Once the groundwork was laid, we moved fast. Divide and conquer, Shen Kexian's style.
He handed out assignments like it was a war campaign—which, to be fair, it kind of was. A war fought with quiet nods, polite conversation, and carefully steeped tea.
Ming Yu and Lan Wangji were sent to speak with the cultivator families and military officers—commanders, generals, battle-scarred veterans with sharp eyes and long memories. The kind of people who didn't care about poetry or divine favor, but about loyalty, strategy, and whether Wei Wuxian had the spine to lead.
Wei Wuxian took on the neutrals in court—the ministers who preferred to keep their heads down unless bribed with relevance. With his easy charm, disarming laughter, and well-rehearsed humility, he gave them just enough reassurance that backing him wouldn't be political suicide.
Yuling, meanwhile, was a few weeks from giving birth and fully weaponized.
She wasn't hosting tea or playing nice. She was leveraging her pregnancy like a chess move—subtly reminding everyone that her son, a legitimate royal heir, would one day be in line for the throne if Wei Wuxian were crowned. She began sending quiet messages through favored palace attendants, calling in small favors, politely reminding people who helped her during her quieter days that now would be a very good time to show loyalty.
By the time the Queen's circle realized what she was doing, half of the palace's mid-ranking staff had switched sides—and the King's consorts, once neutral, were now softly echoing Yuling's talking points like they were their own.
That left me—and Shen Kexian.
Our job? The scary ones.
The ministers most loyal to the Queen. The ones who didn't flinch at corruption, wore righteousness like cologne, and could sniff out weakness in a sentence.
"We don't need to convert them," Shen Kexian had said, lacing his robe like we were going for brunch. "Just make them doubt."
Doubt the Queen. Doubt her plan. Doubt that her heir was legitimate, ready, or even hers to elevate.
The room was too quiet.
Not respectful quiet—evaluating quiet. The kind that made you sit straighter even though you weren't slouching.
Two ministers sat waiting at the table, their robes crisp, their expressions unreadable. No bow. No nod. Just those small, polite faces that meant: we are listening because we have to, not because we want to.
I followed Shen Kexian in and sat beside him, pretending I didn't notice that the space between us and them felt more like a cliff than a table.
These are the ones who've been in power since the dawn of time, I thought. They've probably outlived three palace scandals and one minor coup by sheer willpower and tight calligraphy.
Shen Kexian greeted them smoothly.
"Minister Lu. Minister Han. Thank you for making the time."
A nod from one. A mild blink from the other.
He didn't pause.
"I'll be direct," he continued, tone composed. "You've seen the shift. Public support for Prince Wei has risen—not just through the temple, but in every district touched by divine presence. This is not manufactured. It is real."
I kept my hands folded tightly in my lap and tried not to sweat through my outer robe.
Divine presence, I thought. That's me. I'm the divine presence. Dressed like a walking teacup and pretending I belong here.
Minister Han finally spoke.
"And you believe this momentum should dictate succession?"
Shen Kexian met his gaze evenly. "I believe ignoring it would be unwise. The court's purpose is to preserve balance. This shift is a result of public will—guided, yes, but not invented. They see stability in Prince Wei."
Minister Lu looked at me—not coldly, but distantly. Like I was being measured for a future role I hadn't auditioned for.
I didn't flinch.
Please don't ask me to bless the teapot, I begged silently. Please don't make me speak in riddles.
"The Queen has her own plans," Lu said slowly. "You expect us to oppose that?"
"I expect you to consider your own survival," Shen Kexian replied. "Backing the right heir ensures your influence remains. Refusing to shift when the world moves only leaves you behind."
There was a long pause.
And then Shen Kexian, who had been quiet for several beats, gently placed his teacup down with a soft clink.
"There's another matter I find curious," he said, as if casually commenting on the weather.
Both ministers looked at him.
"Prince Wei's position aside," he continued, "I've been reviewing some of the palace ledgers. Rotations. Service notes. Maid assignments."
I blinked once. He was doing what now?
"And?" Minister Han asked, eyes narrowing slightly.
Shen Kexian gave a mild, almost bored shrug. "It's just odd, that's all. One of the records from the Queen's east wing noted that Consort Yufei's monthly cycle was logged three days after her official consummation date."
The silence hit like a thunderclap in slow motion.
Both ministers froze.
Minister Lu's grip tightened slightly on his cup.
Minister Han blinked once—slowly.
Shen Kexian didn't move. Didn't blink. Just waited, still and calm.
"Of course," he added smoothly, "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation. Palace records aren't always accurate."
He smiled politely and casually sipped his tea.
Minister Han cleared his throat. The sound was soft, but it cut through the silence like a knife through steamed dumpling skin.
"Lord Shen," he said carefully, "are you implying something?"
Shen Kexian didn't flinch. He simply set down his cup with the same steady ease he always had when walking directly into dangerous territory without blinking.
