How would she react? Panic? Faint? Scream "Murder!" and run headfirst into a wall?
That would've been normal. Reasonable. Human.
Instead, Linyue blinked once, glanced at the bodies, and decided they were not her problem. This was his study. If he wanted to decorate it with corpses, blood and trauma, who was she to judge? Maybe it was just his aesthetic choice. Maybe the bodies were symbolic. Maybe he just really hated rugs.
Without missing a beat, she stepped forward—calm, graceful, and completely casual—like she hadn't just tiptoed over a severed hand.
"You called for me?" she asked.
Shu Mingye blinked.
That was it? No shriek? No dramatic gasp? Not even a judgmental "ew"? Did she think the corpses were props? Part of a deeply confusing welcome ceremony?
He stared.
She stared back, all innocence and calm. "If it's nothing," she added helpfully, "then I'll go back."
He coughed once, then finally said, "… The emperor wants to meet you," he said, straightening his posture. "His daughter."
Linyue raised an eyebrow. "Does he want an entrance fee too?"
Shu Mingye froze. There were two dead people on the floor. One had no hand. The other had died with his mouth open. And all this woman cared about… was the entrance fee. Again. He suddenly wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh, cry, or throw himself out the window just to experience a different emotion.
He rubbed his temples slowly. "No," he said, flatly. "There is no entrance fee."
A quiet beat followed. Just silence. And the light dripping of blood. Very peaceful, if you didn't think too hard about it.
Then he added, "We're leaving. Right away."
Song Meiyu paled slightly. Linyue, however, remained perfectly unbothered. Her eyes narrowed, her lips curled—half-smile, half-shrug.
She had expected this.
In fact, this was one of the reasons she'd volunteered to play the role of the runaway Second Princess in the first place—to walk into the palace with a grand imperial invitation—not smuggled in under a cart of pickled radishes while dodging arrows.
Still, she didn't expect it to happen so fast.
Barely a night of rest, one proper bath, and just enough time to properly evict swamp algae from her scalp and now the emperor already beckoned her like a fisherman reeling in a particularly gullible carp. How eager. How theatrical. How annoying.
'That emperor,' she thought with narrowed eyes, 'truly can't wait to annihilate the Demon King of Shulin'.
She didn't need anyone to tell her. She knew this invitation was gilded with daggers An affectionate summons with just enough poison under the words to choke on. There would be no warm embrace, no teary reunion. Only commands, threats, and subtle manipulations wrapped in the title of familial duty. A gentle nudge to poison her future husband, perhaps. Or a softly spoken plea to "observe him" and "report back". After all, what were imperial daughters for, if not pawns on a bloodstained chessboard?
And she had no doubt that Shu Mingye knew it too. He wouldn't have lived this long, ruled this long, if he were anything less than viciously aware of the emperor's true intentions. But he played the quiet game, the watchful one, just as she would.
She had not stepped into this role carelessly. She'd already calculated all the risks, accounted for every political pitfall. She had no interest in losing. If they were placing her on the board, then she would play her own game in her own way.
So, after a single thoughtful breath, she replied with a calmness that made Song Meiyu's heart skip in anxiety and Shu Mingye raise an eyebrow:
"Alright."
No trembling. No dramatic sigh. Just a quiet, confident surrender that wasn't surrender at all.
It was declaration.
A soft let the games begin.
At least, she thought as she stepped over the pool of blood like it was a spilled cup of tea, she didn't have to worry about the entrance fee anymore.
Linyue and Song Meiyu returned to their chamber.
The journey from the southern lands to the capital would take seven days—seven long, potentially spine-rattling days filled with uneven roads, awkward silences, and the kind of forced politeness that made teeth itch.
Linyue, ever the pragmatist, decided to dress for survival over spectacle. She changed into simple white robes, tied her hair up in a high ponytail, and looked entirely like a noble daughter on her way to fetch tea rather than face her fate as an imperial chess piece.
Practical. Graceful. Quietly terrifying.
