Su Wan’er stood motionless in the shadow of the private box.
Her gaze pierced through layer upon layer of curtains and the bobbing heads of the crowd, landing on the elevated stage.
Shen Mo stood in front of the Fragrance-Viewing Wall.
His crimson skirt was lifted slightly by an unseen breeze, ink-black hair loose, his back slender and fragile.
Behind him, 997 specks of light converged into a sea of radiance, making him seem as though he was glowing.
But that wasn’t what Su Wan’er saw.
What she saw was the hand hanging at Shen Mo’s side—trembling faintly.
A minute tremor. If she hadn’t focused her entire Divine Sense on him, she would never have noticed.
She was far too familiar with that motion.
Every time Shen Mo was pushed to the brink of tension yet forced himself not to show weakness, his hand would tremble like that.
The first time she met him, when he tied her cloak for her.
The day she married into Jiaoyue Peak, when he lifted her bridal veil. When they were intimate…
Every single time, he hid that trembling perfectly.
Just like he hid everything else.
‘Mo’er…’
She silently mouthed his name, the movement of her lips so tiny that she herself could barely feel it.
Deep in her Dantian, the cracks in her Dao Foundation let out faint snapping sounds, like ice on a winter lake groaning under too much weight.
In her current physical state, she could still unleash her full strength, but she couldn’t sustain a long battle.
She was like a tall building whose foundation had been hollowed out—imposing from the outside, but a single strong wind could bring it crashing down.
But so what?
Su Wan’er slowly raised a hand and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
When she lifted her head again, a look of absolute determination appeared on her usually mild, almost invisible face.
It was the determination of someone who would rather let her Dao Foundation shatter and her cultivation be completely ruined than let anyone lay a single finger on him.
She turned and pushed open the door of the private box.
In the corridor, a young maid dressed in the attire of the Ten Thousand Flower Pavilion was carrying a tea tray. She jumped, startled by the door suddenly opening.
Su Wan’er didn’t even glance at her. She walked straight toward the stairs.
Her steps were not fast, but they were steady—as if each one was nailed into the floor.
“Senior…” the maid called out cautiously from behind. “During the Flower Queen Ceremony, honored guests are not to move about freely—”
Su Wan’er did not stop.
The maid opened her mouth to say more, but a hand gently pressed down on her shoulder.
She turned around and saw a young girl with a slightly mischievous smile standing behind her.
The girl’s face was youthful, with two shallow dimples at the corners of her mouth when she smiled.
She looked no more than eighteen or nineteen, demure in a way that made you want to pinch her cheek.
“Don’t worry, big sister,” the girl said, tilting her head.
Her voice was sweet as honey. “That senior is just taking care of some personal business. She won’t disrupt the order.”
The maid nodded blankly and walked off with her tea tray.
Only after taking several steps did she suddenly come to her senses.
When had that girl appeared behind her? She was certain the corridor had been empty just a moment ago.
She instinctively looked back.
The corridor was empty. There was no trace of the dimpled girl.
Chao’er pressed herself against the wall at the corner of the corridor, listening to the maid’s footsteps fade into the distance.
The innocent smile on her face slowly melted away, as if someone had erased that expression with a cloth.
What replaced it was a gaze that was utterly incompatible with her age—calm, cold, and scrutinizing.
She watched Su Wan’er’s back.
‘Honored Teacher.’
The person she had once respected the most.
The one who had picked her up from a pile of corpses.
She still remembered the warmth of being held in her Honored Teacher’s arms for the first time.
And the rough feeling of the calluses on her Honored Teacher’s palm—from years of sword practice—brushing against her cheek.
She remembered all the little things her Honored Teacher bought to make her laugh: sugar-coated hawthorn skewers, pretty dolls, sometimes an oddly shaped leaf.
Back then, she thought her Honored Teacher was the strongest person in the world.
But later, she realized that her Honored Teacher couldn’t even protect the person she loved most.
Chao’er pressed the tip of her tongue against the roof of her mouth, tasting the lingering remnants of that night deep within the Secret Realm, on the edge of the Demon Abyss: the taste of blood, dirt, and the saltiness of her Honored Teacher’s tears.
That day, when she pinned Shen Mo to the cold stone wall, the first name he called wasn’t “Su Wan’er.” It was “Chao’er.”
He called her name.
His voice was shattered like a porcelain bowl smashed on the ground, but it was unmistakably “Chao’er.”
‘Master’s Husband has me in his heart.’
Chao’er murmured to herself, her tone as if she were stating a truth verified time and again.
Her fingers caressed the handle of the black short blade at her waist, where dried blood had formed dark brown lines in the grain of her thumbprint.
She lifted her head, her gaze passing through the window lattice at the end of the corridor, landing on the direction of the Gathering of Beauties Platform.
The cheering there was still going strong.
Those 997 votes were like a pot of boiling oil thrown onto an already scorching fire, sending up overwhelming waves of sound.
She heard someone shouting Shen Mo’s name, each shout louder and more explicit than the last.
Chao’er’s eyes narrowed.
“What are you shouting for?”
Her voice was still soft, carrying the distinctive sweet lisp of a young girl.
But the words that came out of her mouth sent a chill down the spine.
“That’s my Master’s Husband. Mine.”
‘Master’s Husband… wearing something like that, standing in a place like this, stared at by all those disgusting eyes… tsk, so disobedient.’
But that was fine.
