…It was not.

Lizhu looked at his opening and closing thin lips, the silver ring embedded in the flesh of his tongue faintly visible.

She had long been curious what it would feel like, that silver ring he wore on his tongue. Only now, when she personally felt it, did she realize that this thing which should not exist inside the mouth, when it scraped past, brought a strange sense of foreignness.

Not unpleasant, but… a sort of stimulation beyond propriety and decorum.

“You…”

Her breathing was disordered. Lizhu steadied herself a little, then asked with a flushed face:

“Does your tongue… not hurt?”

Pei Zhaoye pressed the tip of his tongue against his inner cheek, thought for a moment, and said, “It hurts a little.”

Lizhu panicked instantly, wanting to see if it was bleeding or not, but then heard him add:

“But it hurts quite pleasantly.”

Lizhu felt as if struck by lightning.

He lifted his eyes and, looking serious, asked, “Does it feel good kissing like that?”

Lizhu felt all the blood in her body rush toward her head, wishing she were deaf this instant.

“…Don’t ask me, I don’t know.”

She was annoyed, yet her voice buzzed like a mosquito.

The bandit chief, sitting cross-legged with his hands braced behind him, quietly studied her slightly swollen lips. The faint smile at his mouth carried a subtle gloom.

He knew everything about her.

Just now, his kiss had been wild and without order, yet she, in their entanglement, had borne it, guided him, tried to soothe him, so that she would not be left utterly defenseless beneath his mouth.

Because of years of ceaseless war, the population of all nations had sharply declined; thus, customs were rather open in these times.

Among the nobility, women marrying a second or even third time was commonplace; among commoners, men and women often sought matches for themselves at song-and-dance gatherings.

When affection came, they touched skin to skin; when they grew tired of each other, they parted freely. The men and women under heaven were all like this.

As for betrothed couples, worldly restraints were almost nonexistent.

The red-gold clasp tied to his slender braid swayed a little.

He leaned close, his low voice like a bewitchment: “Things like this… I can’t be the only one feeling good. You tell me, so next time I’ll know how to make you feel even better.”

…How terrifying. How could he say such indecent words with such a sincere tone?

Lizhu was stared at by him until even her toes curled slightly.

Moreover, he had been trying so hard earlier to persuade her to return to Luoyang—yet now he was already speaking of ‘next time’. Did he want her to leave, or to stay?

Lizhu pressed her palms together between them and whispered: “Shh, it’s quiet inside now.”

It was already midnight.

The door slowly opened, and the officials with heavy footsteps dispersed.

Lizhu asked, “Did they come up with a plan? I didn’t hear anything.”

“Obviously not.”

Pei Zhaoye glanced over and said:

“Xu Bi wouldn’t cooperate. They have to choose another person to temporarily assume the position of Commandant, which will take time. Moreover… they’re probably waiting for your stance before they can finalize an assassination plan.”

The Commandant was not subordinate to the Prefect, but directly appointed by the court. Naturally, Xu Bi had no wish to get entangled in their mess.

Lizhu said, “Let’s see whom they pick to act as Commandant. If it’s one of their own allies with shared interests, then they’ll be united as iron; but if it’s someone deceived into joining them, there’s still room to talk.”

“Room to talk?”

Pei Zhaoye saw that thoughtful expression appear on her face again.

When she was deep in thought, she looked quite different from her usual gentle and charming demeanor—there was a calm, clear sharpness about her.

——Though not yet enough to make one tremble in fear, it was indeed an edge that could wound.

Just like when they first met, that youthful yet resolute sword strike.

“You said earlier that I could use you… did you mean it?”

The young girl lifted her gaze; her eyes blinked lightly.

Pei Zhaoye raised an eyebrow: “Nonsense. I mean what I say.”

Lizhu looked at him for a long moment, then tilted her head slightly toward him.

“Do you want to kiss me again? It’ll make it easier for me to talk.”

“…”

His throat moved.

Frowning slightly, Pei Zhaoye shifted his eyes away from her lips.

“These are two different matters. Speak directly, don’t go around seducing people all the time.”

•—–٠✤٠—–•·

At midnight, a young palace maid stood before the gates of Pei Manor, holding a lamp. When she saw the two of them returning side by side, the tightness in her expression finally eased.

It was already late, and naturally, they went to their respective rooms.

However, on the way back, Lizhu’s lips were tinted rosy, her snow-white skin flushed with the hue of spring peach—enough to make Xuan Ying’s imagination wander.

Before she could even speak, Lizhu said first:

“Xuan Ying, prepare brush and ink for me. I must first write a letter to Luoyang to report my safety to Father Emperor.”

Coming back to her senses, Xuan Ying hurried to make the preparations.