"Not at all," he replied, voice mild. "Only that King Zhuang and Prince Wei both share a rather unique birthmark."
He paused, letting the words hang.
"It seems to run in the family."
My heart stuttered.
Shen Kexian continued, gaze drifting with deliberate casualness toward the two ministers.
"I wonder, when the time comes, if both Consort Yuling's child and Consort Yufei's child will share that same mark. Wouldn't that be something?"
Then he turned to me, as if remembering I was still there, and offered the smallest hint of a smirk.
"It's a fascinating phenomenon in royal bloodlines," he said lightly. "Wouldn't you agree, Goddess?"
I stared at him, internally screaming. Oh, we're doing this now. Casual paternity roulette over tea. Fantastic.
But I nodded, slowly. "Remarkable indeed."
The ministers didn't respond.
But they didn't need to.
The shift was visible—eyes slightly too still, hands a little too still, as if both men had suddenly realized they were sitting in the splash zone of a coming storm.
Uncertainty had bloomed.
And doubt? It had teeth.
Shen Kexian rose, graceful as ever. I followed his lead, head high.
"Thank you for your time," he said, bowing just enough to be polite without yielding an inch.
Neither minister moved to stop us.
As we stepped out into the corridor, I finally exhaled.
"That was terrifying," I whispered.
Shen Kexian gave a faint smile, the corners of his mouth twitching like he'd just told the wind a secret.
"They should be afraid," he said. "We've given them a reason."
We didn't speak as we walked back through the quiet corridor, the echo of our steps the only sound between us.
It wasn't until we turned a corner and the sound of footsteps had long faded behind us that I finally stopped.
"Wait, the birthmark," I said. "You said King Zhuang and Wei Wuxian both have it. How do you know that?"
Shen Kexian didn't even slow his stride. "It was a bluff."
I nearly tripped. "What?!"
He glanced at me, entirely unbothered. "Well, it's possible. But I wouldn't know. I've never seen either of them naked."
I just blinked at him, my mouth slightly open, as my brain struggled to recover from the verbal punch.
"You—you made that up?"
He shrugged. "We needed a push. They were stiff. Suspicious. Now they're unsettled. That's progress."
I stared at him in disbelief.
"Unbelievable," I muttered. "You basically weaponized a royal mole rumor."
He arched a brow. "Would you have preferred I performed an actual miracle to detect paternity?"
I was still fuming. And a little impressed. And mildly nauseated.
"Remind me never to play cards with you," I muttered.
Shen Kexian smiled faintly. "I'd win anyway."
He walked me back to my residence, saying little, the silence between us not uncomfortable—but heavy, like something both of us were too tired to name.
At the steps outside my door, he finally spoke.
"You carried yourself well today."
I turned to look at him.
His expression was unreadable, but his voice was warm. "The ministers. The pressure. You were poised. Clear. You did what most people couldn't."
I gave a quiet scoff and looked away. "I'm not really myself these days."
He stopped walking. Not suddenly, not dramatically. Just… stopped.
When I glanced at him, I caught the way his eyes shifted, the way his gaze started to search my face for something that wasn't there.
That's when I saw it—the shift in his eyes, faint but unmistakable—and I realized, too late, he thought I meant her. Lianshui. "Kexian," I said quickly, before that look could settle in, "that's not what I meant." His expression didn't change, not right away, but something in his gaze dimmed. He exhaled, soft and resigned. "I see," he said, and after a pause that felt like the breath before a door shuts, "Anyway… good night, Mei Lin." He turned to leave.
And that's when it happened.
A tingle bloomed in both of my hands—sudden, sharp, electric—and before I could process what was happening, my arms moved on their own. I reached out, grabbing the edge of his sleeve like my body had bypassed my brain entirely.
He froze.
So did I.
Panic mode: activated. Full alert. Every nerve in my body was screaming what did you just do.
I stared at my hands in horror, still clutching his sleeve like I was reenacting a tragic romance scene I had no business starring in. Did I lose control of my limbs? Is this a side effect of spiritual training? Is Shen Kexian contagious?!
My brain scrambled for an emergency exit. Any excuse. Any deflection. Anything to make this moment less emotionally humiliating than it already was.
"I—umm—I need a day off tomorrow!"
The words exploded out of me like they'd been thrown by a divine catapult.
He turned back slowly, gaze cautious and just slightly confused. Not hurt. Not sarcastic. Just… curious. A little too curious.
He didn't speak.
He just nodded.
I dropped his sleeve like it had caught fire. "Good night!" I said in a rush, and then I turned, bolted for my room, and shut the door with the quiet force of someone fleeing her own decision-making skills.
Inside, I pressed my back to the door, face flushed, hands still tingling, completely unsure if I'd just accidentally started a second emotional war.
And outside, I knew—because I felt it—Shen Kexian was still standing there.
Wondering.
And maybe, for once, not entirely sure what just happened.