Chapter 55
That woman…
She hates Wuming more than anything… and yet she knows my son more than I do?
The thought did not sit—it struck.
Meihua watched him, her gaze unwavering, sharp enough to peel away whatever remained of his authority in that moment.
"I don't hate the child," she said, her voice steady—too steady. "I hate what he has."
A pause.
"I never envied Yin Fu," she continued, her tone dropping, colder now. "You are too delusional to think I was ever desperate or jealous of your 'lovely' wife."
Her eyes did not leave his.
"I won't tolerate you showing love to one… except all six of your children."
The words landed heavier than accusation—they were verdict.
"And if they are mine alone," she added, "so be it."
Katsuro's jaw tightened.
"They are mine too," he said, his voice firm—but lacking the weight it once held. "It's just that—"
She cut him off.
"It's just what?" Her voice sharpened, slicing through the space between them. "You don't feel love toward your own blood?"
Silence.
Her gaze hardened further.
"You are only the Marquise of Wu Zun, Xuan Katsuro," she said slowly, each word deliberate, "not the father of either mine… or Yin Fu's child."
Katsuro clenched his teeth.
He said nothing.
Because for the first time—
He realized she was not wrong.
The realization did not come gently. It settled like iron in his chest—heavy, undeniable.
Meihua watched it happen.
She saw the shift. The crack.
And still, she did not soften.
"Don't forget," she said quietly, though the quiet carried more weight than anger, "before the tradition… I loved him too."
That made him look at her.
Truly look.
But he couldn't hold her gaze.
For the first time, Xuan Katsuro—feared, respected, untouchable—
Looked down.
Guilt.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just there.
And undeniable.
Meihua's expression did not change.
"Leave the politics," she said. "Leave the image. Leave the bloodshed… and be a father for once."
No anger.
No pleading.
Just a truth spoken too late.
Then she turned.
Her robes moved with quiet elegance, red and green flowing like restrained fire as she walked away—each step measured, each step carrying something with it.
And when she left—
The room changed.
The air felt heavier.
Emptier.
As if whatever presence she carried had taken the last trace of warmth with her.
Katsuro remained where he stood.
Still.
Silent.
Surrounded by power, by titles, by everything he had built—
And yet…
For the first time—
The room felt completely soulless.
The silence she left behind had not yet settled when it shifted again.
A soft scrape against wood.
Katsuro did not turn immediately—but he knew.
Linghe.
Perched on the window frame as if the height meant nothing, one leg bent, the other hanging loose into the open air, a sugarcane stick between his teeth. He bit into it lazily, the faint crunch echoing in a room that had just been carved open by truth.
And then—
He laughed.
Not loudly.
But enough.
Katsuro's hand moved before his mind did.
The brush in his grip became a weapon—flung with sharp precision.
Linghe tilted—just slightly.
Then exaggerated the rest.
His body tipped backward as if struck, disappearing out the window in an almost theatrical fall.
For a moment—
Silence.
Katsuro turned his head.
And there he was.
Not fallen.
Not injured.
Leaning against the outer frame, elbows resting on the sill, palm supporting his chin, suspended in the air as if gravity had simply agreed to leave him alone. His smile was infuriatingly calm.
Then, with a light push—
He slipped back inside.
Effortless.
Laughing under his breath.
"What?" Linghe said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "Well… she's not entirely wrong."
Katsuro said nothing.
Linghe began to wander, fingers grazing the weapons placed along the side rack, picking one up, weighing it idly in his hand.
"No wonder Wuming is so cold," he continued, tone light but edged with something sharper beneath. "I really can't believe it…"
He glanced over his shoulder.
"You don't even remember your eldest son's name?"
That landed.
Katsuro exhaled slowly, the sound controlled, restrained.
"Why are you here?" he said flatly. "Just get lost."
Linghe smiled.
"Ah, there it is."
He spun the weapon once before placing it back, then turned fully toward him.
"Yes, yes… I will," he said casually, stepping closer. "No need to look like you're about to kill me too."
Katsuro's gaze snapped toward him.
Sharp.
Cold.
A warning.
Linghe raised his hands slightly in mock surrender—but his smile did not fade.
Then, softer—less mocking now—
"Just… pay attention to what Lady Meihua said."
The words lingered differently than the rest.
Not teasing.
Not careless.
Deliberate.
And for once—
Linghe did not laugh after saying them.
The air stilled once more after Linghe's departure, as though even the wind had chosen not to linger where words had cut too deep.
Katsuro remained where he stood, unmoving, his gaze lowered—not in defeat, but in a silence that carried weight. The room felt larger now, emptier, stripped of noise yet filled with something far heavier than sound.
Linghe was gone.
Just like that.
No footsteps, no lingering presence—only absence. As elusive as the wind that had carried him in, he vanished the same way, leaving behind nothing but the echo of his words.
A shadow crossed the doorway.
Measured steps.
Disciplined.
Xuan Yin entered, his movements precise, controlled. He approached the center of the room before lowering himself onto one knee, head bowed deeply, posture unwavering.
"Marquise," he said, voice steady, devoid of hesitation, "the order has come."
No emotion. No curiosity.
Only duty.
Katsuro did not look at him immediately. His fingers, which had once moved with certainty across parchment and blade alike, now rested still at his side.
Then—
A single nod.
That was all.
Enough.
Xuan Yin did not ask further, nor did he linger. He rose in one smooth motion, bowed once more, and turned to leave, his steps fading into the distance as cleanly as they had arrived.
And just like that—
He, too, was gone.
The room fell into silence again.
But this time…
It did not feel empty.
On the other hand, down on the ground floor—
Meihua descended the steps with controlled fury.
