With that settled, here she was standing stiffly in front of Shu Mingye's chamber, looking every bit like a nervous little servant caught stealing pastries.
How did it come to this? Well, because Song Meiyu said so.
"Go ask the grumpy Demon King," Song Meiyu had said earlier, shoving a bottle of healing elixir and a jar of ointment into Linyue's hands. An excuse, or maybe a bribe. Before Song Meiyu could launch into one of her long, fiery speeches about teamwork and responsibility, Linyue had quietly slipped away.
The hallway was quiet. No guards, no servants, no movement. Maybe he was resting. Or maybe… dead? Hm. If so, that would be inconvenient. She lifted her hand and knocked twice. Lightly. Just in case.
There was a pause. Then came a low voice from within—short, cold, and sharp. "Who?"
Not his usual tone with her. This one was sharp and flat like he had just bitten into something sour.
Linyue answered half-jokingly, "Uglier Linyue."
She had remembered what he said. Make it uglier, he had told her with that strange, straight face of his. She had agreed. So before leaving her chamber, she had reached for the jade dust powder and adjusted her face accordingly. Slightly duller eyes. Uneven eyebrows. A convincingly ugly scar running from her lip and curling faintly below one eye. Truly, very impressive work, if she said so herself.
A long silence followed her answer. Maybe he was regretting his life choices. Good.
Inside the room, Shu Mingye lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. His chest ached. Again. He had torn the wound open earlier, because of course he had. Chasing after her like some reckless idiot when he thought she was leaving. The memory alone made him sigh, half in regret, half in irritation at himself. Now his chest, arm, leg, and even his back were wrapped in layers of fresh bandages. The palace physician had scolded him for nearly an hour, voice rising higher and higher.
"Stop running around like a man possessed," the physician had snapped. Which, Shu Mingye had learned, was not a suggestion, but a strict order backed with death glares. So here he was. Trapped in bed. Restless. Annoyed. And still thinking about her anyway.
The Weeping Moon was coming soon. He needed to recover. He needed focus. He needed sleep. He closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to will his body into staying still.
Knock knock.
His eyes snapped open. A frown pulled at his face. Didn't he tell everyone very clearly to leave him alone? No guards. No servants. No interruptions. Was that so hard to understand?
His voice came out sharp and flat. "Who?"
A pause. Then from the other side of the door came a familiar voice. Calm, dry, and just the tiniest bit mocking. "Uglier Linyue."
Shu Mingye blinked. For half a second, his mind stalled. And then his body moved on pure instinct. He sat up straight, ignoring the sharp protest from his ribs.
"Uglier?" he muttered to himself. And then he smiled. A slow, amused, thoroughly smitten smile.
She came. And she even listened to him. The ridiculous man who told her to make her face less pretty. What kind of woman actually did that?
Only her.
Only Linyue.
He swung his legs off the bed, wincing as his ribs reminded him he was supposed to be recovering, and crossed the room to open the door. And there she was.
He stared. One second. Two seconds. Then he burst out laughing.
What in the heavens was that face? Her eyebrows were uneven. Her nose slightly too wide. And was that a scar?
Ugly. Ridiculous. Absolutely perfect.
His laughter came out uncontrollably. Leaning against the doorframe for support, his shoulders shook with every breath, his bandaged chest protesting violently, but did he care? Not even a little. If this was her version of "uglier," then she had gone all in. It was absolutely ridiculous. And somehow, it made his heart feel strangely light.
Meanwhile, Linyue stood perfectly still, her face as flat as the scar she had painted on. She simply watched him laugh himself half to death in the doorway.
So this was really his preference? Truly? She had transformed herself into something as plain as steamed tofu, and yet here he was—delighted, shoulders shaking, laughing like a lunatic.
Wonderful. But she wasn't here to entertain him or to receive compliments on her performance. She had a purpose.
"I came here to ask for permission," she said evenly.
His laughter stopped immediately. Of course. She wasn't here for him. She wasn't here to see if he was still alive, or to ask how his wounds were, or even to sit with him for a little while. She had a reason. A purpose.
Shu Mingye felt the ache in his chest again. It was starting to become a permanent resident there. "What permission?"
"To use the palace training ground."
The training ground? Why did that sound dangerous? Every alarm bell in his head going off.
He narrowed his eyes, his voice low and suspicious. "Why? What are you all planning now? Planting seeds again? Digging tunnel to the underworld?"
With her calmest, most innocent voice, she replied, "Training."
He stared at her. Hard. Not a single muscle in his face moved. He didn't believe her. Not even for a second. "Training?" he repeated slowly. "How can I believe that, when the last time you said you were planting seeds, it turned the entire courtyard into a volcano?"
"Volcano?" Linyue repeated.
Shu Mingye raised a hand and pointed vaguely over her shoulder toward the direction of the still-charred, traumatized courtyard. "Those seeds. The ones that were supposed to grow into fireworks. They somehow grew into a volcano."
Linyue paused, as if searching through a mental list of disasters. Then she gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "Ah. That one. Right." She tilted her head slightly. "We might have gotten a little excited and went overboard with the seeds," she admitted, utterly unfazed.
A little excited. Shu Mingye stared at her, incredulous. The entire courtyard had been buried under ash and smoking craters, and she called that a little.
"That warning of yours," he said flatly, "was you whispering good luck and running away."
She nodded again, without a shred of shame, as if that had been the proper and most logical course of action.
He ran a hand over his face, torn between laughing or dragging her back to her chamber and locking the door. That ridiculous "uglier" face wasn't helping either. It was impossible to stay angry when she was standing there looking like a slightly grumpy steamed bun with a scar. And as much as he didn't want to admit it, that volcano did help with handling the enemy's soldiers. Maybe he should be saying thank you…?
No. Absolutely not. That would only encourage her, and the last thing the palace needed was more volcanoes.
Then she spoke again. "It's almost Weeping Moon. The others want to train."
Something in her tone had shifted. Softer. More serious.
Shu Mingye's gaze stayed on her face. Still uneven, still ridiculous. Yet his chest gave a small, painful tug. So that was why she had come. Not just for permission. But because she cared. She was planning to stay for the Weeping Moon. To fight demons.
His heart swelled and sank at the same time. He was relieved. He was even… touched. But at the same time, horror crept up his spine.
Yes, she was strong. More than strong. He had seen it with his own eyes. But the Weeping Moon wasn't a game. It wasn't some lively sparring match where everyone went home with a few bruises and a good story. It was dangerous. Brutal. What if something happened to her?
His chest tightened at the thought, the ache in his ribs suddenly felt ten times heavier.
Linyue's calm eyes stayed on him. He still hadn't answered. His expression, as always, was perfectly unreadable, and she misread it completely.
"Then we'll find another place to train," she said simply, already turning to leave.
Shu Mingye's hand shot out before his brain caught up, fingers wrapping around hers. Her hand was cold just like always, but somehow it made his own feel hot, almost feverish.
"I didn't say no," he said quickly.
She raised her uneven eyebrows. "You didn't say yes either."
"Accompany me," he blurted. His mouth moved faster than his common sense. His brain froze. What?!
Panic spiked in his chest. What had he just said? Why had he said it? His grip on her hand tightened, as if holding on could keep his own words from escaping into the world.
"To walk…" he added quickly, scrambling for an excuse that sounded even remotely reasonable, "…to the training ground."
He let out a quiet, controlled exhale. Close. Far too close. Because the first thing that had nearly come out of his mouth wasn't training ground at all. He almost said to my bed. His brain nearly short-circuited just thinking about it.
Disaster averted—barely.
Dangerous, he decided. She was absolutely, catastrophically dangerous.