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It was a spring morning, a few weeks after the battle that would later be recorded in the history as decisive, though for those who lived through it, it felt less like a conclusion and more like the long exhale after holding one’s breath too long.
The rebellion had been broken, Qi Min taken into custody, and Wei Yan imprisoned. Order, for now, had been restored.
Afterwards, Changyu and Xie Zheng returned briefly to Lin’an. There were farewells to be made, faces to revisit, and a quiet obligation to the people who had once sheltered them in simpler times. Only after that did they turn their path back toward the capital—he to resume his duties as Prince Regent, and she as a military general whose name no longer needed explanation.
Gongsun and Qi Shu, for reasons that were never fully clarified, decided this would also be an appropriate moment to pay tribute to Lin’an’s massacre victim. Whether that tribute required their presence was debatable, but they arrived nonetheless.
It was Changyu who suggested Mr. Lu’s noodle shop.
It was not a place that would ever be described as refined. The tables were worn smooth by years of use, the bowls mismatched, the walls marked by time rather than care. No court inspector would have approved of it, and no palace chef would have recognised it as cuisine.
And yet, when the broth was served, there was something honest in it. Something steady. The kind of simple warmth that did not pretend to be more than it was, and therefore needed no apology. Fresh noodles, made by hand. Soup simmered long enough to carry memory in its steam. The sort of food that made people pause, not because it was extravagant, but because it quietly insisted on being remembered.
She, her husband and Gongsun Yin arrived at the establishment at the peak of lunchtime.
Changyu did not miss the way the shop owner kept glancing at them—Or more specifically, at her husband.
Then again, how could he forget? A man like that did not simply pass through a noodle shop unnoticed. Tall, composed, and offensively handsome, he possessed the sort of face that could inspire admiration, suspicion, and at least three contradictory rumours before the noodles finished boiling.
The last time he had come, the entire street had practically held a conference on him.
A kept husband, they had whispered.
Using his face and living off his wife’s butcher stall.Probably can’t even lift a cleaver.
The same allegedly decorative husband had calmly placed a gold ingot on the counter.
Not slammed. Not flaunted. Just… placed.
The gesture carried the same quiet authority as a royal decree. It did not argue. It ended the discussions. The gossip had died so quickly it could have been chopped up and served with vinegar on the side.
Now, the shop owner’s gaze slid, slowly, cautiously, toward Gongsun.
Silk robes. Refined posture. Fingers so smooth they had clearly never negotiated with menial work, which begged a question: Why were rich people collecting in his noodle shop like rare birds migrating for the season?
His gaze moved between the two men, then briefly toward Changyu, as if trying to solve an equation that kept producing increasingly illegal answers.
“Is it a table for three?” he asked carefully, in the tone of a man tiptoeing across social uncertainty.
“Four, actually,” Gongsun replied with ease. “My fiancée is a little late.”
“Did the palace forget to prepare her carriage again?” Xie Zheng asked mildly. “She’s usually punctual.”
This had apparently happened before. Multiple times. As though palace negligence was simply an inconvenient weather condition. “You should’ve offered your carriage,” he continued. “Your driver is always ready.” Which begged the question whether the poor man ever ate, slept or took a shower. “You should offer him a promotion.”
Gongsun waved it off. “That would be inappropriate. The palace might take offence.”
The shop owner stared at him. At the silk. At the posture. At the unmistakable aura of someone who had never once argued over noodle prices in his life.
So, a princess. And… this man.
The word matrilocal rose in his mind again—this time louder, firmer, practically pounding on the inside of his skull like an unpaid debt collector.
He swallowed slowly. He could’ve been wrong like he was the last time. So, let’s not make an assumption.
“Right… this way,” he said, guiding them toward the best table in the shop.
Which, unfortunately, had been designed with absolutely no consideration for hosting royalty, questionable domestic arrangements, or existential crises of matrilocal husbands. It had been designed with only two things in mind: noodles and airflow.
It was a slightly elevated veranda overlooking the road, which, in theory, meant a pleasant breeze and a good view.
In practice, it meant they were the view. (Well, Marquis of Wu’an to be precise).