Once the writing table was ready, Lizhu took her seat. While dipping her brush in ink, she recounted to Xuan Ying and Chang Jun what she had seen and heard that night at the government office.

Chang Jun was startled.

High-ranking officials ruling an entire prefecture plotting an assassination together—let alone a princess, even if the emperor himself came, it would be a near-death situation.

He almost immediately began packing Lizhu’s belongings, wishing to depart that very night, to rush back to Luoyang under cover of darkness.

But Lizhu shook her head and stopped him. Chang Jun looked at her in disbelief.

“Princess.”

Under the dim yellow lamplight, Xuan Ying gazed at the young girl she had watched grow up since childhood.

“Since the day Your Highness decided to leave Luoyang, I’ve actually harbored many doubts in my heart. Now, I must ask the Princess for an answer.”

Lizhu had just written the opening lines of her letter. Hearing this, she set down her brush.

Her lips pressed into a line, and her expression grew solemn as she listened.

With pity in her eyes, Xuan Ying spoke softly:

“Before today—from the imperial ship, to Hongye Stronghold, and now to this Pei Manor—though Your Highness has faced many perils along the way, most of them were forced by circumstance, compelled by the times to take desperate risks.”

“Chang Jun is right. While they’ve yet to finalize their schemes tonight, and Hongye Stronghold is still willing to escort us away, returning to Luoyang now would be the wisest course. Princess, do you truly mean to stay in this filthy place and clash head-on with those vicious officials?”

A sudden night wind rose, raindrops pattering on the banana leaves outside the window, carrying with it the damp scent of earth.

“Does Xuan Ying truly think there’s any wise course left now?”

Xuan Ying’s eyelids twitched.

Lizhu lowered her eyes, gently stroking the bamboo slip before her.

The characters written under the lamplight were plain yet graceful—her handwriting from childhood, practiced with calm focus, one stroke at a time.

“When I was little, I loved reading histories. In those books were emperors and generals, the rise and fall of dynasties. Every time I read of someone making a single wrong move that led to total defeat, I would sigh and think him foolish—how could he not act when danger loomed? How could he not curb disaster before it grew?”

“Later I realized, sometimes it wasn’t that the move was wrong—it was that the board was covered with scattered pieces, and that was the only place left to play.”

The autumn night wind carried thin threads of rain and mist; the candlelight wavered in the draft.

Lizhu said: “What is the best course? The best course is my father ruling diligently, my mother’s family flourishing, myself born as a prince, our whole family united to save a crumbling empire. Even if we failed—if I were to hang myself with a strip of white silk for the nation—toward the world, toward myself, I could still say I have no shame before my heart.”

Xuan Ying’s lashes trembled; emotion stirred faintly in her brow and eyes.

The rain-mist carried a touch of autumn’s chill, dampening Lizhu’s temples, yet she did not close the window. Her gaze was bright, fixed upon a single cold star beyond.

“But the truth is, from the moment I was born, there has never been a ‘best course’ in my hands. Even if I escape back to Luoyang tonight through a thousand dangers, what awaits me will only be a few extra days of fine delicacies—before dying a little more beautifully, that’s all.”

Chang Jun’s lips parted slightly.

He had never heard the Princess speak with such resolute conviction.

It was as though…

As though she had already lived through it once before.

“Rather than waiting quietly and peacefully for death, it is better to throw oneself into the chaos. Throughout all dynasties, princes and ministers have been gamblers—without staking everything they owned, how could they ever turn one bet into ten thousand gains, or find life on a dead-end road?”

Lizhu drew a deep breath and clasped Xuan Ying’s hand.

“Xuan Ying, there is something I must do. Perhaps it will be difficult to succeed, but I must do it.”

Xuan Ying’s heart pounded rapidly.

She had served the late Empress since the age of thirteen and had watched Princess Qinghe grow up with her own eyes.

Her precocious wit, her talent—Xuan Ying had seen it all.

Her struggles, her cautious and careful steps—no one understood them better than Xuan Ying.

And now, an idea that had never before crossed her mind suddenly slipped into her thoughts, carried by the sound of rain striking the banana leaves outside.

Her first reaction was to think herself mad.

Yet that thought, like the fine, silent autumn rain, seeped in without a sound, leaving no space untouched.

All under heaven believed Shen Fu would be the future Crown Prince, even though he was widely known as a mediocre man.

Among the countless emperors of former dynasties, there had been beggars, fools, grooms… If even they could ascend the throne, why couldn’t her Princess?

The rain seemed to pour straight into Xuan Ying’s heart, making her whole body tremble faintly.

Suddenly, an overwhelming impulse surged within her:

“Xuan Ying swears to—”

“I will restore the court’s authority,” Lizhu interrupted, her voice steady and bright. “I will make Nanyong strong enough to resist the Wuhuan to the north and reclaim the eleven prefectures of the northern lands!”

