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@3431jessica
My Father
READ FULL VERSION HERE
Wei Xuan was only five years old when he first learned that love could be uneven.
At that age, he had no proper words for it. No understanding of favouritism, resentment or neglect. He only knew, with the cruel instinctive clarity children possessed, that there was another boy who received sweets and gifts far more often than him.
And that boy was his cousin, Xie Zheng.
At six, Wei Xuan did not question his father.
Wei Yan existed in his mind less as a parent and more as something distant and divine—a figure too lofty to approach freely. Wei Xuan could not speak unless spoken to, could not seek him out unless summoned, and certainly could not question him unless he wished to be punished.
So instead, he learned to observe.
He noticed how Zheng received praise for small things. It may not necessarily be a verbal ‘well done’, but the reward Wei Yan gave afterwards proclaimed just the same.
When Zheng’s parents died, Wei Yan automatically took him under his wings. It was when Wei Xuan’s life became hell itself.
On a daily basis then, he saw how Zheng was allowed to sit beside Wei Yan at the long dinner table, how he was not just allowed, but invited to have a conversation with him, while Wei Xuan sat lower down, quiet and forgotten.
At eight years old, Wei Xuan did not yet know hatred.
He only knew the sour ache of watching someone else be chosen again and again.
The cruellest part was that Zheng never seemed to seek any of it deliberately. He was simply… born fortunate. But everyone, including his father, seemed to treat it otherwise. Because no orphans were born under a lucky star.
From childhood, everyone could see Xie Zheng carried Wei Yan’s sharp features as though heaven itself had carved them twice. The same striking eyes. The same refined jawline that had once made imperial consorts whisper fondly about Wei Yan in the palace halls.
Zheng possessed the sort of beauty that drew affection effortlessly, the way flowers drew sunlight. And his good manner and quiet spirit seemed to enhance the charm even more.
Wei Xuan hated that most of all.
“You can’t have that.” He still remembered snatching a bamboo dragonfly from Zheng’s hands one afternoon—a toy Wei Yan had brought back from the capital.
Zheng merely looked at him quietly. No screaming. No fighting. No complaints.
His parents had taught him that as the older child, he must learn to yield. Zheng, being two years his senior, seemed to know better.
Wei Xuan hated him even more for that maturity and obedience.
When Wei Yan discovered what had happened, he did not scold Wei Xuan. He simply crouched beside Zheng, patted his head gently, and said: “It’s alright. Uncle will get you a better one.”
A better one.
Three days later, Wei Yan returned home leading a white pony with a neatly braided mane and silver ornaments around its harness.
Wei Xuan had genuinely believed it was for him.
His birthday was approaching, and he had begged his mother for weeks to ask Wei Yan for a riding horse.
For one beautiful moment, he thought his father had finally remembered him.
Then Wei Yan called for Zheng into the courtyard instead. And just like that, Wei Xuan’s dream was shattered like a glass.
No birthday. No festival. No achievement. No logical reason other than love. Whether it was for Wei Yan’s dead sister or for Zheng, it did not matter. What mattered was that love was supposed to belong to him.
Wei Xuan remembered standing there while the world inside him cracked open quietly and permanently.
That night, he poisoned the pony.
When the animal died, Wei Yan ordered one of his commanders to give him five lashes. There was no lecture on misbehaving, nor did he spend any time correcting him. No effort whatsoever. Only silence.
The sting of the whip hurt far less than being unseen.
As they grew older, the distance only widened.
When Zheng turned ten, Wei Yan entrusted him to General He for military training—the best martial art teacher in Great Yin. Occasionally, Wei Yan even trained Zheng personally.
He was severe with him. Demanding. Harsh, as he always had been. But at least Zheng was acknowledged enough to be shouted at. Wei Xuan, meanwhile, felt like a ghost haunting his own household.
All his life, he questioned the unreasonable favouritism. Why Zheng? Why always Zheng?
Wei Yan never answered him properly.
“You’ll understand when you’re older,” was all he ever said.
Wei Xuan eventually learned that this was how adults built walls—using vague words to bury ugly truths beneath them.
His mother was no different. She comforted him quietly, but fear kept her lips sealed. As long as Wei Xuan could remember, she treated Wei Yan like something sacred. She never questioned him. Never argued. Never even dared raise her eyes fully when speaking to him.
So the anger Wei Xuan could never direct at his father turned toward Zheng instead.
For years, Zheng became the target of every ugly feeling festering inside him. Wei Xuan mocked him. Sabotaged him. Turned other boys against him.
Children could be vicious creatures when permitted to be cruel.
But what Wei Xuan didn’t predict was: Zheng was never weak enough to endure it silently forever.
One day, when the adults were absent, but the other children were watching, Zheng finally fought back. He beat Wei Xuan bloody and dragged him along the courtyard in front of the other boys.
And once again, everyone looked at Zheng with pride. Even victory belonged to him naturally. That became the story of Wei Xuan’s entire life.
Everything Zheng touched seemed to flourish effortlessly. His calligraphy flowed like living water. His swordsmanship looked like a dance routine. His memory of poem was precise. And later, merely hearing his name became enough to make enemies retreat.
Wei Xuan eventually made destroying Xie Zheng the purpose of his life. Because as long as Zheng existed, Wei Xuan would always remain second.
When Zheng left for war at fourteen, Wei Xuan secretly hoped he would never return. Part of that wish came true.
For years, Zheng rarely returned home, but he became something even greater.
The Marquis of Wu’an.
A legend carved from victory and bloodshed. A man granted an estate grander than the Wei residence itself. A commander so vital to Great Yin that he practically belonged more to the battlefield than to the living world.
Wei Yan had never looked prouder.
When Zheng returned victorious, the palace held grand parades in his honour. Ministers praised him. Soldiers worshipped him. Commoners spoke his name like prayer.
And Wei Xuan stood there watching it all like a ghost trapped beside his own life.
By then, the seventeen-year-old Wei Xuan had already begun suspecting the truth.
