The day I officially became a divine charity case was the day I learned how terrifying a cheerful Xiaohua with a scroll could be.
She stormed into my room at sunrise with a full schedule, a matching hairpiece, and the unshakable energy of someone who'd slept well and wanted me to suffer for it.
"Today," she announced, "you're going to bless the people."
I blinked blearily at her from the edge of the bed, still wrapped in a blanket and the lingering regret of being politically useful.
"Which people?"
"All of them," she said brightly.
Half an hour later, I was dressed in a layered seafoam-blue robe with embroidered lotus flowers, my hair twisted up with silver pins I was pretty sure added two pounds to my head. I looked like a deity. I felt like an overdressed dumpling.
The guards escorted me through the gates and into the town square, where Shen Kexian's subtle groundwork had already done the impossible: drawn a crowd without causing chaos. Baskets of rice, fruit, dried herbs, and folded prayer ribbons had been pre-distributed to the eager masses.
It was all very dignified.
Until I had to actually do something.
The first villager stepped forward, a sweet grandmother with a toothless smile and the knees of someone who'd climbed mountains for fun in her youth. She bowed, handed me a small jar of dried mushrooms, and asked me to bless her cow.
I blinked.
"I… beg your pardon?"
"My cow," she repeated patiently. "She's been constipated. A goddess's touch might, you know…" she made a vague pushing motion.
Xiaohua leaned in and whispered, "Just touch the jar and look wise."
So I did. I pressed two fingers to the mushroom jar, mumbled something about water flowing freely, and tried not to think too hard about gastrointestinal blessings.
Next was a merchant who asked if I could "bless" his stubborn son into finally proposing to his girlfriend. Then a child handed me a frog and requested I make it immortal. Then someone asked if I could curse a cheating husband—politely, of course, with divine subtlety.
By the time we reached the temple steps, I had already blessed six chickens, three infants, one love letter, a pouch of something I'm pretty sure was illegal, and a portrait of someone's cat that looked disturbingly like a small nobleman in disguise.
And that was before the miracle demonstration.
The plan was simple, according to Shen Kexian, which should've been my first red flag.
Step one: I would approach the ceremonial basin with divine poise and not trip on my own robe.
Step two: Shen Kexian, standing discreetly behind me like the world's most smug stagehand, would take my hand under the guise of "spiritual alignment."
Step three: Together, we'd channel a modest, graceful miracle. Something tasteful. Elegant. Water would rise, arc gently into the air, and remind everyone present that the heavens supported Prince Wei and the Kingdom was not, in fact, doomed.
That was the plan.
What happened instead was... not that.
The moment I placed my fingers on the edge of the basin, I felt his hand slide into mine—calm, practiced, too confident.
I glanced back at him. Keep it small, I mouthed.
He smiled. Like a liar.
Immediately, the water surged upward—not the gentle curl we rehearsed, but a towering column that spiraled into the air like a sentient ribbon dancer had just discovered caffeine and emotional repression.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The column split into multiple arcs, then weaved into a full-blown blooming lotus formation, sparkling in the sunlight like the opening ceremony of a very expensive festival.
A child squealed.
Someone started crying.
A noble fainted dramatically with one arm thrown over her forehead like she'd just witnessed a divine birth.
I stood there, frozen, watching water twirl through the air while my entire spiritual reputation did jazz hands.
When the display finally ended, the water descended in a slow, elegant cascade back into the basin—no splash, not even a ripple. Just smug serenity.
And then the crowd erupted.
Applause. Actual applause. Cheers. Someone started chanting my name. Xiaohua was crying into a handkerchief she absolutely did not bring for tears.
I turned to Shen Kexian, still gripping his hand.
"You went all out," I hissed.
He gave me a relaxed, infuriatingly satisfied smile. "Well. It is a public miracle."
I wanted to strangle him with his own hair ribbon.
The next morning, the petitions started flooding in.
Literal stacks.
Dozens of scrolls delivered by nervous officials and sweaty attendants, all tripping over each other to present neatly written, overly flowered requests begging—begging—for the Goddess of Water to visit their towns, their villages, their bathhouses, and in one bold case, a family dumpling shop celebrating its third reopening.
I hadn't even finished my tea before Xiaohua tripped over a new armload of them and announced, "Congratulations, Miss Mei Lin. You're now a national miracle dispenser."
Even the Queen couldn't stop it. She tried, of course—sent a firm memo through three ministers, tightened access to the outer gates, and glared a lot—but by then, the wave had already formed.