The two of them stared at each other, blinking blankly in mutual astonishment.

Chang Jun’s confused gaze shifted back and forth between them. He said, “Xuan Ying, you swear to what?”

“…Nothing.”

Xuan Ying, who had half-risen, sat back down again.

Then she suddenly realized what had just been said, looking at Lizhu with disbelief and alarm.

“Princess, do you know what you’re saying?”

Restore the court?

Her?

Chang Jun also turned his head. “That’s right, Princess, are you perhaps sleepy?”

“I’m not talking in my sleep.”

Lizhu picked up her brush again, though her thoughts had already drifted far away. She murmured softly:

“I want to prove to him that the Nanyong court is not yet completely rotten, that there is still hope for everything.”

•—–٠✤٠—–•·

For two consecutive days, autumn rain fell without pause, and the late-autumn air had begun to turn bitterly cold.

Near the government office, the wonton stall lifted its pot lid, steam curling upward. A few minor clerks passing by stopped at the sight and ordered bowls of wontons before sitting down.

“When did you leave the office yesterday?”

“About the hour of Yin (3:00 a.m. – 5:00 a.m.). When I got home, my wife nearly wouldn’t open the door for me.”

“Eh, how did Commandant Xu suddenly fall ill? There’s so much business in the prefecture, how can it all be handed over in two or three days? Couldn’t they just wait a bit? Don’t know what the Assistant Prefect is in such a rush for. It’s always like this—the top gives one order, and the ones below run their legs off…”

As the clerk complained, he wiped the bamboo chopsticks on his sleeve.

A bowl of wontons sprinkled with scallions was brought to the table. Just as the two were about to start eating, someone nearby said:

“…You haven’t heard? Early this morning, two lines of soldiers were stationed outside Pei Manor, clearing the street. Looked just like they were there to conduct a raid, but guess what? Turns out the Princess of Qinghe herself arrived on an inspection tour and is staying at the Pei household. The Pei family’s really latched on to a true dragon and phoenix this time.”

Hearing this, the two clerks quickly turned toward the young scholar who had spoken.

“What? Princess Qinghe? Isn’t Princess Qinghe supposed to be in Wan Commandery?”

The scholar in green put down his cup and smiled.

“That I don’t know. But judging from the scene outside Pei Manor, it seems the Princess is about to go out into the streets. Why don’t you go see for yourselves if it’s true?”

The two clerks exchanged glances.

“Pay the bill, pay the bill!”

“Hurry, hurry, just a few bites is enough! Forget the rest!”

Watching the two clerks rush off toward the government office, Gu Bing’an turned back toward Pei Zhaoye, who was still bent over his bowl of wontons.

“Mountain Lord, ever since you came back last night, you’ve had that cold face on. Did the Princess offend you somehow?”

Pei Zhaoye lifted his bowl and downed the third serving of wontons, then set the bowl down with a heavy thud.

He sneered. “She’s strict with reward and punishment, how could she ever offend me?”

He sounded so resentful that it was almost comical.

Gu Bing’an merely smiled and said nothing.

They waited a while at the wonton stall. The news those clerks had brought back was already spreading through the government office, while Princess Qinghe’s procession had begun making its way from Pei Manor several streets away toward the office.

Two tall horses led the way, followed by two lines of soldiers clad in full iron armor.

The armor plates were pitch-black, linked by red cords; under the autumn sunlight, the scales gleamed like fish in water, formidable and majestic.

Behind that imposing procession rolled a canopied carriage drawn by three horses abreast, gliding along the long street.

On either side, the townsfolk stared at the gilded bridles on the horses, clicking their tongues in awe. Through the fluttering gauze curtains, they strained to catch a glimpse of the two noble figures inside.

“I heard it’s Princess Qinghe and the eldest son of the Tan clan from Wan Commandery on an inspection tour.”

“Princess Qinghe? The number one beauty of Nanyong, daughter of the late Empress? Wasn’t she said to be in Wan Commandery?”

“Wan borders Yiling, perhaps she was merely traveling for leisure. But what’s the Tan heir’s relation to the Princess? Why is he accompanying her carriage?”

“Maybe he’s going to marry her. The Tan heir is the Empress’s nephew, kin marrying kin!”

•—–٠✤٠—–•·

As the procession passed through Xiang City’s busiest streets, the murmurs only grew louder.

Lizhu shifted uneasily in her seat.

“Princess, there’s no need to mind them.”

Tan Xun seemed to guess the cause of her discomfort and spoke gently, reassuring her:

“Even though our engagement was withdrawn, you and I grew up together as childhood companions. I’m glad I can be of help to you, just think of it as me apologizing on behalf of my aunt and second uncle.”

He spoke sincerely.