There could only be one explanation for why Wei Yan had never truly regarded him as a son. Why Zheng had always been chosen first. Why love had always stopped just short of reaching him.
Because Wei Xuan was never truly Wei Yan’s son at all.
And in the end—he had been right.
Can you please write a long story where pursuit of jade had a sad ending, where fan changyu died, was betrayed and how xie zheng reacted and what he did after that. I want to see that arc. Please
In your ideas, who do you think betrayed Fan Changyu? Or was she just killed in a battle? Or something more personal?
If I wrote this, this would likely only becoming one shot story, not a long one, as... it would be way too depressing.
I wrote HERE a story where Xie Zheng 'died' after they parted in Ep. 17..
In my mind, Changyu died, there is a chance that Xie Zheng would become like Wei Yan, who loved someone too fiercely. He was also betrayed by someone close to him, the Emperor, and hence his reaction.
A Promise
READ THE FULL VERSION HERE
About two months after the great upheaval that reshaped the court of Great Yin, peace had barely settled before diplomacy came knocking on the palace gates.
The neighbouring Turkish Kingdom sent an envoy laden with exotic gifts, flowery congratulations for the newly enthroned Emperor, and, hidden beneath enough polite wording to fill a library, an invitation.
They wished to strengthen the friendship between the two kingdoms.
Translation?
Please send your newly appointed Prince Regent so everyone can size him up.
Thus, Xie Zheng departed with his long-suffering wingman, Gongsun Yin, accompanied by several dozen Blood-Clad Cavalry escorting enough silk, jade, and precious artefacts to purchase a respectable city.
The visit proceeded surprisingly well. The Sultan, a man with a wispy beard and a pot belly, proved hospitable.
The wine flowed freely. The diplomatic smiles remained firmly attached to everyone's faces.
No one started a war.
By every diplomatic standard, it was an overwhelming success.
Until the final evening, on the last banquet. The final course was one particularly unfortunate dish.
Halfway through dinner, Xie Zheng suddenly began coughing, then wheezing, then turning alarming shades of red like he couldn’t breathe.
Within moments, the entire banquet hall descended into absolute chaos.
The musicians stopped playing. The servants dropped trays. One minister fainted. Sultan Mehmed leapt to his feet so abruptly that his chair toppled backwards. "My friend!"
Gongsun thought that was supposed to be his line. But never mind.
The Sultan pointed dramatically at the unfortunate cook. "Treason!"
The poor cook collapsed onto his knees before anyone had even explained what had happened. "I swear upon my ancestors! I only followed the recipe!"
"Take him to the gallows!"
Fortunately, before the execution could proceed, the royal physician came sprinting into the hall, examined Xie Zheng, and announced after several tense moments,
"It is not poison." Everyone collectively exhaled. “It’s just a food allergy. I have the cure.”
Apparently, this mysterious affliction was entirely unheard of within the royal court.
The cook burst into tears of gratitude. The executioners looked mildly disappointed. The gallows, meanwhile, remained unemployed for another day.
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Unfortunately, the excitement did not end there. In fact, it had just begun.
The royal physician insisted that Xie Zheng remain under observation for several days.
According to the customs of the Turkish Kingdom, only immediate family members were permitted to visit a patient during recovery. Unfortunately, after a rather thorough inquiry, the palace had concluded that not a single member of the Great Yin delegation shared so much as a drop of blood with Xie Zheng.
To the Turks, this rule was perfectly sensible.
Family visited. Everyone else waited.
To Gongsun Yin, however...
It was the diplomatic equivalent of being handed a banquet invitation, escorted to the dining hall, and then informed he would be observing the meal through the window.
Or worse—
Being asked to play a game of chess while someone quietly removed his queen, both rooks, and assured him the match was still perfectly fair.
He smiled politely. Inside, he was already drafting seventeen strongly worded arguments, three contingency plans, and perhaps a small war.
As though matters were not already troublesome enough, Sultan Mehmed appeared to have reached a deeply unfortunate conclusion.
The Prince Regent, he decided, would make an excellent son-in-law.
One afternoon, while Gongsun Yin was patiently explaining the finer points of border administration, the Sultan suddenly waved away the maps as though frontiers were far less interesting than matchmaking.
"Tell me." He leaned forward with fatherly enthusiasm. "Does the Prince Regent have a wife?"
"He does," Gongsun answered immediately. There was no hesitation in his voice. "Her name is Madam Fan Changyu."
The Sultan frowned. "I have never heard of her."
"She is very real."
"Hmm." The Sultan stroked his beard. "If the Prince Regent truly married..." He gestured broadly. "...where was the wedding?"
Gongsun blinked. "The wedding?"
"A man of such importance would surely invite every neighbouring ruler." The Sultan looked around the room. "I was not invited."
Internally, however, another Gongsun Yin had already begun pinching the bridge of his nose.
Neither was Princess Qi Shu. Neither was Lady Wei.
Neither was I. I am his right-hand man. His strategist. His brother-in-arms. I have nearly died beside him on several occasions. And somehow, a pig received a more formal role in that wedding than I did.
For perhaps the first time in many years... Gongsun found himself mildly resentful of Xie Zheng.
Just a little.
"So naturally, I assumed he was unmarried."
Gongsun silently wondered how one explained a wedding that involved a pig, a butcher's knife, and an identity crisis. Even he, who prided himself on eloquence, felt that particular explanation might permanently damage Great Yin's diplomatic credibility.
"...Madam Fan dislikes extravagance," he replied at last.
The Sultan nodded thoughtfully.
"Ah." Then brightened. "So she is a concubine."
"...No."
Heaven. Why are you testing me today?
The Sultan paid not the slightest attention to Gongsun's gentle objection.
"Excellent!" He clapped his hands with the satisfaction of a man who had just solved world peace. "Then there is no problem."
"There is," Gongsun said gently, making one last valiant attempt to drag the conversation back toward reality.
He crossed mountains, rivers, and half the continent to strengthen peace and friendship between the kingdoms. Not to negotiate Xie Zheng's second marriage.
