silent snarl forming, his body taut with restrained fury.

“The Chief of the Window of Heaven,” Prince Jin continued, his tone thick with contempt, “belongs by my side, serving me faithfully—not associating with filth like this.”

A Xu smiled softly, his gaze steady, serene—a figure utterly at ease, as if the chaos around him barely touched him. “Oh, Your Highness,” he said, his voice a gentle murmur, almost pitying. “You think you can claim everything you touch.” He tilted his head slightly, ignoring the blade digging into his skin as he did so, a flicker of something dark, something distant, passing through his eyes. “But some things…” he continued, his voice softening further, as if speaking of something fragile, long-buried, “were never yours to take. And others,” he added, the faintest shadow of regret flickering beneath the calm, “you’ll never understand, no matter how tightly you hold them.”

“Silence!” Prince Jin’s voice rang with sharp authority, resonating through the room like the crack of a ceremonial drum. His grip on the sword tightened imperceptibly, a display of calculated dominance. “You forget yourself. You will speak only when I, and I alone, deem it appropriate.”

A Xu stood there, serene and untouched, his posture almost mocking in its ease—a saint in a den of blood, as if this were the most natural place for him. That smile, soft, faintly amused, unfazed by Prince Jin’s fury. Dismissing every word, every demand, as though they were mere whispers lost to the wind.

Wen Kexing felt a strange pang, watching him. His A Xu, so calm, so impossibly calm—radiant, almost, with that quiet defiance. Like he belonged nowhere and everywhere at once, standing above the filth and ruin around him, a figure of stillness in the storm, untouched by the shadows clawing at them. Wen Kexing swallowed, a sharp thrill sparking within him, watching that saintly figure, his A Xu, looking down on it all, on all of them.

“You do like your grand entrances, don’t you, my zhiji?”

Wen Kexing's breath caught. The term hung in the air, intimate and unguarded.

Prince Jin's face reddened with fury. "Zhiji? You dare address this animal as your zhiji?"

He seethed, his anger spilling over. "After all I've done for you, Zhou Zishu! I elevated you, gave you power, made you the Chief of Window of Heaven! And this is how you repay me? By consorting with filth?"

A Xu’s gaze held an amused glint, his expression serene, untouched by the fury raging around him. “Just look at him, Your Highness,” he murmured, voice soft, lilting, as if savoring each word, each syllable a quiet, cutting defiance. “Isn’t he simply… magnificent?”

Magnificent.

The word slammed into Wen Kexing, stealing his breath. Him? Covered in blood and filth, chains digging into his flesh—a monster. It didn't make sense.

Prince Jin’s face froze for a moment, as though the word had physically struck him. Then his expression twisted, the faint, princely mask slipping to reveal a seething, raw fury. “Magnificent? Magnificent?” His voice came low and sharp, like the bite of a blade, before rising, crackling like fire. “That beast? That unhinged, blood-soaked creature?”

He turned his gaze on Zhou Zishu, his control splintering as venom dripped from every word. “Do you know what I’ve sacrificed for this empire? What I have endured to build something better, something worthy of its name? While he—he slaughters my men, burns my halls, and you—” his voice caught for a moment, trembling under the weight of his anger, “—you praise him? You spit on everything I’ve done, everything I stand for.”

Wen Kexing watched the prince unravel, saw his lips twist further into something grotesque. The man’s voice cracked, rising into a bitter cry. “This empire could have been saved. I could have saved it. But no—no one understands. You, Zhou Zishu, least of all. The one who was supposed to stand at my side. Loyal. Devoted. Mine.” His hands clenched, white-knuckled and shaking. “You were meant to help me make it right. Instead, you…” His words faltered, collapsing into silence. For a brief moment, the prince looked small, exposed, before the anger surged back.

“You betrayed me,” he hissed, his voice hoarse, sharp with emotion. “You chose him. This. This thing!” His hand shot out, trembling as it pointed to Wen Kexing. “Do you think he’ll save you? Do you think I’ll ever let you go?”

As Prince Jin ranted, his hand holding the sword moved just slightly away from A Xu's throat—a subtle shift born of distraction.

In that fleeting moment, A Xu moved.

Wen Kexing watched, utterly captivated. A Xu's movements were a masterful dance—quick steps that carried him gracefully forward. His hand swept up, reclaiming the flexible sword with effortless precision. The blade coiled and struck in one fluid motion, a silver flash too swift to follow.

Prince Jin's words died in a strangled gasp, eyes wide as a crimson line traced across his throat. He crumpled soundlessly, disbelief etched on his features.

At the same instant, shadows shifted. Guards turned, blades slicing—not at A Xu or Wen Kexing, but at their own ranks. A Xu's people, hidden among them, executing a plan with ruthless perfection. Not a single wasted move. Everything done in moments.

It was over in a heartbeat. Silent. Efficient. Bodies dropped without so much as a cry.

One of the remaining guards approached Wen Kexing, keys in hand. Without a word, the chains fell away, the iron collar unclasped. Another stepped forward, presenting his fan with a respectful bow.

He took it, the familiar weight grounding him. Snapping it open and closed, he felt a feral smile curve his lips. The beast within roared in approval.

A Xu stood amidst the carnage, an ethereal figure bathed in shadows and flickering torchlight. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, the blood on his blade a stark contrast to the tranquility in his eyes. The way he looked, the gentle curve of his smile—it didn't fit the scene at all. It was as if he stood in a peaceful garden rather than a hall strewn with bodies.

He saw this now in A Xu—the perfect calm that wasn't calm. The saintly visage, a mask that wasn't even a mask but something deeper, something more broken, something he knew all too well.

Memories surged—of a girl named Mo Qingyu in Ghost Valley, her serene smile hiding shattered pieces within. How someone could smile even after all she had experienced, over and over again; her presence almost comforting, her eyes warm, her laughter soft, as though nothing could touch her.

But now, looking back, he saw it clearly—the brightness she wore, her easy laughter, the way her smile persisted, even after the screams that shattered the night. He hadn’t known then, hadn’t understood how anyone could be that bright, that untouched, until he saw her lying there one morning, still smiling but no longer breathing. It was then he’d realized: she had simply broken into parts under cruel hands, learned to bury them all—save for the one that could still smile and sing. Buried them so deep that even she forgot they were there, most of the time.

And he remembered himself, too, locking away the screams, the pain, the endless horror, severing parts of his mind, cutting away anything that might feel, anything that could break, until only the same stillness remained—the hollowed-out calm that could smile, speak, do what was needed without a flicker of feeling.

This was what he saw looking at A Xu—the saint, the perfect calmness, a facade covering a chasm of pain. A mask that wasn't a mask at all but a testament to a soul fractured and reforged.

Understanding crashed over him like a tidal wave.

"You're..." His voice was barely a whisper, raw and aching. "You're just as mad as I am, aren't you?"

A Xu's eyes met his, a flicker of something raw and unguarded passing between them.

“Perhaps,” A Xu murmured, his tone drifting, almost wistful. “Does it even matter, in the end, what we call it—or what they choose to see?” He cast a look back at the prince’s remains, his expression curdling with quiet disdain. “The world twists us into its own shape, then points the finger back, calling it madness.”

He turned to Wen Kexing, a small, almost tender smile curving at his lips. “Would you really think that your zhiji could be any less…” His smile edged sharper, a flicker of something just shy of sane glinting in his eyes. “…mad?”

Wen Kexing felt something crack open inside him. The isolation he'd worn like armor crumbling. He wasn't alone in the darkness. Never had been.

They stood there, the weight of unspoken truths hanging heavy in the air.

Prince Jin's lifeless body lay at their feet, the room steeped in silence.

A Xu considered him for a moment. "Do you think we'll survive this?"

Wen Kexing bared his teeth in a feral grin, the beast within snarling to the surface. "Does it matter?"

A Xu's gaze held depths of pain and understanding, shadows lurking beneath the calm facade. He saw the fractures, the scars—the same ones he carried.

"To die together," A Xu said quietly, "it isn't such a bad end, don't you think?"

"Not bad at all," Wen Kexing agreed. "Beautiful and bloody."

A flicker of something passed over A Xu's face—a brief unveiling of the turmoil beneath. The pain, the blood, all that hid inside. His face became a shifting mosaic of shards, fragments of all the masks he’d ever worn flashing through, momentary glimpses of a broken man clinging desperately to every shattered piece. Holding together what was left of him with pain, misery, and an unyielding will. Wen Kexing saw it all, visceral and raw—a man who had glued himself together with his own suffering, an awe-inspiring ruin. And then, with a subtle shift, the mask snapped back into place—the perfect assassin, calm, calculating, a honed blade once more.

The door loomed ahead, but Wen Kexing’s focus was elsewhere. Zhou Zishu stood beside him, still as a blade waiting to strike, his calm radiating an unbearable intensity. The flickering light caught his features—sharp, cold, and unrelenting—and Wen Kexing couldn’t look away. That word— magnificent —echoed faintly in his mind, unbidden, inadequate. Zhou Zishu was beautiful in a way that defied reason, fractured into something far greater than whole. Every scar, every shadow in his gaze spoke of a madness perfectly contained, sharpened into a weapon unlike anything Wen Kexing had ever known.

Together, they were the spark that could set the world ablaze.

Chapter Text

Siming, cruel and smug,
So pleased with your twisted games,
Laughing at lives you break,
One day, I’ll look right into your bright face—
And call you a fucking bitch.

Zhou Zishu leaned back, feeling the rough, gritty bark pressing into his shoulders, and damn, it felt good. Dirty, uncomfortable, real—no polished silk or soft-spoken bullshit here. The fire flickered low, casting jagged shadows across the rough lines of his face, glinting off his worn clothes, his hands caked with the grime of the road. Here he was, down in the dirt, no fanfare, no fucking ceremony. Just the way he wanted it.

Tonight, he wore the beggar’s skin like it was stitched to him, loose and easy, and he fucking loved it. He could scowl, scratch, spit if he damn well pleased. He could grunt and curse like he was born for it, like every syllable was a knife he’d earned the right to wield. None of that polished crap from before, no “Yes, my lord,” no bowing, no leashed tongue. Just raw, ugly words that rolled out of his mouth as rough and brutal as he wanted them to be. Here, he could be as low and unrefined as he damn well pleased. A filthy beggar—no more, no less.

Across the fire, the boy sat—Chengling, small and hunched, face pale, eyes wide, like he hadn’t yet learned what the world was made of. Soft, trusting. Idiot kid probably hadn’t seen half the hell waiting for him. Zhou Zishu eyed the boy, saw the hint of pain there, the shivers he tried to hide. The kid was a walking target, weakness stamped all over him, and it made Zhou Zishu’s skin itch. Soft as damn butter.

Then there was the other one—the fucking lunatic. Wen Kexing sat across the fire, grinning that sharp, fixed grin like a wolf sniffing out blood. A pretty little psycho, wasn’t he? Those eyes, dark as ink, like they could scrape him raw, dig down to every filthy piece of himself he’d rather leave buried. Zhou Zishu threw a sharp glare across the fire. See anything you like, asshole?

And the way Wen Kexing kept talking about his shoulder blades. Beautiful, was it? Sharp? He’d bet the lunatic had a whole list of compliments ready, as if that would crack him. Right—because that’s just what he wanted, some half-mad pervert waxing poetic about the bones in his back. He’d made himself a filthy, unappealing beggar, and this bastard still wanted a closer look. What does it take to scare you off? he thought, feeling that bitter satisfaction curl in his chest.

Zhou Zishu let out a sharp, biting laugh, the irritation spilling over, and he didn’t hold it back—let it come out rough, unfiltered, scraping its way up like gravel. “Are you just going to sit there, or are you planning to make yourself useful and cook?” The words rolled out blunt, satisfying, cutting through the quiet like he’d sharpened them himself. No smooth talk, no forced courtesies. Just rough edges, as sharp as he pleased.

Yeah, that’s right, he thought, watching Wen Kexing from under the weight of his scowl, every muscle loose, the beggar mask enveloping him. Clothed him. Sunk into his skin like an old, comfortable wound. Take a good look. This is as pretty as it gets.

Wen Kexing paused, hand to his chest in that ridiculous way of his, eyes glittering like he’d been mortally offended. “Me? Cook? Oh, A Xu, I didn’t realize you saw me as some lowly servant. But for you, I suppose I could lower myself—if it keeps you from gnawing on your own boots.”

Zhou Zishu’s scowl carved itself deeper, watching as Wen Kexing, with a dramatic sigh that reeked of bad theater, finally produced a small bundle of dried food from his sleeve. Of course, the bastard had it neatly wrapped, folded like they were settling down for a court banquet. Zhou Zishu felt the scoff claw its way up his throat, but he swallowed it back, bitter and sharp.

“It’s dried fish and rice,” he muttered, voice flat, letting the words drop like stones. “Not some palace feast.”

Wen Kexing ignored the jab and, with a calm and unhurried elegance, set about arranging the food on a flat stone he’d dusted off like it was the finest porcelain. As he worked, his eyes glinted with that familiar, infuriating mischief. “Ah, but A Xu, there’s poetry even in the simplest things, if one cares to look. After all…” He paused, reciting with a quiet reverence:

A soft wind brushes, green leaves part;
Fleeting lives we are, yet together we stand.

He glanced at Zhou Zishu as if expecting him to appreciate the effort, and Zhou Zishu rolled his eyes, barely restraining a sigh. “If you think quoting Li Bai will get you out of this any faster, you’re even madder than I thought.”

“Oh, I have so many verses at my disposal,” Wen Kexing replied, feigning hurt. “One for every occasion. Consider it my small service to you, an offering of beauty to break the roughness of the road. A man of elegance like you must surely appreciate a touch of grace.” He arranged the dried fish with an exaggerated flourish, as if it were the finest delicacy, and continued, seemingly to himself:

Rivers flow eastward, leaving friends behind,
But in this moment, two souls meet by the fire.

Zhou Zishu could feel his patience fraying, each word from Wen Kexing’s mouth like sandpaper against his nerves. “Are you done preening? Or are you planning to serenade that fish until morning?”

Wen Kexing chuckled, unbothered, as he held out the flat stone with almost reverent care. “For you, A Xu, a meal from my very hands. Do try to savor it. We must enjoy what little beauty we can find in this rough world, mustn’t we?”

Zhou Zishu took the offering, narrowing his eyes. “We’d find beauty a lot faster if you’d quit with the poetry recital and let me eat in peace.”

But Wen Kexing only leaned forward, undeterred, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Oh, A Xu, why resist the pleasures of refined company? A few fine words, a little food, and suddenly the journey isn’t so unbearable. It’s a shame you don’t appreciate such things. I could recite verses all night, and still, they’d be but simple offerings next to your company.” He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “In fact, let me share another—”

Though clouds part us, my thoughts are yours,
As waters flow, relentless, through night and day.

Zhou Zishu resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “You’re not charming anyone here, least of all me. Save your verses for someone who cares.”

But Wen Kexing was unbothered, smiling with an almost serene satisfaction, as if he’d achieved some great victory. “Ah, A Xu, you wound me. But no matter—I’ll continue to offer my humble poetry to your refined ears, even if you pretend not to listen. After all, we’re bound to share many nights by the fire. And perhaps, one day, you’ll come to appreciate it.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Zhou Zishu snapped, spearing a piece of dried fish with a little more force than necessary.

Wen Kexing’s laugh was soft, unhurried, his eyes lingering on Zhou Zishu with an intensity that made it impossible to ignore him. “We’ll see, A Xu. Time changes many things. As the poet says:

A thousand miles may part us, yet fate brings us together,
A meeting woven by threads unseen.

Zhou Zishu kept his gaze fixed on the fire, letting the boy’s soft sounds of discomfort filter through his awareness like background noise—an irritation, a buzzing mosquito that wouldn’t let up. Hell, this kid needs to toughen up, he thought with grim satisfaction. I should have left him to his own damned fate. But no—he’d shackled himself to the brat, a chain of his own making. And if he was now saddled with the burden, he’d see it handled right, if only so it didn’t drag him down.

With a rough sigh, he dug into his sleeve and yanked out a small pill and a tin of ointment, shoving them into the boy’s hand. “Take this after you eat,” he muttered, keeping his tone flat, casual, as if it were nothing.

And of course, Puppy Eyes had to look up at him with that soft, round gaze, gratitude written all over his face. It twisted something deep in Zishu’s gut. Damn kid, he thought, irritation curling up his spine. Probably thinks I’m doing him a kindness. This wasn’t kindness—hell, no. This was simple practicality. The brat was as fragile as glass, and if he broke, it’d just become Zhou Zishu’s problem to clean up. I’ve got no choice, he told himself, clinging to the thought like a shield. One more mess to carry, nothing more.

He told himself there was no satisfaction, no concern in it. Just saving himself trouble down the road, that was all. And yet, he could feel a small, unwelcome pang somewhere beneath the irritation—a trace of something he’d rather not name.

“Ah, such a generous master,” Wen Kexing’s voice cut through his thoughts, all silk and mocking warmth. The bastard lounged back, watching with that damned smirk, his voice smooth as poison slipping through the cracks. “Who would have thought you, of all people, had a soft spot?”

Zhou Zishu’s glare was immediate, fierce, though he could feel his skin prickle under Wen Kexing’s gaze. “Keep talking, and I’ll show you just how soft I am,” he ground out, enjoying the crass, rough edge to the words as they fell from his mouth. He’d spent so long playing the polished killer, the refined charmer, that now, every sharp word, every vulgar thought that slipped from his lips tasted like freedom.

Wen Kexing leaned back, his smirk widening, his eyes dancing as if he found every layer, every barb, entertaining. “Oh, A Xu, I wouldn’t dare interfere in such a touching moment between you and your little disciple. It’s… heartwarming, really, like something from a folk tale.” With a dramatic sigh, he produced a flask, raising it in mock toast. “To the joys of family bonds.”

Zhou Zishu didn’t bother to hide his snort. “Keep the damn wine. I’ve had my fill of sentimental nonsense tonight.”

But Wen Kexing held the flask out with that infuriating, expectant look, his voice a challenge wrapped in silk. “Come now. Even the hardest dog needs a drink every now and then, or are you just too high and mighty for that, A Xu?”

Zhou Zishu’s glare didn’t waver, but he reached out and snatched the flask, bringing it to his lips without another word. The wine burned down his throat, hot and sharp, cutting through the lingering ache in his chest. Finally, something useful, he thought, savoring the taste, letting it dull the edge of his irritation. If Wen Kexing wanted to waste his luxuries, fine. At least it served a purpose.

Wen Kexing watched him, that damned, infuriating look of satisfaction glinting in his eyes. “Ah, A Xu, you’re lying to yourself more than anyone else,” he murmured, soft and smug, as if he’d found a way under Zhou Zishu’s skin.

Zhou Zishu turned his attention back to the fire, taking another drink, letting the wine settle deep in his bones. “Keep telling yourself that, you bastard. Whatever story you need to sleep at night.” He took another drink, settling back into the rough bark behind him, his mouth curving in a faint, dark smile. I don’t lie to myself, he thought with a finality, letting the warmth of the wine blur the edges of his irritation.

Zhou Zishu took another slow pull from the flask, the burn settling in his chest like a shield against the night. Midnight was closing in, and he could feel it—an ache winding its way through his body, coiling tighter, sharpening like a blade honed against stone.

Across the fire, Wen Kexing sat, watching him with that damned glint in his eye, as if every move, every sharp breath, was some intricate performance. Zhou Zishu’s lip twitched, half in a smirk, half in annoyance. The bastard has nothing better to do than sit there, spouting poetry and playing the part of the refined gentleman. He ignored Wen Kexing, let the wine burn through him, let himself sink into the heat, into the roughness of the bark pressing against his shoulders.

Chengling’s faint, stifled cough broke through the crackle of the fire, tugging Zhou Zishu’s attention. The boy sat hunched, pale and shivering, his eyes flickering with exhaustion he was too proud—or too foolish—to admit. Zhou Zishu’s irritation flared again, sharp and biting. The brat’s going to fall apart if he doesn’t get some damn rest. How is this my life? Herding yet another stray pup who doesn’t know his limits.

He let out a low sigh, shaking his head as he turned to glance at Chengling. The boy’s shoulders were drawn tight, his face a study in quiet worry as he stared into the fire like it might offer some kind of answer. Zhou Zishu clicked his tongue, his voice coming out gruff but undeniably laced with care.

“Kid, stop staring at the fire like it owes you something and get some rest,” he said. “You look half-dead already, and I don’t need you proving me right. Lie down before you make yourself worse.”

Chengling looked up, startled, his eyes wide. For a moment, Zhou Zishu thought the boy might argue, but then Chengling’s expression softened. Gratitude flickered there, tentative and quiet, as if he’d been handed a lifeline.

“Yes, sir,” Chengling murmured, his voice faint but steady as he curled up by the fire. The pale cast to his face eased just a little, his tension unwinding as he settled down.

Zhou Zishu huffed softly, turning his gaze to the distant shadows. Still hopeless, he thought, though not without the faintest trace of resignation. Another stray pup in his care, after all these years—and just like the rest, they never knew when to stop running themselves ragged.

Zhou Zishu let out a frustrated sigh, turning his gaze back to the flames. Better that he’s quiet, he told himself, watching the flicker of firelight dance across the boy’s face, trying to ignore the faint thread of relief that settled in his chest. This was nothing—just practicality. He was keeping the kid moving, making sure he didn’t slow them down. That’s all.

Wen Kexing, as if reading every shift in his expression, chuckled softly, breaking the silence. “Ah, A Xu,” he murmured, leaning forward, his voice a quiet drawl. “You’re practically radiating warmth. How… unexpected.”

Zhou Zishu shot him a look of pure annoyance. “If you’ve had your fill of watching a beggar’s life, feel free to crawl back to wherever you came from,” he replied, voice as sharp as broken glass. But Wen Kexing only smiled wider, his eyes gleaming with that insufferable amusement, as if he found every word delightful, every flash of irritation a personal victory.

But even as he settled back, letting the ache pulse and fade with each steady breath, the first soft notes of a flute drifted over the fire. Zhou Zishu’s grip on the flask tightened, the irritation flaring anew. The damn lunatic.

But as the notes wound around him, soft and haunting, they began to blur the edges of his irritation, the pain ebbing, each note a balm seeping through the cracks. Against his will, he felt his breathing slow, the ache loosening as the music drifted through the dark, grounding him.

Of course it fucking helps, he thought. Bloody lunatic and his bloody flute.

Chapter Text

O, Goddess of Fate, Siming—
You toy with threads like brittle glass,
Shredding plans with gleeful hands,
Leaving ruin scattered on broken paths.
Laugh while you can

Zhou Zishu’s fingers flexed on his sword, gaze steady as he took in the door before them. Everything lay beyond that threshold—the plan, the next move, the unknown waiting with sharpened teeth. Wen Kexing’s energy buzzed beside him, a living weapon primed for action. Zhou Zishu felt a flicker of something—dread, excitement—thrumming beneath his carefully composed exterior.

Behind him, his people moved in silence, slipping through the shadows, hands removing prince’s lifeless body with quiet efficiency. He watched from the corner of his eye—silent, controlled, every movement a reflection of the discipline he’d trained into them. Cold, unfeeling, loyal to his design. They were his, every inch.

But they’d have no place beyond this door. He wouldn’t waste them here, not on what lay ahead. He needed them preserved, held back, each one exactly where he’d set them. No room for hesitation, no room for sentiment. Only two outcomes mattered: they would make it, or they wouldn’t. If he fell tonight, his people would survive him, move on as they were meant to.

“Ready to break a few toys?” Zhou Zishu murmured, the words slipping out sharper than he intended.

Wen Kexing’s smile widened, eyes glinting with a savage delight. “Just point me at the fun, and I’ll make it scream,” he replied, his voice low, heavy with a thrill that promised violence.

Zhou Zishu gave a brief nod, his grip tightening despite the pain radiating from his wounds. No room for hesitation; they would either walk away from this, or they wouldn’t.

With a fluid motion, Zhou Zishu drove his shoulder against the door, shoving it open. The silence shattered with a resonant crash, the heavy wood swinging wide to reveal the stone steps leading into the courtyard below. Lantern light flickered over rows of soldiers. Their stances were easy, weapons held like ornaments of protocol. For a moment, the scene held still, the soldiers unmoving, their eyes drifting lazily upward to the figures emerging from the shadowed doorway.

Then it came, that ripple of recognition. Shoulders squared, hands gripped hilts, and the languid indifference in their gazes sharpened to unease. The shift was electric, crackling through the courtyard as they read the figures before them for what they were: a threat.

Zhou Zishu let the stillness stretch a beat longer, his gaze sweeping the formation below. They weren’t ready for this—he could see it in their hesitation, their lack of precision. But there, at the base of the steps, stood Duan Pengju. His face tightened as their eyes met, a flicker of something unguarded flashing across his features. Recognition? Disdain? No—beneath it all, a shadow of fear. Zhou Zishu caught it, a crack in the mask of calm, and his lip curled faintly.

Wen Kexing stood ready, a feral grin stretching across his face. Every inch of him radiated a dangerous anticipation, his whole frame coiled and poised for the violence to come. It was mesmerizing and lethal—a beast waiting to spring. Zhou Zishu took a steadying breath, but instantly regretted it. Pain shot through him, sharp and unforgiving where the nails had pierced his skin.

The poison’s slow, chilling burn had begun to spread, loosening his muscles in a way that felt almost unnatural. He could feel it working its way through him—a cold haze seeping into his limbs, dulling their precision with each breath he took. His mind fought against it, instinctively resisting the drug’s effects, but he knew that the harder he pushed, the faster it would take hold. This was no ordinary poison; it was meant to unravel him from within, to erode his control, slow his reactions, and leave him vulnerable. And even though his body resisted it, the exertion would only make it worse, wearing away his endurance with every move.

Tension coiled tighter with every heartbeat, each pulse a reminder of his fragile state. Still, he forced himself to focus, to lock away the discomfort threatening to splinter his concentration. Wen Kexing’s energy was a storm barely contained, a living weapon poised for release, and Zhou Zishu needed to keep pace, to maintain control amid the chaos that awaited.

A calm assassin mask settled over Zhou Zishu, his gaze picking out soldiers—each one a pawn waiting to be played, used, discarded. His mind mapping their formations, calculating angles, the cost. 

“You take the left,” Zhou Zishu said, voice knifing through the silence, final. Wen Kexing’s smile twisted, savage, and in an instant, he was moving—a streak of crimson and shadow, exact and ruthless.

Zhou Zishu shifted right, his sword flashing forward in a clean, unbroken line, the rhythm of the fight settling into his bones, that familiar pull of violence coiling tighter, locking down his control. No space for hesitation, no room for sentiment. Only the next move, and the one after that.

The soldiers pressed in, ranks tightening like a vice. Zhou Zishu’s movements turning sharper, faster—a deadly rhythm driving him forward through the crush. He leapt to dodge a blade, twisting mid-air, his sword slicing down in a clean arc, another body collapsing at his feet. Every step, every strike, honed to perfection. But he could feel it slipping—the strength, the control, his reserves thinning under the weight pressing in.

Beside him, Wen Kexing was a blur of crimson, his fan slicing through the air, thrown with brutal precision. Each toss sent it spinning, a blade cutting through armor, flesh, before curving back to his hand, streaked with blood. Zhou Zishu couldn’t help but take it in, the way Wen Kexing moved with a feral grace, vicious and efficient. That edge of wildness drew him in, a pull he had to force down to keep steady.

He rooted himself, each swing of his sword more ruthless than the last, yet his arms felt heavier, the burn biting deeper.

The pain in his side as a blade dug in, sharp and unforgiving. His own fault—his knee had given out, just a fraction, throwing him off balance, leaving him open. Weakness, sloppiness. He was slipping. The blade tore through cloth and flesh, pulling a sharp, searing breath from him as fire licked through his side, spreading like poison, mingling with the venom already threading through his veins, an ugly, raw concoction of hurt. He could feel every raw nerve screaming under his skin, a throbbing heat mixing with the burn, his pulse hammering against the wound, taunting him. 

The taste of blood was there too, copper curling up his throat, thick and metallic. Even the air felt sharper, slicing with each inhale, grating at his control. Every sense alive, pressing into him, the pain building, anchoring itself with claws that dug deeper, refusing to let go.

He forced himself back up, the wound a brutal reminder of his own fragility, his own failure. But there was no time for it, no time to indulge. He set his jaw, letting the pain fold into his movements, another beat in this brutal symphony.

One final leap, his sword cutting down in a brutal arc, slicing through the last soldier’s armor. The body crumpled, and Zhou Zishu staggered as he landed, knees buckling, his breath coming in sharp, shallow rasps. Every wound, every heartbeat felt like splinters driving deeper, the poison threading through his veins, the burn settling into bone. He forced himself upright, weight pressing down harder with every second.

His gaze dragged over the battlefield—blood pooling black under flickering light, shadows twisting, shapes scattered. Bodies. Too many. He didn’t count. Couldn’t. His thoughts slipped, stuttering like a blade too dull to cut. The ground tilted. Or was it him?  

A sound—distant footsteps, muffled screams. Voices rising, sharp and jagged, breaking through the pounding in his ears. His breath caught, shallow, uneven, each gasp scraping his throat raw. He clenched his sword, but it was too slick, too heavy, his fingers trembling against the hilt.  

Where is he? The thought stabbed through the chaos, cutting deeper than pain. His gaze dragged over the shadows, searching, catching on every flicker of red—no, not him. He staggered forward a step, or maybe just swayed, his chest tightening with each failed glance. He’s gone.  

The noise pressed in—boots on stone, panic swelling somewhere beyond the bodies. The emptiness clawed inside him, gnawing through the cracks, leaving him hollow. His grip faltered. His knees shook. The air tasted like blood, and the shadows swirled, swallowing everything. He’s not here.  

He stood there, barely upright, his heart pounding with the weight of it. Not the fight, not the poison, not the pain. Just the void where Wen Kexing should have been. He’s gone. I’ve lost.

Chapter Text

Siming, sly goddess—  
is it your hand that draws hope near,  
only to scatter it as it falls within hand’s reach?  

Do you watch, amused, as this one stands,  
foolish as a child, this man at the zenith of his days,  
believing in blissful tomorrows?  
Do you laugh as he sinks into this lovely dream?

Zhou Zishu wasn’t losing his composure. No, this was nothing like that. Just because Wen Kexing was nowhere to be seen—no flash of red, no reckless grin, nothing at all—that wasn’t reason to unravel. His Lunatic was ruthless, unbreakable, more than capable of cutting through anyone in his path. Wen Kexing didn’t need looking after. He didn’t need… but the thought snagged, catching on something sharp, a hollow ache Zhou Zishu couldn’t shake.

He paused at the door, casting a last glance over the empty courtyard. Empty, dark. Only shadows stretched across the cracked ground. No sign of Wen Kexing. He turned back, peering into the dim room beyond the door, squinting against the gloom. The darkness pressed in, swallowing details, making it hard to see anything at all. But he had to go further. Inside. He forced himself to move, one step, then another, pressing deeper into the room. A good decision. Safer here, safer than lingering where more of them would be arriving soon, hunting him down.

Just keep moving. Just keep steady. He dragged himself further, shoulder scraping against rough wood, his body screaming with each step, but he told himself it was fine. He was fine.

Where the hell was his stupid, beautiful, bloody zhiji?

The room was dim. The damn lights had gone out when the wind blasted through—pitch black now, shadows swallowing everything whole. He could barely make out a shape, let alone find what he was looking for. And that clinking, the slow drag of metal on stone, boots coming closer from the courtyard. No time.

He hated this place, hated this room. Every inch of it reeked of blood, of his blood, of suffering that had soaked into the walls long ago. This wasn’t the place to die—not here, not in this hollowed-out prison that had already witnessed too much of him. It felt like betrayal, the way it seemed to drag him down, pull at every step, every breath.

Zhou Zishu’s gaze darted through the murk, eyes trying to scrape meaning from the dark. Shapes blurred, twisted, but nothing—no red, no familiar outline, no Wen Kexing. Just this sickening emptiness closing in. His pulse was pounding in his throat, his ribs; each beat dragged more of his strength down with it, bleeding him out from the inside. He wasn’t going to last. Not like this. Not much longer.

Hold steady. Keep upright. Every breath was a cut, stealing another piece of him, leaving his chest raw and scraping. Death, he’d accepted. Always. But not here—not in this cursed room, alone, without Wen Kexing’s shadow beside him. Just keep moving. Just hold on. Just…

A cough tore through him, jagged and raw, every rattle like a blade twisting in his chest. Weakness seeped through his bones, relentless, dragging him down. Every heartbeat chipped away at his strength, leaving him barely able to keep upright. His body was falling apart, breaking piece by piece, and he was helpless to stop it.

If there was a knife meant for his throat, let it come from his Lunatic’s hand. Not like this. Not here. Better to end by Wen Kexing’s side—by that crazed, bloody, dangerous monster he’d seen last. That would be something. A fitting end, one that didn’t leave him sprawled out, a final victory stolen from his enemies. Yes… that would be good. A beautiful dream.

But his legs were giving way, trembling, barely able to hold his weight. It wouldn’t be long. Was this it? His end, alone, on his knees, no hand to guide him? How… anticlimactic.

He blinked, and suddenly they were there—soldiers, spilling into the room, shadows stretching and shifting across the floor. When had they gotten this close? His legs wobbled, a final tremor running through them before they buckled entirely, giving out beneath him like the traitors they were. Useless. Damnable. The floor rushed up to meet him, and he went down hard, with nothing left to stop it.

The impact echoed through the room, a strange, deafening thunder that shook the air, rattling in his bones. It sounded like… like a roof collapsing, or something massive breaking apart. Oh. Maybe it was the roof. That would explain a lot.

His thoughts crawled, thick and slow, syrupy and tangled. Bits of wood and dust rained down around him, pieces of the ceiling splintering as they fell. A heavy beam crashed down nearby, striking soldiers, bodies crumpling—dead or unconscious, hard to say. His head felt light, his chest rattling as another cough clawed its way up, leaving a bitter, metallic taste on his tongue.

“A Xu, A Xu,” a voice murmured, low and exasperated, right at his ear. And suddenly, the world tilted, lifted out from under him as he was swept up into strong arms, cradled as effortlessly as a child.

“Are you trying to die without me?” Wen Kexing’s voice drifted in, threaded with that familiar, maddening humor. “Honestly, slipping off to the afterlife without your zhiji—how thoughtless. I thought we had an understanding.”

Zhou Zishu forced his head up, vision swimming until it focused on that bloodied, laughing face. His Lunatic, alive, grinning at him like he hadn’t just thrown himself into hell. And in that moment, with Wen Kexing’s crazed smile and blood still dripping from his brow, he’d never seen anything more devastatingly beautiful.

Then, as if it had a mind of its own, his hand moved. Traitorous thing, lifting to brush against the line of blood trailing down Wen Kexing’s cheek. His thumb smeared the red, pressing against Wen Kexing’s lower lip, rousing something dark, something feral, a demon stretching awake. Reckless, reckless touch—feeding sparks into flames better left to die.

The haze lingered, that reckless touch still tingling on his fingers, his thumb pressed against Wen Kexing’s lip as if it had forgotten its place. Zhou Zishu blinked, snapping himself out of it, yanking his mind back from the edge of that absurd indulgence.

“Put me down. Right now.” His voice barely held any edge, the words coming out weak, half-hearted—a poor excuse for a scolding. He couldn’t even muster the strength to snap, not when relief was crashing over him in waves, muddling his thoughts, clawing at his mask and leaving him dangerously close to a smile.

No, he’d commanded his hand to punish, to remind Wen Kexing of the cost of making him worry. To slam some sense into that fool’s head. But instead, his fingers lingered, brushing lightly along that absurd cheek, tracing soft lines that defied every intention.

Wen Kexing looked down at him, eyes bright, smile wide, leaning into Zhou Zishu’s touch like some insistent, pampered cat demanding attention. Ignoring every word as if Zhou Zishu’s weak, breathless demand didn’t matter at all.

“Shidi,” he tried again, forcing his voice to hold some authority, some strength. “Put me down. At once.”

Frustration flared, sharp and hot, as he felt the corner of his mouth betray him, pulling up into an indulgent smile. The hand, the legs, now his face—his own body turning traitor, piece by piece, defying him with every breath.

“That would be inadvisable,” Wen Kexing murmured, his voice smooth, almost too calm, as if he were discussing the weather. Then, without a moment’s warning, he leapt upward, carrying Zhou Zishu with him through the jagged opening in the ruined roof.

“There’s quite a long way down,” he continued, the corners of his mouth curling into a grin, all teeth and mischief. “And my A Xu isn’t exactly feeling his best—a fall might be… unpleasant.”

Zhou Zishu didn’t bother arguing. Reasoning with Wen Kexing was a waste of breath, a battle he knew he wouldn’t win. So he forced down his pride and resigned himself to the indignity of it all, his frustrations simmering beneath the surface.

“Head west,” Zhou Zishu managed, his voice rough but clear enough to carry over the wind as Wen Kexing leapt across another rooftop. “Look for a tall wall with a shed and bushes right up against it. Behind that wall is a large garden—stay outside it. We need to be near the shed, just outside the wall.”

Wen Kexing nodded, adjusting his hold to steady him as they moved.

“It’s the opposite side from the kitchen,” Zhou Zishu said, his tone resigned. He recalled fragments of overheard reports—how Wen Kexing had slipped in through the kitchens, leaving a bloody trail in his wake. Shaking his head slightly, he added, “This time… stay clear of the kitchen.”

Wen Kexing’s eyes sparkled with that maddening innocence, his lips curling into an unapologetic grin. “What can I say? It was an efficient entry point. Besides, the cook didn’t seem the most savory sort. I thought I’d… tidy up.” He tilted his head, shrugging with mock sincerity. “But for you, A Xu, I’ll consider a different route. As long as there’s no one else in need of a little ‘rearranging.’”

Zhou Zishu sighed, his exasperation clear, though he didn’t argue. The vision of the bloody kitchen flashed through his mind, and he shook his head. “Just this once, Wen Kexing,” he muttered, though a faint smirk tugged at his lips despite himself.

Zhou Zishu felt Wen Kexing’s grip tighten as they moved, slipping like shadows over the rooftops. Wen Kexing’s steps were silent and precise, each shift calculated as if he could do this in his sleep. But Zhou Zishu’s attention stayed on the ground below, where the guards prowled with steel drawn, their voices low and tense as they combed through every darkened corner. Torchlight flickered off stone walls, casting harsh shadows across faces lined with suspicion, and the air buzzed with the edge of violence, the faint crackling of a storm waiting to break.

As they reached the edge of a rooftop, Zhou Zishu tensed, spotting a pair of guards rounding the corner below. Wen Kexing’s arm wrapped around him in a swift, unrelenting grip, holding him back just as Wen Kexing’s fan flashed open in his free hand. With a flick of his wrist, the fan sliced through the air, cutting through the torchlight before carving a clean path across the throats of both guards below. The men dropped without a sound, shadows swallowing their bodies as the fan spun back, returning to Wen Kexing’s waiting hand, its edge slick with darkened blood.

Zhou Zishu’s exasperation sharpened, his words low and barely restrained. “You do realize we’re trying to avoid attention, not leave a trail of bodies?”

“Oh, A Xu,” Wen Kexing replied in a hushed, gleeful murmur, his eyes bright with that dangerous spark Zhou Zishu knew far too well. “Consider it… an improvement in ambiance. Besides, where’s the harm in making things interesting?” He adjusted his hold, still carrying Zhou Zishu as if he weighed nothing, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

Another figure appeared further down the corridor, just as Wen Kexing’s fingers began to flex around his fan again, his body shifting with that eerie, deliberate focus. Zhou Zishu felt a familiar unease coil within him, the tension between stopping him and letting him loose—the decision hovering, unresolved, as Wen Kexing’s gaze fixed on the new target ahead.

A soft whistle cut through the air—a signal Zhou Zishu recognized instantly. His eyes flicked downward, and he caught sight of one of his own men, Guo Chengwei, half-hidden in the shadows, gesturing toward a narrow door tucked into the courtyard wall. Zhou Zishu nudged Wen Kexing’s arm, trying to indicate Guo Chengwei’s presence, though his movement was sluggish, his arm feeling as heavy as stone. “There,” he muttered faintly, hoping Wen Kexing would follow his gaze and, for once, heed the direction.

Wen Kexing’s grip only tightened, his attention still locked on the figure down the hall, his fingers flexing around his fan in anticipation. Zhou Zishu could almost see the glint in Wen Kexing’s eyes, that eager spark of a hunter on the verge of pouncing. But at Zhou Zishu’s nudge, Wen Kexing’s gaze shifted, landing on Guo Chengwei. With a barely concealed look of disappointment, he let out a quiet, reluctant sigh and adjusted his grip on Zhou Zishu, maneuvering them both toward the door where Guo Chengwei waited.

They slipped through just as more guards rounded the corner, their shadows spilling over stone as they combed the courtyard with tense steps. Inside, Guo Chengwei led them down a tight passage and into a cramped storage space just off the main hall. The moment they entered, Zhou Zishu tried shifting his weight, testing the strength of Wen Kexing’s hold. He could barely feel his own limbs, his muscles too slack to respond properly, yet the indignity of being carried, with Guo Chengwei watching no less, drove him to resist—even if only for pride’s sake. Wen Kexing held him fast, his grip firm and unmoving, and Zhou Zishu felt the burn of frustration sink deeper.

He turned his head, managing a faint glare. “You’re enjoying this far too much, Lao Wen,” he muttered, his words slightly slurred. His head felt fogged, his senses slipping, as if the poison’s grip was tightening around him with each step.

Wen Kexing’s eyes sparked with unrestrained amusement as he leaned close, his voice a soft murmur meant only for Zhou Zishu. “How could I not, A Xu? The legendary Zhou Zishu, finally in my arms. And so… cooperative.”

Before Zhou Zishu could muster a reply, footsteps sounded from outside. He fell silent, leaning back against Wen Kexing’s chest as he strained to make out the words filtering through the door. “They can’t be far… check every room.” The guards’ footsteps slowed, every step weighted with suspicion, as if they could sense something hiding just out of reach.

Finally, the voices faded, and silence thickened around them. Zhou Zishu gave a brief nod to Guo Chengwei in thanks, signaling Wen Kexing forward. Wen Kexing held him close, hardly loosening his grip, as they slipped out of the room and back into the corridor.

Moving swiftly through the narrow halls, Wen Kexing navigated them toward an opening that led up to the rooftops. Without a word, he leapt, carrying Zhou Zishu with him in a fluid movement as they ascended, landing lightly atop the next roof. Zhou Zishu fought the wave of dizziness that threatened his vision, his frustration simmering as they settled into the shadowed vantage point, once again overlooking the compound below.

With a final, powerful leap, Wen Kexing brought them down into the shadows by the tall wall on the western side, just beside a small shed and dense bushes. Hidden by trees and close to the garden’s edge, they slipped into a pocket of quiet—a momentary escape from the nerves stretched tight across the compound.

Zhou Zishu’s mind felt clouded, thoughts swirling in a fog that refused to settle. There were too many questions, too many things he needed to understand—his wounds, their next steps, the shadows of their enemies. But one question cut through the haze, louder than the rest, tugging at him with stubborn insistence. Where had Lao Wen disappeared earlier? It might not have been the most pressing or shrewd question to ask, but it burned at him, refusing to be dismissed.

He looked up, his gaze fixing on Wen Kexing. His voice was faint, rough with irritation and slurred from the poison. “Lao Wen… in the middle of a fight, you vanish? Leaving me wondering if you’re off courting death or just toying with it?”

Wen Kexing crouched down, easing Zhou Zishu onto the soft grass, letting his back rest against the wall. His eyes gleamed with an unrepentant mischief, though his tone softened to something almost gentle as he replied, “A Xu, I never wandered far. Just took a moment to handle a matter of… perspective.” His lips quirked up, the dark amusement in his gaze deepening. “Duan Pengju and I had a brief discussion about his very… narrow view on things. Tragically, he failed to see reason.”

Wen Kexing leaned in close, his voice dropping to a murmur as he added, “A pity he had such a short-sighted view on life.”

Wen Kexing rummaged through his sleeve—bloodied, filthy beyond reason—and pulled out a small bottle of wine. Typical, Zhou Zishu thought. Wen Kexing and those damned sleeves, always hiding something unexpected. “Picked it up on the way,” he said, his grin wide, unapologetic.

Despite the grime and streaks of blood, that smile held a strange innocence—a carefree, almost boyish satisfaction. And it shouldn’t have fascinated Zhou Zishu, not in this way. Not with the blood spattered across Wen Kexing’s face, nor with the way he held himself, that poised, lethal readiness lurking beneath the casual stance, ready to strike at the faintest hint of danger.

It was unsettling. A monster wrapped in a disarming grin, as if innocence itself had been smeared with blood. And in his weakened state, Zhou Zishu could feel the pull of it, that contrast threading under his skin.

“It’s not medicine,” Wen Kexing added, extending the wine toward him with a smirk, “but they say the best cure is something that warms you from the inside.”

He should press for more details about the fight with Duan Pengju, demand a proper account of Wen Kexing’s path through the compound. There were so many questions he ought to ask, pieces he should be fitting together. But instead, Zhou Zishu let himself sink back into the soft grass, feeling the solid wall steady at his back, the cool air filtering through the branches above, and the faint scent of blooming trees offering a rare shelter.

He took the wine Wen Kexing offered—cheap, stolen from who knows where. It tasted rough, unrefined, and surprisingly vivid. His sense of taste had been spotty at best, fading with each day, each fight, yet somehow he could taste this. And right now, it was almost divine. A taste of something close to hope, so near he could almost believe in it.

Could he really dare? To let himself think this might work? So many impossible things had already come to pass.

Chapter Text

Is this your grand jest, Saiming?
Through Heaven’s Window, once gazing at the world below,
Now a hollow shell, a weak maiden dragged along.
Does this amuse you? I hear your laughter, sharp as blades,
Even through the haze that dulls my senses.

There was no time to waste on wine and moon-gazing. They were alone, vulnerable, and stranded on enemy ground. The patchy shadows around them hardly offered enough cover to dodge the eyes of soldiers drawing closer. Zhou Zishu knew he should be worried. Every instinct told him to drag Wen Kexing from this place, leave it and its haunted memories to the dark. Run far and fast, and leave nothing to chance. After all, killing a crown prince, or perhaps only “misplacing” him, left a bit of a mess.

Zhou Zishu took a bitter swig of cheap wine, something like a scoff catching in his throat. His cousin had finally made himself scarce, in the most permanent way possible. Somehow, Zhou Zishu found himself struggling to care. No, he only felt a strange numbness that seemed to seep through his veins, mingling with the poison’s slow burn. The shouts and footsteps were closing in, but their urgency sounded thin, distant—there and yet slipping just beyond his reach.

He sighed, letting the sharp, unpleasant taste of the wine settle on his tongue. His senses had been flickering lately, a small amusement for Siming, the Goddess of Fate, who no doubt enjoyed seeing him choke on her little games. Now the wine hit him with its full, acrid strength. Let her toy with him if she liked; he was far past taking offense.

Zhou Zishu knew the idea of making it out of here alive was little more than a feverish dream. He should be thinking about escape routes, tracking how far the enemy ranks had reached. And yet... crouched in front of him was Wen Kexing, filthy and bloody, grinning like a maniac. The sight absorbed every last trace of his remaining focus.

Wen Kexing looked... oh, he looked like a demon dragged straight out of hell. Like a death god painted in blood and shadow. His hair—somehow the cleanest thing about him—was bound by a single, crooked hairpin. Even that, though, wasn’t free of small bits of debris—wood splinters? Bone fragments? It was hard to tell in the dim light. Zhou Zishu’s hand lifted as if of its own will, drifting through the chaotic strands, picking out pieces from the disheveled mass. Wen Kexing pushed into the touch like a stray pup craving affection. But, Zhou Zishu discovered, the moonlight had lied—his hair was as filthy as the rest of him. How one man could amass this much blood and grime was beyond reason.

“Lao Wen, Lao Wen. What am I supposed to do with you?” he murmured, carefully extracting a stray tooth and two splinters from Wen Kexing’s hair.

Wen Kexing’s grin only widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. When he opened his mouth to answer, his entire face transformed, lit with that flirtatious, mischievous gleam Zhou Zishu knew far too well. Here, in the dead of night, gore coating every inch of him, that expression took on a monstrous charm, something almost hypnotic in its darkness. Zhou Zishu felt a pull he couldn’t quite explain—struck by how a man could embody both beauty and carnage with such ease. It was like watching a blade honed to perfect cruelty, or a wild animal poised to strike. The sight should have repelled him, and yet he found himself staring, unwilling to look away from this creature who was somehow both the bloodiest mess and the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen.

“Well. I might have a few ideas if A Xu is in need of some advice,” Wen Kexing murmured, leaning in closer, his eyes glinting with mischief. “There’s this one particular technique I’ve heard about from…”

“Hold where you are,” came a commanding voice, cutting through Wen Kexing’s words, every syllable sharp and deliberate. The approach was fast but measured, and Zhou Zishu recognized the tread—one person, certain and unhurried. He grabbed Wen Kexing’s arm, holding tight as he felt the shift in Wen Kexing’s posture, his body tensing like a coiled spring. The playful glint in his eyes disappeared in an instant, replaced by a deadly calm, bloodlust burning in his gaze. Zhou Zishu watched Wen Kexing’s hands slowly curl into claws, lips pulling back slightly to reveal teeth—he could almost hear the low growl building in his throat. What a sight he was.

“Do not move unless I tell you,” Zhou Zishu commanded, his tone firm, allowing no argument. Even in this state, Wen Kexing’s instincts held. Zhou Zishu felt him tremble, caught between stillness and the fierce urge to tear, and as he murmured, “Good,” he was surprised to see Wen Kexing respond with something close to pleased obedience. He almost looked like a hound under praise, a glimmer of satisfaction softening the wild glint in his eyes.

Just then, the Emperor’s Grandmother stepped out from the shadows, her small but commanding figure lit by the faint glow of moonlight. For all her age, she carried herself with an unsettling calm. Here she was—the most powerful woman in the palace, perhaps in the entire empire, her presence an unspoken order for attention.

“Hello, Zhou Zishu. I thought I heard your lovely voice.” Her gaze swept over the two men—one calm and bloodstained, the other wild, still breathing danger. “You look... less dashing than usual, but I suppose that’s expected under current circumstances.” There was a note of dry humor beneath her formal tone, though her wary glance at Wen Kexing suggested a degree of unease. “I assume all this chaos is your doing? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction to your... friend?”

“Greetings, Grandmother,” Zhou Zishu forced himself to remain seated, his grip firm on Wen Kexing’s arm, grounding him with a hard squeeze. Every instinct told him to drop into a respectful bow, to apologize for appearing before her in this state. But his injuries held him down, and there was nothing to do but meet her gaze. “Forgive this lowly one for his rudeness. My wounds prevent me from properly greeting Your Highness. As always, your insight is impeccable. Might I ask why Your Highness has ventured alone into the garden on such a dangerous night?”

“Stupid child,” she replied, her honey-brown eyes sharp with irritation as they flicked over him. “There is no one here but us and your…”

“Zhiji,” Zhou Zishu supplied, watching with satisfaction as the tiniest flicker of shock crossed her face. It was there for less than a heartbeat, but that she showed it at all said enough about her surprise.

“I see.” She took a breath, the shock gone, her expression as composed as ever. “He killed two of my girls. I trust you can explain why I shouldn’t call for the children to end him on the spot?”

Zhou Zishu turned his gaze to Wen Kexing—not in accusation or reproach, but in a silent, steady question. Wen Kexing met his eyes, his expression so open it was almost innocent. “Wasn’t me,” he replied smoothly, his voice soft and sharp as a blade. He turned back to Grandmother, his mouth curving into a dangerous smile. “But if you’ve ever wondered why your cook kept such a tight grip on his secrets, now you know. He learned it’s best not to let certain things slip.”

Grandmother’s brow arched slightly, though she didn’t look especially surprised. “Ah, yes… him.” Her lips tightened with a flicker of dark amusement. “A piece of work, that one. There was plenty about him that couldn’t quite be proven.” She met Zhou Zishu’s gaze, a glimmer of reluctant approval in her eyes. “Well, come, then, before you’re discovered here like a pair of reckless fools.” Her gaze lingered a beat longer on Wen Kexing, as if weighing her judgment of this bloodstained man who was both perilous and, perhaps, useful.

Zhou Zishu tightened his grip on Wen Kexing’s arm as Grandmother began to turn away, her words carrying an unmistakable command. “She’s an old friend,” he murmured to Wen Kexing, voice low. “A very powerful one.” With effort, he loosened his hold, every movement fighting against the pain pressing down on him. His legs trembled, and another cough clawed its way up his throat. His body was beginning to turn traitor.

Wen Kexing watched him with an intensity bordering on feral, gaze snapping back to the present. “A Xu,” he murmured softly, voice carrying a rawness that hinted at something he was only just beginning to remember. Then, with a sudden, almost startling ease, Wen Kexing lifted him into his arms as if he weighed nothing. Zhou Zishu could almost laugh—reduced to this fainting-maiden act once more. How undignified.

“You could carry me on your back, you know,” he muttered, though even he could hear how weak the protest sounded. He should be demanding proper respect, but Wen Kexing’s arms were warm, his shoulder surprisingly comfortable. Protesting seemed too much trouble. As Wen Kexing ignored his scolding and began following Grandmother’s retreating figure, Zhou Zishu let out a long breath, letting himself relax. If his arms found their way around Wen Kexing’s neck, well, it was just for stability. Nothing more.

They moved in silence toward the hidden door, past a blooming bush and a small shed. As they crossed through to the other side, Zhou Zishu felt the overwhelming fragrance of flowers close around him. Grandmother’s garden—the only part of the palace that had ever felt like sanctuary—enveloped them with its familiar alcoves, ponds, and flowering trees. How strange, he thought, that he’d nearly forgotten its peace. 

No one would suspect a young man to be so bold as to enter a place reserved exclusively for women and eunuchs. Getting caught would mean death, no doubt. But then, this was Grandmother’s domain. Nothing entered or left without her explicit permission—whether a person or a whisper of gossip.

Siming, however cruel and precise her games, had granted him this one small grace. Her shrine, just beyond the manor, was always tended with offerings of fine wine, incense, and fresh fruit. And then, there was Wen Kexing—his zhiji. A man whose grief ran as deeply as his own, who understood this smoldering rage without words. Wen Kexing had stepped into the shadows with him, both a kindred spirit and a weapon, someone who would push forward into the same darkness for him and draw blood as effortlessly as he drew breath.

Oh, Siming, what are you playing at, my sweet, cruel lady, Zhou Zishu thought bitterly. Why would you bring this miracle to the life of this unfilial child of yours? They both knew what he deserved, what his sins had earned him. And yet... the warmth of Wen Kexing’s arms felt nothing like the fires of hell.

Zhou Zishu closed his eyes and let his head rest in the crook of Wen Kexing’s neck. It was so warm here. The scent of blood lingered like rare perfume, a reminder of the beautiful reality where his tormentor had met his end at the edge of Zhou Zishu’s blade. This was enough. If all his plans failed, if in the next moment they were cut to a hundred pieces by an angry mob, it would still be enough. Let this palace remain as a monument, a gravestone of past sins left to rot like unwanted trash. Burning it seemed like too much bother.

Wen Kexing’s steps resonated gently as they entered Grandmother’s private rooms. Zhou Zishu didn’t need to open his eyes to know where they were; everything here was unmistakable. The rich scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of her favorite tea. Outside, the murmur of the stream drifted through the room, underscoring the rustle of silk banners hanging high above. Here, in the heart of Grandmother’s domain, all his plans and secrets were as protected as he was—carried forward by her knowing, silent vigilance.

“You can put him down there,” came Grandmother’s soft voice, bringing Zhou Zishu back to reality. He lifted his head, and the world spun around him. Not a good sign. Behind a wooden screen, where a small tea table for private meetings would usually stand, was a low bed covered in soft pillows and fine bedding. She had anticipated their condition, it seemed. As always, she was prepared—sharp blades for swift justice, pillows and silks for mercy.

He didn’t protest as Wen Kexing laid him down gently, as if afraid any sudden movement would break him. The silk pillows felt cold after the warmth of his zhiji’s embrace. Why was his mind churning out this nonsense? He blamed the poison for loosening his thoughts and slipping through his defenses—a relaxant, numbing and intoxicating in effect. It was certainly working.

“All right. Looks like there will be no actual talking today,” Grandmother sighed, her voice measured. “I’ll ask just a few questions, then leave you in Maimei’s capable hands.”

Zhou Zishu forced his mind to snap back into coherence, focusing on his old friend who now sat on a stool beside the bed. Between them, Wen Kexing stood like a silent promise of death, his presence sharpening as if preparing to strike at the smallest hint of threat.

“You can rest easy, Lao Wen. They won’t hurt us,” Zhou Zishu croaked, his voice weak and raspy. Before he could blink, a cup of warm tea appeared before him, held in the small hand of one of the girls... Yun? Yue? It was always a challenge to tell them apart. He felt Wen Kexing stiffen at the impossible speed with which she moved. Oh yes, she could be deadly. But not today. And probably not to him, if their regard for him held. For Wen Kexing, though…

“Thank you, Yun,” he decided at last, rewarded with her huge, delighted smile. They enjoyed confusing people with their identical looks, but it always brought them joy when someone could actually tell them apart.

This was important. Wen Kexing was not to be harmed or toyed with, and Zhou Zishu needed that message crystal clear. He sipped the tea to steady himself, then looked deeply into Yun’s eyes. When he spoke, his tone was low and unmistakable—the same tone he had once used to promise, “Stay where you are. I’ll be back soon, and I’ll take you both out of here.”

“This one,” he said, nodding toward Wen Kexing, then back at Yun. Her eyes widened as she followed his gaze to the bloodied man by the bed. “This one is mine. Do you understand?”

"Yes," Yun replied, visibly shocked. Yue materialized by her side, mirroring her expression as they exchanged glances between the two bloodstained men. After a few seconds, the girls nodded in unison and slipped behind the partition. Good. Their loyalty still ran deep enough to protect Wen Kexing, as long as he stayed his claws where Grandmother was concerned. But that stipulation applied even to Zhou Zishu himself. No matter what affections his past deeds had won him, Grandmother was still the sun and moon to the girls, an unshakable loyalty beyond competition.

He turned his gaze back to Grandmother’s face, her expression calm, though her sharp eyes betrayed the slightest gleam of satisfaction. “So, child,” she began, a faint arch to her brow, “I take it that certain… matters have been addressed?”

Zhou Zishu’s lips curved with dark satisfaction. “Rest assured, that particular pile of trash was removed,” he replied smoothly. “And by now, it’s been thoroughly disposed of.”

At his answer, a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, as though she were savoring the cutting finality of his words. She turned her teacup slowly in her hands, as if contemplating all the unspoken details. “Then I suppose we can finally move forward. Not as smoothly as I had planned, but I’ll accept the result.”

Zhou Zishu felt his hand tremble as he struggled to hold his own cup, his strength already faltering. He cursed inwardly at his failing grip—and, before he could set it down, Wen Kexing was already on his knees beside him, one hand steadying the cup, the other braced around his waist. It was, as usual, far too close.

Zhou Zishu clenched his teeth, irritation flaring at the familiar touch, and yet... it wasn’t so unpleasant. Must be the poison working on my nerves, he told himself. Nothing else would make him feel so oddly steady in Wen Kexing’s grip. He could tolerate it, just for a moment.

When Zhou Zishu looked back at Grandmother, she was chuckling softly, her sharp eyes alight with amusement as she took in the scene. “Let me tell you, my dear boy, this is certainly not something I ever expected,” she said, her laughter underscored by a wry edge. “Oh, look at that grumpy face of yours. So annoyed at being loved and cared for. It’s just precious. I wish I could call for a painter to capture this moment… though perhaps with a little less blood and grime.”

Her words grated against his pride, and Zhou Zishu bit back a retort. Instead, he let his mind wander briefly to the tea plantation where her favored blend was grown. A flicker of a smirk crossed his lips as he imagined it going up in flames—an entirely hypothetical, though deeply satisfying, act of vengeance. He wouldn’t actually burn it, of course; that would be wasteful. But the idea had its appeal, a small salve for the indignity of sitting here battered and bruised while she mocked him.

Grandmother leaned back, her laughter fading as her expression shifted. Amusement gave way to a composed, steady gaze, and the air seemed to cool. “I see you’ve decided that sharing your plans in advance is a luxury I am not to enjoy,” she said, her voice calm but carrying a distinct edge. The disapproval in her look was palpable, heavy and pointed as her eyes locked on Zhou Zishu. Then her gaze shifted to Wen Kexing, kneeling close enough to him that the unspoken challenge was clear, daring her to voice an objection. “Should I expect more surprises, or would you like me to ensure our asset remains undisturbed?”

“As far as I know, no further excitement is planned. Though I would indeed be grateful if you’d take care of that,” Zhou Zishu replied, his tone even, though his body protested with exhaustion.

Her faint smile deepened, satisfaction flickering briefly before her voice turned lighter, almost playful. “And… it seems generous numbers of palace guards have been sent hunting,” she mused, her words seemingly idle but laced with double meanings. “A curious twist of fate, isn’t it? The corridors breathe easier in their absence, as if the palace itself sighs with relief. One could almost believe the winds carried them away for your benefit.”

Her gaze lingered on him, sharp and knowing, before she added, “Quite the task they’ve been given, tracking down some ‘dangerous’ Wen Kexing, if I’ve understood correctly. Perhaps they’d find better luck if they tried a more refined stroll—say, in the palace gardens?”

Zhou Zishu inclined his head, but an involuntary twist of dread seized him at the thought—if Wen Kexing were to be caught—

Wen Kexing’s arm tightened around him, warm breath brushing his neck as his reckless shidi leaned close, whispering softly, “I’m fine, A Xu. They didn’t find me. Please, don’t worry.”

“Who’s worrying?” Zhou Zishu grumbled, his tone sharp to mask any flicker of relief. “Why would I waste energy on you? There’s no getting rid of you, even with the entire force of the Window of Heaven on your tail. You’re like a dog with a bone.”

“Oh, that I am,” Wen Kexing chuckled, low enough that only Zhou Zishu could hear. His voice held that same uninvited edge, and Zhou Zishu felt an unwelcome warmth rise to his ears. Damn this lunatic and his endless innuendos. When had things drifted so far from proper brotherly camaraderie? Though, perhaps he was partly to blame—the result of his own rash impulses in that euphoria-drenched moment Wen Kexing had reappeared, beautiful and alive, as his blood sang with victory and the relief of finally being free.

He’d have to put his unruly shidi back in his place—just maybe not right now.

Grandmother’s voice slipped gently into their exchange, her tone warm but faintly bemused, as though indulging a scene she’d never expected to witness. “Well, if we’re finished with the playacting, shall we turn to practical matters?” Her gaze lingered on Zhou Zishu, her expression one of fond, curious amusement—as if marveling at the sight of him with someone at his side, something almost too strange to be real.

“The room is most certainly ready for you both, and it seems you’re in need of some proper rest,” she continued, her tone softening as she motioned for them to move. “So, let’s get you settled.”

Wen Kexing rose and slipped an arm back around Zhou Zishu, lifting him up.

No dignified back carry for him; fainting maiden it was. These cursed nails had certainly taken their toll on him—draining his strength, his senses, his life bit by bit. But the poison, that infernal poison, was the ultimate thief of dignity, leaving him weak and utterly dependent, with Wen Kexing’s all-too-enthusiastic cooperation.

Chapter Text

Siming, what is this game?
Why give me this priceless gift and make it so brittle?
Do you want to see me shatter it to pieces?

The walk was mercifully short, though Zhou Zishu suspected his dignity would take far longer to recover. Being carried like some fainting maiden would have been bad enough anywhere, but here? The women’s quarters? It was a breach of propriety so blatant it bordered on comedy. Yet as much as he knew he shouldn’t be here—at least, not this version of him—he couldn’t summon the energy to care. The cool night air pressed softly against his skin, the faint murmur of a stream threading through the stillness, and for the first time in days, he felt something akin to peace. The thought was strange, almost absurd, but there it was. 

The garden stretched out ahead, the stone path glinting faintly under shifting patches of moonlight. Zhou Zishu’s gaze flicked toward the trees, their branches swaying gently, shadows trailing like whispers along the ground. Each step felt as though it was carrying him further from the chaos outside—the relentless hunt, the scent of blood, the nagging pull of survival—and deeper into a quiet that defied logic. Crickets hummed somewhere in the dark, their rhythm blending seamlessly with the whisper of the leaves overhead. It was so tranquil, so still, it almost felt like an entirely different world.

Tucked at the edge of the garden, half-hidden by a curtain of trees, stood a modest building. Zhou Zishu’s eyes lingered on it, recognizing it immediately: officially, the quarters of the most hermit-like resident of the compound. Unofficially, it was a retreat for the Grandmother’s strays, those who bore grief too heavy for daylight. The walls, thin and unassuming, seemed almost designed to hold secrets, muffling sobs and whispers and letting them fade into the night. 

Zhou Zishu knew it well—too well, perhaps. He had been here more than once, though never under circumstances quite like this. 

The irony of being brought here wasn’t lost on him. A place meant for the broken, the grieving, and the forgotten. It fit, he supposed. And tonight, he wasn’t above admitting it. Here, among the shadows and the silence, the sharp edges of the world felt less jagged. For now, at least, it would do.

Growing up in a monster’s nest forced one to abandon childhood innocence long before its time. Survival demanded it. Zhou Zishu sometimes wondered if anyone besides him and Grandmother truly knew how many had passed through this place over the years. Quiet tears shed in the shade of these trees, broken souls piecing themselves back together—step by painful step—until they became something vaguely resembling whole human beings. 

