The night air bit at his cheeks—crisp, still, and heavy with the hush that settled over the palace like a velvet blanket. The clamor of noble duties and chattering courtiers had faded into silence, leaving only the faint echo of footfalls—his own—as he slipped through familiar shadows.
The young prince exhaled, a curl of mist vanishing before his lips. The night patrols loomed as the only barrier between him and his objective, but he was no stranger to slipping past their paths. After all, mischief ran in his blood. He'd memorized every blind spot, every rusted hinge that groaned too loudly, every beam of torchlight that swept too slowly. This wasn't his first secret escape—and if he could help it, it wouldn't be his last.
His mission? As noble as it was ridiculous in the eyes of others.
A visit to the board.
His mother, in her relentless insistence, had demanded he sharpen his poetry skills, declaring it a necessary art for a future ruler. So, in the dead of night, dressed in stolen scraps of dark fabric, he dashed across the gardens and palace walls like a phantom, parchment in hand and fire in his chest.
Now, under the moon's pale eye, he stood before the public board at the edge of the court sector—a place for scholars, merchants, and ministers to pin declarations or share wisdom. He planted his poem in the center, anchoring it with a smooth river stone. He smiled to himself, proud of his careful calligraphy and the lines he hoped would provoke a stir. Let the Academy whisper. Let the ministers wonder. Let them marvel.
Tonight, he was the poet his mother hoped he could be. A worthy heir to her mastery.
Then—a flicker. A silhouette on the edge of his vision.
He froze. His breath caught mid-inhale.
A figure stood in the distance, barely visible but definitely watching. Taunting. Mocking his secrecy.
His heart leapt into his throat.
Was he seen? By a stranger? A court spy? Worse—someone loyal to his father?
Panic set in. He feared not for his safety, but for the risk of being discovered. His poetry—his secret, personal rebellion—laid bare.
Would he be dragged in chains before the throne, or worse, be treated to one of his mother's poetry "lessons" with that damned cane she loved to call her "guiding brush"?
He sprinted after the figure, breath coming in short bursts, footsteps echoing against the cobblestones. The faster he ran, the further it danced away—slipping through shadowy alleyways, ducking behind crumbling pillars. Never gone. Never caught. It wasn't fleeing. It was toying with him. Teasing the desperation of a boy whose double life teetered on the edge of discovery.
He stopped. Frozen. His chest heaved. His legs ached, his eyes stung, his lungs burned. The chase had been fruitless. The figure had vanished—swallowed whole by the vast, unfeeling labyrinth of the city.
And then, before him: a vision. A yearning. Towering and defiant. Its arch blazed crimson and gold, crowned with a sweeping roof tiled like dragon scales, glinting in the moonlight. On either side, stone walls stretched into the night like the arms of a slumbering giant, embracing the city in a tight, ancient grip. Two watchtowers loomed above—stern, silent sentinels pretending not to notice the glint of mischief flickering in his eyes.
Grinning stone lions lounged at the base, mouths half-open in what might've been laughter… or warning. Who could say?
The heavy wooden doors stood barely closed, carved with clouds and phoenixes caught mid-flight. A worthy temptation. Beyond them was freedom, and it smelled like wild wind and trouble.
He stared at it losing himself within it's promise. What if… just once…
A hand clamped down on his shoulder.
"I knew it," a voice said, sharp and unmistakable.
His stomach sank.
No need to turn. That voice belonged to her. The bane of his early mornings and late hours. The hawk-eyed sentinel assigned to him by his mother. His not-by-blood sister, but no less relentless.
Li Xiulan.
"You're out of your mind if you think black robes and moonlight make you invisible," she snapped, yanking him back.
"I—I was just—" he stammered, already pivoting into a sprint.
"Don't you dare run!" she barked, but he was already bolting.
He raced toward the gates—no intention of climbing, only of escape. From her. From the shame. From the fear that she'd seen everything.
But before he could devise a plan, the world turned black. Not night-black. Not shadow-black. Just Nothingness. A void in which he was helpeless.
Mingyao clutched her temples as the memory surged, jagged and sharp as broken glass. Her vision blurred. Her breath came shallow.
The scent of old ink. The chill of stone beneath bare feet. A whisper of wind. The echo of footsteps that never reached her.
Why now?
She blinked — reality crashed back in: The auction hall. The item.
A poem. A familiar style.
She had felt that moment again.
The chasing. The confrontation. The vanishing.
And then…
Xiulan.
Her sister.
Dead. Well almost.
If it wasn't for his master... She didn't remember the whole night—just fragments. Faint images of Li Xiulan's crumpled form. The weight of that night shaped her purpose.
She clenched her fists. Her mouth moved before her mind caught up.
"1000 taels."
The room stirred. Heads turned. From a 300 taels to 1000.
A ripple of confusion stirred among her entourage. This wasn't the piece they had come for. They exchanged glances but said nothing. She was the crown prince. The youngest grandmaster in the empire. Their pavilion master.
They obeyed.
The auctioneer's voice rang out:
"1,000 taels from the representative of the Hidden Gold Alliance, Lady Shen Yueqing."
Mingyao's gaze swept the crowd. Not to assess threats. Not to flaunt her bid. She was searching. Hoping—not hoping—
But she wasn't there.
Of course, she wouldn't be.
Buried beneath layers of incense smoke and ceremonial silence.
Still…
"2,000," came a silky voice from across the hall.
Mingyao's head snapped to the side, her sharp gaze landing on the source.