And she couldn't be seen opposing divine will, no matter how manufactured it was.
Our plan was working.
Just as Shen Kexian predicted.
According to him, we were now moving to Step Two—also known as Political Theater in Three Acts.
Wherever I went to bless something—an altar, a pond, a fish vendor's storefront—Wei Wuxian would coincidentally be there.
So convenient. So subtle.
I had just finished blessing the world's most enthusiastic cabbage patch when I felt him before I saw him.
Soft footsteps, the faint scent of plum wine and mischief. Then—
"Oh," Wei Wuxian said, feigning surprise like a man who definitely rehearsed this three times in front of a mirror. "You're here too?"
I turned slowly, offering him a practiced, gentle smile. The kind of smile that said I remember the poetry you never wrote me, and also stick to the script, Wei Ying.
"Your Highness," I said sweetly, "fancy running into you… again."
He took a slow bite of a plum. Chewed. Swallowed.
"Seems fate can't get enough of us."
The old woman behind me dropped her prayer ribbon in delight.
"Or maybe you can't," I said softly, stepping just slightly closer. Just enough for the watching crowd to notice.
His smile grew a touch wider. "You wound me."
"Do I?" I tilted my head, batting my lashes once—tastefully, divinely. "You seemed fine the last time we crossed paths at the peach orchard blessing."
He sighed, just loud enough. "That's only because I'm good at hiding pain."
The man near the incense stand gasped audibly.
I pressed a hand gently over my heart, as if touched. "And here I thought time would cool old feelings."
"Time," he said solemnly, "has no power over the heart."
A small child nearby clapped. Someone else whispered, They still love each other!
I glanced up at him through my lashes. "Do you ..still feel the same?"
"My heart never changed," he said softly, leaning just a little too close. "It always belongs to you."
If I had actually been his lover, I would've melted.
Instead, I gave him the faintest, perfectly timed smile. "Then I hope that will never change."
He looked like he wanted to laugh. Instead, he bowed his head slightly. "I never will."
And we turned back to the watching crowd—noble wives swooning, farmers nodding in tragic approval, and at least one elderly man dabbing his eyes with a cabbage leaf.
The performance was flawless.
The rumors? Practically wrote themselves.
And when I caught his eye one last time, we both knew the truth—
It was all an act.
But damn, we were good at it.
I didn't stop for a whole week.
Blessings at sunrise. Miracle demonstrations by midday. Flirt rehearsals with Wei Wuxian right on cue, complete with meaningful glances, dramatic pauses, and just enough lingering smiles to make nearby flower sellers cry.
By day three, my wrist was sore from touching so many symbolic water bowls.
By day five, I had memorized four different ways to say "may your rice be abundant" while looking ethereal.
By day seven, I could practically hear Shen Kexian whispering "projecting divine authority" in my sleep.
But the plan was working.
Now that step two was finally behind me—and my ankles, back, and spiritual patience were all equally worn down—I found Shen Kexian exactly where I knew he'd be: pretending to read something important while very obviously waiting for me to ask what came next.
I stood in the doorway of our now-too-familiar training courtyard, arms crossed, hair still damp from whatever ceremonial water ritual I'd just survived. My robes still clung in places they absolutely shouldn't.
"So," I said flatly, "step two is done. I've blessed half the kingdom, made thirty people cry, and flirted with my ex in front of livestock. What's next?"
He finally looked up. Calm eyes. Annoyingly pleased expression.
"Everything we've done so far was to prepare the palace," he said, "Now we prepare the court."
Which, knowing him, probably meant chaos. Beautifully choreographed, meticulously calculated, politically devastating chaos.
And naturally, I'd be standing right in the center of it. Again.
"You need to divide the court," he continued, delicately turning his tea cup between two fingers like he was discussing embroidery, not mass persuasion.
I stared at him. "I already feel like I'm divided. Between my dignity, my fake divine PR campaign, and my lower back."
He didn't even blink. "The Queen's support base is strong—but not absolute. There are neutrals. They just need to see that supporting Wei Wuxian is not only safe, but profitable."
I folded my arms. "And you just happen to know who these 'neutrals' are?"
Without missing a beat, he reached into his sleeve and pulled out a scroll.
I blinked. "You're walking around with a court loyalty map?"
He unrolled the scroll with practiced ease upon the table between us—names, titles, allegiances. Colored inks traced meanings through brushwork, while the margins bore side notes and winding strokes that resembled scholar's sketches. Someone, it seemed, had even painted a tiny figure for their own amusement.
I muttered, "You terrify me."