After a while, Linyue let out a long breath and patted Song Meiyu's back. "Alright. Enough hugging. We decided to help during Weeping Moon, didn't we?"
Song Meiyu gave a small nod. "Yeah."
Linyue looked at her seriously. "Are you staying inside the wall to help the wounded, or do you want to fight outside, Sister Meiyu?"
Song Meiyu blinked. "Didn't you and Brother Zhenyu tell me to stay inside? I'm supposed to be bandaging heroic people and yelling at them for bleeding too much."
Linyue nodded lightly. "Yes. But if you want to fight outside, you can. I'll protect you."
Immediately, Song Meiyu's eyes went glossy again, and she slapped both hands over her mouth. "Sister Linyue, you've really changed. You're talking so sweetly now. My heart can't take it. I'm going to melt into soup."
Linyue gave a small smile. "You should get used to it. Or you'll end up crying every day."
He Yuying muttered around his meat pie. "Too late. She's already halfway to becoming a puddle."
"That's right. I already cry every day!" Song Meiyu wailed, clutching Linyue in yet another hug. "But now it's tears of joy! You're not stunted anymore. You—you've grown up so beautifully!"
He Yuying, still working on his third meat pie, muttered without looking up, "She's not a plant, Sister Meiyu."
"She is!" Song Meiyu shot back proudly, placing a hand over her chest. "Just… she bloomed without sunlight. But with… naps."
Linyue nodded once. "I know. I'm amazing."
"Yes," Song Meiyu said, dabbing at imaginary tears. "But just so you know, I'm still going to keep an eye on you. A close one. A suspicious one. At all times."
"Of course, how else would I survive?"
Song Meiyu giggled so hard she nearly fell backward off the bed.
Linyue stood up. She walked over to He Yuying—still lounging smugly in his chair—and, without a single word, kicked him straight out the door.
"Rude," he called from the hallway. "So much violence in this household."
The door shut with a satisfying click. Peace, at last.
Linyue turned to the wardrobe and began changing into her new set of robes. She chose the crimson ones. The white inner layer peeked out beneath, crisp and sharp. The deep red outer robe wrapped snugly around her. The sleeves narrowed neatly at her wrists. No more floppy fabric to snag on sword hilts or tea cups. The split skirt revealed plain white pants underneath, perfect for running, fighting, or kicking demons in the face.
She tied her long hair into a high ponytail. The red cord she used had a long tassel at the end that swung behind her like a fox's tail every time she turned her head. Quiet. Graceful. Mischievous.
When she finally turned around, ready for battle, Song Meiyu—who had somehow ended up sprawled across the bed like a fainting noblewoman—let out a high-pitched squeak.
"Sister Linyue," Song Meiyu gasped, "you look like a goddess of vengeance. So beautiful. So gorgeous. But also… dangerous. Like someone who would stab first and ask questions never. It suits you so well."
Linyue smiled faintly. "I know."
She turned toward the door, her steps light but full of quiet purpose. Just before her hand touched the handle, she glanced over her shoulder. "Let's confuse the demons."
And with a single playful wink, she vanished through the door. The red tassel tied to her ponytail flicked behind her like a warning.
Inside the room, Song Meiyu clutched her face and let out another ear-splitting squeal. "She winked. She winked. We're doomed. The demons don't stand a chance!"
He Yuying's voice floated faintly from somewhere down the hallway. "If she winked, tell the Demon King to bring backup for himself."
Outside, Linyue paused. Not because she cared about their noise. Her brain had simply decided to wander off again.
Should she bring the flute?
The hidden weapon, a spear in disguise. Sleek, silent, deadly. She preferred swords—clean, quick, elegant. But the flute… it had been her brother's. The only thing she still carried from him. Precious. Important. Dangerous.
She stood there a moment longer, head tilted in thought.
No. Not today. The flute had already survived so much—the dusty secret passage, demons, puppets, assassins. It deserved to rest as an heirloom, not be dragged through another battlefield. Besides, dramatic effect was important. She could just confuse the demons with her beauty and spiritual energy.