Some of them he had brought here himself. Maimei came to mind, as vivid now as the day he found her. She had been just a small, half-broken thing, buried beneath what was left of her family. Her limbs had felt limp and lifeless in his arms, her wide eyes staring at him—but not with fear. No, Maimei had looked at him as though she’d already measured the worst the world could throw at her and decided no one would dictate her life again. He could still feel the weight of her in his arms, fragile yet relentless, and wondered if she’d always carried that quiet defiance, even before everything was taken from her.

The room was exquisite, of course. Everything in this strange haven buried in the deepest pit of hell seemed designed to defy its surroundings. Bright wood and silk, pillows scattered in deliberate, artful disarray—it had the unmistakable air of a place meant for rest and healing. Zhou Zishu could see the intent stitched into every corner, but he wasn’t so far gone as to let himself sink into it. Not yet. 

Near the entrance, an open area sprawled, inviting as it was suspiciously perfect. A low table sat before shelves that lined the back wall, their rows of books promising calm reflection. The colors were soft, bright—greens and pale blues in silk draped from the beams, cream walls painted with landscapes so serene they were almost overdone. The floor, layered in cushions and blankets, seemed to offer an unspoken dare: Lie down. Rest. Forget. Zhou Zishu looked away before it could tempt him further. 

The left wall framed a grand window, opening onto a quiet sliver of garden hidden between the building and the compound’s outer wall. On the right, a carved partition hinted at more private spaces for bathing and sleep. Zhou Zishu caught the scent of hot, herbal water curling through the air and clenched his jaw against the sudden, visceral pull of it. Dirt and blood clung to his skin, a filth so thick he almost felt it crawling. The urge to scrub it all away struck harder than he expected. 

“Let me down, Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu said, the words hushed and careful, as though anything louder might shatter the delicate illusion around them. His eyes flicked across the room one last time, unwilling to let himself linger too long. “Let’s get Maimei’s administrations out of the way as soon as possible.”

Wen Kexing’s eyes lingered on him, sharp and calculating, as if gauging whether Zhou Zishu’s legs could hold out or buckle completely. Finally, he nodded and released him, though his hand stayed firm on Zhou Zishu’s waist, ready to catch him if gravity won the battle. It nearly did—his legs trembled dangerously, weak and unsteady like wind-tossed catkins. He scowled at himself, annoyed that his own brain would conjure such an apt and infuriating comparison. 

Zhou Zishu let out a shallow breath and looked around, scanning for a place to sit that wouldn’t suffer too much from the dirt clinging to him. His eyes settled on a low wooden bench near the partition, simple and polished, easy to clean if need be. One step at a time, he moved toward it, his legs rebelling with every careful motion. Wen Kexing didn’t rush him, his grip steady and wordless, though Zhou Zishu caught the faint edge of tension in his stillness. He thinks I’ll break. 

When he finally eased himself onto the seat, it felt as though the ground had stopped shifting beneath him. He exhaled, glancing toward the doorway. Grandmother stood there, quiet and unmoving, her expression as calm and inscrutable as ever. For a moment, nothing passed between them but silence. Then, she inclined her head, just slightly, before turning and walking away. 

No words were exchanged. None were needed.

On the wooden porch in front of the entrance, a small figure cloaked in dark robes lifted her head. Zhou Zishu’s tired gaze slid over her at first, missing her entirely in her stillness. Then she moved, throwing back her hood and stepping into the soft light. Her face came into view—sharp and striking, with those oversized, dark eyes and a delicately pointed nose. A doll’s face, he thought absently, though there was nothing fragile about the way she carried it. 

It wasn’t her face that always caught people off guard, though. It was her hair, cropped short and uneven, like a child’s. Zhou Zishu could still hear the echoes of the screaming matches her stubbornness had sparked years ago. She had been seven then, tiny and brittle but defiant in a way that had put grown men to shame. No threats, no veiled insults from the first concubine could budge her. And why should she care for society’s rules when the world had already taken everything else? 

He had asked her once, on a quiet night not far from here. It was late, and the gardens had been steeped in shadows, the moon painting the treetops silver. “Why?” he’d murmured, watching her small hands twist nervously in her lap. “Why not let it grow?” 

Her voice had been soft, barely a whisper. “My younger sister loved my hair,” she said, her gaze fixed somewhere far above, on the sky or the past—it was hard to tell. “She used to brush it every night, before…” Her words faltered, her hands curling tighter as if to hold herself together. “I don’t remember her face anymore. Not clearly. But I remember how her hands felt in my hair. If I let it grow back…” Her voice cracked, and she shook her head sharply. “If I let it grow back, it’ll be like forgetting her. Like she never existed.” 

The weight of her grief had been suffocating, spilling out into the night, pressing down on everything around them. Even the wind had stilled, the crickets silenced as if unwilling to intrude. Zhou Zishu hadn’t known what to say then—what could be said to a child whose world had been shattered? So he had stayed beside her, quiet and unmoving, letting her grief carve its place in the darkness. 

They had spent hours like that, their silence stretching into something almost sacred. It hadn’t been peace, not exactly, but it had been enough. A fragile solace, found in the sharp, jagged edges of one another’s pain.

Now, she stood straight and proud, her sharp eyes raking over them like a butcher inspecting a pair of rare cuts of meat—fascinating, yes, but already on the verge of spoiling. 

“Hello, Zhou Zishu. I’d say it’s good to see you again, but not like this.” Her tone was as blunt and unapologetic as ever, yet tinged with something softer, almost reluctant. “You look like someone who died two days ago and just keeps moving out of sheer stubbornness—or because no one’s had the nerve to tell you to stop.” Her gaze swept over the blood covering both men, her expression shifting into something halfway between disgust and reluctant admiration. “Interesting fashion choice. You usually wear red well, but I think you’ve overdone it this time. Let’s see if we can patch you up enough to make you look human again.” 

She stepped forward but froze the moment her eyes met Wen Kexing’s. Maimei wasn’t one to spook easily, but her instincts were sharp. She knew a predator when she saw one. Wen Kexing didn’t even look tense, his body language loose and unbothered, but his eyes tracked her movements with unnerving precision. He wasn’t assessing her as a threat—just as something that might need to be dealt with if the situation required it. And that quiet confidence was what made him all the more terrifying. 

Maimei held her ground, letting out a measured sigh. “Could you please call off your guard dog? He’s making me a little jittery.” 

“Don’t worry, Maimei,” Zhou Zishu said softly, a faint smile curving his lips as he extended a hand toward her. “Come here. Lao Wen won’t hurt you. It’s just been… a bit of a stressful day for both of us.”

“Stressful, he says,” Maimei mocked as she moved briskly to Zhou Zishu’s side. “Is that what you call bloodbaths and chaos? Stressful? Oh, Ge, you have a real talent for understating. And let me guess, your condition would be best described as… slight discomfort?” 

She dropped to her knees beside him, grumbling under her breath, and in one swift motion, wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. Her face pressed against his stomach, careful not to jostle his chest, as though the blood and grime didn’t bother her in the slightest. Zhou Zishu froze, blinking down at her. He knew she was fond of him, but this... this was unexpected. It caught him entirely off guard. How was one supposed to respond to something like this? He let his hands hover uselessly in the air for a moment before his gaze darted upward, searching for Wen Kexing’s reaction. 

His lunatic stood nearby, fan already half-open in his hand, wearing the faintly amused expression of someone watching a scene unfold exactly as they expected. “Well?” Wen Kexing drawled, his voice light, as though the blood caked on his sleeves didn’t exist. “Looks like you forgot to tell me about some more pups you’ve adopted. Should I expect a whole litter by the end of the week?” 

Zhou Zishu’s lips twitched. Trust Wen Kexing to strike that absurd pose, fan flicked open like a court gentleman delivering a practiced line. It was so at odds with his appearance—clothes soaked in blood, his dark hair unkempt, and streaks of dirt cutting through his sharp features—that the incongruity might have been laughable if it weren’t so familiar. 

Wen Kexing’s free hand moved almost absently to pat Maimei’s head, his motions surprisingly gentle, the fan still angled in his other hand as though this entire scenario were some grand play meant for his amusement. Zhou Zishu could only watch, biting back a wry smile. Somehow, even now, Wen Kexing managed to make the ridiculous look perfectly natural.

“It’s fine, Maimei. I’m not hurt, just…” 

The words barely left his mouth before Maimei jerked away from him, her expression sharp with righteous fury. 

“Fine?” she barked, her voice rising. “You call this fine? You. Are. Dying!” Each word came out louder, higher, as though she were struggling to contain the force of her anger. “What made you think killing yourself was such a splendid idea? Did you even think about us? Did you? You just left!” 

Her small fists curled tightly, trembling with barely restrained emotion. The intensity of her reaction froze Zhou Zishu in place. He had expected a grumble, perhaps a sharp remark, but this? The strength of her feelings caught him completely off guard. For a moment, he could only stare, his mind blank, struggling to process what he was seeing. 

“I…” he began weakly, the words fumbling out. “You have Grandmother. I’m not…” But the sentence trailed off into silence, his mind grasping at nothing. He didn’t understand what was happening, why she was shaking with anger, or why her words clawed at the hollow space in his chest. 

“What?” she snapped, her voice breaking. “Did you think we’d just forget you?” 

Her eyes bored into him, demanding an answer he didn’t have. But then, as she stared, realization crept over her face. She saw it—saw the truth written plainly in his confusion. Her shoulders slumped, the fight draining from her like water through cracks. 

“Oh…” she breathed, the word trembling. Her wide black eyes brimmed with tears, her lower lip quivering. “You thought… you really thought…”

Zhou Zishu had no idea what to do. This felt surreal, like a scene unfolding in someone else’s life. What was even happening? He stared at the child sobbing in front of him and felt utterly helpless. Her emotions were so raw, so overwhelming, that they left him stranded—adrift in his own confusion. 

The soft rustle of fabric on his right drew his attention. Wen Kexing moved with quiet purpose, lowering himself to the ground beside Maimei. “Foolish girl,” he said, his voice carrying the unmistakable edge of someone fully aware of their own superiority. “What is the point of this performance? Are you truly surprised, or did you imagine he was someone capable of understanding his own worth?” 

He patted her arm lightly, his movements measured but dismissive, like he was speaking to someone slow to grasp a simple truth. His bloodstained face and rumpled clothes should have made him look out of place, yet he carried himself like a court scholar lecturing a wayward student. “Don’t waste your tears on him,” Wen Kexing continued, his smile faint and full of mockery. “This man is as blind as he is stubborn. He’s spent so long convincing himself no one could possibly care that he wouldn’t recognize love if it smacked him across the face.” 

His expression softened, though his tone stayed biting. “So what do we do with fools like him, hm? We show him. Again and again, until the idea sinks into that thick skull of his. And if it takes a hundred lifetimes to get through to him…” He tilted his head, smirking now. “Well, I can think of worse ways to spend eternity.”

Zhou Zishu stared, stunned, as Maimei, who was always so wary of strangers—especially men—actually smiled at Wen Kexing. “I wouldn’t expect such wise words from someone who looks like he got bored waiting for dinner and decided to eat the cook instead.” 

Wen Kexing choked, snapping his fan open with a sharp flick, and stared at her with wide eyes. Oh yes, teary or not, her tongue was as sharp as steel. 

“Don’t look so surprised—we’ve heard about your… meeting with our lovely cook.” Her smile turned razor-sharp as her gaze hardened. “I do hope you didn’t rush. He deserved your full attention. The serving girls would like to thank you in person for this unexpected gift, whenever you can spare a moment.” 

No need, no need,” Wen Kexing replied with a wide, theatrical smile, lazily waving his fan as though it were enough to dispel the entire conversation. “This humble servant is pleased to provide this service.” He tilted his head slightly, his tone taking on a playful edge. “But where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself properly. Wen Kexing, at your service.”

Maimei inclined her head, her expression unreadable. “Maimei,” she said simply.

Wen Kexing blinked, his fan pausing mid-swish. “Maimei…” he echoed, his voice dragging over the word as though trying to tease out its layers. “Not Mei-mei, then? As in ‘little sister’?” His gaze flicked between her and Zhou Zishu, a flicker of doubt creeping into his usual confidence. “I assumed… Well, no matter what I assumed.”

Zhou Zishu’s lips quirked into a faint, knowing smile. “The second one,” he clarified, his tone mild. “Wheat Beauty. And no, you’re not getting the story.”

Wen Kexing’s brow furrowed for the briefest moment before a slow, exaggerated sigh escaped him. “Wheat Beauty? You can’t just say that and leave me in the dark, A-Xu.” He turned an almost pleading gaze to Maimei. “Miss Maimei, surely you’d enlighten me out of kindness? You see the torment I endure?”

Maimei’s sharp eyes glinted with amusement, though her tone remained neutral. “Wen Gongzi, I assure you, the mystery is much more satisfying than the truth.”

Wen Kexing clutched his fan dramatically, as though struck in the heart. “A-Xu, your people are cruel. How have you managed to survive them?”

Zhou Zishu’s eyes softened ever so slightly, though his voice carried its usual dry edge. “The same way I’ve survived you, Lao Wen. Barely.”

Maimei exhaled heavily, as if trying to shake off the weight of the conversation. “Well is suppose… If Ge likes you, you must be as crazy as him,” she muttered, her tone dry as she wiped her eyes. “That’s enough spilling feelings for a month, as far as I’m concerned. Let’s look at your condition and see what can be done to get you back on your feet instead.” Her gaze sharpened as it fixed on Wen Kexing. “Are you hurt anywhere, Wen Gongzi?”

“Mostly scrapes and bruises. Nothing serious. A Xu needs help, not me,” Wen Kexing replied, his voice calm, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of worry as they turned toward Zhou Zishu. 

“You should tell me the truth,” Maimei said sharply, her tone leaving no room for argument. “If you’re hiding an injury, it could get infected. We need you both at full strength—or as close as possible, with my stupid Ge making himself into a human pincushion. If you get sick, who’s going to take care of him when trouble comes?” Her eyes narrowed as she fixed Wen Kexing with a stern glare. “So if something’s wrong, better tell me now and don’t play the hero.” 

“Lao Wen?” Zhou Zishu’s voice was quiet, but the knot of fear forming in his chest tightened further. He could feel it stirring, coiling tighter. “Is something wrong? Are you hurt?” 

“Do not worry, A Xu,” Wen Kexing said softly, his familiar smile returning as he reached over and patted Zhou Zishu’s hand. “It’s nothing serious.” He glanced back at Maimei and inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. “There are cuts on my side and chest, two on my back, and some scratches on my arm. Nothing deep, but you’re right—I wouldn’t want to endanger us by leaving them untreated.” 

“That’s better,” she said, nodding with satisfaction. “Show me.” 

Wen Kexing hesitated, looking at Zhou Zishu uncertainly.

Disrobing in front of a young, pretty girl was certainly not how Wen Kexing envisioned his day going. But if she was going to treat him, clinging to his robes like a bashful maiden wasn’t going to help anyone. 

“Do as she says,” Zhou Zishu instructed quietly, his voice calm but firm. “She’s young, yes, but she’s the doctor here, and a very good one. The human body isn’t a shocking sight to her—man or woman.” There was no point in arguing with Maimei when it came to medical matters. Everyone who lived in or visited the women’s quarters learned that lesson quickly enough. Even Grandmother deferred to her expertise in such cases. 

“If only I’d known I’d be stripping for such a lovely lady today,” Wen Kexing said, his shamelessness undiminished even now. “I would have made an effort to be more presentable.” He paused, giving Maimei an exaggerated bow before slowly peeling off the upper part of his robes. “Is this humble one’s physique to your liking, my lady?” 

It wasn’t as smooth as his tone suggested. The blood-soaked fabric clung stubbornly to his skin, the partially dried stains making the process far more complicated than it should have been. Yet even as he wrestled with the mess, Wen Kexing managed to maintain an air of theatricality, as if he were performing on some grand stage rather than being treated for wounds.

Peeling fabric from bruised, dirty skin was a slow and painful process, each movement pulling at scabs and tender flesh. The bloody cloth revealed a map of injuries across Wen Kexing’s torso—scratches, shallow cuts, and bruises blooming in ugly shades. Zhou Zishu inhaled deeply, forcing himself to steady his nerves. This man, this ridiculous lunatic, had been in this condition while carrying him around, no doubt worsening his wounds in the process. What was he thinking? Stupid. Reckless. 

“Oh my. You look awful,” Maimei remarked, her voice flat as her eyes roved over Wen Kexing’s chest with a mixture of disgust and clinical curiosity. “I see you two are perfectly matched—your talent for understating is practically identical.” 

Without waiting for a response, she stood and disappeared behind the screen. 

“Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu said sharply, his voice carrying the weight of barely restrained irritation. “This is more than scratches and bruises. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

He reached out hesitantly, his fingers ghosting over the dried blood on Wen Kexing’s chest before settling gently on a long, shallow cut that ran across its center. His stomach twisted at the sight. If it had been even slightly deeper... 

Zhou Zishu pressed lightly along the red line, watching as fresh droplets of blood welled beneath his touch. Wen Kexing hissed, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t flinch or move away. He simply let Zhou Zishu poke and prod at the wound, his silence a quiet acceptance.

“Stop that.” Maimei’s sharp voice sliced through the haze, snapping Zhou Zishu back to his senses. He blinked at her, startled, then down at his own hand. It was still resting against Wen Kexing’s chest, the fingertips smeared red with blood. Caught red-handed, indeed, though not in the way she meant. 

Stupid poison, he thought bitterly. It crept into his mind, loosening boundaries, pressing at thoughts and desires he’d long since buried. He needed it gone—needed it purged, now, before it dragged him further down paths he didn’t care to name. 

“You can ravish him later, when I’m gone and well outside hearing range,” Maimei continued, her tone sharp with suspicion. “Right now, keep your hands to yourself, or I’ll feed you the most disgusting healing tonic I can find.” 

Her words hit like a slap, and Zhou Zishu stiffened. Ravish? Him? The sheer absurdity of the accusation tangled with something darker, a flicker of shame he didn’t want to examine. He almost scoffed aloud. Immune to such base desires,he reminded himself firmly, a mantra so old it had worn grooves into his mind. And yet... 

Maimei, unbothered by his silence, thudded a bucket of warm water to the floor beside the half-naked Wen Kexing. Ignoring the tension, she grabbed a cloth and began briskly cleaning the blood from Wen Kexing’s chest. “I can’t even tell how bad it is under all this,” she grumbled. “You look like you bathed in it.” 

Her efficiency didn’t leave much room for further thought. Zhou Zishu’s gaze drifted reluctantly back to Wen Kexing’s injuries—scratches, shallow cuts, bruises—and he felt another pang of something unnameable. 

After a few minutes, Maimei stepped back, pulling several small bottles and containers from her sleeve. “No need for stitches,” she said briskly. “Take a bath and drink these two.” She shoved the bottles into Wen Kexing’s hands. “Then apply this salve on the largest wounds—especially the one on your back and the one on your left thigh. Yes, I know about that one. You’ve been hiding it, but don’t worry, I won’t make you strip completely naked just to prove my point.” 

Her eyes glittered with amusement as she added, “Though it’s tempting. I’d love to see how red I can make you—your ears are already dashing in that shade.” 

Wen Kexing, unexpectedly compliant, flushed a deep shade of pink across his cheeks. Maimei clapped her hands in mock delight, nearly dropping the salve in her excitement. “Oh, how lovely!” she exclaimed, entirely unbothered by the tension lingering in the room.

“Maimei,” Zhou Zishu scolded, his tone sharp but quiet. “Stop teasing. What was that about a wound on his leg?” 

“All right, all right,” she said with a wide, mischievous grin, her eyes sparkling. Her entire face seemed to light up, and for a moment, Zhou Zishu found himself staring. He’d missed her laugh. She had been so quiet and sad for so long that they were all caught off guard when she finally revealed her loud, sharp, and sassy nature. 

She was such a bright child, nearly snuffed out by tragedy and grief. Zhou Zishu’s gaze darkened as the thought settled over him. This place—the compound, the world within these walls—was like a monster made of stone, wood, and cruelty. It devoured children, ground them between its teeth, and spat them out in pieces. He should have burned it to the ground long ago. 

“I’ll be good,” Maimei said, her grin softening slightly. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing serious. With a wound in that spot, if it were anything deeper than a surface cut, he wouldn’t be walking. Just make sure he cleans it well and uses the salve.”

Zhou Zishu didn’t allow himself the indulgence of relief. Instead, he focused on the task at hand: undressing. Sitting down, weak as a newborn pup, even this simple action felt insurmountable. His fingers fumbled with the ties, the fabric slipping stubbornly through his grasp. Useless. Worthless. 

“A Xu…” whined his insufferable Wen Kexing, and suddenly his hands were there, deftly untying knots and pushing fabric aside with practiced ease. Of course. Zhou Zishu should’ve known better than to expect anything less. Wen Kexing would never pass up the chance to undress his A Xu. Any excuse to put his hands on his zhiji would be exploited to its fullest. Zhou Zishu opened his mouth to protest but quickly shut it again. What was the point? His pride? Like there was any of that left after the humiliations of the day. Resigned, he let himself be manhandled. 

A sharp hiss broke the silence. Maimei’s gaze was fixed on his chest, her expression twisting into something sharp and cutting. “Ge...” she began, her voice thick with frustration. “You’re so stupid. Why would you do this? Why would you hurt yourself like this? For what?” Her dark eyes flashed as she took a step closer, scrutinizing him with an intensity that burned. “You thought this was the only way, didn’t you? The only way you’d let yourself run. Like you had to pay a price in blood for every step.” 

She exhaled sharply, her tone biting as she continued. “Stupid, stupid Ge. I wish…” Her voice faltered for just a breath before she shook her head. “Why didn’t you come? Ah, never mind.” She waved her hand dismissively, her frustration overtaking whatever flicker of softness had threatened to show. 

Her words landed like stones, heavy and sharp-edged, and Zhou Zishu found himself holding her gaze, something twisting painfully in his chest. She was so young. How had she become this perceptive? Or was it simply that his mask had never been much use with Grandmother’s strays? Perhaps it was neither. Perhaps it was just one broken soul recognizing the cracks in another. He had been the first stray, after all—the first one Grandmother had saved. 

Wen Kexing’s hand pressed firmly against his back, the heat of it anchoring him, keeping him from unraveling. Zhou Zishu exhaled shakily. It was strange, still, how this man’s touch could make him feel safe instead of vulnerable or nauseous. It made no sense. He knew it wouldn’t last. There were unspoken expectations between them, fragile and dangerous things that could shatter this precarious connection they had built on blood, desperation, and the screams of caged demons.

“There was no other way, Maimei. Not for me,” Zhou Zishu said softly, the weight of the words dragging them down. He sighed, unwilling to speak any more on the matter. Too tired to prod at old wounds, too worn to explain what he barely understood himself. 

“No.” Her voice was sharp, cutting through his resignation like a blade. “No, Ge. Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.” She rinsed the cloth roughly, her hands trembling as she twisted it. “You’re so lucky, you know? So lucky to have a sister as smart and brilliant as I am.” Her voice cracked, but she pushed on, her eyes wet but defiant. 

“I’ve spent the past year working on something,” she said, her words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s not a cure. That’s beyond me—probably beyond anyone. But…” She paused, swallowing hard as tears began to spill down her cheeks. “It will help. It should help. Or at least… it’ll give you more time. A year, maybe two. I hope.” 

Zhou Zishu’s brow furrowed slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Maimei snapped, catching the flicker of doubt in his expression. “It won’t make you weak. It won’t change who you are. Don’t be stupid, Ge. I know better than that.” 

“You are…” Wen Kexing began, his voice soft with awe. And then he moved, dropping to his knees before her with no hesitation, his head bowed low. “You are a genius, Maimei. A savior. I cannot thank you enough for this gift.” 

Maimei’s eyes widened, and she stepped back, startled by the gesture. “Don’t…” she started, but her voice wavered. “Don’t be stupid. It’s not much. Just… a little more time. It’s nothing to bow over.” 

“It’s everything,” Wen Kexing said firmly, his head still lowered. “You’ve done what no one else could. I owe you more than words can express.” 

Zhou Zishu watched them, his thoughts a mess of sharp edges and half-formed ideas. Wen Kexing kneeling on the floor like a man offering his devotion at a shrine. Maimei, fragile and defiant, somehow wielding hope like it was the simplest thing in the world. 

It felt foreign, distant—this trust, this belief in something better. His gaze lingered on their faces, and he wondered, not for the first time, why they bothered with someone like him. 

Hope wasn’t meant for hands as bloodied as his.

Zhou Zishu was almost as filthy as Wen Kexing, though he could hardly bring himself to care. Most of his wounds had already begun to heal, aside from a few scratches collected earlier in the day. The deep cut along his side, a parting gift from a soldier’s sword, still throbbed faintly. The prince’s hospitality had been no kinder—every bruise on his torso seemed carefully aimed, reminders of older punishments layered over years of scars. None of them came close to the first, of course—killing him had never been the goal. 

Wen Kexing’s hand hovered near the gash on his side, his fingers curling as if he wanted to touch it but couldn’t bear to. The soft, pained noise that escaped him made Zhou Zishu’s chest tighten. So stupid. As if any of this could truly hurt me. 

“Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu said, reaching out to gently move his soulmate’s hand away. “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” 

Maimei, kneeling next to him, reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small vial, holding it carefully as if it were something fragile and precious. “This is what I told you about,” she said quietly. “It’s not perfect. It’s not enough. But it should help.” 

Zhou Zishu stared at the vial, his throat tightening. He took it from her slowly, turning it over in his hands. “Thank you,” he said, his voice rough with sincerity. “I don’t have the words for what you’ve done. I don’t deserve this.” 

“Of course you don’t,” Maimei snapped, her voice tight. “But you’re getting it anyway. So use it.” 

Her words struck like a slap, but Zhou Zishu simply nodded, his gaze fixed on the small vial in his hand. 

Maimei straightened, tossing two jars into his lap with an abrupt motion that broke the tension. “And don’t forget the basics. Apply the red salve first, then remove it and switch to the blue one. Just one very loose bandage over the cut, and change it four times a day. Don’t mess it up.” 

“For the smaller cuts,” she added with a sly grin, “use the same salve I gave your lover.” 

“Maimei!” Zhou Zishu gasped, caught between laughter and exasperation. “Language!”

“Yes, yes, your zhiji or whatever. At least I don’t hide my lovers under such meaningless terms,” Maimei huffed, clearly exasperated. “A Li wanted to say hi, by the way. She wanted to come, but I convinced her it would be a bad idea. She’ll probably find you tomorrow, though, so don’t think you can hide from us, Ge. A Cheng cried for a week when you left without saying goodbye. He’s only four. It was cruel.” 

“A Xu,” Wen Kexing said, his delight practically radiating from him. “I was joking earlier, but it seems there really is a whole litter, isn’t there? Oh, A Xu.” He was laughing softly, clearly pleased with this unexpected revelation about his zhiji.“That would explain so much.” 

“And what, do tell, would it explain exactly?” Zhou Zishu turned to Wen Kexing, meeting his gaze directly. His eyes were calm, but the promise of pain—and perhaps a sharp object—lurked beneath the surface. “Please, enlighten me, shidi.” 

“Nothing, nothing,” Wen Kexing said quickly, though his hand twitched in Zhou Zishu’s grip, clearly itching to break free and snap open a fan. “Don’t mind me. Just speaking nonsense.”

“Stop with the flirting,” Maimei said, her tone resigned, though it was clear she knew there was no stopping the two of them. “About the poison you were fed...” 

“Poison?” Wen Kexing’s head snapped toward Zhou Zishu, his grip tightening on his hand with enough force to hurt. “What poison?” 

“There’s no reason to worry.” Zhou Zishu shook his head, as if the matter were barely worth addressing. “It takes days to do any actual damage, and Maimei has an antidote. He just wanted me weak and docile. Stupid of him, really—feeding me my own concoction, as if I wouldn’t have built a high tolerance to it by now.” He sighed, the disappointment heavy in his voice. “I need an antidote for Red Haze, please.” 

Maimei huffed and reached into her supplies, pulling out a small container. She dropped it into his lap with enough force to make a soft clink. “You’re as stupid as always, Ge.” Her sharp gaze turned to Wen Kexing, fixing him with a look that brooked no argument. “It’s dangerous stuff. Annoying, too. The Bloody Prince loves using it on people he wants under his control. Makes your body and mind weak, pliable. Even with the antidote, Zhou Zishu will be weak for at least a few days. So take care of him.” 

Her words hung heavy in the air, but Wen Kexing only smiled, his grip on Zhou Zishu’s hand loosening slightly. “Of course. You don’t have to tell me twice.” 

Zhou Zishu exhaled quietly, his gaze flicking between the two of them. She worries too much, he thought, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly in reluctant amusement. Look at me—after such a short rest, I’m already better. My mind’s clearer, the haze almost gone. She was making a big deal out of nothing, as usual. Still, he didn’t bother to argue—better to let her fuss. 

Maimei got up and moved to the door, her footsteps light but purposeful. “Please try to sleep. The girls will keep guard, and food should arrive any moment. We’ve let the birds out, so there’ll be quite a racket if anyone tries to sneak in. Wen Gongzi, please don’t leave the room—the birds don’t know you and will raise an alarm.” 

“Birds?” Wen Kexing echoed, his confusion evident. 

“Grandmother has a whole collection of well-trained birds. They’re completely harmless but very loud when startled, and they hate strangers.” Zhou Zishu’s voice was calm, almost amused. “Surviving in this hell requires creativity. And Grandmother is a grandmaster of inventiveness. Who would begrudge an old woman her bird-collecting hobby?” 

“Oh, that’s very smart,” Wen Kexing said, his smile spreading wide. “I think I like this Grandmother of yours. Very cunning.” He inclined his head slightly toward Maimei. “Good night, Maimei. Thank you for your assistance.” 

“No need. It’s my job,” Maimei replied simply, but there was warmth in her tone. She glanced back at Zhou Zishu, her sharp gaze softening. “Please take care of him,” she said to Wen Kexing. “And make sure he actually rests. My Ge can be very stupid when it comes to his well-being.” 

She didn’t wait for a reply. Turning away, she stepped out, her small figure melting into the night, the soft rustle of her robe the only sound as she disappeared.

Zhou Zishu sat motionless, unwilling to do anything or think about the next move. His mind balked at the concept of relative safety after days of relentless stress and constant danger. His thoughts circled Maimei’s words, latching uncomfortably onto the idea that he had been blind to the emotions of children. When had they become so attached? He was, after all, just a guest here—someone who visited briefly, brought small gifts, or offered a shoulder to cry on. Grandmother was their keeper, their safe haven. He was just... just... 

A soft rustle of fabric pulled him from his spiraling thoughts. Wen Kexing rose from his seat, moving toward the door with an ease that defied the injuries littering his body. The warm light of the lamps caught the sheen of his skin, highlighting it in golden hues that drew Zhou Zishu’s gaze like a moth to flame. Without the layers of robes concealing him, Wen Kexing should have seemed smaller, but somehow the opposite was true. He looked untamed, like a warrior from distant lands, his exposed chest needing only a tapestry of tattoos to complete the illusion. 

A single droplet of water trailed down the ridges of Wen Kexing’s abdomen, its path mesmerizingly slow, glinting like a precious jewel. Zhou Zishu’s eyes followed it, his mind empty of thought. He stared, transfixed, as if that drop contained all the answers to questions he hadn’t dared to ask. 

What am I doing? His hands twitched at his sides, an aching desire to reach out, to touch, to push. He wanted to find the red line crossing Wen Kexing’s chest, to pull on it until it bled anew, to taste the metallic tang and wipe it clean with his tongue. 

His brain was clearly melting. Or maybe it was the poison. Red Haze was known for obliterating inhibitions, loosening the ties that bound thoughts and actions. Though, curious—it had never quite done this before. What exactly had the Bloody Prince added to the mix? 

Zhou Zishu shook his head sharply, as if the motion could dislodge the ridiculous thoughts. Nonsense. He couldn’t afford to indulge in such foolishness. Not here. Not ever.

“Oh. Thank you,” Wen Kexing said, taking a full tray from one of the serving girls who had appeared suddenly at the door. Her face flushed bright red as her eyes darted everywhere but his bare chest. In her desperate search for a safe place to look, she glanced inside the room—and froze, her gaze landing on the half-naked Zhou Zishu. She squeaked, spun on her heel, and fled down the pathway. 

“Am I so ugly that I scare pretty women?” Wen Kexing pouted as he closed the door with a soft click. “A Xu. Tell me the truth—am I disfigured? Has my beautiful face been ruined? Are my wounds that revolting?” His expression was so comically pitiful that Zhou Zishu couldn’t stop the low chuckle that escaped his lips. 

“You look fine, my vain shidi. Stop fishing for compliments,” he said, his tone light. 

“But, A Xu,” Wen Kexing persisted, his pout deepening as he began unpacking the tray onto the low table. “What if my beauty has faded? Why would you ever look at me if I became hideous? Would you leave me?” 

His shameless display continued as he bent over the table, the warm lamplight catching on his skin. Zhou Zishu’s eyes were drawn, unbidden, to the angry red wound on his back, where fresh blood lazily pooled and trickled down in droplets. It was distracting—too distracting. 

Zhou Zishu opened his mouth, ready to scold him for being ridiculous, to tell him to stop this nonsense and sit down so he could tend to his wounds. But instead— 

“You are beautiful,” spilled from his treacherous, uncooperative mouth. 

Stupid. Fucking. Poison.

Chapter Text

O Siming, goddess with your twisted hand,
Do you find joy in this ruin you’ve made of me?
Each pull, each snare—are you pleased, knowing I feel the strings?
You bind me, break me, bend my path to fit your whim.
But hear this: my steps may falter, but they are mine.
And I’ll walk this road to its end, even if it’s carved in blood.

The change in approach was, unfortunately, necessary. Plain as day now, with the damn lunatic knowing his name. A fact, simple and sour, pushing him to rearrange pieces and twist the game on its head. The beggar’s rags hung loose over his shoulders, his ragged, shabby shield—a mask so familiar he could almost forget he’d put it on. But with each step, every laugh from Wen Kexing—careless as a drunk—it slipped, edges fraying like worn cloth.

And there it was, the truth creeping up and clawing at him. Soon, he’d have to leave the beggar’s skin behind, drop it like a sack of rotten scraps. No. The thought scraped in deep, raw and unwelcome. This mask had been his favorite, damn it. A layer he’d worn for its freedom—the rough, coarse edge that let him believe, if only for a moment, he’d shed the past with it. It had allowed him to be someone unburdened, someone unrecognizable, free from the expectations and the memories that haunted his real self.

He could walk away tonight. The temptation was sharp, almost seductive—a few silent steps into the dark, and he’d be gone. The lunatic would laugh himself hoarse, his grin echoing in the empty night, and the kid… well, he’d be left picking up pieces no one else would bother with. Zhou Zishu could slip away, leave it all behind, like smoke on the wind.

But damn him, he couldn’t. He’d tried to bury this weakness, scrub it out of himself like a bad habit. Kids. Always the damn kids. He’d seen too many left to fend for themselves, to shatter in a world that wouldn’t care enough to look back. And he’d stepped in, paid the price—steep, every time. But it didn’t matter, did it? It clawed at him now, that old, unwanted ache, scraping up from wherever he’d tried to bury it.

A sigh slipped out, low and bitter. The beggar’s mask wouldn’t hold anymore, not for this. It had been a good one, rough and loose—a taste of freedom he didn’t get often. And now he’d have to let it go. Siming and her twisted threads could choke for this, for warping his plans, forcing him to burn through a mask just to keep a promise he hadn’t even made.

Puppy eyes. He held onto the nickname, a last tether to the choice he’d already made. The kid was his priority now, like it or not.

Beside him, Wen Kexing lounged with that wild, too-pleased grin—dangerous, predatory. A wolfish smile. Zhou Zishu bit down on the sigh clawing its way up, forcing his gaze away from the reckless amusement in Wen Kexing’s eyes. His mind wanted to map out each angle, weigh every risk, but he kept himself loose, his eyes half-lidded, distant. No assassin here—just a man in rags, hardly worth the effort.

But the beggar’s skin felt too thin now. With every look Wen Kexing cast his way, Zhou Zishu could feel it fraying, slipping loose. He knew what was needed. Unfortunately. The slow, bitter recognition settled over him—the kind of game Wen Kexing wanted to play. Not the beggar, no. Monsters like Wen Kexing, the kind who smiled too wide, always preferred something willing, something soft, something they thought they could bend to their will.

Siming, you smug, twisted bitch, he thought, bitterness twisting sharp in his gut. This was her game, wasn’t it? A stray pup, a madman, and him—the puppet, slowly being forced to play the part.

Zhou Zishu’s fingers flexed, then relaxed as he let his posture soften just slightly. Just enough to shift, to draw Wen Kexing’s eye, to hint at a vulnerability he didn’t feel. A small, calculated show. He wasn’t sinking into a new role—not yet. But he’d let Wen Kexing think he saw a sliver of it. Let the monster circle closer, see what he wanted to see.

Turning just slightly, he lifted a hand in an open request, quiet, as if conceding the smallest bit of control. “Lend me your knife,” he said, tone clipped but softened, just enough to catch the attention of a predator who thought he’d already won.

Wen Kexing’s eyes narrowed as he handed over the blade, his amusement faint. He watched, studying every move. Zhou Zishu took it without a word, his gaze dropping to his wound as he cut it open—quick, clean. Just a gesture, a borrowed weapon. But he knew the weight it carried. Let Wen Kexing think he had seen something weak.

The blade was cool in his hand, its slight weight grounding him as he steadied his breath and began to work. Zhou Zishu pressed the edge against his arm, drawing it swiftly and cleanly across his skin, reopening the wound to bleed out the poison. Each cut was precise, deliberate, his focus so intense it bordered on detachment. With each fresh line, blood welled up, dark and viscous, and he brought his mouth to the wound, drawing the tainted blood out with grim efficiency.

But even in this focused state, he could feel Wen Kexing’s gaze on him—a quiet, almost unnerving hunger that lingered just beneath the surface. Wen Kexing watched him with a look that was as calculating as it was captivated, like a predator observing prey but also something more—a fascination that softened the edge of his usual menace, though it made him no less dangerous.

Zhou Zishu ignored the pull of that gaze, keeping his movements methodical, fighting against the cold numbness spreading in his limbs. Each press of his mouth to the wound, each bitter taste of blood, was a reminder of the price his body was paying to resist the poison. He knew he had only minutes, maybe less, before the drug began creeping back, stronger than before, his resistance slowly wearing thin.

Fine. Let him look, Zhou Zishu thought, forcing his gaze to drop, to play at something quieter, something almost compliant. The feeling scraped under his skin, too close to shadows he had learned to ignore, echoes he had long since silenced. This was a role he’d perfected out of survival—a thin, bitter layer.

When he finished with the arm, he shifted, reaching to work on the torn skin at his shoulder, letting his fingers pause just long enough for Wen Kexing to catch the hesitation. A half-beat, a silent cue. The slight falter was crafted to look unintentional, a wordless invitation cloaked in weariness. This time, he’d let the monster think he’d found his opening.

He turned, almost as if by afterthought, and held out the knife. “Your blade,” he murmured, the words softened to near deference, each syllable like a slow surrender.

Wen Kexing’s hand lingered over his own as he took the blade, the faintest glint of satisfaction in his eyes, as if he’d tasted the edges of Zhou Zishu’s weakness. Zhou Zishu let it settle, let Wen Kexing believe he’d seen something rare and raw. Let him think he’d caught a glimpse of a wolf’s exposed throat, skin laid bare to teeth.

Fucking Siming and her sick schemes. Three years of freedom, and it seemed that was already too much for her taste. She couldn’t leave him to the quiet, could she? Now here he was, tangled up with a lunatic who grinned like a fool, as if their meeting was a joke meant for one of them. And the bastard knew his name.

The urge to strike flared, sharp and clear. A needle to the eye would do it. Neat, almost easy. He could picture it, the cold point sliding through flesh, wiping that smug look clean. He slapped Wen Kexing’s hand away when the man dared reach for his pulse, the touch uninvited, unwelcome. He reconsidered the value of that needle, the satisfaction it would bring. A clean strike, maybe even poetic. But impractical, and he knew it. His own state was against him, poison gnawing at his strength. Too many unknowns, too many tangled threads, and he couldn’t afford to spend himself on a guess.

So, he kept the needle as an idea, poised below the surface.

And then, before Zhou Zishu could move or react, Wen Kexing’s hand shot forward, pressing his fingers into the meridian at Zhou Zishu’s shoulder with unerring precision.

The jolt hit like a shock, locking his arm into useless submission. Zhou Zishu tensed, his gaze snapping to Wen Kexing's face, the smug satisfaction there grating against him. He expected it, and as much as he hated it, he let it happen—playing along, even though part of him burned to just end it, to drive his needle into the bastard's eye.

Without a word, Wen Kexing shifted his grip, one hand still firm on his shoulder as he leaned closer, fingers trailing over the wound, his touch calculated, a quiet assertion of control. It was too gentle, too close, dragging a sting from the poison buried in Zhou Zishu’s veins.

Too much control, too close.

He had grown accustomed to moments like this—too many times playing a role that wasn't his choosing—but there was something sharper here, something that edged past reluctant acceptance, pushing against the practiced indifference he'd worn for so long.

He tensed, muscles coiling under Wen Kexing’s grip, and with a twist, he snapped his other hand out, a strike aimed to throw the man off-balance. It wasn’t a real fight, not yet. Just a test. The frustration behind it wasn’t unfamiliar—more like an old, weary acceptance. It edged through the practiced calm he tried to maintain, a reminder of how often he had to play along, even when he would rather do anything else.

This was Wen Kexing’s nature—a monster dressed in the guise of a man. And he’d been right, hadn’t he? Awfully, perfectly right. A truth that settled heavy, bitter, familiar. With a small, deliberate movement, Zhou Zishu drew a vial from his robe, letting it catch in the dim light, his fingers turning it over as if it were an afterthought. The antidote for the poison—a quiet offering. He watched as Wen Kexing’s gaze fixed on it, a spark of interest igniting, that curiosity flashing sharper, more focused. Wordlessly, he handed it over, feeling the weight of it like a small concession, a calculated act meant to draw Wen Kexing in.;

The man took the vial with a slow, satisfied smile, his eyes shifting back to Zhou Zishu’s face, as if each movement were part of some private game. Zhou Zishu uncorked another vial, tipping it to his lips, watching as Wen Kexing mirrored the gesture, swallowing the antidote in one easy, practiced motion. “A Xu,” Wen Kexing began, the drawl easy, lazy, meant to probe. “Did you come from Healer Valley? With all these antidotes, one might think you fancy yourself a healer.”

Zhou Zishu smirked, letting the question roll off him with that faint hint of mocking indifference. “Do I look like someone who dabbles in medicine?” he shot back, a touch of sophistication slipping through, letting the mask loosen just a bit. Wen Kexing’s gaze sharpened, catching that shift, his voice dropping lower, edged with a predatory ease. “No. You look like a professional killer.”

Zhou Zishu held his gaze, feeling the role settle around him like a weight. This was bait for the monster, a thread for him to follow. “You’ve quite the imagination,” he murmured, voice calm, letting a glint of amusement linger, coaxing Wen Kexing into circling just a little closer.

Wen Kexing’s smile only widened, his eyes gleaming with that dark excitement Zhou Zishu knew all too well. “Stop pretending,” Wen Kexing said, voice a soft taunt. “I’m not so easily fooled.” Zhou Zishu’s smirk deepened, his own tone taking on an edge of resignation, irritation just barely veiled.

Slowly, he let his posture shift a little more, another step toward something softer, as though yielding, but only just enough to keep Wen Kexing’s attention. He could feel the trap closing, the tension drawing them both in, each moment pressing toward the inevitable.

They both felt it, this quiet challenge hanging in the air, the unspoken line neither of them willing to cross—yet. But Wen Kexing had to work for this, to fight for his prize, if he wanted it at all. Zhou Zishu would make sure of that.

Zhou Zishu struck. A quick move to disrupt the balance, his body surging with purpose. He  felt the tension unwind in his limbs, each blow a pure release, grounding him in the fierce, raw joy of combat. The beggar’s guise slipped with every movement, each swing stripping it away until he felt himself surfacing—unbound, sharpened, fierce. This was freedom as he’d always craved it, letting him burn through each moment, uncontained. Yet just beneath it, a dull ache lingered. He knew what came next, and for now, he held to the last shreds of the beggar’s skin, rough and loose as it had been.

Then, with a final, graceful twist, he let himself fall back, body yielding as he sank into the lake’s icy silence. The cold stole his breath, silencing all else. It was time. The beggar’s mask, the one he’d worn for its ease, its careless deflection, clung like wet cloth, resisting even as he had to let it drift into the dark.

Beneath the surface, his fingers moved to the edges of his face and began peeling away the thin, skin-like mask, slipping it off to reveal what lay beneath. His true face—sharp, unhidden—settled back into place.

Suspended in the lake, Zhou Zishu let himself drift, feeling the cold sink into his skin as the last traces of the beggar faded. A faint, reluctant smile curved at his lips, the weight of this new mask grounding him in its sharp certainty. Above, he sensed Wen Kexing’s presence, felt the predator’s anticipation, the restless search. Calm settled over him, this soft, dangerous mask as much a challenge as it was an offering.

Come and find me, he thought, gaze lifting, a silent promise curling at the edges of his smile.

Zhou Zishu let Wen Kexing haul him up, hands firm but not rough, though there was hardly any need for such gentleness. The chill from the lake clung to him, water tracing down his skin in slow, icy lines. He allowed himself to be led to the fire, letting his body slump just slightly, giving Wen Kexing that brief, misplaced satisfaction. It was a careful game, this slipping into vulnerability.

Without hesitation, he disrobed, shedding his outer layers to let his clothes dry. A flicker of unease swept through him, the sensation of exposure unwelcome, but he masked it with ease, brushing the feeling aside as something distant and irrelevant. He had long since understood that the roles he played required sacrifices. As the cold air brushed against his skin, there was a fleeting feeling—something almost familiar, but distant enough to ignore. He let it slip away, focusing on the mundane act of drying his clothes, allowing the chill to settle in without complaint.

In the dim light, he allowed his face to be seen—fully, no longer hidden behind a sallow mask or the beggar’s rags. It was a face that had bought him favors, garnered alliances, and kept him alive in his younger, more reckless days. He knew its value well: a blessing and a curse, both armor and trap. Officials' wives adored him, spilling secrets they barely knew they held, daughters of wealthy merchants saw a prize—a young sect leader with lineage and charm. And then there were the real monsters—those who viewed him as something to possess, to control, destroy. Tonight, he would wield it again, letting its beauty become both an invitation and a shield, drawing Wen Kexing closer. He settled by the fire, slightly pliant, slightly vulnerable, letting his face work its magic as an unspoken invitation. Just accessible enough to draw Wen Kexing in, to let him assume his own power. He kept his eyes low, the hint of exhaustion genuine enough to pass; let him seem soft, let him seem compliant.

But Wen Kexing only watched from across the fire, a curious glint in his eyes as he sat, his movements slow, languid, and wholly inappropriate to the scene Zhou Zishu had set. Wen Kexing smiled, teasing and laughing softly, his gaze lingering on Zhou Zishu's newly revealed face. He seemed relaxed, almost fascinated, as if studying a work of art, satisfied that his suspicions had been correct. But he made no move to come closer. He just watched, with a calm that threw Zhou Zishu off balance, as though savoring the moment without the need for power games. And for once, Zhou Zishu found himself thrown, the edges of the game slipping out of his control.

Zhou Zishu knew the rhythms of power, the danger cloaked in soft hands and hungry eyes. He understood how to navigate it, how to make men like Wen Kexing believe they were winning, when in truth, they were the ones being played. But Wen Kexing... Wen Kexing was infuriating. He sat there, warm and open, not trying to corner Zhou Zishu, not laying a single trap. For a breath, Zhou Zishu felt his guard falter, the meticulously set mask wavering, an unfamiliar ache curling inside him.

Wen Kexing warmed some wine over the fire, his movements easy and graceful, as if this moment were the simplest pleasure—a quiet night by the flames, untouched by deceit. The warmth of the fire stood in stark contrast to the turmoil within Zhou Zishu, as if the external calm could somehow seep into him, though he knew better. When he finally turned to hand Zhou Zishu the warmed cup, his smile held no edge, no cruelty, only a quiet joy that almost felt honest.

A strange relief crept over, sharp and almost unwelcome, and he brushed it aside with a hint of irritation. Trusting in anything he couldn’t measure or control was a fool’s game, and he’d long since determined he wasn’t that kind of fool. Yet here he was, letting himself settle into the warmth of this moment, a comfort he’d usually treat as a trap. A misstep,he told himself with a wry twist of thought. Comfort dulled the edges, softened defenses, made fools of men who ought to know better. And yet, against his own logic, he lingered in it, testing the feeling as one might the edge of a blade. Annoying—and somehow tolerable.

Once again, Zhou Zishu was forced to re-evaluate his stance. The game shifted right before his eyes. He was so sure he knew the right role here. Believed he had the game set. That he was the one controlling the board. Yet Wen Kexing proved to be an enigma, defying expectations over and over again. The landscape of power and control was shaken, the pieces uncertain. This was shaping up to be a completely different game than the one he thought they were playing.

“Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu ventured, his voice barely above a whisper, “is your surname truly Wen?” The question served as a lifeline, a desperate grasp for something tangible to anchor the whirlwind of emotions swirling within him.

Wen Kexing's chuckle came light and unfettered, laced with his usual evasive charm. He seemed content, untroubled by whether Zhou Zishu believed him or not. It felt almost like sitting with old comrades—those familiar with his flaws, who had their own grudges, yet chose to set them aside for the fleeting warmth of shared company.

This softening was perilous, this emergent sense of safety. He knew better than to trust it. Yet, he allowed it to linger, savoring the strange warmth it brought, if only for a brief moment. He knew, however gentle at the moment, Wen Kexing was a very dangerous monster, perhaps a different kind than those in the prince's court, but a monster nonetheless.

He needed to clear his mind; he needed a distraction. So, the Soul Winding Box laying next to the fire caught his attention. Yes, that would do. He reached for it, allowing its complex mechanisms to command his attention and displace the unsettling feeling of comfort. He toyed with it, his fingers navigating its intricate carvings, feeling the sharpness of each twist and turn, finding distraction in this object that helped him calm the storm inside.

Zhou Zishu watched Wen Kexing rise to fetch food, considering the man with renewed scrutiny. His first impressions had fallen short; Wen Kexing defied easy labels, slipping past every category Zhou Zishu tried to assign him. Now, he would start fresh, noting each behavior, cataloging every reaction until he understood who—or what—Wen Kexing truly was. So he murmured a casual request, his words deliberately unremarkable, just a quiet probe to see what this man might do with something so ordinary.

When Wen Kexing returned, he held up two rabbits, his grin stretching wide, unguarded. There was something nearly innocent about the way he displayed his catch, an open delight that seemed untouched by the darkness Zhou Zishu suspected lay beneath. Zhou Zishu let his gaze drift over him, observing every detail, every unfiltered flicker in that smile. Yes, he would start here, strip back the layers, rebuild his analysis from scratch. Let Wen Kexing reveal himself, one small reaction at a time.

Zhou Zishu tightened his grip on the Soul Winding Box, its cold weight a steady anchor as he forced his thoughts to center. Inside lay the Glazed Armor, a cursed piece that had only ever brought ruin. This relic had claimed more than it had given, leaving its marks on too many lives—most of all Chengling’s, the boy who looked to him for guidance. For Zhou Zishu, the Armor held no allure, only the bitter knowledge of what it had taken and what it would likely take again. But Wen Kexing wanted it, that much was certain. Zhou Zishu could see the intent hidden behind Wen Kexing’s every glance, the way his gaze seemed to sharpen on the Armor with a peculiar, almost possessive gleam. Without further thought, he handed the Armor over, watching as Wen Kexing’s fingers closed around it with a flash of satisfaction that was both eager and unguarded—a reaction too telling to ignore. Yes, Zhou Zishu thought, this was a start. Whatever game Wen Kexing was playing, the Armor would be the key to understanding it.

As he observed Wen Kexing’s reaction, Zhou Zishu let his mind piece together the fragments he’d gathered, assembling them into the beginnings of a strategy. Wen Kexing had responded best to casual camaraderie, to moments of shared amusement and unspoken understanding, as if he welcomed the chance to pretend they were simply two men wandering the same dangerous road. When Zhou Zishu had kept things light, unassuming, Wen Kexing had seemed open, almost willing to reveal himself. This was something Zhou Zishu could use—a practical, unremarkable mask that let Wen Kexing think he was seeing the full picture. Zhou Zishu knew he would need to be careful, testing the mask in small, measured steps. If Wen Kexing saw him as a harmless companion rather than a threat, it would be far easier to peel back the layers and find what lay at the heart of his intentions.

For tonight, Zhou Zishu allowed the mask’s first layers to settle over him, a work still in progress. He let his expression relax, his stance ease, a hint of indifference slipping into his tone as though the Armor meant nothing to him now. It was a careful start, one that he’d refine with each new exchange, each reaction he coaxed from Wen Kexing, until he knew exactly what the man was after. Bit by bit, he’d adapt this unassuming mask, attuning it to Wen Kexing’s responses until it drew out every secret hiding behind that charming facade.

Later, at the edge of the lake, Zhou Zishu found himself dipping his hands into the cool water, savoring the grounding chill that chased away the tension of the day. A rough, unguarded laugh slipped free—a strange sound, one he barely recognized as his own. Somehow, this mask felt easier to settle into than he’d expected, as if it were more truth than deception. But Zhou Zishu knew better than to be lulled. By morning, he would return to the work of perfecting this guise until he had stripped every last shadow from Wen Kexing’s motives.

For tonight, let Wen Kexing be the schemer, weaving his plans in the dark. Zhou Zishu would stay back, quiet, content to watch. He’d allow himself—for once—a break from calculating every look, every word, as if they all hid knives. He knew better than to trust the warmth in Wen Kexing’s laugh, the ease in his smile. Darkness clung to that man like a second skin, dangerous and unflinching. But still, Zhou Zishu let his vigilance ease, if only for a single breath.

The mask was a surprise. He’d thought leaving behind the beggar’s guise would force him into something brittle, all sharp edges and discomfort. Instead, it was something softer, unobtrusive—a mask that wrapped around him naturally, like a forgotten part of himself. The irony wasn’t lost on him: a monster in a saint’s skin, a quiet mask that could keep pace with Wen Kexing’s games. Zhou Zishu had seen enough of the unthinkable today; one more glimpse wouldn’t matter. And if this mask gave him the distance to observe without suspicion, then he’d wear it well, taking his measure of Wen Kexing one move at a time.

Chapter Text

Oh Siming , my merciful goddess.
How is this one worthy of such a gift?
How great is your grace, to forgive his sins.
Please, oh please, grant this lowly one, one last wish.

Let it work

“Oh, A Xu, don’t tease me like that. My gentle constitution can’t take all this mockery.” All the open vulnerability vanished from Wen Kexing’s face in the blink of an eye, replaced by a self-deprecating smile. “You are so cruel, making fun of your poor shidi.” 

Zhou Zishu should have been grateful for the easy escape Wen Kexing offered. He should have taken it, said something mean, turned it all into a joke. That was how they worked, wasn’t it? Lies and laughter layered like armor. But instead, he looked at Wen Kexing and felt nothing but emptiness yawning inside him, an abyss where clever words should be. 

His lips twisted into a thin, cutting smile. “Let’s eat and clean ourselves. I don’t have the energy for your endless theatrics, Lao Wen. Find someone else to amuse.” The words slipped out, soft but cold, each one deliberate, slicing the air between them with the precision of a blade.

He should have stopped there, should have put the mask back on and swallowed his problems. It wasn’t fair to let Wen Kexing bear any of it. And yet… 

The flash of hurt in Wen Kexing’s eyes was so brief that anyone else would have missed it. But Zhou Zishu saw it, and the sight stabbed deep, scratching at something raw in his chest. Shame flared, hot and bright, waking the monster that slumbered inside him. 

He wanted to lash out, to rip open his own wounds and let them bleed, anything to take away this suffocating pain and guilt. What a foolish, cruel thing it was to let someone like Wen Kexing see behind the masks. Because all that lay there was pain—jagged, endless, and ugly.

“Let me serve you, A Xu.” Wen Kexing took a bowl of soup and moved to Zhou Zishu’s side, as though nothing had happened. As though Zhou Zishu hadn’t just repaid kindness with cruelty. Like a beaten dog crawling back to its master, Wen Kexing wore a soft smile, his gaze gentle and full of worry. 

It was unbearable. 

Zhou Zishu reached for the bowl, but his hand shook so badly the task proved impossible. His useless, weak body could barely manage breathing and sitting upright, let alone anything else. With a deep, unhappy sigh, he let his hand fall limp to his lap. 

“I know, A Xu… I know. Please, let me help.” Wen Kexing’s voice was low, coaxing, as he brought a spoonful of steaming soup to Zhou Zishu’s lips. There was no point in resisting. Zhou Zishu opened his mouth, resigned to being fed like a helpless child. 

The taste was gone, of course. It always disappeared when he needed comfort most. A delicious meal was wasted on someone like him; all he deserved was cheap, bitter wine. 

Why would Wen Kexing stay? Why waste his time on this broken shell of a man—someone who couldn’t even feed himself, someone who couldn’t keep his promises? 

Can’t you see me, Lao Wen? 

Can’t you see I can’t be what you want? What you need?

Why was Wen Kexing’s gaze so gentle? Why wasn’t he disgusted or angry? Was he blind? Or was this something he craved—a kind of twisted satisfaction in having complete power over someone? Why else would he still be here, tending to this broken, useless shadow of the man Zhou Zishu used to be? 

“A Xu, you should really stop thinking. It’s clearly not working so well for you right now.” Wen Kexing smiled up at him and set the empty bowl aside. “Come. Let’s clean up and rest. We can talk tomorrow.” 

It wasn’t bad advice, Zhou Zishu decided after a moment. He was so tired. Sleep was the best way to heal, to calm his unruly thoughts and settle the storm of his emotions. “All right,” he said quietly. “But before we bathe, we need to use the red salve Maimei gave us. It has to go on the largest wounds first. She was very clear about that.” 

Wen Kexing nodded, his expression softening as he reached for the small container. Zhou Zishu didn’t try to move, just sat there as Wen Kexing opened the salve and began carefully applying the thick, oily substance to the deepest wounds on his sides. 

The touch didn’t even hurt. It should have—his wounds were still fresh and raw—but his body, after years of abuse, had grown dulled to pain in some places. 

“Tell me if it hurts,” Wen Kexing murmured, his voice low and soothing. 

If Zhou Zishu closed his eyes, he could almost imagine they were back at home, taking care of another set of wounds. Talking in hushed tones, careful not to wake his little disciple. 

Had it really been just a few weeks ago? It felt like something from another life. Or a dream.

It took Zhou Zishu a moment to register the low, quiet words murmured by the man kneeling at his side. 

“...kill him. I wish I could resurrect him and skin him alive. Slowly. Starting with his sides. Peeling off his skin in small strips. It would take days… or maybe weeks... before I would let him die. I would break every bone in his body. One by one. And make him count them…” 

Wen Kexing’s hand was gentle and soothing, his voice low and calm. The contrast was absurdly lovely. Zhou Zishu smiled faintly, his hand lifting to rest on his soulmate’s head. 

Wen Kexing froze, as though realizing only now what he’d been saying. He remained still, waiting for judgment, tension radiating from every line of his body. 

Stupid. 

“There’s an amazing little potion that can melt the skin,” Zhou Zishu murmured, his fingers threading through the dark silk of Wen Kexing’s hair. His voice was light, almost amused. “It takes days. The pain is unbearable, and there’s no cure. Very efficient. Properly applied, it works nonstop. You’d like it. Remind me to show you how to make it.” 

Wen Kexing shuddered beneath his touch, then pushed into it like a cat seeking comfort. He said nothing, merely returned to applying the salve with meticulous care. 

Such a lovely, deadly monster.

The low murmur returned after a few moments, weaving detailed and creative tortures, each one more intricate than the last. Zhou Zishu let it wash over him, the gentle cadence of Wen Kexing’s voice and the warm touch of his hands lulling him toward sleep. His lids grew heavy, and he sank into the quiet, his breathing steadying. 

He vaguely registered being carried, his cheek resting against a solid, warm arm that made for an oddly comfortable pillow. Then there was a chill as what remained of his clothes was peeled away. He thought he should help. Or protest—wasn’t there a reason for that? But the low murmur of gruesome scenarios and the careful, soothing hands made it impossible to concentrate. 

When he finally opened his eyes, he was submerged in warm water, steam curling around him and sleep still clouding his vision. He didn’t quite remember how he’d gotten into the tub. There was a vague memory of soft laughter and the sound of splashing water, but it felt distant, unimportant. 

This was nice. 

“Hi. Are you awake?” Wen Kexing’s voice was close, soft, and calm. He sat on Zhou Zishu’s left, right next to the tub, a cloth in his hand slowly moving down Zhou Zishu’s arm. “Can you hold your breath for a moment? We really need to wash your hair, and I don’t think we’ll get all the blood out by just pouring water over it.” 

“Wash?” Zhou Zishu’s thoughts lagged, thick with sleep. He raised a hand, his fingers finding his hair loose and unbound. “When…?”

“I don’t like your hair all tied up. You look like someone else.” Wen Kexing dropped the cloth into the water and reached behind Zhou Zishu’s back, his fingers gently combing through the long, dark strands. 

It was pleasant—unexpectedly so. The warmth of the water, the soothing touch, the weight of exhaustion pulling him into relaxation. His muscles, usually coiled and tense, had softened; his mind was quiet, free of its endless tangles of thoughts and worries. 

“You look much better this way,” Wen Kexing murmured, his voice soft and fond. 

“Naked and half-conscious?” Zhou Zishu chuckled, his gaze drifting up to his zhiji. He didn’t remember ever feeling this calm while being so vulnerable in someone else’s presence. No panic prickled at the base of his spine, no unpleasant tightness twisted in his stomach. Instead, a gentle, tingling warmth moved down his neck, carried by the long fingers massaging his scalp. 

Wen Kexing might be a monster, but he was his monster, his zhiji. His presence meant safety and the strange, fleeting feeling of home. 

Could this be something he could have? Could keep? 

Siming, Zhou Zishu thought, his chest tightening as he clung to the fragile hope. Are you done with your punishment? Would you grant this stupid child of yours this gift? 

So close…

“That too. You are a true feast for my eyes, and while asleep—you can’t beat me up for admiring your beautiful shoulder blades. Oh, A Xu, what a treat. I’m not worthy.” Wen Kexing’s smile widened, his eyes bright and brimming with joy. 

“Sure. Half-dead and unconscious—should’ve known that would be your type,” Zhou Zishu replied, his tone dry but tinged with faint amusement. He knew it was a mistake to encourage Wen Kexing’s shamelessness. It would only make things harder later on. But… 

It was so nice to joke. To laugh. To forget, even for a moment, all the sharp edges and tangled consequences that waited beyond this fleeting bubble of peace. 

And yet, he couldn’t decide if dropping this mask—this one, small, insignificant mask—was really the right choice. Why not keep it? It would make things so much easier. Why deny his zhiji when all Wen Kexing wanted was something so simple, so easy to give? Why risk him seeing how truly broken and useless Zhou Zishu was? 

“Should I go back to sleep?” Zhou Zishu asked, tilting his head slightly as if considering it. “Am I ruining the show with my inconvenient consciousness?”

“No need. No need. I enjoy you awake or asleep.” Wen Kexing’s smile was so bright, so happy. Such a small thing—some jokes and the unspoken permission to touch and look. 

Yes. This mask should stay on. 

“We should, however, take advantage of your non-sleeping state and wash your hair. Take a deep breath.” 

Zhou Zishu obediently shut his mouth and slid under the surface. With his eyes closed, water surrounded him on all sides, muffling the world. Wen Kexing’s firm grip on his arm and the back of his head was the only thing tethering him to reality. 

Sounds warped into distant echoes, and the dim light beyond his eyelids softened into something almost dreamlike. 

Could he stay here? Just for a while? Hidden from the cruel world, from its sharp edges of pain and regret? It was so quiet beneath the water, so soft and safe. If only his lungs weren’t so annoyingly dependent on air. 

He let Wen Kexing pull him back up, out of the water’s warm embrace.

“No drowning yourself. I’m not letting you escape this easily,” chuckled a low voice right by his ear. Warm hands returned to his scalp, massaging gently, working through the dirt and sweat. The soft scent of fragrant oil mingled with the warmth of water and herbs. 

Zhou Zishu let his head fall back, his eyes closing as his body sank deeper into relaxation. “Mmm… is nice…” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His mind began to drift, pulling him back toward sleep. 

Some time later, the sensation of water pouring over his hair roused him briefly, but then there was no bath—just warmth. A soft cloth wrapped him head to toe, and a pillow cradled his chin. He blinked slowly, his mind foggy and sluggish. 

Had he slept through being put to bed? 

His ribs were wrapped in a bandage. The faint, bitter taste of medicine lingered on his tongue. Had he drunk it? He couldn’t remember. 

Strange. 

Where was…?

His gaze landed on Wen Kexing, sitting in the tub, a cloth moving briskly over his skin. The motions were fast and efficient, nothing like the slow, gentle care Wen Kexing had shown him earlier. Zhou Zishu wanted to protest this rough treatment, to tell his soulmate to be kinder to himself, but even forming words felt like too much effort. 

He was warm and half-asleep, his mind drifting through half-forgotten dreams, swimming just out of reach. It was good, simply lying here, wrapped in soft blankets faintly scented with Grandmother’s favorite incense, watching Wen Kexing—alive and safe. 

In the flickering lantern light, Wen Kexing’s skin gleamed like molten gold, water beading and sliding over it in mesmerizing patterns. His body was adorned with scars, a patchwork of old white lines and fresh red gashes, purple bruises blooming like ink on a map. Each mark told a story of the Valley Master’s life—year after year, battle after battle. 

