Chapter 52
Without looking up, she spoke, her voice calm yet carrying quiet authority, "Fu Ling, go and fetch my son. His uncle has sent him something to look forward to."
The maid bowed and slipped out swiftly, her movements silent against the polished floor.
Across from her, Xie Mao Mao was completely unbothered by the gravity of royal matters. She sat comfortably, already reaching for another osmanthus cake, munching happily, her eyes lighting up with each bite.
"These are so sweet and delicious," she said through a half-full mouth, utterly content.
Yin Fu glanced at her, her expression softening just slightly. "Make sure to leave half for me, Mao Mao. My younger brother made those… my Jiuheng."
Xie Mao Mao froze mid-bite.
Her cheeks were puffed, mouth still full as she slowly turned her head toward Yin Fu, eyes widening in disbelief.
"…Wait," she managed, swallowing hastily, "the Crown Prince cooked these himself?"
Yin Fu nodded once, placing the letter aside with measured elegance. Her fingers then moved to the box, lifting the hairpin within. It gleamed under the light—golden, intricate, refined beyond compare. Without hesitation, she raised her hand and fixed it into her hair, weaving it seamlessly among the other ornaments as though it had always belonged there.
Xie Mao Mao watched, awe flickering across her face before she huffed lightly, smiling. "He really does love you so much."
She leaned back, still holding a half-eaten cake. "Well, after all, you raised him—from a discarded prince to the Crown Prince he is now. Otherwise…" she clicked her tongue, "…the Emperor would've probably made him the next Empress instead."
Yin Fu let out a quiet breath, her smile gentler now, almost distant.
"He is my only brother," she said softly. "I raised him after our mother's death… It has been twelve years now." She paused briefly, calculating without effort. "I am twenty-two, Mao Mao."
Xie Mao Mao nodded slowly, a rare moment of stillness passing between them. "Does he love cooking that much?"
A small nod. "He does. He cooks… for me."
And then—
A scream.
Sharp.
Sudden.
It cut through the calm like a blade.
Yin Fu's gaze lifted instantly, her brows narrowing ever so slightly. "Fu Ling…?" she murmured, the softness gone, replaced with alertness.
Before anyone could react—
The doors burst open.
The silence shattered.
Xie Zheng came rushing in first—wild, breathless, utterly chaotic—his hand clutching a writing brush, his face adorned with a thick, uneven moustache drawn in ink, his expression somewhere between panic and excitement.
Behind him—
Wuming.
Running.
Actually running.
His robes gathered in both hands as he tried not to trip, his long hair undone and flying behind him like a dark wave, strands catching the light, his golden eyes unusually bright—almost… alive.
And behind them—
A maid.
Desperate.
"Stop! Please stop running!" she cried, completely out of breath, her voice cracking as she chased them.
The maids within the room froze in shock, one of them stepping forward, stammering, "T-they just burst in—these two didn't even spare the Marquise Wu Zun—"
Only then did they notice.
The maid chasing them… had ink drawn across her face too.
Xie Mao Mao choked.
Actually choked.
Her laughter burst out uncontrollably, her entire body shaking as she pointed, barely able to breathe.
And then—
Katsuro entered.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His posture was perfect—back straight, shoulders firm, every inch of him composed like an unshaken mountain.
Except—
On his cheek—
A butterfly.
Drawn.
In ink.
Perfectly placed.
Utterly unforgivable.
There was a pause.
A dangerous one.
And then—
Wuming, still running, reached the carpet and misstepped slightly, stumbling forward before launching himself straight toward Yin Fu.
"Mama—!" he called out, breath uneven, voice carrying something almost childlike for the first time. "Save me—he's gone mad—"
He landed against her, half-collapsing into her lap, clutching at her robes as if seeking refuge from a battlefield.
Yin Fu blinked once.
Then laughed.
Softly.
Genuinely.
Her hands came up instinctively, steadying him as she pulled him closer, her fingers brushing through his disheveled hair.
Meanwhile, Xie Zheng charged forward—
Only to be stopped mid-step.
"You—come here," Xie Mao Mao said, swift as lightning.
She grabbed him before he could escape, pulling him into her arms despite his protests, his face now inches from hers as she examined the mess he had become with sheer amusement.
Xie Zheng made a face—a mischievous, slightly sinister pout—as if proud of his own chaos.
Wuming, still catching his breath in Yin Fu's lap, didn't move away this time.
Katsuro stepped fully into the room.
Stopped.
Looked at all of them.
Then said, in a tone so controlled it almost felt more terrifying—
"…Out."
Every maid froze.
Then moved.
Immediately.
Silently.
The doors closed once more.
And the room—
Was sealed again.
Katsuro's gaze lingered on the two boys—one restless with life, the other wrapped in a stillness too deep for his age—and he spoke, his tone low yet carrying the weight of quiet certainty.
"If these two ever join forces in the future… I believe no one will be able to stand in front of them."
Yin Fu turned her head slightly, her golden eyes settling on him, but Katsuro was no longer looking at her—his attention remained on the boys, as if he were already seeing a future unfolding beyond the present moment.
In their mothers' laps, Wuming and Xie Zheng sat in stark contrast—one composed even in refuge, the other unable to sit still even in comfort.
Xie Zheng shifted slightly, leaning back into Xie Mao Mao's embrace, his voice light, almost thoughtful despite the chaos he carried. "Now I understand why my father says… a mother's lap is the safest place in the world. No one can harm you while you're in it."
Yin Fu smiled faintly, a soft hum escaping her lips. "Ahan."
Then, without warning, her gaze shifted down to the boy in her own lap.
"Wuming," she said gently, "mind moving away?"