From the left, from the right, from the suspiciously slow-moving passerby who had absolutely no business walking that slowly. It was less a dining experience and more… a public exhibition titled: “Beautiful men against everyday backdrop.”
Changyu, blissfully unbothered.
After surviving the Fan pork stall at Yixing restaurant—where customers were more interested in getting a two-second interaction with the “mysterious handsome butcher behind the counter” than actually buying pork—she had developed a very specific kind of emotional immunity.
At this point, she considered public attention less as surprise and more as “seasonal weather.”
So she did what she always did when chaos unfolded around her: she ordered tea, picked up the menu, and studied it with polite seriousness despite already knowing every ingredient, cooking method, the life story of the man kneading the noodles in the back kitchen, down to the approximate age he had cried the first time he cut chilli too aggressively.
“So when are you leaving for Hejian?” she asked casually as though she had not just kicked open the gates to Gongsun’s personal battlefield.
Gongsun sighed. Not an ordinary sigh. This one arrived with ancestral disappointment, romantic suffering, and at least three future arguments with in-laws already pre-installed.
“Not sure,” he admitted. “She’s willing. Her family… less so.”
“Because it’s far?” Xie Zheng asked mildly. “Or because it sounds like a social descent performed without safety ropes?”
“Both,” Gongsun replied with the weary calm of a man who had already lost this debate several times in private and once in a dream.
Then came the pause. A dangerous pause. The kind of silence Changyu had learned to fear in marriage—the silence before Xie Zheng said something that sounded logical but would emotionally injure everyone within hearing distance.
She turned slowly to look at him with the kind of glance that said: I know that expression. Do not speak. Choose peace.
Naturally, Xie Zheng chose violence.
“You could always marry into her family,” Xie Zheng said calmly, with the same tone one might use to suggest adding more vinegar to noodles, or setting fire to a bridge for practical heating.“Take her surname.”
Gongsun froze. Blink. And blink again.
Then, very carefully, like a scholar stepping onto thin ice. “You mean… become a matrilocal husband?”
The phrase landed on the table with all the grace of a brick through a glass window.
Gongsun Yin. Headmaster of Luyuan Academy. A man of scholarship, dignity, and carefully curated reputation. A man whose standing had been polished over decades like an heirloom jade ornament..…Now considering a career shift into a resident husband, benefits included.
Xie Zheng, meanwhile, looked entirely untroubled by the social catastrophe he had just released into the world.
“It resolves several issues,” he said reasonably. “Your clan’s oath won’t restrict you, you won’t need to carry their surname, and you can return to politics freely. It’s efficient.”
Efficient, yes. Socially, however, it was roughly equivalent to announcing: “Congratulations. You have been successfully absorbed into your wife’s family business.”
Gongsun’s expression became deeply complicated. Part horror, part temptation, part man discovering his moral principles had unexpectedly hit a tsunami.
And then, as though he had not already detonated enough damage, Xie Zheng added, almost lazily, “I am the Prince Regent now. Please don’t tell me you plan to abandon court and hide in some countryside library.”
Gongsun stared at him. That was unfair. Deeply unfair.
Because now the choices had become:
Betray the clan’s oath and enter politics.
Become a matrilocal husband.
It was no longer a crossroads. It was extortion with philosophical consequences.
“You make it sound like becoming a matrilocal husband solves all life problems.”
Xie Zheng leaned back slightly. “It solved mine.”
Across the table, Changyu nearly choked on her tea.
The surrounding customers, who had long since abandoned all pretence of minding their own business, visibly leaned closer as one collective organism. Tomorrow, “Dayin Prince Regent is a proud matrilocal husband” would make the local news headline.
Somewhere near the entrance, the noodle shop owner closed his eyes briefly.
He had wanted to sell noodles today. Instead, heaven had sent him wealthy men publicly debating whether marriage, political ambition, and social ruin could all be solved with the power of a competent wife.
Not that Xie Zheng cared about noodles.
“I dislike my house,” Xie Zheng continued, with the calm determination of a man clearly running a personal marketing campaign. “It’s cold, impersonal, and full of things I would rather not remember.”