This way, this vivid, fragile Master’s Husband, with all his forbidden beauty, was even more to her liking than the lifeless version she saw on Jiaoyue Peak.
So much that she wanted to rush up immediately, drag him back to the darkest nest only she knew about, lock him up with the iciest chains, so he could only look at her, only belong to her.
She forcibly suppressed the urge to act now.
It wasn’t time yet.
There were too many people here. A direct snatch was too risky.
She would wait.
Wait for the perfect moment. When her Master’s Husband was at his most helpless, his most in need of rescue.
Then, she would take him home.
Chao’er’s form melted like a shadow, silently retreating half a step, sinking deeper into the darkness of the pillar.
On the stage, Shen Mo had no idea what was happening below.
His entire attention was focused on the twelve people in front of him—or, to be precise, eleven candidates plus himself.
The master of ceremonies had just announced the rules: the twelve Flower Queen candidates would perform together on stage.
Each honored guest holding a Viewing Jade Token would score them separately on Sound, Appearance, Skill, and Elegance.
The one with the highest combined total would be this year’s Flower Queen.
“Sound” meant musical talent.
“Appearance” meant beauty and bearing.
“Skill” meant cultivation technique and artistry.
“Elegance” meant temperament and aura.
Among the four, “Elegance” had the highest weight.
Because looks could be improved, talent could be practiced, and cultivation could be built up.
Only “Elegance”—that intangible, ineffable quality that radiated from the bones—could not be granted by anything external.
This was the true reason the Ten Thousand Flower Pavilion’s Flower Queen Competition had stood for centuries.
It didn’t choose the prettiest person, nor the most talented.
It chose the person most capable of moving others.
To move others meant to possess a soulful allure that resonated with ten thousand people, influencing cultivators’ Dao Hearts or fortunes.
The twelve finalists had already lined up in a row on the wide Glazed Terrace according to their draw order.
Besides the four who had been voted in, the other eight were the true cream of the crop, winnowed from thousands of entrants.
Some were heroic and tall, some handsome and refined, some warm and gentle, some aloof and proud.
Each had a distinct aura, yet all possessed unforgettable looks and bearing.
Shen Mo stood near the end of the line, eyes slightly lowered.
He could feel the gazes of the other eleven people, more or less.
The master of ceremonies’ voice rang out again, carrying formulaic enthusiasm: “Honored gentlemen, the final showcase now begins! According to the draw order, first, Green Bamboo Gentleman, Lin Qingyu—”
Lin Qingyu took a deep breath and stepped forward slowly. He produced a green jade chessboard and two pots of spirit jade chess pieces.
He bowed slightly to the crowd, then sat down cross-legged and began playing chess against himself.
The sound of pieces being placed was crisp and clear, the rhythm unhurried.
As the game unfolded, the aura of gentleness and harmony with nature around him grew thicker.
It was as if he wasn’t playing chess, but rather enacting the flow of life and yin-yang changes within a small world.
After one incense stick’s time, the game was not yet over, but it had already calmed people’s hearts, like a spring breeze.
Clearly, he was using chess to display his elegance, using stillness to conquer movement.
Then came Shuyu Gongzi.
His zither playing was exquisite. The Scorched-Tail Zither produced notes as crisp as pearls falling on a jade plate.
Every note was as precise as if measured by a ruler.
Perfect, without a single flaw. And without a single hint of warmth.
Like a jade mirror polished to a glossy sheen—you could see your reflection, but you couldn’t see the heart behind it.
Xuepo Gongzi’s heavenly voice could clear one’s mind, but it couldn’t make one’s heart tremble.
Because what truly moved people was never perfection.
It was the cracks. The places that had been shattered and rebuilt.
The wounds that had scabbed over but still ached.
The moments when one knew it was wrong but still threw themselves into the flame like a moth.
The resolve that had flowed from the zither strings when Shen Mo had played Moonlit Epiphyllum just now—‘I know I will wither, but I will still bloom.’
That was why, even as the eleven candidates displayed their best skills and dazzled the crowd, the vast majority of eyes below were still locked onto Shen Mo.
Below the stage, Lady Yu smiled as she exchanged low words with Pei Popo, occasionally nodding—clearly making a comprehensive evaluation.
In the shadows, Chao’er’s dark purple eyes grew brighter and brighter.
‘Almost… almost time for her Master’s Husband…’
Finally—
“Number eleven, Master Shen Mo.”
The master of ceremonies’ voice pulled the entire audience’s focus back to that crimson figure who had always stood quietly, as if out of place in the glamorous surroundings.
Shen Mo slowly stepped forward, walking to the empty space in the center of the Glazed Terrace.
His crimson skirt draped over the white jade floor like a flower cut and placed in a vase—knowing its roots had left the soil, yet still striving to maintain a blooming posture.
Countless gazes, like tangible flames, converged on him.
He knew the moment that would decide his fate had arrived.
He had to display an elegance that was uniquely his.
He did not play the zither. He did not paint. He did not wield a sword. He did not sing.
He simply stood there.
Time flowed silently in the stillness.
One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths…
The murmurs from the crowd grew louder.
‘What is he doing?’
‘Giving up?’
‘Or has he exhausted his talent and has no more tricks?’
Pei Yu raised an eyebrow, her interest deepening.
Qinyin Shuying’s gaze remained calm, but the hand on the Frost Silence Sword tightened slightly.
Just as the whispers below reached a din, and the master of ceremonies showed a confused expression and was about to remind him of the time—
Shen Mo slowly opened his eyes.