Zhou Zishu remembered the texture of them under his fingers. The contrast of soft, smooth skin giving way to rough edges, uneven lines eager to speak of pain and blood. He wanted to touch them again, to read them like a precious scroll. To press his nails into that golden skin, carve his own name into its surface, and add to the language of scars that only he could write. 

His gaze lingered on Wen Kexing’s black hair, wet and heavy, draped over the edge of the tub like a silk veil crafted by the finest hands. It looked impossibly smooth. His fingers itched to touch, to comb through it, to wrap those strands around his wrist and pull—hard. 

He wanted to trace the edge of the wound just visible above the waterline, press his thumb against it until it bled anew. 

What am I even… 

Zhou Zishu blinked slowly, his thoughts scattering like fallen leaves. He was too tired. His brain, clearly delirious.

Zhou Zishu closed his eyes, drawing in slow, measured breaths. How close was it to midnight? Should he try to sleep again or wait for Wen Kexing to join him? 

The decision had already been made—the only question was whether he could stay awake long enough to follow through. How much effort would it take? He felt so weak, so useless. Maybe tonight wasn’t the right time after all. 

But then again, could he afford to wait? If he did, his stupid, treacherous mind might pull him back into endless reevaluations of his choices. Fear and uncertainty gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, twisting his sense of place and purpose. It was exhausting. 

No. Better to act. To take a step forward and silence the overthinking. 

If only he wasn’t so tired…

A sudden, sharp stab of pain jolted Zhou Zishu from a deep, dreamless sleep. The room was almost completely dark, the chill in the air sharp against his skin. He was alone in the bed, swathed in several layers of soft blankets. 

Where… 

Another lance of pain shot through him, scattering his thoughts. Zhou Zishu sat up, his movements sluggish and disjointed, and began the process of sinking into a light meditation. Slowly, he circled his chi through throbbing meridians, though the effort felt heavier than it should. A low, insistent panic clawed at his spine, making it difficult to concentrate. 

Where was Wen Kexing? 

Had something happened? 

Why would he leave? 

Where would he go? 

Was he caught? 

But if Wen Kexing had been caught, why was Zhou Zishu still here? Not dead, not in chains in some freezing dungeon? The questions swirled, each more troubling than the last, as his unease grew sharper with every breath.

Getting the pain down to a manageable level felt like it took years, eons, each moment stretching longer as panic coursed through Zhou Zishu’s veins. Every second wasted felt like another lost opportunity to find Wen Kexing. His useless, broken body refused to cooperate. 

At last, after what felt like an eternity, the pain ebbed enough to let him stand. He grabbed the white under robe draped over the chest by the bed and slipped it on, moving quietly through the room. His steps were careful, his ears straining for any sound. 

There was someone here. The soft cadence of breathing reached his ears—one person, no more. Was it Wen Kexing? Or an intruder? 

He crept closer, peeking around the partition, and froze. 

Wen Kexing lay on the floor, a blanket thrown over him, his head resting on a pillow. He was asleep. 

“Lao Wen?” The words slipped from Zhou Zishu’s lips, low and unsteady. Why was he on the cold floor when there was a perfectly good bed just steps away? 

“A Xu?” Wen Kexing stirred, blinking slowly as he pushed himself upright. His expression softened into worry, as though Zhou Zishu were the one in the wrong. “Why are you here? You should be sleeping.” 

His tone was so genuine, so full of concern, it made Zhou Zishu’s throat tighten. Wen Kexing spoke like he wasn’t the one resting on a hard floor, ignoring the comfort of the bed. “Is it midnight already? Are you in pain?”

“I’m fine. Why are you here? On the floor?” Zhou Zishu’s voice was sharper than he intended, his brain-to-mouth filter clearly broken. He should have just gone back to bed instead of asking stupid questions. How was it any of his business? If his infuriating shidi wanted to sleep on the floor, let him. Why should he care? 

“A Xu… you don’t want me there. I can sleep here. It’s fine.” Wen Kexing’s voice was gentle, brushing past Zhou Zishu’s defenses like they didn’t exist. He ignored one of Zhou Zishu’s oldest and most practiced disguises, as though it were nothing. As though Zhou Zishu were an open book, every thought and emotion laid bare. 

“How…” Zhou Zishu croaked, his voice hoarse and barely audible. “How did you know…?” 

He could almost hear the sound of his mask shattering, fragments scattering across the floor. Dust. Nothing. Leaving him exposed, raw, unable to tear his gaze from Wen Kexing’s steady, piercing stare. 

He felt like prey, frozen beneath the gaze of a predator. His body refused to move, his mind screaming at him to run, to hide, to cover the shame of his broken, useless soul. 

How had his disguise been torn apart so easily? Ripped open like paper? 

How…?

“A Xu…” Wen Kexing sighed, leaning back and tilting his head to look at the ceiling, his gaze distant and unfocused. 

The silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressive, like a prolonged death sentence. Each moment felt like one of Zhou Zishu’s seven nails, seeping away his life—slow and steady, unbearably certain. 

Zhou Zishu remained frozen, unsure if waiting for judgment was worse than receiving it. Wasn’t this inevitable? 

This was the moment, wasn’t it? The moment when his disfigured, broken pieces were laid bare, emerging at last to destroy this fragile dream he had built on masks, lies, and impossible promises.

“Let me tell you a story.” Wen Kexing broke the silence, his voice steady, his eyes still averted, unwilling to look at the cripple daring to call himself his zhiji. 

Zhou Zishu felt a familiar weight settle over him, the foreboding of something dark and painful. He wanted to stop Wen Kexing, to cut through the silence with some sharp remark, but no words came. 

“I was fourteen when Mo Qingyu came into the Valley. Came might be too strong a word. She was thrown in by her stepmother—accused of stealing some family treasure to help her lover. It was probably a lie. Hard to say. Doesn’t matter.” 

Wen Kexing tore his gaze from the ceiling and finally looked at Zhou Zishu. His eyes were distant, a cold, empty smile pulling at his lips. Zhou Zishu’s stomach clenched at the sight. This wasn’t the man he knew, not his Wen Kexing. This was someone else entirely—a stranger, the Ghost Valley Master, impossible to reach, impossible to comfort. 

“She was a pretty girl, her face serene, always smiling like nothing could touch her.” Wen Kexing’s voice grew quieter, almost reverent, and Zhou Zishu’s chest tightened at the weight of it. “She wasn’t very smart, but with her beauty, she could’ve made a good life for herself in the outside world. In the Valley, though, her greatest asset became her greatest weakness. She was too young, too pretty, and not smart or ruthless enough to survive in that wretched place. I remember her smile, how warm it was, how soft her laughter sounded. It made you forget for a moment where you were. It almost made you feel safe.” 

Zhou Zishu’s hands twitched at his sides, eager to reach out, to stop Wen Kexing from falling deeper into this memory. But he stayed frozen. What could he say? What could he possibly do to make it better? 

Wen Kexing sat up straighter, his hands folded on his lap, his shoulders slumped. Suddenly, there was no trace of the proud and cold Valley Master, only a tired man, drowning in the weight of his own past. Zhou Zishu moved instinctively, folding himself down to the floor beside his zhiji. 

He hovered there, his hands trembling slightly as they curled into useless fists at his knees. What was he supposed to do? Pull Wen Kexing into his arms and promise it didn’t matter? Lie and tell him that scars like this could heal? 

There was no cure for pain brought by memories. Only time. And time wasn’t always kind.

“She was so young, A Xu. So scared. I remember… about a week after her arrival, there was a feast. The Valley Master liked to gather a bunch of degenerates he called his guard, drinking while killing and torturing those who had gotten on his bad side. Around midnight, they… got bored and decided a hunt was in order.” 

Wen Kexing spat the last sentence like it was poison. His hands clenched into fists, small tremors running down his arms. Zhou Zishu wanted to stop him, to make him halt this descent into memory, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t even move. Horror and understanding coiled tightly in his stomach. 

“They caught her quickly, the first time. She didn’t know the Valley, had no idea where to hide, how to distract them with clever traps and false trails like…” His voice cracked, the tremors now shaking his whole body. “They dragged her back, bruised and bloodied. She smiled at them. At me. And when she laughed, it was as if nothing had happened. As if the night hadn’t been filled with screams.” 

His chest heaved as though the weight of it had grown too heavy to carry. “It wasn’t the last time, A Xu. Not by far. Each time, she smiled the same way. So serene. So untouched. I didn’t understand it then, how someone could smile like that after all she went through. It was like she refused to let them see her break. Refused to give them the satisfaction. But I saw her shatter. A little more each time. Behind the smile, she was in pieces.” 

He paused, swallowing hard before continuing. “After one of those hunts… I went looking for her, like I always did. I’d bring her whatever scraps of medicine I could find. We had so little, but it was something. She never asked for anything, you know? She would just smile and thank me, even when I had nothing to give. But that morning…” His voice broke, shaking with barely controlled emotion. “I found her at the bottom of the cliff. Her lips were still curled in that same smile. Even in death.” 

Wen Kexing’s fists trembled in his lap, his nails biting into his palms. “It was only then I realized what it meant. She had buried herself, broken into so many pieces that only the part of her that could smile and sing was left. It was all she had. And even that wasn’t enough. They took it from her. They took everything.” 

He looked at Zhou Zishu then, his dry eyes blazing with hate and pain so familiar it felt like a mirror. 

“The Valley was no place for people. Only monsters could survive there. You could jump down the cliff or start planning revenge. Mo Qingyu jumped. I didn’t.”

Zhou Zishu felt Wen Kexing’s words like stones, each one heavier than the last, knives pushing straight into his heart. His frozen hands trembled as he forced them to move, reaching out to cup Wen Kexing’s face. He bent down, pressing his forehead to his zhiji’s. 

“Lao Wen…” he whispered, his voice trembling with wonder and something deeper. “Lao Wen, Lao Wen… you are broken.” 

“Of course I am. You are broken, my A Xu, and I am your zhiji,” Wen Kexing murmured, his breath warm between them. “My nightmares are just dead a little bit longer.” 

Zhou Zishu felt dizzy, weightless, like the ground had slipped out from beneath him. This was too much. Regret and relief, rage and pure joy collided in his chest, boiling into something vast and overwhelming, something without a name. 

His zhiji, his beautiful, broken monster, had looked behind all his masks—seen the ugliest, most twisted parts of him—and instead of recoiling in horror, he had opened his own chest to reveal his festering wounds. Their jagged, broken edges snapped together like puzzle pieces, perfectly matched in their destruction. 

He felt like he was floating, spinning, every tether slipping as his emotions spiraled out of control. 

His zhiji.

But now what? Zhou Zishu shifted where he knelt, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He glanced at Wen Kexing, then at the blankets on the floor, then the bed, his hands twitching uselessly in his lap. How was he supposed to ask? Could he even ask? Words churned and dissolved in his throat, too heavy to say aloud, too light to hold him steady. 

He glanced at Wen Kexing again, then back to the floor. The silence stretched, growing heavier with every breath. 

A quiet sigh broke it. “A Xu,” Wen Kexing’s voice came, dry and familiar, pulling Zhou Zishu’s gaze upward. Wen Kexing leaned closer, his face a mix of exasperation and something gentler, something almost fond. “If you want me to join you, you could try asking. Or better yet,” he continued, his lips curling into a faint smirk, “don’t ask. Save yourself the trouble, and I’ll save you the words.” 

Zhou Zishu froze, unsure whether to feel affronted or grateful. Wen Kexing tilted his head, studying him, before breaking the tension with a lazy shrug. 

“Yes, yes, let’s go to bed,” Wen Kexing said, standing with the ease of someone who thought too much of himself. He gestured toward the bed with a flourish. “I’m much more comfortable as a blanket than as furniture, anyway.” 

The comment startled a faint huff of laughter from Zhou Zishu, though he quickly smothered it. Wen Kexing stepped closer, his hand extending down to him. Zhou Zishu hesitated a moment longer before letting Wen Kexing pull him upright. 

The arm that steadied him was warm, strong. Too steady, too grounding. Zhou Zishu let himself lean into it despite the faint tremor in his legs. 

When they reached the bed, he all but fell into the soft pile of blankets and pillows, pulling Wen Kexing with him. He shifted, pushing gently until Wen Kexing lay flat on his back, then settled himself over his chest. His ear pressed to Wen Kexing’s ribs, catching the slow, steady beat of his heart. 

The sound filled his head, quieting the storm. 

So warm.

Gentle fingers tangled in his hair, massaging his scalp, combing through unruly strands. Was it a dream? Could he really have this? How was it possible? His eyelids felt heavy, his body relaxed, floating on the edge of sleep. 

But… was it fine? Just this closeness? No fire, no demand, no promises of more. Was it something someone could want? Was it something he could even give? The thoughts spun, messy and strange, circling the scent of blood, warm skin, the faint line of red in front of him. His mind stuttered, catching briefly on those things before slipping away again. 

“I want to hurt you sometimes,” his stupid mouth said, spilling the dangerous words into the fragile quiet. It couldn’t accept this new, impossible reality. “To make you bleed.” 

“I know.” Wen Kexing’s chest shook under Zhou Zishu’s head as he chuckled softly. “Maybe not today, though? You need to sleep. Tomorrow?” His tone was light, almost teasing. No judgment. No rejection. Just acceptance. 

How was it possible? 

Maybe he misunderstood. 

Maybe he didn’t hear. 

Zhou Zishu’s hand moved on its own, his finger brushing the edge of the wound glistening tantalizingly in front of his eyes. The red, raw skin barely beginning to scab over. His fingernail scraped lightly, pushing small droplets of blood to the surface. Wen Kexing hissed, his hand tightening in Zhou Zishu’s hair, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t stop him. 

The scent of fresh blood, hair oil, and Wen Kexing mixed into something intoxicating. 

“Tomorrow,” Wen Kexing repeated, his voice hoarse. Not a trace of anger. Not a flicker of revulsion. 

Zhou Zishu blinked, dazed, his thoughts spiraling as he tried to understand this man—this shidi, this mad, broken monster who let him be exactly what he was.

Chapter Text

O Siming, spinner of veiled threads,
This face, worn yet strange, reflects your hand.
An echo of old paths hides within,
Shapes shift, but truth endures,
In borrowed masks, the self still lingers.

Zhou Zishu’s eyes cracked open to muted light filtering through the thin walls of the room. Morning had arrived with a soft, unwelcome insistence, pressing against his lids like it had the audacity to treat him kindly. He blinked once, then again, and the haze in his mind began to clear—too much, too quickly.

The memories rushed in, sharper than he liked. The poison had loosened his tongue, that much he remembered. Fractured words, thoughts he’d buried deep—spilling out in fits he couldn’t quite stop. And then the worst of it: the quiet, steady thrum of Wen Kexing’s heartbeat beneath his cheek as he drifted off. Zhou Zishu shut his eyes again, jaw tightening.

Falling asleep like that—on Wen Kexing, no less—was enough to make shame coil hot and tight in his chest. What was he, some simpering newlywed? He felt raw, stripped bare, and far too exposed. Every rule of survival, every shield he’d built, trampled in one night of vulnerability.

Now, he lay alone, the sheets barely warmed. The aches persisted, dull and insistent, yet his mind felt clearer. Coherent. He could move without feeling like his bones would split apart, and that alone was a blessing. No one would need to carry him today.

“You’re awake.” Wen Kexing’s voice cut into the silence, that same lightness he wore as a mask, but laced now with something that dug beneath Zhou Zishu’s defenses like a splinter. Mockery? No. Amusement, perhaps, but softer, less abrasive.

Zhou Zishu shifted, meeting Wen Kexing’s gaze reluctantly. His mind already closed around the words he wanted to hurl, to brush it all off, but Wen Kexing was faster, raising a hand as if reading his mind.

“Don’t start.” Wen Kexing’s tone held a maddening calm. “If you keep chewing on whatever it is you’re thinking, you’ll wear a hole in your skull, A Xu.” His grin was infuriatingly wide, a spark in his eyes. “You think too much, always tearing things apart in that head of yours. Sometimes… things are fine left as they are.”

Zhou Zishu scoffed, the sound catching like a burr in his throat. “Left as they are?” The words tasted bitter. “Since when has leaving things alone ever worked for you?”

Wen Kexing’s gaze softened, something almost genuine in it. “Sometimes, A Xu, things are fine without our help.” He tilted his head, the faintest hint of amusement returning. “Not every moment needs dissecting.”

Before Zhou Zishu could muster a retort, a soft knock at the door interrupted. Yun slipped inside, her sharp eyes scanning the room and lingering on them for a beat too long. Zhou Zishu was still sitting on the bed, his hair slightly mussed, while Wen Kexing stood nearby, tugging at the ties of his half-fastened robes. Her gaze flicked between the two, catching the single bed, and one eyebrow arched ever so slightly.

Heat rushed to Zhou Zishu’s face, and he quickly averted his gaze, but Yun’s tone remained brisk and professional as she turned toward him. “They’re combing the palace—every room, every corner,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder as though checking for anyone in the hall. “The eunuchs are holding them off from this part of the compound, but it won’t last. You’ll need to act quickly.”

Zhou Zishu straightened, a familiar clarity cutting through the lingering fog of weariness. Wen Kexing was already on his feet, the usual glimmer of mischief in his eyes gone, leaving something sharper, steadier. Zhou Zishu pulled his aches and exhaustion down into a mask as survival instinct took over, his mind falling into the rhythm of planning.

He looked to Yun, speaking low and sure. “I’ll need my tools,” he said, voice cool, steady. “A full disguise kit, and proper clothes. We’ll play a part they’ll accept.” The words settled in the air between him and Wen Kexing, and though he didn’t look over, he could sense the other man already watching, interest sparking beneath the mask of calm.

Yun’s gaze flickered, a hint of nostalgia almost. “It’s been a while since she’s graced the palace,” she murmured, a note of curiosity lightening her tone. “I’m sure we’ll all be… interested to meet her again.” She cast them one last look, eyes sparkling with barely contained interest, then slipped out, her steps swift and soundless, leaving him and Wen Kexing in a silence that felt like it had been waiting.

Wen Kexing arched an eyebrow, a playful gleam in his eye. “Intriguing,” he drawled, clearly savoring the mystery. “I assume I’ll be receiving the honor of some… suitable disguise as well?”

–

Zhou Zishu’s hands moved with practiced precision, the motions almost meditative as he brushed a faint shadow along his jawline, softening the angles of his face. This was one of the simpler masks, requiring no physical mold, no intricate device to reshape his features—just powder, pigment, and the smallest shifts in expression. It unsettled him, sometimes, how easily this particular role slipped into place. Lady Qian Yu was, after all, one of his oldest creations, forged in the dim corners of his mind a long time ago. She was the only one tethered to any memory of safety—a fleeting, distant thing. 

As the brush swept from his forehead down to his cheekbone in a deliberate stroke, Zhou Zishu felt the first tendrils of transformation taking hold. The pigment darkened into the illusion of a thin scar, cutting sharply across the otherwise smooth skin. Another flick of the brush, another scar traced along her temple, shallow yet purposeful. He wasn’t himself anymore. Not entirely. He leaned into the quiet precision of it, the subtle tilt of his brow, the soft curve of his mouth. The role wasn’t an escape, not really, but it was a reprieve—a pause in the endless weight of being Zhou Zishu.

“Someone has to understand subtlety,” he muttered, half to himself, the words laced with a quiet edge as he added the final touch—a faint scar stretching from the base of her jaw to her cheek. It carved a story into the new face, altering the frame just enough to hold another’s gaze in wonder or suspicion. He frowned faintly at the sound of his own voice. No, not quite right yet. Another adjustment, and Lady Qian Yu would step fully into the light.

Wen Kexing’s gaze was steady, almost disarmingly so. Zhou Zishu braced himself for the inevitable flash of mockery, but none came. Instead, there was only a quiet curiosity that made the air between them feel warmer, heavier. It wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, though it left him unsure of how to react. The lack of ridicule was unexpected, unsettling in its own way. 

Zhou Zishu adjusted a line near his jaw, tilting his head slightly as Lady Qian Yu’s reflection solidified before him. Without looking away, he spoke lightly, almost absently. “Lady Qian Yu,” he said, as if reminding both himself and Wen Kexing. “Try to remember that.”

Wen Kexing’s lips curved, amusement deepening the lines at the corners of his eyes. “My dear Lady Yu,” he said, his tone rich with mock deference. “Who are you, then? Tell me—what story does this mask of yours carry?” 

Zhou Zishu hesitated, just for a moment, the rhythm of his hands stilling. He glanced at Wen Kexing’s reflection in the mirror, their eyes meeting. There was a flicker of something unreadable there, something cautious but not cold. 

“I am a widow,” Zhou Zishu said, his voice calm, steady, as though speaking of someone else entirely. His hand hovered over the veil on the table before him for a moment before setting it aside. “A shadow. A presence everyone knows about but no one cares to look for. A hermit tucked away in these quarters. A hero once, perhaps. But broken now. Too broken for anyone to see the point.”

His gaze remained fixed on his reflection, but the words shifted, dipping into something softer, more personal. “She was… good. A good soul, Lady Qian Yu. Her and her husband both. The kind of people who died protecting things that didn’t deserve them. They always felt out of place in court.” He paused, his fingers brushing idly against the edge of the veil, as if tracing its history. “She died later than him. Protecting the Emperor. It was… convenient. Easier to slip into something that already existed. To take her mask instead of making one from nothing.”

He didn’t look at Wen Kexing as he spoke, but the faint weight of the man’s gaze pressed against his back. A soft sigh broke the silence, and Wen Kexing’s voice followed, low and rich with amusement. “It’s a work of art, A-Xu,” he said, tilting his head as if studying a masterpiece. “Though I wonder… are you painting her, or is she painting you?”

Zhou Zishu’s brow twitched, his eyes flicking to Wen Kexing’s reflection. The man stepped closer, the line of his lips curling upward, voice taking on a teasing lilt. “Convincing enough to turn my head twice, I’d say,” he murmured, his tone dipping just enough to be suggestive.

Wen Kexing’s smile widened, the sharp glint in his eyes softening. “But of course,” he added with a slight bow of his head, “not even close to my own unparalleled beauty. Still, I find it… disarming. Like I’m seeing something I shouldn’t.”

The way his voice lingered on the last word made Zhou Zishu freeze. Wen Kexing’s gaze held steady in the mirror, and his smile faded into something quieter. “You’re beautiful. Always. But this? It’s the least I’ve ever seen you try to hide. And I think I like that.”

Lady Yu smoothed the last fold of her sleeve with practiced precision, the motion a quiet defiance against the man at her side. “You’ll have your own role to play shortly,” she said, her tone soft, as befitted a widow of quiet dignity. Her gaze lingered on the embroidered edge of her sleeve before flicking upward. “An attending physician, here to mend what remains of my face. Do try not to ruin the illusion with your... enthusiasm.”

Wen Kexing laughed, the sound low and warm, as though her barbs were invitations rather than warnings. “For you, my dear Lady Qian Yu, I might discover new depths of restraint,” he murmured, leaning closer, his breath brushing the skin of her face. “But you test me sorely.”

She stilled, her grip on the fabric tightening as her composure held steady. Lady Yu had no reason to flinch, no reason to react to the insolence of a man unused to boundaries. She reminded herself of this, of the character she had stepped into—calm, untouchable, above such things. Yet even through the practiced veneer, a faint discomfort curled at the edges of her thoughts. Wen Kexing had a way of bending the world to his will, slipping past layers she thought impenetrable. And this role, as effortless as it felt to wear, seemed only to encourage him.

Without waiting for a response, Lady Yu reached for her veil, securing it with a deftness that spoke of years of practice. The fabric slipped into place, soft and whisper-thin, obscuring her features just enough to shift the balance between distance and intrigue. A final touch, more armor than adornment, sealing away the last traces of Zhou Zishu beneath the widow's serene mask. 

Her fingers found the brush, thin and precise, and she leaned closer, studying Wen Kexing with the sharp focus of an artist ready to reshape the lines of a canvas. “Hold still,” she began, voice low but edged with a wry exasperation that broke through Lady Qian Yu’s polished calm. “Unless you’d like me to paint you into something truly hideous. Perhaps a pox-scarred beggar? No? Then stop fidgeting.” 

The corner of Wen Kexing’s mouth twitched, but he stilled under her hand, the ghost of a smile lingering as if amused by the momentary glimpse of Zhou Zishu beneath the role. 

Lady Qian Yu’s fingers brushed his jaw, tilting his face as she slipped seamlessly back into her part, her tone softening into something detached, measured. With the first sweep of powder, she began to blur the lines of his face, transforming bold features into something quieter, less distinct. The act required closeness, an intimacy she was used to dismissing. But with Wen Kexing, every touch felt magnified, his skin warm under her fingertips, the veil doing little to dampen the pull of his steady gaze.

Lady Yu adjusted the edge of her veil with measured precision, her voice smooth and deliberate. “You are to present yourself as a physician,” she instructed, each syllable crisp, carrying the weight of someone accustomed to giving commands and having them obeyed. “Summoned to assist with… my condition.” Her hand brushed the faint outline of her fabricated scar, the gesture subtle but evocative. “A plausible duty, and one that grants you access to these quarters. Do not squander the opportunity.”

Wen Kexing’s focus remained sharp, though the glint in his eyes turned mischievous as he reached out, fingers brushing against a loose strand of her carefully arranged hair. “Forgive me, my lady,” he murmured, tucking it back with a flourish that felt far more intimate than the role required. “A good physician should attend to every detail.”

Lady Qian Yu’s lips twitched, a faint laugh slipping through despite herself. “You overstep, Doctor Wen,” she chided, though her tone was light, teasing rather than severe. It was easy to forget the boundaries that should have existed between them when his antics felt less like a transgression and more like a well-aimed attempt to unsettle her—in a way she didn’t entirely mind.

“Ah, but isn’t that the hallmark of a great healer?” Wen Kexing countered smoothly, leaning in just enough to blur the lines between jest and sincerity. “To cross lines, to seek out the cracks no one else dares touch, to mend what’s broken?” His voice dropped lower, taking on a velvet edge. “You must admit, I’m very thorough.”

She met his gaze with a lightness that surprised even herself, laughing softly again. “If thoroughness involves charming your patients into submission, then perhaps you’ve found your calling.”

His grin widened, the playful glint in his eyes deepening into something warmer. “And I see you’re a most willing patient, my lady.”

Lady Yu let the moment settle, the teasing warmth between them light yet oddly grounding. For all his flirtation, for all the danger woven into his charm, Wen Kexing remained a presence that felt more stabilizing than unsettling—a rarity in any guise.

–

As Lady Yu and her attendant physician moved toward the entrance of the women’s quarters, the low murmur of guarded voices thickened into an uneasy insistence. The guards stood in tense formation, eyes sharp beneath their helmets, voices hushed yet brimming with authority. The captain, who stood at the forefront, took notice of Lady Qian Yu’s approach and straightened, a respectful yet wary gaze flickering over her and then over Wen Kexing, his expression tightening with suspicion.

“Lady Qian Yu.” The captain bowed, though his posture remained rigid, eyes darting toward Wen Kexing. “If I may, my lady—this man… his presence here is unusual.”

Lady Qian Yu’s gaze lingered on the captain, measured and cool, then flicked ever so slightly toward Wen Kexing, her own expression unreadable beneath the veil. “He is my physician,” she replied evenly, tone softened just enough to convey that any further questioning would be… unwise. “He was summoned to attend to matters which do not concern outsiders.”

A faint glint of curiosity sparked in the captain’s gaze, though he masked it quickly, eyes returning to Lady Yu with a nod. He cleared his throat. “My lady, we respect the sanctity of these quarters, especially with the Emperor’s grandmother residing here. But…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “With Prince Jin’s abduction, we have orders to conduct a search. For the safety of all within these walls.”

Zhou Zishu, beneath Lady Qian Yu’s veiled calm, weighed each word with deliberate intent. The guards were persistent, pressing just enough to assert control yet wary of overstepping into forbidden territory. Time. He needed to draw this out, let the children settle into their roles, let the quarters adjust.

His voice slipped into Lady Qian Yu’s dignified reserve. “A search, you say?” Her tone held an air of faint reproach, fingers tracing the edge of her sleeve with practiced grace. “And do your orders extend to the Emperor Dowager’s quarters?”

The captain stilled, caught between duty and respect. “No, my lady. The Emperor Dowager’s quarters are… beyond our purview.”

“Then it shall remain as such,” Lady Yu stated, her voice like silk wrapped over steel. Her gaze held firm, tracing over the guards with a cool finality that left no room for question.

Wen Kexing, observing the exchange, allowed the faintest hint of a smile to touch his lips, an amused glint in his eye as he watched the tension ripple between Lady Yu and the captain. Lady Yu didn’t need to look to know that Wen Kexing’s list of questions—already endless—was growing by the second, that spark of intrigue flickering behind his respectful silence.

The captain finally bowed. “We will, of course, respect your instruction, my lady.” He gestured to the remaining guards. “But if you permit, we must still conduct a thorough search through the rest of the quarters, to ensure there is no threat to the Emperor’s grandmother and those under her protection.”

Lady Yu allowed a silent, considering pause. Her gaze shifted toward the guards, expression unreadable behind the veil. Internally, she took stock: each moment counted, each delay a precious stretch of time for the children to assume their places, for those unknown to the guards to slip into familiar roles.

“Then let it be done,” she replied, tone edged with reluctant concession. “But there is much within these quarters that must be preserved. Some rooms require… proper arrangements.” She let the words settle, knowing the implication would not be lost on the captain. “I trust you’ll allow my attendants the time necessary to prepare the quarters.”

The captain hesitated, his expression tightening with reluctant understanding. It was clear he was torn, eyes flickering between Lady Yu and his men, who were poised and ready, tense with anticipation. But in the end, he gave a curt nod, if only to avoid the risk of disrespecting a figure as revered as she.

“We will wait,” he said, though his tone hinted at an unspoken warning. “But not for long.”

Chapter Text

O Siming, goddess of steps not taken,
Of faces hidden carefully,
Behind veils of lies and deflection,
You know, oh lady, where truth lies,
Yet still, you choose silence.

Lady Qian Yu inclined her head, her tone softened to match the authority in her stance. “I assure you, Captain, my attendants will be swift. I will have a word sent when we are ready.”

With that, the captain stepped back, instructing his men to hold their positions outside the entrance. The silence hung heavy as Lady Yu turned, gesturing to her “physician” to follow. She moved with quiet authority, an air of calm that belied the hurried work that lay ahead, every step toward readiness a careful measure of control.

Lady Yu moved with purpose, her doctor Wen following in respectful silence as they passed through the women’s quarters. This was no mere set of rooms but an entire sanctuary, a delicate labyrinth of buildings connected by shaded pathways and surrounded by tranquil gardens. The trees bent with graceful arcs, casting cool shadows over the cobblestone paths, and pools dotted with lilies mirrored the soft light filtering through the leaves. Every step through the gardens brought a calm that belied the urgency beneath Lady Qian Yu’s poised exterior.

Each building they entered held its own sense of peace, each room cloaked in the familiar tranquility of lives that had been carefully woven together in this hidden corner of the palace. Lady Qian Yu’s gaze was sharp beneath the veil, picking up the slightest details. The smallest misstep could unravel everything; there was no room for error. She was familiar with this tension, the art of preparing a world to be seen through someone else’s eyes.

In one room, her gaze settled on a small figure, one of the younger children hiding just behind a screen, his face pale with worry. A-Cheng. The sight stirred something that she had carefully kept locked away. Lady Yu inclined her head, voice soft yet firm. “A-Cheng, come here.”

The boy emerged from his hiding place, gaze wary, clutching the edge of her robe with trembling fingers. Lady Yu gathered him up, feeling the solid, grounding weight of him against her side. In that instant, the mask slipped; he was only himself, holding a child who needed him. A-Cheng nestled closer, and Zhou Zishu could feel the small heartbeat, rapid but steadying with each second.

“There’s no need to fear,” Lady Yu’s voice murmured, though the comfort was his own. “These men will be here only briefly. You remember what to do?” A slight nod from the boy, his fingers loosening their grip. He looked up, the faintest brave smile touching his lips.

With a final brush of his hand over A-Cheng’s head, he set him down, and the boy slipped back to his place, his steps steadier, his fear held back by that small moment of reassurance. Zhou Zishu moved on, breathing a steady calm back into himself, letting Lady Qian Yu’s dignified reserve fill the space once more.

In a nearby room, she found Maimei, positioned like any other serving girl, though she could see the spark of indignation in her eyes as she adjusted the veil covering her head. She met Lady Yu’s gaze, her expression somewhere between defiance and resignation.

“Cover your hair, Maimei,” she said softly, Lady Qian Yu’s authority lending weight to the instruction. “Today, you are no more than a servant.”

Maimei’s mouth pressed into a tight line, her hands adjusting the veil with a reluctance that bordered on rebellion. Lady Yu allowed a trace of humor to settle in her gaze, a reminder, unspoken, of what was at stake. Girl straightened, murmuring a brief “Yes, auntie,” though her tone held a bite. She brushed her arm as she passed, the gesture conveying the trust she had in her, the silent understanding that her role was as crucial as any other.

They moved through each room, each doorway, checking that every child had taken their place, each part of her carefully woven network fitting seamlessly into the setting. The gardens outside the windows remained still, their silent elegance a calming presence as she made her way to the final room—the one she and Wen Kexing had used.

The room had been transformed in her brief absence, its somber tapestries and muted colors casting a dignified shadow over each corner. Her tools, her belongings—all evidence of her true identity—had been carefully concealed. Now, it was nothing more than the quarters of a reclusive widow, her presence dignified, unseen. It was Lady Qian Yu’s space, shaped by quiet grief and unwavering duty.

Satisfied, she took a final breath, letting the role settle over her completely. The children were prepared, the quarters flawless. They were ready.

She turned, catching sight of Wen Kexing’s gaze following her, an amused yet warm interest in his eyes. She chose to ignore it, meeting the glance only with Lady Qian Yu’s serene distance as she signaled to the nearest eunuch. “Inform the guards. We are prepared.”

The eunuch bowed swiftly and slipped out, leaving them to await the search.

The search began with the usual, insufferable commotion. Guards with heavy boots and heavier stares pushed through the women’s quarters, their eyes darting over each screened alcove, every corner. Lady Yu moved alongside them, the robes draped elegantly over her frame like armor. She shadowed the guards, scrutinizing each one. They moved with too much confidence, the entitlement of men allowed to violate a sanctuary in the name of duty. She wondered, briefly, if they felt the weight of the gazes fixed upon them, if they could sense how close each of these silent women was to despising them.

The eunuchs around her flanked the guards, intercepting wandering hands with precise, silent efficiency. Lady Yu didn’t need to speak, only watching as the eunuchs reminded the guards, in unspoken gestures, that this was not a place for men to behave however they pleased. If any of these soldiers understood discretion, they didn’t show it.

Behind silk screens, women and children sat, their expressions composed, familiar with the tension, as though waiting for a storm to pass. The children knew their roles; they held themselves still, even the youngest among them. Except… there was A-Cheng, his small face pale, eyes wide as he looked to the guards and then back to her. He would ruin the calm of the others if his fear spread, and Lady Yu stepped forward, crouching to lift him.

“There, little one,” she whispered, feeling A-Cheng press against her, clutching her robe in a way that stirred something too close to tenderness. She held the child’s weight, his small body warm and trembling, his trust fragile yet stubbornly clinging. She felt the sharp pang of responsibility—a reminder of the reason she kept coming back, even when she’d promised herself she wouldn’t.

Wen Kexing’s gaze lingered from a distance, and Lady Yu could feel the pull of those silent questions, each one stacking up in that man’s mind like a tower he’d one day demand answers to. But Wen Kexing’s curiosity wasn’t her problem right now. The guards moved with increased caution, their presence rubbing against the sanctity of this place, an uncomfortable grit in the quiet grace she’d worked so hard to preserve here.

They approached the Emperor Dowager’s quarters, and that was where her patience reached its end. Lady Qian Yu’s calm hardened into steel as she stepped in their path, her voice as smooth as a drawn blade. “The Emperor Dowager’s quarters are beyond your reach. You will not enter there.” Her words sliced through the captain’s insistence, leaving no room for debate.

A flicker of irritation passed over the captain’s face, but he quickly hid it, glancing at the eunuchs in reluctant submission. Lady Yu didn’t even bother with a sigh of relief as she watched them proceed, instructing the eunuchs to enter the Dowager’s quarters and report back, filtering the soldiers’ prying eyes from the place’s final, sacred boundary.

Moving further, she passed by Maimei, who had assumed her role perfectly, though her lowered head and demure stance couldn’t hide the spark of irritation in her eyes as a guard lingered near. Lady Yu caught the faint twitch of her lips—a dangerous impulse toward some sharp, inappropriate comment, no doubt. She slipped past her with a discreet pinch, feeling her slight startle before she controlled herself, falling back into character. As she moved forward, girl extended her hands, as if to take A-Cheng, but the boy clung tighter, unwilling to let go. Lady Yu could only shake her head, adjusting her grip as the child nestled further into her, oblivious to the strain he added.

The guards swept through each remaining room, the growing impatience on their faces both a risk and a blessing. They wanted to be done here, but not so much that they’d allow themselves to slip up—a problem, as thoroughness was hardly what she needed right now. But as Lady Yu stumbled slightly, fighting a wave of fatigue, doctor Wen’s hand was suddenly at her side, firm and steady, and his voice dropped low.

“You’re not well, my lady” he murmured, soft but edged with warning, as though daring Lady Yu to deny it. The last thing she needed was Wen Kexing fussing over her, but she had to admit—grudgingly—that the doctor’s worry seemed to push the guards into speeding up. Every guard glanced sideways as they hastened through the final rooms, apparently unwilling to linger in a place with so many rules, boundaries, and unspoken expectations.

They completed the search, though the tension didn’t dissipate until the captain finally turned, his tone forced into respectful neutrality. “We advise, my lady, that you and your household remain within the quarters. For everyone’s safety.”

Lady Yu inclined her head, voice a perfect veneer of gratitude and resignation. “We will abide by your wishes, Captain. Your duty here is done.”

The guards withdrew, and Lady Yu held A-Cheng a moment longer, feeling the boy’s hands finally release, the small fingers that had clutched her now unfurling in relief. She set A-Cheng down, and allowed herself a breath, feeling the fragile silence settle over the quarters once again.

Wen Kexing’s eyes met hers, laden with questions. Each one hovered in the silence, a promise she knew would demand its due in time. But for now, at least, the peace held.

As the guards finally departed, Lady Qian Yu’s poised mask slipped, revealing a moment of palpable relief that settled into Zhou Zishu’s weary bones. Keeping them out of the Emperor Dowager’s quarters had been crucial—more so than he could have let on. He knew precisely where the grandmother was and that her choice to stay away was for something significant, something that could not be interrupted or explained. Yet, had he failed to keep them from entering her rooms… he could only imagine the questions that would have followed.

The weight of that relief was almost dizzying, and he felt it resonate through him, his body responding with a sharp pang from his side. He swayed slightly, the world tilting ever so subtly. Wen Kexing’s arm was already around him, steadying him. He looked down to find A-Cheng still clutching the edge of his robes, gaze wide and fearful.

“A-Cheng,” he murmured gently, managing a faint smile beneath the veil, “I must rest now. But I promise, I’ll come back to you later.”

The boy’s grip loosened, his expression uncertain as he studied Zhou Zishu’s face with that familiar look—half trust, half wariness. It was the look of a child who had learned to live with half-kept promises. Still, he nodded, stepping back with a reluctance that spoke volumes before turning to join the others.

Chapter Text

Oh, Saiming, you weave threads like rivers, yet leave us to drift,
While I sit on this moonlit roof, a beast with claws retracted.
Did you make me to hunger, to wander through shadows alone?
If I am bound by your hand, then pour wine, and pour deep—
Let me drink to the fate you so carefully unraveled.

Nothing made sense in Zhou Zishu’s life anymore. How had he strayed so far from the path he’d chosen? The role, the mask—all his own doing, yet somehow the game had shifted under his feet. Was his mind slipping already? Madness was supposed to come later, wasn’t it?

He knew exactly what Wen Kexing was. That mask of his slipped often enough, showing glimpses of the darkness underneath. Zhou Zishu had known from the start that this was no ordinary man, though this monster was unlike any he’d met before. A strange softness, an absurd capacity to care clung to him—vulnerabilities that any other beast would have torn out by the root. And yet, in Wen Kexing, they lived, stubborn and relentless.

A fascinating puzzle, truly. So why keep pretending it negated the monster within?

Zhou Zishu sat slouched on the cool, damp grass, his back pressed against the wooden wall, its grain worn smooth from age. He lifted the wine jar and took another gulp, the liquor running down his throat in a lukewarm, numbing trickle. The taste had faded long ago, leaving only the heavy burn that dulled the ache clawing at his chest. This wasn’t about pleasure; it was about quieting that rebellious, unruly heart of his.

The night was still around him, the courtyard empty, silent but for the faint rustling of leaves in the evening breeze. Above, stars blinked faintly, swallowed by the dense, inky sky, while moonlight cast the rooftops of the distant buildings in a soft, cold glow. He let his eyes drift, tracing the faint glint of gilded carvings along the wall—a beautiful façade, solid and unyielding, even as his own thoughts unraveled. For years, he had slipped in and out of roles like second skins, each mask crafted with care. And yet… this one was slipping through his grasp. How had he become so weak?

Another mouthful joined the last, the wine pooling thick and sour in his stomach. Two days of drowning himself in alcohol—maybe a bit much for a body as battered as his. But what did it matter? The sky stretched vast and indifferent above him, and he was left here, small and fading, just another shadow in the dark.

Another gulp of wine soured in his belly, but the warmth rose, creeping through his limbs, softening the sharp edges of his mind. His thoughts slowed, turning thick and syrupy, and finally, a pleasant haze began to settle in.

He remembered… stumbling into Yueyang and colliding almost immediately with Wen Kexing. The man had been all smiles, oblivious to any notion of personal space. Zhou Zishu had half-expected a grilling on his intentions or affiliations, especially with a dead body lying between them—one of Scorpion’s men, no less. And there was Wen Kexing, right in the middle of it all, as if he’d stepped straight out of the chaos itself. But instead of questions, Wen Kexing had only seemed amused, wholly unbothered by the scene.

There had been no doubt about Wen Kexing’s involvement; he’d flaunted that Glazed Armor piece like bait dangled before an open-mouthed fish. Zhou Zishu knew it was a scheme, some hidden ploy. And yet… he’d allowed himself to stay, to simply be there in that moment, untethered from plans or consequences, drifting in Wen Kexing’s orbit like some foolish moth.

The wine spread warmth through Zhou Zishu’s limbs, loosening the tension that coiled in his muscles. He slouched deeper against the wall, his thoughts drifting like scattered islands in a clear, still lake. Wen Kexing’s protégé, Gu Xiang, rose to the surface of his mind—a strange, colorful puzzle piece that refused to fit anywhere he tried to place it. Was this girl what had made him question his judgment of Wen Kexing? Perhaps he’d grown so used to reading court politics, he couldn’t see Wen Kexing without looking for hidden schemes, unable to view even simple poetry without suspecting some encoded message.

Gu Xiang was loud, bold, and unapologetically herself, yet no matter how Zhou Zishu pushed and prodded, she didn’t settle into any familiar role. She was young, innocent in a way that held a secret sharpness. And Wen Kexing loved her—openly, fiercely. The kind of love one learns to bury as soon as they step beyond nursery walls. That kind of love… it was a weakness, a weapon that others could wield against him without hesitation.

It was the kind of love that had torn down kingdoms, toppled emperors, and destroyed assassins. It was a love no one displayed willingly in a world filled with wolves.

And yet…

Warm hands and gentle smiles, memories so old they felt more like dreams. He remembered his mother’s face, eyes bright with pride, love shining for all to see. He remembered being young, unafraid to show kindness to his shidi, his shifu—simple things that felt like luxuries now. Was that what made him forget? That far-off life, nearly a stranger’s, too foreign to hold. He saw Gu Xiang, bold and open, meeting a boy, with Wen Kexing watching from the side, gaze soft and almost… father? Brother? No, her “master”? It didn’t matter. Whichever word he used, Wen Kexing was still there, worrying for her future, his concern there for anyone to see.

And then there was Grandmother, the one who had taken him under her wing back in those early court days. Her gentle gaze, sadness and fear carved into her beautiful face like the scars of a thousand battles. She’d tended his wounds, soothed his pain, and taught him that survival came at a price—life and position bought with currency he’d never understand until he’d paid it himself. And always, it was steep.

But even then… it was always a secret. Kept to Grandmother’s rooms, never breathed outside. To everyone else? Just a pretty boy attending an old woman, a clever young thing on the rise, leaning on her favor. Yes, yes—a role they both knew well. Their bond, buried deep, hidden in all those careful layers. Secrets wrapped in secrets, safe as bruises hidden beneath silk.

And now—he blinked, half a thought slipping away. How could anyone… How could Wen Kexing just walk around like that? Heart laid bare, weak spot exposed, daring the monsters to take a strike. But then… wasn’t he one of them? Zhou Zishu’s lip curled, a dark chuckle escaping. Maybe Wen Kexing was only baiting them, hoping to lure out a few friends to play with.

Contradictions, one on top of another. Wen Kexing was full of them.

The wine jar was light in his hand, only a mouthful left to tip him past sense. Good. He’d been reckless enough. Protecting that fool boy—it had cost him, cost him more than he’d thought. Forced his hand with Han Ying, pushed him right into the spotlight of Window of Heaven. Years keeping him hidden, guarding his loyalty from suspicion, careful as silk wrapping around a blade. Gone. Just like that. Now there’d be eyes on him, sharp ones, watching his every move. Burned, useless. No way to pull him back out from under that shadow anytime soon.

He exhaled, and something in his chest tightened. What a waste.

Careless. And all his fault, wasn’t it? Dragging Han Ying in, making his life harder, more dangerous. For what? Some wide-eyed brat, barely aware of the knife hovering over him. What had that uncle of his been thinking, parading the boy around like fresh meat while half the world hunted him down? A few years of peace, and the Five Lakes Alliance—all of them, blind and bloated on their own self-importance. And if that wasn’t enough, he’d gone and tangled himself in debt to bloody Wen Kexing. Just the sort of fool’s knot he’d end up tied in.

He could have just walked away. Left the Alliance and their rotting secrets, left Wen Kexing to his games. But no. The second he’d heard the boy might be in danger, there he was, jumping into the flames as if this mess was his to claim. Trying a bit too hard on his road to redemption. As if such a thing were even possible.

The lunatic, though. What was he after, really? Poetry spilling from his mouth like cheap wine, words spun too fine to be trusted. Zhou Zishu had seen men like that before—men who couldn’t help but move people like pawns, always stacking the board. And yet, Wen Kexing… Different. Strange. He knew exactly how useful Zhou Zishu could be, didn’t he? Could have put him right in the center of it all, yet kept him at a distance instead. Keeping him as an audience, maybe. Making sure he wasn’t caught up in the game, whatever tangled mess it was.

And that, well… didn’t make sense. Not to someone like him. People like Wen Kexing didn’t waste assets, not if they were worth their salt. But here he was, the idiot in the audience, watching some scheme so twisted even he couldn’t quite see the edges.

Zhiji. What a joke.

The cloud of secrets and lies around Wen Kexing was so thick you could hardly see his true face through it. What was he building here? Zhou Zishu felt the beginnings of a headache as his thoughts circled back to the man. Where had his pleasant, floaty haze gone? Why couldn’t he just leave this alone? He’d tried before to convince himself that Wen Kexing was just another man swept up in a grand scheme—a fox in the henhouse, maybe even a pawn himself.

Back then, he’d told himself it was just his own paranoia, spinning some grand conspiracy because he couldn’t imagine anyone playing on a smaller board. That maybe Wen Kexing was only a fox after all—not some mythical beast preparing to devour the Five Lakes Alliance whole, as he’d once imagined.

He remembered watching the sages play, calm and at ease, sitting there like they hadn’t a single worry. Looking happy, even. And for a brief, stupid moment, he’d wondered if that was something a man could have. A home in someone else, a safe harbor for once. The last years of his life spent in… peace, perhaps. Playing music? With his complete tone-deafness? A surefire way to torture the living. Teaching? Possibly. Looking after that fool boy who, somehow, had wormed his way into being a responsibility he couldn’t quite drop.

But it was just a dream. And a foolish one, at that. It had made him weak, hadn’t it? This childish fantasy of some different life, a life he didn’t deserve, that couldn’t exist in a world like this. Peace was a myth, and the game didn’t stop. Not playing meant losing—he knew that lesson. Had no excuse for forgetting it now.

He remembered showing weakness, leaving himself open, waiting for it to be turned back on him. And then, Wen Kexing simply didn’t. Left it be, again and again, as though it were nothing. He remembered the feeling of letting go, the quiet that came with it. Just being. It was… pleasant, in its way. Sitting on that moonlit roof, good wine in hand, watching this strange creature fate had tossed in his path. Letting himself believe, just for a second, that peace might be possible. That he could simply… be.

And, naturally, that was when it had all gone to hell. Spectacularly. Because of course the monster wasn’t just some little fox prowling in the henhouse. No, he was a bloody mythical beast, a creature bred for ruin. Of course he was. Foolish, really, to feel disappointed—what else could he have expected? That Wen Kexing would turn out to be harmless? And what would he even do with someone who didn’t think on that kind of scale? Adopt him like a helpless pup? Run off to the mountains, play at forgetting, as if the world would ever leave them alone?

But then, if he was also bloody honest with himself… with a little help from liquid courage, maybe it wasn’t the monster’s fangs that cut so deeply. Maybe he was lying to himself, hiding behind noble excuses to avoid looking too closely at his own ugly, twisted reflection.

He knew monsters. He was thick-skinned, used to abuse, scars and all. No, that wasn’t what stung. What got to him was the awful ordeal of being seen. He’d thought he could lecture Wen Kexing, throw consequences in his face as if he had the right to judge. Had he buried himself so deeply in this saintly disguise that he’d forgotten what lay beneath?

He knelt there, by the sages’ half-dug grave, feeling righteous. So much better than the monster in front of him, like he had any right to judge. And Wen Kexing—he’d just looked at him, seeing right through the carefully crafted mask, right through his oh-so-pure and righteous persona, right to the twisted mess beneath. No layers of pretense, no noble excuses, nothing left hidden.

And that was what hurt. Not the monster’s fangs, not even the weight of his own hypocrisy. But the fact that he’d been seen, seen for what he truly was, without a single shred of his armor to protect him.

Oh, how lost he’d been, tangled in that dream of being something better. But of course, the monster had seen right through it—because monsters know their own, don’t they? That was why he’d sensed Wen Kexing’s nature from the start, saw the fangs hidden behind those easy smiles. Did he really think himself so clever? Too skilled to be unmasked?

The thought lingered, sharp beneath the wine-fueled haze. The monster inside him—his own darker self—wanted to rip into Wen Kexing, tear his throat. Wanted to crawl back to him, bare his soft underbelly, surrender to the lie. Wanted to believe, just a moment longer, in the fantasy of Saint Zhou.

But what he wanted would have to wait, because, as it happened, his stupid pup had let himself be kidnapped. No room left for dreams or redemption, no more wine-soaked musings or settling scores. He’d have to sober up quickly; a rescue was in order.

Chapter Text

O Siming, watcher of fragile bonds,
Where children guard what guards them still,
Love creeps in, soft as stolen light,
Unexpected, yet fiercely held,
By hearts too small, yet vast with will.

Wen Kexing kept his hold steady, his gaze warm but laced with unspoken concern as he guided Zhou Zishu into the private sanctuary of Lady Qian Yu’s quarters. He barely managed to ease Zhou Zishu down onto a low couch before Maimei appeared, her footsteps brisk and her expression as sharp as ever, though tinged with something more frustrated, something nearly wounded.

She crossed her arms, a sigh escaping as she finally settled onto a nearby cushion, her gaze holding his with a familiar intensity. “So, Ge,” she said, her tone turning slightly more pointed, “what exactly is going on here? And don’t think I’ll accept some half-answer. You owe me an explanation.”

Zhou Zishu leaned back against the cushions, his hand moving instinctively to the collar of his robe. The fabric, stiff and too snug, pressed unpleasantly against the edges of healing wounds, a reminder of how far he’d strayed from the rigid propriety of his past. His fingers tugged it loose, the motion familiar, almost unconscious. Over the past year, he’d grown used to a freer, looser style—something softer, more forgiving against the scars that marked his body.

He exhaled slowly, letting the faint relief settle in, but the weight of Maimei’s gaze kept him from fully relaxing. She stood before him, arms crossed, her expression tight with barely concealed frustration. He could see it in the set of her jaw, in the way her eyes burned with unspoken words. Beneath all that steel, though, there was hurt—wounded care threaded through her determination.

This was a look he knew too well. She wouldn’t let him off so easily, not when there was still so much left unsaid. Zhou Zishu let his hand fall from his robe, his fingers brushing idly against the cushions as he met her gaze. “What is it, Maimei?” he asked, his voice even, though the exhaustion threaded through his bones made it softer than he intended.

She crossed her arms, her voice steady yet demanding. “Ge, I’m not the only one who’s been waiting, wondering if you were ever coming back. The children… they deserve better than silence. They’ve been asking, and I’m running out of answers to give them.”

Zhou Zishu let out a slow breath, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I didn’t want to burden them with this… life. But yes,” he conceded, voice softened, almost apologetic, “I’ll meet with them. I owe them that much.”

Maimei’s gaze softened, though her determination remained. “Good. I’ll make sure they know you’ll come. But don’t think for a moment you’re off the hook.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Wen Kexing, a wry curiosity coloring her tone. “And what about him? Am I supposed to tell them he’s… your partner?”

Zhou Zishu hesitated, the silence stretching between them, his thoughts scattered, unsure. What was he supposed to say? Friend? Partner? Something more that he could hardly name? He glanced at Wen Kexing, whose gaze met his, steady and amused, a faint hope flickering in the depths of his eyes.

After a moment, Zhou Zishu nodded, the smallest of smiles pulling at his lips. “Yes, he’s… that kind of partner. My zhiji.”

Wen Kexing’s face lit with a pleased grin, his voice warm, almost playful. “You hear that, Maimei? I’m officially ‘that kind of partner,’ his zhiji. And here I was starting to worry.”

Maimei rolled her eyes, though a small smile slipped through. “Well, congratulations to you, then. I’m sure you’re both very pleased with yourselves.”

Wen Kexing’s gaze lingered on Zhou Zishu, the satisfaction in his eyes unmistakable. Zhou Zishu ignored the way his heart thudded, instead clearing his throat and looking back at Maimei, his voice low but firm. “About the damn nails… I have a plan.”

Maimei stilled, her gaze sharpening. “A plan?”

“Yes,” he replied with a faint smirk, though it faded under the intensity of her stare. “One that does not involve my… death.” He glanced at Wen Kexing, noting the look of surprised delight spreading across his face. Wen Kexing seemed nearly giddy, the realization that a plan existed settling into an almost childlike excitement.

Zhou Zishu watched Wen Kexing’s barely-contained excitement with a mix of amusement and resignation. Wen Kexing’s mouth opened slightly, as though he were on the verge of unleashing a barrage of questions, but Zhou Zishu raised a hand, silencing him with a faint smile. “We’re doing it, Maimei,” he said, his tone steady, almost determined. “The plan involves… ‘using him’—for better or worse.”

Wen Kexing’s eyes widened, a flicker of something fierce behind his playful demeanor. But he said nothing, holding his questions in check, the delight barely concealed in the quirk of his smile, the way his gaze never left Zhou Zishu. The list of questions seemed to grow even longer in his eyes, and yet he waited, his presence almost vibrating with curiosity.

Maimei’s expression shifted, turning thoughtful, almost wistful. She glanced down, her voice dropping to a softer note. “It’s hard to believe, Ge. After everything… after years of this nightmare, you’re saying there’s a way to fix it?”

Zhou Zishu nodded, his gaze steady. “It’s possible, Maimei.”

She shook her head slightly, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll believe it when I see it. Too many things have come and gone, too many promises broken.” Her gaze turned distant, as if looking at something beyond the walls, beyond the life she had known. “But if it’s true, if it really is possible… then I’ll be there. Whatever it takes.”

The silence between them was heavy, filled with the weight of years and lost chances. Zhou Zishu reached out, his hand resting briefly on her shoulder, a rare show of warmth. “You’ll see it, Maimei. I’ll make sure of that.”

She gave a nod, resolute yet tinged with an almost cautious hope, her gaze flicking to Wen Kexing, who was still watching Zhou Zishu, his list of unasked questions now endless, his eyes gleaming with both pride and an unspoken promise of support.

The door creaked open, and A Li stepped inside, her gaze narrowing as it swept over the room before settling on Zhou Zishu. Her arms were crossed, her brow raised in that particular way that always meant he was in for a scolding.

A Li’s eyes roamed over him, widening slightly at the sight of him half-leaning against the table, his bandages visible on his chest, his robe barely covering him. She blinked, then her mouth twisted into something like a smirk, though it couldn’t quite mask the concern beneath. “Well, well. Auntie Yu in the flesh,” she said, a sardonic lilt to her tone. “Should’ve known you’d still be prancing around like this, playing pretend. It’s just… annoying, really—he makes a prettier lady than any of us, even with all those scars.”

Maimei grinned, nudging her friend. “Always said he makes a fine lady, didn’t I? Though this is a bit more… theatrical than usual, wouldn’t you say? It’s almost unfair.”

A Li scoffed, shaking her head as she continued to take in Zhou Zishu’s appearance. “Honestly, ge, it’s infuriating. How can anyone look so good in disguise? Not even Auntie Yu’s scars do much to bring down all that… prettiness.” Her tone was teasing, but there was a flicker of something deeper beneath, as if the banter was the only way to steady herself in this moment.

Zhou Zishu huffed, fingers twitching as though to pull his robe closed, but Wen Kexing’s hand stayed steady at his shoulder, Indomitable, almost protective, preventing him from gathering his composure in that familiar way. It was just a steadying touch, one that might have felt invasive under other circumstances, but now… now it was strange. Warm, something grounding that kept him from slipping into the usual dismissal, the impulse to brush them all away.

Before he could pull himself together, Wen Kexing’s hand swept in, reaching to adjust his robe in a way that was almost forceful, pulling the fabric back and smoothing it into place. His fingers lingered as he tugged the fabric, brushing along Zhou Zishu’s back with unhurried movements, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he leaned in closer than necessary. Zhou Zishu’s breath hitched, caught off-guard by the casual intimacy, his usual reflex to retreat muted under the warm weight of that hand. It should have been irritating—should have had him pulling back, throwing up some kind of barrier. And yet… he found himself still, feeling an odd ease under the steady press of Wen Kexing’s touch.

“There,” Wen Kexing murmured, his voice low, amusement threading through his words. “After all, it’s unbecoming for a lady as pretty as you to show so much skin in front of these impressionable young ones.” His smirk deepened as he added, “You wouldn’t want to distract the children, would you?”

Zhou Zishu glanced away, a half-formed protest dying on his lips, something caught between discomfort and… something he didn’t quite want to name. The hand at his back stayed, warm and steady, and though it should have felt oppressive, somehow it didn’t. Instead, it settled him, keeping the familiar defenses from rising as quickly as they might have.

But that fragile ease was shattered in an instant by A Li’s voice, laced with a cutting fury. She took a step forward, her voice low and biting, each word like a shard of glass. “And who do you think you are, putting your hands all over him? What, you think he’s some… some prize you’ve claimed?” She shot a glare that could’ve burned through steel, her gaze flicking from Wen Kexing’s hand at Zhou Zishu’s back to his face, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Just another master here to toss him around as you please? I should call the twins and have them throw you out like the trash.”

The words struck hard, and Zhou Zishu felt his pulse quicken, discomfort twisting in his chest at the harshness of it, at how quickly her protectiveness could turn venomous when she thought he was threatened. He wanted to brush it all off, to let that familiar mask of indifference settle over him, but Wen Kexing’s hand was there—warm, present, keeping him grounded in a way he couldn’t quite shake. And despite himself, he felt the sting of her words too, a reminder of the broken patterns he’d left behind and the assumptions that seemed to follow him still.

A Li took another step closer, her shoulders squared, a palpable tension radiating from her as she practically growled, “Let go of him. He doesn’t need you or anyone else holding him up. If you’re here to pull him down, you’d better think twice.” Her hands clenched at her sides, as though ready to call for help, to summon anyone if Wen Kexing dared linger a moment longer.

Zhou Zishu wanted to protest, to tell her it wasn’t what she thought, but he couldn’t quite find the words. The familiar impulse to push them all away hummed at the edges of his mind, but with Wen Kexing’s steady presence, the urge wavered, softened. For now, he remained, caught in the warmth of that touch and the fierce anger of A Li’s defense, uncertain which was stranger—the comfort or the rage.

Chapter Text

O Siming, witness to small hands' grace,
Weaving blooms in quiet strands,
A crown of laughter, tender care,
No beauty rivals, in beholder's gaze,
The fragile art of love they place.

Maimei nudged Zhou Zishu with a low chuckle, her gaze flicking toward Wen Kexing with a glint of mischief. “Oh, come on, A Li. It’s not exactly what you think.” She tilted her head at Zhou Zishu, her voice light, though a trace of unease shaded her tone. “Doesn’t look like he’s putting up much of a fight, now, does it?”

Zhou Zishu’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. Putting up a fight? He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If the girl saw restraint as acquiescence, she was as naive as ever. A Li, however, saw it differently; her expression darkened, eyes narrowing as they landed on Wen Kexing’s hand resting so possessively on Zhou Zishu’s shoulder. “Maybe not,” she replied, her voice low but sharpened, every word hitting the air with an edge. “But that doesn’t mean he’s… yours to keep,” she muttered, an undercurrent of frustration lacing her tone. Zhou Zishu caught her sharp look, felt the unspoken protectiveness she carried in her tone, and while he knew she meant well, he couldn’t help the irritation simmering just beneath his skin. It was as if they were speaking of someone else entirely, not of him, but of some person shaped by their assumptions.

Wen Kexing’s smile tightened, a dangerous glint flickering in his eyes as he met A Li’s stare, his voice slipping to a low murmur as he leaned in, gaze fixed on Zhou Zishu. “Oh, you’re very much mistaken, little lady,” Wen Kexing said, his tone deceptively light as his smile curved just enough to unsettle. “I do appreciate you caring for him, truly. But he is absolutely mine.” His face had lost all pretense of charm, leaving only a strange, cold clarity that settled like iron, cutting and unshakable. The edge of a monster hidden beneath fine silks. Yet Zhou Zishu felt the weight of Wen Kexing’s hand, surprisingly gentle on his back, a calm tether against the unspoken tension in the air. It was a touch he might have shrugged off under any other circumstances, but something about it held him there, leaving him only more aware of the absurd scene they were crafting for the sisters.

A sharp, involuntary smile tugged at Zhou Zishu’s lips, his body betraying him once again by finding its own strange ease in the moment despite the words buzzing in his ears. Stop that, he thought irritably, willing himself back into place. And yet, his shoulders had somehow softened, a reluctant calm slipping over him that he didn’t care for, though it lingered all the same. When he glanced up, he caught A Li’s face, her protectiveness shaken as she took in the scene unfolding before her. And for one bewildering moment, he almost shared her disbelief.

Maimei’s grin widened as she crossed her arms, casting a sidelong glance at A Li. “Surprising turn of events, isn’t it, A Li?” Her voice held a note of dry humor, the sort she reserved for those moments when his “Lady Qian Yu” mask slipped just enough to amuse her. “Our mysterious Lady Yu always did need a nice little accessory to follow her around—someone to keep her company, maybe even keep her entertained.” Her eyes glinted as she looked at Wen Kexing. “Although I can’t say I pictured it being quite this… pretty. And maybe a little bloodthirsty.”

A Li raised an eyebrow, her amusement overtaking the last traces of her earlier protectiveness. She looked between Zhou Zishu and Wen Kexing, the faint smile on her face widening as she took in Wen Kexing’s calm, unbothered expression. “An unusual choice, ge, but I can see the appeal,” she murmured, tilting her head as if studying Wen Kexing for the first time. “Pretty, all right. Pretty as a knife, and maybe twice as sharp. I mean, you saw the way he cut through the palace yesterday…” She trailed off, a touch of awe mingling with her humor. “The perfect accessory for Lady Yu—a gentleman on the surface, a psycho just beneath.”

Zhou Zishu fought to keep his expression neutral, his jaw tightening at their teasing. Accessory, was it? As if Wen Kexing had just been brought along like an ornament, and he himself were still playing at being the “mysterious widow.” The words grated, reminding him of all the masks he’d thought would protect him from such scrutiny. And yet, as he watched them—these two who’d known him far too long—he felt an unexpected warmth thread through his frustration.

These weren’t normal children. They had both seen too much, lived through things that had fractured them in ways no one should experience so young. Broken in their own way, yet somehow whole in each other’s company, they’d found the strength to keep going. And like all children, they wished the same for him. Wasn’t that lovely? They looked at the monster beside him, the monster within him, and they simply smiled, as though he and Wen Kexing were no more threatening than kittens. Perhaps they knew better than anyone what it meant to live with darkness, to press on despite it.

Zhou Zishu exhaled slowly, aware of the reluctant tug of a smile at the edges of his mouth. Maybe he hadn’t noticed when he’d taken the first step on his long, unlikely path to redemption. Maybe, somewhere along the way, he’d even done some good in this world. It was a foolish thought—but perhaps not so bad a one, at that.

Maimei let out a soft laugh, nudging A Li again as she leaned in with a grin. “Really, A Li, it’s almost poetic. Lady Yu and her knife-sharp companion.” She cast a glance at Wen Kexing, her smile light and almost approving. “At least he knows how to put on a good show, even if he leaves a bit of blood behind.” Her words hung with a casualness that suggested neither of them felt the least concern about the violence in Wen Kexing’s wake.