And knowing the Marquis of Wu'an, the moment he learned someone was attempting to insert another woman into his marriage, diplomacy would end precisely where his patience did.
The Sultan waved away the objection as though it were an inconvenient fly.
"A man may have a castle full of concubines," the Sultan declared with the serene confidence of someone reciting an indisputable law of nature. "But only one wife."
He smiled, evidently delighted by the impeccable logic of his own argument. Then his eyes brightened. "Have you met my daughter, Ashina?"
Gongsun parted his lips. He never got the chance to answer.
"She is nineteen. Graceful. A marvellous dancer, exceptionally beautiful, very obedient. I am certain your Prince Regent would adore her."
Gongsun smiled. The kind of smile scholars wore shortly before writing essays that destroyed entire political factions.
"I shall... convey Your Majesty's sentiments."
He had absolutely no intention of doing so.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Xie Zheng was not in the habit of waking up in other people's beds.
Come to think of it, it had happened exactly twice before.
The first time was when he was seven years old and had confidently challenged General He to a duel.
The duel lasted approximately three breaths. His fractured wrist lasted considerably longer.
The second time was after he contracted River Fever. Gongsun Yin had promptly declared him a walking plague, banished him to a guest room somewhere in the Xie residence, and forbidden anyone from entering except the physician. Xie Zheng had slept for nearly a week and only afterwards discovered that his ancestral home apparently possessed an entire wing he had never known existed.
Ordinarily, injuries were handled much more simply.
If he was stabbed, his soldiers carried him back to camp. If he was poisoned, Gongsun Yin bullied physicians until someone produced an antidote.
If he acquired another alarming hole somewhere in his body, someone stitched it shut while Gongsun stood nearby offering entirely unhelpful observations like, "Try not to bleed on the maps. We still need those."
Everything happened inside his own military tent.
It was orderly. Predictable. Comfortingly familiar.
So waking upon sheets softer than fresh snow, breathing in strange medicinal herbs laced with lemon, jasmine, and the faint warmth of saffron, while an orchestra of unfamiliar voices chatted outside in a language that sounded as though every other syllable had taken a holiday...
...was deeply unsettling.
He almost missed Gongsun's incessant muttering.
"...Jiuheng?" A familiar voice drifted through the haze.
"Jiuheng, can you hear me?"
His eyelids felt absurdly heavy. Reluctantly, they obeyed. The lantern beside the bed immediately launched a brutal assault on his eyesight.
He narrowed his eyes.
Blinking once. Twice. Three times.
The blurry world slowly rearranged itself into recognisable shapes.
"Oh, thank the ancestors!" The voice breathed out a long sigh of relief. "You're finally awake!"
Xie Zheng frowned.
That voice... He definitely knew it.
His still-foggy mind immediately began searching through old memories like a librarian frantically looking for a misplaced scroll while the impatient reader stood tapping the table.
The answer, unfortunately, seemed to have wandered off with the rest of his thoughts.
A woman's face slowly drifted into view.
She wore the flowing ruqun of Great Yin, her elaborate headdress pinned together with enough ornaments to qualify as a small engineering project.
Xie Zheng released a quiet breath.
Good.
At least she wasn't Turkish.
Better still, she knew his childhood name.
People trying to kill him generally preferred "Marquis of Wu'an."
Only old friends insisted on "Jiuheng."
"If I have to wear this hairpiece for one more day," the woman grumbled, rubbing the back of her neck, "I'll require a full-body massage, not merely a new neck."
Xie Zheng stared.
The face was familiar, just as her voice. Everything about her radiated the irritating certainty of someone he absolutely ought to recognise. Yet his mind stubbornly refused to cooperate. It was as though someone had taken the shelves inside his memory, tossed all the scrolls into the air, and then alphabetised them incorrectly.
Had he struck his head? That seemed plausible.
Perhaps, he had been poisoned. Or perhaps this woman had found him unconscious, much like Changyu had all those months ago, and decided that rescuing half-dead men was a worthwhile hobby.
He attempted to ask. His throat, however, had apparently become a desert. Only a hoarse croak escaped.
"..."
The woman blinked. "Oh!" She immediately sprang to her feet. "Water." She leaned over the bedside table. "They left some."
A cup was pressed into his hands almost before he realised she had moved.
Then, noticing he still lacked the strength to sit upright properly, she slipped an arm behind his shoulders without the slightest hesitation and helped him up.
Curious.
Most respectable ladies observed enough distance to satisfy three generations of etiquette instructors. This one appeared to regard propriety as a mildly interesting suggestion.
She neither flinched when their hands touched nor seemed remotely concerned that she was sitting close enough for him to notice the faint scent of sandalwood beneath her perfume. It was an oddly masculine scent selection for a young lady.
She simply held the cup while he drank.
When he emptied it in one breath, she silently refilled it.
Xie Zheng accepted the second cup.
Whoever she was...She was alarmingly comfortable around him.
Which only made the mystery worse.
Then he noticed the makeup. He almost preferred the poisoning.
It was... vivid. Not merely colourful. Not even theatrical.
It looked as though a painter had lost an argument with subtlety and declared war on the human face.
Her lips were painted a shade of red usually associated with fresh battlefield injuries. Her eyebrows appeared to have been drawn by someone who had heard a description of eyebrows but never actually seen a pair. As for her cheeks—
Xie Zheng stared.
It looked as though someone had slapped her so hard the colour had remained behind while the rest of the hand continued into another province.
Xie Zheng decided that if he survived this diplomatic mission, he would never again complain about Great Yin cosmetics.
To his astonishment, the woman seemed completely unaware that she resembled a festival lantern. Instead, she picked up a small cake and offered it to him with the earnest concern of a caring relative.
"Something sweet?" she asked. "You haven't eaten all day. You need sustenance."
Xie Zheng eyed the confection suspiciously.
Given his recent experience with foreign cuisine, he was no longer willing to assume food had his best interests at heart.
"...Where?" he finally managed, his voice rough from disuse.
"Istanbul. Still," she replied. "We're in the palace... though I can't pronounce the actual name of this building. I tried yesterday, and the nurse laughed at me."
