Chapter Seven: She Is Not My Master

Near the entrance of the Taibai Tavern stood a battered square table, missing one corner, with two uneven little stools beside it. Upon the table, there were neither divination sticks nor tortoise shells, no copper coins or hexagrams—only a faded cloth banner, its color washed pale by countless launderings, fluttering weakly in the breeze.

On the banner, two crooked ink characters sprawled—“Guessing Hearts”—as though scrawled by a drunken hand.

Beside them, a row of tiny, insect-like script could barely be made out unless one leaned in close: “Should my guess be wrong, I take no fee; should my guess be right, you owe me wine.”

The stall’s proprietor was a woman whose age was impossible to discern, yet her face alone could eclipse all the painted beauties on this bustling street. She wore a robe of coarse cloth, washed so often it had taken on a blue-green sheen, draped loosely over her figure, lending her an air of androgynous grace.

At that moment, she lounged lazily on her stool, one hand propping up her chin, the other idly swirling a vermilion wine gourd. Her eyes were half-lidded, half-dreamy, as if tipsy, yet her gaze did not linger on the passing crowds, but on the dying glow of sunset burning at the edge of the sky.

Such a figure, such a stall—anyone who saw it would think, “What a beautiful charlatan has come to town?”

Just as this thought took shape, a portly silk merchant, his face slick with oil and anxiety, hurried over and bowed low to the ground: “Divine Lady, might you cast a fortune for me? I wonder about my recent luck with wealth…”

The woman did not even raise her eyelids, merely waved a dismissive hand and replied coolly, “No. Your heart is too filthy—reeking of copper and crawling with thoughts that cannot bear the light of day. If I were to guess your thoughts, it would sully my ears.”

The merchant flushed beet-red, mumbled a few words, and slunk away, crestfallen.

Soon after, a porter with a face full of worry and a body reeking of sweat approached, standing uneasily before her.

Only then did the woman open her eyes to study him. Suddenly, she smiled—a smile so radiant it seemed to brighten the very lamps along the street. “Well now, you’re a curious one. The stories in your heart are fuller than the wine in my gourd. Come, sit. Let your elder sister have a guess at them.”

The porter, flustered by her favor, rubbed his hands and stammered, “I heard that, before the Divine Lady divines, one must fetch you a jug of burning liquor. But I, well…”

“Ah,” she interrupted, waving him off and shaking her brimming crimson wine gourd with a laugh. “Today, that won’t be needed. Just sit and speak.”

Inside the gourd, of course, was the Autumn Dew White that Lu Chenyuan had just purchased from the Taibai Tavern for two hundred sixty copper coins—a sum that, in days past, would have cost him ten days’ hard labor at least. Yet, with more than a tael of silver still in his sleeve, he found the purchase almost too easy.

Seeing the porter’s grateful tears as he sat down, Situ was in no rush to inquire further. She waited until she’d downed a mouthful of fiery liquor and her cheeks were tinged with rose before fixing her gaze on the porter and drawling, “Last night, at the third watch, did you not dream of a house brimming with gold and silver, only to scoop up a handful of yellow sand instead?”

The porter leapt up, aghast, “Divine Lady! How did you know?!”

Situ scoffed, taking another swig. “I am not guessing your dream, but the greedy ghost in your heart. You desire too much, clutch too tightly—of course the gold in your grasp crumbles to sand.”

“Go back, sort out those rotten accounts in your ledger, and steer clear of gambling dens you have no business in. It’ll do you more good than praying to gods and spirits here.”

Her words struck the porter like a thunderclap, causing cold sweat to stream down his back. He thanked her profusely and departed.

Lu Chenyuan watched from the side, shaking his head inwardly. His master’s methods were nothing but reading faces and hearts, yet people always believed her.

He was about to clear the table when a burst of rowdy laughter sounded. A gang of local ruffians swaggered over, their leader’s sly eyes roaming unabashedly over Situ.

“Hey, pretty girl, why don’t you tell us our fortunes, too? See how lucky we’ll be in love tonight?” the lead rogue jeered.

