Chapter 46
They look more like sisters… than in-laws.
Linghe leaned slightly toward Katsuro, voice low.
"This is your fault."
Katsuro replied just as quietly, "It's not my fault that you fell for my wife's best friend."
Linghe scoffed faintly. "And yeah… it's not your fault that you married the royal grand princess."
Katsuro's gaze shifted.
Slow.
Sharp.
Linghe held it for a second—
"…what?"
"Shut your mouth," Katsuro said, voice low but heavy, "if you don't want to get beaten."
Linghe leaned back.
Silent this time.
And in front of them—
The two women kept talking.
As if nothing else in the world mattered.
Katsuro set his cup down with a quiet sound.
"Let's play Go."
Linghe glanced at him once, then smirked lightly. "Fine."
He lifted his hand slightly, signaling a maid.
She bowed and left immediately.
The hall remained warm, the fire breathing low beneath its steel cover, shadows flickering softly across the room until the maid returned, carrying the Go board and placing it carefully between the two men before retreating again.
The pieces were set.
Silence followed.
Not empty—
Focused.
Measured.
The kind that came before a battle.
But before either of them made a move—
The two women exchanged a glance.
Just one.
And everything shifted.
Xie Mao Mao, who had been sitting beside Linghe, suddenly leaned back—falling effortlessly into his lap, her back resting against his chest as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm tired."
Her voice was soft.
Almost lazy.
Linghe's expression melted instantly, a faint smile appearing as his hand moved without thought, steadying her.
At the same time—
Yin Fu stood.
Walked over.
And without hesitation, slipped into Katsuro's arms.
"I want to butcher."
Katsuro paused.
His hand stilled mid-air.
Then his gaze shifted—
Toward Linghe.
Linghe immediately looked away, as if he had seen nothing, his attention now fully on the woman in his lap. He gently gathered her long hair, carefully removing the ornaments one by one, his fingers surprisingly patient.
"How was the meeting at the royal palace?" he asked, his tone softer now.
Xie Mao Mao shifted slightly, her voice turning into a quiet, almost childish complaint.
"That old coot… Councillor Zhang Wei Hua is just as clever as ever. He hasn't changed one bit."
A small pause.
"But he doesn't trouble me… though he's reasonable."
Linghe smiled faintly.
His fingers still working through her hair.
Unhurried.
Calm.
While across from him—
Katsuro sat still, Yin Fu in his arms, the Go board between them untouched.
The game had begun.
Just not the one on the board.
Katsuro's gaze remained on the board, fingers lightly brushing a Go piece before he spoke, his tone calm but carrying weight.
"Why don't you both settle in this city?" he said. "Why bother going to the western side?"
Xie Mao Mao didn't even lift her head from Linghe's lap. Her answer came without hesitation.
"No. We have to maintain the power of the Xuan clan in both sides of the empire."
Katsuro's eyes shifted toward her.
"Xiao Mao… you both don't even get enough time to spare for yourselves. How will you spend time with the growing child?"
A brief silence.
Then—
"My son doesn't need anyone," she said, her voice steady, almost absolute. "He will be invincible. He's a brave child."
The words settled heavily.
Yin Fu, still resting within Katsuro's arms, smiled faintly—soft, but not weak.
"Fortune favors the brave," she said gently, her voice flowing like quiet steel. "Not the reckless. Not the loud."
Her gaze lifted slightly.
"But the one who moves forward despite the fear… he who holds the line when it would be easier to run."
A pause.
"He asks for no rewards—only to do what must be done… and to remain unbroken."
Silence followed.
Even Linghe's hands stilled for a moment in Xie Mao Mao's hair.
Then—
Xie Mao Mao exhaled softly, a faint sigh escaping her lips.
"I wish I had a daughter like me… who would marry your son, Yin Fu." She paused, then added lightly, "Not that I didn't want a son."
Linghe's lips curved immediately.
"We can still have a daughter."
Yin Fu laughed softly.
And Xie Mao Mao, without even turning—
slapped his shoulder.
Katsuro let out a quiet hum, his fingers finally placing a Go piece onto the board with deliberate calm, as if even his thoughts moved with strategy. "Hmm… then I suppose your daughter would have quite the competition. Wuming is surrounded by rather competent girls, by the way."
Xie Mao Mao did not lift her head, still resting against Linghe as if the world itself could wait for her convenience. "Competence," she said slowly, "is a blade that dulls with comparison." Her voice carried that same quiet authority, unshaken. "What matters is inner beauty—the kind that does not seek validation, nor bends under the gaze of others."
Yin Fu's lips curved faintly, her tone following, layered with a calm philosophy that felt almost timeless. "A person may master a thousand techniques and still remain hollow," she added. "But one who understands their own heart… becomes immeasurable. Strength without depth is noise. Depth without strength… is tragedy. The rare ones carry both—and never speak of it."
The fire crackled softly.
The Go board remained between the men.
But the real game had long shifted elsewhere.
Outside the hall, far from the weight of those conversations, a small figure wandered through the corridors.
Xie Zheng.
A book rested in his hands—the history of Meyveth, thick, dense, and utterly uninteresting to him at the moment. He flipped a page half-heartedly as he walked, his brows slightly furrowed.
Why would he assign me to memorize this…
He huffed quietly.
I know it. He must be having some fun talk… or a secret discussion of high level with Uncle Katsuro.
His steps slowed.
Then his thoughts shifted.
To Wuming.
He tilted his head slightly, thinking.
He doesn't look like me at all…
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
He looked… beautiful.