He paused—just long enough to build momentum, then straightened slightly, as though unveiling a masterpiece.
“But now,” he said, with unmistakable satisfaction, “since I married her… I have options.”
By this point, Changyu had already decided she no longer knew these two men. As far as society was concerned, she was simply an innocent noodle enthusiast who had tragically been seated nearby.
She lowered her head and devoted herself entirely to her meal with the determined avoidance of an ostrich burying itself in sand during a thunderstorm—except the thunderstorm was a social debate between the Marquis of Wu’an and his war strategist, and unfortunately, they were sitting at her table.
Meanwhile, Gongsun already didn’t like where this was going.
“Would I prefer a simple, quiet life in Lin’an?” Xie Zheng went on, counting on his fingers as though presenting official choices, “or a rather elegant residence in the capital?”
A beat. Then, as if delivering the final, devastating argument. “It also comes with a hot bath.”
Changyu’s chopsticks slipped clean from her fingers and hit the table.
Xie Zheng paid absolutely no attention. In fact, the man looked faintly proud of himself.
Gongsun stared at his friend.
Ah yes. The now legendary bath.
Originally, it had been commissioned by Changyu for her sister’s health—a perfectly wholesome and respectable reason. Noble, even.
Then fate, aprodisiac, poor planning and pent-up marital enthusiasm entered the picture.
One disastrously timed incident later, a deeply traumatised member of the Blood Clad Cavalry had witnessed something he absolutely should not have witnessed, reported it with the vivid emotional suffering of a war survivor, and accidentally transformed a private bathing space into a legendary folklore.
From that day onward, the mighty Marquis of Wu’an—terror of battlefields, undefeated commander, guardian of the realm—Had also become known, unofficially but permanently, as: The Marquis of the Bathhouse.
Gongsun pinched the bridge of his nose like a man trying to physically hold his sanity inside his skull.
“…Are you suggesting,” he asked slowly, “that I should marry into her family… and request a bathhouse as part of the arrangement?”
Xie Zheng shrugged with infuriating confidence.
“Why not? A good bath improves quality of life.” He paused thoughtfully. “And marriage.”
Changyu nearly inhaled a noodle into the wrong tract.
Meanwhile, Xie Zheng continued speaking with the calm certainty of a man who had clearly converted his entire worldview around heated water and domestic bliss.
“I’m sure Shu’er wouldn’t object,” he added. “You’re excellent at maintaining household order, you understand accounts, and your tidiness alone probably increases property value.”
Gongsun stared at him. Was he being recruited into a marriage… or a management position?
Then Xie Zheng leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice the way merchants did right before revealing the premium package. “Shu’er also owns property near the edge of the capital. Plenty of space. Already approved for expansion.”
Expansion. The word landed with terrifying implications.
“And, imagine living with your parents,” Xie Zheng continued with lethal smoothness.
Gongsun visibly flinched.
“No privacy, ever.” Xie Zheng said softly, like a scholar reciting ancient torture methods.
“That will not be a problem with Shu’er’s family estate. The place is so large you could wander for half a day and still fail to encounter a relative.”
A pause. Then came the execution blow.
“And if you break the bed every night,” Xie Zheng added casually, “they can simply replace it with the new one every time.”
Silence. Absolute silence. Even the noodles seemed stunned.
Gongsun’s mind spiralled.
Prestige. Reputation. Independence. Bathhouse. Freedom. Unlimited replacement beds. All of them entered the arena like rival warlords. None emerged alive.
Across from him, Xie Zheng observed the collapse with quiet fascination, like a man feeding philosophical bread crumbs to a duck and watching it accidentally develop a moral crisis. He could practically hear the internal debate raging inside his friend’s skull: Dignity vs. Destiny: A Dayin Matrilocal Tragedy in One Act.
And then, for reasons no scholar, strategist, or divine entity could justify, Xie Zheng added, a little too loudly, “Even I, Marquis of Wu’an, enjoy being a matrilocal husband.”
Followed immediately by not-silence—The entire street, which had been pretending not to listen, collectively stopped pretending. Heads turned. Chopsticks paused mid-air. A passing man walked into a pillar.