A Li rolled her eyes, the hint of a reluctant smile curving her lips. “Yes, yes—very poetic. And here I thought ge had finally tired of his games. But it seems he’s just found himself a partner who’s even better at playing.” She tilted her head, her gaze lingering on Wen Kexing’s steady presence beside Zhou Zishu. “A good match, though. And gods help anyone who crosses either of you now.”

Zhou Zishu resisted the urge to huff in exasperation. A match, was it? Games? Perhaps he had once played at many things, but this…this was different. He fought down the familiar instinct to retreat, the need to distance himself from anyone who might see too much. But with these two—these infuriating children who smiled so easily at what should have made them flinch—it felt like a fight he’d already lost.

As their laughter settled, he allowed himself a glance at Wen Kexing, catching the faint glint of satisfaction in his companion’s eyes, as though he understood every nuance in the girls’ words and savored it. And somehow, seeing him there, accepting all of this with such ease, Zhou Zishu felt the last of his irritation slip away, replaced by an unsteady warmth he wasn’t ready to name.

The door banged open, and in poured a storm of small bodies and eager voices, a dozen or so children swarming in all at once. “Ge! Ge!” a small boy shouted, reaching up with grabby hands. “Chief, you’re back!” another called out from somewhere near the back of the group, his voice nearly drowned out by the wave of excitement.

“Auntie! Look, Auntie!” one of the youngest girls squealed, clutching a tiny fist around something wiggling. “I found a frog!” Her eyes were wide with pride as she held it up, oblivious to the commotion as she announced, “It bit me!”

Zhou Zishu tried to brace himself as they closed in, hands tugging at his sleeves and arms, voices blending together until he could hardly pick one out from the next. “Sir, sir! He didn’t do his homework!” a girl cried, pointing an accusatory finger at a boy who was already hiding behind his back. Another voice piped up, “I was good! I was good!” followed quickly by, “I learned a new song on the flute—wanna hear it?”

Maimei tried in vain to herd them back a step, laughing as she tried to disentangle one of the smaller boys from Zhou Zishu’s leg. “Give him a moment to breathe!” she called over their voices, though her words were swallowed up as two more boys began tugging on his sleeves, one pleading, “Elder Brother, where did you go?” while the other insisted, “Tell us a story! Tell us a scary one!”

Zhou Zishu’s head spun, his balance swaying under their weight as he struggled to respond. “Easy, easy,” he managed, his voice barely carrying over the din. One of the older girls had taken his hand, her face half-amused, half-worried. “Chief, are you okay?” she asked, her voice a quiet contrast to the others’ loud demands. But before he could answer, a smaller child wriggled his way to the front, clutching Zhou Zishu’s arm as he whispered, “You didn’t leave us, did you?”—the question almost lost in the sea of voices around them.

Zhou Zishu could only laugh, a soft, breathless sound, as he tried to answer them all, his arms held wide in surrender. It was overwhelming, chaotic, and yet there was a warmth in their familiar, clashing voices—each one blending his many names and roles, like they saw him whole and accepted every part.

Zhou Zishu had just managed to catch his breath when he felt Wen Kexing’s amused gaze on him, watching the chaos unfold around them. Wen Kexing shook his head with a dramatic sigh. “A full litter,” he murmured, voice dripping with exaggerated resignation. “So many little ones, and here I am—stuck as the wife, the one who cooks and cleans.” He lifted a hand to his forehead in mock despair. “If I’d known our lives would come to this, I’d have hired help ages ago.”

He glanced pointedly at Zhou Zishu, taking in the elegant costume and composed, albeit slightly exasperated, expression. “Then again, with a wife as pretty as you, Lady Yu,” he added with a grin, “perhaps you’re the one better suited for all these responsibilities. You’ve got the look for it, after all.” Wen Kexing lifted his chin, smirking. “Yes, yes, I think that’s it. Clearly, you’re made for the role.”

Zhou Zishu shot him a withering look, crossing his arms. “Don’t expect me to take on your chores, Shidi,” he replied, his tone dry as he held his ground. “Whatever costume I’m wearing, it doesn’t make me any less your shixiong—or a lord.”

Wen Kexing’s face fell into a half-pout, his lips curving in exaggerated disappointment. “You won’t cook? Not even clean? And here I was, dreaming of my dutiful spouse, ever-ready with a meal and a kind word…” He turned to A Li and Maimei, gesturing helplessly. “And see how my husband spurns me. Who knew I’d be married to such a stubborn, ungrateful lord?”

A Li choked back laughter, casting an amused glance at Maimei. “It seems Lady Yu isn’t all that interested in domestic life after all,” she said with a smirk.

“Oh, he’ll come around,” Wen Kexing declared with a firm nod, glancing back at Zhou Zishu as if he might change his mind any moment. But Zhou Zishu merely lifted an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirked in something like reluctant amusement.

At that, Wen Kexing sighed, leaning down to one of the smallest children at his side, who was holding onto his sleeve and watching the exchange intently. “And what do you think?” he asked, his tone suddenly serious, holding up the little girl’s hand as though in consultation. “Doesn’t our family need a wife?”

The girl blinked at him, then slowly handed him a small pebble. “Here,” she said solemnly, her voice as calm as if she were solving all their problems. “A present.”

Wen Kexing held up the pebble like a treasure, turning back to Zhou Zishu with a triumphant grin. “There you have it,” he declared, laughter dancing in his eyes. “I’m winning them over, one pebble at a time.” He turned back to the girl and winked. “See? I’m doing a fine job already.”

The noise was just reaching a new peak when a few serving girls rushed in, eyes wide as they took in the scene. With practiced ease, they began herding the children away, coaxing them with promises of sweets and stories. “Come on now, let’s give Auntie and Wen daren some space,” one said gently, picking up one of the smaller boys who was still clinging to Zhou Zishu.

The children, however, were determined to make their presence known. “But Auntie! Will you come back later?” one called, reaching for his hand. Another clutched his sleeve, looking up with wide eyes. “You’ll be here tonight, right?”

Zhou Zishu sighed, giving them a soft, reassuring smile. “Yes, yes,” he murmured, patting their heads. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll come check on you before bed. Now go with the nice ladies.”

As the serving girls led the children toward the door, A Li and Maimei exchanged smirks, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “Who knew our Lady Yu would end up promising bedtime stories?” A Li teased, leaning back with her arms crossed.

Wen Kexing sighed, putting a hand to his chest as he cast Zhou Zishu a look of exaggerated sorrow. “I’m merely trying to be a dutiful spouse, left to handle the children while my ‘lord’ stands there, looking oh-so-refined.” He gave a dramatic shake of his head. “Honestly, I didn’t realize I’d be dealing with such high standards. I’ll need my reward for all this work.”

“Reward? Wifely duties?” A new voice cut through the banter as the twins appeared in the doorway, eyebrows raised as they took in the scene. One of them pointed between Wen Kexing and Zhou Zishu, grinning. “So… which of you is the wife, and which is the husband?”

Zhou Zishu looked Wen Kexing up and down, taking in the simple “doctor’s” attire with a mocking sigh. “Well, with her looks, I’d think my wife would be a bit more… presentable,” he said, lips twitching. “Honestly, Shidi, if you’re to stand by my side, I’ll need a prettier companion than this,” he added, gesturing to Wen Kexing’s plain clothes. “After all, I’m the refined Lady Yu here.”

Wen Kexing’s eyes widened in mock offense, his hand coming up to his chest. “Not pretty enough, am I? And here you are, fully dressed as Lady Yu—elegant, refined.” He shook his head, feigning disappointment. “If only my looks could match such elegance.”

Zhou Zishu raised an eyebrow, his expression serene as he held Wen Kexing’s gaze. “I’d expect my ‘wife’ to know her place,” he said coolly, the corners of his mouth lifting in faint amusement. “Or perhaps I should find someone more suitable to keep up with me.”

The twins exchanged glances, one snickering as the other shook his head. “Seems like there’s still a lot to settle between you two,” one of them remarked with a grin.

Wen Kexing, undeterred, grinned right back. “Oh, it’s all under control. After all,” he added, leaning close to Zhou Zishu, his voice a soft murmur, “who else could handle such a demanding ‘lord’?”

From his seated position, Zhou Zishu watched the twins glide into the room with their usual smooth, eerily synchronized steps. He let his gaze linger on them, noting the quiet precision in their movements, the way they nearly moved as one. Then, as if obeying some silent command, each dipped into a respectful bow, eyes bright with that usual glint of expectation.

With a faint, indulgent smile, Zhou Zishu reached out, patting each of them on the head, one after the other. “Yue. Yun,” he murmured, tone warm. “You’ve grown more capable in my absence. I hear you’ve done well, taking care of Grandmother.” He let a pause settle, the fondness in his voice slipping through. “And, of course, as always… perfectly fulfilling your roles.”

The twins exchanged a brief look, satisfied, before focusing on him once more. Yun began, her voice quiet but direct, “Ge, we’ve been listening to the guards,” she said, and then Yue picked up, “We know what they know.” Yun’s voice slipped back in, continuing without a beat, “They say you were held captive by the prince.” The two looked at him with a pointed calm, the flickers of concern barely veiled.

“Yes, I was. But here I am, quite alive and far less worse for wear than you might think,” he replied dryly, though he felt the familiar weight of their unwavering eyes on him.

Yue leaned forward, picking up right where Yun left off. “And we keep hearing about this kidnapping, this…” her voice edged lower, “bloody kidnapping of the prince. More final than anyone lets on, isn’t it?”

Yun’s tone sharpened, slicing through the room. “If things are as violent as we suspect, we hope there’s a good plan behind this, Ge. Otherwise…” her lips pressed into a faint line, “things here will fall apart quickly.”

Zhou Zishu felt a wry twist of humor pull at his lips. “Yes, there’s a plan. There’s always a plan,” he replied, his tone calm but with a hint of sardonic warmth. He met their steady, questioning gaze, adding, “And I know, I know—Grandmother isn’t here.” He paused, then continued. “She went there to assure that he is ready. For this plan to work, he needs to be as ready as possible. Whether we succeed or fail depends on him being properly prepared.”

The twins’ expressions shifted, a barely perceptible softening as Yun murmured, “She went to the place…” and then Yue continued, voice lowering, “and left us behind.”

He caught the subtle note of hurt and gave them a faint, sympathetic smile. “I imagine she also went to say a prayer or two, if I know her,” he added, a dry note slipping into his tone. “She wouldn’t want the Goddess of Fate more displeased with us than necessary, now, would she?”

They shared a look, a wordless exchange, before nodding in sync, as if their thoughts had silently reached the same conclusion. Yue finally spoke, her tone firm. “Then we’ll wait. And when she’s back, we’ll know what’s to be done.”

Maimei moved quickly around the room, gently but firmly nudging A Li and the twins toward the door. “Out, out, all of you,” she chided, ushering them with a smile that was somehow both warm and firm. “Our Ge here needs rest, and that’s hard enough to come by without an audience.” She cast a mischievous look at Wen Kexing, adding with a wry grin, “And I think he’d appreciate a little personal time with his very pretty ‘wife.’ After all,” she went on with a knowing chuckle, “it’s not every day your new spouse springs a whole litter of children on you without warning. I’m sure there’s a lot of explaining to do—as tends to happen when unexpected children appear. Let’s hope it doesn’t cause any, ah, tension in this... unique arrangement.”

A Li rolled her eyes, but a faint smirk tugged at her lips as she let Maimei shepherd her and the twins out, throwing a parting glance over her shoulder. Once the room had quieted, Maimei turned her attention back to Zhou Zishu, her face shifting to one of stern but genuine concern.

“Lady Yu, honestly,” she muttered, moving briskly to untie his robes without so much as a word of warning. In moments, she had him stripped to the waist, her practiced fingers deftly loosening and retying bandages, giving his wounds a thorough inspection. Zhou Zishu sighed, half-amused and half-exasperated, as he endured her fussing. For what felt like the hundredth time, he was being dressed and undressed, inspected and re-wrapped—an experience that almost made him feel like some finely-attired courtesan awaiting approval.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Wen Kexing’s bemused expression as he watched, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Finally, Maimei straightened, giving a sharp nod. “That’ll do, but barely. You’ve overexerted yourself already today, and you don’t have much energy left to spare. While we wait for Grandmother, I’d advise you rest—and that’s a command, not a suggestion.”

Zhou Zishu nodded, though he caught Wen Kexing’s restless look. The questions were practically brimming in his eyes, ready to burst forth like little projectiles. Zhou Zishu could sense it, the barely-contained curiosity in Wen Kexing’s posture, the way he all but leaned forward.

As Maimei turned to leave, Zhou Zishu raised his voice slightly to stop her. “Maimei—could you send Lin Lianfu to me when he returns? I’ll need a report on what’s happening outside these walls.”

Maimei turned back, nodding briskly. “Eunuch Lin Lianfu is outside the grounds right now, but I’ll send him to you as soon as he returns, Ge,” she promised. With a last quick glance at Wen Kexing’s quietly impatient expression, she slipped out of the room.

Chapter Text

Oh Siming, take these cruel fates,
From hearts too small to bear their weight,
The world’s sins and the unworthy’s shame,
Let innocence breathe, unbound by pain—
This one will shoulder their fates alone.

Once the door clicked shut, Zhou Zishu raised an eyebrow at Wen Kexing, a faint smile playing on his lips as he watched his companion’s restrained eagerness. The questions, he knew, were already lining up—waiting impatiently for answers.

Zhou Zishu held up a hand as Wen Kexing opened his mouth, clearly poised to start his interrogation. “Yes, yes, I know,” Zhou Zishu muttered, sounding more resigned than exasperated. “You’ll get your answers. But first, let’s keep Maimei from storming back in and finding me out of bed.” He gestured vaguely toward the bed with a faint sigh. “Help me get settled, will you? And perhaps… some tea?”

Wen Kexing raised an eyebrow, but obligingly moved to guide Zhou Zishu down onto the bedding, arranging the blankets around him with a care that was at once amusing and oddly soothing. Zhou Zishu shifted, finally leaning back with a reluctant sense of ease, and closed his eyes briefly. He wouldn’t admit it, but it was—comforting, somehow, letting someone else take over, if only for a moment.

In a few seconds, Wen Kexing returned with tea, and Zhou Zishu accepted the cup with a curt nod, letting the warmth settle against his palms. As he sipped, he barely registered the shift in weight behind him until a presence settled there—solid and insistent. Wen Kexing draped himself against the hardwood frame, legs bracketing Zhou Zishu’s on either side, his body a loose coil of quiet possession. One arm fell casually across Zhou Zishu’s waist, a touch so light it might have been an accident if not for the deliberate way Wen Kexing adjusted, exhaling contentedly as though he had always belonged there.

“There we go,” Wen Kexing murmured, contented, pressing just close enough to make his presence unignorable. “Now, while you sip that tea, I hope you’re ready for questions. I’ve got quite a few of them, as you might imagine.”

And, as Zhou Zishu took his first full sip, Wen Kexing unleashed a barrage: “Where exactly did Grandmother go? What’s so critical about this mysterious person she went to see? And why now?” He barely paused for breath before pressing on, “And what’s all this about the children? How is it you know them so well? And, while we’re on the subject, what exactly is your relationship with the Empress Dowager?”

Wen Kexing didn’t stop, and his voice dropped slightly as he went on, with a glint in his eye. “And the women’s quarters—tell me how it is that you seem so familiar with them. Have you been working there all along?” Zhou Zishu could feel the words piling up as Wen Kexing leaned in closer, pressing ever so slightly against his shoulder, his enthusiasm barely restrained.

Zhou Zishu took another sip, remaining calm on the surface, though he was beginning to wonder how long Wen Kexing could keep this up. And sure enough, Wen Kexing continued without pause: “You’ve got an uncanny way with these children. Are you their caretaker? Or something else entirely?” He huffed softly, barely giving Zhou Zishu a second to answer. “And Maimei, the way she fusses over you—who is she to you, truly? I’d say she’s more than just one of Grandmother’s wards.”

By now, Wen Kexing’s arm was wrapped around him almost possessively, his chin brushing just lightly against Zhou Zishu’s shoulder as he murmured his final question: “And what other secrets do you have, Lady Yu?”

Zhou Zishu took a slow, measured sip, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his lips. He didn’t answer yet; that would have to wait. But he allowed himself a single, private moment of appreciation for the closeness—the warmth of someone just behind him, steady and unhurried. It was a small comfort he’d long given up expecting.

He exhaled softly, the quiet sound filling the space between them. “Alright,” he started, his tone flat yet steady. “I suppose I can start with the children.” He sipped his tea again, letting the quiet stretch, buying himself a moment before continuing. “They aren’t mine—no blood relation, if that’s what you’re assuming. Frankly, even if I had the stamina, I doubt I’d have the enthusiasm for the work required. My time in the women’s court was mostly spent avoiding exactly this sort of entanglement.”

He let the words hang, wry and sharp, before his tone shifted back, subdued once more. “But in some sense… I am responsible for them being here.”

Behind him, Wen Kexing’s breathing shifted slightly, a faint sound of amusement fading into something quieter, sharper. Zhou Zishu could feel the man’s presence—a steady, patient weight that settled around him, close without crowding. “It’s simple,” Zhou Zishu went on, though his voice took on a faint edge. “In my… line of work, there’s a certain amount of collateral. People whose lives are broken beyond repair by games they don’t even understand.” He paused, his fingers tightening briefly on the edge of the cup. “Some of them… are children.”

Wen Kexing didn’t speak, but Zhou Zishu could sense the stillness behind him, the way the man’s quiet attention wrapped around his words, leaving space for more. “I brought them here when I could,” Zhou Zishu added, his tone flat, almost detached. “To Grandmother, who has her own reasons for sheltering them. They found a sanctuary here. A refuge, if you can call it that.” He let the words settle in the silence, heavy and deliberate, focusing on the weight of them rather than turning to look.

Wen Kexing’s presence shifted subtly behind him, the air seeming to carry a faint change. Zhou Zishu couldn’t see his expression, but something in the silence suggested it had softened, as though Wen Kexing was holding his questions in check. For a moment, Zhou Zishu thought about leaving it at that, but he allowed himself the faintest addition. “So yes,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, “they cling to me as if I were anything other than the reason they ended up here in the first place.”

He lifted the cup again, taking a slow, measured sip of tea, keeping his breathing steady and his posture composed. But even without looking, he could feel Wen Kexing’s focus pressing against him, probing into spaces he normally kept hidden. Zhou Zishu had half-expected Wen Kexing to fire off rapid questions about the children, perhaps toss in a sardonic comment about his so-called “paternal instincts.”

But Wen Kexing remained still. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, deliberate. “But why this place?” His words carried an unnerving patience, as though they held more than they revealed. “What made you think that bringing them here would help? Was there… perhaps another child, once upon a time? Someone mended here by Grandmother’s hands?”

There was a pause, filled only by the faint rustle of fabric as Wen Kexing shifted slightly. Then, softly, he added, “Or am I completely mistaken?”

The words struck deep, catching Zhou Zishu off guard, though he didn’t let it show. He felt the familiar pull to deflect, to bury the question beneath one of his usual barbed remarks. But something in the weight of Wen Kexing’s presence—the quiet, steady way he waited—made Zhou Zishu hesitate. He exhaled slowly, setting the tea cup down carefully before answering.

“I was the first,” he admitted, his throat tightening around the words. His voice dropped further, the barest tremor threading through it as his fingers curled lightly against his knee, keeping him grounded. “She… she found me here. Over by that wall, by the shed.” He gestured with a small jerk of his chin, as if motion might make the admission easier.

Chapter Text

Oh, Saiming, you wound with one hand,
yet send healers with the other,
For every scar you carve,
there’s a hand to soothe the ache.
What wisdom lies in kindness,
taught by gentle voices, old and worn?

Do you forge strength from sorrow,
with lessons sung soft as lullabies?
In quiet hands, you weave courage to cradle a broken heart.

 

Zhou Zishu’s breath came shallow, each gasp scraping out of him like something torn, ragged and useless. His back pressed against the rough stone, cold biting through his thin shirt as he slumped lower, the damp earth seeping into his bones. It was hard to feel where he ended and the ground began. He could smell the blood, stale and metallic, clinging to his skin like a second layer, thick and unmoving. His fingers dug into the dirt, clinging to it, feeling it crumble beneath him as if the world itself was fraying apart.

He had crawled here, had dragged himself until his knees were raw, his hands stiff and bloody from the jagged rocks. His body was shaking, a dull throb running through every inch of him. He was supposed to be more than this. The thought lingered, mocking. More than this, and yet here he was, in pieces. His heart twisted with something that felt like shame, maybe, but he wasn’t even sure anymore. It was hard to remember what anything was supposed to feel like.

He pressed a hand to his ribs, wincing as the ache spread, sharp, blooming through him. Prince Jin’s words, those sickly sweet commands, echoed in his ears—be silent, be still, smile. His skin crawled with the memory, the weight of hands that had traced his bruises, pressed against the hollows where he’d tried to disappear. No matter how much he tried to close his mind, the memories seeped in like poison, thick and relentless. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry, and the motion sent a shudder down his spine.

Is this all I am? The question formed, bitter and raw, and he hated it. He hated every piece of himself left here, weak, shaking in the dirt. He had nothing left, nothing to hold onto, nothing to make him whole again. His vision blurred, and he felt himself slipping, giving in to the pull of exhaustion, of defeat, letting the night close in around him.

The snap of a footstep on gravel sent a jolt through Zhou Zishu’s body, raw panic clawing up his spine. His eyes shot open, vision spinning as he struggled to pull himself upright, every muscle burning with exhaustion and fear. He stumbled, his scraped hands pressing into the dirt as he tried to hide, tried to disappear into the cold stone wall. But there was nowhere left to go. The shadow loomed closer, and his pulse thundered, his breaths coming shallow, uneven. He bit down on a whimper, forcing it back, but he could feel his body shaking, too weak to hold himself steady.

The figure moved into view, and he dared a glance up. His heart froze when he recognized her—the emperor’s grandmother, her regal silhouette edged against the fading light. He knew her from a distance, as someone who belonged to another world, a world that had no place for someone like him. A surge of shame twisted inside him, as if he could somehow hide the bruises, the torn clothes, the raw evidence of what he’d become.

Her gaze swept over him, her face unreadable, and he felt himself shrinking, every inch of him painfully exposed under her stare. He braced for dismissal, for the cold disdain that would surely follow. But she didn’t look away, didn’t recoil. Instead, she took a slow, steady breath, as if grounding herself.

Zhou Zishu’s eyes darted around, desperate to escape, but his body refused to move.

She paused, her gaze lingering on him, and for a moment, he thought he saw something shift in her expression—something almost pained, as if his brokenness echoed somewhere inside her. She let out a quiet sigh, deep and heavy, and then, without a word, she turned and walked away. Zhou Zishu’s heart thudded as he watched her disappear, a strange mix of relief and disappointment tightening his chest. Part of him wanted her to leave him there, to vanish so he could sink back into the shadows, unseen. But another part—a faint, wounded part he couldn’t name—felt the ache of her absence the second she was gone.

Then, just as quickly, she was back, a damp cloth in her hand.

Zhou Zishu’s breath came in shallow, jagged bursts as she moved closer, the cloth damp in her hand. He tried to turn away, to brace himself against whatever judgment would come, but his body was locked in place, every instinct screaming without giving him the strength to run. She paused, just inches from him, her eyes meeting his, holding something he couldn’t read. He felt trapped under that gaze, as if she were peeling away each broken piece he’d tried to hide, each bruise, each scar. Then her hand moved, slow and unhurried, and he felt a strange tightness close around his chest.

He wasn’t prepared for the touch. When the cloth brushed his cheek, cool and soft against his raw skin, he jolted, the shock of it sinking into him as if he’d been struck. Her fingers lingered, gentle and steady, unbothered by his flinch, and his breath hitched, caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob. He wanted to shrink back, but he was frozen, his body too tired to resist. She moved the cloth carefully, dabbing away the dirt and blood as though he were something delicate—something precious. Her hand felt impossibly warm against his cold, aching skin, and he couldn’t hold back the tremor that rolled through him, the sense that he was crumbling, helpless under her touch.

“There, there,” she murmured, her voice as soft as her touch. “Easy, child. You’ve been through hell, haven’t you? The monsters in this place… they break children as if it’s a game.” Her tone carried a fierce gentleness, each word slipping past his defenses, sinking deep where he couldn’t protect himself. “But you’re safe here. No one can hurt you now.”

He wanted to believe her, wanted to pull himself together and give her some sign he could be strong, that he was something more than what they had left him. But he couldn’t. The shame pressed in on him, too heavy, too deep, and all he could do was sit there, feeling his breath slipping away, his chest tightening under the weight of her kindness, her understanding. She continued, her voice a low murmur, calming, like she was trying to soothe a wounded animal. “It’s all right, little one. They don’t get to take you, not if you hold on.”

The words struck something in him, sharp and raw, and he felt his pulse race, his breaths coming faster, shallow, the panic clawing up his throat. His vision began to blur, the walls spinning around him, too close, too suffocating. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The darkness closed in, swallowing the last shreds of his strength until finally, mercifully, he felt himself slip under, leaving the pain and panic behind.

Two days had passed, and though the bruises on his skin had started to fade, the heaviness in Zhou Zishu hadn’t lifted. He moved cautiously through the women’s quarters, the scents of lavender and jasmine drifting past him, the faint laughter of servants somewhere beyond. This place was soft, quiet in a way that made him feel sharp-edged, too aware of the things he carried, things that didn’t belong in such a place. Every sound made him flinch, every rustle of silk setting him on edge.

When the emperor’s grandmother noticed, she would calm him with a look or a word, her voice low, insistent. “No one will know, child. Here, you are safe.” She repeated it so often he almost believed it. But he felt the tug of something stronger—the truth he knew, the return he dreaded.

Today, she brought him to a bench in the shaded garden and sat beside him in the fragrant stillness. She rested her hands in her lap, quiet for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. “Your body is only a tool, Zhou Zishu. Armor. It can be scarred, bruised, wounded. But it is not the same as you.”

He frowned, her words sinking in like stones, unsettling, heavy. “Armor?” he repeated, a bitterness creeping into his tone. “You’re saying I should pretend it’s not mine? That I’m not even in it?” His voice broke slightly, the anger catching him off guard. “I can’t just… split myself in two.”

She didn’t flinch, her expression unchanging as she let his words settle between them. “Not pretend, child,” she said quietly. “But understand. What happens to your body doesn’t have to touch the rest of you. This part”—she placed a hand just above his heart—“is yours. And this?” She touched his hand, letting the weight of her fingers rest against his knuckles. “This is something you use, not something you are.”

He looked down, her words a tangle in his mind, sharp and strange. It felt too simple, almost absurd, a small barrier to hold back the things he knew were waiting for him. “It won’t help,” he muttered, staring at the stones beneath his feet. “I have to go back, and it’ll happen again.”

She held his gaze, her expression uncompromising. “Yes. But when it does, you remember—you are here.” She touched his chest again, her hand warm over his heart. “And everything else? Everything they try to do? It can stay here.” She released his hand, her voice softening. “I know it isn’t easy. But you learn to protect what’s yours, no matter how small a piece that is.”

He looked away, a knot of frustration and fear tightening in his chest. It still felt impossible, and he wanted to push back, to reject what she was telling him. But her words lingered, a strange, unsettling promise he couldn’t fully dismiss.

The knot in his chest tightened, the weight of her words pressing on him until he could barely breathe. Before he could stop himself, the words burst out, raw and bitter. “You wouldn’t understand.” His voice came louder than he’d intended, each syllable laced with anger that startled even him. Shame flared hot across his face, and his heart pounded as he realized what he’d just said—to her, of all people. He froze, half expecting a reprimand, or worse, but she only watched him, her expression unchanged, calm.

After a moment, she gave a quiet nod. “You’re right,” she said softly. “There are things I don’t understand, things no one outside of that world could truly know.” She paused, her gaze steady. “But in this place, these women’s quarters, there are those who do understand. This is a world of shadows and silence for many who live here. You aren’t alone.”

He shook his head, almost instinctively, the thought of telling anyone—especially anyone here—unthinkable. “I can’t talk to anyone about this. Not about… not this,” he stammered, the shame clawing up his throat, tightening with every word.

A faint smile crossed her face, not unkind. “No, child, you don’t have to speak of anything you don’t want to. You don’t need to tell her a single thing.” Her hand rested lightly on his arm, reassuring. “But there are women here—like Lady Mu—who’ve endured things you can hardly imagine. She doesn’t need your story to offer you guidance. You ask, and she will answer. And through those answers, you’ll find strength.”

He looked away, the ache inside him deepening, a part of him still resisting. The idea of guidance felt hollow, impossible, as though nothing could prepare him for what lay ahead. “How would that help?” he muttered, bitterness slipping into his tone again.

Her voice softened, as though she were talking to a wounded soldier. “Just as a warrior trains to protect his body, you must learn how to shield yourself here.” She tapped his heart, her eyes unwavering. “You’ll learn how to use those people’s wants, their needs, and their weaknesses as weapons. Instead of letting their small minds tear you down, you’ll turn them back on them. But it will take time, and patience.” Her tone turned fierce, steady. “There is strength in you, child. Enough to turn their own games into tools you can wield.”

Her words settled over him like a strange kind of armor, something small but unbreakable. He felt the smallest flicker of hope, buried and half-formed, though the path she described seemed distant, almost impossible. Still, her conviction held him there, grounding him as he tried to steady himself.

Chapter Text

Oh Siming, the cruelty of hands,
Too large for the fragile bones they crush,
Do you see their monstrous faces masked,
By soft smiles and courtly grace?
Make them bleed, I beg you—make them pay.

“I’d…” he hesitated, then forced himself to go on. “I’d crawled under that wall. After my cousin—Prince Jin—had decided my face would be a useful asset. He sent me as a… gift, to some noble’s quarters. I was supposed to smile, be useful, be silent. And when I finally crawled away, what was left of me…” His voice faltered briefly, and he looked away, his jaw tightening. “It was less than a man. Like some stray cat, searching for a quiet place to die.”

He heard the slight tremor in his own words and hated it, but he pushed on. “She found me here, and she… made it a place where I could reclaim some part of myself.” He swallowed, a muscle tensing in his jaw. “She gave me something to hold on to. I suppose… that’s why I thought it could work for them too.”

Silence settled between them, heavy and rigid. Zhou Zishu didn’t need to turn to know Wen Kexing was there, his presence unwavering, the faint rustle of fabric behind him the only sign of movement. When Wen Kexing finally spoke, his voice was low and deadly calm, the edges soft and coaxing. “Lady Yu… do you suppose there’s a way to resurrect that prince of yours?”

The words hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. Wen Kexing shifted slightly, his voice taking on an unnerving, playful precision. “Because I would dearly like to kill him again—only slower this time. With a precision that would be… satisfying.”

A faint, grim smile tugged at Zhou Zishu’s lips. There was a strange kind of comfort in Wen Kexing’s dark humor, a fierce, almost absurd loyalty that felt like a shield against the sharp edges of his own memories. It wasn’t something he’d expected, but he let himself lean into it, just enough to ease the weight pressing against his chest.

Zhou Zishu exhaled slowly, letting the name form on his tongue before he spoke, each syllable heavy and tangled. “Then there’s Maimei,” he said, his voice rougher than he’d intended. “She was… different. The first time I saw her, she was just this small, half-broken thing hiding beneath what was left of her family. She looked like she could shatter if anyone so much as touched her, but…” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “She looked right at me. No fear. Like she’d already measured the world’s worst and refused to let anyone dictate her life.”

His fingers tightened around the cup, the pressure grounding him as he leaned back slightly, pushing into the steady warmth behind him without conscious thought. Wen Kexing’s presence, quiet but unshakable, anchored him in ways he didn’t know he needed.

“So, I brought her here,” Zhou Zishu continued, his words emerging slowly, as though each one was drawn up from some reluctant, shadowed corner. “Figured that if anyone could give her a reason to live, it would be Grandmother.”

He paused, listening to the faint sounds of Wen Kexing shifting behind him, the tension softening just enough to let him speak again. “The Empress Dowager took her in,” he added, his tone quieter now, though a bitter edge slipped in despite himself. “Gave her safety. Gave her what I never could. She found her own way here, stubborn thing that she is. Her own way to keep herself whole.”

There was a moment’s pause before he added, his voice dropping, “You’ve seen her hair—cut short, stubbornly so. She used to have long hair once; her sister loved it.” He glanced down, the faintest hint of something bitter and self-deprecating pulling at his mouth. “But after everything, she couldn’t keep it. Too much of a reminder. And no one, not even the Empress, can convince her otherwise. She clings to this place… won’t leave because here, at least, no one will try to make her forget. Or make her act like anything other than what she is.”

Zhou Zishu felt Wen Kexing’s fingers curl slightly around his shoulder, a grounding presence, steady and real. The silence between them was thick with something he couldn’t quite name, and he let himself lean back, pressing further into Wen Kexing’s warmth without meaning to, half-lost in the memory. “And here she found A Li,” he murmured finally, the name bringing something softer, almost reluctant, to his voice. “Another one who fits nowhere else. Someone she’s decided is worth saving.”

Wen Kexing gave a quiet huff, his voice laced with a gentleness that was almost mocking. “You know,” he murmured near Zhou Zishu’s ear, his voice low, “for someone who’s supposedly heartless, you’ve got a great deal of trouble letting broken things go.”

Zhou Zishu huffed in response, a bitter smile tugging at his mouth. “Perhaps,” he said quietly, “I just know what it’s like to be left in pieces.”

Zhou Zishu took a slow, steady breath, feeling the weight of A Li’s name before he even spoke. “A Li,” he began again, voice quiet but laced with resignation. “Poor little A Li.” He let the name hang in the air, feeling the old bitterness tighten his chest. “I found her… or, if I’m honest, she was left there. It was during a job in Jiangzhou, at a brothel that stank of perfumes and rot—a place where no one’s meant to look too closely.”

Wen Kexing, ever quick to lighten the darkness, shifted slightly behind Zhou Zishu, his presence steady but his tone teasing. “Oh, I can imagine it now—the infamous Chief of the Window of Heaven, sweeping into the brothel. All those pretty girls swooning, hoping for a look from such a rare and deadly creature.” His voice carried a quiet smile, soft and deliberate, each word brushing against the lingering tension in the room.

Zhou Zishu let out a faint, sardonic huff, his lips twitching into the shadow of a smile. “Swooning?” he echoed, his tone dry. “There wasn’t much of that going on. But then…” He paused, his voice dipping into a wry, sharper note. “It was never among the list of services I offered. Maybe some of the girls managed it.”

He set his cup down with measured precision, letting the pause stretch before continuing. “You have a strange idea about brothels, Wen Kexing. From what I remember, the most distinct feeling was…” He stopped, his voice sharpening just slightly, though the faint humor remained. “It felt like being chased by a pack of wild dogs in heat.”

Zhou Zishu leaned back again, his fingers curling loosely over the edge of the cushions. “Then again,” he added with a flicker of self-deprecation, “maybe I was just this good. What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

Wen Kexing’s playfulness vanished, the amusement draining from him as the words settled between them. Without a word, he wrapped himself around Zhou Zishu, pressing his face against his neck, the warmth of his breath tracing along Zhou Zishu’s skin. Zhou Zishu felt Wen Kexing’s fingers tighten at his shoulder, the grip firm, protective. “Monsters,” Wen Kexing muttered, his voice low, fury seething beneath the calm. “Everywhere you look—monsters.”

Zhou Zishu took a breath, allowing himself to relax, feeling Wen Kexing’s solid warmth at his back, a strange comfort grounding him as he continued. “A Li was young. She didn’t belong there. Someone took her, left her to rot in that place.” He stopped, feeling his throat tighten. “By the time I saw her, she was barely more than an empty shell. She just… watched me, as if waiting to see how much worse it would get.”

His voice dropped, bitter and rough, his words laced with something sharp. “No one lifted a finger when I took her out of there. They barely noticed. She didn’t say a word; she just… measured me, like she was weighing what else she’d have to survive.” He huffed, his lips twisting into a grim, humorless smile. “Believe me, I understood the irony. I was the last person who should’ve been in the business of saving anyone.”

Wen Kexing’s fingers curled slightly, his hold unwavering as he pressed his nose against Zhou Zishu’s neck, his arm tightening, as though he could shelter him from something already past. Zhou Zishu allowed himself a moment to lean into the warmth, feeling it settle into the rough edges of his memories. “I brought her here. She was… a small, broken thing—barely clinging to herself. And from the moment Maimei saw her, she… wouldn’t let go.” A faint, reluctant warmth softened his voice. “Maimei stayed by her side for weeks, even when A Li wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t react. She worked with the healers, learned from them, studied everything she could. She was relentless.”

He paused, a faint, bittersweet smile ghosting over his lips. “Maimei decided she’d become a healer herself. Just so she could understand every way there was to help the girl who wouldn’t speak. Somehow, in all that, they… saved each other.”

Zhou Zishu exhaled slowly, his voice softening. “A Li found a place here, a place she wouldn’t have survived without. They’re an odd pair, but somehow, they’ve made it work. Maimei won’t let anyone too close, but A Li slipped through those walls.” He let out a rough huff, feeling a strange, reluctant pride. “If anyone can protect her, it’ll be Maimei.”

Wen Kexing’s voice was a low, dangerous whisper, but steady. “If the world even thinks of touching her again, it’ll answer to me,” he said, his words threaded with a dark promise.

A faint warmth tugged at Zhou Zishu’s chest despite himself, and he huffed, feeling the strangest sense of relief—a quiet, unexpected comfort he hadn’t thought possible. Wen Kexing’s fierce loyalty felt like a shield, one that he hadn’t expected but somehow, strangely, welcomed. He allowed himself to lean back into it, letting the silence settle thickly around them.

Wen Kexing exhaled, a faint huff of humor slipping into his voice as he shifted, his head still nestled against Zhou Zishu’s neck. “Is there at least one story,” he murmured, “that won’t make me add names to my list of people to kill and places to burn?”

The question drew a small, unexpected laugh from Zhou Zishu, easing some of the heaviness lingering between them. “Ah, yes,” he replied, a hint of warmth creeping into his voice. “There is one, actually. That would be the twins.”

Wen Kexing lifted his head, curiosity emanating from his posture. Zhou Zishu gave a slight nod, letting the memory form before he spoke. “It was years back. I was traveling north to meet with some chieftain—someone important enough, though the specifics hardly matter now. It was on the steppe, out there on that endless sweep of grassy plains. That’s where I came across them. Two little girls, alone and wild, fierce as wolves.”

He paused, a faint, fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They were daughters of a clan chief, you see. Two warrior princesses. The chieftain had remarried, taken a new wife with her own plans, her own heirs in mind. So, the girls were… inconvenient. Disposable. Left to fend for themselves.” He shook his head, a hint of bitterness creeping in. “There was no place for them in the chieftain’s new family, not with a wife determined to clear a path for her own children.”

Wen Kexing listened quietly, his fingers tracing a light pattern along Zhou Zishu’s shoulder, a silent encouragement to continue. “I took them with me,” Zhou Zishu went on, voice softening. “Brought them here to Grandmother. And they were… wild things. Too fierce to be bent into anyone’s idea of what a lady should be, too untamed to be molded into courtly decorum.”

He let out a small, amused huff. “Grandmother gave them what they needed. She protected them, let them learn, let them shape themselves. They became her blades, sharp and loyal, crafted by their own hands. She allowed them to find their place here. And, well, I trained them.” His voice held a note of pride, the faintest hint of satisfaction in the memory of guiding their raw skill into something honed, precise.

Wen Kexing’s voice softened, the shift in his tone brushing close to Zhou Zishu’s ear as he curled behind him, his arms resting lightly around Zhou Zishu’s waist. “It’s hard to imagine them as those wild little things now, with their perfectly poised smiles,” he murmured, the words laced with quiet admiration. “No one would ever guess.”

Zhou Zishu huffed, though there was a trace of warmth in it. “No, they wouldn’t. Those courtly smiles hide sharpness that no one sees coming.” His voice grew quieter, thoughtful. “They’re loyal to Grandmother. Utterly. And they hold their place here because she made a space where even two wild girls could carve out something of their own.”

For a moment, silence settled between them, easy and comfortable, and Zhou Zishu felt the faint weight of pride mingling with an odd, lingering warmth. These memories of the twins, of Maimei, of A Li—they weren’t just ghosts but threads that bound them all to a life he’d once thought was beyond him.

Wen Kexing shifted behind him. “You know,” he began, his tone light but carrying the edge of genuine interest, “there’s still something I don’t understand. The place the girls mentioned—the one Grandmother disappeared to, the one tied to this plan you keep hinting at. Where is it, exactly? And how does it fit?”

Zhou Zishu felt a pang of guilt, the instinct to share tugging against years of a hard-won caution. He knew, that his answer would leave him feeling cut out, kept at arm’s length. But even here, in what should have been the safest room in the palace, old habits whispered, reminding him that the smallest risk could quickly become the fatal one.

“There are things I can’t say just yet,” he replied slowly, “not here.”

Wen Kexing’s voice carried a faint edge of impatience, though there was a reluctant understanding threading through it. “Not here? Even in a place like this?”

Zhou Zishu let out a small, self-aware chuckle, the sound dry but steady. “Yes. Even here. I know it may sound absurd, but long years have made me… cautious. Perhaps overly so.” He shifted slightly, the movement deliberate but unhurried. “But this is a court, Wen Kexing. Even here, words have a way of reaching ears they were never meant for.”

Behind him, Wen Kexing gave a quiet sigh, the faint exhale brushing against Zhou Zishu’s shoulder. “So I’m to know nothing, then?”

“Not yet,” Zhou Zishu replied, his voice low but firm. “But very soon. A meeting’s planned, and once we’re there, you’ll know everything. All of it.” He softened slightly, his words carrying a quiet sincerity. “If I could tell you now, believe me, I would.”

For a moment, Wen Kexing said nothing. Then he murmured, “I suppose that’ll have to do.” He leaned closer, his hand lifting to rest gently against Zhou Zishu’s chest, fingers lingering near where he knew the iron nail lay beneath the skin, a touch as warm as it was steady. “Just tell me this, A Xu,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “there is really a plan?”

Zhou Zishu’s lips quirked into a faint, self-deprecating smile, the humor brittle and sharp. “A plan?” he replied, his tone almost mocking. “Wen Kexing, do you really believe an assassin as experienced as me would set a trap without a way to escape it, if there were even the smallest chance I might stumble into it myself one day?”

The words slipped out smoothly, practiced and deliberate. But beneath the ease of the lie, a quiet discomfort twisted. There was a plan now, a solution carved out through sacrifice and blood—but at the start, there had been nothing. Only the blind faith of a foolish child, too naïve to see the darkness in the people he trusted, and the pit it would drag him into.

Wen Kexing let out a quiet laugh, his hand pressing more firmly against Zhou Zishu’s chest, his gaze warm and filled with a rare understanding. “It’s good to know,” he murmured, his tone lighter now, “that I haven’t thrown in my lot with a fool.”

Wen Kexing’s voice, low and insistent, broke the quiet yet again, his curiosity as relentless as his hold. “So tell me,” he murmured, fingers tracing slow patterns along Zhou Zishu’s shoulder, “if you’ve always known how to fix this, then why all the trouble with the ‘old monster’? Why go searching if you already had the answer?”

Zhou Zishu’s patience thinned further, and he felt his eyes grow heavy with the dull weight of exhaustion. It wasn’t evening, but Maimei had been right—he needed rest, and even his muscles seemed to pull him down, each reminder of the wounds hidden beneath the layers of clothing adding to the haze of weariness. But Wen Kexing was like a dog with a bone, determined to pick this puzzle apart until he understood every angle.

“Unless,” Wen Kexing continued, voice quieter, as if he were piecing it together himself, “the answer was always here. The one place you would never choose to return to. A solution terrible enough that you’d take your own end over ever coming back.” Wen Kexing’s hand tightened almost protectively where it rested, though his gaze grew sharper. “If Prince Jin hadn’t decided to ‘kidnap’ you back, would you have come here at all?”

Zhou Zishu let out a faint huff of laughter, his mouth curving into a small, self-aware smile despite himself. Behind him, he could feel the slight shift of Wen Kexing’s presence, the air carrying a quiet note of suspicion as Wen Kexing murmured, “And how does this grand plan fit into that?”

A sigh escaped Zhou Zishu, low and deliberate, as he lifted a finger to Wen Kexing’s lips, pressing gently to silence him. The movement stilled Wen Kexing, the warmth of his breath brushing against Zhou Zishu’s knuckles as the quiet settled between them. Then, with a deliberate slowness that bordered on predatory, Wen Kexing’s lips parted, lightly grazing the tip of Zhou Zishu’s finger with a playful, sharp bite.

Zhou Zishu almost laughed, an odd warmth tugging at his chest despite himself. Wen Kexing shifted behind him, settling closer with a quiet hum, one arm wrapping around him with an ease that spoke of casual possessiveness. “Alright, alright,” Wen Kexing murmured, his tone laced with soft mischief. “We’ll get some rest for your sake. But I’m staying right here.”

Zhou Zishu let himself sink deeper into Wen Kexing’s warmth, feeling the weight of his presence steady and unexpected. He hadn’t imagined he’d find any sense of safety in this place, but here, pressed against Wen Kexing’s solid warmth, he felt something close to peace. Strange, that comfort could exist here, in this dangerous, familiar hall.

His eyes drifted shut, his weariness settling over him like a thick fog, and he allowed himself to relax fully, slipping into sleep with the knowledge that, for now, he wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

Oh Siming, clever and silent,
Perched atop the clouds, you gaze below,
At our secret plots and tangled schemes,
Do our struggles amuse your watchful eyes?
Does it please you to see us fall?

Zhou Zishu stepped carefully through the hidden doorway beneath the Empress Dowager’s quarters, his fingers brushing against the cold stone as he passed through. The entrance was as flawless as he remembered—so perfectly concealed that not even the most thorough search would uncover it. It was a sanctuary of stone and shadows, a war room carved out of secrecy itself. No stray ear could press against these walls, and no whispers would escape them. Here, the very air seemed heavy with the weight of unspoken schemes.

The room was dominated by a massive table of polished wood, its surface scarred with years of use but gleaming in the flickering lamplight. Around it, low cushions had been arranged in precise positions, and on the table’s edges were scattered parchments, inkstones, and maps. The vaulted ceiling arched high above, its corners shadowed, while thick, faded tapestries dulled the acoustics. A practical elegance, Zhou Zishu noted—not a thing wasted or out of place. Grandmother would allow no less. The Empress Dowager sat at the head of the table, her posture as composed as if this were a ceremonial banquet rather than a gathering to decide the fate of the empire.

As Zhou Zishu’s gaze swept the room, he couldn’t help but think of how absurd this tableau was. The Empress Dowager, the quiet power behind the throne. Eunuch Lin Lianfu, sharp-eyed and calculating, his presence a warning to anyone who underestimated him. Zhou Zishu himself—a disgraced ex-Chief of the Window of Heaven—and beside him, Wen Kexing, an outsider to the palace in every sense of the word. Wen Kexing was here on Zhou Zishu’s word alone, a fragile thread of trust binding him to this room. And then there were the girls—the twins, Yue and Yun, and Maimei, all of them barely out of childhood. No generals, no soldiers, no ministers or military strategists. Only this motley group, these mismatched pieces of a fractured puzzle.

Zhou Zishu settled on a cushion near the Empress Dowager, his gaze briefly catching Wen Kexing’s as the man took his seat beside him, casual and unbothered as ever. Across the table, Lianfu adjusted a stack of parchment, his movements brisk but deliberate. It was a room filled with dangers—different kinds, but each just as lethal as the others. As Zhou Zishu leaned back, he found himself thinking that this was the kind of war room only desperation could forge, a gamble with too much at stake. And yet, it might be exactly what they needed.

Eunuch Lin Lianfu stood at attention, his sharp, calculating gaze sweeping the room like a blade testing for weakness. Zhou Zishu watched the man closely, noting how his hands stayed hidden within the wide sleeves of his robe, the picture of stillness. Lianfu’s control was like the room itself—tight, deliberate, and layered with secrets. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm and unwavering, each word cut with precision.

“We gather here,” Lianfu began, his tone measured, “because the success of this plan depends on precision. No piece can be misplaced, and no step miscalculated. Each of us has a role to play, and it is only by playing them well that we will succeed.”

Zhou Zishu’s eyes flicked toward the Empress Dowager, who watched the eunuch with quiet intensity, her expression betraying nothing. Wen Kexing, beside him, remained motionless, his face unreadable save for the faintest twitch of amusement at the edges of his mouth. This room was a gamble, Zhou Zishu thought—a place where everyone’s strength lay in their sharpness, but their sharpness might also destroy them if it wasn’t kept in balance.

“After yesterday’s events,” Lianfu continued, his gaze cutting to Zhou Zishu, “the narrative has firmly taken root. Our people have made sure the guards and townspeople believe that Prince Jin was kidnapped, not killed.” He paused, his tone sharpening. “They understand that yesterday, in the throne room, Prince Jin had you, Zishu, under arrest—a former asset being reclaimed. And when Wen Kexing staged his rescue, overpowering the guards and spiriting both you and the prince away, they see it as an escalation of a plot, a dangerous alliance.”

Lin Lianfu continued, his tone meticulous. “As it stands, the narrative is that Wen Kexing broke in to rescue you, but took matters further by kidnapping Prince Jin as well. Now, the search for the prince is expanding, and our agents have ensured that every detail fits the picture of a calculated abduction. Our people within the guards have been spreading whispers about Wen Kexing’s ‘connection’ to Ghost Valley. And while we can’t claim credit for the most bizarre of these rumors, they are too useful to discard.”

He paused, his gaze lingering on Wen Kexing for a moment before flicking back to the Empress Dowager. “Some whispers suggest that Wen-daren is not the Valley Master at all, but merely a rogue ghost working against the true master’s will. Others claim that the Valley Master himself is hunting Wen-daren, and that his appearance here is a desperate attempt to stay ahead of his pursuers. Frankly, the origins of these stories remain a mystery to us—but their utility is undeniable. They add layers to the narrative, complicating what might otherwise be too direct a tale.”

The room felt taut with tension as the words settled. Maimei’s lips pressed into a thin line, and the twins exchanged sharp, knowing glances. Everyone here was fully aware of who Wen Kexing was—or claimed to be—and yet no one addressed the obvious. Zhou Zishu noticed how the Empress Dowager’s gaze remained steady, betraying neither surprise nor disapproval. Lin Lianfu, for his part, continued as though he were reporting on the weather, though the slight stiffening of his posture hinted at the delicate line he walked. 

Zhou Zishu suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, though his fingers curled faintly against the table. Of course the rumors were useful, but they were no mystery. He’d long since realized that Wen Kexing himself was behind them, spreading seeds of doubt and chaos like a farmer with no intention of harvesting. The man’s motivations remained a labyrinth of half-truths and whims, but his schemes had a way of twisting fortune to his favor. It was infuriating, really, but Zhou Zishu couldn’t deny the brilliance of it. 

“The guards have fully embraced the hunt,” Lin Lianfu continued, his voice crisp with efficiency. “They’re actively searching for you both, believing the prince to be held as a hostage, while every rumor we’ve planted leads them to dead ends. They’re scrutinizing any known hideouts or contacts from your past, Zhou-daren, and the Ghost Valley leads have distracted them further.”

Across the table, Maimei’s fingers drummed lightly against the wood, a sign of her unease. The twins were silent, but Yue’s gaze lingered on Wen Kexing, her brow furrowing faintly. Zhou Zishu didn’t blame them. The sheer absurdity of Wen Kexing sitting there, utterly calm and unbothered as rumors of his life and identity swirled through the room, was enough to unsettle anyone. Zhou Zishu’s own gaze slid to Wen Kexing, who sat with the faintest curve of a smile on his lips, as though the chaos were a joke only he understood. 

“They want you, Zhou-daren, dead or alive,” Lin Lianfu pressed, his tone sharpening. “And the more effort they pour into tracking you down, the further it leads them from the truth. We’ve carefully crafted sightings and clues, hints of a trail, giving them just enough to chase without finding anything concrete. And the rumors of Wen-daren’s entanglement with Ghost Valley only add to the confusion. Whether he’s seen as the Valley Master, an exiled ghost, or a target of the valley’s wrath, the contradictions work to our advantage.”

Zhou Zishu inclined his head faintly, masking his irritation with practiced ease. Whatever Wen Kexing hoped to gain from the tangled web of stories he’d spun, Zhou Zishu couldn’t guess. But he could feel the rest of the room watching Wen Kexing as carefully as they watched the plan itself. For now, the chaos was holding, and Wen Kexing’s antics—however maddening—were part of the balance keeping their plan intact.

Eunuch Lin Lianfu continued, his voice softening as he concluded, “The palace guards and townsfolk alike are fully committed to this version of events. They have no reason to suspect anything beyond what they’ve been told. With the groundwork we’ve laid, they should remain engrossed in the hunt for at least the coming days.”

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the weight of unspoken calculations. Zhou Zishu didn’t miss the way the Empress Dowager’s gaze moved, sharp and deliberate, settling on Wen Kexing with a flicker of something unreadable. Her fingers tapped once on the table, a gesture so slight it might have gone unnoticed if it hadn’t carried the weight of her authority. Then, she turned her attention to Zhou Zishu, her voice both direct and familiar, a tone she reserved for only a select few.

“Child,” she said bluntly, her sharp gaze cutting through the room like a blade, “this zhiji of yours—you’ve thrown him into the heart of this mess, and now we’re all tangled in his web. You trust him, clearly, but do you truly know what he’s playing at? If these Ghost Valley rumors are meant for something beyond this plan, I need to hear it from you.”

Zhou Zishu let out a faint breath, his fingers brushing against the smooth wood of the table as he considered his response. He could feel Wen Kexing’s gaze on him, steady and calm, but maddeningly unreadable. Do I know what he’s playing at? he thought wryly. Of course not. This was Wen Kexing, after all—a man whose plans unraveled even as they succeeded, who seemed to thrive in chaos for chaos’s sake. But did he trust him? That, he realized, was an entirely different question.

“I trust him, Grandmother,” he said at last, his tone calm but laced with the kind of resignation that only came from long acquaintance with a maddeningly brilliant person. “Whatever his schemes, they’ve done nothing but strengthen our position so far. And I believe they’ll continue to do so.” He paused, his lips quirking faintly. “Though I’ll admit, following him has been… interesting.”

The Empress Dowager’s expression didn’t shift, though Zhou Zishu thought he caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. “You’ve always been good at choosing your devils, child,” she said finally, her tone softer now but no less direct. “If this fool of yours complicates things, I’ll hold you responsible. But so far, I’ll admit… he hasn’t.” Her gaze shifted briefly back to Wen Kexing, who, maddeningly, had the audacity to look pleased, as if her words were a compliment. 

Wen Kexing’s lips curved faintly, his eyes glinting with the kind of amusement that Zhou Zishu found both exasperating and endearing. “A Xu,” he said lightly, his voice smooth but deliberately soft enough to avoid interrupting. “Such loyalty. I didn’t know you cared so much.”

Zhou Zishu gave him a pointed look, his tone dry as he replied, “I don’t. I simply recognize that I’ll have to keep dragging you out of whatever chaos you fall into next.” But even as he said it, he felt the familiar weight of resignation settle over him—a feeling he knew all too well. If this was the path Wen Kexing chose, then it was his path too, no matter where it led. 

The Empress Dowager shook her head slightly, but there was something almost indulgent in her tone as she spoke again. “Then it’s settled. If your zhiji’s chaos helps us, we’ll use it. But if it turns, you’d better be ready to clean it up, Zhou Zishu.”

Zhou Zishu inclined his head, his voice steady despite the wry humor simmering beneath it. “Of course, Grandmother. Isn’t that what I always do?”

One of the twins—Yue, Zhou Zishu noted—leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp as a blade’s edge. “And these ‘sightings’ you mentioned… have any of them been too close for comfort?” Her voice was soft, but there was a precise weight to it, each word tapping against the room’s tension like the rhythm of her fingers against the table. 

Zhou Zishu listened to Lianfu’s calm reply, his own thoughts methodically sorting through the details. “We’ve set up four separate teams, each trained to resemble the prince and his ‘captors.’ They move in different directions across the country, allowing themselves to be seen just enough to build rumors but not enough to cause doubt. The fact that there are four teams, each moving through distinct locations, adds a layer of uncertainty and confusion. To the guards, it seems as though the prince’s captors are elusive, slipping just out of reach at every turn.”

It was a precise maneuver, Zhou Zishu reflected, every thread carefully laid to divide their enemies’ focus. The beauty of it lay in its complexity: by multiplying possibilities, they had made the truth all but invisible. And yet, complexity was always a gamble. He let his gaze drift to Yue, reading the sharp skepticism in her expression. The girl was as deliberate as her sister, though perhaps less willing to trust a plan with so many moving parts. He couldn’t fault her caution, but he’d weighed these risks himself. The chaos they had sown wasn’t just necessary; it was essential. 

Wen Kexing leaned back then, as if the weight of the room didn’t concern him in the slightest. His finger tapped idly against his chin, a thoughtful expression slipping over his face. “That should keep them moving in circles,” he murmured, the words almost too casual. He paused, as if considering the cracks in his own statement. “But… it won’t last forever, will it?” His gaze sharpened as he continued, speaking more to himself now than to the room. “Once the guards begin comparing sightings, they’ll notice the timing doesn’t align—or perhaps they’ll spot inconsistencies in how the ‘prince’ behaves. At first, they’ll dismiss it as confusion, but then…”

His voice trailed off briefly, his finger stopping mid-tap before he resumed with quiet certainty. “Then it becomes a puzzle, doesn’t it? Something to solve, a question they’ll refuse to leave unanswered. And the more they dig, the more firmly they’ll believe the story we’ve given them. They’ll think they’ve unraveled the threads, but all they’ll find is the pattern we’ve already woven.” 

Zhou Zishu held his gaze, the faintest wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. As always, Lao Wen, you find the knife’s edge and then ask how sharp it is.

Zhou Zishu met Wen Kexing’s gaze, feeling a flicker of appreciation for the perceptiveness behind the question. “That’s precisely the point,” he replied smoothly, his tone carrying a faint edge of amusement. “The guards thrive on certainty—on straight paths they think they can follow. Give them too many twists, too many diverging trails, and they won’t know which direction to chase. They’ll be so consumed by the problem that they’ll forget to question whether the solution even exists.”

Wen Kexing’s lips curved, his smile faint but unmistakably approving. “Quite the labyrinth you’ve built, A Xu,” he murmured, leaning back with an air of easy confidence. “And here I thought I was the only one who enjoyed watching people chase their own tails.”

Zhou Zishu offered him a dry glance, his tone sharper as he replied, “You’ve always lacked subtlety, Lao Wen. This isn’t about enjoying the chase—it’s about keeping them too tangled to find their way out.”

The Empress Dowager leaned back in her chair, her posture composed but her gaze cutting as it turned toward Lin Lianfu. “And yet,” she interjected smoothly, “the trick with any labyrinth, child, is ensuring it leads somewhere. Give them nothing but dead ends, and they’ll start tearing through the walls.” Her hands rested lightly in her lap, but her words carried the weight of a command. “Every move must feel deliberate. No trail should end without offering them something to grasp, even if it slips away.”

Lin Lianfu bowed his head, his expression calm but thoughtful. “I understand, Your Majesty. The threads we’ve laid already lead them to the places we’ve chosen—places that can’t touch us. But I’ll see to it that the trails remain… enticing.”

The Empress’s lips curved faintly, though the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Good. We can’t afford any shadows creeping too close.”

Zhou Zishu allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction, though his gaze lingered briefly on Wen Kexing, who was watching the exchange with his usual inscrutable amusement. That, Zhou Zishu thought dryly, was the difference between them. He wove lies to keep others at bay; Wen Kexing spun chaos simply to see what might crawl out from the wreckage. 

“Do you hear that, Lao Wen?” Zhou Zishu said finally, his voice even but laced with irony. “A plan’s strength lies in control. I hope you’re taking notes.”

Wen Kexing tilted his head, his smile widening into something almost boyish. “Oh, I’m listening, A Xu. But tell me—when all this is over, will you leave them a way out? Or is this one of your traps they’ll never escape?”

The Empress Dowager’s gaze flicked between the two of them, her expression unreadable before she broke the silence. “If they escape, it’s because we allow it. Make no mistake, children—we’re not spinning a web. We’re spinning a noose.”

Zhou Zishu inclined his head slightly, a wry smile tugging at his lips. As always, Grandmother had the final word.

Zhou Zishu remained still, letting the silence settle over the room like the final note of a song. The pieces were in motion, every thread weaving into place, and for now, the plan held. He caught Wen Kexing’s eye, his zhiji’s faint smirk carrying the same mix of amusement and certainty that Zhou Zishu felt brewing in his own chest. Trusting Wen Kexing was like walking a tightrope blindfolded, but so far, he had yet to fall.

The quiet stretched a moment too long, the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing against the air. Zhou Zishu could feel it coming, the inevitable question that would cut through the quiet like a blade. It was Yun who finally broke the silence, her tone as sharp and even as the line of her posture.

“All of this,” she said, her voice smooth, almost dispassionate, “is clever. But we all know there’s no prince waiting at the end of this hunt. A week’s delay, perhaps, maybe two—but what then?” Her head tilted slightly, her dark eyes steady as they flicked between Zhou Zishu and the Empress Dowager. “What’s the grand finale here?”

Zhou Zishu allowed himself a slow breath, his fingers curling slightly against the edge of his sleeve. Trust Yun to slice straight to the heart of things—no embellishments, no dramatics, just precision. It wasn’t skepticism, not exactly, but an insistence on clarity. And perhaps that was fair. After all, he’d built this stage piece by piece; now it was time to reveal what lay behind the curtain.

“It’s true,” Zhou Zishu began, his voice calm, though something sharper coiled beneath it. “There is no prince at the end of this hunt. Not the one they’re hoping for.” He let the words settle, watching the faint shift in Yun’s expression. It was a calculated question she’d asked, and she expected an equally calculated answer.

His gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on Wen Kexing, whose faint, knowing smile was insufferable as always. “Instead, they’ll find… an echo,” Zhou Zishu continued, his voice dipping lower. “A reflection that moves as they expect it to. One they’ll believe, because it looks back at them the way they think it should.”

The Empress Dowager remained silent, her gaze steady on him. She didn’t press for more, but Zhou Zishu could feel the weight of her expectation all the same. “Years ago,” he said, his tone measured, “it became clear that the prince’s place was as fragile as it was vital. The dangers surrounding him were many, and it was… prudent to take precautions. A solution was found. A shape crafted to stand in his place, should it ever become necessary.”

Zhou Zishu’s words shifted, softening with something that wasn’t quite regret. “He was chosen carefully—someone who could disappear into the shadows and still embody the light. He was trained, shaped for years in secrecy, his every movement and manner crafted to mirror the prince. Not just to look the part, but to be it. To stand exactly where we placed him, with no questions asked.”

He glanced at Yun, her sharp gaze searching his expression for cracks, then to Yue, her stillness an echo of the calculating precision that defined them both. “He is no impostor,” Zhou Zishu added, his tone sharpening. “He is the answer to a question no one should have had to ask. He’s loyal, prepared, and waiting exactly where we need him.”

The room seemed to draw taut with the weight of what remained unspoken. Yun’s eyes narrowed further, while Yue’s thoughtful gaze flicked to the Empress Dowager, as though seeking confirmation. Zhou Zishu said nothing more, letting the silence stretch. 

And Wen Kexing? His reaction, as always, was maddeningly indecipherable. He leaned back in his chair, his faint smile deepening, as though the entire explanation had been crafted for his amusement. It wasn’t the doppelganger itself that delighted him—it was the elegance of the lie it created, the beauty of a truth sharpened into deception.

Wen Kexing’s voice was low, almost a murmur, but there was no missing the admiration laced through it. “So, you’ve been waiting all this time, A Xu. Preparing him to step into the prince’s place, to lead them to believe they’ve won.” His gaze flicked to Zhou Zishu, a glimmer of curiosity flickering beneath the smooth amusement. “And when they find him, they’ll think they’ve succeeded.” 

“Yes,” Zhou Zishu replied, his voice steady, though an edge of satisfaction curled beneath the words. “They’ll find him, rescued from his supposed captors, every detail tailored to the part. They’ll see what they want to see—a prince returned, a victory claimed. And in that belief, they’ll stop looking.” His tone sharpened, deliberate. “The real prince, meanwhile, will remain exactly where he needs to be—gone.” 

Wen Kexing’s smile widened, something bright and calculating glinting in his gaze. “Ah, A Xu,” he murmured, as if speaking only to himself, “you’ve orchestrated it all so perfectly. A phantom prince to lead them on a path so convincing they’ll never think to step off it.” 

Zhou Zishu allowed himself a faint, dry smile, though something heavier stirred beneath it. A deep, quiet exhaustion threaded through the satisfaction that came with the culmination of years of meticulous planning. This was the end of the road—a final gamble with no room for error. He felt the weight settle across his chest, heavier than he had expected, but there was no room to let it crack his resolve. 

The silence stretched between them, thick and almost suffocating. And yet, as Zhou Zishu caught the faint glimmer of understanding in Wen Kexing’s eyes, he felt a strange sense of certainty settle into his bones.

“All that’s left,” Zhou Zishu began, his voice steady though each word felt like it carried the weight of the years behind it, “is to set the final steps in place. And then… we let them find him.” He exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible, as though letting go of something too heavy to hold much longer. “For years, this is what it’s all led to. Every lie, every sacrifice. The last stretch is here, and we’re too far in to stop.” 