Situ ignored them, picking up a sunflower seed between her fingers and flicking it with a snap. The shell struck the ringleader squarely between the brows—not hard, but enough to make him stumble.

“Scram,” she said, a single word.

A chill rose from the soles of the ruffians’ feet. Their usual bravado withered to nothing; after exchanging uneasy glances, they slunk away.

Lu Chenyuan had just breathed a sigh of relief when trouble arrived once more.

From the shadows at the street corner, several figures emerged—each dressed in splendid finery, their bearing noble and aloof, a world apart from the common rabble. Leading them was a young nobleman, his face as flawless as sculpted jade, eyes bright as stars, a gold-flecked fan of Xiangfei bamboo bones twirling lightly in his hand—a true scion of the capital’s elite.

Yet his eyes, though smiling, were laced with condescension.

Behind him stood four attendants, all clad in black, close-fitting garb, identical curved sabers at their waists. Their faces were expressionless, as if cast in iron, utterly unmoved by the bustling market around them.

Those idle onlookers who had drawn near felt a sudden chill, as if doused with ice water, their curiosity dissolving into dread, forcing them to keep their distance.

Lu Chenyuan needed only one glance to know these four were no ordinary guards.

The young nobleman’s gaze clung to Situ, never wavering.

Situ, however, seemed not to notice.

She simply reclined against her chair, idly scratching the chin of a stray kitten that had leapt onto her table. The cat purred contentedly, rubbing affectionately against her fingertip, oblivious to the gathering storm.

To her, the hubbub of the street and the approaching threat were less interesting than the rumble in the kitten’s throat.

The nobleman, seeing her indifference, only smiled wider.

At that moment, in a private room on the second floor of Taibai Tavern, a handsome youth in white sat by the window, toying with a fan of even greater value—its ribs of white jade, its surface boldly inscribed with four characters: “The World for All.”

Behind him, a guard in black noticed the richly dressed lordling seemed intent on causing trouble and frowned minutely. Though the scion of the Marquis of Pingyang’s house was not to be feared, any disturbance here might interfere with the Princess’s plans, or worse, attract unwanted scrutiny.

With that thought, his eyes flashed coldly as he half-rose, ready to eliminate this source of trouble.

Shangguan Chuci, without turning her head, raised her jade fan to block his path and spoke softly, her voice clear and commanding. “No rush. The fish have yet to bite—don’t disturb the water.”

With that, her gaze, full of interest, settled on the center of the commotion.

First, she saw the languid woman in blue—a figure so stunning that even her discerning eye could not help but praise her: “What a remarkable beauty. Who would expect to find such a person in a backwater like Zhenhaichuan?”

Then her attention shifted to the coarse-clad youth beside the woman, and she was inwardly surprised. “So it is him. He likely does not yet realize he is about to become the Marquis’s laughingstock, the sacrificial pawn for this year’s Festival of Tides.”

She twirled her fan, her eyes full of amusement. At every grand occasion, some fallen noble would leap forth to provoke the obscure, making a spectacle of themselves. It was merely a way to show the powerful tea-sipping lords in Tingchao Pavilion: “See? The House of Pingyang is not yet extinct. I, Zhao Chengde, still hold sway in Zhenhaichuan.”

With that in mind, Shangguan Chuci settled in to watch the show, lifting her teacup with elegance.

The young marquis ignored Situ, focusing instead on Lu Chenyuan, laughing aloud: “This fairy has fine taste, finding such a pretty little thing to ease her loneliness in this noisy place. But tell me, does he serve you well? If not, my residence has several who are more obedient—I could send one to amuse you.”

Lu Chenyuan’s face darkened, hot blood surging to his head. He stepped forward, thin but resolute, shielding Situ behind him, his eyes locked on the nobleman as he ground out, “Show some respect. This is my master.”

“Master?” the nobleman echoed, as if hearing the greatest joke in the world. He blinked, then covered his mouth with his fan and burst out laughing, shoulders shaking with glee. Even his four guards betrayed sneers of disdain.