The memories came back in fragments: The diplomatic mission. The farewell banquet. The dish swimming in coconut milk and enough chili to qualify as military aggression. And the strange sea steamed creature dressed in cabbage leaves and some sort of balsamic sauce that had tasted perfectly harmless right up until it attempted to kill him.
He distinctly remembered thinking it tasted surprisingly good. The next thing he remembered was dying.
Xie Zheng stared at the cake in his hand. Considering his recent experience with foreign cuisine, caution suddenly seemed like an excellent survival strategy.
The woman noticed his hesitation and rolled her eyes.
"Relax," she said dryly. "If I wanted to poison you, I'd have chosen something considerably less pink."
For reasons Xie Zheng could not adequately explain, that statement did not reassure him in the slightest.
Seeing the suspicion lingering in his eyes, the woman sighed dramatically.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, Jiuheng!" Then, abandoning every trace of feminine decorum, she opened her mouth and took an enormous bite out of the cake.
It was the sort of bite one expected from a hungry cavalryman after three days on campaign—not a refined lady in silk robes.
Her cheeks puffed out like a squirrel preparing for winter. She chewed twice. Swallowed. Then held up the remaining half triumphantly. "There."
She spoke through the last crumbs with complete satisfaction. "The nurse specifically said this one contains no seafood. So unless they've started hiding fish inside sponge cake..." She shrugged. "...you're perfectly safe."
Xie Zheng did not respond. He simply stared.
There was something profoundly unsettling about watching a beautifully dressed noblewoman demolish a delicate pastry with the table manners of an infantry captain.
“The princess nearly kissed you earlier. She somehow thinks it will wake you up,” the woman said, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin.
Xie Zheng’s brain finally rebooted. “The princess?”
“Yes, Sultan’s daughter, Ashina.”
“The one with a mole on the top of her lips?”
“The one with the mole on the lips.”
The woman nodded thoughtfully. "If my physiognomy scroll is to be believed..." She tapped her chin. "A mole there supposedly means she's an excellent kisser."
Xie Zheng did not like where this conversation was going, but he needed to know.
“And you…?”
“What? Me?” she looked genuinely puzzled.
Xie Zheng squinted his eyes, trying to dig into his memory of where he saw this woman beside him.
“Who are…?” His gaze drifted past her shoulder. There, leaning casually against the chair, was a feather fan.
A plain white feather fan with dark edges. One he had seen waved in his face during military briefings, strategy meetings, and countless occasions when Gongsun Yin was about to explain why everyone else's plans were idiotic.
His pupils contracted. His brain, meanwhile, appeared to fall down several flights of stairs.
"...Gongsun?"
The woman blinked. “What, you mean you’ve only just realised it’s me?”
“You have never looked this… pretty.”
READ THE FULL VERSION HERE
The Arrival (Of Fan-Xie clan)
Read full chapter here
Despite Xie Wu’s best efforts, the forest path proved only marginally less murderous.
The carriage bounced. It rattled. It personally insulted their ancestors. And then—They hit it.
The pothole. A crater. A declaration of war.
The carriage launched—Gongsun flew from his seat like a scholar achieving enlightenment mid-air—straight into Xie Zheng’s lap. Changyu toppled sideways, wedging Qi Shu firmly between herself and the wall. Somewhere in the chaos, dignity died.
“Are you alright?” Qi Shu asked immediately, pushing herself upright and pulling Changyu with her.
“I’m—”Changyu stopped. Everyone stopped. Because at that exact moment—A very unmistakable gush of water followed.
Silence. Qi Shu froze. Gongsun froze. Even Xie Zheng, who had been half asleep, suddenly looked wide awake—as if his memory loss had politely stepped aside for sheer panic.
Qi Shu turned, eyes sharp. “Your water broke.”
Gongsun went pale. Xie Zheng went paler. Between the two of them, it was unclear who looked closer to giving birth.
“What do we do?!” Gongsun demanded, his voice climbing several scholarly octaves higher than usual. Meanwhile, Xie Zheng sat there, utterly still—like a man who had just been personally selected by fate for something he did not remember signing up for.
In the span of a heartbeat, he went through all four stages of emotional rollercoaster: Denial—This has nothing to do with me, Doubt— …Does this have something to do with me? Realisation—His gaze shifted, slowly, to Changyu. To her hand, that automatically gripped his. To the very obvious situation unfolding—This definitely has something to do with me. Regret—I should have shown more self-restraint.
“Find a quiet place. Now,” Qi Shu ordered, trying to keep everybody in check.
“Shouldn’t we turn back to a village?” Gongsun blurted. “Somewhere with… people? Facilities? Basic sanitary… and sanity?”
Qi Shu looked at him flatly. “And announce to the entire population that the Marquis of Wu’an’s wife is about to deliver in the middle of their street?”
“…When you put it that way—”
“You insisted on secrecy,” Qi Shu continued calmly but dangerously. “You made the entire academy swear not to breathe a word about this! You made General He raise the salary of all his servants to keep a tight lip or die. Congratulations!”
Gongsun closed his mouth. “Right,” he said faintly. “Panic noted. Regret ongoing.”
“Xie Wu, Xie Qi—faster!”
The horses surged forward at a speed that suggested they, too, understood the situation—and wanted no part of it.
Inside the carriage, another contraction hit. Changyu sucked in a breath, gripping the edge of the seat.
“Here,” Qi Shu said quickly, grabbing Gongsun’s hand and offering it to her. “Squeeze this.”
“Wh—why is it my hand?!” Gongsun protested, horrified.
“Because your hand is currently contributing nothing to society!” Qi Shu replied briskly, already rubbing Changyu’s lower back while instructing her how to breathe through a contraction. Occasionally, she would wipe the droplets that appeared on Changyu’s forehead with her handkerchief and whisper, “You are doing great.”
Changyu turned her head and looked at Gongsun’s hand.
She paused. Considered.