He paused, his fingers brushing against the edge of the table, grounding himself against the onslaught of exhaustion and relief threatening to bubble to the surface. The stakes were too high for hesitation, but for the first time, there was the faintest thread of hope—something fragile and dangerous he barely dared to acknowledge. 

Wen Kexing’s gaze lingered on him, but instead of warmth, there was something colder, more calculating. “So that’s it, A Xu? Years of plotting, every detail sharpened to perfection, all for this.” His voice dipped slightly, a blade hidden beneath silk. “And yet, when they find him, what’s to stop them from digging further? What makes you think this ‘final act’ will be enough to hold them?” 

Zhou Zishu’s lips quirked faintly at the question, though no amusement touched his eyes. “Because that’s how this works,” he said, his tone as dry as it was certain. “The court isn’t like the world you’ve spent your life unraveling, Lao Wen. It isn’t chaos and ruin. It’s a game where every piece holds another in place, a structure so fragile it’s unbreakable.” He leaned back slightly, letting the weight of his words settle. “They’ll see what they want to see. They’ll take what’s offered because they can’t risk breaking the illusion—even if they suspect there’s something more.” 

The room held its breath, the subtle tension between them like a string pulled taut. Zhou Zishu studied Wen Kexing for a moment, the flicker of realization behind his companion’s eyes almost imperceptible. For all his brilliance, all his clever schemes, Wen Kexing hadn’t truly grasped the difference between manipulation born of chaos and the carefully woven lies that bound a court together. It wasn’t a weakness, Zhou Zishu supposed—it was simply a matter of perspective. 

“Why all of this?” Wen Kexing asked suddenly, his voice quieter now but still laced with curiosity. “If the prince is already gone, what’s the point of this theater?” 

The faintest trace of irritation prickled at the edges of Zhou Zishu’s control, though he smoothed it into something more measured. “Because, Lao Wen,” he said evenly, “this isn’t about one person. It never was.”

Zhou Zishu’s gaze settled on Wen Kexing, who still looked at him with the kind of faint disbelief that might have been flattering if it hadn’t been so maddening. He took a slow breath, letting the irritation settle into something quieter, sharper. “Do you truly think,” he began, his tone lazy, though each word carried the weight of something far less forgiving, “that removing a prince is the sort of problem I’d have trouble solving? That I, of all people, couldn’t end this anytime I wanted?” 

His gaze didn’t waver, though a faint, wry edge crept into his voice. “Come now, Lao Wen. You know me better than that.” 

Wen Kexing held his stare, his expression unreadable, though Zhou Zishu could sense the weight of the question shifting in his mind. Around them, the others sat silent, their gazes a blend of calculation and expectation. He resisted the urge to sigh, instead letting his tone drop, lower and colder now. 

“It isn’t so simple,” he said at last. “It was never so simple.” He leaned back slightly, the movement deliberate as his fingers brushed against the cool edge of the table. “The prince is more than one life. His survival—his absence—anchors more than you can see. And as hard as it may be to believe,” his lips quirked faintly, though the humor didn’t reach his eyes, “he’s the best choice left.” 

He let the statement hang for a moment, watching the faint ripple of understanding shift through the room. “The others…” His voice softened, edged with a quiet sharpness. “Do you think any of them would step into his place and do better? Because I assure you, every one of them is worse. Greedy. Incompetent. Ruthless in the ways that don’t serve anyone but themselves. If he were gone, the void would drag this entire palace into ruin.” 

Zhou Zishu’s gaze drifted over the room now, his thoughts as steady as his tone. “The women’s quarters would fall first. All but Grandmother would be swept aside in the reshuffling of power. Every network we’ve built, every move we’ve made—all of it would collapse under the weight of forces far less careful than ours.” 

He exhaled softly, the weariness threading into his words almost imperceptibly. “And then there are my people—the ones we’ve placed among the guards, the servants, the streets. They’d be torn apart in the chaos, chewed up by the very forces we’re trying to keep at bay. Removing him might seem simple, but the aftermath?” He shook his head, his voice quieter now, though no less certain. “It would devour them all.” 

His fingers curled slightly against the table, grounding himself against the quiet gravity of his own words. Zhou Zishu let his gaze return to Wen Kexing, who was silent now, his expression carefully neutral. Zhou Zishu almost smirked. Even you, Lao Wen, can’t argue with the math of this one.

Zhou Zishu let the silence linger, the weight of his words settling over the room like a fine layer of dust—subtle, but inescapable. “One act,” he said finally, his tone sharper now, more deliberate, “could topple everything. Remove him, and we’d be digging the foundation out from under the palace. The cracks wouldn’t just spread—they’d collapse everything we’ve built.” 

His fingers brushed the table’s edge as he continued, his gaze steady but distant, as though addressing the idea itself rather than the people in the room. “It’s tempting to imagine otherwise, I know. One life exchanged for stability. But nothing in this palace stands alone, least of all him. His absence would create a vacuum, and I assure you, what would rise to fill it would be far worse than what we have now.” 

He allowed the words to hang, watching as they landed. Yun’s sharp gaze darted to her sister, both of them processing his meaning without asking for clarification. Wen Kexing, as always, betrayed only the faintest flicker of surprise before his expression settled back into one of faint amusement—though now tempered with something closer to respect. 

“We needed more,” Zhou Zishu said softly, the edge in his voice giving way to something heavier, quieter. “We couldn’t let him vanish and expect the chaos to stay where we left it. So we created something to fill the space—a reflection, close enough to convince even those who’d look for cracks.” He paused, his lips curving faintly in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “A miracle, if you prefer a prettier word for it. It keeps them looking where we want them to, and away from what they shouldn’t see.” 

The room remained still, the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing against the quiet. Zhou Zishu didn’t look at Wen Kexing again, though he could feel the man’s gaze on him—sharp, calculating, and, for once, silent. Zhou Zishu felt the faintest tug of exhaustion pull at him, but it wasn’t unwelcome. It was the kind of tiredness that came with knowing the hardest part was nearly over.

Wen Kexing’s voice broke the silence, cold and biting but underscored with something rawer. “So there was a plan. There was a solution. Then why the nails, A-Xu?” The words cut through the air, sharp and relentless, though Zhou Zishu could feel the frustration beneath them—the frustration of a man who could not fathom the choices his zhiji made, no matter how many times he tried to understand. 

Before Zhou Zishu could answer, Maimei’s voice rose, slicing through the tension like a blade. “Why the nails?” she repeated, her tone trembling with fury. She stood abruptly, her hands clenched at her sides as if she needed something to hold on to, to stop herself from shaking him. “Because he’s a stubborn, self-sacrificing idiot who thinks the only way to fix this world is to destroy himself in the process. That’s why.” 

Her anger burned hot, fierce enough to scald, but it was the kind of fury born from love, protective and unwavering. “Every life he couldn’t save, every terrible thing this court forced him to do—it’s as if he’s decided it’s all his to carry, all his fault.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she pushed forward, glaring at Zhou Zishu as if daring him to deny it. “You can’t even see it, can you? You act like it’s noble, like tearing yourself apart makes the world better. But it doesn’t. It just leaves the people who care about you trying to piece together the scraps.” 

Her words landed hard, as they always did. Zhou Zishu didn’t flinch, but there was a flicker of something in his chest, something he refused to name. Maimei was too young to understand all of it, yet she saw enough—too much, perhaps. It was always strange, seeing himself so clearly through her anger, feeling the weight of her loyalty even as it lashed out against him.

“Maimei.” Grandmother’s voice was soft, but it cut through the room with the weight of authority only she could wield. Zhou Zishu felt her gaze on him, steady and unrelenting, stripping away every mask he thought he still wore. He didn’t look up. Meeting her eyes now felt like inviting a blade too close to his throat. 

“This is what the court does to its children,” she said, her tone calm but with a precision that made each word feel deliberate, inevitable. “It takes something as simple, as natural, as breathing—and turns it into a debt. A price you must pay for existing. And then it carves that belief so deep into your bones, you cannot imagine life without it. Cannot fathom the idea that you might simply be enough.” 

Zhou Zishu’s chest tightened, though he didn’t move. His hands, resting limp in his lap, curled ever so slightly at her words. Grandmother’s voice softened, but it wasn’t gentle; it carried the kind of understanding that cut deeper than pity. “You carry that debt like a sacred duty. And when no one is left to collect it from you, when the world finally stops asking—what do you do? You invent ways to pay it back. You start carving pieces out of yourself to balance a scale that no one else sees.” 

He drew a shallow breath, the ache of her words pressing against something old and unyielding. “It’s not like that,” he said, his voice low, though it faltered before it could build. He couldn’t finish the thought. 

Grandmother raised her hand—a small, precise motion—and silenced him before he could try again. Her gaze held his, cutting through him as though she already knew every excuse, every argument, before he could form it. 

“You don’t owe anyone, Zhou Zishu,” she said, her voice steady, immovable. “Not anymore.” She paused, letting the words sink in, before continuing. “You were a weapon, forged by hands you didn’t choose. It was never your debt to carry. And the only person still demanding payment from you now… is you.”

He turned his head slightly, refusing to meet her eyes. “That’s not true,” he murmured, the words stumbling out, brittle and incomplete. “I owe… I owe more than I can ever…” The sentence broke, collapsing under the weight of itself, the truth too tangled to unearth. 

Grandmother let the silence breathe, her gaze as steady and deliberate as a blade. She didn’t press, didn’t hurry, letting each second carve deeper into the fragile quiet Zhou Zishu clung to. He felt bare beneath her scrutiny, every carefully constructed defense stripped away as if they had never been there at all. 

“And how,” she asked at last, her tone sharp and measured, “does your pain serve them? These people you speak of with such reverence? The ones who suffered under the same hand that forged you into a weapon—what do they gain from the pieces of yourself you keep destroying?” 

Her words fell like a steady rain, each one striking with purpose, unrelenting. “Do you think your suffering honors them? That it somehow rewrites the past or eases their ghosts? It does nothing, Zhou Zishu. Nothing but leave a deeper wound for others to carry.” 

Zhou Zishu didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He felt her words pressing on him, each one impossibly precise, pulling at truths he had never wanted to face. 

“And,” she continued, softer now but no less cutting, “as for the people who love you—the ones still living—what does it do for them? Do you imagine they see your suffering and feel pride, or comfort? Or do you think, perhaps, it carves at them as deeply as it carves at you?” Her gaze flicked briefly to Wen Kexing, who sat still, silent but unwavering beside him. 

Zhou Zishu chanced a glance at his zhiji, whose expression was maddeningly calm. Wen Kexing said nothing, but his agreement was clear in the way he sat, unshaken by Grandmother’s words. If anything, the quiet support in his presence grated more than a rebuke might have. 

Grandmother sighed then, a sound so measured it felt like the final turn of a lock. She leaned back, her gaze softening by a fraction, though her tone lost none of its weight. “It is fortunate,” she said, every word deliberate, “that you know, as I do, there is a way forward from this.” She tilted her head slightly, her gaze pinning him again. “And it is even more fortunate that I will ensure you do not squander it.” 

The promise in her words felt immovable, a structure built around him with no door to escape through. Zhou Zishu exhaled slowly, every word lodging itself deeper into his chest.

The silence pressed down on Zhou Zishu, heavy and unrelenting. He didn’t speak, but the unease twisted and knotted inside him, coiling tighter with each passing second. The cure. It should have felt like an answer, a solution—but all he could see was the blood it had taken to reach this point, the lines they had crossed, the gods they had surely angered. 

“The cure,” he said finally, his voice low, uncertain. His gaze didn’t rise from the floor, as if looking up would mean facing something he wasn’t ready to see. “What it took to get here… It feels like a line no one was meant to cross. I don’t know if—” He stopped himself, the weight of the words lodging somewhere between his throat and his chest. “The gods themselves might not forgive it.” 

Before the thought could settle, Wen Kexing broke in, his voice rising with sudden energy. “So it’s real, then? The cure exists?” His tone carried the wild, manic edge of a man grasping at something he thought he’d never see. “Not some mad alchemist’s story or the old monster’s hollow promises? It’s real?” 

The flicker of excitement in Wen Kexing’s voice grated against Zhou Zishu’s unease, but he had no energy to argue. Beside him, Wen Kexing leaned forward, his intensity growing. “Do you understand what this means, A-Xu?” he pressed, his gaze bright, too bright. “We don’t need to gamble with the old monster’s tricks or the half-truths he spins. This—this is an answer.” 

“It’s not that simple,” Zhou Zishu murmured, though his voice faltered under the weight of his own doubts. 

“Of course it’s simple,” Wen Kexing replied, his words cutting sharply, though not unkindly. “We find it. We use it. And then you stop walking toward your own damn grave.” 

Grandmother’s voice cut through, calm but determined, scattering Wen Kexing’s fervor and pinning Zhou Zishu to the moment. “You think too much of yourself, Zhou Zishu,” she said, her words deliberate, sharp. “Do you believe the goddess of fate wasn’t already watching you? That she didn’t know the path you planned to take? If she wished to stop you, do you think you could have resisted her hand?” 

Her words struck clean, unrelenting. Zhou Zishu felt the tight coil of unease pressing against him, and still, Grandmother pressed on. “You think this is about forgiveness,” she said, leaning forward slightly, her piercing gaze holding his. “But have you considered, perhaps, that it was never about forgiveness? That your plan, your exchange, was exactly as it was meant to be? Or that this cure—this chance—is the goddess’s way of letting you see it through?” 

Wen Kexing shifted beside him, his energy simmering into something steadier, though his skepticism lingered. “Whatever it is,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a sharp edge, “it’s better than anything the old monster promised. I’ll trust Grandmother’s word over his any day.” 

Zhou Zishu didn’t respond. The weight of Grandmother’s words and Wen Kexing’s conviction sat heavy in his chest, tangled with his own doubts and fears. He wasn’t sure whether he believed any of it, but for the first time, he felt the faintest thread of something unfamiliar—a fragile hope, dangerous and impossible to name.

“It’s simple,” Grandmother said, her words like a blade drawn carefully but without hesitation. “You’ve always done what must be done, Zhou Zishu. This is no different. You’ll take the cure, and you’ll stop dragging your feet like a child too stubborn to admit the truth.” 

Zhou Zishu didn’t respond, but the weight of her certainty pressed against him, tightening around something he couldn’t name. His gaze drifted across the room. Grandmother, steady and resolute; Maimei, her arms crossed, glaring at him as if daring him to argue; and the twins, standing with identical expressions of sharp disapproval, their patience as thin as his own. 

Then there was Wen Kexing, his zhiji, who should have been on his side but had instead leaned back with that maddening air of amusement, as though he found all of this faintly ridiculous. 

“Well, there you have it,” Wen Kexing said, his voice light but threaded with something steadier beneath the surface. “Grandmother has spoken, the heavens have laughed, and here we are. You’ve officially lost, A-Xu. Besides—” he tilted his head, his grin pulling wider, teasing, “I’d look terrible in mourning robes. Don’t make me wear them, hmm?” 

Zhou Zishu’s patience frayed further, though he could feel the corners of his mouth twitch against his will. This fool, this infuriating fool, always found a way to drag him out of his brooding whether he wanted it or not. And yet, the weight of their eyes remained—the room unified in its insistence that there was no other option, no argument left to make. 

The silence that followed felt oppressive. Zhou Zishu exhaled slowly, and for once, it wasn’t the words he couldn’t find—it was the resistance.

Zhou Zishu let out a slow, steady breath, his gaze lingering on the hand resting over his own. It was a small, steady weight that grounded him, even as the heaviness of his decisions pressed in. Slowly, the absurdity of Wen Kexing’s comment began to cut through the fog in his mind, tugging faintly at the corners of his mouth. 

“You’d look like an idiot in mourning robes,” Zhou Zishu muttered at last, his voice dry but steadier now. 

“An idiot?” Wen Kexing repeated, his tone rising in mock outrage. “I’ll have you know I’d look tragic and magnificent—a figure of unparalleled beauty in despair. People would compose odes, you know.” He paused, raising an eyebrow, his grin sly. “But you, A-Xu—” 

“Wouldn’t mourn you at all,” Zhou Zishu interrupted smoothly, his voice sharp with teasing. “I’d let the heavens deal with your dramatics instead.” He leaned back slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “No odes, no tears. Just silence. Imagine the peace.”

Wen Kexing leaned closer, undeterred, his grin curving into something smug. “No tears? No odes?” he asked, his voice light and teasing. “A-Xu, you wound me. I thought you’d at least build a small shrine in my honor. Just something modest—perhaps a statue?” 

Zhou Zishu tilted his head, giving Wen Kexing a slow, deliberate once-over. “A shrine?” he repeated, his tone dry, his lips twitching as though fighting back a smile. “Why would I waste precious stone on you? You’re already hard enough to endure as it is.” 

Wen Kexing gasped, a hand flying to his chest in mock affront. “Cruel and ungrateful,” he declared dramatically, though his eyes gleamed with amusement. “After everything I’ve done for you, too. The rescue attempts, the endless loyalty, the sheer brilliance I bring to your otherwise miserable days—” 

“Brilliance?” Zhou Zishu interrupted, raising an eyebrow. His smirk deepened. “That’s not the word I’d use, but it’s bold of you to think it.” 

The teasing was ridiculous, pointless, but somehow it chipped away at the heavy stillness in Zhou Zishu’s chest. He let the banter fill the space between them, steady and grounding, until the storm of guilt and doubt retreated just enough for him to take a proper breath. 

For now, it was enough.

Maimei’s voice cut through, sharp and unmistakably irritated. “And you two?” she snapped, her brow furrowed as she shot them both a glare. “Flirting. Here. Now. Do you even hear yourselves?” She folded her arms, looking every bit like a young general dressing down unruly soldiers. “You’re the most wanted people in the lands. How exactly do you plan to keep from being caught—or do you plan to just flirt your way out of trouble too?” 

Zhou Zishu felt the heat of her disapproval settle squarely on his shoulders, but it only made his lips twitch faintly. “Lady Yu and her doctor,” he began, his tone calm but edged with a dry amusement, “aren’t wanted by anyone. They’re quiet, peaceful people. She’s the widow of a great hero, and a scarred one at that. Why would anyone waste their time chasing her?” 

Maimei’s eyes narrowed as though debating whether this was an acceptable answer. After a long pause, she huffed, her glare softening—slightly. “Fine. I suppose no one would bother to chase a doctor Wen and his quiet widow. But if they do, Ge, I’ll remind you I was the one asking how you planned to stop them.” 

Zhou Zishu caught the faintest glimmer of relief in her expression, though she clearly wasn’t about to show it. Beside him, Wen Kexing leaned forward, smirking as though the word “chase” had been delivered as a gift meant just for him. 

“Oh, I, for one, would happily chase A-Xu anywhere and everywhere he goes,” Wen Kexing drawled, his voice slow and deliberate, the teasing warmth impossible to miss. 

Zhou Zishu didn’t even glance at him this time. His patience felt like the thinnest thread, but he had no desire to provoke Maimei further. “Lao Wen,” he said, his tone sharp but even, “this is neither the time nor the place.” 

Wen Kexing let out a faint sigh, though his grin remained firmly in place. Maimei rolled her eyes, but the tension in her posture softened.

Maimei’s sigh cut through the lingering tension, her tone shifting to something warmer, though no less pointed. “Well, I, for one, am happy to have my Ge here at last,” she said, her expression softening despite herself. She glanced at Wen Kexing briefly, her nod small and almost playful before continuing, “And don’t forget—you promised the children you’d visit them before they sleep. You should let them know you’ll be here for a while. It would mean the world to them.” 

Her words settled over Zhou Zishu like a quiet reprieve, softening something taut in his chest. He offered her a small nod, his voice mild. “Ah, yes. I’ll make sure they know.” 

Across the room, the twins exchanged a quick, knowing glance before turning matching smirks on him. Yun’s voice was deceptively polite, syrupy in its sweetness. “And perhaps a training session, Ge?” 

Zhou Zishu opened his mouth to reply, but Wen Kexing folded his arms, his expression slipping into one of exaggerated disapproval. “A Xu isn’t well,” he interjected, his tone carrying a faint edge of mock severity. “I hardly think he should be promising anything strenuous.”

The twins’ smirks faded, replaced by a look of quiet disappointment, but Zhou Zishu merely tilted his head toward Wen Kexing, a faint glint in his gaze. “But Lao Wen here will be more than happy to provide your training. I’m certain you’ll be surprised by what he can teach.” 

He could feel Wen Kexing’s eyes on him, the weight of that familiar gaze lingering as he spoke. “Is that so?” Wen Kexing murmured, his tone both amused and resigned. “You’d send me to the wolves?” 

Zhou Zishu allowed himself the faintest smile, his voice dropping lower. “Consider it… enriching.” 

His gaze flicked briefly over the others in the room. The Empress Dowager remained composed, her expression one of regal detachment, though the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her approval. Eunuch Lin, on the other hand, didn’t even try to hide his amusement. He smirked openly before raising a delicate hand to his sleeve, muffling a laugh that felt sharper than it should have. 

Zhou Zishu felt the faint tug of warmth in the quiet room, the comfortable presence of people who knew him—knew each other—with an ease that settled over the space. It was almost enough to make him forget the weight of their plans, if only for a moment.

At that, the Empress Dowager cleared her throat softly, commanding the room’s attention with effortless grace. She rose, her hands clasped in front of her, her expression as calm and impenetrable as ever. “Well,” she said, her voice smooth and measured, “it seems we’ve discussed everything important. Now, we lay low and wait.” 

Her gaze drifted briefly across the room, lingering on each face before settling on Zhou Zishu. There was a glimmer of something in her eyes—approval, perhaps, or a quiet acknowledgment of the weight he carried. Zhou Zishu inclined his head in response, his movements precise, his expression unreadable. 

The others began to rise, the room shifting with quiet efficiency. Zhou Zishu allowed himself one last glance around, taking in the faces of those gathered here—their peculiar alliance bound together by sharp minds and sharper edges. For now, there was calm. A fragile, fleeting calm, but it was enough. 

They had time—time to play their roles, to hold their positions, and to rest in the rare solace of knowing, at least for this moment, that their plans were still holding. Zhou Zishu breathed in deeply, letting the quiet settle over him. For now, it would do.

Chapter Text

Oh Siming, please keep under your gentle care,
Small hearts and hands too precious for words.
Grant them happy days and peaceful dreams,
While this one bears their burdens and pain,
A silent shield against the storm.

Zhou Zishu moved quietly down the corridor, the warm glow of lanterns casting elongated shadows as he passed. The children’s voices filtered through the hall, bright and relentless, each room spilling over with eager chatter and insistent questions as he entered.

“Ge! Auntie Yu!” Small hands tugged at his sleeves, a dozen little stories competing for his attention. One boy looked up at him with wide, determined eyes, proudly clutching something wrapped in cloth. “I found a turtle today! Right by the pond!” he announced, as though the small creature were a treasure worthy of royal praise.

Zhou Zishu bent slightly, letting the child’s excitement wash over him while keeping his tone mild. “A turtle, you say? Quite the discovery.”

Behind him, Wen Kexing’s low, amused murmur slipped past his ear. “If only all your admirers were this persistent, A Xu. You’d have an endless audience,” he quipped, just loud enough for Zhou Zishu to catch.

Zhou Zishu shot a sharp look over his shoulder, though he couldn’t quite suppress a smile. “You’re welcome to take notes, Lao Wen,” he replied, voice dry as he moved to the next room, feeling an unexpected warmth settle somewhere beneath the well-worn weight of his defenses.

Zhou Zishu barely had a chance to cross the threshold when a sudden, high-pitched battle cry rang out. Three small figures barreled into him, their tiny hands tugging at his sleeves and robes, voices overlapping in a flurry of demands. 

“Auntie Yu!” the eldest cried, her face alight with determination. 

“Gege Zhou!” the middle one chimed in, her tone accusing, already tugging at the edge of his sleeve. 

“Lady Zhou!” the youngest squeaked, clutching a handful of wildflowers, her eyes wide with the pure, unshakable authority of the very young. “You promised! You said we could fix your hair!” 

Zhou Zishu froze mid-step, caught in the whirlwind of tugging hands and emphatic declarations. His mouth opened to protest, but before he could form the words, he caught Wen Kexing leaning lazily against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a wicked grin spreading across his face. 

“Well, Auntie Zhou,” Wen Kexing drawled, his voice positively dripping with amusement, “it seems your loyal admirers have a point. You wouldn’t want to go back on your word, would you?” 

Zhou Zishu turned a sharp look his way, though the heat creeping up his neck undermined his severity. “Enjoy yourself, Lao Wen,” he muttered, his voice tight with exasperation as he let himself be shepherded to a small stool in the corner. “This is clearly the highlight of your day.” 

As soon as he sat, small hands descended on him like a flock of sparrows, quick and determined. His hair was combed, pulled, braided, and decorated with the tiny wildflowers the youngest had collected. The girls chattered and giggled as they worked, switching seamlessly between “Auntie Zhou,” “Elder Ge,” and, occasionally, “Your Majesty” in a fit of mock seriousness. 

Wen Kexing let out a low chuckle from his perch, his tone smooth and deliberately grating. “Magnificent,” he said, tilting his head as if appraising a masterpiece. “I’ve seen paintings of elegant women at court, but this... This is truly unparalleled.” 

Zhou Zishu didn’t look up, too mortified by the scene to meet his zhiji’s teasing gaze. “If you don’t stop talking,” he muttered through gritted teeth, “they’ll be braiding your hair next.”

Each doorway revealed new faces, each voice a familiar hum of welcome that softened the rough edges of his night. He paused now and then, acknowledging the cheerful compliments from the children who passed by—“You look like a spring goddess, Ge!” “So pretty, Auntie Zhou!”—their earnestness disarming despite his discomfort. The flowers still nestled in his hair bobbed gently with every step, a reminder of the little hands that had placed them there with such care. 

Outside in the moonlit courtyard, he found the twins, Yue and Yun, standing by the path, arms folded, wearing identical looks of mock severity. He tilted his head, a resigned sigh escaping his lips as their sharp gazes flicked over his hair. “Goodnight, Yue. Goodnight, Yun,” he murmured, bowing slightly. “Or would you like a bedtime story as well?” 

“Ge,” Yue replied, her smirk cutting through the quiet, “I think the flowers might suit you too well. Tell us, do you prefer heroic tales or tragic romances?” 

Zhou Zishu straightened, smoothing the edge of his robe with exaggerated care. “Neither,” he said, his tone dry as he glanced at her sidelong. “I’m more partial to cautionary tales—would you like to be the example?” 

Yun snorted, covering her mouth to hide a grin as Zhou Zishu bowed again, the movement making a single petal drift loose from one of the braids. He caught the glimmer of Wen Kexing’s amusement as he walked past, no doubt committing every detail of this moment to memory for future torment.A glint of something warmer flickered in his eyes as he took a step closer. “Quite the bedtime hero, aren’t we?” he murmured, his tone soft with unspoken affection. “The flowers really complete the look, A Xu. Very dignified.” 

Zhou Zishu lifted a brow, casting Wen Kexing a sidelong look brimming with exasperation and faint amusement. Before he could retort, Wen Kexing tilted his head, his grin turning playful. “Maybe next time I’ll let them do my hair. What do you think, A Xu? Would I make a beautiful bedtime hero? Perhaps even more beautiful than you?” His voice dripped with mock sincerity, his hand brushing theatrically through his hair as though already imagining it. 

“You’re free to handle it next time,” Zhou Zishu replied, voice sharp but light, brushing at one of the braids as though to dislodge a particularly stubborn petal. “Maybe they’ll give you a whole crown of flowers. That should suit your delicate sensibilities.” 

Wen Kexing’s laughter rose behind him, unrepentant and bright. “Delicate? Oh, A Xu, flattery will get you everywhere.” Zhou Zishu let out a long-suffering sigh, huffing under his breath as they made their way back to their quarters.

Inside, the silence settled warmly around them, broken only by the lingering echoes of children’s laughter and the soft rustle of night wind against the walls. Wen Kexing lingered a moment longer, gaze softer, as though reading something unspoken in Zhou Zishu’s expression. “It suits you,” Wen Kexing murmured, voice low. “To be… part of something like this.”

Zhou Zishu didn’t respond, but a faint smile tugged at his mouth as he stepped further into their quarters, the warmth of the children’s faith and laughter trailing softly into the quiet of the night.

Chapter Text

His steady hand wields bloody weapons,
Like gentle silks and soft caresses.
And yet, its safety makes the work less foreign—
Oh Siming, is this your jest or promise?

The bloody birds loved Wen Kexing. Of course they did.

Zhou Zishu realized Wen Kexing was gone when he woke to an empty bed, the faint warmth of his absence lingering in the room. Frowning, he moved quietly through their quarters, looking for any sign of him. He was ready to head out to the courtyard when, as he passed the wide window overlooking the secluded garden, he caught the soft murmur of Wen Kexing’s voice below.

Zhou Zishu stilled, leaning by the open window, listening.

Wen Kexing was seated on the ground, cross-legged beneath the branches, and utterly surrounded. The birds crowded him, each vying for a place near his hands as he scattered seeds from his palm. He chuckled to himself, half-scolding, half-praising the birds as though they were part of an ongoing argument.

“Oh, you think I’m wrong?” Wen Kexing said, tossing a few seeds and watching as one bold bird hopped to his knee. “You think he’s fine? Of course you do,” he muttered, stroking its feathers. “None of you saw him last night, how he hides everything away—like he’ll fall apart if he admits he’s actually hurting. But no, no, he’s got to be strong, perfect. You don’t know him as I do,” he added with a little sigh, ruffling the feathers of another bird on his arm.

One of the birds let out a shrill chirp, and Wen Kexing laughed, lowering his voice to a murmur. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if I’m much better. Between you and me, I’m probably the last person who deserves him.” He paused, glancing down, a touch of self-doubt in his voice. “There’s darkness in me—a lot of it. And what do I have to offer him in return?”

A soft coo interrupted his thoughts, and Wen Kexing turned his head slightly, one brow arched as though genuinely considering the bird’s input. “Oh, so you’re an expert on the subject now?” he asked, his tone teasing. “All right, fine. Yes, you’re right—he’s beautiful. But it’s not just that.” 

His gaze drifted, his smile thinning into something more reflective. “You could write whole books about him. The assassin who moves like shadow and silence. The saint who carries the weight of the world like penance. The fool who thinks he can be both and neither at once.” He scattered a handful of seeds, watching the birds descend. “But he doesn’t see it, does he? How the contradictions make him whole. He thinks he’s broken just because he can’t decide what to be. But I…” Wen Kexing paused, his expression tightening as though to mask an ache. “I don’t know if he’ll ever let himself be what he already is.” 

Another chirp, and this time, Wen Kexing chuckled, shaking his head as he scattered another handful of seeds. “You have an awful lot of opinions for someone so small. But no, it’s not just that he’s beautiful. That’s… beside the point. He thinks… he thinks I expect something from him.” He hesitated, his fingers stilling for a moment as though the thought itself made him uneasy. “Something I could find in any brothel if I wanted to, as if that’s all there is to this.” 

The birds cooed again, their gentle sounds filling the quiet, and he sighed, tilting his head back to look at the darkening sky. “I wouldn’t mind, of course. I’m not blind, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted. But it’s such a small thing. So trivial. And he makes it into this insurmountable wall between us.” He tossed another seed, his movements slower now. “If I tried to tell him that… if I tried to explain how much it doesn’t matter to me, how I don’t want him to think he has to give me something he doesn’t want to… would he understand? Or would I just hurt him more?” 

The largest bird hopped closer, as though urging him on, and he smiled faintly, a trace of self-deprecation in the curve of his lips. “You’re right. I’m overthinking it, as always. But saying it outright feels so... vulgar. He deserves better than that, doesn’t he?” 

A soft chorus of chirps rose around him, and he laughed, a low, rueful sound. “Fine, fine, you win. But if he walks away, I’m blaming all of you.” He tossed the last of his seeds, watching as the birds flocked closer. For a moment, he let the silence stretch, his smile lingering, though his eyes remained distant.

Zhou Zishu exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He told himself to walk away, to leave Wen Kexing to his theatrics, but the longer he watched, the more his irritation swelled. Wen Kexing’s laughter drifted up to the window again, soft and private, as though he didn’t have an audience. And then, without warning, Wen Kexing turned.

Their eyes met, and Zhou Zishu’s breath hitched—not in surprise, but in exasperation. Of course Wen Kexing knew he was there. Of course. Wen Kexing’s lips twitched into a faint, knowing smile, his expression betraying neither guilt nor embarrassment.

“You’re unbelievable,” Zhou Zishu muttered under his breath. “Spilling your guts to a bunch of birds.” He leaned further against the frame, his irritation spilling into his voice. “What, was no one else available for your theatrics?”

Wen Kexing tilted his head, the faint smile still playing at his lips. “Birds are better company than most people, A Xu. They listen. And they don’t judge.”

“I’m judging,” Zhou Zishu shot back, though there was no real bite in his tone. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it. All this circling around is tiresome.”

Wen Kexing didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a deliberate step forward, closing the distance between himself and the window. He rested a hand lightly on the frame, the playful glint in his eyes softening into something more measured.

Without a word, he reached out his hand toward Zhou Zishu, his meaning unmistakable.

Zhou Zishu stared at the offered hand, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You could’ve used the door,” he muttered, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he grabbed Wen Kexing’s wrist with a firm, steady grip and helped pull him through the open window.

Once inside, Wen Kexing brushed imaginary dust off his sleeves, his usual smirk slipping back into place. “Efficient, wasn’t it?” he said, glancing at Zhou Zishu with a mix of amusement and something quieter beneath.

“Efficient would’ve been walking around like a normal person,” Zhou Zishu replied dryly, folding his arms. “But no, you had to make a show of it. If you’re trying to figure out what I want, just ask next time. No need for a performance.”

Wen Kexing blinked, clearly caught off guard by the directness. He opened his mouth to reply, paused, and then smiled faintly. “Fine,” he said after a moment, the softness in his tone barely noticeable. “What do you want, A Xu?”

Zhou Zishu’s gaze hardened, but when he spoke, his voice betrayed a quiet weariness.

Zhou Zishu paused, his jaw tightening as though holding his thoughts in place by force. “What I want…” He stopped, a wry laugh escaping him, sharp and bitter. “It’s ridiculous, really. I know how to fuck, Wen Kexing. I’m very good at it, in fact. But wanting to? That’s an entirely different thing. I’ve never really…” He trailed off, waving a hand as though the words weren’t worth finishing. 

His gaze shifted away, his voice growing quieter, harder. “There are things, though. Things I do want, things that feel… tangled up in it. And I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what I can give you, or if I’ll ever be able to give you anything at all. It would be easier if I could just say no. That I’ll never want to fuck you. Wouldn’t that be simpler?” He huffed a breath, humorless and low. “But no, I can’t even manage that. Instead, I sit here, hovering between answers like a complete idiot. It feels like teasing. Like I’m some damn game you’re supposed to keep playing in the hopes I’ll eventually hand over the prize.” 

He dragged a hand through his hair, the tension etched into every line of his face. “I don’t want to do that to you, but I also don’t know how to stop. I don’t know where that leaves us, and frankly, I’m not sure I want to find out.”

Wen Kexing tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as though measuring the weight of Zhou Zishu’s words. “A Xu,” he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the fog of overthinking, “you and that big head of yours—always making things so complicated.” He shifted closer, his tone sharpening with purpose. “Let me make it simple: if you want to fuck, we’ll fuck. If you don’t, we won’t. And if you want to half-fuck or whatever else your clever mind is cooking up, we’ll figure it out.” He paused, arching a brow, his expression both pointed and amused. “Is that clear enough for you?” 

Zhou Zishu blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. There was something so disarming about Wen Kexing’s certainty, the way he could cut straight through a tangled web of thoughts with a single, deliberate stroke. 

“Of course, I wouldn’t say no to the first option,” Wen Kexing added with a sly grin, leaning back slightly as though to avoid a swat. “But I’m nothing if not flexible.” 

“Flexible?” Zhou Zishu huffed, his lips twitching despite himself. “The only thing flexible about you is your tongue, Lao Wen. And even that, I could do without.” 

Wen Kexing’s laugh was low and pleased, his eyes alight with triumph. “Ah, but you see, that’s what I like about you, A Xu. Always keeping me on my toes.”

They moved back to bed, where Zhou Zishu slid against him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His head rested on Wen Kexing’s shoulder, and one arm draped across his chest in a gesture that felt neither hesitant nor overly deliberate. “Not bad,” Zhou Zishu murmured after a moment, his voice low and edged with faint amusement. “You’re quite a good pillow, surprisingly. And that’s not a compliment I give lightly.” He hesitated, his gaze flickering briefly before he added, almost grudgingly, “I don’t usually fall asleep on people I don’t mean to… well. You know.” The words hung in the air, self-deprecating and wry, before his tone softened. “But maybe with us, this is fine.” 

Silence stretched between them, breaths falling into rhythm, the warmth of shared space settling over them like an unspoken pact. Then Zhou Zishu’s voice broke through, sharper this time, like the flick of a blade. “Oh, and since we’re being honest and indulging in all these touchy-feely conversations now,” he said dryly, “let me be very clear about one thing.” 

He shifted, propping himself slightly as he turned to look at Wen Kexing, his gaze sharp enough to cut. “I’m a fucking assassin. I kill people, and sometimes I even like it. Maybe too often. Never mind. The point is, if I had any problem with you being a crazy, murderous lunatic, I’d tell you. As it happens,” he added, his lips curling into something just shy of a smirk, “I kinda like that about you. Understood?” 

Wen Kexing blinked, then smiled—a slow, deliberate curve of his lips, like the sun breaking through storm clouds. “Understood,” he murmured, his voice laced with something warmer than amusement. “Though I have to admit, I didn’t think you liked me for my sparkling personality.” 

“Don’t push your luck,” Zhou Zishu muttered, settling back against him with a faint huff. 

“Noted,” Wen Kexing replied, but his smile lingered, his hand settling lightly over Zhou Zishu’s where it rested on his chest.

“Stop being an idiot,” Zhou Zishu murmured, voice already fading with sleep. “And go to sleep.”

Chapter Text

Red streaks on cheeks and the sweet scent of tomorrow,
Too many dreams, too many hopes.
Oh Siming, is this child of yours too hopeful,
Losing himself in eyes too bright to hold?

For days, they’d managed to live in a rare peace—carefree hours filled with children’s laughter, each day a blessing unmarred by close calls or schemes. It felt foreign, almost indulgent. They’d drifted through it with a calm that felt fragile, as if silence itself held its breath, waiting for something to break.

One morning, amidst the quiet hum of routine, Zhou Zishu received a letter. It was carried by one of Grandmother’s messengers, sealed with a hasty but careful fold. Zhou Zishu opened it with deliberate ease, though his eyes darted quickly across the familiar handwriting, his chest tightening in relief.

Chengling’s words spilled across the page, messy but heartfelt. He was well, the boy assured him, though he worried terribly about both his shifu and Wen Kexing. He detailed his days with vivid enthusiasm, describing his temporary guardians as fascinating and frustrating in equal measure—“The prince has this way of looking at people like he knows all their secrets,” Chengling wrote, “and his companion… well, he’s kind, but also terrifying. He taught me how to make medicine for burns yesterday, though!”

Chengling’s words rambled on, his excitement bubbling through even in written form. He described the wild landscapes surrounding the place he was staying and the “endless wisdom” his guardians seemed to possess. “They tell me I should trust myself more,” he wrote, “but I think they just enjoy watching me trip over my own feet.”

Zhou Zishu smiled faintly, tracing a finger along the edges of the letter before folding it with care. “He’s fine,” he said aloud, voice soft, more to himself than anyone else.

“Who’s fine?” Wen Kexing’s voice cut through his reverie, startling him slightly. Zhou Zishu looked up to see Wen Kexing leaning lazily against the doorway, his eyes sharp with curiosity.

“Chengling,” Zhou Zishu replied, tucking the letter away into his sleeve as if shielding it from view.

Wen Kexing’s eyes narrowed, his tone mock-wounded as he straightened. “You’ve been writing to the pup without telling me? A Xu, how heartless of you. What does our boy say? Has he forgotten us already in favor of his new keepers?”

“Hardly,” Zhou Zishu replied dryly, though there was warmth beneath the surface.

“He’s… charmed, let’s say.”

“Charmed?” Wen Kexing repeated, stepping closer. “By whom, exactly? That pair I barely glimpsed before we ran off to bleed all over the empire? Who are they to steal the pup’s loyalty so quickly?”

Zhou Zishu didn’t answer immediately, his gaze drifting toward the window as if considering the question. “He seems content,” he said finally, deliberately ignoring Wen Kexing’s rising curiosity. “That’s what matters.”

“Content?” Wen Kexing echoed, incredulous. “A Xu, you’re dodging the question. What sort of people could make such an impression on our pup?”

“Not important,” Zhou Zishu replied smoothly, the faintest flicker of amusement lighting his eyes.

Wen Kexing let out an exaggerated sigh, flopping against the edge of the table with dramatic flair. “How cruel you are, A Xu, keeping secrets from me. How am I supposed to endure such torment? My curiosity will consume me!”

“Good,” Zhou Zishu said with a wry smile, refusing to elaborate.

Wen Kexing grumbled under his breath but didn’t press further. Instead, he settled beside Zhou Zishu with a petulant huff, his curiosity begrudgingly leashed—for now. Chengling was safe, and for the moment, that knowledge was enough to soothe even Wen Kexing’s restless spirit.

The courtyard was peaceful, sunlight filtering through the trees as Zhou Zishu leaned against the trunk of a crooked tree. A soft giggle pulled his attention downward, where a small girl sat cross-legged beside him, carefully braiding flowers into his hair. His Lady Yu disguise was immaculate as always, the fine fabric pristine and flowing, but the child seemed unbothered by the propriety of it all.

“Hold still, Auntie Yu!” she insisted with a sternness that didn’t match her years, her tiny hands deftly weaving another bright bloom into place. “You’re going to ruin it!”

Zhou Zishu sighed, resigned. His hands rested limply in his lap as the child giggled again, her small fingers working with surprising skill. The soft brush of petals against his scalp was oddly soothing, almost meditative. Across the courtyard, the distant sound of clashing wood echoed faintly—a reminder of Wen Kexing and the twins, tucked away in one of the larger, more secluded halls for their training session.

It was strange, hearing the muffled exclamations of the twins’ challenges and Wen Kexing’s laughter—a kind of vitality he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in so long. Yet even here, in this little haven, the memory of Maimei’s sharp voice grounded him.

“I told you it’d work,” she had said earlier, her hands brisk as she checked his pulse. “But it’s not done yet. Don’t start thinking you’re cured, Ge.”

He could still feel the faint bitterness of her latest concoction lingering on his tongue, but beneath it, he had tasted sweetness. Sweetness. It had been years since his senses had felt so vivid. The earthy tang of the grass, the faint floral scent of incense from the main house—it was overwhelming and wonderful all at once.

“Don’t even think about sparring,” Maimei had added sharply, her eyes narrowing. “No running, no strain on your meridians. Let Wen Gongzi play hero for now. Promise me.”

“I promise,” he’d replied, resigned but sincere. “No fighting, no strain.”

Now, leaning against the tree, he allowed himself a small sigh. “Auntie Yu!” the girl chirped, holding up a strand of his hair adorned with an intricate weave of flowers. “See? Perfect!”

Zhou Zishu hummed faintly in acknowledgment, his lips curling into a soft, fleeting smile. The world smelled sharper, tasted clearer, and felt fuller than it had in years. Across the courtyard, the distant sound of wooden swords striking filled the air, and for a moment, he let himself think: This was enough.

And then it all went to hell.

One of the groups of “kidnappers” and their “captive” had been intercepted. Worse, the ones who’d intercepted them were professionals, with methods to crack secrets if pushed hard enough. Lady Yu didn’t need a full report to know they were bound for interrogation.

Now, she stood at the entrance to the women’s quarters, with Wen Kexing in the guise of a doctor, somberly detailing the urgency of Lady Yu’s condition. Veiled and draped in silks, she dabbed a handkerchief delicately to her lips, coughing faintly as the guard looked them over.

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand why Lady Yu would need a physician from outside. Wouldn’t one of the family’s doctors suffice?”

Wen Kexing responded smoothly, his tone grave. “I am here as a specialist, as you know, to tend to her scarring—a consequence of her loyalty to the empire.” He nodded toward Lady Yu with a look of respectful pity. “But after years of enduring the effects of her heroism, Lady Yu’s overall health has grown… delicate. The current stress is worsening it. There’s a colleague of mine, an expert, who could provide insight beyond what I can offer alone. He knows treatments that may ease her condition.”

The guard’s frown didn’t soften. “Then bring this other doctor here. There’s no reason Lady Yu should have to leave the safety of these walls.”

Wen Kexing allowed a slight, regretful sigh. “If it were possible, I would. But this doctor is elderly and devoted to his patients—he rarely leaves his practice. Asking him to come here, I assure you, would waste precious time.” He paused, then added thoughtfully, “And, frankly, the journey itself may be a blessing for Lady Yu. Right now, she needs rest and quiet—neither of which, I’m sure you understand, can be found here.”

Lady Yu let out another faint, soft cough, lowering her head slightly as she stepped forward. “My health is my own burden,” she murmured, her voice soft, almost apologetic, yet with a practiced air of polite dignity. “I am terribly sorry for troubling you with my condition. I had hoped to keep it under control, to avoid making myself a burden to those in service here…” Her tone dipped with gentle reproach, just enough to make the guard’s stern expression falter. “But if doctor Wen insists,” she added, glancing at Wen Kexing as though trusting his every word, “then I must defer to his judgment. And if you, as a precaution, feel the need to assign guards, I will of course accept your wisdom and guidance.”

Her gaze softened as she dabbed at her lips again, sighing faintly as if from the very depths of frail endurance. “I am, after all, terribly sorry for troubling you with my affliction.”

The guard’s expression wavered, some mixture of reluctance and guilt flashing across his face. He straightened, clearing his throat. “I… yes, of course, my lady. I apologize for the inconvenience. We will assign an escort and ensure you reach your destination safely.”

Lady Yu inclined her head in thanks, the faintest hint of triumph hidden behind her lowered veil.

They had been on the road for half a day, the city walls long behind them, as the carriage rocked steadily over uneven ground. Outside, a dozen guards rode alongside, a reminder that every subtlety they’d spun to get here had been for the benefit of these watchful eyes. Inside, Zhou Zishu sat with his arms crossed, veiled as ever but visibly tense, his annoyance plain even beneath the disguise of Lady Yu.

He let out a low huff, glancing irritably out the carriage window. “Remind me,” he muttered, “how I became a fool in my own body. It seems determined to betray me at every turn. A few breaths outside the city, and it’s already fighting to bring me down.”

Wen Kexing’s reply was immediate, with no trace of sympathy. “You did it to yourself, A Xu, with a little help from those dumb nails of yours,” he said, his voice cool. “Complaining about it now seems a bit unbecoming.”

Zhou Zishu’s eyes narrowed, the annoyance in his gaze sharpening. He gave Wen Kexing a dark look, but said nothing, the words clearly striking a nerve.

Wen Kexing smirked, looking unapologetic, and after a moment, Zhou Zishu turned away with an irritated sigh. “Maimei’s also determined to meddle,” he muttered. “Manipulated me into promising her I wouldn’t strain myself, the little wretch.” He sighed, a note of resignation creeping into his tone. “And the worst part? I’m actually planning to keep that promise.” He shook his head. “Trying to be… better. It’s becoming a bad habit.”

Wen Kexing’s smile softened, though his eyes glinted with teasing mischief. “You’re becoming quite a model patient. How inspiring.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Zhou Zishu shot back, though a faint, reluctant chuckle slipped through. His gaze shifted to the guards riding alongside the carriage. “Speaking of luck,” he added in a low voice, “what do you make of them?”

Wen Kexing’s expression grew serious, his gaze flicking over the procession through the carriage window. “That depends. Are any of these guards yours?” He looked back to Zhou Zishu, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I’d hate to accidentally deal with any of your people.”

Zhou Zishu shook his head. “No, these are all loyal to the family. My people know better than to trail this closely.”

Wen Kexing nodded, relaxing a fraction as he considered their options. “Good. Then there’s nothing standing in our way, is there?”

Zhou Zishu’s eyes glinted with quiet resolve, his voice a low murmur. “Nothing but their expectation of a frail lady. I imagine it’ll be quite a shock for them.”

Inside the carriage, Zhou Zishu outlined the plan in low, measured words, each instruction clipped and final. “Eleven guards. Five near the carriage, two trailing, four out on the sides. Quiet and clean. Do try to keep it from becoming a spectacle.”

Wen Kexing inclined his head, fingers brushing over the hidden weight of his fan. “Of course, A Xu. Though,” he added with a glint in his eye, “a little show never hurt anyone.”

The carriage rolled to a stop, Lady Yu’s demure request for a moment’s reprieve leaving no room for argument. Zhou Zishu stepped out alone, disappearing briefly into the trees, reemerging with calm poise as Wen Kexing moved to his side, still in his guise as a humble, hunched doctor. Wen Kexing murmured to the nearest guard, “The lady needs a moment,” before guiding Zhou Zishu to a fallen log, his hands deliberately positioning him at the perfect vantage point.

Zhou Zishu tilted his head, allowing a slight smile as he settled on the log. A shame I’m not part of the fun, he thought, observing the scene with dark satisfaction. If he had to sit this one out, at least he could enjoy the view.

Wen Kexing stepped forward, the meekness of his disguise melting away as he straightened, each movement uncoiling like a wild animal stretching awake. His fan snapped open with a flash of metal, and in an instant, it was in motion.

The first guard barely had time to blink before the fan tore through the air, cutting across his throat with surgical precision. He dropped, a strangled gurgle escaping him. One, Zhou Zishu counted, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. Efficient.

The fan returned to Wen Kexing’s hand, and his lips peeled back in something like a snarl as he launched himself at the next guard, who was only beginning to turn. The fan slashed, blood spraying as the man crumpled. Two.

The remaining three guards near the carriage drew their weapons, faces pale, stepping back instinctively as they took in the wild glint in Wen Kexing’s eyes and the way his teeth bared with each move. He leapt onto the top of the carriage with a vicious grace, his fan flashing down as he sliced into the third guard, who dropped lifeless to the ground. Three.

With a smooth jump, he landed behind the fourth guard, who had spun to face him. The fan flicked out, slicing cleanly through his neck. The man fell without a sound. Four.

The fifth guard, visibly shaking, turned to run, but Wen Kexing hurled the fan with a deadly precision, catching him mid-stride. The guard collapsed. Five, Zhou Zishu counted, dark satisfaction growing in his gaze.

The four guards further out had finally realized what was happening. They raised their weapons, rushing in as one, the sound of their hurried footsteps echoing through the night.

Wen Kexing met their advance with a feral grin, his fan snapping back into his hand. He dodged the first attacker’s blade with ease, twisting in close to bring the fan’s sharp edge across the man’s throat. Six.

The seventh guard hesitated, eyes wide, but Wen Kexing didn’t give him a chance to recover. He lunged forward, the fan cutting across his midsection with brutal efficiency. Seven.

The last two guards charged together. Zhou Zishu’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as Wen Kexing shifted to meet them, his movements fluid, primal. He sent the fan arcing through the air, its edge catching the eighth guard just under his ribs.Eight.

The ninth guard tried to turn, but Wen Kexing was already there, his fan slicing upward to end him. Nine.

Only the two trailing guards remained, frozen by the blood-soaked scene unfolding before them. They turned to flee, but Wen Kexing’s fan was already slicing through the air, catching the tenth guard in his back, who dropped with a broken gasp. Ten.

The final guard stumbled, his terrified gaze locked on Wen Kexing as the fan tore through the night one last time, cutting him down. Eleven.

As the final body hit the ground, Wen Kexing turned, eyes wild, breathing hard as he took in the aftermath with a dark satisfaction. He returned to Zhou Zishu, bowing slightly with blood-spattered hands, a glint of exhilaration still flickering in his gaze.

“All done,” he murmured, his voice rough-edged.

Zhou Zishu tilted his head, a faint smile lingering on his lips. “You’re a bit too showy,” he replied, though his eyes shone with a shadowed satisfaction. “But effective. Shame I can’t join in for these little exhibitions.”

Wen Kexing’s smirk softened, playful, the wildness in his gaze briefly tamed. “There’s always next time, A Xu. For now, consider it my pleasure.”

The compound loomed quietly under the cover of night, each corner cast in deep shadow. Zhou Zishu moved with a lazy stride, as though strolling through a garden rather than breaching a military stronghold. His hands clasped loosely behind him, he barely paused as his gaze swept over the paths, picking out one guard, then another, stationed at intervals along the way.

With the slightest tilt of his head, he directed Wen Kexing toward the first unfortunate soul standing guard by the entrance. Wen Kexing shifted, his expression shedding the last of his unassuming “doctor” guise. He moved without a sound, a feral gleam in his eye as he slipped through the shadows, his approach slow, purposeful.

There was a quiet snap—a muffled gurgle—and the guard went down, Wen Kexing’s grip lingering just long enough to make sure the man wouldn’t rise. With a grin, he eased the body into a dark corner, hidden from immediate view. He returned to Zhou Zishu with a faint, expectant look, his head tilted, as if waiting for approval.

Zhou Zishu offered a faint smile. “Nicely done.”

They continued deeper into the compound, Zhou Zishu’s steps unhurried. Now and then he’d stop, taking a moment to survey his surroundings with idle curiosity, before lifting a hand to indicate the next target. Another guard loomed by the far wall, unaware of the figure prowling through the shadows toward him. This time, Wen Kexing moved in close, a flash of movement as he grabbed the guard and snapped his neck, leaving him lifeless in Wen Kexing’s hands.

With a practiced ease, Wen Kexing dragged the guard’s body into the shadows, leaving it crumpled in a darkened corner. When he returned, his expression was wild, a glint in his eyes as he waited, as if seeking some kind of reward.

Zhou Zishu chuckled softly, his tone both approving and amused. “Efficient. Keep it up.”

They continued on, Zhou Zishu pausing only as he caught sight of a figure he recognized—one of his own men posted near the outer edge of the compound. Without breaking stride, Zhou Zishu made a soft, intricate sound under his breath, something faint and unmistakable. The man turned immediately, recognition flashing in his eyes as he approached.

“Storage rooms,” Zhou Zishu instructed, his voice barely above a murmur, yet carrying an authority that sent the man on his way without question.

Once more, they moved forward. At each turn, Zhou Zishu picked out another target, almost casually, barely glancing at the guards he’d marked for Wen Kexing to handle. Wen Kexing moved with the quiet intensity of a predator, eyes gleaming as he slipped through the darkness, each kill silent and controlled. He worked quickly, dispatching each guard with a sharp, brutal efficiency before tucking them away into the shadows.

With every return, Wen Kexing’s grin grew sharper, a hint of something wild lingering in his eyes as he glanced at Zhou Zishu, waiting for his reaction. Zhou Zishu offered a slight nod, his lips curving into a satisfied smile. “Good,” he murmured, almost to himself, as though savoring the elegance of their work.

In this way, they wound their way deeper into the compound, each guard disposed of without so much as a whisper.

The compound was dark, cloaked in layers of shadow that Zhou Zishu moved through with a calm, unhurried stride. They’d handled the guards methodically so far, with Wen Kexing following his directions like a leashed beast, slipping forward to take down each target without a sound. But just as they were nearing their destination, a muffled shout pierced the quiet, followed by the sudden flare of a torch.

Zhou Zishu stilled, his gaze shifting with deliberate calm as the alarm spread, echoing through the walls. Within moments, the once-silent paths filled with a flurry of guards. He glanced at Wen Kexing, who only smirked, eyes gleaming with something that almost looked amused.

“Up,” Zhou Zishu murmured, nodding toward the low roof of the nearest building. They scaled the wall quickly, slipping into the narrow crevice between two buildings, where a small overhang cast deep shadows that hid them from view. Zhou Zishu settled against the wall, the darkness wrapping around them like a protective shroud.

He scanned the compound below, his eyes sharp, alert, tracking the guards’ frantic movements with a calm, practiced precision. His gaze followed their patrols, his mind mapping every shift and turn, his body taut with readiness. The guards, shouting and scrambling below, were oblivious to the two of them perched quietly overhead.

Satisfied that they’d gone unnoticed, Zhou Zishu finally turned to check on Wen Kexing, only to find him with his eyes closed, leaning back against the wall with a faint, almost peaceful expression. The man had fallen asleep right there, fully relaxed, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Zhou Zishu let out a soft scoff, half-irritated, half-amused. “You realize we might be up here for hours,” he murmured, his voice low.

Without opening his eyes, Wen Kexing let out a quiet sigh, his tone almost lazy. “Precisely why I’ll take the opportunity to rest.” He gave a faint smirk, eyes remaining shut. “Four or five hours, no less, wouldn’t you agree?”

Zhou Zishu huffed, feeling a reluctant smile tug at his lips. The ridiculousness of it all—the danger, the hiding, and this man beside him who could slip into sleep at a moment’s notice—made it somehow less tense, a little less grim.

The compound was quiet as they moved, each shadow stretching longer with the first hints of dawn. Zhou Zishu was unhurried, slipping through the low light with a practiced care, his attention on every guard, every flicker of movement. Beside him, Wen Kexing’s silence was almost unsettling, his impatience a quiet hum Zhou Zishu could feel, though Wen Kexing stayed poised and obedient, as if waiting for some kind of signal.

“Keep up,” Zhou Zishu murmured with the faintest hint of a smirk. “If you’re lucky, I might let you have one.”

He felt the energy thrumming off Wen Kexing as they rounded a corner to find a lone guard blocking the path. Wen Kexing grinned, slipping forward with almost too much enthusiasm. The guard dropped soundlessly, and Zhou Zishu caught the glint of satisfaction in Wen Kexing’s eyes, barely more than a flicker, before they moved on.

They reached the small prison building, where Zhou Zishu assessed the structure in a glance, then motioned to the roof. Within moments, they were prying away just enough tiles to slip down into the dim, cramped room below, where his people were held. Zhou Zishu glanced at each of them, his expression unreadable as he cut their bindings. They knew better than to make a sound; with the slightest gesture, he directed them back up through the roof, one by one.

Once everyone was out, they slipped through the shadows once more, this time retracing their path with even more care, aware of how close they were to freedom. Wen Kexing was still silent, but Zhou Zishu could sense the barely restrained energy beneath the quiet, the faint tension in every step, as if Wen Kexing were a bow drawn tight, waiting to be loosed.

Then, at the side entrance, Zhou Zishu saw the problem—a full line of guards, ten in all, stationed in tight formation, looking alert. Zhou Zishu sighed, casting a sidelong look at Wen Kexing, whose fingers twitched with anticipation.

“Fine,” Zhou Zishu muttered, tone exasperated. “But quietly.”

Wen Kexing’s grin widened, feral, his eyes alight. In one smooth, uncoiling motion, his fan snapped open, a blur of metal slicing through the air as he hurled it at the first cluster of guards. The fan tore through them in an arc, cutting eight down before they even registered the attack, their bodies falling in a sickening silence.

The two remaining guards barely had time to react before Wen Kexing was on them, his hands quick, movements almost indulgent as he took his time with each. Zhou Zishu watched from the shadows, a faint gleam of amusement in his eyes as Wen Kexing, too pleased with himself by far, finished the job with an almost theatrical flourish.

With a low sigh, Zhou Zishu stepped forward, carefully avoiding the splashes of red on the stones. Wen Kexing’s gaze met his, still carrying that wicked glint, though he said nothing. Zhou Zishu only raised a brow, his expression unreadable, before he turned to his men.

“To the end point. Wait there and keep low. I’ll meet you in two days,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Then… the game begins.”

His men nodded and slipped into the darkness without a word, leaving Zhou Zishu and Wen Kexing alone, the quiet air settling heavy around them as dawn crept closer.

As they slipped farther into the cover of night, Wen Kexing cast a sidelong look at Zhou Zishu, an amused frown tugging at his brow. “I have to wonder, with all the strategy you’re known for—your talent for ‘impossible’ missions—what, exactly, about this little task was so difficult that you decided to bring in…” He gestured to himself, smirking. “…well, let’s say a specialist?”

Zhou Zishu’s lips quirked in faint amusement, but he kept his expression deliberately unreadable.

Wen Kexing’s brow furrowed further, the faint edge of a grin beginning to show as he pieced it together. His voice lowered, tinged with disbelief. “Wait a moment… you’re telling me there was no challenge here at all, was there?” The realization bloomed, and he threw his head back, laughter rough and echoing through the dark trees. “You played us all. You just wanted an excuse to get out, to have a bit of fun, didn’t you? That’s what all this is about, isn’t it?”

Zhou Zishu shrugged, his gaze cool but with the slightest hint of satisfaction. “I’m not inclined to let opportunities go to waste. I agreed not to get my hands dirty, after all, but… the flowers get dull after a while.”

Wen Kexing’s laughter faded, replaced by a wild glint in his eyes as he leaned close, his voice low and sly. “You’re a strange one, A Xu. For someone who claims to hate blood, you seem strangely attracted to it. A touch conundrum, wouldn’t you say?”

Zhou Zishu arched a brow, unruffled, reaching up to run his thumb across a red smear on Wen Kexing’s cheek. He tilted his head slightly, his lips curving in a faint smile. “Convenient, isn’t it? How easily you wear it for me.” His gaze lingered, almost admiring, as though the feral, red-streaked version of Wen Kexing was something to be appreciated.

Wen Kexing’s grin sharpened, his teeth bared. “Convenient? I’d say there’s more to it than that.” He held Zhou Zishu’s gaze, fierce and unblinking, and leaned in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You like me this way, don’t you? Maybe more than you’d admit.”

Zhou Zishu let out a soft chuckle, the barest flicker of humor sparking in his eyes. “Oh, I don’t deny it. Red suits you, Lao Wen. There’s a certain… charm to the way you dress yourself in it.”

Wen Kexing’s smirk grew wider, almost wicked, his voice rough as he murmured, “I’d dress in it any time, as long as I know you’re watching.”

They shared a look that held more than amusement—something dark, satisfied, as they turned and moved forward into the night, leaving the compound and the night’s work behind.

Chapter Text

Oh, Saiming, who binds us to the weapons we create,
Did you smile as young hands shaped what they couldn’t yet know?
Did you press him onward, hammering innocence into cold steel,
Seeing the edge he honed, waiting to find his own flesh?
Let him wield it boldly, blind to the blood it will claim.

Zhou Zishu leaned over his desk, candlelight casting thin shadows over the freshly inked lines. He was nearly finished, and a sense of grim satisfaction had settled into his bones. The Seven Nails, he’d decided, would be their guarantee. It was brilliant, he thought—a punishment so final that no one would dare betray them. It would protect the Window of Heaven from those too weak or selfish to see the Prince’s vision through. If anyone tried to leave, the nails would find their way into their chest, each one spreading, searing the meridians until there was no strength left to betray.

The idea thrilled him. Seven iron nails, sunk into the flesh, rooting deep, reminding every deserter of the loyalty they’d sworn to keep. A slow, unyielding pain, the kind that couldn’t be undone. To Zhou Zishu, it was perfect—an end that held its own justice. If they couldn’t bear their oaths, if they ever wavered, they would face the truth of what it meant to abandon the Prince’s cause. For a moment, he let himself imagine the iron glinting in the dim light, its purpose clear and unbreakable.

A shadow of doubt flickered in his mind, but he brushed it aside, jaw set. This is strength, he reminded himself. If he was to be the Prince’s most trusted, he couldn’t afford softness. Pain was a measure of loyalty, and only those willing to face it should stand beside them. He let the thought settle in, hardening into resolve. His cousin had asked him to guard this mission, to do what was needed—and Zhou Zishu would.

As the dawn light crept through the window, he looked over the final strokes of his plan. The Seven Nails would be their silent watch, a promise that betrayal would lead only to a hollow end. Soon, the Window of Heaven would rise, and when it did, Zhou Zishu knew the Prince would see it for what it was: unbreakable, pure, bound in iron.

The candle burned low, casting its final light over Zhou Zishu’s work as he carefully folded each page. His cousin’s trust weighed on him, heavy but grounding, and he savored it. He sees me as a leader, Zhou Zishu thought, a thrill of pride running through him. He wasn’t a child to be coddled or protected; he was capable of real responsibility, someone worthy of shaping their future. The Seven Nails were proof of that maturity—something no one else would dare to design, an answer so final and ironclad that only the strongest could accept it. This, he told himself, was how true loyalty was tested.

As he stepped into the hall, he held the plans close to his chest, his steps steady and purposeful. His cousin would see what he had accomplished—his solution to the problem of trust, of loyalty, of strength. With each step, Zhou Zishu felt more certain that he was creating something pure, something only an adult would understand. If there were sacrifices in building this, they were sacrifices a boy might balk at but a leader, a true leader, would not. This was the conviction he needed his cousin to see—the same conviction that would someday prove him worthy of standing as the Prince’s closest advisor.

A passing servant caught his eye, momentarily snapping him from his thoughts, and Zhou Zishu’s grip on the documents tightened. The thought of others intruding on this idea, of someone dismissing it or worse, questioning it, stirred a faint anger in him. He wanted this to be his alone, proof that he could make choices others might call harsh, choices that could change the empire itself. It was unsettling to feel so possessive, but he embraced it, quickening his pace as he neared his cousin’s quarters.

At the door, he paused, steadying his breath. Inside, his cousin stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, looking out over the dark courtyard. Zhou Zishu took a final breath, feeling a swell of pride as he prepared to speak. This was his moment—a chance to show that he was more than a follower, that he was ready to make the hard choices no one else dared to.

Chapter Text

Oh Siming, I stand here,
Begging for your kind regard.
Unworthy child, traitor, and liar,
I dare to plead for a miraculous act,
Though I have no right to ask.

