The crowd began outside the gate and spilled inward, as though the house itself were breathing people in.
They stood in uneven lines beneath the afternoon sun—some leaning against the mud-plastered wall, some squatting near the threshold, others pacing restlessly, fanning themselves with folded cloth or impatience. Voices overlapped. Coughs broke the air. Somewhere a child cried, thin and tired. The smell of dust, sweet, dried herbs, and boiled roots clung to everything.
This was not an unusual day at the house of Liang Wenqing—only a heavier one.
Two men stood near the entrance, their shadows touching, their tempers already colliding.
"I came from very far away," the first man said, his voice sharp with both fatigue and pride. "Since dawn I have been walking. Are you saying I cannot go first?"
The second man, broader in the shoulders and redder in the face, shot back at once. "I have been waiting here since before noon. Why should I let you go ahead of me?"
The first man scoffed. "Because I am clearly in worse condition than you."
"Condition?" the second laughed, humorless. "You look strong enough to argue. If you can shout, you can wait."
The first man's eyes flashed. "You have no humanity at all."
The second stepped closer. "Oh, I lack humanity? And you—overflow with it, do you?"
Their voices rose. Others turned to watch. The line bent and twisted as people leaned in, some murmuring agreement, others urging calm. But anger, once named, rarely listens.
A third man hurried toward them, his hands raised. He was thinner, older perhaps, with worry etched permanently between his brows.
"Brothers," he said, trying to smile, "please—this is a physician's house. Fighting here will bring no blessing."
But peace was already too late.
The first man shoved the second. The second shoved back harder. Feet stumbled. Elbows flew. In the tangle of bodies, the third man took the worst of it—an accidental fist to his ribs, a heel scraping his shin, s shoulder knocking him sideways.
"Oof—!" He staggered, breath knocked loose from his chest.
Someone shouted. Someone laughed nervously. Someone else swore.
The third man, nursing his side, retreated from the chaos and pushed through the doorway, his face flushed—not with anger now, but embarrassment and pain.
Inside, the atmosphere changed at once.
The room smelled of dried herbs, warm wood, and something faintly bitter yet reassuring.
Liang Wenqing sat near the window, light falling cleanly over his hands. A patient sat opposite him on a low stool, sleeves rolled up, wrist resting calmly in the physician's palm. Wenqing's fingers pressed gently, counting, listening—not with his ears, but with his touch.
The third man bowed hastily. "Physician Liang," he said, breathless, "today the crowd... it's heavier than usual. They're difficult to manage."
Wenqing did not look up.
"Mm," he murmured, eyes still lowered, fingers steady on the pulse. His attention did not waver—not even by a breath.
He shifted his hand slightly, then asked the patient, "Have you been taking the medicine as instructed?"
The patient blinked. "He was old, his ears clouded by years. "No," he replied promptly. "I don't sleep well at night."
Wenqing paused—just a fraction. Then he smiled, patient as water.
He raised two fingers, mimed drinking, then pointed toward the patient's chest and made a slow, downward motion, like settling dust. His gestures were unhurried, practiced. The patient nodded slowly, understanding arriving late but whole.
"Oh. The medicine," the old man said. "Yes. I talk it."
Wenqing nodded once and returned to his work.
At that moment, the door opened again.
Liang Yue entered quietly.
Her clothes clung slightly to her, darkened at the hem, her sleeves damp where water had not yet dried. A faint sheen lingered in her hair, loosely tied back, a few strands still heavy with moisture brushing against her neck.
She did not speak.
She did not pause.
She moved past the room like a breeze that dared not disturb the air.
Her father noticed the movement from the corner of his eye. He saw the damp fabric, the glimmer of wet hair—but he was deep in his work, his patient's needs holding his attention. He asked nothing.
Liang Yue slipped into the inner room.
There, in the quiet that belonged only to her, she knelt beside a small chest. From within her sleeve, she drew out a tiny wooden box. Carefully—almost reverently—she opened it and placed inside the hairpin.
She closed the lid.
For a moment, her fingers rested there, lingering, as if sealing something unspoken along with it.
Far from the scent of herbs and murmured ailments, Han Bo stood before the king.
"I have learned about the girl," Han Bo reported. "Her father is a respected physician—Liang Wenqing. And her name is Liang Yue."
The king's lips curved slightly.