She was, after all, a woman who could stun a large pig with one strike. She had the strength to carry a man nearly twice her size, and that happened not just once. Gongsun’s hand, on the other hand, looked like it had never survived anything more violent than turning a book on advanced algebra too aggressively.
“…Perhaps not,” she said diplomatically.
“Wise choice,” Gongsun whispered, immediately retracting his hand like it had just narrowly escaped execution.
And then—Another hand reached out. Steady. Unhurried.
“Take mine,” Xie Zheng said.
His voice was calm, almost gentle, as though they were discussing tea rather than imminent childbirth in a violently shaking carriage.“It’s only a minor injury,” he added, before anyone could object, though the bandage wrapped around his hand told a quieter truth.
Changyu looked at him.
There was something in that steadiness—something unchanged, even now. Stripped of memory, of past, of everything that had once defined him… and yet still the same at his core—He was always kind and dependable. Just like the first time when he suddenly said yes to marrying into her family before she asked him.
But was this a good idea?
For a fleeting moment, she hesitated—uncertain whether reaching for him would mend something in her… or break it further.
And in that small space of uncertainty—His hand moved. Slowly, gently, he closed his fingers around hers, as though the choice had already been made—just not by her. As though, even without remembering why… he still knew to hold on.
Outside, the carriage thundered through the forest, wheels protesting against every bump and root.
Inside, it was chaos—orders barked, breaths counted, pain rising and falling like waves.
And somewhere amidst the jolting, the panic, and the rapidly approaching reality of parenthood—Gongsun came to a deeply unfortunate realisation.
If anything went wrong today…
He was going to be remembered as the man who brought a labouring woman on a scenic detour through potholes.
------------------------
In less than an hour, the carriage screeched to a halt beside what could only generously be described as a seasonal fishing hut—meaning it was useful in summer and utterly abandoned in winter… much like Gongsun’s courage at the moment.
By the time they got Changyu inside, things had escalated from “slightly concerning” to “this is definitely happening.”
Changyu was in no condition for dignity. She was bent over in pain, breathing unevenly, gripping Xie Zheng’s hand like it had personally signed a lifelong contract.
To his credit, he did not pull away. To his misfortune, his hand was probably no longer his.
“Xie Wu—boil water! Xie Qi—get the brazier going, she must stay warm!” Qi Shu snapped.
The two men fled with impressive efficiency. No matter how joyous the occasion was, no man in his right mind wanted to partake as an honorary guest in the delivery room.
Inside the hut, Qi Shu turned to Gongsun. “Lay everything down. Coats. Silk. All of it.”
Gongsun blinked, brain processing.“…All of it?” He stared at the state of the floor, which certainly did not just look vintage with a lot of signs of wear, but also was not exactly clean.
“Yes, unless you’d like her to give birth on this filty floor and personally haunt you afterwards.”
That decided it.
Moments later, layers of outrageously expensive garments—each worth enough to buy a respectable home in Lin’an—were unceremoniously sacrificed to the cause. If wealth could talk, it would be screaming.
They helped Changyu down.
Xie Zheng followed, still holding her hand, now promoted from “support” to “lifeline.”
Qi Shu checked quickly between her legs.
“Good. Very good,” she said. “We are nearly there.”
“Nearly?” Gongsun echoed faintly as Qi Shu just declared Armageddon was coming, the sky was falling, and he got only minutes to live.
“Towels," Qi Shu ordered instead of answering his question. It was best that these clueless men knew as little as possible of what was coming. "And something sweet. She’ll need energy. I left some persimmon juice in the top left corner of the carriage.”
Gongsun obeyed. Because at this point, disobedience felt like a worse decision. He rushed out, tripping over absolutely nothing on the way.
Inside, Qi Shu arranged Changyu to lean on a tower of cushions and then pointed sharply at the direction of the Marquis. “Jiuheng. Come here! Hold her legs.”
Xie Zheng froze like a man who had just been told to negotiate with death itself.
“…Must I?”
“Yes.” If this were a better situation, Qi Shu would find it very funny to see the formidable national hero who had performed a massacre on thousands of soldiers was about to pass out in the delivery room.
“I—” Xie Zheng opened his mouth and closed it again. What happened to that plan not stressing him out?
“I need my hands to catch the baby,” Qi Shu said sternly. “You don’t have to look.”
This was, unfortunately, not as reassuring as she intended. He stepped forward anyway. Slowly. Reluctantly. Like a man about to be executed.
And then—He looked. Just for a second. A fatal mistake.
His face drained of colour so quickly it was almost impressive. If this continued, they might need another physician.
“Scared?” Qi Shu said dryly. “You helped start this process. It’s only fair you stay for the delivery,” and even had the guts to add. “It’s a bit unfair if men only join the fun and never take the part of knowing the consequences, no?”
Xie Zheng opened his mouth—Closed it again. Wisely. He was about to say the fun Qi Shu was referring to—he didn’t remember any of it.
Beside him, Changyu was too busy surviving labour to notice his ongoing existential crisis.
Outside, Gongsun returned, clutching towels and a canteen of juice like a man bringing offerings to appease higher powers.
“Here!” he said, a little too loudly.
“Lower your voice,” Qi Shu snapped. “She’s giving birth, not attending a banquet.”
Gongsun immediately shrank. Between them—One woman in labour. One physician in command. One marquis who was on the verge of fainting. And one scholar was rapidly reconsidering becoming a celibate.
Qi Shu clicked her tongue.
Honestly.
She had delivered babies before. But never, she thought grimly—had she needed to manage this many children at once.
MATRILOCAL
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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.
It was not subtle.
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.
Both.
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.”
Clack.
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 struck critically.
“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.”
Silence.
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.”
Gongsun’s eyes widened.
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.”
Pursuit of Jade Review: Come for Zhang Linghe’s Face, Stay for Tian Xiwei’s Epic Butcher Knife Slayage
Love the fake marriage trope? Read our Pursuit of Jade review to see why Zhang Linghe and Tian Xiwei are peak 2026 C-drama chaos.