The thought lingered longer than expected.
His white hair… so long…
There was something about it. Something calm. Something distant.
He looked up—and spotted a maid passing by.
"Hey," he called lightly, walking toward her. "Do you know where Wuming is?"
The maid stopped immediately, bowing slightly. "The young master is resting in his room."
Xie Zheng nodded. "Can you tell me where?"
She gestured politely. "Go straight, then turn right."
He didn't even wait for her to finish properly before moving.
Wandering off.
Further from the hall.
Further from the adults.
Further into the quieter parts of the estate.
As he walked, another thought surfaced, softer this time.
Wuming looks exactly like Aunt Yin Fu…
He smiled to himself.
I hope… he's exactly like her too.
The room stood in quiet contrast to the rest of the estate, as though it existed slightly apart from the world outside. When Xie Zheng pushed the door open and stepped inside, the first thing he noticed was the absence of light—not complete darkness, but something softer, more restrained. Only the pale glow of the moon slipped through the intricately carved window, casting long, fragile shadows across the floor. The wind carried a faint chill with it, whispering through the curtains as if reminding the room that winter had not yet loosened its hold. The New Year was near, and yet here, time felt unmoving.
He closed the door behind him.
The silence deepened.
His gaze shifted slowly, taking in everything—the room was spacious, carefully arranged, yet strangely empty of warmth. There were no bright colors, no decorative indulgence. Everything was black, grey, muted. The bedding, the robes folded neatly to the side, even the drapes held a quiet dullness, as if color itself had been denied entry. It was not neglect.
It was intention.
His eyes moved toward the desk. Books—many of them—were scattered in an organized chaos. Xuan clan records, volumes of mantras, Zhen strategies, Zhang-palm techniques, Fa-methods, Jue formulas, Dao paths, Tai Quan principles, Gong cultivation texts… disciplines stacked upon disciplines. Xie Zheng recognized some. Others he had only heard of.
He had learned only half of them.
And yet—
They were all here.
His attention shifted.
Wuming.
The boy lay on the bed beneath the thin grey blanket, his body still, almost too still. His hands rested above the blanket, crossed neatly over each other, both wrapped in bandages. Even in rest, there was something guarded about him, something that did not allow vulnerability to fully exist.
Xie Zheng stepped closer.
Slowly.
Quietly.
He placed his own book on the table beside the bed without taking his eyes off him, then leaned forward, curiosity pulling him in inch by inch. There was something strange about Wuming's presence—something that demanded to be understood, even if it resisted being known.
Ten inches.
That was all that remained between them.
Xie Zheng lifted his hand, intending to brush aside the strands of hair that had fallen loosely across Wuming's face—
Before his fingers could even touch—
Wuming's eyes snapped open.
Not wide.
Not startled.
Just… awake.
In the same breath, his body shifted. He rose slightly, leaning onto his left elbow with effortless precision, while his right hand—already holding a dagger—moved without hesitation.
The blade rested against Xie Zheng's throat.
Cold.
Exact.
Unforgiving.
For a moment, time froze.
Xie Zheng didn't move.
Couldn't.
His body reacted before his mind did—every nerve screaming danger, every instinct demanding retreat.
But he didn't step back.
Wuming exhaled slowly, his gaze settling onto him.
Cold.
Not angry.
Not even hostile.
Just… empty.
There was no warmth in those eyes. No hesitation. No trace of sleep. It was as if he had never been resting at all—as if he existed in a constant state of awareness, detached from everything, including himself.
Xie Zheng swallowed slightly, feeling the blade press just enough to remind him it was real.
"...You're awake, big brother."
His voice came out steadier than he expected.
Wuming didn't respond.
He only stared.
His posture remained unchanged—leaning slightly forward, supported by his elbow, the dagger held firmly at Xie Zheng's neck. His long hair had slipped loose behind him, dark strands falling like shadows over his shoulders, framing a face that seemed carved more from silence than flesh.
Then—
"Get lost."
The words came out flat.
No anger.
No irritation.
No emotion at all.
Just a command.
Xie Zheng blinked, then let out a small breath, almost amused despite the blade at his throat. "...That's disappointing. I hoped you'd be more like my aunt."
No reaction.
Not even a flicker.
Wuming's grip didn't loosen.
The dagger didn't move.
"...Mind removing the dagger, big brother?"
Silence.
Then, calmly—
"Don't you understand?" Wuming said, his voice low, steady, almost indifferent. "It's meant to keep you at a distance."
Something in Xie Zheng's chest tightened.
Fear.
Real fear.
Every instinct inside him screamed to step back, to leave, to run—to acknowledge what stood before him as something dangerous, something unpredictable, something that did not belong to normal understanding.
But—
He stayed.
Because he was Xuan.
Because stubbornness ran deeper than fear.
Because walking away now would mean accepting something he wasn't ready to accept.
His mind raced instead.
His hands were above the blanket.
I didn't make a sound.
He woke up… sensed me… reached for a dagger… and struck… all in an instant.
Why does he even have a dagger in bed?
What kind of person sleeps like that?
Xie Zheng didn't move from his position, still leaning slightly forward, still within the blade's reach.
"Why are you being so petty and rude?" he said, forcing normalcy into his tone. "We haven't even been properly introduced."
A pause.
Then—
"My name is Xuan Xie Zheng. Son of Xuan Linghe… and Xie Mao Mao. I know my name. It might sound absurd but it out of tradition, I take my fathers surname, and my mother's as a middle name. "
End of 46