The mountain path twisted sharply, hugging the cliffside as though it dared the two travelers to test their footing. Beneath them, the late-afternoon sun poured its golden light over the valley, its rays weaving through the trees like threads of silk. The air was still, deceptively tranquil, broken only by the crunch of their steps on loose gravel and the occasional rustle of unseen life below. Zhou Zishu’s hand brushed against the cool rock wall to his left, instinctively grounding him. The drop to his right seemed endless, plunging into a sea of green, where shadows pooled between the ancient trunks.

They hadn’t spoken for some time, the silence sitting comfortably between them. It wasn’t the uneasy quiet of two men measuring each other—it was the stillness of a shared understanding, the kind that grew in moments of exhaustion and peace alike. The path’s narrowness demanded single file, and Wen Kexing walked ahead, his robes trailing with a deliberate slowness that Zhou Zishu read as both caution and drama.

The sun dipped lower, brushing the horizon in streaks of amber and crimson. It lit Wen Kexing like a figure from a painting, his silhouette dark against the fiery backdrop. Zhou Zishu caught himself staring longer than he meant to, something twisting in his chest that he

refused to name. “Keep moving,” he called out, his voice a dry rasp, though not without warmth.

Wen Kexing turned slightly, just enough to reveal the curve of a smirk. “Patience, A Xu. If I fall, I’d expect a proper lamentation from you. Something poetic to rival the setting.”

Zhou Zishu snorted, though his lips twitched in faint amusement. “If you fall, I’ll leave your remains for the crows. They’ve been kind enough to me in the past.”

Wen Kexing’s laughter echoed off the cliffside, light and reckless, before he turned forward again, his steps unhurried.

The trail widened briefly, offering them a moment to walk side by side. Wen Kexing, ever the opportunist, slowed his pace until Zhou Zishu was forced to match it. His smirk was already in place, sharp and gleaming like a blade unsheathed.

“You know,” Wen Kexing began, his tone casual, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his mischief, “I’ve been thinking about last night. About Lady Yu.”

Zhou Zishu shot him a sidelong glance, wary but resigned. “Have you?” he asked, voice dry.

“Oh, absolutely,” Wen Kexing said, feigning sincerity. “It was… magnificent. My loyal ghosts, groveling in the dirt, cowering before their Valley Master—” he paused, his grin widening—“and the vision of elegance beside me, my Lady Yu. So demure, so obedient. Really, A Xu, I don’t know where you learned to curtsy like that, but it was art.”

Zhou Zishu sighed, his lips tightening into a thin line. “It was an act, Wen Kexing.”

“An act?” Wen Kexing gasped, placing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “You mean to tell me those graceful turns, the soft, downcast eyes, were all for show? My heart is shattered. I thought I’d glimpsed the true Zhou Zishu—an unparalleled courtly beauty.”

Zhou Zishu’s gaze fixed on the path ahead, his tone cooling to a razor’s edge. “Mock me all you like. I wouldn’t have had to play that ridiculous role if you hadn’t dragged me to your little show.”

“Dragged?” Wen Kexing said, arching a brow. “As I recall, you were the one who insisted on coming. I even warned you it might get… theatrical.”

Zhou Zishu scoffed. “You didn’t mention you’d parade me around like some prize you plucked from the wreckage.”

“Not a prize, A Xu,” Wen Kexing corrected, his voice dropping to a near purr. “A conquest. My people needed a reminder of who they serve, and what I’m capable of taking.” His eyes flickered with amusement as he added, “You should be flattered. They’ll be whispering about you for weeks.”

“Flattered?” Zhou Zishu stopped walking, turning to face Wen Kexing with a look that could pierce stone. “You painted me as your plaything in front of an entire room of cutthroats.”

“And didn’t you play the part beautifully?” Wen Kexing countered, entirely unfazed. “The bruised cheek, the silken robes just disheveled enough—it was poetry. You even made that quip about my temper, remember? ‘A dangerous master with dangerous tastes.’” He chuckled, the sound low and rich. “They ate it up.”

Zhou Zishu pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Wen Kexing, if you insist on reliving every humiliating detail, I may push you off this cliff.”

“Now, now,” Wen Kexing said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though the grin on his face only deepened. “There’s no need for violence. Besides, I did you a favor.”

“A favor?”

“Of course,” Wen Kexing said breezily. “Now my people think twice before crossing you. They’re convinced you’re my most prized possession—deadly, untouchable. Who else could tame the Lady Yu?”

Zhou Zishu’s glare sharpened. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” Wen Kexing replied, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper, “are the best Lady Yu I’ve ever had.”

For a moment, Zhou Zishu simply stared at him, caught between exasperation and grudging amusement. Then, with a resigned sigh, he turned and continued down the path.

Wen Kexing fell into step beside him, the faint hum of satisfaction trailing him like a shadow.

The trail narrowed again, forcing them closer to the edge. Zhou Zishu kept his gaze on the path ahead, trying to focus on the sharp drop to his right and not on the lingering thoughts of the night before. But his mind betrayed him, replaying the flickering torchlight, the oppressive stillness of the cave, the countless eyes pinned on him.

It had been too easy to slip into the role. Too easy to soften his posture, to let his lashes lower just enough, to curve his lips in a quiet, perfect smile of submission. The words had spilled from his mouth as if he’d always meant them: “Forgive me, Master, for my clumsiness.”

And worse than the ease was the rush—the bitter and exhilarating thrill of it. He’d controlled the room without a single sword drawn, all with a tilt of his head and the weight of his silence.

Zhou Zishu clenched his jaw. No, he told himself firmly, it was just necessity. Another mask, nothing more.

Ahead, Wen Kexing slowed, as though he’d been waiting for Zhou Zishu’s thoughts to sour. “I was right, you know,” he said, his tone light but laced with mischief.

Zhou Zishu didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“About you,” Wen Kexing replied, falling into step beside him. “You were extraordinary last night.” His voice dipped, soft and coaxing, each word deliberate. “The way you knelt so gracefully, head bowed, eyes glistening—my people are still in awe. They’ve never seen such a perfect war prize.”

Zhou Zishu snorted, though the sound came out more strained than dismissive. “Your people are fools.”

“They are,” Wen Kexing agreed smoothly, his grin widening. “But even fools know beauty when they see it.”

Zhou Zishu shot him a sharp look, his tone cooling to a razor’s edge. “And you think flattery will excuse you?”

“Excuse me? Oh, no, A Xu, I want you to bask in it. You were a masterpiece. That little tremor in your voice when you said, ‘Master, I’ll do better’—perfectly measured. I could almost feel my ghosts shudder.”

Heat prickled at the base of Zhou Zishu’s neck. He told himself it was anger, but the lie sat awkwardly, too thin to hold. “You enjoyed yourself far too much,” he muttered, his voice low and clipped.

Wen Kexing chuckled, his laughter soft and warm, like a hand smoothing over a raw edge. “Of course I did. How could I not? Watching you command a room without a single blade drawn—it was intoxicating. You had them hanging on your every breath, A Xu.” He tilted his head, his voice dropping to something more intimate. “Didn’t you feel it? That power?”

Zhou Zishu’s steps faltered, and he cursed himself for the instinctive reaction. “Power,” he echoed dryly. “Is that what you call it? Looked more like humiliation to me.”

“Ah, but you wore it so well,” Wen Kexing said, his smirk teasing but his eyes cutting deeper. “Humiliation suits you, A Xu. You turn it into something… enthralling.”

The words hit too close, striking at the core of something Zhou Zishu didn’t dare examine. He turned his gaze to the path, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. “Mock me all you like. I don’t need your approval to sleep at night.”

“But doesn’t it feel good, just a little?” Wen Kexing’s voice was almost a whisper now, dangerously close to his ear. “Knowing you were perfect, that you played them all? That even I couldn’t look away?”

Zhou Zishu clenched his fists, his pulse thrumming too loud in his ears. “I’ve done many things in my life, Wen Kexing,” he said coolly. “Most of them distasteful. Last night was no different.”

“Distasteful?” Wen Kexing’s tone sharpened, a trace of disappointment creeping in. “And here I thought you’d finally admit you enjoyed it. Don’t lie to me, A Xu. I saw it—the way your lips curled, the way your gaze lingered just long enough to make them believe you belonged to me. You loved it, didn’t you?”

Zhou Zishu stopped abruptly, his voice steady but frigid. “If you’re trying to make a point, say it plainly.”

Wen Kexing laughed, but it was softer now, almost fond. “My point, my dear Lady Yu, is that you shouldn’t fight it. Your talents are wasted on denial. Embrace it. You’re magnificent when you let yourself be.”

Zhou Zishu’s breath caught, the words digging into a part of him he didn’t want touched. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if it could steady him. Then, with a sharp exhale, he started walking again, forcing Wen Kexing to follow.

“I’ll embrace it,” Zhou Zishu said finally, his tone edged with sarcasm, “the day you stop preening like a rooster in spring.”

Wen Kexing chuckled, falling into step beside him. “So never, then?”

Zhou Zishu ignored him, but the faint tug at his lips betrayed him.

Far below, the ruins of Four Seasons Manor emerged from the haze of dusk, their blackened walls defiant against the flowering trees that had reclaimed the grounds. The bursts of pink and white blooms softened the jagged edges of the wreckage, weaving a quiet tale of resilience. Zhou Zishu’s gaze lingered on the scene, the ache in his chest tightening before he could shove it aside. He’d seen it burn, watched the life it held collapse into ash. And yet, from here, it was still beautiful—still home, in a way that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

Zhou Zishu’s gaze lingered on the manor grounds, the faint ache in his chest at odds with the warmth that had filled him all day. He’d seen it burn to the ground—he’d known it was gone. But looking at it now, so familiar yet so changed, it felt like coming home only to find everything overturned. Violated. And yet, as he stood here with Wen Kexing, the place still looked… like home.

His lips curved slightly, though he wasn’t sure if the feeling was joy or grief, or something that lay between them. “You see that?” he murmured, gesturing with a tilt of his head. “Our beautiful ruins.”

Wen Kexing’s gaze shifted to the ruins, his expression softening as he took in the scene. “It’s… it’s still something, A Xu.” His voice had an edge to it, the words both reverent and raw. “Beautiful and broken. Just as I’d hoped.”

Zhou Zishu chuckled, though it was hardly more than a breath. “Did you, now?”

“For you,” Wen Kexing replied, his words poetic and sharp all at once. “If I’m here beside you—even to see this—I’ll take it gladly.” He turned, his red-lined eyes glittering, and the words hung in the air like a vow, brimming with conviction, dramatic as only Wen Kexing could be.

Zhou Zishu huffed, rolling his eyes. “Poetic as ever.”

They walked on, letting the quiet stretch between them, a calm, steady rhythm they both trusted. A feeling he hadn’t dared admit before crept into Zhou Zishu’s thoughts: they might actually pull this off. Victory was so close he could almost reach out and feel it. The risk had never been higher, but so, too, was the promise. To reach the end of this journey, to stand beside Wen Kexing and see it through, finally free.

Then it happened—a rush of armor-clad guards appearing from both sides, the road ahead and behind, blocking the narrow path entirely. Zhou Zishu felt his pulse quicken as Prince Jin’s soldiers poured from behind a bend in the path, their spears and blades flashing in the fading light, cutting off every route forward or back.

The walls of the mountain boxed them in on one side; on the other, the cliffside plunge fell away into darkness. They’d been waiting for them.

The air shifted, thickened, as Wen Kexing stiffened beside him. There was no need for words; Zhou Zishu’s hand went to his sword, his expression cooling as he calculated the movements needed. This wasn’t despair, not even fear—it was the ironclad resolve of someone who knew he would fight until there was nothing left of him. They had come too far for anything less.

A brief look passed between them, a shared acknowledgment. They would reach the end, or they would die trying.

Zhou Zishu steadied his stance, ready as the first of the guards closed in on them, swords flashing in the final light of day.

He felt an eerie calm wash over him, strange yet familiar, as he watched Wen Kexing tear through their attackers. Zhou Zishu knew how this would go—the man would soon be swimming in red, his robes streaked and smeared as though war paint had replaced silk.

With each move, each deadly arc of his fan, more crimson splashed across him. It was beautiful in a way Zhou Zishu would never admit, even to himself—a dance on the knife’s edge, lit by the dying light.

But he knew, as he swung his own blade in detached, calculated strokes, that this fight was a losing one. They were being pressed back, step by bloody step, toward the cliff’s edge. What a mess you are, Grand and Revered Chief of Window of Heaven, he thought dryly, feeling the ache of each strike echoing through his bones. He couldn’t even count how many they’d taken down already—more than a dozen, maybe. If they weren’t perched on this treacherous cliff, they might actually have cut their way out. But here, it was a different story.

One of the guards shouted, voice laced with a poorly disguised fury, “Tell us where the Prince is! Or do you think you can save yourself by keeping him hidden?”

Wen Kexing laughed—a dark, mocking sound that seemed to echo off the rocks. “Hidden? Do you imagine you’re here to save him?” He arched a brow, sneering. “The Prince is rotting somewhere you’ll never find, exactly where he belongs. A disgusting little creature like that deserves worse, but alas—he’ll die alone, without any of you to mourn him.”

Zhou Zishu smirked, dodging a spear aimed too close for comfort. “Perhaps we’re doing you a kindness. Prince Jin has his place, and you have yours—at the bottom of this cliff, if you’re determined.”

“Traitors!” one guard hissed, charging forward, his fury breaking through the chaos like a flare. He didn’t make it far. Wen Kexing’s fan struck with terrifying precision, the blade a blur of steel and red as it carved a swift line across the man’s throat. Blood sprayed, staining the stones beneath their feet.

Zhou Zishu barely had time to take it in. His breath caught as Wen Kexing moved, more beast than man, his strikes savage and unrelenting. Mockery and rage burned in his expression, his red-lined eyes glinting with feral intensity. For a moment, Zhou Zishu couldn’t look away. The way Wen Kexing fought was mesmerizing—terrible and beautiful all at once, like a storm devouring everything in its path.

Another wave of guards surged forward. Zhou Zishu’s instincts snapped into place, and he brought his blade up just in time, parrying a strike meant to split him in two. His sword moved with lethal precision, each swing cold and controlled, but beneath the practiced rhythm, his pulse hammered too loud, too fast.

It was working—they were holding their ground—but it wasn’t enough. The edge of the cliff loomed closer with every step, the ground beneath their feet crumbling with every clash. Zhou Zishu could feel it slipping, the precariousness of their position tightening around his chest like a vice.

“Wen Kexing!” he barked, his voice sharper than he intended.

“What?” came the answer, low and edged with a grin. Wen Kexing didn’t even turn, his strikes growing wilder, more reckless, as though he was daring the soldiers to press harder. A fan slashed across one man’s throat, and Wen Kexing pivoted into another strike, a crimson blur in the failing light.

Zhou Zishu’s throat tightened. He’s going too far, he thought, panic rising unbidden.

“We’re outnumbered,” he said, his tone straining to stay even, though the fear in his chest threatened to swallow him whole. “Stop playing.”

“And miss the fun?” Wen Kexing’s laughter rang out, jagged and sharp. “A Xu, don’t tell me you’re afraid?”

“I’m afraid you’ll get us killed,” Zhou Zishu snapped, though the lie tasted bitter. It wasn’t just the guards, wasn’t just the odds—it was Wen Kexing himself. The way he fought, the way he moved, reckless and unstoppable, was terrifying in its beauty. Zhou Zishu’s gaze darted to him again, unwilling, unable to look away. If we survive this, he thought, it will be because of him—or in spite of him.

A spear thrust jolted him back to the moment. Zhou Zishu sidestepped, his blade carving a ruthless arc that left the soldier crumpling to the ground. Another stepped in, then another, their desperation fueling a relentless assault. Zhou Zishu blocked, parried, struck—but each movement felt heavier, more labored. The ground beneath his feet shifted again, the loose stones tumbling into the abyss.

The cliff was too close.

He heard Wen Kexing’s voice, low and mocking, but the words were drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. Another guard lunged, and Zhou Zishu pivoted to block the strike, the clash of steel reverberating up his arm. His back hit the cliffside, the drop pulling at him like a ghost’s hand.

“We need to move!” he shouted, the command edged with something too close to desperation.

“And leave before the curtain falls?” Wen Kexing called back, his grin wild, his strikes turning sharper, more violent. Another soldier crumpled under his blade, and still more came. The path felt smaller, the soldiers endless. Zhou Zishu’s control slipped further, his breathing shallow and quick.

Not here. Not yet. Just a moment longer.

A tremor shook the ground, sending loose stones skittering into the void. Zhou Zishu’s balance faltered, his footing shifting as if by chance, though his stance held steady. A blade sliced through the air, grazing his shoulder, and he hissed through clenched teeth. His retaliation was swift, his attacker falling with a muted cry.

Each clash pressed him closer to the edge, the movements of the fight drawing them into the narrowing space. Zhou Zishu’s strikes turned sharper, his rhythm precise despite the strain tugging at his limbs. His gaze flicked briefly to Wen Kexing—a moment, no more—before he adjusted again, his steps aligning with a space that felt too precarious for anything but survival.

Wen Kexing moved closer, his fan carving a path through the chaos. He was covered in blood now, his robes streaked with it, and his eyes—those terrible, blazing eyes—caught Zhou Zishu’s for a fleeting moment.

“Stay with me,” Wen Kexing said, his voice quiet, almost tender, despite the carnage around them.

The words hit Zhou Zishu harder than any blade. He nodded, his grip tightening on his sword, but the ground trembled again, the stones beneath them crumbling away.

The next rush of soldiers came too fast, too wild, and Zhou Zishu barely had time to raise his blade. He stepped back—too far. The cliff gave way.

The last thing he saw was Wen Kexing’s face, fierce and alive, before they fell, tumbling together into the darkness

Chapter Text

They fell together, the world tilting and spinning, the roar of wind and crumbling stone filling Zhou Zishu’s ears. His hand shot out, fingers scraping against air before finally catching Wen Kexing’s wrist. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought he’d miss—the force of their fall pulling too hard, too fast—but Wen Kexing’s grip closed around his, firm and sure. Together, they swung toward the line Zhou Zishu had anchored earlier, the one meant to save them.

As their combined weight pulled the line taut, the mechanism he’d rigged above engaged. A second trigger along the same line engaged, sending a cascade of rocks—and the two decoy bodies they had carefully prepared—tumbling from the cliffside above. The rumble of falling stone was deafening, and Zhou Zishu’s chest tightened as he realized how quickly it was closing in on them.

The avalanche roared down, racing just above their swinging forms. Stones hurtled through the air, striking the cliffs around them as they scrambled to reach the mouth of the cave. Zhou Zishu gritted his teeth, the strain in his arm burning as he clung to the line, his body swinging dangerously close to the crumbling rock. Wen Kexing was right there with him, his movements sharp and controlled, the tension between them palpable as they fought for every second.

The mouth of the cave loomed closer, the gap dark and jagged against the rushing blur of stone and chaos. Zhou Zishu reached for it, his muscles screaming with the effort, and with one final, desperate swing, they both tumbled inside. Rocks crashed down outside, the torrent of debris falling just behind them as they hit the floor of the cave, breathless and battered but alive.

They landed hard on the stone, stumbling, breathless, as the last rumbles of rock faded away. Zhou Zishu’s hand was shaking, every part of him vibrating with the thrill of success and survival. For a moment, he just stood there, feeling his pulse beat loud in his ears, the rush of what they’d done breaking over him like a wave.

Breathless, heart thundering, Zhou Zishu couldn’t tear his gaze away. Wen Kexing stood beside him, a figure smeared in dust and streaked with blood, every inch of him fierce and burning with the kind of raw thrill that belonged to wild things. For a moment, everything blurred—the aches in his limbs, the exhaustion biting at his bones—all drowned in the dizzying, giddy aftermath of survival. They’d won. Somehow, impossibly… And there Wen Kexing stood, chest heaving, blood-flecked, eyes wide and alight with something inhuman, something Zhou Zishu couldn’t name but couldn’t look away from, either.

A thrill shot through him, sharp and primal, half-wild. Wen Kexing looked like he’d stepped out of some ancient tale, like a beast risen from the pages of legend—unreal, ruined, all edges and hunger, glorying in it. A ragged laugh slipped out of Zhou Zishu, almost unsteady, and he couldn’t be sure if it was the blood loss or just the absurd beauty of the thing. Wen Kexing, drenched in the thrill of it, looked half-mad and terrifyingly beautiful, like nothing in this world could ever contain him.

Slowly, almost without realizing it, Zhou Zishu reached out, his hand moving on its own, fingers brushing against the grit and blood streaked across Wen Kexing’s cheek. His thumb traced a line there, smearing the red deeper, as if he were marking him—claiming him, even. He didn’t know what drove him to do it, what compelled him to touch this blood-soaked, monstrous creature that Wen Kexing had become. And yet, it struck him, in a detached, bemused way, that he’d been doing this a lot lately. Wen Kexing, covered in blood, seemed to pull him in, calling to some part of him that craved that touch, as if the blood itself were some strange, forbidden invitation.

The absurdity of it almost made him laugh—him, of all people, reaching out to blood. He’d spent years hating it, loathing the way it stained everything it touched—his clothes, his hands, his skin, his very soul. And here he was, pressing his thumb into Wen Kexing’s skin, feeling that familiar warmth seeping under his hand. It was strange, unsettling, and yet… on Wen Kexing, it felt right. The blood almost belonged there, like a vivid paint on a living canvas, and he could feel something low and tempting curl inside him, beckoning him to lean closer.

“You looked…” The words slipped out, rough and unguarded, catching him off balance, like he wasn’t even sure why he was saying them. His thumb dragged slowly over Wen Kexing’s cheek, smearing the blood in a way that felt strange, even reckless, yet he couldn’t bring himself to stop. “Magnificent,” he murmured, barely above a whisper, a word he hadn’t chosen but couldn’t take back, each syllable dragging something fierce and unsteady out of him.

It didn’t make sense—none of it did. He didn’t know what had possessed him to reach out, or to speak, but there was something in his chest, raw and clawing, something that refused to stay silent. They’d made it, somehow—against all odds, against any sane expectation. And here he was, blood on his hands, his breath still wild, the words spilling out as if they might break him if he didn’t say them. The feeling surged up, wild and barely containable, and if he stopped now, he felt like it would tear him apart from the inside.

“Do you know how beautiful you are with that fan of yours?” he continued, his voice thick, barely steady. He felt giddy, dazed, his head spinning with the thrill of what they’d pulled off. “How you looked in that deadly dance? Your eyes, that wild look—your teeth bared, moving like… like an unstoppable force.” He wasn’t sure where the words were coming from, only that they needed to be said, a fierce satisfaction filling him as he watched Wen Kexing’s eyes widen.

The feeling tore through him, aching, too big to contain, flooding him with a need he didn’t understand but couldn’t deny. His hand shot out, grabbing Wen Kexing, pulling him close, his mouth crashing against his in a kiss that was rough, urgent—hungry. There was no thought, no hesitation, just this fierce, burning want, clawing up from somewhere deep, taking him over completely. He didn’t brace himself, didn’t wait for the cold recoil he’d always felt before. There was no room for that now, only heat, only Wen Kexing, grounding him in a way he’d never known.

The rush of it was heady, filling every hollow space, every scar he’d long stopped feeling. He wanted this—needed it, without reason, without question. Just this fierce pull, something raw and consuming that he couldn’t let go of, didn’t wantto let go of. His hand fisted tighter in Wen Kexing’s clothes, holding him there, as if letting go would send him spiraling, and he pressed closer, losing himself in the warmth, in this strange, desperate comfort he’d never thought he could have.

The kiss was fierce, rough, teeth clashing as he leaned into that sharp edge, letting it cut him, letting it bleed. Wen Kexing bit down, and Zhou Zishu only growled in response, the sting of it sparking something dark and hungry. There was nothing gentle here, nothing soft—just the brutal, grounding force of Wen Kexing, pressing him harder against the cold stone at his back, each bruising kiss coaxing out that ruthless, aching part of him he’d kept buried.

He could feel the scrape of nails against his skin, the bite of Wen Kexing’s teeth along his jaw, and it thrilled him, stirred something wild and primal. His fingers raked down Wen Kexing’s back, rough and insistent, wanting to feel the raw reality of this, the brutal truth that made every nerve come alive. This was no delicate exchange; it was a claiming, a collision, every part of him answering the pull of Wen Kexing’s fierce presence. And Zhou Zishu clung to it, feeding on it, letting himself sink deeper into the hunger, the want, letting it strip away every last layer of pretense.

Zhou Zishu’s fingers tightened against Wen Kexing’s shoulder, feeling the rough press of his hand slipping under his clothes, nails scraping across skin in a way that was too hard, almost painful. A sharp, involuntary sound escaped him, part ache, part exhilaration, and he leaned into the feeling, breath quickening, hungry for more. But then, in an instant, it all changed. Wen Kexing stilled, his whole body tensing like he’d touched fire, his hand jerking back as if burned.

He took a step back, gaze wild, trembling, and Zhou Zishu saw it—the horror sinking in, raw and unfiltered, flooding Wen Kexing’s eyes as he stared down at his own hands, his face twisted in something desperate. “No… no, no, no, no, no… ” he stammered, voice barely a whisper, as if each word was being ripped out of him. “I… I can’t… I should’ve known… never… not allowed… " His voice splintered, thick with self-loathing, barely holding together. “What am I… thinking I could even… just like them. A monster, I am… no better…” The words broke off, leaving him choking on them, fists clenched, and Zhou Zishu could see it—the fierce, jagged edge of despair, tearing him apart from the inside.

He was unraveling, trapped in his own horror, the weight of it dragging him back. Zhou Zishu didn’t hesitate. His hand moved up, grabbing the back of Wen Kexing’s neck, his fingers digging in, grounding him with a fierce, Hard grip. He yanked him forward, pulling him close until there was no space left to retreat, fingers pressing into skin with a brutal intensity that matched Wen Kexing’s own darkness. His breath came steady and rough, filling the silence between them, demanding Wen Kexing’s attention, refusing to let him slip away.

Without a word, Zhou Zishu held him there, a fierce presence that offered no escape, no softness. He let his grip speak, a ruthless anchor, his nails pressing deep, as if to carve his intent into Wen Kexing’s skin. He stayed close, unflinching, his eyes dark and unwavering, refusing to let him break away, forcing Wen Kexing to feel every inch of his strength, every ounce of his resolve.

Zhou Zishu’s mind spun, clinging fiercely to this feeling, this raw, undeniable want that had taken hold of him. He couldn’t let it go—wouldn’t. It was something he’d never felt like this, not as himself, and now that it was here, he wasn’t going to let it slip away. Part of him—the cold, precise part that had kept him alive for years—kicked in, calculating, assessing, deciding what needed to happen next. But this time, that old assassin’s instinct wasn’t there to distance him; it was working with him, fueling him, helping him take hold of something real for once, something that wasn’t a mask or a trick.

His hand tightened on Wen Kexing’s nape, grounding anchor that told him he was still here, still holding on, still taking what he wanted. He felt the shift in himself, a familiar cloak slipping over, but this time it wasn’t a mask. It was something that felt alive, a dark strength that was his alone, no disguise needed. His gaze narrowed, holding Wen Kexing in place, every inch of him promising something raw and unapologetic, something that didn’t ask for permission or need gentleness.

He dragged his tongue across his lips, slow and deliberate, feeling the roughness of his own grip, every part of him sharpening to match that dark, irresistible edge. His fingers pressed deeper into Wen Kexing’s skin, feeling the beat of his pulse beneath, the reality of him, the fire of his own intent. And he knew there was nothing that could pull him back from this—he didn’t want there to be. This was no performance, no act; it was real, a hunger he could finally claim as his own. He let his mouth curve into a smirk, dark and predatory, every move deliberate, letting Wen Kexing see the certainty, the want in his eyes.

“Do I look like someone who didn’t want it?” he murmured, voice low, rich, his gaze blazing as his nails dug in just a little harder, anchoring them both in that fierce, shared intensity.

Zhou Zishu felt the change like a spark catching fire—the moment when every ounce of hesitation, panic, and thought burned away, leaving Wen Kexing stripped to something raw and ruthless. He’d broken him open, drawn out that unthinking, hungry side, and it was exactly what Zhou Zishu had been waiting for. A grin tugged at his lips, dark and satisfied, and he met Wen Kexing’s fierce advance without an inch of restraint, feeling the sharp thrill of finally getting what he wanted.

Wen Kexing surged forward, pressing him back, his mouth hard and rough against Zhou Zishu’s, and he welcomed it, hands clenching into Wen Kexing’s shoulders, dragging him closer. He let his own teeth catch on Wen Kexing’s lip, a fierce bite that drew a growl from him, a sound that only spurred Zhou Zishu on. The scrape of nails, the press of Wen Kexing’s fingers digging into his skin—it was all brutal, thrilling, real. Each rough kiss, every bruising touch grounded him, feeding something deep, something sharp, as if each bite and scratch sank past the old scars and armor, leaving only satisfaction in their wake.

Their breaths came fast, rough, mingling in the tight space between them as they held each other in bruising grips. Zhou Zishu felt his pulse hammering, his grip tightening, wanting to etch this feeling into his bones. But just as the intensity crested, Wen Kexing pulled back, breaking away with a shuddering breath, his body still close, his arm braced against the wall above Zhou Zishu, as though anchoring himself after the storm. Zhou Zishu caught the look in his eyes, the quiet calm that had returned, and he could see it—Wen Kexing thought this was the end.

But Zhou Zishu’s mind rebelled, fiercely, a surge of refusal rising inside him. This wasn’t over; it couldn’t be. He wasn’t finished. The hunger in him hadn’t faded, hadn’t dimmed in the slightest, and he had no intention of stopping, of letting this be enough. His fingers clenched, dragging across Wen Kexing’s shoulders, his grip sharp and demanding, each touch staking his claim, leaving no room for retreat. Wen Kexing might think they were done, but Zhou Zishu knew better—and he wasn’t about to let go.

Zhou Zishu’s fingers tightened, his mind reaching instinctively for something he knew, something practiced—any of the personas he’d worn so easily, the ones with soft words and smoother lies, the ones that could make his voice a weapon or a lure. He’d used them so many times, each one a part of himself he could slip into without hesitation. But here, none of them felt enough. Not for this. This needed more than a well-placed smile or whispered invitation. This needed something real, something raw that he hadn’t dared let anyone see.

He felt Wen Kexing watching him, something hesitant in his gaze, like he was bracing for Zhou Zishu to pull back, to retreat. The ache twisted deeper, making it clear that he couldn’t let this end here. Wen Kexing’s confusion, that flicker of doubt, pushed him forward, forcing him to find the truth he’d never spoken—not like this, not for himself.

He took a rough, unsteady breath, feeling each word catch in his throat, fighting to get them out, blunt and unfiltered. “No,” he said, his voice low and firm, every syllable thick with intent. “I need...” His hand stayed steady on Wen Kexing’s arm, fingers pressing harder, refusing to let him slip away.

“I want you,” he said, voice rough, unsteady. “I want… all of it. You… in me. Against me. No holding back.”

The silence felt endless, pressing on Zhou Zishu, raw and sharp, every second tightening the ache in his chest. His words hung between them, exposed, vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to—never allowed himself to be. And for the first time, he felt the sting of true fear, the fear that Wen Kexing might reject him, might step back and turn this want into something fleeting, something he’d have to bury and never let rise again.

Wen Kexing’s eyes stayed locked on him, flickering with something unreadable, a guarded look he rarely showed. A rough, almost bitter laugh slipped out, and Zhou Zishu felt the sting, close to rejection but… not quite. He saw it now—something in Wen Kexing’s gaze, a disbelief that cut through the usual confidence, an ache as raw as his own. Wen Kexing’s voice was low, tight with self-mockery as he finally spoke. “You, A Xu? Wanting this?” His mouth twisted, a faint smile that held no humor. “I thought you hated this kind of thing. You, of all people… asking for sex?” He paused, the edge in his voice sharper now. “I’m not about to be the one you punish yourself with. I won’t be some… some kind of edge you can turn against yourself.”

Wen Kexing’s eyes narrowed, his gaze dark and Dangerous, as if daring Zhou Zishu to flinch. Leaning closer, his voice dropped, rough and taunting, every word sharper than the last. “So, you’re saying you want this?” His mouth twisted into a wicked grin, his tone thick with vulgarity, meant to cut deep. “You really want me—every filthy inch of me? My mouth on you, biting, marking, dragging every last moan out of you until you’re raw? My dick in you? Fucking you so hard, so rough, that the only thing you could do is beg and scream?

Or maybe you want it the other way around. Maybe you’re planning to put me on my knees, push me down until there’s nothing left but me begging for you.” Each word was a challenge, designed to bite, to make Zhou Zishu question the sanity of what he was asking for.

Chapter Text

Zhou Zishu tilted his head, feeling the weight of Wen Kexing’s challenge settle between them. He could see what Wen Kexing was doing—testing him, pushing to see if he’d flinch or pull back, as though daring him to prove that he meant what he’d asked for. Well, if Wen Kexing wanted a reaction, Zhou Zishu could do him one better. He’d meet that challenge and go further, turn it back around until it was Wen Kexing who faltered, who felt the discomfort of his own assumptions thrown right back at him.

He relaxed into a quiet, obedient posture, his gaze lowering as his voice dropped, every word smooth and restrained, perfectly controlled. “If that’s what you want… ” he murmured, calm and inviting, as if the words were a simple, unremarkable truth, “then take it however you want. Fuck me. Claim me. Break me.” He kept his expression soft, giving Wen Kexing exactly what he’d baited him for, meeting each provocation with deliberate obedience. “If you want to push me to begging, I’ll let you. If you want my mouth around your dick, choking on it as you fuck my throat… or… Maybe you want me on my hands and knees, obedient little bitch moaning and begging for more while you fuck me untill I scream… however you want. Just ask.”

He didn’t need to look closely to see the subtle recoil in Wen Kexing’s gaze—the flicker of something almost disgusted, his mouth tightening, guarded, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Zhou Zishu felt a thrill run through him, knowing he’d taken Wen Kexing’s challenge and shattered it, turned the test back around until Wen Kexing himself couldn’t stomach what he’d asked for. Satisfied, he watched as Wen Kexing’s expression hardened, the doubt settling in his features as he tried to mask his reaction.

Then, with a quiet ease, Zhou Zishu let the cheap prostitute persona slip away, his posture shifting, shoulders straightening, and a dark smirk crossing his face as he closed the distance. He laughed, low and rough, his gaze sharp. “So, you thought you could make me pull back? Startle, maybe?” he said, his voice low and cutting, a razor hidden in silk. He stepped closer instead, his gaze steady and unrelenting. “Such a dangerous creature you are, Lao Wen—if only your bite matched your bark.”

His smirk deepened, his tone laced with wicked amusement. “You really think you’re the first to try?”

His fingers brushed lightly along Wen Kexing’s collar, a touch loaded with intent. “Do you really think you could make me pull back?” he murmured, his voice dropping, steady and mocking. “If I wanted, I’d have you on your knees, begging to be fucked, before you even realized it.” He met Wen Kexing’s gaze, his own unwavering, letting him see every ounce of unfiltered confidence radiating in his words.

Zhou Zishu held Wen Kexing’s gaze, watching as he tried to piece together this new, volatile reality between them. There was a tension in Wen Kexing’s expression, a flicker of doubt, as if he were testing the boundaries of what was unfolding, uncertain if he could trust it. But beneath the hesitation, barely concealed, Zhou Zishu saw the raw, fierce hunger—the same need that had been there all along, sharper and more exposed now. It was like Wen Kexing couldn’t quite let himself believe it, but couldn’t look away, that fierce want glinting in his eyes, unmistakable.

Zhou Zishu’s gaze drifted, settling on the streaks of red still smeared across Wen Kexing’s face, thin, jagged lines trailing over his cheek and jaw. Almost instinctively, his fingers lifted, tracing along the blood with slow, deliberate strokes, each movement a grounding distraction as he gave Wen Kexing the moment to catch his breath, to let his mind find its way back. His touch blurred the marks he’d left earlier, each stroke of his fingers like a quiet claim, something he could shape in his own way.

Every movement was steady, almost reverent, as if the act of marking Wen Kexing was enough to keep him grounded, his fingers moving with quiet intent, a silent reminder that this was his to shape, that he could wait, and let Wen Kexing’s mind return in its own time.

He let his fingertip trail down until it rested just beneath Wen Kexing’s lower lip, pressing gently, not holding back, letting the touch linger, his eyes fixed on Wen Kexing’s with quiet intensity. He could feel the steady pulse of satisfaction settle into place, dark and sharp-edged, a thrill that filled the space between them. It was the final piece of the game, a question that demanded an answer.

“I think I’ve made myself clear,” he murmured, his voice low and dark, tinged with wicked humor. “You know exactly what I want.” His fingers pressed lightly, relentless, a steady, silent dare. “But what about you?”

He kept his gaze locked on Wen Kexing’s, taking in every flicker, every unspoken thing behind his eyes, his tone turning taunting, challenging. “You seemed eager to talk just a moment ago.” His lips curved, his voice a soft, blunt murmur. “So, tell me, Lao Wen—do you want this?”

Zhou Zishu’s finger remained steady just below Wen Kexing’s lip, grounding him with quiet, unwavering intent. The silence stretched between them, each second daring Wen Kexing to meet him fully.

Wen Kexing’s eyes widened, and suddenly the words poured out, frantic and barely coherent, each thought breaking off as the next one tumbled forward, raw and unfiltered. “Yes—yes, all of it,” he breathed, his voice catching, eyes dark with a feverish gleam. “Rough, soft—anything, everything, A Xu.” His gaze darted, unfocused, as though he could see every imagined moment flashing before him, wild and tantalizing, impossible to hold. “Your hands… everywhere, holding me, keeping me right there, or—your dick, your mouth…  Just… take it. Take everything.”

His breath came in short, uneven gasps, voice breaking, half-reverent, half-feral. “Every way—hard, slow, inside me…” His voice faltered, his fingers twitching, his words tumbling over each other, relentless and desperate. “Or I could take you, as long as you wanted, slow or…”

Before Wen Kexing could finish, Zhou Zishu’s fingers pressed firmly into his mouth, slipping past his lips in one decisive motion that cut through the rush of words. Wen Kexing’s breath caught, his eyes widening as his chaotic rambling stilled, a charged silence settling between them. His gaze lifted to meet Zhou Zishu’s, the unspoken answer clear in the quiet, raw intensity of his stare.

“Knees,” Zhou Zishu ordered, his voice soft but edged with unmistakable command. Wen Kexing didn’t hesitate, folding down immediately, his head tipping back as he kept Zhou Zishu’s fingers in his mouth, lips closing around them, his teeth grazing lightly over the skin. Zhou Zishu felt a sudden pang in his chest, an almost overwhelming flicker of something deeper, something close to fear, but he pushed it down, grounding himself in the certainty of this moment. This was his, fully and entirely, and he wasn’t going to let it slip through his grasp.

With one hand pressed into Wen Kexing’s mouth, Zhou Zishu began undoing the fastenings of his robe, letting it fall open before sliding it off his shoulder, the fabric pooling to the floor, anchored only by his extended arm. He shifted, pushing down his trousers until they joined the robe, leaving him fully exposed before Wen Kexing, each scar, each line, every mark laid bare.

His chest and body were a rough map of pain and survival, covered in faded cuts and deeper, rougher scars that layered over each other in chaotic, jagged patterns. But it was the damn nails embedded just beneath the skin of his chest that drew the eye—small circular impressions, barely healed, each one visible beneath thickened, scarred flesh that had never truly closed.

As he revealed himself fully, his fingers pressed further into Wen Kexing’s mouth, testing the edge of too much, holding Wen Kexing firmly in place. Wen Kexing’s breath caught, his lips parted around Zhou Zishu’s fingers, but he didn’t pull back. His gaze roamed over every inch of Zhou Zishu’s skin, lingering on each scar and every embedded nail, taking it all in with raw, unflinching intensity.

There was no hesitation, no pity—only an intensity that grounded Zhou Zishu in a way he hadn’t expected. Under that steady gaze, he felt the weight of his scars lessen, a quiet acceptance settling over him, as though, for the first time, every mark had been met and claimed without question.

Zhou Zishu’s fingers slipped from Wen Kexing’s mouth, moving instantly to grip his hair, holding him steady. He leaned in close, his voice low and commanding, each word a dark promise. “This is what you want?”

Wen Kexing’s eyes flashed, his answer raw and unrestrained. “Yes,” he breathed, voice catching with a hunger that bordered on desperation. “Yes, yes, yes… .” There was a fierce edge to his words, his lips curving into a wild, almost feral grin as he leaned forward, anticipation thick between them.

Zhou Zishu tightened his grip, guiding Wen Kexing to his half erected dick, and Wen Kexing took him in with a rough, eager need, his mouth moving with a fervor that trembled on the edge of too much. Low, hungry growls escaped him, each sound vibrating through Zhou Zishu, settling deep and steady, silencing every flicker of unease, every ghost of doubt that might try to claw its way up from the past. Wen Kexing’s fingers dug into his thighs, grip firm, movements urgent, as if he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t take enough.

The rough, needy whines and moans slipping from Wen Kexing’s throat echoed between them, each one grounding Zhou Zishu further in the moment, pulling him fully into the here and now. This was theirs—true and real, each sound, each movement a fierce, undeniable pleasure that bound them together, stronger than any words.

Zhou Zishu leaned back against the wall, his head tipping back as he let himself sink into the raw, unfiltered pleasure of it. Sounds he rarely let himself make slipped from his throat—low, needy murmurs, words of encouragement spilling out in rough whispers. “Good… so good,” he breathed, the compliments slipping out unbidden, each one grounding him further. “You love it, don’t you? Fuckin hungry for it. The sounds you make….” The tension of holding back, of restraining every reaction, finally gave way, replaced by an intense need as he let himself feel.

Wen Kexing’s fingers dug into his thighs, nails biting into his skin, sharp enough to cut skin, draw blood, a reminder of the relentless, almost desperate hunger driving him. The rough edge of it sent a thrill through Zhou Zishu, his own hand tightening in Wen Kexing’s hair, pulling hard, guiding him with a roughness he didn’t bother to hold back. He pushed Wen Kexing’s head forward, forcing him closer, right to the edge of too much, balancing that line between control and surrender, neither of them willing to ease up.

And then, just when he felt himself coming close, Wen Kexing pulled back, breaking free of Zhou Zishu’s grip with a fierce determination, a raw understanding passing between them. He’d stopped just in time, keeping the moment taut, drawn out, as if neither of them wanted to let it end too soon. The air hung heavy between them, charged and unbroken, both of them left on the edge, hungry and waiting.

Zhou Zishu’s grip tightened in Wen Kexing’s hair, pulling him to his feet, their faces close enough for every word to land like a spark between them. Nose to nose, his voice dropped to a low murmur, raw and unfiltered. “I want you inside me” he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Leave a mark I’ll feel for days. Real enough to drown out everything else. Make me come on your dick”

Each word hit Wen Kexing with an undeniable force, a fierce, consuming want flaring in his eyes. His breath caught, rough and ragged, struggling to contain the raw hunger rising in him. For a moment, disbelief flickered across his face, like he could hardly accept what he was hearing. But it wasn’t enough to stop him; if anything, it pushed him further, closer, an almost feral intensity sharpening his gaze as he took in Zhou Zishu’s words, each one stoking the need within him.

Zhou Zishu’s fingers traced along Wen Kexing’s jaw, grounding them both. “Make me ache,” he added, his voice softer but unwavering. “Make this impossible to forget.”

Wen Kexing’s gaze burned, his pupils blown wide, his restraint fraying, every hint of control slipping as he took in what was offered. He shuddered, breath coming fast, his want unleashed, ready to answer Zhou Zishu’s every demand.

Wen Kexing moved back just enough to shrug off his robes, letting them fall in a colorful swirl around him, each layer slipping away with an ease that bordered on celebratory. Unashamed and unrestrained, he looked almost like one of the tropical birds from Grandmother’s garden—vibrant, beautiful, a creature of freedom. His gaze never left Zhou Zishu, a delighted hunger flashing in his eyes, his movements loose and unhurried, a letting go of everything except this moment.

Zhou Zishu, meanwhile, was already a step ahead, every instinct sharp and efficient, even now. His fingers dipped to a wound on his side, slicking them with a mix of blood and spit, all he needed to start, his touch rough and unflinching. With a fierce, impatient rhythm, he prepared himself, rough fingers pushing in fast, pragmatism overtaking anything softer, as if every second felt too long, as if he were driving forward through every hesitation, leaving nothing between them except the edge of want.

“Lay down,” Zhou Zishu commanded, his voice low and firm, the words carrying an unmistakable edge. Wen Kexing’s expression softened, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips as he obeyed, easing himself back, his body stretched out and ready, dick standing proud, eyes never leaving his face.

Zhou Zishu closed the distance between them, each step steady, his gaze fixed on Wen Kexing’s form stretched out before him. Wen Kexing lay back, his chest rising and falling in anticipation, eyes dark and unwavering, waiting for what he knew was coming. Zhou Zishu felt a surge of something fierce and consuming, a sense of power that came not from control but from trust, raw and unguarded.

He straddled Wen Kexing slowly, savoring every inch of skin meeting skin as he settled into place, one hand resting on Wen Kexing’s chest, feeling the heartbeat pounding beneath his palm. He leaned forward, gaze unbroken, grounding them both in the shared intensity of the moment, his body aligning with Wen Kexing’s.

With a measured, deliberate movement, Zhou Zishu adjusted, positioning himself just above, moving slowly, deliberately, his body a careful, artful display as he began to sink down, inch by inch. His hips rolled with calculated grace, each movement measured, arching his back, letting his eyes drift over Wen Kexing’s face, taking in every barely-contained reaction. He saw Wen Kexing’s hands twitch, the muscles tense, fingers flexing as though resisting the urge to grab him, to pull him down harder. Zhou Zishu almost smirked, feeling the thrill of power, reveling in every second he kept Wen Kexing at bay, made him watch, made him wait.

He continued his slow descent, savoring the stretch, the steady, building pressure, the feeling of Wen Kexing filling him with an intensity that surprised him. Pleasure coursed through him, deep and silencing, overtaking every old shadow, every memory that had once held him back. For the first time, his actions weren’t just a show; the pleasure was real, grounded, and entirely his own.

Finally, he drove down the last few inches with a force he hadn’t planned, a sound of pure pleasure tearing from his throat, echoing off the walls of the cave. The cry hung in the stillness, and as it faded, he felt another unexpected wave of pleasure, something powerful and freeing, anchored in the moment he’d made for himself.

It took Zhou Zishu a moment to re-center himself, to catch his breath, to let the intensity settle into something he could grasp. The stretch, the fullness—it felt right in a way he hadn’t expected, grounding him so fully that it left him breathless. He’d done this countless times, with countless people, each encounter a means to survive, a way to gain favor, access, or secrets. Sometimes, it had been a job; other times, it was a torment he’d endured, a punishment he couldn’t refuse. He’d come to understand the power it held over others, the control it offered. But he’d never understood what they might have felt—what it could mean to want, to take pleasure for oneself. Not until this very moment.

And now, as he let himself settle fully, he felt something stir, a slow, growing satisfaction that spread from deep within. He was here for no one but himself, free to reclaim all those skills and movements once honed for others. This time, he was putting them to work for his own pleasure, each motion and every flicker of sensation an answer to his own want, his own need.

Zhou Zishu moved, just once, his hips rolling with precision, letting himself feel every shiver, every pulse that ran through him. And beneath him, Wen Kexing’s composure unraveled, his eyes wild, his fingers clawing into Zhou Zishu’s thighs, desperate for more. Zhou Zishu froze in place and watched every reaction—arch of his body, his ragged breath, shuddering moans. He reveled in the raw intensity of it, feeling the tension in Wen Kexing’s body, the struggle not to lose himself completely, and it only fueled him further.

Wen Kexing’s breath came in broken gasps, his gaze fixed on Zhou Zishu, filled with awe that was almost reverent. “I’ve seen… the best courtesans,” he managed, voice rough with wonder. “The most expensive, the finest—the rarest, even. But none of them… not a single one…” His voice faltered, his eyes dark with amazement. “None of it compares. They were shadows, A Xu. Shadows, next to you.”

Zhou Zishu’s lips curved in a faint, knowing smile as he leaned in close, his voice low and edged with playful challenge. “So, you never wondered?” he murmured, his tone a mix of dark humor and intensity. “You never wondered how good I was? Why they chased after me like dogs in heat? Think it was just my pretty face?” He arched a brow, letting out a soft, taunting laugh. “How presumptuous.”

He stretched slowly, his hands lifting to his hair, loosening it until it fell free around his shoulders, framing his face with an unstudied elegance. He rolled his shoulders back, letting Wen Kexing take in every inch of him, the display unashamed, almost daring.

“Watch and learn, Ghost Valley Master,” he said, voice rich and teasing, each word an invitation that lingered in the air.

And then he moved, each skill he’d honed over the years on full display, not for survival or gain, but for his own pleasure, his own amusement. He began with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, each motion measured and precise, a performer’s control blended with a wicked edge. He’d bring Wen Kexing right to the edge, every shift designed to push him further, to build the tension higher, and then he’d pull back, leaving him teetering on the brink, forced to start all over again in torturous, calculated rhythm.

Every time Wen Kexing’s breath hitched or his fingers tightened in need, Zhou Zishu would adjust, easing just enough to keep him trapped in that relentless cycle, his gaze never leaving Wen Kexing’s face. A glint of amusement flickered in his eyes as he savored every flicker of desperation, each involuntary shudder that rose up, pulling them both deeper.

Finally, he leaned forward, bringing his hand to Wen Kexing’s shoulder, fingers hovering over one of the shallow cuts from earlier. His touch lingered, a question in his gaze. “May I?”

Wen Kexing’s breath caught, and he nodded slowly, gaze steady, the unspoken answer hanging between them. With a dark satisfaction, Zhou Zishu pressed just enough to open the wound, watching as a fresh line of blood welled up.

​​He held the sight, grounding himself in the moment, smearing blood across Wen Kexing’s skin, feeling the heat of it between them. It was good—more than good. Raw and thrilling, like biting into something forbidden and finding it sweeter than anything you’d dared imagine. The sting of his own wounds barely registered, eclipsed by the intensity that burned between them, something deeper and darker than he was ready to name.

Pain was not new to him—he’d spent a lifetime wielding it as a tool, a weapon, a punishment. But here, it was different. Here, it was stripped of the fear and revulsion that usually clung to it. Wen Kexing took it, embraced it, even relished it, and Zhou Zishu found himself caught in the undercurrent, mesmerized. There was no guilt, no weight of shame—only the sharp clarity of knowing he’d struck, and Wen Kexing had wanted it. 

Invited it.

The blood on his hands felt like a tether, grounding him in the present even as his thoughts twisted into uncharted territory. He could see it in Wen Kexing’s eyes—that glint of defiance, of challenge, daring Zhou Zishu to go further, to test the limits of what could be taken and what could be given. And Zhou Zishu wanted to. He wanted to see how far that glint would go before it broke, or if it ever would.

And yet… there was something else. A deeper want, sharper than control. Zhou Zishu’s movements slowed, his hand stilling mid-path across Wen Kexing’s skin. His gaze dropped, lingering on the man below him—eyes wide, darkened with want, yet still holding something back. Beneath the tension and hunger, Zhou Zishu could see it clearly now: Wen Kexing’s restraint. Even in this moment, he was holding himself in check, reining in the wildness that shimmered just beneath the surface.

The thought struck like lightning. He’s letting me take control. Wen Kexing—this fierce, relentless storm of a man—was giving him space, waiting, holding back the force of what he could be.

Zhou Zishu’s breath hitched as understanding settled over him, sharp and undeniable. It wasn’t control he wanted—it wasn’t this delicate balance of power and patience. He wanted the storm, the chaos, the caged beast that Wen Kexing kept so carefully hidden. He wanted to feel it unleashed, to be caught in its fury, to be claimed without restraint.

His lips curved into a faint, deliberate smile, something quiet but edged with fire. Yes… he wanted. He wanted Wen Kexing to take this moment, to take him—to finally let go.

His gaze met Wen Kexing’s, and he let the words come, rough, unhidden. “What happened to making me ache, hmm?” he murmured, voice low and edged with a challenge he didn’t even try to hide. “To….  Fucking me so hard, so rough, that the only thing I could do is beg and scream?”

The words seemed to ignite something in Wen Kexing, his expression shifting to one of fierce, possessive intensity. He didn’t waste a second. In one swift motion, he seized control, pushing Zhou Zishu down and maneuvering him to his knees. 

Wen Kexing moved with a fierce, single-minded purpose, gripping Zhou Zishu’s wrists and bending him forward, his arms pulled back in a position that was rough, almost uncomfortable—but it was exactly what he needed. With a violent, animalistic thrust, Wen Kexing drove into him, a low, primal growl spilling from his lips, the sound raw and untamed, vibrating through Zhou Zishu, pulling him even deeper.

He took it all, the strain in his shoulders grounding him even as it sent a thrill through his entire body. Zhou Zishu felt himself surrendering fully, sinking into the raw intensity that radiated from Wen Kexing, each breath, each movement binding him more completely.

Wen Kexing’s voice came in rough, broken gasps, every word laden with hunger and praise, spilling out like he couldn’t hold them back. “Mine,” he growled, breath hot and unrestrained against Zhou Zishu’s ear, “all of you… better than anything, anyone…” His tone was possessive, almost reverent, but edged with a wild need. “No one like you,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a rasp, yet fierce, insistent. “Made for this… made for me.”

With every thrust, Zhou Zishu felt the world narrowing, blurring, until only Wen Kexing’s voice and the relentless rhythm, the stretch and the fullness, remained, turning everything to a haze of pure sensation. Each thrust was a new layer of need, grounding him in this raw, all-encompassing space. And as the want deepened, layer upon layer, he began to hear his own voice, distant and broken, the words slipping out like they were coming from somewhere far off. “Yes… please… yours… ” he heard himself murmur, the sounds rough, unfiltered, each plea unrestrained. “More… don’t stop… please, don’t stop.”

The silence in his mind grew, expanding and pressing in around him, erasing every thought, every memory, until nothing remained but the pure, unending bliss that Wen Kexing drove him toward. Each wave of sensation shattered him further, carried him deeper, his own voice lost in the need and grounding of Wen Kexing’s touch, guiding him fully into release. And as he broke, he floated on the edge of each wave, the perfect silence wrapping around him, leaving only this moment, only this all-consuming pleasure.

Chapter Text

Oh Siming, can you see us tear,
The masks we bear—faces of care,
Of sadness, pain, of loss, despair.
How do we find the will to stare,
At life, unmasked, raw and bare?

To fight. Not to fight. To still hold on,
To cradle what's precious, though all feels gone.
In this world, unjust, unkind, unfair,
Yet we keep holding—fragile, rare.

By the time morning came, Zhou Zishu’s first instinct, sharp and well-practiced, was to take stock of their surroundings. The pale light of dawn crept into the cave, casting faint shadows against the walls as he pushed himself up, ignoring the pull of sore muscles. He moved to the edge of the cave mouth, careful to stay hidden, and peered out.

Far below, scattered figures picked through the debris left by the avalanche, their movements slow and searching. It was satisfying—almost amusing—to see them so far beneath, oblivious to the two figures nestled safely in the cave above. Zhou Zishu allowed himself to exhale, the tension in his shoulders easing as he confirmed what he already knew: they were well hidden, far beyond anyone’s reach.

Then he looked down and realized, with a faint, almost bewildered sense of surprise, that he was completely, unreservedly naked. What struck him though was the calm, the lack of shame or self-consciousness as he moved back into the cave, not bothering to reach for anything to cover himself. It was a strange, liberating feeling, not hiding, and he allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

As he settled back, Wen Kexing gave him an unmistakably appreciative look, his grin only growing wider as he took his time. “Not in any rush to get dressed, I see,” he murmured, an almost teasing note in his voice.

“Why should I be?” Zhou Zishu replied, arching an eyebrow as he returned the look with equal boldness. He felt a rare ease settling into him, a surprising comfort in the open way Wen Kexing watched him, in the way he felt no need to cover himself.

Wen Kexing moved fluidly, rising without a hint of shame, crossing the cave in his unhurried, feline way. Zhou Zishu watched, letting his gaze linger, taking in every easy shift of muscle, the surety in each step as Wen Kexing started to gather their things. Wen Kexing retrieved a bit of cloth, dampening it with water he found pooled in a crevice, and came back, face softened with something almost gentle. He held the cloth out, dabbing Zhou Zishu’s face, his hands, then his shoulders, his legs, his dick, his ass, his touch unhurried as he worked. Zhou Zishu allowed himself to sink into the sensation, eyes half-closed, unashamed at letting himself be taken care of in this quiet, unfamiliar way.

“So,” Wen Kexing murmured, his tone edged with something both wry and admiring, “is this part of the act, or am I just that lucky?”

Zhou Zishu let out a breath of a laugh, giving him a dry look. “If you have to ask, maybe you weren’t paying enough attention.” He leaned back, letting his gaze drift over Wen Kexing, savoring the new ease between them. “Lucky or not, I don’t think you’ll be getting any complaints.”

The cave settled into a quiet calm, the cool air drifting around them as Zhou Zishu let his gaze drift toward the light glancing in from outside. He could feel the faint aches in his shoulders and arms, reminders of scrapes and bruises earned the hard way. But just as he let himself sink into that stillness, Wen Kexing broke the silence, unable to keep his curiosity contained. He seemed almost to vibrate with questions, his energy spilling out in a wave he couldn’t hold back.

“So…” Wen Kexing started, a hint of mischief in his tone, though his gaze was careful, probing. “You’ve done plenty of things in your time, but did you actually like any of those personas?” He let the question hang there, not pressing too hard, watching for any flicker of resistance.

Zhou Zishu met his gaze with a low, thoughtful hum, surprised at the ease with which he could answer. “Before?” he said, with a faint, wry smile. “No, it was a mask like any other—just something I wore when it suited me.” He let his gaze flick back to Wen Kexing, his smile sharpening. “But this time?” He tilted his head, a glint in his eye. “This time, I’d say I took to it just fine. Enjoyed myself, even. Could say it was…” He let the last word hang, almost a taunt. “Satisfying, wouldn’t you?”

Wen Kexing’s eyes sparked with interest, his grin shifting into something closer to awe. “Satisfying?” he echoed, leaning closer, voice dipping with rough-edged amusement. “A Xu, it was more than satisfying. Seeing you like that—so confident, so unflinching.” His gaze grew more intense, lingering on Zhou Zishu’s face as though trying to memorize it. “That side of you—the one that doesn’t ask, the one that takes? I think I wouldn’t mind seeing it… more often.” He said the words lightly, but Zhou Zishu caught the flicker of something unguarded in his eyes, the real question behind it: Will you let me see it again?

Zhou Zishu’s smirk widened, a sharper glint in his eye. He let Wen Kexing’s question settle between them, allowing the anticipation to deepen, before he spoke, his tone edged with teasing confidence. “I think that could be arranged.” He shifted, letting the faint hint of a challenge color his voice. “But if we’re doing it right, we might need to prepare a little better next time. Chains, perhaps.” He let the suggestion linger, watching the eager spark in Wen Kexing’s eyes. “Or something with a bit of an edge. Think you’d handle that?”

Wen Kexing’s answer came quickly, unguarded, an enthusiastic, “Yes. Yes—anything you want.” His gaze held no hesitation, only that unrestrained eagerness that, for a moment, left Zhou Zishu almost amused. A quiet chuckle escaped him as he looked back at Wen Kexing, knowing they’d both already accepted whatever this was between them.

They moved through the cave, gathering their supplies and clothing, preparing for the task ahead. Zhou Zishu opened the small, compact disguise kit he’d stashed away, setting out powders, brushes, and a small brass mirror onto a flat rock. Wen Kexing lingered close by, watching with a gleeful curiosity, his energy vibrating with barely contained excitement.

“So, we’re going to be Lady Yu and her physician?” Wen Kexing murmured, a glint in his eye. “You know, A Xu, I’ve heard stories of just what happens in those little carriages between certain… devoted physicians and their noble charges.” He tilted his head, studying Zhou Zishu with a grin. “Perhaps we’re due for an encounter or two along the way?”

Zhou Zishu snorted, but the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. “If by encounter, you mean a respectable silence and focus on our tasks, then perhaps.” He shot Wen Kexing a dry look, lifting a brush and bringing it close to Wen Kexing’s face. “But first, we’ll make a respectable physician of you. Let’s see if we can soften those strikingfeatures of yours.”

Wen Kexing’s grin only widened, and he sat obligingly still as Zhou Zishu leaned in, applying powders and lines to subtly change his face’s contours, flattening his brows, and altering his jawline’s sharpness. “Ah, yes, a more modest look,” Wen Kexing muttered, sounding both amused and skeptical. “Though I imagine there’s nothing modest about the way Lady Yu will gaze at her faithful physician.” He winked, his tone all but scandalous. “All those hours alone together—it’s almost a story of fate, wouldn’t you say?”

“A very boring fate, maybe,” Zhou Zishu replied dryly, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes as he stepped back, satisfied with the subtle changes he’d added to Wen Kexing’s face. “Now, for the finishing touch.” He picked up a brush and applied a bruise just above Wen Kexing’s cheekbone, blending the purples and reds to look impressively realistic. “Now that’s more believable. As though you’ve had a hard time of things.”

Wen Kexing leaned forward, admiring his altered features in the brass mirror with a pleased expression. “A very hard time, indeed,” he murmured, sounding almost proud. “Though a split lip might add to the effect. I’m more than happy to help you with that.” His voice dropped with a suggestive edge, and before Zhou Zishu could reply, Wen Kexing caught the back of his neck, pulling him close.

With one swift, mischievous movement, Wen Kexing pressed his mouth to Zhou Zishu’s, teeth sinking in just enough to leave the sharp sting of a split lip. Zhou Zishu stiffened, the faint taste of blood blooming on his tongue. He should have expected it—Wen Kexing’s particular brand of mischief was as predictable as it was infuriating—but the sharp bite still sent a jolt through him. And then Wen Kexing deepened the kiss, slow and coaxing, lingering just long enough to unravel any pretense Zhou Zishu might have made about not wanting it.

When Wen Kexing finally pulled back, his grin was maddeningly smug. “There,” he murmured, his voice low and pleased. “Lady Yu’s suffering made perfectly clear.”

Zhou Zishu ran his tongue over the sting, his expression schooled into something carefully unimpressed. “You,” he said, his voice edged with irritation he didn’t quite feel, “told me this was a job for the good doctor—not Lady Yu. And yet, here I am, with a split lip and your theatrics hanging over me.”

“A slight adjustment to the plan,” Wen Kexing replied, entirely unrepentant. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, laced with amusement. “Besides, don’t worry—I’ll let you bite me later. It’s only fair.”

Zhou Zishu let out a quiet huff, though the faint warmth in his chest betrayed him. “You’re far too generous,” he said dryly, his tone sharpening as his lips curved into something faintly dangerous. “But if you’re so eager to keep promises, maybe I should remind you about the one involving sharp things.” His words lingered deliberately, a subtle challenge he couldn’t resist voicing.

The effect was immediate. Wen Kexing’s grin widened into something wild and wicked, his eyes glittering with unmistakable enthusiasm. “Oh, A Xu,” he breathed, his voice thick with delight, “you’re going to ruin me one day. But I’ll thank you for it.”

Zhou Zishu’s gaze lingered on him, half-amused, half-exasperated, though something deeper twisted low in his chest. Wen Kexing’s sheer joy in every moment—every bite, every challenge—was infectious in a way that left Zhou Zishu both exhilarated and wary. He could already feel himself giving in to it, leaning into the fire Wen Kexing carried so effortlessly.

He raised a brow, his tone cooling just enough to mask his own enjoyment. “Be careful, Lao Wen,” he said, his voice low. “One day, you’ll beg me to keep that promise, and you won’t like how sharp my teeth can get.”

“Begging you?” Wen Kexing laughed softly, tilting his head as if daring him to follow through. “Oh, A Xu, I’d consider that a privilege. And don’t pretend you wouldn’t enjoy it too much.”

Zhou Zishu’s lips twitched in something too small to be a smile, though the faint flush across his skin gave him away. Too much fun, he thought again, the familiar mix of irritation and surrender curling in his chest. This man will be the death of me, and somehow, I’ll enjoy it.

They continued their work in easy rhythm, each word and glance easing them into their new roles. By the time the last stroke was applied, Lady Yu and her faithful, roughened physician were ready, with all the mystery and mischief their masks required.

Wen Kexing adjusted his bruised face, glancing down at his clothes and then at Zhou Zishu, brow furrowing. “A Xu, we may look the part in the face, but don’t you think our clothes are a bit too… clean?” His tone was half-amused, half-serious. “Lady Yu and her long-suffering doctor ought to look like they’ve been through a scuffle or two.”

Zhou Zishu raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing at his mouth. “No need to add anything just yet,” he replied dryly. “Trust me—these tunnels will handle that for us.”

“Tunnels?” Wen Kexing echoed, his eyes widening with interest. “Did you mean tunnels, or was that some kind of poetic metaphor?”

“Poetry?” Zhou Zishu’s smirk grew as he gestured toward the narrow, half-hidden entrance at the back of the cave. “I assure you, this is no poetry. It’s two hours of crawling, squeezing, and bruising. And if you think you’re ready for that, by all means—lead the way.”

Wen Kexing took a quick glance at the narrow passage, grimacing. “Ah, I see. This is how we earn those marks on our clothes,” he murmured, a hint of distaste softening into a grin. “But if it gets us closer to this ‘prince,’ I suppose I’ll allow myself to be subjected to some discomfort.” He offered Zhou Zishu a wry look. “Just don’t blame me if Lady Yu’s veil catches on a rock or two.”

They moved into the narrow entrance, immediately feeling the chill of damp stone pressing in on them. Zhou Zishu led the way, moving with practiced ease, and Wen Kexing followed close behind, less graceful but unwilling to fall too far back. The tightness of the passage forced them to crouch, shoulders brushing the rough walls as they worked their way through twists and turns that led deeper into the mountain.