Interruption
READ FULL CHAPTER in Ao3 HERE
The place marked on the map was nothing like the residence of a regent that Changyu had imagined.
There was no sprawling manor, no stately gates, no servants waiting at the entrance. There was only a hut.
…A hut that looked as though a strong gust of wind might negotiate its surrender.
Its straw roof sagged like an old man's back. The walls had shed so much plaster they resembled a snake halfway through molting, and the floorboards had been trodden upon by so many feet that worn was far too gentle a word. They looked positively exhausted.
"Please tell me we're here," Changyu pleaded when Xie Shiyi dismounted to inspect the place.
Meanwhile, the Marquis of Wu'an remained draped over her neck like ivy claiming an ancient wall, wholly oblivious…or perhaps simply indifferent to the presence of his subordinate. Any handbook on proper noble conduct had clearly been thrown out of the carriage several li ago.
Changyu, on the other hand, for Xie Shiyi's sake, she resisted the urge to react.
“Xie Zheng, not here!” she hissed when he bit one particularly sensitive spot. Not that he listened.
Unlike the night of the Lunar New Year, when they had both been drunk, and Xie Zheng had moved with all the grace of a man battling three bottles of wine (by the way, she was in no better position), today there was nothing sluggish about him. His eyes were bright, frighteningly focused, and entirely too awake, like a scholar who had spent half his life admiring a rare book through glass, only to be told that he could finally touch it—and that the library closed in an hour.
The keeper of the hut was a blind old woman who had no idea who they were or why they had come, but after hearing who sent them there, she generously offered them one of her rooms.
"Is your husband ill?" she asked.
"Yes," Changyu replied.
Beside her, Xie Zheng exhaled shakily, sounding as though his final hour had arrived.
The old woman sighed sympathetically. "Ah, poor thing. It sounds serious. Maybe I could find something in my medicine cabinet."
Changyu, however, knew that the only remedy her husband currently desired was unlikely to be found in any apothecary.
“There is no need, a short rest and he will be fine.” Contrary to the common dictionary, ‘Rest’ here, translated into exercise that was performed with minimal or no clothing. And preferably no interruption.
The old woman smiled. "The room at the back is empty. I'll be outside tending to the washing. Let me know if you need anything."
Changyu almost felt guilty thinking about what the room would be used for.
The old woman thought she was offering a patient a place to rest. In reality, she had just locked a spark and a powder keg in the same room and wished them a peaceful evening.
Nonetheless, Changyu practically dragged Xie Zheng toward the room before he decided to demonstrate the extent of his ‘illness’ in the middle of the courtyard.
The moment the door closed, all the restraint and self-control were forgotten.
Before she could even turn around, he had gathered her into his arms. Then he seemed to think that wasn't enough.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaled deeply, and made a sound so content it could only be described as a cat finally reclaiming its favourite cushion.
"Xie Zheng..."
He answered by looking at her as though she were the first proper meal he'd seen after a winter of famine. Then he lowered his head and began pressing kisses along her neck, down to her collarbone, each one slow and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world and intended to savour every moment of it.
Changyu was quite certain there would be evidence of his devotion tomorrow.
There would be no hiding it.
"May I?" His hand rested on the sash of her robe.
At least the man still possessed enough decency to ask.
Unfortunately, the moment she gave the slightest nod, that decency promptly packed its bags and departed. His fingers moved with astonishing speed, peeling away layers of clothing like a child unwrapping New Year's gifts.
“Xie Zheng…”
He paused, looking down at her with an expression of such zealous, unguarded adoration that made any lady’s heart melt in his hands.
"You are unwell," Changyu reminded him, trying—and failing—to sound stern. "And you should stop overusing your still-recovering hands."
A grave mistake. A particularly mischievous smile spread across his face.
"Madam Fan," he said, sounding both delighted and thoroughly wicked, "are you suggesting that I should undress you without using my hands?" He paused deliberately, as though savouring every shade of red blooming across her cheeks.
Then he smiled wider. "...Then I shall do as you wish."
The shamelessness of this man truly knew no bounds.
Changyu made a mental note that a hands-free Xie Zheng was, regrettably, no less efficient than the ordinary variety.
When she was down to her undergarments, the excitement in him was almost tangible. Like a campfire struck by a sudden gust of wind, or, perhaps most accurately, a starving wolf who had finally been invited into the sheepfold and was trying very hard to remember his manners.
His gaze lingered on her openly, tracing the curves now revealed to him with undisguised admiration. There was nothing hurried or crude about it. Rather, he looked at her like a man who had spent years admiring the moon from afar, only to discover one night that it had descended within arm's reach.
The usual scholarly Xie Zheng would never have been so bold. Sober and clear-minded, he would have turned red long before this, his eyes darting away the moment she noticed him staring.
But tonight, whether because of his "illness" or because he had finally decided that husbands were entitled to admire their wives, he made no attempt to hide it. And, to Changyu's great annoyance, the look in his eyes made her heart beat just a little faster..
Step by step, he guided her backwards until the edge of the bed touched the backs of her knees. Then, with surprising swiftness, he tipped her gently onto the mattress.
Before she could gather her bearings, he caught the last sash of her clothing between his teeth and tugged it loose.
She gasped, but she didn't try to stop him.
The sight of him—hair slightly dishevelled, eyes bright with unhidden hunger, and looking altogether too pleased with himself—was proving exceedingly dangerous to her own self-control.
His eyes lit up at her reaction, like a scholar finally being allowed into the library he had only ever glimpsed through its gates.
It was charming, she thought. And rather...Irresistible. But she was certainly not going to let him know that.
"I thought you were still upset with me..." she said softly.
If he was going to forgive her for sneaking without saying a word—and for the knockout soup that had, in a spectacular twist of fate, worked entirely in his favour—this seemed as good a time as any to seek absolution.
Xie Zheng actually paused. Then he looked at her with an expression that suggested she had just asked whether the sea was wet.
"I am," he admitted. "But at the moment..." A smile tugged at his lips. "My mood is exceedingly….charitable."
He leaned closer, breath warm against her ears. "I might be persuaded to forgive almost …anything."