The entire street, which had been pretending not to eavesdrop, abandoned subtlety like soldiers fleeing a burning fortress.
Changyu stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. Then, with the calm efficiency of a butcher tenderising meat, she smacked his thigh beneath the table.
Again, he ignored it. Naturally.
The man had survived battlefields, assassination attempts, and a near-death experience. Apparently, public humiliation and marital violence no longer registered as meaningful threats.
He also ignored the rapidly growing wave of whispers surrounding them, which had now evolved into something dangerously close to a neighbourhood council meeting regarding his domestic arrangements.
And then, a bright voice cut cleanly through the chaos.
“Jiefu! Ah-Jie!” Chang Ning arrived like a tiny festival that had escaped official supervision, bouncing toward the table with unstoppable momentum while the Zhao couple followed behind her at the speed of two adults who had long accepted they could not physically compete with her enthusiasm.
Greetings were exchanged. Seats shifted. The atmosphere settled slightly.
Then Chang Ning asked the question that truly mattered.
“Uncle Yin,” she said, then tilted her head. “Where is your Princess Jiejie?”
“She’s on her way,” Gongsun replied, still recovering fragments of his dignity. “Just… a little late.”
Chang Ning nodded with grave understanding.
“Is it because she couldn’t find her shoes?” she asked. “Or her hair tie? I lose mine sometimes. Mrs Zhao said it’s because I’m not tidy.”
Gongsun smiled weakly. “That… could be it.”
Honestly, in an estate so large that encountering one’s relatives required planning and favourable weather conditions, locating footwear probably was a strategic operation.
But Chang Ning had already solved the issue. Undeliberately.
Her face brightened with the confidence of a child who had never once doubted her own brilliance.
“Then you should live with Princess Jiejie,” she declared decisively. “You’re very good at cleaning, folding blankets, and putting things back where they belong.”
Then the fatal conclusion: “If you marry her, she won’t ever be late again.”
Across the table, Xie Zheng did not even attempt to conceal his satisfaction this time. He leaned back slightly, arms folded, wearing the faint, smug smile of a man watching heaven itself personally endorse his argument.
You see? Even the next generation supports my proposal.
“So,” Gongsun asked once Chang Ning had finally been carried away by the Zhao couple before she could accidentally reorganise someone else’s future, “how did you propose?”
Changyu opened her mouth, but Xie Zheng answered first.
“She didn’t actually.” He lifted his tea with complete composure. “I overheard her practising on a pig.”
Gongsun blinked once. Slowly. The sentence entered his ears, wandered around his brain for a while, then failed to find any logical exit.
“…I’m sorry,” he said carefully, “what?”
By now, Changyu had already recognised that expression on her husband’s face. It was the expression of a man about to weaponise sincerity for entertainment purposes.
So she sighed and surrendered with surprising grace. “I can lend you a pig if you want,” she offered helpfully.
Gongsun stared at her, and then….at him. Then back at her again, like a scholar discovering two entirely separate books had somehow been written in the same language of madness.
In fairness, looking back now… Changyu had to admit it had been effective.
At the time, Yan Zheng had been half-dead, suspicious of everyone, and emotionally more closed off than an imperial treasury. Asking him directly might have frightened him into another coma.
A pig, however, had offered a safer audience. Less judgmental too.
“You don’t understand,” Xie Zheng added thoughtfully, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “It was very heartfelt.”
Changyu nodded. “I practised several times.”
“She also killed the pig immediately afterwards.”
“That part wasn’t related to the proposal.”
“It did add emotional intensity.”
Gongsun looked genuinely distressed now.
His expression resembled a man watching two cranes gracefully descend onto a lake, only to realise halfway through that both birds were actually deeply unhinged.
“You two,” he said weakly, “cannot possibly be serious.”
“Oh, we are,” Xie Zheng replied. The pig certainly had been a crucial part of their story. “I found it deeply romantic.”
Changyu brightened slightly. “Really?”
“Yes. Nothing says commitment quite like confessing beside fresh pork inventory.”
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