Xuán Líng , accompanied by the lethally elegant Three Peonies, arrived at the towering front gate of the secluded Shen Manor during the hour of the Ox.
The four figures emerged from the shadows as if woven from moonlight and malice. Xuán Líng led them, a specter of silent wrath. Behind her moved the Three Peonies, their legendary beauty almost a supernatural weapon in itself.
Mei, the eldest, was the very image of a winter plum blossom: elegant, stark, and unyielding. Her fair skin seemed to glow in the darkness, a canvas for the severe perfection of her features. She moved with a predator's slender grace. Slung across her back were her chosen instruments: a matched pair of slender jian, their scabbards plain and unadorned, promising a death that was swift, precise, and without mercy.
Lan, the second, was the peak of lush, summer opulence. Where Mei was sharp lines, Lan was all soft, inviting, plump curves. Her face was a perfect, gorgeous moon, her lips perpetually curved in a knowing smile. Her beauty was a distraction, a comforting lie that would make one easily succumb to the small, weighted darts tucked into her silken sash and the pins in her hair, each one capable of finding an eye or a throat from across a crowded room.
Ju, the youngest, was a vibrant, toxic bloom. Her medium-brown skin had the warm, rich hue of sun-kissed earth, a stark and beautiful contrast to her sisters. Her eyes sparkled with a mischievous light that belied her deadly specialty. She was the master of poisons, her knowledge as deep as the ocean. A mere brush of her fingertips could heal a mortal wound or deliver a concoction that would make a man's own nerves betray him in agonizing symphony.
They were a trinity of devastating beauty and perfectly honed violence. The very air seemed to part for them, knowing it was in the presence of artists whose medium was death.
Xuán Líng did not knock. She simply walked and the massive iron-banded gates, symbols of the Shen clan's earthly power, silently disintegrated into a fine, splintered dust.
They flowed into the main courtyard like four shades of night. Patriarch Shen, who had been pacing in his chambers, felt the disruption in his spiritual sense a just before the alarm bells should have sounded.
They never did. He had increased his guards tenfold, anticipating assassins from the Zuì Mèng Lóu. He never dreamed the proprietress herself would come. And he had severely, catastrophically underestimated what that meant.
In the center of the courtyard, Ju paused. She raised her hands, palms up, as if feeling for a breeze. Then she whispered, her voice a gentle, carrying sigh:
"Bǎi mèng chén mián"
A hundred dreams, sink into slumber.
It was not a shout, but a command that the very air obeyed. An invisible, scentless mist of her most potent neurotoxin bloomed from her and rolled through the manor grounds in a wave.
One by one, like candles snuffed by an unseen wind, the guards posted on the walls, the servants in the halls, and the warriors hidden in the shadows slumped to the ground, falling into a deep, unwakeable sleep.
The silence that followed was more deafening than any battle.
They found Patriarch Shen in his chambers, frozen in terror, the only conscious soul left in his fortified estate.
"Shěn Xiānshēng." Xuán Líng 's voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of millennia. He flinched as if he was struck.
"Nǐ," Patriarch Shěn mustered, his voice shaking, his hand trembling as he raised it to point to Xuán Líng . "Where's my son?" He tried, but failed, to feign strength.
A slow, cooled smile touched her lips, but it never reached her eyes.
"Your son," she said, her voice a low, silken purr, "is currently proving to be far more useful than his father. So, I suggest you ask a more pertinent question."
The interrogation did not require hot irons or blades. Xuán Líng 's presence was the only tool needed. Under the weight of her ancient, pitiless gaze, his resolve crumbled. He babbled about his sources, his research, his ambitions, and in his desperate confession, he revealed the one person he thought was irrelevant: the concubine.
His wife, in a fit of jealous rage, had imprisoned the woman. But Patriarch Shen had kept her alive because she was more valuable than his wife could ever know. Through her fragmented stories and old lullabies, he had pieced it together. She was a hidden thread, a direct descendant of Xuán Líng 's own gentle daughter, the last princess of the fallen Yan Empire.
And he had no idea of the connection.