A woman reclined near the eastern platform, draped like royalty in lilac and midnight. The way she lounged—half-bored, half-predator—was the mark of someone long accustomed to watching others scurry for her amusement. Her robes rippled with every slight shift, fabric whispering like water over stone. Silver-threaded magnolia blossoms bloomed across her sleeves—delicate, imperious. Her beauty wasn't loud, it was curated like a mask. Controlled. Like the blade of a dagger concealed in silk.
She tapped a folding fan idly against her chin, eyes glinting with calculation scanning the hall like a hunter watching prey exhaust itself.
But to Mingyao, she was no one of importance—just another noblewoman with money to burn and secrets behind her smile.
A mosquito at a banquet—irritating but ultimately harmless.
Yet the irritation had begun to sting.
"Two thousand to the Mistress of Spring Breeze," the announcer declared with professional poise, though even he seemed wary of the tension coiling in the air.
Mingyao inhaled, slow and deep. Her fingers curled slightly in her lap.
"2,500," the words clipped and clear, slicing through the air.
"2500 to Lady Shen."
Gao raised an eyebrow. Her lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Three thousand."
The crowd stirred — murmurs rising like ripples in a still pond. A small bidding war over an old poem? Curious.
"Three thousand to Lady Gao," the announcer said, glancing between the two women like a hawk sizing up rival predators.
Mingyao's brow twitched. She drew in a breath, preparing to counter — but was interrupted by a deeper voice, rich and measured.
"Three thousand two hundred."
All heads turned. Master Liu — the Crane Whisperer himself — stroked his beard with interest, his expression indiscernable. A man of refinement, known for his pride and impeccable timing.
Mingyao exhaled through her nose, the flicker of irritation beginning to smolder into heat.
"Three thousand five hundred," she said, cool as winter wind.
For a moment, silence.
"Three thousand five hundred. Going once..."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. She thought she'd secured the memory—
Then—
"Four thousand."
The words hit like a slap.
"The Marquis of Gold and Silk, Master Chen."
Mingyao's gaze locked on him—Chen Yichen. His robe shimmered like molten bronze, his smile poised and deliberately irritating.
"4,100."
"4,200."
Back and forth it went, each number grinding against the edges of her composure.
"4,500."
"4,800."
Her breathing quickened. This wasn't about profit. This was personal. Intimate.
"4,900."
"5,000."
The rhythm of their bidding quickened, like the rising cadence of a battle hymn. With every bid, Mingyao felt the walls tightening — her chest constricting
Was he playing with her?
Mo Yan leaned in. "This is reckless, Grandmaster. The poem is not our objective today. Let him have it."
She didn't answer. Her fingers tightened around her bid token. Her eyes glued on Chen Yichen.
He smirked. He's was enjoying this.
"Master Chen," she said, voice soft, almost playful, "you seem to be enjoying this little game. If this is a challenge, I welcome it. But know this—should you match me again, I'll follow you to the bitter end."
The room went still.
Chen raised a brow. He opened his mouth, perhaps to retort with some cutting remark—but then, instead, a quiet laugh escaped him.
She didn't blink.
Then—
"7,000."
Gasps rippled through the room like waves against stone.
"7,000 taels to Lady Shen. Going once... going twice... Sold."
"Congratulations, Lady Shen," Chen said smoothly, bowing slightly from his seat. "Don't take it too seriously. It was all in good fun. I just wanted to know what kind of woman my future sister-in-law might be."
The words were light. But the way he watched her—eyes sharp beneath the curve of his smile—there was something more. A warning? A tease? A grudge not yet dead?
Mingyao's lips didn't move, but her mind spun.
So this was about his brother… or the money. A move for his brother's sake? But they're estranged. More likely, he's angry I claimed fifteen thousand taels to buy Shen Yueqing's 'freedom'—petty revenge, personal and bitter.
No matter
Then the auctioneer cleared his throat and raised the item.
"And so ends the first set. Lady Shen, as per the will of the previous owner, the winner of the poem shall receive the complete collection."
She lifted a lacquered box—deep violet with mother-of-pearl inlay. Inside rested a hand-bound volume. Leather-wrapped. Worn, but not aged. A modern object in a hall of antiques.
"Congratulations, Lady Shen. You are now the keeper of A legacy of a girl from the 21st century."
Mingyao's breath caught—but her face betrayed nothing. She took the box with a nod, fingers brushing the surface reverently. Something unuttered passed through her.
She stared at the book. The relic of a soul, one that reached across existence to grab her by the heart.
She closed the box.
"Now, for the item you've all been waiting for," the auctioneer announced. "Qian Fu Hall."
Excitement stirred like dry leaves in wind.
Every one leaned forward.
"Opening bid starts at 2,000 taels."
"3,000!" Mingyao shot out before anyone's mouth could even open.
"Five thousand," Yue ying who was sitting across the room countered her voice as cool and crisp as morning dew.
"7,000," Chen Yichen followed swiftly, eager now—too eager.
Mingyao almost smiled.
The trap was sprung.
Let Yue Ying 'duel' with her. Let Chen get caught in the crossfire. Let greed do the rest.
The price would soar—far beyond reason. And the Chen family, bloated with ambition and already stretched thin from recent investments, would have no choice but to double down. And fall.
The only flaw in her plan—her one hesitation—stood right beside her. Mo Yan, visibly anxious, shifted on her feet. She caught the worry in her eyes.
But there was no turning back now.
She drew a breath, quieted the doubt rising in her chest, and steeled her resolve.
It had to be done.