Linyue continued forward, her ponytail swinging behind her. Song Meiyu and He Yuying caught up from behind, their pace far less heroic. They were both chattering non-stop and snacking on dried fruit like they were heading to a picnic, not to the outskirts of a demon-infested battlefield.
At the palace stables, they stopped. Song Meiyu put her hands on her hips and made an official announcement. "I'll tend the wounded. Inside the walls. Safely. With bandages. Lots of bandages. Maybe some tea."
"I'll help carry the wounded back," He Yuying added, his tone neutral. "Before the demons eat them."
Linyue, adjusting the reins of her horse, only nodded. That arrangement sounded about right. So she rode alone. The horse galloped down the stone path, its hooves echoing against the cold ground. The world around her seemed drenched in red—the sky, the moon, even the distant clouds bleeding a soft crimson glow. It wasn't warm like a sunset. It was eerie. Suffocating. Like blood mist hanging over the earth.
No sun. No stars. No sound. The streets they passed were empty. Shops shuttered, inns dark, houses locked tight. Not even a stray dog dared wander.
Linyue sat straight in the saddle, her hair whipping wildly, her crimson robes flaring behind her like living fire. She was riding into a battlefield. And she looked like she might flirt with the demons before stabbing them.
Arriving at the second wall, Linyue dismounted with ease and climbed up the rampart. The archers lined along the wall were too busy firing arrows at the screeching demons below to notice her at first. But as she passed, a few of them stole glances. One even elbowed his friend and whispered something urgently.
She ignored all of it, eyes ahead, face calm. If anyone was stunned by her sudden appearance—red robes, fox-tail ponytail swaying in the wind, face bright and unhidden—well, that was their problem. She had decided. No more jade dust powder. Why waste her beauty? As Song Meiyu once said, "Let them marvel."
She reached the edge of the rampart and clasped her hands behind her back. Below her, the chaos roared. Low-level demons crawled and screeched, swarming the soldiers in sloppy waves. The archers rained arrows into them, steel flashing under the cursed red sky.
Linyue squinted, assessing.
On the left, a level six fire element demon was spewing flames at Boyi and a few soldiers. Boyi, a water cultivator, looked more annoyed than threatened. He splashed back a counterattack. He had it under control.
Farther down, Shanjun was zipping through the air, wind blades slashing as he clashed with a level seven water demon. He matched its speed blow for blow, probably shouting insults mid-spin. Also fine.
She turned her head to the right. A level six earth demon was stomping and growling. Shen Zhenyu was already on it. He looked like someone who had skipped breakfast and was now working it out through battle. Solid. Steady. Reliable.
Linyue nodded to herself.
Boyi: Fine.
Shanjun: Also fine.
Shen Zhenyu: Obviously fine.
She folded her arms, the wind tugging at her crimson sash as it fluttered behind her.
Alright then. What's not fine yet?
Her eyes scanned farther. Past the first row. Past the second. Past the dust and screams and flying debris. And then she saw it.
Ah. There it was.
A level eight demon.
Red Phantom Maiden.
Linyue raised an eyebrow. "How poetic," she muttered to herself. "Too bad she's ugly."
The demon's cheeks were sunken in like it had been sucking lemons for a hundred years. Its body was more bones than flesh, and what little skin remained looked burnt and cracked, brown like dried bark. The red gown it wore might've been fancy centuries ago. Now it hung in shreds, flapping in the wind like a haunted laundry line. Half of its bony leg was sticking out.
Its shoulders drooped pitifully, as though even it was tired of being alive. Long, messy hair flew wildly around its head, lifted by its own raging wind spiritual energy. Its arms were so long they almost touched the ground, and instead of hands, she had sharp, spear-like claws.
And then it moved. Like a giant spider. One second on the ground. The next in the air—spinning, twisting, slamming its claws into the earth—or, more often, into very unlucky soldiers. It didn't even bother running. The demon launched itself by stabbing the ground and flinging its body around like a demonic pogo stick.