It was from this woman, the last living echo of a forgotten dynasty, that he learned the secrets. He learned of the Guardians of the Celestial Gate, the celestial clan that lived in seclusion, protecting the realm from threats beyond.
And he learned the most dangerous rumor of all: that other celestials, in a brutal act of fratricide, had wiped them out.
"It's just a rumor, but it spread quickly," Shěn Qíngcāng continued his blubbering confession.
A single survivor held the key to unlocking the gate itself—a key the Shen clan believed was the Tiānmìng Bǎoxǐ, the Celestial Seal they had tried to steal from Qianyi's bloodline.
"Thank you for accommodating us, Shěn Xiānshēng," Xuán Líng whispered into Patriarch Shěn's ear, his body quivering in fear. "Oh, and about that bride price…"
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Xuán Líng and the Three Peonies returned to the Zuì Mèng Lóu Pavilion the following evening. The place was alive—a living, breathing organism of music, laughter, and the clinking of cups, a stark contrast to the silent tomb they had left of the Shen manor.
They moved through the bustling main hall like a knife through water, the crowd parting unconsciously before their combined aura of power and lethal grace.
Xuán Líng and the Peonies would find Qianyi and Yisha sitting with Li Wei in a secluded balcony booth overlooking the main hall's stage, where a famed opera was unfolding—a tragic romance, of course.
The booth was a pocket of serene intimacy. Qianyi was the picture of ethereal elegance, propped on silk cushions. Though forbidden the wine, her fair skin had regained its luminous, jade-like quality, and her phoenix eyes, sharp and intelligent, followed the performance with quiet appreciation. Her very presence was a calming, cultivated force.
Yisha was a vibrant contrast. She lounged with innate grace, a cup of wine in hand, her brown skin glowing in the lantern light as if she drew power from the very atmosphere of joy. Her laughter was a bright, infectious sound, and her eyes sparkled with a mischief that promised she'd try to sneak Qianyi a sip when Li Wei wasn't looking.
And Li Wei... he was the silent guardian. Dressed in his characteristic black and silver, he was a statue of relaxed vigilance. He would take a slow drink from his cup, his eyes scanning the crowd below with a predator's latent awareness.
But his gaze would always return to their booth, and specifically, to Qianyi. He would watch the play of light on her profile, the slight nod of her head as she understood a subtle plot point—a quiet, unwavering devotion in every glance.
Yisha saw it all. She saw the way Li Wei's stern expression softened imperceptibly when he looked at Qianyi. She saw the faint, unconscious smile on Qianyi's lips when she felt his gaze. A knowing, fond smile bloomed on Yisha's own face.
She took a deliberate sip of her wine, her eyes dancing between her two best friends, happily guarding the sweet, unspoken secret they thought was hidden.
As Xuán Líng entered the booth, the dynamic shifted. She would place the a simple, unadorned ironwood coffer of "gifts" before Qianyi with a simple, "A dowry, for your trouble." Then, her expression would turn serious. "The concubine, Lady Fan, escaped the well years ago. We must find her. And for that, we need to ask your husband where a woman with nowhere to go, and a reason to fear everyone, would run."
"We're still married," Qianyi scoffed as Yisha and Li Wei rummaged through the coffer of treasure.
The "improved bride price" was not extra gold or jewels. It was a collection of deeply symbolic and brutal trophies, proving the Shens' defeat and meant to empower and honor Qianyi.
Patriarch Shen's Signet Ring. It was The physical symbol of his authority, wrenched from his finger, representing his clan's utter collapse.
The Clan's Spiritual Ledger which held a record of all their financial and spiritual assets (mines, herb fields, etc.). The literal deed to their wealth, which Xuán Líng legally and forcibly transferred to Qianyi's name, making her the new heir to their plundered fortune.
A Lock of Patriarch and Madam Shen's Hair to signify that the man and woman who raised the monster who hurt Qianyi has been humbled and shorn of their dignity.
A Blood-Oath Vow: A scroll containing a magically binding oath, signed in Patriarch Shen's own blood, swearing the eternal fealty and service of the Shen clan to Qianyi and the Jia/Xu family line.
The Shen family has effectively gone from a threat to vassals.