The implication in his tone made her heart race.
Then he lowered his head and captured her lips in a kiss that was neither patient nor particularly dignified. Whatever grievances he had been nursing seemed to have been thoroughly overwhelmed by more pressing concerns.
He kissed her as though he had been deprived of her for an age and had no intention of wasting another moment. When he finally drew back, it was only to trail another kiss to her cheek, then to her jaw.
Then, with a skill that spoke of entirely too much determination, he changed course and deftly loosened the binding across her chest with his mouth.
The warmth in his eyes when he looked up at her was almost unbearably tender, as though he had just been entrusted with something precious.
That expression was the final thread of Changyu's restraint. It snapped without ceremony.
In the next instant, she clasped his jaw and pulled him towards her and kissed him back with equal fervour.
Her hands, which had spent the last several minutes attempting to preserve the Marquis of Wu'an's dignity, abruptly changed allegiance and began making short work of his robes instead.
The victory in his eyes was immediate and unapologetic. He looked like a man who had just won a war without unsheathing his sword.
Then, just as his lips settled against the bare skin of her breast—
Knock. Knock.
Everything froze. A pause. The sound struck the room like a heavenly tribulation descending upon a pair of star-crossed lovers
The Road to Glory 《归鸾》 - First Trailer (eng subbed)
救我于此 弃我于此 ❄️ This is where you saved me, and where you left me ❄️
Artist: 呼葱觅蒜 on weibo; reposted with credit and source as requested.
Individual images under cut:
Fan Chang Ning
Fan Chang Ning — The Little Sister Who Accidentally Became Empress
READ FULL CHAPTER in Ao3
Official Title
Butcher's younger sister.
Actual Titles
Future Empress of Great Yin.
Sister-in-Law of the Marquis of Wu'an/Prince Regent
Advocate and distributor of Tangerine Peel Candy
Strategic mastermind disguised as a sweet child.
The nation's most adorable political operator.
Unofficial Minister of Matchmaking.
Chief Architect of the Tangerine Peel Kiss.
Keeper of everyone's secrets.
Tiny genius with alarming levels of foresight.
Gongsun Yin's greatest nightmare
While her sister stormed battlefields swinging a cleaver like an angry deity of war, Chang Ning sat across from people, smiled sweetly, and asked questions (or gave answers) that made grown men reconsider every decision they had made since birth.
A cleaver could split bones. Chang Ning's curiosity and insight could split souls (don't believe me? Ask Gongsun Yin on his first visit to the Fan household).
Core Responsibilities
Looking adorable.
Appearing completely harmless and adding comedic value to the otherwise depressing show.
Quietly rearranging everyone's fate while pretending to play with ribbons.
Like the time Mr. and Mrs. Zhao first mentioned the idea of finding Changyu a matrilocal husband and everyone was still thinking about it, Chang Ning had already voted for Yan Zheng in Episode 2. Or the time she insisted on going to the Lantern Festival, not because she wanted lanterns, but because her sister and Yan Zheng clearly needed to be shoved into a date.
Acting as the unofficial Director of Romance.
After all, Yan Zheng's courtship strategy mostly involved standing nearby and looking like a sad ghost instead of making a move on her sister. And Gongsun Yin was somehow worse. This was a man who mistook rabbits for pets and interpreted a romantic shoulder massage from a woman who escaped from a palace into a battlefront as a tickle.
Clearly, both men required assistance.
Solving problems three steps before everyone else realises there is a problem.
For example, she started raising rabbits because she foresaw that the falcon would eventually need a reliable food supply. No one had yet thought about feeding the falcon. Chang Ning had already established an entire rabbit-based supply chain.
Her sister's love life received the same level of strategic planning.
Long before Fan Changyu realised she had fallen in love with Yan Zheng, Chang Ning had already reached that conclusion. Unfortunately, her sister remained spectacularly oblivious.
Then one day, Gongsun Yin left the house. Changyu immediately asked, in a voice that was just a little too anxious, "Has he left?"
Chang Ning knew perfectly well that her sister meant Yan Zheng. Chang Ning also knew perfectly well that Yan Zheng had merely gone to help an elderly neighbour read a letter.
Chang Ning chose not to correct the misunderstanding. No lies. No manipulation. Just… a strategic silence.
Within moments, Changyu looked as though someone had informed her that the sun would never rise again. She became distracted, miserable, and suspiciously close to salt the entire kitchen with her tears.
A short while later, Yan Zheng returned, and Changyu's face was filled with smiles and rainbows. At which point her older sister finally realised something rather important: She was in love with him.
Problem identified. Problem diagnosed. Problem solved.
The patient had not even known she was ill.
By the time everyone else notices there is a problem, she has already prepared the solution, implemented the solution, and is quietly waiting for everyone else to catch up.
Nobody knows how a child came to this conclusion. Nobody asked.
Interrupting a kiss at exactly the right moment.
Protecting her sister with the ferocity of a tiny guardian deity.
Collecting information while appearing to be asleep, distracted, or too young to understand what the adults are discussing. (This technique proved alarmingly effective).
Being suspiciously competent for a child.
At some point, everyone in the story had the same realisation:
If Chang Ning is smiling quietly in the corner, something has already been decided, and you simply haven't been informed yet.
General Description
If Fan Changyu was a sword, then Fan Chang Ning was the hand moving the pieces across the board.
Changyu broke down doors. Chang Ning discovered who built the door, who owned the key, and whether opening it was necessary in the first place.
One fought enemies. The other rearranged the entire battlefield before the fight even began.
At first glance, she seemed delicate. Small. Gentle. A little girl with pretty pigtails and a sweet smile.
This was, unfortunately, propaganda.
Behind that innocent face lived a mind capable of:
political manoeuvring,
emotional manipulation,
strategic bribery, with a smile, illness and infamous Tangerine Peel Candy.
social engineering,
and matchmaking on a level that should probably require imperial licensing.
Relationship with Fan Changyu
Officially:
Older sister.
Actually:
Her entire world.