Each step was precise, yet heavy, the soft echo of her footsteps carrying through the corridor like restrained thunder. Her robes trailed behind her, red and green folding into one another like a storm wrapped in silk.
Her hands were clenched tightly at her sides.
Her thoughts were sharper.
I was so wrong about him…
That man is so unworthy of children.
Her jaw tightened.
Why didn't I die before that marriage?
Of course… I had to be the dutiful daughter of the Prime Minister.
A bitter exhale left her.
Why was I the one meant for such misfortune?
She moved faster.
Anger pushed her forward—cold, suffocating, justified.
The corridor opened before her.
Long.
Structured.
Sunlight filtering through carved panels, casting patterned shadows across the stone floor. The air was calm, almost peaceful—so opposite to the storm within her.
She stepped into it—
And then—
Impact.
Someone crashed into her.
The force was small, light—but enough to break her rhythm.
She staggered half a step.
Shock replaced anger in an instant.
Her gaze dropped.
A child.
A boy.
He had run into her—completely unaware, completely unguarded.
And worse—
They were both off balance.
Behind him—
The table.
A narrow wooden stand against the wall, with a delicate lamp placed atop it.
He was falling toward it.
Too fast.
Too close.
There was no time to think.
Only instinct.
Meihua moved.
Her hands came forward instantly, gripping him, pulling him in—
And she turned.
Her back met the table first.
The impact was sharp.
The edge struck her side, the lamp rattling violently, threatening to fall—
But the boy—
He didn't hit it.
He was completely shielded.
Pressed into her.
Protected.
For a moment—
Everything stilled.
The boy remained there, half-hidden against her, his small frame caught in the sudden safety of her hold.
Her arms were around him.
Firm.
Unyielding.
She had taken the hit entirely.
A faint tremor ran through the table behind her before it steadied again.
Silence followed.
And in that silence—
The anger that had filled her just moments ago…
Was gone.
Completely.
She had closed her eyes at the moment of impact.
The lamp rattled violently against the table, its base scraping wood, the faint metallic ring trembling through the quiet corridor. The air shifted—the sudden collision stirring not just fabric and breath, but presence.
Then—
She opened her eyes.
Her hands were still firm on the boy's back, shielding him, holding him in place as if nothing in the world could touch him while she stood there.
Around her—
They had gathered.
Yinghua stood a few steps away, her brows slightly drawn, her hands still from whatever she had been carrying. Beside her, Weiyang, posture straight but gaze sharp, observing—calculating. Wei Zhi leaned forward just a fraction, curious, attentive. And Xie Zheng had his hands on his knees, bent slightly, watching the scene with wide, unfiltered interest.
All of them were looking at her.
At them.
But—
She noticed something else.
Someone was missing.
Her gaze shifted.
And in that instant—
Her expression changed.
Confusion dissolved into shock.
Her pupils widened.
Her lips parted slightly.
She looked down.
Wuming.
Right there.
Looking straight at her.
Those same cold, unreadable golden eyes—yet now, faintly narrowed.
A frown.
…Why did she save me?
His mind moved faster than his body.
If they weren't chasing me… I wouldn't have lost my balance…
Her hands loosened.
She let him go.
He stepped back first.
Then stood straight.
She rose a second later.
Behind her, the maids—who had been frozen the entire time—finally moved. Quietly. Carefully. Dusting off her hanfu, smoothing the delicate layers, adjusting the fall of her sleeves as if nothing had just happened.
But everything had.
Meihua looked at him.
What an irony.
Wuming brushed off his own clothes, his movements neat, controlled.
"Thank you," he said calmly. "But you shouldn't have taken the impact, Lady Meihua."
She looked at him—
Really looked.
Golden eyes.
Long white hair flowing lightly with the corridor's faint breeze.
A plain black hanfu—unadorned, restrained, almost too simple for someone of his standing.
Her lips curved.
A smirk.
"Still an arrogant little brat, huh?"
Wuming met her gaze, unflinching.
"What arrogance?"
She tilted her head slightly, gaze deepening.
"It seems like I have saved you… once again."
His frown deepened.
His hands moved behind his back, posture straight, composed.
"What do you mean?"
She stepped closer.
Slowly.
Gracefully.
And now—
Up close—
Her presence was overwhelming.
Her attire was nothing short of breathtaking.
She wore layers of deep crimson silk, rich and heavy, flowing like liquid fire with every slight movement. Over it, a sheer outer robe in soft ivory drifted around her, almost weightless, embroidered with intricate floral patterns—tiny blossoms in shades of gold and blush pink, each thread catching light like quiet stars.
Her waist was cinched with an ornate belt—golden filigree woven with delicate chains that fell in strands, adorned with small jade and pearl ornaments that chimed faintly as she moved.
Her sleeves—
Long.
Wide.
Elegant.
The inner lining glowed in warm reds, while the outer fabric remained soft and translucent, trailing like mist behind her arms.
Her hair was styled high, intricately arranged, held in place with golden hairpins shaped like blooming flowers. Thin chains of gold and pearl draped from them, brushing lightly against her dark hair and shoulders.
A few loose strands framed her face—softening it.
But her eyes—
Sharp.
Alive.
Dangerous.
Her earrings swayed gently—long, delicate, ending in tiny pearls that caught the light.
Every piece of her—
Refined.
Intentional.
Unforgettable.
The maids behind her stepped back the moment she lifted her hand slightly.
"My lady…?"
They retreated immediately.
Silence returned.
She bent down slightly.
Closer to him.
Smiling faintly.
"Oh, little baby boy…"
Her voice dropped, almost teasing.
"Dear Wuming… didn't your father tell you?"
A pause.
"I am your half-mother."
Wuming stilled.
His mind—
Trying to catch up.
Trying to process.
End of 55