Shen Zhenyu saw the sparkle in Linyue's eyes. That dangerously bright sparkle that meant she was two seconds away from proclaiming "potent long-lasting spring water" as the greatest hand-to-hand combat innovation of the century. He acted swiftly, decisively.
"Linyue," he said, calm and clear, voice smooth enough to slide into her train of thought and flip the track entirely, "do you have any idea who might've sent those assassins?"
Her expression changed instantly.
The sparkle faded. Her mouth, half open in preparation for another detailed explanation involving splash radius and stiffness durability, snapped shut. Her stiff hand, still hovering midair, lowered slowly.
"Oh," she said, her voice sobering. "Right. That."
Song Meiyu let out a massive sigh. One hand to her forehead, the other to her chest. She took a shaky step backward. "Yes, Sister Linyue! Who could it be? We've only just arrived, why would anyone want us dead already?"
Her voice rose in horror. She took another step, less from drama, more from habit. "Is it the tea vendor? I told you that cinnamon smelled suspicious."
Linyue tilted her head. Focus returned to her eyes. Her thoughts began to line up again, this time in the correct direction. "There are a lot of possibilities," she muttered. Her left fingers lifted to her chin. Her right hand stayed frozen.
Before she could finish, He Yuying—who'd been very focused on adjusting his half-frozen, now slightly twitching cheek—cut in with an entirely unserious glint in his eye.
"Couldn't be a love rival, could it?" he said, pretending to be thoughtful. "What if it's the demon of Shulin's secret admirer? You know, jealous that her beloved has eyes for no one else but you, Sister Linyue?"
He gave her a courtly little bow and tried to wink, only one side of his face cooperated. The result was confusing for everyone involved.
Linyue stared at him. No expression. No mercy.
"… You need help."
He straightened with a shrug. "Physically or emotionally?"
"Yes," she answered without pause.
Song Meiyu snorted. Shen Zhenyu coughed politely, clearly regretting his attempt to steer the conversation back to sanity.
And just like that, the mystery of the assassins—who they were, who sent them, why they wore such ugly masks—drifted into the background. It floated somewhere in the space between real threats, royal conspiracies, and completely imaginary fangirls.
No one knew what to do with it.
So, they didn't.
Fortunately or perhaps unfortunately, depending on how one measured excitement, the trip back to the inn went entirely too smoothly.
No more flying carts.
No more assassins.
No more mysteriously "potent spring water" suddenly activate a second wave of stiff limbs.
And most importantly: no one, absolutely no one, brought up the incident again. Not a word about the water. Not a joke about stiff hands or terrifying smiles. Nothing about secret weapons made from beauty products. It was as if the entire event had been carefully removed from their minds. Just like the swamp incident. Which, of course, they also never discussed. Ever.
When they reached the inn, the group split apart without a word. No discussion. No eye contact. Just quiet, perfect timing—each one peeling off in a different direction.
Shen Zhenyu gave a calm nod before disappearing into his room.
He Yuying raised his one working eyebrow, which was still somehow very expressive.
Song Meiyu gave a small wave and limped away.
They didn't even run into the Demon of Shulin or any mysterious admirers hiding behind curtains, which was a relief.
The inn was quiet. Lanterns flickered gently. It was calm, restful, and suspiciously uneventful.
Inside her room, Linyue sat quietly on the bed, her back straight at first, then slowly giving in to gravity. Her eyes half-closed as the events of the day slowly faded into the swirl of memory. Her right hand gave a tiny, involuntary twitch. She stared at it for a moment, then buried it under a pillow. Out of sight, out of mind.
In another room, Song Meiyu dropped into bed with a soft thud. She didn't even change clothes. She pulled the blanket over her head and muttered, "That wasn't how I thought today would go."
He Yuying lay flat, eyes fixed on the ceiling. His face, still half-unreliable, stayed frozen on one side while the other twitched in slow defeat. "I'm going to dream of being a stone statue, aren't I?" he whispered.
Only Shen Zhenyu slept peacefully. His arms were crossed. His breathing was even. Possibly dreaming about tax policies or sword techniques. Who could say.
And so, night fell.
The stars blinked gently above the quiet town.
The air cooled.
The noise faded.
It was time for beauty sleep.
And maybe, if fate had any sense of humor left—
a little time for nightmares.
...…
Morning at the inn came in gently. The sun poured in through the windows. Birds chirped far too enthusiastically. The warmth was pleasant, but the real soundtrack was the quiet groaning of cultivators trying to pretend they hadn't been emotionally or physically assaulted by skincare products and assassins the night before.
The group, freshly scrubbed and mostly functional (if you ignored He Yuying's thousand-yard stare into his tea), gathered in the courtyard, preparing to set off once again for the imperial palace.
Linyue, dressed in her travel robes and with her hair pinned in elegant swirls that somehow screamed both nobility and "I slapped a man with my hand yesterday and I'd do it again," made her way toward Shen Zhenyu's horse. Her robes catching the wind behind her in a way that no one could explain but everyone noticed.
That was when Shu Mingye appeared behind her.
No sound. No warning. He simply stepped into the scene, all poise and presence, dressed with his usual quiet threat of authority.
And without a word, he held out his hand to her.
Linyue paused. Her eyes lowered to his hand. Her thoughts raced. Oh no. This again?
The last time he pulled this move, she dropped a whole handful of candy into his palm like he was a wandering beggar and she was possessed by the spirit of a sugar fairy. Never again. She still wasn't sure if he'd had forgotten or just added her to a list titled "People to Mysteriously Bury Later."
This time, she squinted at his hand, deeply suspicious. What did he want? A handshake? A secret signal to lead her into a surprise duel? An arm-wrestling challenge? Or was this how powerful men flirted these days?
Linyue didn't move.
Shu Mingye didn't move.
The sun kept shining.
The tension: unreasonably high.
There were plenty of people around. Servants walked past carrying baskets. Guards stood nearby pretending not to listen. He Yuying and Song Meiyu were now in a silent tug-of-war over a steamed bun, neither giving up, both clearly forgetting the concept of dignity.
Surely, he wouldn't try anything reckless. Like, say, kidnap her in broad daylight?
Still wary, she placed her hand in his. Carefully. Slowly. Cautiously. As if she was unsure whether this was a gesture of trust, diplomacy, or pre-kidnapping courtesy.
Shu Mingye glanced down at the hand now resting in his palm.
And then he froze.
The hand was small. Delicate. Seemed almost weightless, like it might float away with the breeze. But more importantly—
It was cold.
Not mildly chilled. Not a little cool from morning breeze. Not something you explain away with poor circulation. So cold it didn't feel like it belonged to someone alive. He instinctively resisted the urge to check for a pulse.
Was this normal?
He glanced up at her face, expecting he didn't know what exactly. A sign of illness? Weakness? At the very least, some reaction.
But her face was calm. Rosy cheeks, clear eyes, mild curiosity. The same expression she wore yesterday while slapping a man into a pile of crates. And the day before that. And probably also every other day.
He wasn't easily shaken, but this… this was confusing. Finally, he spoke, voice quiet.
"Your hand," he said slowly. "It's… cold."
Linyue raised an eyebrow. "So is your personality. Should we call the physicians for both of us?"