Song Meiyu, on the other hand, packed like they were marching into war. She took it upon herself to pack a small satchel with emergency herbs, dried fruit, and an impressive selection of hairpins that could double as weapons or sewing needles, depending on the need.
As they walked toward the palace gates, their boots echoed softly on the stone path, both slowed for a moment. The memory of their grand entrance the night before flashed in full, soggy detail—mud-covered robes, swamp-slicked hair, algae accessories. A true fashion tragedy. Linyue physically shuddered. Song Meiyu muttered under her breath, "We do not speak of that day."
Waiting by the palace gates, stood a jet-black horse and a man dressed in equally black robes, Shu Mingye himself. He looked like the kind of villain who only appears during the full moon to demand tribute or offer someone's soul for a good bargain. Naturally, the wind was blowing dramatically in his favor—ruffling his sleeves, lifting the edges of his robe, tousling his hair like a romantic novel cover come to life. He didn't even seem to notice.
Linyue's eyes scanned the lineup. At least forty guards on horseback, lined up in perfect formation. More than that and the emperor might accuse Shu Mingye of preparing for rebellion. Fewer, and the bandits might start sharpening their knives in excitement. Imperial travel was all about balance, just enough muscle to look impressive, not enough to look threatening.
Not far, she spotted familiar faces—He Yuying and Shen Zhenyu, both mounted and waiting. What she didn't see was a carriage. She tilted her head slightly. No carriage? Not even a rickety one with squeaky wheels? Not even a sad little cart dragged by a grumpy mule?
Huh, she thought. This is good too. We'll travel faster.
Without a word, she confidently strode right past Shu Mingye without sparing him a single glance, as if he were a particularly well-dressed tree. She stopped in front of Shen Zhenyu, the most dependable straight man in this travelling circus. He didn't say anything. Just reached down and helped her up with such practiced ease. It looked so natural, someone might think they rehearsed it behind the palace stable. They hadn't. Shen Zhenyu was just that competent. And also, slightly psychic when it came to Linyue's next move.
Song Meiyu, of course, refused to be left behind in any way, emotionally or physically. She gave a small huff, adjusted her bag full of mysterious herbs, and marched over to He Yuying. She wordlessly climbed up onto his horse. The poor man gave a long-suffering sigh, as if sensing this journey would be both long and loud.
Shu Mingye, sitting quietly on his own steed, blinked.
Was he stunned? Perhaps. Surprised? Absolutely.
He had known, ever since that glorious first encounter with the swamp version of Princess Fu Yuxin, this woman had a talent for ignoring expectations the way most people ignored temple donation boxes. Now, she had the sheer audacity to walk past him and climb onto her guard's horse and settle in as if she'd ridden into war a hundred times before.
Did she really think he was the sort of brute who wouldn't even bother to arrange a carriage for her? That he would just let her bounce around on horseback like a sack of royal potatoes? Though the idea did flash in his mind. But no. At least, she has to appear at the palace in one piece. Preferably not concussed or muttering prophecy from motion sickness.
From behind them, the distinct rattling of wheels on stone echoed through the gates behind them.
Linyue glanced back. Her brow raised by a heroic millimeter.
Oh?
A carriage. Ornate. Comfortable-looking. Drawn by two majestic horses and practically gleaming in the morning sun.
Oh. So, he did prepare one.
She blinked once, turned her head back forward, and said in her usual reasonable-cabbage-vendor tone. "It's faster without it."
Shen Zhenyu, seated behind her, made a soft sound—half breath, half laugh. He knew her too well. Once she committed to a bluff, she'd rather wrestle a demon with chopsticks than back down. She wasn't about to climb down now just to save face. And this was very Linyue—improvising, bluffing, and then bluffing harder.
Shu Mingye gave her another long look. His face was unreadable, like he was internally consulting several spiritual advisors on whether to laugh or scream.
His lips twitched.
Just a bit.
Almost… almost a smile.
Yes. This journey, he realized, was going to be either a complete disaster… or deeply entertaining. Possibly both.