"Liang Yue," Zhao Ren repeated softly, as if tasting the sound.
There was something about the name—gentle, yet lingering.
"Arrange accommodations for me," Zhao Ren said at last. "I will remain here for some time."
Han Bo hesitated. "For how long, Your Majesty?"
Zhao Ren's eyes gleamed with quiet intent. "A few days. Perhaps more."
They took lodging some distance away, at an inn that stood proudly at the corner of a busy street.
The inn was called "The Laughing Carp Pavilion."
A wooden sign creaked overhead, carved with a plump carp mid-leap, its mouth curved in what could only be described as an exaggerated grin. Red lanterns hung unevenly from the eaves, some newer than others, swaying as if gossiping with the wind.
The owner was a man of generous waist and louder personality. His laughter rang before his words did, and his eyes gleamed whenever silver appeared.
"One month?" the innkeeper exclaimed when Zhao Ren named the duration. "A whole month?"
When the payment was placed before him, the man nearly dropped his abacus.
"Heaven blesses my humble inn!" he cried, clapping his hands together. "I swear on my grandmother's spirit—no, on my great-grandmother's spirit—that you will sleep better here than in the emperor's palace!"
Han Bo raised an eyebrow. Zhao Ren laughed.
Later that evening, Han Bo spoke carefully. "Your Majesty... her Majesty, the Queen Mother ordered you to leave."
Zhao Ren waved a dismissive hand. "That is her telent—giving orders. She has done so all her life."
The next morning, Zhao Ren dressed with deliberate care.
His robe was deep blue, embroidered subtly at the cuffs with cloud patterns that caught the light when he moved. His belt was simple but fine, jade clasp polished to a quiet sheen. His hair was bound neatly, a restrained elegance that spoke not of excess, but confidence.
He looked... striking.
Not merely handsome, but composed—like a man fully aware of his presence in the world.
As they entered the marketplace, whispers followed him like a breeze.
Girls selling silk forgot to call customers. Flower vendors paused mid-sentence. Some pretended to fix their hair, others nudged their friends, trying—and failing—not to stare.
"Have you seen him?" one girl whispered, her cheeks turning pink.
"He looks like someone from a painting," another replied breathlessly.
The market was alive in the way ancient cities always were—colorful cloth canopies stretched overhead, the scent of herbs and incense mingled in the air, wooden stalls lined the streets, and merchants called out prices in rhythmic voices. It felt like a scene lifted straight from an old legend.
As they walked, Zhao Ren suddenly asked, "Han Bo… how does one win a woman's heart?"
Han Bo hesitated. "Your Majesty… what can I possibly say about such a matter?"
"Don't forget," Zhao Ren replied calmly, "you are also my childhood friend. Speak as a friend."
Han Bo laughed softly. "Very well. You are the king. Women dream of marrying you. In your case, winning hearts is unnecessary. Who would refuse you?"
Zhao Ren chuckled. "Yes, I know. But still… I want to win her heart. I want to know her truly."
Han Bo understood then—Zhao Ren was serious.
Just as he was about to respond, Han Bo's eyes caught sight of someone ahead.
"That… is that Liang Yue?" he asked.
Zhao Ren turned.
He had seen her before—wet, quiet, fleeting. But this time, she stood before him dry and radiant.
Liang Yue wore a light-colored hanfu, simple yet graceful. Her hair was half-tied, strands framing her face softly. She moved with unhurried elegance, her posture gentle, her eyes clear. There was no deliberate charm in her—only natural beauty.
When she smiled while speaking to an older woman at a stall, her smile was warm and sincere. Without realizing it, Zhao Ren smiled too.
This was her.
The one his gaze had been searching for.
For the first time, Zhao Ren felt a lightness in his chest—a quiet happiness he had never known before.
"I understand now," he said softly. "I know how to win her heart."
Then he turned to Han Bo. "Find out whether Liang Yue often visits that herbal shop."
The following day, Zhao Ren and Han Bo entered the herbal shop.
Without hesitation, Zhao Ren placed a heavy pouch of coins on the table.
"All of this can be yours," he said calmly, "if this shop becomes mine for one month."
The shop owner stared at the pouch, his hands trembling as the opened it. Seeing the glittering coins, he immediately bowed again and again.
"Done! Done!" he exclaimed. "For one month, this shop is entirely yours!"
Zhao Ren smiled faintly.
The game had begun.