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They all left the booth in a formidable procession moving with a single purpose. On their way to the dungeon stairs, they nearly collided with Xuán Chè, who was carrying a heavy crate of kitchen supplies with easy strength.
Xuán Líng stopped dead, her eyes locking onto the young man. Li Wei made a quick introduction. "Xuán Chè, this is the proprietress, Xuán Líng ."
The boy bowed deeply, his expression earnest and open. "It is an honor, Madam."
His eyes then fixed to Yisha, and a hopeful, slightly sheepish smile appeared on his lips. "And... hello again."
Yisha's chin lifted a fraction. She didn't even break her stride, brushing past him with a breeze of dismissive energy. "Busy," she muttered, the word crisp and final.
Xuán Líng said nothing. She simply looked. She saw the faint, heartbreaking resemblance in the shape of his eyes—her daughter's eyes. She could feel it, an echo in his spiritual aura: he had inherited her kindness.
Let him not have inherited her naivety, she thought, a silent, ancient prayer. After a long, weighted moment, she gave a single, curt nod and continued on.
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In the cold, damp dungeon, Lord Shen flinched as his audience arrived.
"Where is Lady Fan?" Xuán Líng 's voice held no patience.
"I don't know! I swear!" he pleaded. "The Music Academy where my father found her was in Yúnmèng Zé (The Cloud Dream Marsh). It borders the old Yan Empire, but the academy burned to the ground years ago. She has nothing there!"
It was then his eyes found Qianyi. A desperate, wild hope lit his face. "Qianyi! Please, I need to speak with you. Alone."
Li Wei took a half-step forward, the temperature in the cell plummeting. "Absolutely not."
But Qianyi placed a gentle, restraining hand on Li Wei's arm. Her touch was a balm on his fury. "It's okay," she said, her voice quiet but firm.
After a tense silence, Li Wei gave a sharp nod. He, Xuán Líng , and the others retreated just outside the cell door, their presence a palpable threat.
The moment they were alone, Lord Shen fell to his knees, the chains clattering.
"QianQian, I—"
"Don't call me that.
Right. Qianyi. I am so sorry! It was my father's plan! I was weak! Please, you must believe me. Give me another chance. We can start over; I can make it right—"
He was cut off by a sound he had never heard from her before.
Qianyi laughed.
It was not a chuckle, but a full, rich, and utterly uncontrollable laugh of pure, undiluted incredulity. It echoed off the stone walls, bright and sharp as a blade.
"You can't be serious," she finally managed, wiping a tear from her eye. The laughter vanished from her face, replaced by a cold, regal disdain that mirrored Xuán Líng 's own.
"Another chance? The only chance you have is to pray I decide your death will be quick."
A shimmering, complex diagram of light; a sealing formation flared to life on the stone floor around Lord Shen, pinning him in place. as a smaller, more refined version of the very spell that had trapped her and Yisha in the well.
"Shasha," Qianyi said, her tone conversational. "A little light, please."
From the doorway, Yisha grinned. With a flick of her wrist, she didn't summon a sun, but a single, searingly bright point of light that hovered just inches from Shen's face so intense he had to squeeze his eyes shut.
It gave off no heat, only a pure, agonizing radiation that felt like needles in his brain.
"A' Wei," Qianyi continued, her eyes locked on her former betrothed. "The temperature is a bit... unbalanced."
Li Wei, a ghost of a smile on his lips, didn't move a muscle. Yet, the air within the sealing formation changed. The half of the circle containing Shen's right side became unbearably, sweat-beadingly hot, while the left half plunged into a deep, shivering cold that made his teeth chatter. The line between the two was razor-sharp, a literal line of fire and ice drawn through his very body.
Shen whimpered, his mind unable to process the sensory torture.
Qianyi leaned forward slightly, her beautiful face, the last thing he saw before the light blinded him again.
"You tried to break me," she whispered, the formation humming with power. "You failed. You tried to steal my power. You failed. You thought you knew me. You were wrong."
She let him tremble in the dissonant hell they had created for a long, silent moment.
"Now," she said, her voice the calm eye of the storm. "You will tell me everything you know about Yúnmèng Zé. Not because you fear them. But because you fear me."