Chang Ning lost her parents when she was still too young to truly understand death. She did not understand funerals, or mourning, or why the adults around her cried.
She only understood one thing: When she reached out her hand in fear, her sister held it....And never let go.
The day their parents died, Fan Changyu was still only a girl herself. Yet somehow, she became a roof over her sister's head, a pair of hands to feed her, a warm quilt on cold nights, a lantern left burning in the dark.
The world had taken their parents and left behind two frightened children. So Changyu quietly stepped into the empty place.
She became their home.
She slaughtered pigs to feed them both. Worked until her hands were rough and her wrists ached. Counted every coin twice and every grain of rice three times. She went hungry so Chang Ning could have the larger portion. She hid her tears so Chang Ning would not be frightened. And no matter how difficult life became, she smiled.
Because if she smiled, perhaps her little sister would believe that nothing had changed. Perhaps she would still believe they were a complete family.
Changyu spent months holding together the illusion of a whole household with little more than sheer will and a stubborn, loving heart.
She became sister and mother, father and guardian, all at once....And children remember such things.
Even if they do not speak of them.
So while the world later came to know Fan Changyu as General Huaihua, Chang Ning never saw the General first.
She saw the girl who braided her hair and wiped her face every morning. The girl who cooked her favourite braised pig tails whenever there was enough money for meat. She saw the dedicated older sister who carried her on her back when she was sick, a caring hand who held her through thunderstorms. The A-Jie who promised: "As long as I am here, you will always have a home."
...And Changyu kept that promise, every single day.
For all her intelligence, all her schemes, all her political brilliance, Chang Ning had one weakness.
Fan Changyu.
Because how could she not?
The world gave her an older sister.
Fan Changyu gave her an entire family.
Zhang Linghe as Xie Zheng Pursuit of Jade 逐玉 · 2026
Pursuit of Jade Review: Come for Zhang Linghe’s Face, Stay for Tian Xiwei’s Epic Butcher Knife Slayage
Love the fake marriage trope? Read our Pursuit of Jade review to see why Zhang Linghe and Tian Xiwei are peak 2026 C-drama chaos.
pursuit of jade :
My A-jie is really stingy. Heaven told her to buy a coffin for the handsome gege, she wants to just dig a pit to bury him and be done with it.
Blood Clad Cavalry
A.k.a The Corporate Clean-Up Crew
READ THE FULL CHAPTER HERE
Xie Wu, Xie Jiu, and Xie Qi are not related by blood.
They are, however, united by something much stronger:
Shared workplace trauma.
Specifically, the trauma of keeping Xie Zheng's double life from exploding.
Xie Wu — Human Resources Department
Professional Qualifications:
Large-scale troop deployment.
Military logistics.
Battlefield discipline.
Keeping thousands of soldiers alive under impossible conditions.
Actual Job:
Accidentally safeguarding the future Empress of Great Yin without knowing it.
Pretending not to notice that his Supreme Commander has a suspiciously complicated relationship with a certain butcher girl.
Stopping other romantically clueless members of the Xie Army from "helping."
Protecting the Marchioness at all costs.
Creating opportunities for Hou-ye and his wife to spend time alone without making it obvious.
Managing the consequences whenever those two inevitably create chaos.
Most importantly:
Maintaining a professional expression whenever someone asks inconvenient questions about why the Marquis of Wu'an is secretly working as a matrilocal husband.
This responsibility is, technically speaking, above his pay grade.
Xie Wu's greatest strength is adaptability.
Unfortunately, nothing in military training prepared him for Fan Changyu.
Imagine spending years mastering warfare, logistics, and command strategy only to discover your greatest challenge is writing an incident report that says:
Marchioness Fan administered knockout soup to the Marquis of Wu'an, stole his armour, impersonated a soldier, and personally joined the battle.
Without making the entire army sound completely insane. Even worse, all of it was true.
At some point, Xie Wu likely stared at the report for half an hour before deciding that future historians could deal with the problem.
His daily responsibilities also include preventing well-meaning idiots from exposing Xie Zheng's identity.
This is harder than it sounds. Half the army wants to help. The other half wants to congratulate Hou-ye on being married. Neither group understands the concept of secrecy.
As a result, Xie Wu spends most of his time intercepting conversations before they become disasters.
In another life, he would have made an excellent military commander.
In this one, he is effectively the Human Resources department for a family of emotionally compromised war heroes.
Every morning, Xie Wu wakes up hoping for an enemy ambush.
At least enemy ambushes follow logic.
Fan Changyu does not.
Xie Jiu — The Traumatised Actor
Professional Qualifications:
Counterintelligence.
Deep-cover operations.
High-risk infiltration.
Actual Job:
Community theatre.
During the military tribunal, Xie Zheng's identity must remain hidden from Changyu. Therefore the obvious solution is:
Put Xie Jiu in the Marquis's armour. Hide him behind a curtain. Give him a script. Tell him to pretend to be the most feared military commander in the empire. What could possibly go wrong?
Everything.
Absolutely everything.
The moment Changyu arrives, the script dies. Jin Yuanbao and the 'fan' club only make it worse. Then, Xie Zheng barges in. Changyu goes off-script. The fake Marquis is suddenly presiding over a domestic argument between a husband and wife who are both trying to volunteer themselves for punishment.
Xie Jiu spends the entire scene improvising like a man trying to defuse a bomb while being judged by Heaven.
Xie Jiu is drafting his will and preparing to lose control of his bladder.
Frankly, surviving enemy assassins was probably easier.
Xie Qi — The Professional Third Wheel
Professional Qualifications:
Shadow operations.
Reconnaissance.
Message interception.
Actual Job:
Relationship support staff.
Because Xie Qi is competent, he is constantly assigned the most ridiculous errands.
Need a secret letter delivered?
Xie Qi.
Need somebody to check if the Marchioness is still angry?
Xie Qi.
Need emotional damage assessment after a marital disagreement?
Unfortunately. Also Xie Qi.
His face permanently carries the expression of a man who loves his commander deeply but would also like a raise.