A pause.
Then—
"No."
The answer came without hesitation.
Without apology.
Without even looking up.
Wuming remained exactly where he was, leaning slightly into her, as if the world outside her presence was not worth acknowledging.
"Don't you have work, father?" he added, his tone calm, almost idle. "You said you would bring me justice."
Katsuro frowned.
The words struck sharper than they should have.
For a brief second, irritation rose—raw, immediate—
"You—!"
And then he stopped.
Because he understood.
The shift was subtle, but real.
Wuming had never spoken carelessly.
Every word he uttered carried intent.
And now—
He had cornered him.
From the very beginning.
Meihua.
The unspoken weight between them.
Katsuro exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders, replaced by something quieter—acceptance, perhaps.
"I will," he said.
Wuming said nothing.
He simply moved.
Slipping out of Yin Fu's lap without resistance this time, as if the exchange had already served its purpose.
But before he could step away—
"At least let me wipe it for you."
Yin Fu's voice stopped him.
He paused.
Turned slightly.
She guided him gently to a nearby chair, her movements effortless, and stood before him. Her long sleeves draped gracefully as she lifted her hand, the fabric brushing lightly against his skin as she wiped the faint smudge from his cheek.
Her touch was soft.
Careful.
Unhurried.
Wuming looked at her.
Really looked.
His golden eyes, usually distant, seemed to linger—drawn into hers, as if searching for something unspoken.
And Yin Fu, meeting his gaze, simply smiled.
"Voila… done."
He did not respond immediately.
Then, as if shifting back into himself, he spoke, his tone returning to its usual calm edge.
"So… the Crown Prince is now making his Tianzi special forces deliver gifts to you?"
Yin Fu immediately slapped his shoulder—light, but firm.
"Don't say it like that," she said, her voice carrying a faint scolding warmth. "He is my brother before he is the Crown Prince."
Katsuro scoffed lightly from the side. "Yeah, yeah."
And then he turned, walking away, his steps steady.
But before leaving completely—
He looked back.
At Wuming.
Just once.
His expression softened.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Wuming did not return it.
Yin Fu clapped her hands softly, breaking the lingering silence. "Show him the attire."
The maids stepped forward at once, opening the box with careful precision.
Inside—
Lay elegance.
A male hanfu, layered and refined, its fabric rich with peacock-blue hues that shifted subtly under the light. Intricate dragon patterns coiled along its length, woven in muted greys and silvers, their presence commanding yet restrained. Draped above it was a full-length cloak, fur-lined at the shoulders, its weight suggesting both warmth and authority.
And beside it—
A sword.
Long.
Lethal.
Beautiful.
Its handle was crafted with blue and silver rope designs, tightly bound, precise in detail. The blade gleamed faintly, and just beneath the hilt, etched cleanly into the steel—
Xuan Yin Wuming.
Wuming did not look at the clothes for long.
His hand moved instead—
To the sword.
He lifted it.
Examined it.
Not as a child receiving a gift—
But as a warrior judging a weapon.
Xie Mao Mao watched him, her amusement fading into something more observant.
"Wuming," she said, tilting her head slightly, "do you like swords?"
He looked at her.
"Yes."
A pause.
"But not more than polearms. They are longer… more decisive."
His fingers traced lightly along the blade.
"Polearms are beautiful," he continued, voice steady, almost contemplative. "But swords… are ethereal."
Xie Mao Mao smiled.
"Well said."
Nearby, a maid brought a small bowl of water, and she dipped a cloth into it, gently beginning to wipe the ink from Xie Zheng's face, who protested weakly but didn't resist much.
Xie Zheng, however, wasn't paying attention to her.
His gaze was fixed on Wuming.
Silent.
Observing.
Thinking.
Why… does he prefer swords over something so beautiful?
He didn't ask.
He just watched.
Yin Fu stepped closer again, her eyes resting on her son.
"Do you like the gift, Wuming?"
He looked at her.
"Yes."
A simple answer.
But not empty.
She nodded once, satisfied.
"Then make sure to write a letter to your uncle, the Crown Prince Yin Jiuheng."
Wuming lowered his gaze slightly, the sword still in his hand.
"I will."
The hall, once filled with laughter, sharp words, and the quiet tension of power, now lay in disarray—an aftermath of chaos wrapped in silence.
Silk cushions were scattered, a table slightly misaligned, ink stains marking what had once been pristine wood. The faint scent of tea still lingered, mixed now with something sharper—disturbed air, unsettled presence.
The maids moved swiftly, their hands practiced, their steps careful.
"Whenever those two meet…" one of them muttered under her breath, adjusting a fallen cloth, "they turn the entire house upside down. I don't understand why the Marquise Wu Zun sees so much potential in them."
The head maid—older, composed, her movements precise—did not respond immediately. She was wiping the table, her expression unreadable, when another maid approached, hesitant.
"Sister Mei… who were those two boys?"
The head maid did not look up at first.
She continued cleaning.
The cloth in her hand moved across the surface—
And then—
A faint crack.
Her hand stilled.
The table split.
Not violently.
Not loudly.
Just—quietly.
A clean fracture, running across its length as if the wood itself had remembered something it could no longer contain.
The younger maid gasped, stepping back, her face paling instantly.
The head maid, however, only paused… and then smiled.
A small, knowing smile.
"As expected," she murmured.
Her gaze lingered on the split, her mind tracing back to the moment—the precise, effortless force with which Katsuro had slammed the cup down, the shard that had flown, the life that had ended before it even registered.
"This," she said calmly, "is the Marquise Wu an for you."
The younger maid swallowed.
"But… how…?"
End of 52