At times, they crawled, elbows scraping as they pulled themselves forward, Wen Kexing muttering half-hearted complaints that turned into amused chuckles. “If I’d known my physician duties would involve crawling through caves, I might have reconsidered,” he joked, voice muffled as he squeezed through a narrow gap.

Zhou Zishu glanced over his shoulder, expression wry. “If Lady Yu’s physician has complaints, he’s welcome to find a different patient,” he replied smoothly, ducking to avoid a low-hanging rock. “Or perhaps a different line of work altogether.”

Wen Kexing sighed dramatically as he maneuvered through a particularly tight section, his eyes on Zhou Zishu just ahead of him. “A different patient? A Xu, I’d never abandon you.” And as he squeezed closer, a playful spark lighting his expression, he reached out and grabbed Zhou Zishu’s backside with a firm, unrestrained grip.

The moment seemed to hang between them, Wen Kexing half-expecting Zhou Zishu to jerk away or offer a sharp reprimand. But instead, Zhou Zishu only paused, his face unreadable in the dim light, then glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. With a faint smirk, he replied, “You had more than enough time to admire my backside not long ago. If you’ve wasted that opportunity, well—that’s on you.”

Wen Kexing’s laughter came bright and unrestrained, the unspoken understanding settling between them like a weight lifted. He let go, still grinning as he crawled forward, his gaze flicking back to Zhou Zishu with a look of quiet satisfaction, as though this was all the permission he’d been waiting for.

They continued in near silence, the effort of squeezing through the cramped passageways gradually wearing down the last traces of clean fabric and pristine veils. After what felt like an eternity, Zhou Zishu finally saw a faint glimmer of light up ahead. He gestured for Wen Kexing to keep low and follow, and they emerged into a dimly lit room, breathing in fresh, cool air that felt like a gift after the tunnels.

There, in the middle of the room, was the man they’d come to find—the so-called prince, bound and barely moving, awaiting their arrival.

Chapter Text

O Siming, do you see these masks we don anew,
Forged from forbearance, not despair’s residue?
To rise against those who would not dare,
To face our eyes, to meet the glare—
The challenge, the fire, the strength laid bare.

As they stepped fully into the room, Zhou Zishu’s gaze fixed on the bound figure at the center. Draped in finery, shoulders back, Shen Lian looked the part of Prince Jin—down to the cold bearing he’d learned to imitate. But the stillness in the room was shattered by the sharp intake of breath from Wen Kexing beside him. A surge of tension radiated from him, his fists clenched, jaw tight, barely restrained. He stepped forward, voice low and urgent, his words half-pleading, half-command. “A Xu, please. Let me deal with him. Let me—just one chance to wipe out that… face.”

Without looking at him, Zhou Zishu placed a steady hand on Wen Kexing’s arm, pressing down to ground him. “Lao Wen,” he murmured, voice calm but firm, the words laced with a hint of finality. “This is not him. It’s not the prince. Go. Sit. Think. Or breathe. I have work to do.”

Wen Kexing stared at him, still on edge, as though some part of him couldn’t accept it. But he held back, stepping away and settling down at a distance, his gaze wary as he kept his eyes locked on Shen Lian. Zhou Zishu glanced his way, noting the restrained fury lingering in Wen Kexing’s posture, before he turned his attention to the man bound in the center of the room.

Shen Lian’s eyes lit up as he recognized Zhou Zishu, a warm smile breaking through his attempted stoic demeanor. “Zishu! You really do pull off the lady look,” he teased, voice light, unbothered. His gaze flicked over Zhou Zishu’s face, noting the split lip and his slightly rumpled appearance. “They did a number on you, didn’t they? I would have come to the rescue, but, well—” He tilted his head, gesturing slightly to the bindings around his wrists with a rueful smile. “I was a bit tied up.”

Zhou Zishu almost laughed, shaking his head with a faint, bemused smile. “I’m sure you were. You seem to be enjoying yourself enough for a captive.”

Shen Lian’s grin only widened. “What can I say? It’s an honor to be called back into service. Besides,” he added, more gently, his gaze softening, “it’s good to see you alive and well, even if you’re a bit worse for wear.” His voice dropped to a more intimate tone. “And what of the children? The twins—are they with you?”

Zhou Zishu raised an eyebrow, not giving much away, though the familiarity of Shen Lian’s easy tone reminded him of simpler times, when not every conversation was shadowed by death. “They’re fine,” he replied simply, keeping his expression neutral. “They’re taken care of.”

Shen Lian sighed, looking relieved, before his gaze drifted past Zhou Zishu to where Wen Kexing sat. He arched an eyebrow, smirking faintly as he took in the barely concealed fury in Wen Kexing’s stance. “Ah, seems I’ve stepped into someone else’s grudge. Another unfortunate soul haunted by that damned bastard?”

Zhou Zishu glanced over his shoulder, catching the way Wen Kexing’s shoulders had relaxed, if only slightly. “I did tell him,” Zhou Zishu said, voice dry, “that you’re not Prince Jin. Do you believe me now, Lao Wen?”

Wen Kexing let out a breath, his gaze finally softening, though the lingering resentment hadn’t fully left his expression. Shen Lian gave a small, understanding nod, his tone shifting into something almost sympathetic. “Good riddance, I say. The world’s better without that monster in it.”

For the first time, Wen Kexing allowed himself a faint smile, nodding in agreement. “Better indeed,” he murmured, his voice laced with a quiet satisfaction.

Zhou Zishu crossed his arms, studying Shen Lian with a critical eye. He’d made it this far, but stepping into Prince Jin’s skin would require more than an outward resemblance. Every detail had to be exact—his voice, his bearing, the arrogance that seeped from every pore. “If you’re going to do this,” Zhou Zishu said, his tone leaving no room for error, “you’ll need to be Prince Jin through and through. Start by repeating something in his voice.”

Shen Lian’s expression shifted, his usual relaxed demeanor slipping away as he straightened, his eyes narrowing with a chill that brought an old, unpleasant familiarity to the air. When he spoke, it was as if Prince Jin himself had come back to life, every ounce of contempt and disdain shaping his words. “Loyalty is not a gift—it’s a demand. And betrayal is dealt with swiftly.”

The imitation was flawless, and Zhou Zishu felt an involuntary tension settle over him, though he kept his expression neutral. The illusion passed as quickly as it had formed; Shen Lian relaxed back into himself, letting a faint, amused smile play at the corners of his mouth. “Close enough?” he asked lightly.

“Close,” Zhou Zishu allowed, watching him carefully. “Now, tell me about the people at court. Start with who’s most likely to betray you, who you can trust, who you might control.” His questions came quick, sharp, designed to catch any hesitation or gap in knowledge.

But Shen Lian answered smoothly, as if he’d lived among those nobles and ministers for years, describing alliances and enmities with ease. Zhou Zishu noted the shrewdness in his answers, the calculated pauses, the weight he placed on each name, each relationship. He was slipping into the role almost too naturally, though a flicker of humor or a lifted brow betrayed his own lighthearted nature now and then, slipping through the cracks of the prince’s mask.

Satisfied for the moment, Zhou Zishu shifted topics, his voice edged with a kind of formality. “As for power—you’ll need to wield it carefully. If you misuse it, you’ll be no better than the one who left it behind.”

Shen Lian nodded, and Zhou Zishu saw a quiet resolve settle over his face. “I understand,” he replied, his voice steady. “I don’t plan on becoming anything like him. Not in power, not in spirit.”

Zhou Zishu allowed himself the faintest nod. But Wen Kexing, who had been watching silently, shifted, eyes narrowing. “Good,” he said, voice low and pointed. “Because if you so much as think about using that power against us, I’ll gladly rid the world of another Prince Jin.” There was no humor in his voice, only the sharp edge of a promise. “I’ve already come up with a few detailed plans for just such an occasion.”

Shen Lian only chuckled, his expression open, unphased. “If I ever turn into something close to that monster, you’d be doing me a favor by ending it. Consider it an open invitation.”

Wen Kexing held his gaze a moment longer, as if searching for any flicker of deception, before he relaxed, a faint smirk settling over his face. Zhou Zishu glanced between them, a strange balance settling into place in their arrangement—for now, steady enough to hold.

Zhou Zishu—now fully stepping into the role of Lady Yu—paced the room with measured grace, his gaze sharp as he assessed Shen Lian’s readiness. The prince’s robes suited him well enough, but if they were to carry out this plan convincingly, each detail had to be flawless.

“As you know,” Lady Yu began, her voice low and steady, “my physician and I were traveling to consult a more experienced colleague, seeking help for my ailing health. It’s well known and unquestioned, so no one will doubt our story. Somewhere on the journey, however, we were… intercepted.”

Wen Kexing—now the physician—stepped into the conversation smoothly, an air of formality slipping over him. “Indeed, Lady Yu and her devoted physician found themselves detained by a group of traitors intent on harming the prince. These treacherous souls, however,” he added with a faint smirk, “met a rather unfortunate end off the side of the cliff.”

Shen Lian, slipping into Prince Jin’s cold, disdainful demeanor, allowed a flicker of anger to color his voice. “Then it’s settled. Those traitors—Zhou Zishu and Wen Kexing—are dead. It would be no less than they deserved for daring to lay a hand on their prince.” His eyes darkened as he spoke, embodying Prince Jin’s barely controlled fury, his voice dropping into a tone laced with venom. “They’ll be forgotten, and no one will speak of their disgrace again.”

Lady Yu inclined her head, letting a faint, approving smile touch her lips. “Yes, Your Highness. They’re gone now, as they should be.”

The physician added smoothly, his tone respectful, “Your Highness is safe and well, and Lady Yu and her physician were nothing short of heroic. When one of the traitors dared to raise a hand against you, Lady Yu intervened without hesitation, bearing a beating for her courage.” He cast a sidelong glance at Lady Yu, eyes bright with faint amusement. “Truly a display of noble sacrifice.”

Shen Lian, now every bit the prince, offered Lady Yu a small, courtly nod. “Your loyalty and courage will not go unrecognized, my lady. I shall ensure your bravery is spoken of with all due reverence.”

Lady Yu allowed herself a slight, gracious smile. “A duty I performed without hesitation, Your Highness.” She met Shen Lian’s gaze with composure, though the faintest glint of amusement lingered in her eyes.

The physician, casting aside his usual humor for a moment of seeming solemnity, nodded with a touch of pride. “And as for myself, Your Highness, I treated your wounds and showed unwavering dedication to your well-being. All part of the duty I swore, of course.” He turned to Lady Yu, letting the faintest smirk return. “A tale for the ages, wouldn’t you say?”

Lady Yu gave him a look of wry agreement. “I suspect it may be. Though perhaps my physician should be more modest with the retelling.” She turned back to Shen Lian with a serious tone. “The rescue should be here within the hour. My… acquaintances are likely already directing the guards down here.”

Shen Lian inclined his head, accepting this as though it were his due. “Fortunate timing,” he replied in an appropriately princely tone. “I shall be certain to commend those responsible for my safe return.”

The physician let out a quiet, sardonic laugh, his tone a subtle mockery of reverence. “We’ll be sure to remind Your Highness of all who contributed.” He exchanged a knowing look with Lady Yu, their shared satisfaction lingering, filling the silence as they waited for the rescue to unfold.

Lady Yu took her position carefully, sinking down at the base of the stone, her back pressed against the rough surface, posture slack as though the last reserves of her strength had been exhausted. Her breath came in shallow, uneven rhythms, eyes half-closed, gaze unfocused. The bruises painted across her face accentuated the deep, old scars that cut across her cheekbones, jagged lines that had long since marked her as someone shaped by hardship and survival. Her face, tilted just enough to catch the dim light, spoke of resilience beneath the exhaustion.

Above her, Prince Jin sat tall and unyielding, the cold stone beneath him no more than a platform for his authority. His face was set in a hard line, gaze fixed forward as though even captivity itself was beneath his notice. Not a tremor betrayed him; he was pure, unwavering pride, embodying a presence that left no room for doubt. It struck Lady Yu just how easily the transformation had taken root, how natural he seemed in the role—cold and detached, the picture of an untouchable prince.

Beside her, the physician knelt, his bound hands moving with careful precision, tending to her as best he could. His fingertips brushed across her scarred forehead in a show of concern, his expression studiously neutral yet with a hint of defiance glinting beneath. Though bound, his loyalty appeared undiminished, each movement careful, restrained. Now and then he cast a glance toward the prince, his eyes filled with the quiet deference expected of a devoted servant, though there was something sharp in his gaze, as if even now he was calculating their next steps.

The room was steeped in silence, their tableau frozen in place—a prince, his ailing lady, and her loyal physician, caught in a scene of captured nobility awaiting salvation. Every detail was set; each expression, each shallow breath, each subtle shift had been arranged to speak volumes for anyone who entered.

Chapter Text

In the silence of the carriage, the lady sits still,
Her eyes cast down, her posture tense, tranquil.
She prays to you, oh goddess of fate,
For strength to rise, to challenge her state.

But tricky hands and lips linger, eyes stare,
Composure flees, leaving her bare.
Restless, frozen, beneath their gaze,
Eyes so deep, so raw, ablaze.

Can she find what she thought was lost?
Oh Siming, your clever games exhaust.
With deft hands, you twist her grace,
And gently, cruelly, put her in her place.

At last, a faint sound drifted through the stone walls, the muted clatter of footsteps approaching. The stone doors groaned open, and the rescuers poured in, guards and courtiers in full force, each bearing the prince’s crest. They moved quickly, a trained tide of reverence and obedience, falling to their knees in rows before Prince Jin, heads lowered, each whispering praises for his survival. From her place on the floor, Lady Yu observed the scene through half-closed eyes, taking in the flood of faces, the palpable relief, the fervent respect in every bow.

One of the foremost guards rose to his feet, approaching the prince with a low, formal bow before reaching to cut the ropes binding his wrists. He worked quickly, his fingers deft, though his hands trembled slightly as though fearing the prince’s inevitable reaction. With a quiet nod, he moved on to the physician, severing his bonds as well before retreating several steps to join the others, once more bowing his head low.

Lady Yu didn’t miss the prince’s brief, withering look as he flexed his freed hands, irritation flashing across his face as though offended by the very memory of captivity. She felt a glint of satisfaction hidden behind her weary expression—he’d play his role to perfection.

The prince took a moment to survey his kneeling rescuers, letting the silence stretch before speaking, his voice cold and disdainful. “So,” he began, his tone edged with disgust, “after weeks of my captivity, you decide to appear. And now—” His voice sharpened, demanding. “Where are the traitors who dared to raise a hand against their prince? I want them brought before me. I want them punished properly.”

The guards exchanged tense glances, as though the prince’s fury was a physical force weighing on them. One guard finally stepped forward, bowing his head low before daring to lift his gaze. “Your Highness, please rest assured. The traitors—Zhou Zishu and Wen Kexing—they are no longer a threat. They have been dealt with.”

Prince Jin’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Dealt with?” he echoed, a sneer curling his lip. “Dealt with how?”

The guard took a steadying breath before replying, his voice careful and solemn. “Your Highness, they fought fiercely, attempting escape after the ambush. But our forces were stronger. They were driven back, and in the chaos, they fell from the cliffs. We recovered their bodies, sir. There is no doubt—they are dead.”

Lady Yu kept her gaze steady, observing the scene from beneath lowered lashes as the guard’s words sank in, and the silence stretched heavy, thick with the prince’s still-simmering wrath.

Lady Yu kept her gaze lowered, watching the unfolding scene through veiled eyes as Prince Jin’s expression darkened, his growing displeasure a force of its own. He seemed to process the news reluctantly, his face hardening with a look of disdain that suggested he was not nearly satisfied.

“And where,” he demanded, voice cutting through the room like a whip, “is Duan Pengju? Why has he not presented himself? I’ll have him answer to me directly. Explain to me, here and now, how he allowed such an indignity to happen under his watch.”

The guards exchanged hesitant glances, and one of them stepped forward, bowing deeply, as if bracing himself for the prince’s fury. “Your Highness,” he began, voice laden with a forced calm. “Duan Pengju fought to the last, defending you with unwavering loyalty. He stood against the traitors, doing all he could to protect you.” The guard paused, eyes flickering briefly to the stone floor before he continued. “He… he gave his life in the attempt, Your Highness. He died fighting to prevent your capture.”

Prince Jin’s jaw tightened, his hand curling into a fist. Lady Yu could see the fury rising in him, an offended pride burning hot behind his eyes. “Duan Pengju, dead as well,” he sneered. “So even my best was too weak to do his duty?” He let out a cold, humorless laugh, his voice laced with venom. “And now who am I to punish for this failure?”

The guards shifted, visibly tense, their heads bowed, unwilling to meet the prince’s eyes. Lady Yu watched them closely, noting the flicker of uncertainty in their movements, each one caught between duty and fear. Before Prince Jin’s anger could build further, she stirred, letting a hint of her own exhaustion and pain show as she raised her head, drawing his attention.

Lady Yu inclined her head, keeping her voice soft and reverent as she addressed the prince. “Your Highness, please… you have endured unimaginable hardship already. It would be a grievous pity to exhaust yourself further on the likes of those who betray their station.” She looked at him with all the quiet, admiring deference her role demanded, as though his mere presence had been her only lifeline through this ordeal. “Rest assured,” she murmured, and took a delicate breath, glancing quickly toward the physician, “your people did all they could. And yet, who could have foreseen a creature as vile as Zhou Zishu…” Her gaze softened with the faintest hint of wariness, almost reluctant as she continued, “…and his monster.”

The words hung in the air, laced with a note of fear and something just shy of flirtation, her gaze flickering toward the physician as if drawn there. It was a line expertly played, and Lady Yu was just beginning to savor the look of interest in the prince’s eye when she felt a sharp, stealthy pinch at her thigh. The physician, beside her, wore a mask of calm propriety, eyes dutifully lowered, but the faintest smirk edged his mouth.

Lady Yu returned her attention to the prince, though her own fingers flexed with the wish to retaliate for that pinch. She kept her composure, inwardly allowing herself an imaginary, scathing retort. Pretending to be offended could be quite satisfying; she’d file this little grievance away for a thorough response once they were safely out of this mess.

The prince’s gaze hadn’t missed the exchange, a flicker of amusement crossing his face before he quickly stifled it, his own expression darkening into offended indignation. “And to think, my loyal guards allowed you—you—to be taken,” he muttered, anger simmering in his tone. “A lady of such virtue, handled as a mere captive. If not for your physician’s loyalty, who knows what might have befallen you in that brute’s hands.”

Lady Yu allowed herself a deferential, measured smile, each word warm with feigned admiration. “Your Highness, it has been an honor to share in your trials. To bear even a fraction of your burden has been a privilege.” Internally, Zhou Zishu savored each absurd word, committing them to memory for later ridicule, though he spoke them smoothly, with the soft assurance that seemed to calm the prince. “If Your Highness would be so kind as to allow us the chance to help care for you now… your people have worried themselves greatly. Let us celebrate your freedom. The traitors are gone, and we should leave this wretched place to see you restored somewhere worthy of your stature.”

The prince’s face softened slightly, a faint flicker of approval replacing his earlier fury. Lady Yu held his gaze, steady and deferential, feeling the quiet satisfaction of a role perfectly played.

Lady Yu watched carefully as Prince Jin was ushered out of the cave, every detail of his performance a spectacle of arrogant disdain. Shen Lian moved with the practiced air of a man born to such arrogance, though only she and her physician knew the truth behind the guise. His voice carried effortlessly over the heads of his entourage, his commands sharp and dismissive. “Get off me,” he snapped at a guard who dared to offer support, his glare withering. “You’d think I hadn’t endured enough, without now being pawed by incompetents.”

Internally, Zhou Zishu couldn’t help but feel a faint sense of amusement; Shen Lian had grasped the role with an ease that bordered on unsettling. The “prince” demanded better food, an appropriate escort, and finer comforts, each request delivered as if the idea of insufficient service was not just inconvenient but beneath him entirely. Thoroughly believable,Zhou Zishu thought dryly, his eyes catching a flicker of fear in the faces of the guards as Shen Lian promised retribution for anyone deemed responsible for his discomfort.

Meanwhile, she, too, allowed herself to be helped up slowly, leaning on her physician, and feigning the faintest weakness, the exhaustion of someone who’d endured her own share of misfortune. Her head tilted down just enough to give the appearance of frailty, though her gaze was keen, watching her own people—those woven inconspicuously among the prince’s ranks—quietly form a perimeter around her and her physician. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, to one of her guards who returned the signal, his face impassive, ready for the next step.

Outside, a richly appointed carriage was rolled forward, and Prince Jin took his place in it, immediately casting a disdainful look over the food and wine offered to him. “Is this what you call a proper welcome?” he demanded, pushing a goblet aside after the faintest sip. “You may as well have left me in that cave if this is the quality of service I’m meant to endure.” He shifted impatiently, commanding pillows to be arranged and rearranged, making a show of dissatisfaction until the attendants hurried to meet his every whim.

Lady Yu waited her turn with outward patience, her physician by her side, a quiet, steady presence. When her carriage was finally readied, she leaned into him with a soft sigh, glancing toward the attendants with a mix of insistence and faint distress. “I won’t be parted from my physician,” she murmured, her voice steady, gentle. “I have been through such an ordeal, and his presence is my only comfort.” She kept her face composed, though inwardly, Zhou Zishu could already imagine Wen Kexing’s amused smirk at her dramatics.

The attendants exchanged uneasy glances but dared not argue. With a gracious nod, she allowed herself to be assisted into the carriage beside her physician, the ruse firmly in place, as the procession prepared to set off toward the palace. The final act had begun, and Zhou Zishu settled in, suppressing the flicker of satisfaction beneath Lady Yu’s calm expression.

As the carriage wheels settled into their rhythmic creak, Lady Yu allowed herself a moment’s calm, though it was hardly to last.

“So,” Wen Kexing began, his voice sly and quiet, carrying just enough to reach Lady Yu’s ears alone, “I imagine the journey might feel a bit… long. Particularly for a fine lady and her trusted physician, tucked away in such close quarters.” He leaned in slightly, his gaze dancing with mischief. “After all, such a physician might know a few secrets about the body. Perhaps there are… treatments a lady has never dreamed of.”

Zhou Zishu, entirely unmoved by the comment outwardly, allowed himself a faint smirk, dropping his gaze with a look of mock disinterest. “Really now? And here I thought physicians were above such things, all professional restraint and virtue. You’d suggest something else?”

“Oh, I would never compromise my professional integrity,” Wen Kexing murmured, lips quirking with a knowing smile. “However… should a certain lady request some guidance on, say, lesser-known treatments, well, perhaps I’d be duty-bound to comply.” He let the words hang, his hand resting lightly on the seat between them, far too close to her for anything innocent.

Lady Yu arched an eyebrow, internally mulling over just how far Wen Kexing’s newfound enthusiasm for this role was willing to go. “A certain lady,” she replied dryly, “would likely surprise her dear physician. A woman of her years and… widowhood… might be altogether more knowledgeable than he gives her credit for.” She allowed the faintest, taunting smile to tug at her mouth. “I wouldn’t expect a man of his station to keep up.”

A low laugh rumbled from Wen Kexing, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Oh, then perhaps she’s due a thorough examination. I’d be most attentive, of course—thoroughness is what we physicians are best known for.” His voice softened with a feigned innocence, “Surely the lady can appreciate that?”

Lady Yu tilted her head slightly, feigning a thoughtful look. “I’m sure such thoroughness would have its uses.” Her gaze lingered on him with a wry glint. “Perhaps our physician is just as dedicated as they say—though I wonder if he isn’t a bit too eager for the challenge.” She let the words settle, each one laced with the suggestion that his bluff was all too transparent.

The physician, utterly undeterred, leaned back with a pleased smirk, his hand dropping lightly to her knee with an air of practiced familiarity. “The lady has my complete devotion. Why, I’m sure that by the end of this journey, she’ll find my services most… memorable.”

Zhou Zishu kept his expression calm, though inwardly he allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction, every line exchanged sharpening the playful thrill of the new territory they’d found between them.

The carriage swayed gently, and Lady Yu, outwardly serene, inwardly braced herself. Her “physician” was far too observant for her liking, leaning in with a look of dutiful gravity that failed to disguise the faint gleam of mischief in his eyes.

“My lady,” he murmured, in a tone of such practiced solemnity that Lady Yu could nearly hear the mockery beneath it. “After such a harrowing ordeal, it would be remiss of me not to conduct a full examination. Purely for the sake of your well-being, of course.”

Lady Yu cast him a long-suffering look, the kind that conveyed just how many ridiculous things she’d been expected to endure in a lifetime. “Yes, well,” she replied dryly, lips barely parting, “if such an examination is required, I suppose I must oblige.” She allowed the faintest of sighs to escape, as though she might expire from the sheer weight of so much inconvenience. “Though I’d hope my dear physician might keep his findings brief. After all, there are matters of state that will soon demand my attention.”

“Oh, I assure you, my lady,” Wen Kexing said, with an air of solemnity so forced that it practically cracked under its own weight, “it shall be most efficient. Though, in cases as peculiar as yours, a certain level of care is required.” He paused, letting his gaze linger, his hand hovering with studied deliberation, as if he were assessing the merits of some grand and intricate cure.

With that, he began his examination in earnest, which Lady Yu seemed determined to treat as a minor inconvenience at best. She barely turned her head, parting the silk curtain just enough to peer out the window, clearly more interested in the passing landscape than his so-called attentions. “Convenient, isn’t it?” she murmured, her voice cool, steady. “Having our own carriage, I mean. Almost makes one feel secure about… everything.” She hesitated, then added with the faintest edge, “Do you think the prince will stay in character?”

Wen Kexing’s hand stilled before resuming its “diligent” ministrations. “Ah,” he said, a hint of mischief creeping into his tone. “It seems my administrations are not quite thorough enough if you’re still able to concern yourself with such unnecessary matters. Clearly, I’ll need to be… more detailed, if I’m to help you clear your mind from these worldly concerns.”

Lady Yu gave a soft, exasperated snort, her hand shifting the curtain just a fraction more. “Clearing my mind is hardly your duty, doctor,” she replied, though there was the faintest tremor in her tone. “Still… I’d rather you didn’t cut corners.”

Wen Kexing leaned in closer, his gaze alight with something both mischievous and entirely too knowing. “Oh, rest assured, my lady. I would never dream of cutting corners.” His voice softened, dropping to something conspiratorial. “I’m nothing if not thorough.”

Lady Yu arched an eyebrow, holding his gaze, her words slow and measured. “Let’s hope your ‘thoroughness’ doesn’t keep us occupied longer than necessary. After all… there are only so many miles left until we reach the capital.” She turned her attention back to the window, attempting another glance at the passing scenery, though her gaze seemed more scattered now, lingering less on any one view.

“Only a few miles more, yes,” he murmured, his tone smooth and unhurried. “Which means I’ll simply have to make the most of the time we have.” His hand shifted, and Lady Yu’s mouth parted slightly before she could control it. She caught herself, though not quite in time, and a faint flush rose to her cheeks. She flicked her eyes over to him, but Wen Kexing’s expression was impeccably serious, his “treatment” entirely undeterred.

“Yes, well,” she managed, though the words didn’t hold as steady as before. “A physician as practiced as yourself surely… won’t struggle to… finish in time.” She let the sentence trail off, her gaze dropping to her lap, one hand lifting as if to adjust her collar, though her fingers lingered there idly, her words fading as though she were too focused on something else.

Wen Kexing leaned in, his voice lowering to a murmur. “Not to worry, my lady. This particular cure is highly effective—and you’ll find the results most satisfying.”

Just as Lady Yu’s gaze returned to the window, Wen Kexing’s hand paused, his expression shifting into one of exaggerated focus. He tilted his head, peering down at her with the air of a man who’d unearthed something profound.

Lady Yu glanced over, her voice slipping into something close to impatience, though it was losing its usual sharpness. “What now?” she muttered, her words sounding a bit frayed at the edges. “You look as though you’ve discovered the missing link.”

Wen Kexing’s mouth quirked, his hand hovering just above her hip, fingers hovering lightly as though assessing her with an intense, almost reverent care. “Well, now,” he murmured, his tone deepening with the weight of mock discovery. “It seems I may have found the very source of your mysterious ailment.” He let the words linger, his gaze fixed on her with infuriating calm.

Lady Yu’s hand tightened on the edge of her skirt, attempting to regain her composure. “Have you,” she managed, though the attempt at nonchalance came out slightly uneven. “And… what, exactly, would you prescribe, doctor?”

“Oh, not to worry, my lady,” Wen Kexing murmured, leaning in as his hand shifted, skimming her side with deliberate care. “I’ve encountered this condition before… and have a remedy that I assure you is most effective.” His fingers traced slowly along the fabric, his expression perfectly composed.

She opened her mouth to reply, but her words caught, her usually sharp voice tapering off as he continued his “examination.” A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Wen Kexing’s mouth as he continued his slow, measured movements, as though verifying his “diagnosis” with each careful press and shift.

Lady Yu tilted her head, summoning a look of skepticism, though her gaze couldn’t help but flicker down to where Wen Kexing’s hand continued its infuriatingly deliberate “treatment.” “Unexpected, doctor,” she managed, aiming for her usual sharpness, though her words slipped into something noticeably less refined. “I hadn’t quite realized the depths of your… diagnosis.”

Wen Kexing’s mouth quirked, his gaze fixed on her with maddening composure. “Ah, well, thoroughness is essential,” he replied, each word layered with that irritating sense of professionalism. His hand continued its practiced path, as though carefully verifying every step of his “treatment,” and she felt the strain of holding her expression neutral.

Her fingers tightened on the edge of her skirt, her breath catching. “I’d hope your… thoroughness has its limits,” she muttered, though her voice trailed off in a way that betrayed more than she’d intended.

“Oh, rest assured, my lady,” he replied smoothly, his voice dropping to something quiet, almost conspiratorial. “I wouldn’t dare leave a task half-done.”

Each time Lady Yu managed to suppress a sound, Wen Kexing’s “professional dedication” only deepened, his tone as composed as ever. “This particular suction technique,” he murmured, leaning in with an infuriating calm, “has been known to produce remarkable results.”

She cast him a narrowed look but said nothing, taking a long breath as she reached over to close the curtain with the same care one might use to secure a door against an invading army. There’d be no room for errant glances in her direction—not when her physician was so intent on showcasing his honed skills. Letting her head fall back, she offered him a scoff, though her grip on the seat betrayed her as he continued his examination with maddening precision. Who exactly is he trying to impress here? she wondered briefly, her thoughts veering between exasperation and a kind of reluctant fascination.

Wen Kexing, apparently oblivious to her inner conflict, carried on with a focus that made her pulse catch more than she’d admit. Each motion felt like a deliberate test to see if she’d keep her composure, and she couldn’t decide if she found his unyielding professionalism impressive or insufferable. Oh, so he’s thorough, is he? The thought slipped by, nearly lost as she bit down on her lip to stop herself from anything less dignified.

By the time the carriage finally slowed, Lady Yu had been thoroughly “examined,” her outward composure intact, though her hand still lingered near her mouth, in case further betrayals tried to slip free. She shot him a long, unimpressed look, though the faint curve to her lips betrayed her amusement. The physician, smugly pleased, merely inclined his head with a nod of humble pride that she was certain was anything but.

Chapter Text

Oh Siming, too great my sins to atone,
Forgiveness lost, my soul to darkness thrown.
These hands are empty, stained by deeds profane,
No gift nor offering can cleanse this bane.

The weight of guilt doth bow my spirit low,
What vengeance thou shalt weave, I do not know.
With cunning craft, thy retribution near,
To strip me bare and leave me bound by fear.

The temple was quiet, save for the faint crackle of incense burning on the altar. Zhou Zishu sat on the cold stone floor, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched beneath his tattered robes. Smoke curled lazily into the air, twisting in patterns he didn’t bother to follow. 

“Are you happy now?” he murmured, his voice quiet, the words meant for the goddess who wasn’t listening. His hands rested limply on his knees, fingers twitching faintly as if searching for purpose. “Or is there more punishment to come?” 

There was no anger in his voice, only the tired resignation of a man who knew better than to hope for forgiveness. His sins were too many, too deep, etched into his chest and his soul with the same permanence as the nails buried beneath his skin. Even this—a life stripped bare, left to wander as a beggar—probably wasn’t enough. 

The memory lived inside him like a splinter, jagged and impossible to remove. 

--- 

“It is said her sap can heal any ailment,” the prince had told him, smiling in that way of his, all sweetness wrapped around rot. “No wound too deep, no sickness too advanced. A gift from the gods themselves.” He had leaned closer then, the smile sharpening into something colder. “But a gift so powerful should not exist outside our control. Erase it. Leave nothing behind.” 

He remembered the temple, hidden high in the mountains, its walls covered in moss and ivy, the air heavy with reverence. The monks had been waiting for him, as if the goddess herself had whispered his arrival into their prayers. Their leader—a man whose name Zhou Zishu never asked—had greeted him calmly, his head bowed in solemn understanding. 

“You do not need to do this,” the monk had said, his voice soft, his eyes kind. 

Zhou Zishu hadn’t answered. 

What could he have said? That he wasn’t the man they thought he was? That he was powerless to stop what was coming? That their devotion was a knife twisting in his chest? He had done what he was trained to do—he kept his silence, his mask fixed in place, and moved forward. 

The tree had stood at the temple’s center, its branches reaching toward the sky. Its leaves glowed in the filtered sunlight, a green so vibrant it felt alive, almost breathing. The sap had dripped like liquid gold into the waiting vial, each drop a soft, steady promise of miracles. 

He had gathered the sap and burned the rest. The tree, the temple, the monks who knelt before him in prayer. He’d cut them down, one by one, each death sinking deeper into his skin, until he felt nothing but the cold weight of his blade. 

He didn’t remember leaving the temple. He remembered standing on a ridge, watching the flames devour everything, the air thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burning wood. Dread had coiled low in his stomach, sharp and insistent. He’d pushed it down, shoved it into the pit where all his sins lived, and told himself it was over. 

It wasn’t. 

The road crumbled the next day. A cliff edge beneath his men gave way, the earth swallowing them whole. They didn’t even have time to scream. Zhou Zishu had stared at the space where they had stood, the silence roaring in his ears. There was no enemy to fight, no one to curse, only the goddess and her empty, endless sky. 

The misfortunes multiplied after that. One death became two, then five, then ten. Friends, allies, strangers—each life taken felt like a thread pulled from the edges of his sanity. He had done as he was commanded, but at what cost? The prince’s paranoia turned darker, crueler, a shadow Zhou Zishu couldn’t escape. 

One night, he had knelt before another temple, his head bowed, his fists pressed to the cold stone floor. The incense burned bright and bitter, smoke curling into the still air. 

“Are you happy now?” he’d whispered, his voice raw. “Is this what you wanted? My blood wasn’t enough? You need theirs, too?” 

The words had spilled out, jagged and uneven, a mix of anger, regret, and something he couldn’t name. 

“You were supposed to guide us. To protect us. Isn’t that what gods do? You call yourself the Goddess of Fate, but what kind of fate is this? What kind of justice?” He had laughed then, bitter and sharp, his nails biting into his palms. 

“I destroyed your temple. I killed your monks. I took what you protected and handed it over to a man who didn’t deserve it. And I would do it again.” 

His voice had cracked, the words turning quieter, trembling. “I would do it again. Because I had no choice. You left me no choice. So why… why are you still punishing them? Why take them? Wasn’t it enough?” 

Silence answered him. Cold and vast. 

Zhou Zishu had pressed his forehead to the floor, his shoulders shaking, his chest tight. He had stayed there for hours, until the incense burned itself out, until the dawn broke over the horizon. And still, the shadow lingered. 

It always would.

Chapter Text

Upon the court’s grand stage she stands,
A lady cloaked by Siming’s hands.
Her gaze, a fire, unbound, untamed,
Her presence speaks, though none proclaim'd.

Oh Siming, goddess of fate’s decree,
Did you guide her path, or let it be?
In shadows deep, her threads were spun,
A web of schemes, her craft begun.

With care, she wove each silken strand,
Till fortune bowed to her command.
Oh Siming, watcher of destinies twined,
Did you smile as her brilliance shined?

The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly, cloaked in shadows and filtered torchlight, as Lady Yu walked with a serene grace that sheathed her in calm. With each step, she felt the weight of jade ornaments in her hair, a subtle pressure against her temples that reminded her how precarious this mask was. Beneath the silken veil, behind the downcast lashes, Zhou Zishu watched and listened, threading his focus like a needle through each fleeting sound.

Trailing behind her, her physician moved with quiet precision. Wen Kexing played his part well—obedient, restrained, a figure of respectful devotion who was never too far, yet never too close. It amused her, this pretense they wore, as if their lives and loyalty could be captured in the form of a humble healer and his cherished patient.

The voices from the banquet hall grew louder with each step, mingling in a rising tide of laughter, hushed conversation, and tones weighted with speculation. The nobility had gathered to honor the prince’s miraculous return, to laud his endurance and her own supposed courage. Lady Yu, savior of the court, beloved widow of a hero. A symbol of sacrifice and strength. The irony made her want to laugh—how the truth unraveled when gilded with fine phrases and embroidered lies.

Ahead, two guards shifted as they caught sight of her, dipping their heads with respectful murmurs. She returned their acknowledgment with a soft nod, pausing by an ornate wooden screen under the guise of admiring its craftsmanship. Yet, Zhou Zishu’s mind sharpened, honing in on fragments of conversation slipping through the doors.

“...quite a feat, her bravery. Prince Jin owes her more than he could ever repay,” came one nobleman’s voice, low and full of admiration. Another agreed, with a murmur of something about “devotion befitting a martyr.”

Lady Yu’s gaze softened, lips curving ever so slightly. They would believe what they wanted to believe, each embellishment adding to her myth. The thought of what lay ahead was a bittersweet one, tinged with the thrill of wielding her guise like a blade. Zhou Zishu breathed in deeply, feeling the fabric of her silks brush against her wrists, as he settled the mask of Lady Yu more firmly around her.

With a glance back, she gave Wen Kexing a brief, unreadable look—a glance that would pass as gratitude in the eyes of any onlooker but held within it the slightest glimmer of shared amusement. They had agreed to this game, to the fragile, beautiful theater they would make of themselves. With each step toward the hall, Lady Yu pressed the mask closer to her skin, letting its fragile delicacy become her truth, for now.

The hall unfolded before Lady Yu in gilded splendor, an extravagant display that seemed to draw a line between privilege and power. Lanterns bathed the room in amber light, casting glimmers across silk-draped walls embroidered with golden phoenixes, each thread catching the glow as if aflame. The prince’s wealth and dominion lay bare here, meant to awe and command. And Lady Yu—Zhou Zishu behind her calm, veiled exterior—walked into it like a shadow passing through firelight.

Tables stretched along the hall, heaped with sculpted delicacies that seemed more artwork than sustenance. Towers of glistening fruit, delicate rolls of spiced duck, lotus-root slices adorned with fragrant herbs—every detail crafted to dazzle the senses and overwhelm. Rich scents of ginger, clove, and roasted sesame wove together, mingling with incense that hovered above the gathering like an unseen spell.

As she made her way further into the hall, heads turned. Eyes slid over her form, first with a glimmer of admiration, but quickly shifting to something more restrained, an uncomfortable curiosity. Even behind her veil, Lady Yu’s scars could not be hidden—the ridged, uneven skin at her neck and along her jaw glimpsed beneath the silk like fragments of a cracked porcelain mask. She could feel the discomfort prickling in the glances of the nobles, the way their gazes lingered just a moment too long, then skittered away, as if burned.

Some whispered behind their hands, eyes narrowed, dismissive. She recognized the expressions well enough: reverence tempered with a quiet rejection, admiration marred by a quiet, dismissive scorn. Zhou Zishu had seen it often enough on the streets—faces half-turned, as if her scarred form should remain unseen, out of the court’s polished world. Here she was no different, even as a celebrated widow and a savior; for some, her presence was a tarnish on their vision of honor and beauty.

She moved forward, unfazed, her every gesture contained and precise, every movement a shield. Beside her, Wen Kexing remained her shadow, his gaze lowered in respectful distance, playing the part of the devoted physician whose only concern was his patient’s well-being. To the onlookers, he was a man untouched by ambition, humble, unassuming. But Zhou Zishu knew better. Each step they took into the grand hall was a silent reclamation of power, a promise to unseat every judgment hidden beneath those carefully composed masks.

As Lady Yu took her seat, she offered gentle greetings to the courtiers around her, though the tension was palpable, the mixture of respect and revulsion almost tangible in the air. Whispers floated around her, half-murmured remarks on her bravery, the pity they extended to her as the widow of a fallen hero, the survivor of a terrible ordeal. And yet, under that sympathy lay an unkind edge, a collective question about why she, scarred and damaged, dared to sit among them at all.

With a quiet sigh, Lady Yu raised her cup in a measured motion, letting her gaze wander over the banquet’s splendor with an air of quiet detachment. To the nobility, she was the embodiment of sacrifice—a beauty now fractured, a heroine shaped by both fate and misfortune. But as Zhou Zishu tasted the wine, its bitterness reminded him of how little their approval mattered. Here, he was Lady Yu in truth, scarred and resilient. Their admiration and disdain alike were merely noise, another layer of this game they would both win and own.

As the music faded, Prince Jin rose with deliberate grandeur, a small, self-satisfied smile playing at the edges of his mouth. His robes shimmered with threads of gold that caught the light, demanding attention before he even spoke. He let silence settle over the hall, a silence that felt heavy, expectant—because that was how he wanted it.

“You gather here tonight,” he began, his voice rich and booming, “to honor the strength of this realm, a realm that endures even in the face of betrayal.” His eyes swept the hall, and Zhou Zishu, from beneath Lady Yu’s veil, caught the flicker of amusement there, as if he were daring anyone to question him. “Enemies—traitors—have tried to weaken us. Fools among us failed in their duties, and they will be dealt with accordingly.” His voice sharpened, sending a ripple of discomfort through the hall. “No one who jeopardized my safety shall escape consequence.”

The nobles exchanged uneasy glances. It was clear that some among them now feared for their positions—or worse. The prince smirked, letting them stew before continuing, his tone shifting only slightly. “Yet,” he allowed, “there are also those among us who showed exceptional loyalty, whose strength and courage lifted us from the jaws of darkness.”

His gaze landed on Lady Yu, a hint of reluctant praise in his expression. “Lady Yu,” he said, almost dismissively, as though she were an afterthought in his speech, “stood as a shield between myself and death itself. Her bravery... her selflessness… it is noted.” The words fell heavily, yet the tone was hollow, as if he were granting her no more than her due.

The assembly murmured polite approval, some nodding their heads, while others watched the prince intently, sensing that his true message lay elsewhere. Zhou Zishu, cloaked in Lady Yu’s serenity, inclined her head just enough to acknowledge his praise without overshadowing him.

Prince Jin resumed, his voice rising again, dismissing her moment with a casual wave. “But do not mistake her valor as something rare or exceptional. It is what I expect of my people,” he declared, leaning forward with an almost predatory glint in his eyes. “Loyalty is not a choice—it is an obligation. And those who fail in that obligation will find themselves punished without mercy.”

An official stepped forward quickly, raising his goblet high, his face marked by the hasty eagerness of someone desperate to show loyalty. “To Prince Jin, whose strength prevails against all odds,” he proclaimed, his voice trembling slightly.

“To Prince Jin!” the assembly echoed, their voices louder this time, anxious to please. Lady Yu raised her own goblet with quiet grace, her movements precise and unfazed, her gaze focused but detached. Each noble now sought to reassure themselves, eager to show their devotion in the hopes of avoiding his wrath.

Prince Jin resumed his seat with a slow, deliberate movement, his eyes scanning the hall, each noble under his scrutiny. It was a message as much as a celebration. Tonight, he seemed to say, they gathered not merely to honor, but to acknowledge his authority, to accept that their fates lay firmly in his hands. And with every nod, every carefully lifted goblet, the hall whispered its allegiance back to him.

Zhou Zishu let the tension settle, keeping Lady Yu’s expression serene as she observed the game he played with his court, with herself as a minor pawn in his grand display. For tonight, she would play along—another face in his gallery of supposed loyalty.

The clamor of the feast softened as Lady Yu sensed the familiar presence approaching. The emperor’s grandmother moved gracefully through the hall, her steps measured, her sharp gaze missing nothing. A look passed between them—fleeting, yet profound. She was as much the architect of this night as anyone, and seeing her brought Lady Yu a rare sense of calm beneath the layers of her composed exterior.

As Lady Yu rose, inclining her head in a poised greeting, the grandmother smiled, faint and knowing. “Lady Yu,” she murmured, her voice laced with warmth that few others would ever hear. “It is a pleasure to see you… so well.”

Lady Yu dipped her head, offering a measured reply. “Your Grace’s kindness has carried me far,” she replied softly, but beneath the words, Lady Yu allowed herself a sliver of real gratitude. There was no need to pretend with her; the grandmother knew her as well as anyone ever had, perhaps better.

The grandmother’s gaze flicked over her, approval glimmering in her eyes, though her expression took on a slight reproach. “You have done well tonight, Lady Yu—though I do wonder why I wasn’t informed sooner of certain… developments.” Her gaze sharpened, though affection softened the reprimand. “If I had known, perhaps I could have saved myself the trouble of worrying.”

Lady Yu’s lips curved in a quiet smile. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” she replied smoothly, though her thoughts held an edge of irony. “The circumstances were… delicate, and I could not risk any distraction, not with matters so precariously balanced. I knew well that Your Grace would want such assurances, even if it cost me your displeasure.”

A hint of exasperation crept into her eyes. “You have always been stubborn, child,” she murmured, though her voice held unmistakable pride. “Still, seeing you now… I suppose I’m willing to forgive a certain level of secrecy.”

Lady Yu inclined her head in acknowledgment, silently grateful for her acceptance. “Your Grace has shown me endless kindness,” she replied. “It is only by following your example that I’ve had any success.” The words were outwardly humble, but in truth, Lady Yu meant them. She could trust the grandmother, if no one else in this court, to stand by her as she maneuvered through this dangerous game.

The grandmother leaned in slightly, her voice lowering to a murmur, her words deliberately cryptic. “I hear whispers,” she said, the flicker in her eyes speaking volumes. “Whispers of one who has... returned to us. I would like nothing more than to see him.”

Lady Yu’s gaze softened, and beneath the veil, she allowed herself a moment of warmth. “Yes, Your Grace,” she replied quietly. “He is well and asks for your patience. Rest assured that when the time is right, he will seek you out himself.” Her words were carefully chosen, a promise veiled in discretion.

The grandmother’s composure faltered just enough to show a glimmer of relief, her satisfaction evident. “See that he does,” she said, her voice soft, almost tender. “And next time, perhaps you might deem me worthy of a more immediate explanation.” She gave Lady Yu’s hand a gentle, affectionate squeeze before stepping back. “For now, my child, you may bask in the glory you’ve earned… for both of us.”

Lady Yu bowed her head, a rare sense of comfort settling over her as she watched the grandmother return to her seat. She felt the weight of her trust and pride, a reminder that, for all the deception, she was not entirely alone. Returning to her place, Lady Yu allowed her gaze to sweep over the feast, her expression serene, her every movement underlined by a quiet strength. Whatever lay ahead, tonight they stood together, bound by shared secrets and the quiet promise of loyalty.

As the evening unfolded, Lady Yu moved through the banquet hall with quiet grace, observing the shifting conversations and occasional glances directed her way. She carried herself with serene composure, her movements deliberate, every expression measured. And as she did, she caught sight of Lian Hua—one of the prince’s concubines, now approaching with a brightness in her gaze that seemed almost out of place amidst the carefully veiled expressions surrounding them.

Lian Hua’s steps were light, her smile open, and her eyes held a warmth that was startling in its sincerity. She dipped her head respectfully as she drew close. “Lady Yu,” she greeted, her voice soft yet brimming with newfound vitality. “It is truly wonderful to see you here, looking so well.” Her tone conveyed more than simple courtesy; there was a gratefulness woven into each word. “I hardly have the words to express how grateful I am… for all that has come to pass. It’s as if a miracle returned him to us.” Her voice held a gentle awe as her gaze drifted momentarily toward the prince’s seat.

Lady Yu inclined her head, her expression calm, reflecting the courtly grace expected of her. “It brings me joy to see you well also, Lian Hua,” she replied, her tone gentle but reserved. Beneath Lady Yu’s mask, she allowed herself a flicker of dry amusement. What a carefully arranged miracle it was indeed. But Lian Hua’s easy happiness was harmless enough; it cost Lady Yu nothing to let her bask in it.

As they exchanged these courtesies, Lady Yu’s gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, across the hall to Wen Kexing. He was some distance away, engrossed in conversation with a circle of scholars, his presence subtle but steady. She watched as he gestured animatedly, his voice low but lively, his eyes sparking with an intensity that rarely surfaced in public company. Seeing him so at ease brought Lady Yu a faint smile—provided, of course, he kept his hands and other “treatments” to himself.

Lian Hua followed her gaze, her eyes glimmering with a hint of mischief. “And your physician—such loyalty,” she said, her voice rich with amusement. “So dedicated to your health, from what I’ve seen. One might think he’s become quite an expert in… attentive care.” Her words were light, each one laced with a knowing edge.

Lady Yu returned her smile, mirroring the lightness of tone. “Indeed,” she murmured, tilting her head slightly. “He is thorough, to say the least. I’ve come to expect a certain… dedication.” But inwardly, she mused that perhaps Wen Kexing’s attentions were best kept at a reasonable distance for the evening. As skilled as he might be, his discretion would be put to the test here in the company of the nobility, and if he tried to “treat” her with all these prying eyes about, she’d be forced to make her disapproval quite clear.

Lian Hua’s expression softened, her gaze drifting back to the prince, admiration and fascination shining in her eyes. “And… our prince,” she murmured, almost to herself, though her words carried to Lady Yu. “I never expected to feel such… reverence for him. But since his ordeal, he’s changed. There’s a strength in him now, a depth… as though every trial has shaped him into someone remarkable, someone who’s both gentle and powerful. It feels strange, I’ll admit, finding myself… drawn to him in ways I hadn’t before.” Her voice was soft, each word careful, as though speaking these thoughts aloud would shatter the delicate truth she had only just begun to accept.

Lady Yu inclined her head with a serene expression, offering the necessary acknowledgment without prying. “I am glad to see you in such spirits,” she replied gently. “We all hope for better days.” Beneath the outward calm, she felt a wry satisfaction at Lian Hua’s transformation, recognizing how deeply her own disguise had reshaped lives within the court. How far they both had traveled to create this intricate reality, with Wen Kexing’s steady presence proving as vital as her own.

With a final, grateful smile, Lian Hua took her leave, retreating to her place among the women. Lady Yu watched her go, her mind quietly weighing the strange bond that had grown between them, woven through shared knowledge, gratitude, and subtle truths left unspoken. In this delicate web of loyalties and alliances, Lady Yu’s presence in this role had changed lives in ways that perhaps only she, Wen Kexing, and Lian Hua could truly understand.

Lady Yu moved through the banquet hall with measured grace, her veil shifting softly as she acknowledged those who offered greetings. Her presence drew respectful nods and polite gestures, yet not every glance held pure admiration. Some eyes lingered on her scars, veiled curiosity mingling with faint sympathy, as if the sight of her was a challenge to their idealized notions of valor.

She met each greeting with composed courtesy, her tone cool and detached. Amid the flow of faces and murmurs, Lady Yu felt both participant and observer, noting the way her presence stirred a quiet tension among the court’s elite. To a few, she was a hero worthy of reverence; to others, her scars marked her as a reminder of a painful truth they'd rather not confront.

But Lady Yu had learned to navigate the court’s duality with ease, moving gracefully among the nobles who both admired and distanced themselves from her. Her visible wounds unsettled those who prized beauty and polish, yet tonight, she wore their discomfort like armor, returning each glance with a serene expression that betrayed nothing of her thoughts.

Eventually, her gaze found her “Dear Doctor,” who had slipped from his scholarly company. Approaching with a faint smile, Lady Yu let a glimmer of amusement show beneath her veil. “My dear doctor,” she murmured, voice light with playful reproach, “you’ve collected quite the impressive crowd tonight. I could hardly keep up with your lively discussions.” She tilted her head just slightly, her tone casual yet suggestive. “That tall one especially—handsome, dignified… I might almost envy him, given how closely you’ve paid him attention. Surely, he’s left an impression?”

Wen Kexing’s mouth curved in a subtle smile, a glint of mischief lighting his eyes. “It seems the lady and I share a refined eye,” he remarked, glancing toward the group of scholars as if weighing each with consideration. “Still,” he continued, his gaze returning to her with quiet intensity, “I find myself quite captivated here. No other company could truly rival yours—unless, perhaps, you desired a… change of scenery?”

Lady Yu’s eyes sparkled with amusement, and she let a soft chuckle escape, her tone light and laced with intrigue. “How gracious of you to indulge my whims,” she murmured, glancing briefly at the tall scholar before turning back to Wen Kexing, her voice carrying a coy edge. “Though I confess, there’s a certain charm in simply observing others learn their way—don’t you think?” She paused, a hint of challenge threading through her words. “And I wonder, would our scholar here rise to such a role with you at his side? It could be… enlightening.”

Wen Kexing’s expression shifted, a flicker of daring crossing his face. “I suspect our friend there might prove quite teachable,” he replied, tone silky and layered. “But only if the audience remains equally engaging.” His gaze on her sharpened, playful yet unwavering. “After all, a demonstration is most inspired when it’s guided by a truly discerning eye.”

Lady Yu’s smile deepened, her amusement tinged with intrigue as she tilted her head slightly, studying him. “Ah, well, a discerning eye certainly has its delights,” she said with a feigned casualness, the warmth in her gaze revealing more. “Yet perhaps the greatest pleasure is simply allowing oneself the freedom to enjoy the view… no expectations, just the pleasure of witnessing each step unfold.”

Wen Kexing chuckled softly, inclining his head. “Then I’ll keep that in mind, should the need arise,” he replied, his tone warm. Wen Kexing’s lips curved in a smirk as he inclined his head, mischief sparking in his eyes. “I’ll do my best to keep my new friends entertained, but they may be in for a challenge.”

Lady Yu met his gaze, her own smile faint. “By all means, Doctor. Just mind you don’t break your new toys, or cause any unfortunate scenes.” Her voice was smooth and dry, carrying just enough warning beneath the humor. With that, they shared a knowing look before he returned to the scholars, and she drifted once more among the gathered guests.

Not far from where they’d parted, she noticed one of the noblemen—a mid-ranking official from a distinguished lineage who had positioned himself off-center in the hall, where he could observe without drawing attention. His robes, finely tailored yet understated, lent him a dignified air, but the sharp gleam in his eyes betrayed his ambitions. He carried himself with the ease of a man accustomed to studying others, waiting for a moment to reveal itself.

Noticing her approach, he stepped forward, his expression shifting smoothly to one of respectful admiration. “Lady Yu,” he greeted, his tone rich with practiced reverence. “It is a true honor to stand in the presence of such a celebrated figure. The court owes you its respect.”

The nobleman’s gaze sharpened slightly, though his smile remained polished. “Still, your influence could hardly go unnoticed.” He took a measured sip of his wine, his tone light but probing. “One might say that the strength and insight you’ve shown would benefit our court in more than ceremonial roles.” His eyes held hers, a thinly veiled invitation to join his ambitions.

Lady Yu’s expression softened into a polite smile. “One must be careful with influence, my lord,” she replied, her voice carrying the slightest edge. “Too often, it turns friends into competitors, inviting more obstacles than solutions.” She paused, then added with practiced gentleness, “In such changing times, discretion becomes its own power.”

The nobleman’s smile brightened as he inclined his head, accepting her subtle deflection. “Wise words, Lady Yu,” he murmured. “Yet I still hope that perhaps, on another occasion, we might continue this discussion. There is always value in shared goals, after all.”

Lady Yu inclined her head, her gaze steady as she let her expression soften, as if weighing his proposal. “Should such an occasion arise, I would be pleased to entertain it,” she replied with calm courtesy. “Perhaps, in due time, we may both find a cause worthy of our combined efforts.”

The nobleman studied her carefully, his eyes catching the subtle opening in her words, and returned her smile with a nod of quiet respect. With a final, formal bow, he took his leave, vanishing back into the crowd. Lady Yu watched him go, her expression as composed as ever as she resumed her steady walk through the hall, her movements deliberate, calculated—just as she knew the many eyes around her expected.

Tonight had become a subtle dance of loyalties and ambitions, each glance a quiet exchange of unspoken intentions. For now, she would keep her role as she had crafted it, each step in perfect alignment with the intricate game at play.

Prince Jin rose again, his commanding gaze silencing the murmurs instantly. Lady Yu watched with a calm, poised expression, though beneath her veil, her mind weighed every word and gesture, sensing the precision in his performance. This moment, as they had planned, would strike through the heart of Duan Pengju’s old structure—stripping his loyalists from their positions, and quietly establishing a new balance of power under the prince’s authority.

“It has come to my attention,” he began, his voice edged with a practiced severity, “that while loyalty to the court is commendable, misplaced loyalties are a dangerous liability. A liability we can no longer afford.” His gaze swept over the room, lingering subtly on those known to have followed Duan Pengju. Lady Yu noted the ripple of tension that followed his words, each of his targets left to wonder whether they had earned his distrust.

As Prince Jin continued, each word, carefully chosen, sent a chill through the hall. Guards would be dismissed, ranks stripped, and officials who had clung too closely to the old order would be removed or sent far from the court. It was a ruthlessness Lady Yu admired; this was more than a warning—it was the ruthless efficiency that had to be instilled to protect the new order they intended to build.

Yet, as his speech unfolded, she felt a quiet sense of realization. He was going beyond what they had discussed, extending this reshuffle to sweep out even those only loosely aligned with Duan Pengju, installing her own trusted allies wherever possible. She could feel the reach of her influence expanding with each name he uttered, a subtle gift of loyalty and trust that she had not anticipated. It was a cold, calculated generosity on his part, a sign that he saw their alliance as essential. She allowed herself the smallest flicker of satisfaction, hidden beneath her serene expression. This was the beginning of a new court—one they had crafted together.

Chapter Text

I feel forgiveness reaching the edge,
Of a cup so full it frightens, spills.
All that’s too good, too real to bear,
A gift that bends my stubborn will.

Oh Siming, did you truly forgive,
This child, this fool, this broken man,
Who stands before you, empty hands,
Too small for thanks, too weak to stand?

As Prince Jin’s speech continued, each word reshaping the court’s power, Lady Yu felt the transformation unfolding around her. Her gaze shifted, connecting briefly with her allies scattered discreetly throughout the hall. Her eyes met Grandmother’s, whose gaze held a subtle gleam of pride. In that glance, the shared understanding of all they had sacrificed to bring this moment to life passed silently between them.

Then, as she looked across the hall to Wen Kexing, she felt a flicker of annoyance. He was standing too far from her, blending smoothly among the scholars they’d both agreed would act as a shield against unwelcome scrutiny. Yet in this moment, that distance unsettled her—she needed him closer. Catching her look, he paused and met her eyes, understanding her silent need as he began moving in her direction, his steps careful and measured.

As Prince Jin’s words filled the hall, Lady Yu took in the scene, her mind flashing back to the years this place had held her captive. For so long, this hall had been a cage. The place that had torn her apart, time after time, reducing her to roles that served the prince’s thirst for control. Here, she had once stood as an assassin, a ruthless leader bound by the prince’s demands, forced to be both weapon and shield. Her hand had held a blade, her soul ached under the burden of countless decisions made for survival, all while she watched over the lost children she had sworn to protect. Here, her sect had been destroyed, her people sacrificed for ambitions she could never claim as her own. This place had broken her—and she, it seemed, had survived only by becoming something cold, something resilient, something that could never be bent by anyone’s hand again.

Now, Prince Jin’s speech sliced through the remnants of Duan Pengju’s influence, a merciless reshuffle that left her allies in positions of strength and power. The structure around her was taking on new purpose, shifting from a gilded prison into something precise and carefully honed—a structure that would punish those who threatened it and shelter those who served it loyally. She felt the weight of her satisfaction in this transformation—a deep, cold pride that settled within her, heady enough to leave her briefly unsteady. The room tilted slightly, and a hand touched her arm, anchoring her.

Maimai’s face appeared beside her, her friend’s hand gentle but steadying. Lady Yu gave her a faint nod, regaining her composure. As Maimai met her eyes, Lady Yu knew this was the moment to speak. She could sense Wen Kexing approaching as well, and soon, she would have them both at her side.

Lady Yu moved toward a secluded alcove, her gaze flicking back just enough to catch sight of her people securing the perimeter with silent precision. As she reached the sheltered space, Zhou Zishu allowed his posture to shift, letting go of Lady Yu’s poised facade. His shoulders eased, and his gaze sharpened, revealing the unguarded edge that only those closest to him ever saw.

Maimai’s eyes traveled over him, lingering on the strength he seemed to radiate, the vigor she hadn’t thought she’d ever see restored. “Auntie,” she murmured, voice soft and awed. Her hand brushed his arm, testing its solidity, as though to confirm the impossible. “I knew about the salve, but… knowing it and seeing it are two very different things.” She stopped herself, catching the impulse to call him “ge”, but the depth of the bond they shared remained clear in her gaze.

Zhou Zishu gave her a faint, wry smile. “It’s real, little sister,” he replied, his voice dropping to a murmur. “No more… reminders.” The euphemism was all he needed to convey the depth of his relief, his words an acknowledgment of the pain he knew she, too, had witnessed.

Maimai’s grip tightened slightly, her expression softening as she shook her head in disbelief. “To see you whole like this, Auntie… it’s like seeing a ghost return to life.”

Just then, Wen Kexing approached, his movements easy as he slipped into their small sanctuary. He took a moment to savor the sight of them, a subtle smile lighting his features. “Ah, I see I’ve interrupted a heartfelt reunion,” he said, a glint of humor in his eyes as he nodded at Maimai. “Discussing our lady’s newfound health, I presume?”

Maimai turned to him, her gaze sharp but softened by affection. “Something like that,” she replied, arching a brow. “It’s rare to see her so… openly discussed, wouldn’t you say?”

Zhou Zishu shot Wen Kexing a dry look, though he didn’t pull away. “Save the theatrics, you rogue,” he murmured, voice soft but lacking any bite. It was rare to be in the company of those who understood him completely, even rarer to let himself be seen this way, with no mask—just the man beneath.

As they emerged from the alcove, Lady Yu moved with a grace that belied her newly restored strength, each step a quiet reminder of the transformation she had undergone. Zhou Zishu, still hidden behind her composed exterior, allowed himself to settle into this moment—a rare, quiet sense of satisfaction filling him. Around them, the murmur of conversation ebbed and flowed, guests returning to their own cups and alliances as the evening resumed its subtle rhythms.

A cup of wine was placed into her hand, and she sipped slowly, savoring the warmth of the drink as it filled her senses. Wen Kexing remained at her side, his presence a steady, quiet support that felt as natural as the air around her. With a faint smile, she decided that this night, she would not play the part of the distant court lady, separated from her “physician.” They had spent enough time apart, carefully calculated to deflect suspicions. Tonight, he would remain by her side.

Wen Kexing leaned in slightly, his expression amused as he watched her, a quiet ease in his gaze. “You’re lingering awfully close, my lady,” he murmured, his tone just low enough to pass unheard by the others. Lady Yu offered him a small, dry smile, her only reply the slightest incline of her head—a silent declaration that she had chosen to abandon the pretense, if only for now.

As the hall quieted once again, Lady Yu adopted a posture of respectful composure, her head inclined just enough to convey humility as she awaited the prince’s next words. Zhou Zishu, beneath the practiced demureness of Lady Yu’s expression, took in the moment with a quiet satisfaction; after so long, he would reclaim what had been lost. The sense of return filled him with a subtle warmth, though he masked it beneath Lady Yu’s exterior.

Prince Jin’s gaze swept over the gathered court before settling on Lady Yu, his expression both magnanimous and faintly amused. “Today,” he began, his voice rich with regal authority, “I find myself moved to grant a boon. Lady Yu, you have proven yourself loyal and resourceful in your service. Come, speak. What reward would you ask of me?”

The room stilled, the faint murmurs of curiosity fading into silence as all eyes turned toward her. Lady Yu rose slowly, every movement deliberate, her hands folding lightly in front of her as she inclined her head in deference. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, almost hesitant, yet steady enough to carry through the chamber.

“Your Highness,” she began, lifting her gaze just enough to meet his, “your generosity humbles me. It is not wealth or titles I seek, but a small estate—a place to call my own.” She paused, her words measured, a touch of warmth threading through her demure tone. “A quiet piece of land where I might rebuild what was lost, a place to honor my family’s memory and, perhaps, one day restore its name.”

Her words were met with a ripple of murmurs, some approving, others cautious. Yet her expression remained serene, her lowered lashes and poised demeanor painting the perfect picture of humility.

Prince Jin’s smirk deepened, and he regarded her with an air of indulgent curiosity. “An estate, you say,” he mused, his voice thoughtful, though the glint in his eye betrayed his amusement. “You aim high for one so modest, Lady Yu. But I find myself intrigued by your request.” He leaned forward slightly, as if weighing his decision before adding, “It is no small thing to grant, yet I see no reason to deny a lady of such… admirable ambition.”

Zhou Zishu felt the scrutiny of the room, and he let Lady Yu’s expression shift just enough to suggest bashful humility. “Your Highness,” she murmured softly, allowing a note of uncertainty to color her voice. “I would not dare presume…”

But Prince Jin waved a dismissive hand, his tone growing more magnanimous. “Oh, very well, then!” he announced, sounding almost as though he’d been cornered into generosity. “Let it not be said that I withhold from those who have served me well. There is a manor, Four Seasons Manor. It once belonged to that treacherous Zhou Zishu, a name I would rather not speak.” His voice dripped with disdain. “My men were forced to burn it down, of course, to eliminate any remnants of that blight on the court. But the grounds remain.”