After a long laugh, Zhao Chengde straightened, pointing his fan at Lu Chenyuan and calling to the crowd, “Hear that? He claims this fairy is his master! Ha! A mere mortal, devoid of spiritual energy, dares call her his teacher? If you ask me, it’s not ‘master and disciple’ but ‘servant and disciple!’”

He emphasized the word “servant” with deliberate weight, his eyes roaming over Lu Chenyuan’s homespun clothes and Situ’s devastating beauty. He clicked his tongue in mock admiration, “What a clever woman. I thought all women coveted gold or power, but here is one with taste for uncut jade—untouched, innocent. A different kind of training, I suppose.”

His suggestive words drew a round of knowing laughter from the crowd.

Lu Chenyuan’s fists clenched, rage boiling in his chest.

The young marquis, seeing the boy’s ashen face and suppressed fury, grew more pleased, fixing him with a mocking gaze, stepping closer to whisper with feigned pity, “Boy, do you really see yourself as her disciple? Don’t be foolish. To her, you are merely a toy for idle moments. She teaches you your letters as one teaches a caged songbird to chirp—a novelty, nothing more.”

He paused, glancing at Situ still toying with the kitten, his smile twisting with malice. “See? She doesn’t even look at you. Because in her eyes, you’re no different from the beast beneath her finger—both pets to be cast aside when she loses interest.”

At those words, Lu Chenyuan’s body jolted as if struck. A ringing filled his head and the world seemed to recede to a distant blur.

Instinctively, he turned to look at the figure he had followed and depended on for ten long years.

At that moment, the hand with which Situ stroked the kitten stilled.

The stray, which had been purring contentedly, sensed the change as well. It arched its back, baring its teeth at the young marquis with a menacing hiss.

Situ Qianxun did not look at the bristling cat. Instead, she lifted her head slowly.

Those eyes, always half-drowsy with wine and indolence, were now clear as autumn water, deep as a frozen lake. She did not look at the arrogant marquis, nor at the jeering crowd. Her gaze passed through the noise and dust, falling, unwavering, upon Lu Chenyuan’s face.

As if to ask: “My Yuan, it’s been ten years—how have I treated you?”

His eyes met hers.

In those limpid depths, he saw his own face, twisted with anger and humiliation, and, for a fleeting instant, a glimmer of earnestness.

It was enough.

Lu Chenyuan slowly turned back.

Facing the marquis’s self-satisfied, victorious grin, the storm of fury on his face miraculously faded, replaced by a deathly calm—the hush before the tempest.

He looked at Zhao Chengde and, to everyone’s astonishment, even managed a slight smile.

“You’re right,” he said softly, his voice low but clear as a bell to all present. “She…is not my master.”

A shock ran through the crowd.

Situ looked puzzled, then her lips curled in curiosity and expectation.

The young marquis arched his brows, certain the boy would now beg for mercy. But as he prepared to deliver another cutting jibe, his smile froze.

For in the depths of Lu Chenyuan’s black eyes, a strange blue flame kindled, cold rather than hot, as if from the deepest abyss.

A terror, ancient and regal, mixed with the silence of the grave, emanated from the youth’s slender frame, spreading like a tide.

On both sides of his neck, beneath the skin, black, writhing sigils lit up—formed not of ink but of countless tiny, shifting eyes and mouths, fusing at last into a complex, shifting sigil at his brow.

The very light around him seemed to warp, the air thickening, heavy. Lanterns along the street no longer glowed warm yellow, but a sickly, ghastly white. Distant voices sharpened into a meaningless drone.

Zhao Chengde’s eyes widened, pupils shrinking in horror. He was seized by the uncanny sensation that, though Lu Chenyuan stood before him, his true location was uncertain—less a person than a flickering reflection on water, visible but forever out of reach.

The four elite guards behind the marquis turned ashen, their hands instinctively reaching for their blades—only to find them trembling, disobedient in the face of a soul-deep dread.

Zhao Chengde began to shake uncontrollably, as if gripped by madness.

What was this?! Transcendence? No, not merely that—this was Oblivion!

How could a mere mortal…?

In the suffocating silence, Lu Chenyuan spoke again. His voice was calm, yet resonant with a force that seemed to echo through heaven and earth.

“She…is my woman!”