The prince let his gaze fall upon her, his expression a mixture of mock surprise and grandiosity. “If Lady Yu will have it, the court will see it rebuilt. Let her new legacy rise from the ashes of what was once a traitor’s lair.” He gave a curt nod, as if his decision was one of utmost nobility, his voice resonating through the hall as he played the part of a gracious benefactor.

Lady Yu, still within her role, bowed deeply, her face a mask of quiet gratitude. But beneath her composed exterior, Zhou Zishu felt a bittersweet sense of satisfaction. His home, the place he had once shared with his young disciples, would be restored. The emptiness he had carried since its loss felt, if only for a moment, less heavy.

Lady Yu stood at her appointed place, her head inclined just so, her posture poised but humble, as befitted a widow of modest means elevated by the Prince’s favor. Below the dais, her eyes traced the subtle play of tension and expectation rippling through the hall. It was a well-rehearsed display—nobles hungry for power cloaking their ambitions behind thin smiles and murmured praise. She wondered if Wen Kexing even noticed such games, or if he simply dismissed them as irrelevant.

Her gaze shifted to him, the so-called Doctor Wen, standing just far enough behind her to avoid drawing attention unless invited. He had taken to this role of quiet healer with unnerving ease, his manner soft, deferential—almost convincing. But Lady Yu knew better. Behind that lowered gaze and modest bearing lay a man whose every word and gesture was calculated, whose every secret promised trouble. And now, with the Prince turning his attention to him, she felt that creeping certainty settle into her bones: Wen Kexing was planning something, and whatever it was, she would not like it.

“Doctor Wen,” Prince Jin intoned, his voice the perfect blend of graciousness and authority. “Your skill and devotion in saving my life cannot go unrewarded. You have earned a boon. Speak—what is it you desire?”

The hall fell silent, all eyes turning to the healer. Lady Yu kept her expression serene, but her thoughts flickered with unease. Wen Kexing had been maddeningly cryptic when she had pressed him about his intentions, brushing her questions aside with that infuriating smile of his. You’ll see, A-Xu, he’d said, as though she were a child in need of a surprise. Now, as he inclined his head toward the Prince, she braced herself for whatever was to come.

Wen Kexing inclined his head, his expression one of measured humility. “Your Highness honors me greatly,” he began, his voice soft yet deliberate, each word carefully placed to draw attention. “I am not a man of ambition, nor do I seek riches or titles. What I desire, if Your Highness will allow it, is far simpler.”

Lady Yu’s posture remained impeccable, her expression serene, but a thread of tension coiled tighter in her chest. The subtle cadence of his voice, the almost imperceptible gleam in his eye—this was not the unassuming healer she had seen earlier. Beneath that carefully cultivated exterior, she could see the man she truly knew, the one who had torn apart entire sects with a flick of his fan and a wolf’s grin.

“My family,” he continued, his gaze unwavering, “were once a name of pride in the empire. Healers whose knowledge served the many and whose skills inspired reverence. But their light was extinguished by betrayal, their name cast into ruin. I alone remain.”

A faint ripple of murmurs spread through the court, but Lady Yu hardly noticed. She had seen this before, the slow unraveling of Wen Kexing’s masks. His voice carried no sorrow, only the weight of something deeper, something far colder. As she listened, the threads began to connect in her mind. This isn’t just legacy, she thought. This is revenge.

“The weight of their memory is my burden to carry,” he said, lowering his head slightly. “But survival is a hollow thing without purpose. For me, that purpose is clear: to restore what was stolen, and to right what was wronged.”

Lady Yu’s hand tightened subtly against the fabric of her sleeve. Right what was wronged. The words rang with a sharp, cutting precision, and she understood. This was not a plea for acknowledgment. This was a declaration, one that would drag her—and perhaps everyone else—into the tangled path of his vengeance. After all, it was vengeance that had brought them together in the first place.

“My father, Wen Ruyu,” Wen Kexing began, his voice soft yet deliberate, “was a healer respected throughout Healer Valley. Together with my mother, Gu Miaomiao, they devoted their lives to their craft. Not for riches, not for fame—simply because it was who they were. But ambition,” his tone darkened, “is a poison that spares no one.”

Lady Yu’s expression did not falter, her posture impeccable, but her mind was racing. Wen Kexing’s voice was smooth, measured, the kind of voice that coaxed secrets into light. She had heard pieces of this story before, enough to know where it led. But here? Before the entire court?

Her stomach twisted, a rush of shock quickly swallowed by frustration. What are you doing, Lao Wen? she thought, her mind already cataloging escape routes, allies, and worst-case outcomes. He wasn’t just revealing himself—he was dragging her along for the ride.

“Years ago,” Wen Kexing continued, letting a pause stretch long enough to command silence, “my father defended Rong Xuan, a martial artist who married into our valley—a man who should have been family. But when Rong Xuan’s mistakes brought disaster, my father’s compassion cost him everything. His meridians were severed by the Five Lakes Alliance, his life as a healer destroyed, and my family was forced to flee Healer Valley.”

Lady Yu’s hands remained folded in front of her, their stillness masking the growing weight of resignation pressing down on her. The hall was utterly silent, every noble and official transfixed by Wen Kexing’s carefully spun tragedy. And why wouldn’t they be? It was flawless, a tragedy polished to a deadly edge. She could already see how this would end—not well for anyone involved.

Her eyes flicked toward him, her thoughts heavy with resignation. Whatever happens, it’s too late now. The stupid man is mine, and I’ll follow him through whatever disaster he unleashes. Beneath the cool poise of her exterior, she began sketching escape routes in her mind. The feast would end, one way or another, and they would need to slip away before the knives came out.

Lady Yu’s gaze swept the dais, carefully reading the faces of the room’s most dangerous players. Prince Jin’s smile remained as smooth as silk, but there was a flicker of something beneath it—a hint of unease. He had expected gratitude and servility from Doctor Wen, not a tragedy sharpened into a blade.

The Empress Dowager, seated in her place of honor near the Prince, was utterly still. Her sharp, knowing eyes fixed on Wen Kexing with the intensity of a predator watching prey. Zhou Zishu did not miss the faint tap of her fingers against the jade bangle on her wrist—a gesture so subtle that it would escape most eyes. But to him, it spoke of thought, calculation, and readiness.

Maimei, by contrast, was visibly stricken. Her hand gripped the edge of her sleeve, knuckles pale against the fine silk. She stared at Wen Kexing as though she wished to reach out, to stop him somehow, but lacked the words or the strength to intervene.

Zhou Zishu’s thoughts twisted into sharp lines. The Prince was cautious, the Empress Dowager calculating, and Maimei—poor, sweet Maimei—was too innocent for this battlefield. And through it all, Wen Kexing pressed forward with the slow, deliberate pace of a man who had already decided that nothing in this room could stop him.

“The Five Lakes Alliance had already crippled my father,” Wen Kexing said, his tone calm, his words cutting. “But that wasn’t enough for them. My family’s knowledge was a threat—secrets they couldn’t leave alive. So they sent their swords to finish what they’d started.”

Lady Yu’s expression did not waver, her practiced poise giving nothing away, but inside, her thoughts twisted. The weight of Wen Kexing’s memories pressed against her, unbidden, sharp as broken glass. She had always known the shape of his past, the bloody roots of his vengeance, yet hearing it from his lips still struck something raw.

“I saw it,” Wen Kexing said, his voice lowering, each word weighted with the ache of memory. “I was so small—just a child who didn’t understand the world’s cruelty. I was there when they came. I watched as their blades fell, and with them, my parents. I saw everything.”

The hall was utterly silent now. Even Maimei had stopped breathing. Wen Kexing’s voice turned sharper, tighter, like a thread pulled too taut. “They left me there, a boy surrounded by the bodies of the only people I loved. And they laughed.”

Lady Yu’s fingers curled faintly against the folds of her robe, though her outward poise remained flawless. Inside, her thoughts swirled in sharp, bitter lines. The Five Lakes Alliance. That festering boil of arrogance and unchecked power had lingered far too long. Perhaps it was finally time to do what should have been done years ago. Slowly. Methodically. Thoroughly.

Her gaze flicked back to Wen Kexing, who stood calm and deliberate in the eye of the storm he’d conjured. You had to do this now, didn’t you, Lao Wen? The thought was tinged with both anger and resignation. He had helped her with her plots, his cunning a blade she’d wielded more than once. Was it unbecoming, then, to be irritated that now she had to clean up the mess he was leaving behind?

No—it was perfectly reasonable. She’d never doubted that Wen Kexing’s demons would demand their due. That he would walk this path was as certain as the sunrise. But did he have to drag her into it without so much as a warning? He’d handed her a puzzle full of jagged edges and expected her to piece it together before it cut her hands to ribbons. What a bastard.

Her thoughts turned colder, sharper. Fine. If this was the direction he’d chosen, so be it. The Five Lakes Alliance had always needed to be dealt with. If Wen Kexing insisted on detonating his bomb here, Lady Yu would see to it that the fallout landed exactly where it was needed.

The faint tap of jade against wood broke her thoughts. Lady Yu glanced toward the Empress Dowager, who inclined her head by the smallest fraction. It was a gesture laden with intent, far more than it seemed: You will have my help, if you need it.

Lady Yu’s lips curved into a faint smile, her response as poised as ever. She dipped her head in return, gratitude softening her features just enough to be convincing. But the Empress Dowager’s sharp gaze did not waver. Her brow lifted ever so slightly, the unspoken question clear: Can you handle this? Will you let him upend the game?

The answer was already written in Lady Yu’s next breath. She offered a delicate flick of her sleeve—a tiny movement that could mean nothing to an untrained eye. But to the Empress Dowager, it carried a precise weight: I will handle this. Trust me—for now.

The Empress Dowager’s jade bangle tapped against wood one last time, a single, satisfied beat, before she straightened. Lady Yu returned her gaze to Wen Kexing, resignation and determination twisting in equal measure beneath her serene exterior.

“My parents’ deaths were meant to silence them,” Wen Kexing continued, his tone steady, even as his words sliced through the room like a honed blade. “The Five Lakes Alliance believed that by killing them, they could bury the truths my family carried. But the truth,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the court, “has a way of surviving.”

Lady Yu’s lips remained in their faintly upturned curve, but her thoughts turned razor-sharp. Oh, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Lao Wen? she thought grimly. He had captured their attention completely. The nobility who thrived on gossip and the scent of scandal were spellbound, their silence more damning than anything they could say.

Wen Kexing’s voice softened, but it carried the weight of years spent carving his pain into purpose. “I carry those truths now. The names of the men who wielded the swords. The alliances that traded my family’s lives for their ambition. Their debt remains unpaid.”

Lady Yu’s fingers twitched beneath the folds of her sleeve, the urge to take action biting at her like a restless wolf. There was a sharp, undeniable satisfaction in the idea of hunting down every one of those men and putting an end to their scheming. But that satisfaction was undercut by frustration—a wry, bitter understanding that Wen Kexing, as always, had chosen chaos as his weapon of choice. And I’ll be the one sweeping up the ashes when he’s done.

“But there was no justice for my family,” Wen Kexing continued, his voice darkening. “There was only me. A child left alone, with nothing but the bodies of the people I loved.”

The room shifted. Gasps rippled across the court, stifled whispers rising like a tide. Officials glanced nervously at one another, their carefully crafted masks of composure beginning to crack. Even Prince Jin’s smile slipped, revealing the wariness lurking beneath his façade.

“I was taken,” Wen Kexing said, his voice colder now, sharper. “Dragged away from the remains of my parents and into a place none of you would dare imagine. Ghost Valley. A pit beyond the empire’s reach, where the discarded and condemned are thrown to rot among monsters.”

Lady Yu inhaled slowly, the measured breath barely stirring her composed exterior. He’s really going there, she thought, a flicker of shock threading beneath her practiced calm. Ghost Valley. He’s telling them about Ghost Valley.Zhou Zishu’s thoughts coiled, tight and sharp, a mix of exasperation and resignation. She had expected him to provoke, to cut deep, but this? This wasn’t provocation. This was striking a spark and letting it burn the entire feast to ash, daring anyone to stop him.

The whispers in the hall grew louder, panic bleeding into the edges of the crowd’s murmurs. Nobles exchanged wide-eyed glances, and Maimei’s pale fingers clutched the fabric of her sleeve as though it might anchor her to something solid.

Wen Kexing straightened, his voice cutting through the rising noise like a blade. “From that ruin, I rose. I climbed from the depths of Ghost Valley, not as a survivor, but as its master. The Ghost Valley Master stands before you now—not a victim of the Five Lakes Alliance’s greed, but a reckoning they will not escape.”

Lady Yu’s thoughts turned cold, sharp, and bitter. Of course you survived that place, Lao Wen. Not just survived—you conquered it, because nothing less would ever satisfy you. But even that bitter understanding couldn’t quell the low thrum of frustration beneath it all. And now, here we are. Cleaning up your mess. Again.

“You dare call yourself a healer?” shrieked one voice, shrill and shaking with outrage. “You’re Wen Kexing! The ghost who turned his valley into a den of criminals and murderers!”

That set the room alight. Voices rose like a storm crashing against stone. “He’s here to destroy the court!” “This is a trap!” “He’s the Ghost Valley Master! How can you not see it?”

Lady Yu stood perfectly still, the very picture of elegant composure, but her thoughts churned beneath the surface. Of course they’d lose their heads at the first sign of blood in the water. The court was always like this—timid, scrambling, more like frightened geese in silk than leaders of any merit.

Prince Jin’s hand slammed against the armrest of his throne with a sharp crack that silenced the room. His smile, thin and cold, curled across his lips as he surveyed the crowd. “What a disappointing display,” he drawled, the air around him thick with disdain. “Is this the composure I can expect from my loyal court? Accusations without thought, panic without proof?”

Lady Yu’s gaze lingered on him, and a pang of regret twisted through her chest. He was playing the Prince Jin flawlessly, balancing cruelty and control with a masterful hand. You don’t deserve this, Shen Lian, she thought. None of this was my plan. I’m sorry.

She allowed her lips to curve in the faintest smile, tilting her head just enough to offer him a quiet, apologetic look from beneath her lashes. His eyes caught hers, and for a moment, she saw it: exasperation, edged with a glint of something that could almost be panic. He truly didn’t know what was happening, and the realization struck her like a knife. For all his pretense, Shen Lian was a good man—too good for this chaos she’d dragged him into.

Prince Jin turned to Wen Kexing, and the tension in the air grew heavier, sharper. “Doctor Wen, or whoever you claim to be—there are questions you must answer. I have heard these accusations. They call you Wen Kexing, the Ghost Valley Master. And yet, this cannot be.”

He leaned forward, his voice dropping, each word cutting like a blade. “I met Wen Kexing myself. That man took part in my abduction and is dead now—or so I was told. But the Ghost Valley Master lives. So tell me, Doctor Wen, what exactly are you? And why are you here?”

Lady Yu’s gaze flicked to Wen Kexing, her expression serene even as her thoughts twisted. Well, Lao Wen, she thought grimly. You’ve stirred the nest. Let’s see how you charm your way out of this one.

Wen Kexing bowed slightly, calm and composed even as the storm raged around him. “Your Highness,” he began, his voice measured, “I understand their fear. But I assure you—I am not this Wen Kexing they speak of. That name belongs to a rogue ghost, one who betrayed the valley and brought disgrace upon its name.”

The murmurs softened, confusion beginning to take root where outrage had thrived. Lady Yu’s gaze flicked toward the crowd, watching the way his carefully chosen words began to shift the tide. Of course you’d control the room this way, Lao Wen, she thought, her sharp exasperation tempered only by reluctant admiration.

“I came here as a healer, trained in the ways of Healer Valley,” Wen Kexing continued, his voice warming with sincerity. “When I heard of Lady Yu’s need, I wished only to offer my services. It was my duty—not just as a healer, but as a man sworn to use what I know to save lives.”

His gaze shifted toward Prince Jin, steady yet tinged with regret. “Your Highness, it was fortunate that my path aligned with Lady Yu’s. I knew of the threat posed by Wen Kexing—the traitor of Ghost Valley—and feared what his schemes might bring. I sought to protect you, though I failed to prevent your abduction. For that, I am deeply sorry.”

The room stilled, the weight of his words heavy in the silence. Wen Kexing inclined his head, his voice lowering. “When you offered me a boon, Your Highness, I knew at once what I must ask. Forgiveness. Not only for failing to protect you as I intended, but for not coming to you sooner. I feared that as the Ghost Valley Master, my words would be dismissed, my intentions doubted. That fear led to a great tragedy. For that, I seek absolution.”

The hall fell into uneasy quiet, the nobles and courtiers exchanging glances, their expressions caught somewhere between suspicion and reluctant sympathy.

Lady Yu allowed her lips to curve into a faint smile, her gaze carefully composed. Beneath the surface, her thoughts churned with cold irritation. You’ve dropped a perfect tangle of questions at their feet, Lao Wen, and you don’t even realize it. This isn’t a speech—it’s a trial by fire, and you’ve left me to walk through it barefoot.

Her smile did not waver, though her fingers twitched faintly against the silks of her robe. When this is over, Lao Wen, I’m going to strangle you. Slowly.

Wen Kexing knelt, lowering himself slowly, deliberately, to the floor before Prince Jin. His hands pressed flat against the cold stone as he bowed deeply. “Your Highness,” he said, his voice trembling just enough to sound sincere, “I beg your forgiveness. My fear led me astray, and it is a failure I will carry for the rest of my life.”

Lady Yu’s vision swam with red. If she weren’t already standing still as stone, she might have lunged forward to haul him up herself. You idiot, she thought furiously. Do you even understand what you’ve done?

The court erupted around them, voices rising in a cacophony of outrage and disbelief. “He dares kneel before the Prince!” “A Ghost Valley Master groveling in our court!” “How can we trust anything he says?”

It was chaos. And through it all, Lady Yu’s fury burned like a slow, steady flame. She knew what had to happen next. She knew the choice the Prince was now bound to make, and she hated how inevitable it all felt.

Prince Jin moved forward, his expression locked into a cold, regal mask. He raised one hand, his palm cutting through the air, and the hall fell silent again, though whispers and low murmurs still lingered in the edges of the room. His gaze swept the crowd before settling on Lady Yu.

She caught the faintest flicker of emotion in his eyes—something sharp, trapped, like a man caught in a snare with no escape. Of course you feel trapped, she thought bitterly. He’s left you no choice.

Turning his attention back to the kneeling Wen Kexing, Prince Jin’s voice rang out, calm but edged with steel. “Doctor Wen, your story demands proof. Is there anyone who can vouch for you? Anyone who can confirm what you’ve said today?”

Lady Yu’s breath hitched as the weight of those words crashed into her. And now it’s on me. Her mind twisted sharply, calculating, every thought a potential move in the gameboard that was rapidly closing in around her. Should she appeal to the Empress Dowager? Signal one of her allies to step forward? Was there anyone in this room who could be leveraged without risking even more chaos?

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes flicking to the Empress Dowager, who sat still as stone, her expression unreadable. But was that the move? To pull her into this tangled web? Or was there another way to deal with this before it unraveled further?

Her gaze flicked back to Wen Kexing, who remained bowed and silent, as though this weren’t a wildfire spreading across the court. I’ll deal with you later, Lao Wen, she thought darkly. But first, I need to figure out how to save us both.

Lady Yu’s gaze locked with the Empress Dowager’s across the hall. It was a delicate dance of sharp glances and infinitesimal shifts in expression, a conversation too subtle for anyone else to notice. The Empress Dowager’s brow arched slightly, her meaning clear: Shall I step in?

Lady Yu tilted her head just enough to suggest hesitation. Her lips pressed into a faint line, the smallest shake of her head signaling restraint. Not yet, her eyes said. Let me think.

The Empress Dowager, ever composed, gave the faintest nod. Her sharp gaze never wavered, but the jade bangle on her wrist slid faintly against her skin, a soft movement that spoke of readiness. Lady Yu turned her attention back to the court, her mind twisting in sharp, frantic calculations. There had to be another way—a thread to pull, a path through this disaster that didn’t rely on the Empress Dowager’s intervention.

And then Wen Kexing, in all his idiotic glory, pointed directly at her. “Lady Yu can vouch for me.”

Chapter Text

Oh Siming, you grant me love to choose,
Through words, through silence, through paths to lose.
To stand unmoving, or strike with will,
Grant me strength—not to kill.

The impact was immediate, like a rock hurled into still water. The court erupted into noise once more, their voices a chorus of disbelief and scorn. “Lady Yu?” “A widow as his witness?” “What does she even know of this?”

Lady Yu stood motionless, her stillness so absolute it was almost violent. The storm inside her raged, battering against the iron walls of her self-control. Her nails pressed hard into the fabric of her robe, the faintest protest of the silk the only betrayal of her fury. You absolute fool, Lao Wen. You don’t even know what you’ve done.

Her gaze flicked back to the Empress Dowager, who was watching the chaos unfold with the faintest curve of amusement at the corner of her lips. Lady Yu’s thoughts twisted sharply, desperately searching for another way out, some move she had overlooked, anything to keep from falling into the trap that was now snapping shut around her.

But the Empress Dowager’s expression remained steady, her jade bangle tapping softly against the armrest as though to say: There is no other way.

Lady Yu’s stomach churned as the Empress Dowager inclined her head, an elegant signal that carried a world of meaning. Her gaze, sharp and glinting with mirth, locked on Lady Yu’s. It’s yours now. Do what must be done.

Lady Yu moved with deliberate grace, the silks of her gown whispering against the stone as she stepped forward. She knelt beside Wen Kexing with a fluid elegance, lowering herself until they were level. Her hand brushed his arm lightly as if for balance, but her nails dug sharply into his wrist.

“Not a word,” she hissed, her tone icy and low, meant only for him. Her grip tightened briefly, a silent punishment, before she released him and straightened, her expression softening into something serene.

She turned her gaze to Prince Jin, her voice trembling with perfect composure. “Your Highness,” she began, her tone gentle but clear enough to silence the murmurs spreading through the court. “I must speak, for this man is not without an ally.”

The hall stilled, every eye fixed on her. Lady Yu allowed her head to tilt slightly, as if gathering strength for her words. “I have known of his truth for some time,” she said carefully. “I did not speak of it because, though I am but a weak woman, I trusted in his intentions. He came to me with no malice, no schemes. What he offered was honesty and a promise—one that I accepted.”

She let those words hang in the air, the court’s sharp intake of breath a quiet ripple around her. Wen Kexing shifted beside her, his confusion palpable, but she didn’t spare him a glance.

​​ Her voice softened, her gaze fixed on the Prince as though revealing something deeply personal, yet carefully measured. “I could not ignore such a vow. And so, I answered him—not in secrecy, but in trust. A promise given and returned, bound by loyalty and purpose.”

The meaning was clear. It rippled through the court like lightning, the whispers beginning again—excited, incredulous, scandalized. But Lady Yu did not waver. She kept her expression demure, her gaze unwavering.

“Your Highness,” she continued, her tone firming slightly, “I ask only this: that you see him not as the shadows of his past, but as the man who stands before you now. He has made mistakes, yes, but he has knelt before you in repentance. He is my choice, my trust. And I ask for yours.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, every face turned toward the Prince. Lady Yu’s lips curved into the faintest smile, her gaze flicking briefly to the Empress Dowager, who watched with a glint of amused approval.

As for Wen Kexing—he knelt there, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground, his entire posture radiating bewilderment. She could practically feel the disarray in his mind, the way he scrambled to piece together what had just happened. It was almost impressive, how a man so brilliant at chaos could look so utterly, magnificently lost.

Her anger simmered beneath the surface, sharp and unyielding. What a fool. The words took shape in her mind, refined by exasperation. A brilliant schemer with the foresight of a blind chicken.

Prince Jin’s gaze locked with Lady Yu’s, sharp and unyielding. For a moment, the court seemed to vanish around them, the noise of whispers and murmurs fading into a low hum as he studied her. His expression betrayed nothing, but his eyes demanded an answer: Is this truly what you want me to do?

Lady Yu held his gaze, her lips curving ever so slightly in what might have been an apology—or perhaps a challenge. Her silence was answer enough.

When Prince Jin finally turned his attention to the court, it was with the perfect balance of wounded pride and imperial authority. He straightened, his presence filling the room as though the weight of the entire court rested on his shoulders.

“Lady Yu,” he began, his tone carrying the weight of both disbelief and disapproval. “I do not know whether to be appalled or impressed. Have you no regard for your name, for the dignity you represent?”

The hall stilled as his words echoed, the tension thick enough to choke on. He took a measured step forward, his gaze sweeping over Lady Yu and Wen Kexing as though he were examining the mess they’d made of his court.

“To act so recklessly, without my knowledge, without even a shred of consideration for the consequences—have you no self-respect? No thought for the scandal you’ve invited into my court?”

Lady Yu’s head remained bowed, her silence perfectly demure. But beneath the mask, her thoughts sharpened into bitter clarity. Keep talking, Shen Lian. Spin your performance. Give me the out I need.

Prince Jin exhaled sharply, loud enough to draw the room’s attention back to him. His lips curled into a faint sneer, though his voice carried a thread of reluctant admiration. “And yet,” he said slowly, his tone almost grudging, “it cannot be denied that Ghost Valley wields considerable influence beyond our borders. With careful guidance, it might even become... useful.”

The murmurs in the room began to stir again, a wave of unease rippling through the crowd. Prince Jin’s gaze remained fixed on Lady Yu, as though pinning her in place. “Still, to risk so much for such an alliance,” he continued, his voice colder now, “is reckless at best. Lady Yu, your bravery is your only saving grace—but it may yet cost you dearly.”

Prince Jin’s sharp gaze landed on Wen Kexing, pinning him like a hawk sizing up its prey. “You,” he said, his tone cold, “have caused more disruption to my court than I should tolerate. But before I make my final decision, I need to hear it from your own mouth.”

The hall quieted, every whisper fading as all eyes turned to Wen Kexing. Prince Jin’s voice lowered, measured and deliberate, each word chosen like a blade. “You claim to kneel here in repentance. You present yourself as a man of honor. Tell me, then—what exactly do you offer my court? What is it that you seek to pledge in return for Lady Yu’s intervention?”

Lady Yu’s breath hitched, the faintest flicker of irritation passing through her. Careful, Shen Lian, she thought bitterly. Even you don’t know what you’re asking. Her sharp gaze flicked to Wen Kexing, who straightened slightly, lifting his head as though gathering his composure.

“Your Highness,” Wen Kexing began, inclining his head with just the right measure of respect, “it is only through Lady Yu’s unparalleled judgment that I have found the opportunity to speak before you today. To her, I owe the clarity of this moment, and it is through her name that I offer my pledge.”

Lady Yu’s eyes closed briefly, and her grip tightened imperceptibly at her side. Idiot.

Prince Jin’s lips curved into the faintest smirk, though his eyes remained hard. “Then it is settled,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “I will allow this union. Preparations will begin immediately.”

The murmurs rose again, sharp and scandalized, but Prince Jin’s hand shot up, silencing the crowd with a single, imperious gesture. His voice was cold and cutting. “There will be no further disgraceful behavior from Lady Yu or her... doctor.” He spat the word with disdain. “This arrangement will proceed swiftly, and with dignity, so that neither the court nor I will need to endure this spectacle again.”

Wen Kexing blinked, clearly confused, though he lowered his head in a gesture of respect. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he said, his tone earnest. “This means more to me than I can express.”

Lady Yu inhaled sharply, her calm mask firmly in place. She lowered her head in a deep bow, but her thoughts seethed. Oh, it will mean something, Lao Wen. Just wait.

Prince Jin’s gaze shifted to Wen Kexing, his tone measured but firm. “You will not remain in the women’s quarters,” he said. “Prepare quarters for him outside.” He hesitated, then added dryly, “I expect you to stay there until this arrangement is finalized.”

Wen Kexing blinked, his confusion evident. “Your Highness, that won’t be necessary—”

“It is not a request,” Prince Jin interrupted, his voice sharper now, though not unkind. “You are dismissed.”

Wen Kexing hesitated, his gaze flicking toward Lady Yu. She met his eyes, her expression calm but utterly final. “Go,” she said softly, her tone brooking no argument.

Wen Kexing inclined his head reluctantly, following the attendant who stepped forward to lead him. He glanced over his shoulder once, his brow furrowed in quiet confusion, but Lady Yu didn’t look back. Her focus remained on Prince Jin.

“And you, Lady Yu,” he said, his tone shifting to exasperation. “You are dismissed as well. Leave my sight. I need time to... consider what just happened.”

She bowed deeply, her voice steady and composed. “Thank you, Your Highness.” As she straightened, her gaze caught his, and in the depths of his sharp eyes, she could see the frustration swirling. Not anger—never anger—but disbelief. What the hell just happened? his expression seemed to say.

Her lips curved faintly, her gratitude sincere. He would berate her later, of course, likely with a tone sharpened by the absurdity of it all. But she knew Shen Lian’s heart was good, and his exasperation stemmed only from the ridiculous position she had dragged him into.

She turned swiftly, her movements precise as she headed for the grand doors. Her gaze flicked briefly to the Empress Dowager as she passed.

The Dowager’s lips curved into a subtle smile, her jade bangle shifting lightly against her wrist as she inclined her head. Her meaning was clear: I will bring him to you later. For whatever you deem necessary.

Lady Yu inclined her head in return, her expression serene even as her thoughts simmered. Good. That’s one problem solved. Her steps quickened, the cold air beyond the hall promising a brief reprieve. She exhaled slowly, though it did little to quiet the fire simmering in her chest.

Lao Wen, you’re not ready for what’s coming next.

Chapter Text

This man of mine, whose words betray,
Unveiling truths better kept at bay.
To choose a side, to stand with him,
This foolish soul, weighed down by sin.

The door opened with a quiet creak, followed by a not-so-quiet shove. Yun—or was it Yue?—pushed Wen Kexing into the room, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Ghost Valley Master,” she murmured, their tone light but with a faint edge, “you’re lucky she didn’t decide to have you killed right there.” With a sly smile, she added, “Enjoy your evening, Doctor Wen. I hear it’s going to be... eventful.”

Before Wen Kexing could respond, the twin stepped back into the hall and pulled the door shut with a decisive click.

Wen Kexing turned to Zhou Zishu, his brow raised in bemusement. “Well, that was cryptic,” he remarked, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve. “But I suppose it’s to be expected. No one truly understands subtlety at court, do they?” His gaze brightened as it met Zhou Zishu’s. “But I think that went rather well, don’t you? A flawless performance, if I say so myself.”

Zhou Zishu didn’t answer immediately. He stood near the window, one hand resting lightly on the sill, his posture deceptively relaxed. His mind, however, was far from calm. The court spectacle played over in his head, a relentless string of potential disasters narrowly avoided. When he finally turned, his gaze was cold enough to make Wen Kexing falter.

“You think that went well?” Zhou Zishu’s voice was quiet, but the edges were sharp. “Is that what you call dragging both of us into the spotlight without warning? No plan, no coordination—just your brilliance on full display, is that it?”

Wen Kexing blinked, his confusion apparent. “A-Xu, you wound me,” he replied lightly, though the faint smirk on his lips betrayed his amusement. “I gave the court exactly what they wanted—a story, a confession, a pledge of loyalty. Surely you saw the genius in it?”

Zhou Zishu took a step forward, his gaze narrowing. “I saw a man who thinks he understands the court. But let me assure you, Lao Wen—you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t have come so close to getting us both killed.”

Wen Kexing’s smirk faltered, but only slightly. “Killed?” he echoed, his tone almost incredulous. “I’d say it went splendidly. The Prince approved, didn’t he?”

Zhou Zishu let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “He approved because I cleaned up your mess, not because of anything you did. Do you even realize how close you came to disaster? Or were you too busy congratulating yourself to notice?”

Wen Kexing leaned back slightly, his expression insufferably calm, though Zhou Zishu wasn’t fooled. There was a flicker of confusion in his eyes, quickly masked by his usual self-assured air. “You’re overreacting, A-Xu,” Wen Kexing said lightly, his voice carrying the maddening tone of someone who thought he was being reasonable. “The court thrives on drama. I simply spoke their language.”

Zhou Zishu’s gaze sharpened, his anger coiling tightly beneath his skin. Spoke their language? He almost laughed at the absurdity. “Lao Wen,” he said, his tone deceptively calm, “what you did wasn’t speaking their language. It was setting fire to their house and expecting applause.”

Wen Kexing tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips as if Zhou Zishu’s anger was some small inconvenience he could charm away. “But you stepped in,” he said smoothly, his words carrying that infuriating mix of confidence and naivety. “And didn’t it all go splendidly? Your handling of the court was—”

“Don’t,” Zhou Zishu cut him off, his voice low and biting. “Don’t you dare.” His hands clenched at his sides, his thoughts a tangled mess of fury, exasperation, and the lingering edge of fear. He hadn’t felt fear like that in years—sharp, cold, and visceral, cutting through the layers of control he had spent decades perfecting.

He took a step forward, the movement slow and deliberate. “You have no idea what you’ve done,” he said, his voice like steel, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. Why does he have to make everything so difficult?

Zhou Zishu’s gaze bored into Wen Kexing’s, his thoughts twisting. Of course I know how we got here, he thought bitterly. I chose this path with my eyes wide open. I let this man into my life. And now, here I am—trapped in this ridiculous mess because he couldn’t be bothered to speak to me first.

“You walked into that hall,” Zhou Zishu continued, his voice steady but laced with a sharp edge, “and threw around titles and alliances as though they were yours to give. And for what? To drag me into this without so much as a word?”

Wen Kexing blinked, the faintest crack appearing in his self-assured facade. “I was pledging loyalty to the Prince,” he said, his confusion genuine. “Forging an alliance. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Zhou Zishu stared at him, his frustration building with every word. He really doesn’t understand, he thought, a bitter laugh threatening to escape. He has no idea we just got engaged.

He exhaled sharply, his patience fraying. “Tell me, Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu said, his voice dropping into something colder, more biting. “If you wanted an alliance, why didn’t you come to me? Do you think I wouldn’t have handed it to you on a silver platter?”

Zhou Zishu’s gaze didn’t waver, though he could feel the heat of his frustration curling at the edges of his composure. “Tell me, Lao Wen,” he began, his voice calm but edged with something sharper, “what was the plan, exactly? What were you hoping to accomplish?”

Wen Kexing hesitated, his confidence flickering for the briefest moment before he straightened, his chin lifting slightly. “I was making an alliance,” he said, as if it were obvious. “What else? Isn’t that what we’ve been working toward?”

“An alliance,” Zhou Zishu repeated, the words cold on his tongue. He let out a slow breath, his hands resting loosely at his sides, though tension coiled tightly in his shoulders. “And you couldn’t come to me?”

The silence stretched, heavy and fraught. Wen Kexing opened his mouth as if to respond, but Zhou Zishu didn’t give him the chance.

“You didn’t think to mention it. Not once.” His voice didn’t rise, but it cut cleanly through the space between them. “You didn’t think I might be able to help? Or did you think I wouldn’t?”

Wen Kexing frowned, his confusion clear. “It’s not about that,” he started, but Zhou Zishu’s laugh—sharp and humorless—cut him off.

“Isn’t it?” Zhou Zishu asked, his tone deceptively light. “It’s strange, Lao Wen. You’re perfectly fine when I point you toward my enemies and let you deal with them. You’ll take my power when it’s handed to you like that, when it’s easy. But when it comes to something like this...” He let the sentence hang, the implication sharp enough to draw blood.

Wen Kexing blinked, his confusion deepening. “That’s not—”

“Do you even understand what happened today?” Zhou Zishu interrupted, his tone dropping lower, more deliberate. His gaze burned into Wen Kexing, as much to steady himself as to demand an answer. Does he understand anything?

“I don’t need your secrets, Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu continued, the words falling like stones. “Do you know what I gained in that hall? Do you know how much power I hold now? More than I ever wanted, more than anyone should. Enough to shape the court, to change the game entirely. And I would’ve used it for you. I would’ve handed you the alliance you wanted—no, needed—without a second thought. Without dragging us into this ridiculous mess.”

Zhou Zishu let out a slow, measured breath, though the pressure in his chest didn’t ease. “You’ll come when I need you,” he said finally, his voice low, almost distracted. “You’ll play your part, make yourself useful, clean up whatever mess I leave for you. But when it’s the other way around…”

He trailed off, his hands flexing at his sides as he turned sharply toward Wen Kexing. His gaze narrowed, words cutting even as they stumbled out, jagged and uneven. “What is it, Lao Wen? Do you think I can’t? Or that I shouldn’t? That I’m just something to show off, like when you played Ghost Valley’s proud master and paraded me in front of your subordinates as your war prize?”

His laugh came sharp and humorless, though it barely carried above a whisper. “You’ll let me in when it’s convenient—when it doesn’t cost you anything. But when it matters, when it’s you, suddenly I’m not…” He stopped, the words catching in his throat, the thought half-formed and already unbearable.

Zhou Zishu turned away again, his gaze falling somewhere distant, his voice colder now, steadier but no less raw. “You didn’t trust me.”

Wen Kexing’s silence lasted only a moment before he tilted his head, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “Ah, A-Xu,” he said softly, his tone warm and infuriatingly fond, “you really do like to make things difficult, don’t you? That big brain of yours must be exhausting to carry around all the time.”

Zhou Zishu stiffened slightly, his hands curling into loose fists, but Wen Kexing didn’t stop. He stepped closer, his movements unhurried, his gaze steady but laced with quiet amusement. “So that’s it, then? I didn’t trust you? I think you’re just something pretty to look at?” He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “A-Xu, if I wanted a decorative accessory, I’d have picked someone a little less exhausting. Do you know how much work it takes to keep up with you?”

Zhou Zishu turned, his sharp gaze cutting through Wen Kexing’s teasing, but Wen Kexing didn’t flinch. He took another step forward, his tone softening as he continued, “We’re both liars, A-Xu. You think I don’t know that? You love your secrets as much as I love mine, and it’s not as if you tell me everything, is it?”

Zhou Zishu’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing, so Wen Kexing pressed on, his smile fading slightly. “I didn’t want to drag you into this,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “I thought—I saw how you reacted to the Five Lakes Alliance. The first time… you were so angry and… And I thought... maybe I should leave you out of it this time.”

He paused, letting the words hang between them before adding, “It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you. It was because I trust you too much. Because I knew you’d throw yourself into the fire if I asked—and I didn’t want that for you.”

Wen Kexing reached out, resting a hand lightly on Zhou Zishu’s shoulder. His smile returned, gentler now, but with the same teasing spark. “And as for this ridiculous idea that you’re just some accessory—do you know how much trouble you are? If anyone here’s the accessory, it’s me. The prettiest accessory you’ve ever had, if I do say so myself.”

Wen Kexing tilted his head, his expression turning sly. “You know, A-Xu,” he began lightly, “for all this talk about trust and betrayal, you still haven’t told me what the problem actually is.”

Zhou Zishu’s gaze sharpened, but Wen Kexing barreled on, entirely unbothered. “Was it the alliance? The court? The Prince?” He ticked the possibilities off on his fingers, his tone far too cheerful for Zhou Zishu’s liking. “Everyone seemed satisfied. Lady Yu is more powerful than ever, the alliance was approved, and the Prince didn’t order either of us executed, so I’d say that’s a win. What exactly is the disaster here?”

Zhou Zishu stared at him, his thoughts tangling into a sharp, chaotic mess as Wen Kexing continued, entirely oblivious.

“And as always,” Wen Kexing added, grinning, “I am, of course, Lady Yu’s most dutiful servant. Ready to fight, to flatter, to play my part as needed. Surely you’ve noticed how well everything turned out?”

He stepped back, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase his own brilliance. “No one was executed. No one was humiliated. You were magnificent, as always. What could possibly be wrong?”

For a long moment, Zhou Zishu said nothing. He stood there, chewing over Wen Kexing’s words as the sheer ridiculousness of the man began to take shape in his mind. He had marched into the court, confessed to being the Ghost Valley Master, dragged them both into a mess of political intrigue and marital scandal, and now stood there grinning like a boy who’d gotten away with a prank.

It was all so absurd. This is the man I’ve tied myself to.

And then it hit him—sharpening like the edge of a blade before dissolving into something softer, something uncontrollable. Zhou Zishu’s lips twitched, his tightly coiled frustration beginning to unravel. He tried to stop it, but the laugh bubbled up anyway—sharp and sudden and unrestrained.

Wen Kexing blinked, his grin faltering. “A-Xu?”

That only made Zhou Zishu laugh harder, the sound spilling out in low, ragged bursts that shook his shoulders. It was too much—the absurdity of the situation, of Wen Kexing’s unflappable confidence, of himself for thinking he could make sense of any of it.

Zhou Zishu’s laughter faded into something softer, more controlled, though the glint in his eyes remained. He straightened, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve as he turned his gaze to Wen Kexing, his expression deceptively serene.

“Lao Wen,” he began, his tone light and conversational, “I’ve decided your creation was the gods’ greatest act of compromise. They poured all their effort into your face, of course, sculpted it to perfection. But when it came time to grant you brains, well...” He shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching. “They showed remarkable restraint.”

Wen Kexing blinked, his expression caught between offense and disbelief. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual edge.

“Yes,” Zhou Zishu agreed pleasantly. “And you’re very, very stupid. Beautiful, but stupid. And annoying.” He paused, letting his words settle before adding with mock solemnity, “A perfect combination for a husband-to-be.”

Chapter Text

This monster of mine, who dwells in my heart,
Grant him some wisdom, a mindful start.
All else he has—you’ve given him grace,
My soul, my heart, my love’s embrace.

You’ve carved him from jade, his form divine,
Eyes like hot coals, a sharp tongue to entwine.
But was it too much, oh goddess, to ask,
For thought to temper his fiery mask?

Let me jest, oh Siming, divine and fine,
Too much joy feels no gift of mine.
For happiness, boundless, impossible seems,
A trick of fate, a whim of dreams.

Wen Kexing tilted his head, his lips curving into a lazy smile. “Husband, is it?” he mused, slipping into the joke without hesitation. “And here I thought I’d always be the little wife in this arrangement. What did I do to finally earn a promotion?”

Zhou Zishu sighed, though the flicker of pity in his gaze was mostly eclipsed by satisfaction. “Lao Wen,” he began, his tone patient but edged with mockery, “do you remember when you pointed at me in the court and declared me your witness?”

“Of course,” Wen Kexing replied, straightening proudly, his smile smug. “It was an excellent idea. Inspired, even. I thought you’d be impressed.”

“Mm,” Zhou Zishu hummed, his words slicing with dry precision. “Yes, it was brilliant, truly. I can’t imagine a better plan for dragging me into the most precarious position possible. Do you know what you did? You gave me exactly three choices, and each one worse than the last. Shall we start with the first? I could reject your claim outright—which, of course, would have ensured your immediate execution.”

Wen Kexing’s smugness faltered slightly, though his smile lingered at the edges. “Execution sounds unpleasant,” he murmured, as if the idea were merely an inconvenience. “Good thing you didn’t choose that one.”

“Indeed,” Zhou Zishu replied coolly, his expression unreadable. “Instead, we come to the second option: confirming your story but admitting that I’d concealed the truth from the court.” His voice turned sharp, each word cutting like glass. “That would make me a traitor, Lao Wen. A traitor, mind you. The kind they like to deal with publicly. A good hanging or beheading, if you’re lucky.”

Wen Kexing winced, though the glimmer of theatrical defiance in his eyes refused to fade entirely. “Well, you’ve always been resourceful. I had faith you’d figure something out.”

“Oh, I figured something out,” Zhou Zishu said, his voice soft but brimming with mockery. “But don’t worry—we haven’t reached the worst part yet. The third option, Lao Wen, is where your true brilliance shines.”

“The third option,” Zhou Zishu continued, his voice deceptively light, “was to explain my loyalty to you in a way that wouldn’t destroy us both. A story that the court, in all its paranoia and scrutiny, would accept without question.”

Wen Kexing tilted his head, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “And what story did you come up with, A-Xu?”

Zhou Zishu’s lips curved into a faint smile, sharp and unreadable. “Simple. I made you mine. My betrothed. My future husband. My problem, officially.”

Wen Kexing blinked, his usual composure faltering for the first time. “Your—what?”

Zhou Zishu watched him, amusement flickering behind his calm exterior. “That’s right, Lao Wen. In front of the entire court, I claimed you as my intended. Congratulations. You’ve managed to get yourself engaged without even realizing it.”

Wen Kexing stared at him, utterly still, as if the words themselves had struck him like a blow. “Engaged… ?” he echoed, his voice faint, the usual confidence completely absent.

Zhou Zishu tilted his head, his smile razor-sharp. “Ah, I see you’ve finally caught up,” he drawled, his voice as smooth as silk. “Took you long enough, Lao Wen. There will be a wedding. Probably tomorrow, if Prince Jin can manage it. I’d suggest you start preparing.”

Wen Kexing opened his mouth, then closed it again, his eyes darting as though searching for an escape route. Zhou Zishu watched him with unconcealed amusement, savoring the rare sight of Wen Kexing utterly at a loss. 

“Yes, Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu said, each word deliberate and precise, “a marriage. You’ve gone and tied yourself to me, and now you’re going to have to see it through.” His lips curved into a smile that was all sharp edges and quiet satisfaction. “Congratulations. You’re about to become my very stupid, very annoying husband.”

“And don’t look so shocked,” Zhou Zishu added lightly, his tone almost teasing. “Surely you’re not afraid of a little wedding, are you, Ghost Valley Master?”

Wen Kexing recovered just enough to fix Zhou Zishu with an incredulous stare. “You’re serious,” he said flatly, though the disbelief in his voice was unmistakable. “We’re getting married.”

“Oh, very serious,” Zhou Zishu replied, his voice laced with mock solemnity. “But don’t look so worried, Lao Wen. I promise to be an excellent wife to you. Obedient, sweet, demure—everything you could possibly want.”

Wen Kexing arched an eyebrow, his lips curling into a sardonic smile. “Obedient, you say? A-Xu, if you had a single obedient bone in your body, I’d have found you insufferable long ago.” He leaned slightly closer, his tone light but needling. “Still, I wonder—if you ever did manage it, would I even know what to do with you?”

“Well,” Zhou Zishu drawled, his voice deceptively sweet, “you’re welcome to imagine that if it helps you sleep at night. But don’t forget, Lao Wen—I have a talent for taking what’s given and bending it to my will. And I’m perfectly comfortable holding the reins... or a sharp object or two, if that makes the lesson easier to learn.”

Wen Kexing opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again, his expression hovering somewhere between delight and curiosity. “A-Xu,” he said slowly, savoring the words, “What sharp objects? Do we have a collection already? Will there be demonstrations? I’ve always loved a good show.”

Zhou Zishu’s smirk turned razor-sharp, his tone dripping with mockery. “Lao Wen, your enthusiasm is almost endearing. Were you hoping for a collection? Or perhaps a demonstration? Don’t tempt me—I might just let you find out exactly how sharp they are.” He paused, savoring the flicker of amusement and curiosity in Wen Kexing’s eyes. “Though I must admit, it’s impressive how quickly you can derail a conversation. Truly, a gift.”

Wen Kexing stared at Zhou Zishu, his expression shifting between mock disbelief and delighted amusement. “Ah, I see,” he said, leaning back as if the sheer weight of Zhou Zishu’s words required physical distance. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you? Well then,” he continued, his grin widening, “I suppose the only question left is… how do we escape this wedding? Or do we even want to?”

Zhou Zishu arched an eyebrow, folding his arms as he watched Wen Kexing’s dramatics unfold.

“Will you cheat on me?” Wen Kexing asked, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Or should I? Oh, what about the Prince? You and he seem so close—would that scandal be enough? Or do you have someone else in mind?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Zhou Zishu said flatly, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

Wen Kexing grinned, undeterred. “It’s a very serious matter, A-Xu. If we’re to break this engagement, we must do it with style. Perhaps a public fight—shocking insults, dramatic exits. Or, wait, what if you left me at the altar? That would be memorable.”

He paused, his expression turning mock-thoughtful. “And there was that one tall, handsome scholar—what was his name again? If he’s the candidate, do let me know. I’m curious which of us you think would suit him better.” His grin widened, teasing. “But then, if we were all caught entangled together, would it even count as cheating? Would it depend on who was on top? Does the one on top get to claim innocence? Or the one on the bottom?” He tilted his head, his mock-seriousness deepening. “Or maybe it only counts if the scholar participates. If he just watches us... does that count? This is so complicated, this cheating business.”

Zhou Zishu let out a soft, incredulous laugh, his sharp gaze softening just enough to show his fondness. “You’re insane,” he murmured, shaking his head. “And we can revisit that particular arrangement another time, if you’re that determined to explore it. But for now, Lao Wen...”

“There’s no getting out of it,” Zhou Zishu said, his tone cutting through Wen Kexing’s theatrics. “We’re getting married. Probably tomorrow. Maybe the day after, if Prince Jin decides to turn it into a grand spectacle—and he probably will. Oh, heaven help me, there will be so much explaining to him. There will be screaming, and tears, and possibly a full-blown tantrum.”

Wen Kexing froze, his grin fading into something closer to disbelief. “You’re serious.”

“Painfully,” Zhou Zishu replied, his voice dry. “Now, stop trying to worm your way out of it. You’re going to be a very married man very soon.”

Wen Kexing blinked, his thoughts spinning wildly as he gestured vaguely. “Wait, can we even do that? Get married, I mean? We’re both... you know...”

Zhou Zishu arched an eyebrow. “Both what?”

“Men!” Wen Kexing exclaimed, before immediately waving the thought away. “No, no, wait—I actually know people who’ve done that. Perfectly fine. But you’re still Lady Yu right now. So that makes you the wife, doesn’t it?”

Zhou Zishu’s sharp glare was almost audible, and Wen Kexing hesitated. “But you can’t be the wife. You won’t clean, you won’t cook—you’ve made that very clear. You want to be a lord or a man or whatever it is that means you don’t scrub floors. So if you’re not the wife... then what does that make me?”

He paused, horror slowly dawning. “A husband-wife? Or a wife-husband? What does that even mean? Would I have to cook and clean? Well, I already do, but would I have to?” He glanced at Zhou Zishu as though expecting an immediate answer, then carried on without one. “And would I have to be obedient? Always at the bottom? What are the rules here, A-Xu? I need guidance!”

He gestured emphatically, his mind now running at full speed. “And what about the attire? Is there a ticket system? A veil? A pin? How does one even dress as a husband-wife?”

Wen Kexing’s eyes widened suddenly, as though struck by a revelation. “Wait—children! A-Xu, how many children do we even have already? I’ve counted at least fifteen.”

Zhou Zishu’s eyebrow twitched. “We do not have fifteen children, Lao Wen.”

“Oh, no, no,” Wen Kexing muttered, pacing now as though the numbers themselves were chasing him. “There’s Chengling, Maimei, and the twins, obviously. And then there are the strays in the women’s quarters—the ones the Empress Dowager keeps around. They love you, A-Xu! I saw you the other night, telling them stories while they stuck flowers in your hair. Do you know how many there are? At least ten. And they’re all yours. Clearly.”

“Lao Wen—” Zhou Zishu began, but Wen Kexing waved him off dramatically.

“And where will we put them all?” Wen Kexing demanded, spinning back to face Zhou Zishu, his voice rising. “The manor isn’t even rebuilt yet. We have no space! None! Are we supposed to stack them like firewood? And they’ll eat everything! Do you know how much food fifteen children eat, A-Xu? How will we manage? Will we have to adopt more?”

Zhou Zishu blinked at him, thoroughly unimpressed.

“And the clothes!” Wen Kexing continued, throwing his hands up. “Who’s going to sew all their clothes? Me? You? Oh no, no, you’ll refuse, won’t you? You’ll be too busy being a lord or whatever you’re calling yourself now. So that leaves me. Me, sewing clothes for an army of children, while also cooking and cleaning because apparently I’m a wife-husband now. This is a disaster.”

“Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu cut in, his voice calm but edged with steel, “breathe. You’re spiraling.”

Wen Kexing paused, his dramatic gesturing stilled mid-air. “Spiraling? Me? Never. I was merely exploring our options.”

“Options,” Zhou Zishu repeated dryly, watching him like one might observe a particularly ridiculous bird. “And yet none of them seem to involve anything resembling a plan.” He exhaled slowly, shifting his weight as he crossed his arms. “Let’s start there. What exactly was your grand strategy when you came to the court?”

Wen Kexing tilted his head, his smile faltering into something almost sheepish. “To secure power under my true name,” he said, more measured now. “Ghost Valley provides... raw strength, but it’s not the kind of power you can wield openly. I needed something softer, more acceptable. A healer gaining trust, alliances, influence.”

Zhou Zishu hummed thoughtfully, his gaze narrowing as the pieces clicked into place. “And you’d use that influence to box in the Five Lakes Alliance. Ghost Valley as the hammer, your court connections as the anvil. Efficient. Brutal. And entirely dependent on secrecy.” His lips quirked into a faint, wry smile. “Which, of course, you shattered the moment you dragged me into this.”

Wen Kexing shrugged, unapologetic. “Plans change, A-Xu.”

“Clearly,” Zhou Zishu muttered, his mind already racing ahead. The court was a shifting maze of power and ambition now, one that he—thanks to this ridiculous engagement—was uniquely positioned to navigate. “With the new cards on the table, your plan isn’t enough. It was clever, Lao Wen, but limited. We have to think broader now, and not just for your revenge.”

His gaze darkened slightly, the weight of their entanglements settling over him. “There’s Chengling to consider,” he said, his voice quieter but no less sharp. “He’s already endured more than he should have. Do we dismantle the Five Lakes Alliance completely? Force them into chaos? What then? What happens to him?”

Wen Kexing said nothing, watching him with an expression Zhou Zishu couldn’t quite read.

“This isn’t just about smashing our enemies,” Zhou Zishu continued, his tone softer now, though no less cutting. “It’s about what we build after. I’ve seen enough destruction to last several lifetimes, Lao Wen. If we’re going to pull all these threads, it has to lead somewhere worth all this trouble.”

They talked, quietly at first, sketching out plans that branched and twisted like the roots of an ancient tree. Zhou Zishu leaned over the table, tracing an invisible map of alliances and strategies, his words sharp and precise. Wen Kexing nodded along, his expression thoughtful—until, inevitably, his attention began to drift.

“Do I call you ‘A-Yu’ now?” Wen Kexing asked suddenly, tilting his head.

Zhou Zishu didn’t look up, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. “What?”

“Or should it be ‘my lady’?” Wen Kexing continued, his voice laced with mock seriousness. “Since we’re getting married, do I have to upgrade to something more respectful? Perhaps ‘my dearest,’ or even ‘beloved.’”

Zhou Zishu’s hand stilled, his gaze lifting slowly to fix Wen Kexing with an incredulous stare.

“I’m just asking,” Wen Kexing went on, entirely unrepentant. “Protocol is important, A-Xu. Or should I say ‘Lady Yu’? Wait, no—what if you’d prefer something poetic, like ‘moon of my heart’ or ‘cloud that carries my burdens’? I’m flexible.”

Zhou Zishu exhaled slowly, pressing two fingers to his temple. “Lao Wen, if you don’t focus on this plan, I will personally see to it that you never speak again.”

Wen Kexing gasped, looking scandalized. “A-Xu, how harsh! You can’t expect me to concentrate when we have such pressing questions to answer. This is about the foundation of our relationship, you know. If I don’t address you properly, what kind of husband will I be?”

“The kind who ends up face-down in a ditch if he keeps this up,” Zhou Zishu replied flatly, though the faint twitch of his lips betrayed him.

Wen Kexing’s eyes widened suddenly, his earlier musings spiraling into fresh panic. “What am I going to wear? A-Xu, what do I even wear to a wedding like this?”

Zhou Zishu glanced at him, the faintest flicker of exasperation tugging at his expression. “Lao Wen—”

“No, really,” Wen Kexing pressed, undeterred. “Do I match you? Do I wear red? Or gold? Is this a Ghost Valley wedding? Does that make it royal? Oh no, do I need a crown? Should I start practicing now?”

Zhou Zishu’s gaze sharpened, his irritation tempered only by the sheer absurdity of it all. “The Prince will provide,” he said dryly. “And for what it’s worth, you look dashing in red. The guests, at least, will have something to enjoy.”

That, finally, seemed to quiet Wen Kexing, though Zhou Zishu could see the wheels still turning behind his dark eyes. His silence wasn’t restful; it carried weight, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was softer. Too soft for the room.

“So,” Wen Kexing said slowly, “this is happening. A wedding. Us.”

Zhou Zishu leaned back, crossing his arms as he studied Wen Kexing’s face. “It would seem so.”

“And you’re fine with it?” Wen Kexing asked, his gaze fixed on the floor, not meeting Zhou Zishu’s.

There it was. That shift in tone, the too-casual delivery of a question that carried something sharper underneath. Zhou Zishu stayed silent, waiting.

“I forced it on you,” Wen Kexing said finally, his voice tight. “You were cornered, A-Xu. It’s what I wanted to avoid, but instead, I dragged you into this ridiculous mess without even thinking.” His jaw tightened, and Zhou Zishu watched him struggle, his usual flair and confidence stripped down to something rawer.

“I’ve seen what they did to you,” Wen Kexing continued, quieter now, his words laced with something heavier. “The years they stole from you. The choices they made for you. And now I’ve done the same, haven’t I? I’ve turned you into—” He stopped, unable or unwilling to finish the sentence.

Zhou Zishu frowned, the weight of Wen Kexing’s words settling over him like a cloak. And there it is, he thought. The flaw in all his theatrics. He doesn’t know what to do when the script isn’t in his favor.

When Wen Kexing spoke again, his voice was tight, almost clipped. “I can’t be that for you, A-Xu. I can’t be the person who takes that from you. Not again. I won’t.”

Zhou Zishu tilted his head, watching him carefully. “Lao Wen,” he said finally, his voice quiet but cutting. “What exactly do you think you’ve done?”

Wen Kexing didn’t stop. His words tumbled out, faster now, like a dam broken. “It’s not just the court, A-Xu. It’s everything. They’re going to watch you—they already do—and now they’ll be looking for every misstep. They’ll see me as a threat, or a fool, or worse, someone unworthy of standing by you. And what if—”

“Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu interrupted, his voice cutting through the rising tide of Wen Kexing’s words. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he fixed Wen Kexing with a steady, unimpressed stare. “Breathe. For once.”

Wen Kexing fell silent, though his fingers still drummed restlessly against the table.

“You talk too much,” Zhou Zishu muttered, shaking his head. “Do you honestly think I would let myself be forced into something I didn’t want? You’re overestimating your influence, Lao Wen.”

Wen Kexing blinked at him, clearly taken aback. Zhou Zishu’s lips curved faintly, a glimmer of something almost wry playing at the edges.

“Yes, it’s a mess,” Zhou Zishu continued, his voice calm but pointed. “The court is annoying. The Prince will be unbearable. The wedding itself will be a spectacle I’d rather not endure. But no, Lao Wen—the annoying part isn’t marrying you. That part’s... fine.”

“Fine?” Wen Kexing echoed, his tone uncertain, as if the word carried too many meanings to pin down.

“Fine,” Zhou Zishu repeated, leaning forward slightly. His gaze held steady, unyielding but not unkind. “It’s everything else around it that’s a headache. But you? Marrying you? That’s the least troublesome part of this entire ordeal.”

Wen Kexing stared at him for a long moment, his usual wit seemingly abandoning him. Finally, he managed a slow, hesitant grin. “So... you’re saying you don’t mind marrying me?”

“I’m saying,” Zhou Zishu replied dryly, “that I’ve endured far worse things in my life than the prospect of being your husband. Don’t let it go to your head, Lao Wen.”

Wen Kexing’s grin returned in full force, the earlier weight of the conversation seemingly forgotten. He leaned back with an exaggerated air of ease, gesturing vaguely as if preparing to make a grand proclamation. “Well, A-Xu, if you’re so resigned to marrying me, you should know that I bring unlimited qualities to this partnership. Truly, you’ll be the envy of the entire court. Intelligence, charm, devastating good looks—it’s all included. A bargain, really.”

Zhou Zishu arched an eyebrow, his gaze sharp but edged with reluctant amusement. “Unlimited qualities?” he repeated, his tone dry. “Do elaborate, Lao Wen. I’m dying to hear the full list.”

“Gladly,” Wen Kexing replied, straightening with mock dignity. “For one, I am dangerously charming—positively irresistible, as you’ve already admitted. I am exceptionally skilled at dealing with any enemies you point me toward. And afterward, when I’m covered in the appropriate amount of red, I look incredible, if I do say so myself.”

Zhou Zishu hummed noncommittally, but Wen Kexing wasn’t done.

“I’m also amazing with birds and children, as you’ve clearly noticed. A great pillow,” Wen Kexing continued smoothly, “no gag reflex, endless stamina, the strength of my hips, and the length of my—”

“Lao Wen!” Zhou Zishu snapped, his composure momentarily faltering as Wen Kexing grinned wider, clearly pleased to have achieved the distraction.

“—entire being,” Wen Kexing finished innocently, as though nothing had happened. “Which, as you know, ensures my beloved always makes the most lovely sounds.”

Recovering, Zhou Zishu tilted his head, his smirk cold and sharp. “That’s it? You’re truly boasting about this?” He leaned back, his voice laced with mockery. “I could make a better list of your supposed virtues than that, Lao Wen.”

“Oh?” Wen Kexing leaned in, clearly intrigued. “Go on, then. I’m listening.”

“You’re loud,” Zhou Zishu began without hesitation, his voice like the bite of a blade wrapped in silk. “You’re shameless. You can turn the simplest errand into a full-scale production, and every deadly scheme catches your fancy. You call yourself elegant while hunting for blood, and somehow, you even make poetry sound like a challenge. And of course,” he added, his smirk sharpening further, “you’re entirely too handsome for your own good—and far too aware of it. And fine,” he added with the faintest glint of amusement, “I’ll concede that you’re maddeningly great in bed, though I’m certain you don’t need me to tell you that.”

Wen Kexing let out a delighted laugh, leaning back as though every word had been high praise. His eyes gleamed with amusement, dancing with an energy that was impossible to dull. “So,” he mused, the grin on his lips widening, “I am loud, dangerously charming, devastatingly handsome, obsessed with beauty and death, and a certified sex god. Yes, yes… I’d say that’s precisely why you love me, A-Xu.”

Zhou Zishu arched an eyebrow, his expression betraying only the faintest flicker of amusement. “For once, Lao Wen, it seems you’ve managed to see things clearly,” he replied, his voice edged with humor that barely softened its sharpness. “That is indeed why. Among a few… equally troubling reasons.”

Zhou Zishu took in the scene with barely concealed delight as Wen Kexing’s laughter faltered, the easy confidence dissolving into something rarer: unguarded surprise. His mouth opened and closed, no words forthcoming, as though he were testing the air for a script that refused to appear.

Ah, there it is, Zhou Zishu mused, his gaze sharp and unrelenting. The great Ghost Valley Master—silver-tongued, sharp-witted, endlessly clever—caught completely off-guard. For once, Wen Kexing’s charm was nowhere to be found, his composure left in tatters.

“You… you what?” Wen Kexing stammered finally, his voice barely a whisper. His eyes darted across Zhou Zishu’s face, searching, as though somewhere there might be a sign this was all an elaborate joke.

Zhou Zishu tilted his head, his smirk deepening as he watched the color rise to Wen Kexing’s cheeks—his cheeks, of all things. It was ridiculous. Adorable, yes, but ridiculous nonetheless.

What on earth did this man think he’d been doing all this time? Hadn’t he made it clear enough? Zhou Zishu had told him, in word and deed, that everything he had was already Wen Kexing’s. His life. His loyalty. His very soul, if that’s what it took. How could Wen Kexing look so shocked— now of all times—that he loved him?

Idiot, Zhou Zishu thought, a flicker of frustration threading through his amusement. The man was brilliant at schemes, at cutting down enemies and weaving chaos, but when it came to the simple truths, he could be painfully dense.

Wen Kexing’s gaze wavered, his usual bravado nowhere to be found, and Zhou Zishu couldn’t help but savor the moment. Truly, it was a sight worth remembering—seeing Wen Kexing, stripped of his usual self-assurance, almost innocent in his disbelief.

Of course, pity might have been the kinder response, but where was the fun in that?

“What’s this?” Zhou Zishu murmured, his voice low and edged with lazy mischief. “Have I managed to break my future husband before the vows are even said? Such a tragedy. I’d feel guilty, truly... if it weren’t so exquisitely entertaining.”

His smirk deepened as he watched Wen Kexing, the man who could charm his way out of any disaster, now reduced to stunned silence. Zhou Zishu let the moment stretch, savoring the rare sight of his silver-tongued Monster rendered utterly speechless. He would remember this—how the ever-composed Ghost Valley Master sat there, mouth slightly open, blinking like he’d just been struck by lightning.

And because Zhou Zishu had never been one to waste an opportunity, he stepped forward and closed the distance between them, his movements unhurried, deliberate. Then he kissed Wen Kexing—sharp, biting, unapologetic. It wasn’t a kiss meant to soothe or reassure. It was a raw, deliberate clash of wills, a message without words. It demanded nothing and promised everything. Trouble, chaos, loyalty, and maybe even love, tangled together with no neat ending in sight.

When he finally pulled back, Zhou Zishu’s smirk had sharpened into something wry and dangerous. “Now what?” he drawled, his voice cutting through Wen Kexing’s daze. “Stop gaping. Come to bed. And…” His gaze dropped, deliberate, his tone dropping lower still. “Fuck me silly already, won’t you?” He grabbed Wen Kexing’s hand, tugging him toward the bed with a smirk that promised nothing good. Wen Kexing let out a laugh, light and teasing. “So eager, A-Xu. I should’ve proposed ages ago.”

His infuriating, reckless, impossible Monster.