Whiplash

The door creaked shut behind the figure as she stepped into the dimly lit room. A chilling stillness settled over the space, thick and suffocating. Even the drunken man, slumped lazily against the bed, felt it—a biting cold that gnawed at his senses, sobering him instantly. His sluggish eyes, clouded with arrogance and wine, snapped to attention as he registered the silhouette standing before him.

Before he could part his lips to demand an explanation, a force slammed into his chest. His body crashed against the bed, the silken sheets rustling violently at the impact. A stunned gasp escaped him, but it was drowned out by the reverberating thud of bone meeting fabric. Then came the first punch—a resounding crack as knuckles met flesh. The second blow followed, then a third. His body became a drum beneath her relentless strikes. He wheezed, coughed, choked on his own pain, yet she did not relent.

Slap. A sharp snap echoed through the room as her palm connected with his cheek, sending his head jerking sideways. A guttural whimper fell from his lips. At first, he played the part of an indignant noble, spitting venom between his gasps.

"Do you know who I am? You will regret this!"

His threats turned to pleading soon after.

"Please… Have mercy! I was wrong! Spare me!"

By the time she finally stepped back, he was nothing more than a crumpled heap on the floor, his fine robes soaked in blood. Crimson splattered the sheets, pooled onto the ground, and streaked across her face in haunting trails. Yet Mingyao's expression remained unnervingly calm. The delicate features of her face, unmarred by emotion, contrasted sharply with the violence she had just wrought. The blood trickled down her skin like an artist's brushstroke, painting her in the color of vengeance.

And then, she saw it. Reflected in the glossy surface of the spilled wine and blood—

Her own face.

Underfoot. Broken. Defeated.

Her breath hitched, but before she could fully process the sight, the image was gone.

-----

Mingyao stood trapped in the silence of her own thoughts, her mind still caught in a whirlwind. What had she just witnessed? That power… that presence…

The name Fei Xian lingered in her consciousness like an echo in a vast, empty chamber.

Was she truly an immortal? A fairy, as her name suggested? Or had she simply reached a realm of strength beyond human comprehension?

Legends spoke of a realm beyond grandmasters—a Supreme Master—a threshold between mortality and godhood. One who could transcend mortality itself. Had Fei Xian achieved this fabled state? Was she something beyond even that? The implications rattled Mingyao to her core.

More unsettling still was the knowledge that Fei Xian held. She knew too much. Too much about Mingyao, too much about those around her. Could she have infiltrated Mingyao's closest circle, masquerading as someone dear? The possibility gnawed at her, a pit forming in her stomach.

Yue Ying. Mo Yan. Li Xiulan.

Mingyao's mind churned. For the Thousand Demon Art Technique, one could detect the subtle ripples in qi if they were perceptive enough. But whatever Fei Xian wielded, it was something entirely different—something invisible, mysterious. Fei Xian's presence had been seamless. Was there any weakness?

Then—

A sudden jolt from the front pulled her from her spiraling thoughts.

Arms—slender but firm—wrapped tightly around her. A desperate embrace. The warmth of another body pressed against her, trembling, clinging to her as though she were the last tether to sanity.

Mingyao stiffened.

"Gege?" A soft, choked whisper reached her ears.

Her breath caught. She wrenched herself free, spinning sharply to confront her assailant, only to pause. Under the golden hue of the lantern light, a familiar face emerged behind the one embracing her tightly.

Su Huaron.

Which meant—the one in her arms…

Mingyao's heart clenched. The girl—Zhao Qingmei—buried herself further into the embrace, seeking refuge in the warmth of someone long lost.

Mingyao's body went rigid. She quickly pushed Qingmei away, stepping back as if burned. Her fingers flew to the straw hat atop her head, pulling it free.

Silver-streaked hair cascaded down, unveiling the truth of her form—a stark contrast to the disguise she had assumed.

"Excuse me, young lady, I believe you have mistaken me for someone else." Her voice was a blade, cool and sharp, leaving no room for sentimentality. "My name is Shen Yueqing. As you can see, I am very much a woman. Not your gege."

She turned, striding toward the inn without another glance.

"Shen Yueqing..." Qingmei echoed, her brows furrowing, doubt creeping into her eyes.

"If you don't mind, I will be on my way. And I suggest you do the same." Mingyao quickened her steps, but before she could slip away, delicate fingers wrapped around her wrist. The grip was desperate, trembling.

"Ge—no, Jie please," Qingmei's voice wavered, her eyes glistening in the lantern light. "I need to speak to you."

Mingyao exhaled, her patience fraying. "Miss, as I have told you, I am not related to you in any way."

"Liar." Qingmei's voice cracked with emotion. "How can you deny it when Xiulan makes rounds here every day?"

Mingyao's throat tightened.

"I don't know who this Xiulan is. You're mistaken."

"Please don't do this to me, Jie." Qingmei's grip tightened. "I really need to talk to you."

"Miss, I really do need to go."

Mingyao broke free, forcing herself to step forward.

Then—

Qingmei dropped to her knees.

"Please, Jie… I'm getting married."

Mingyao froze.

"Good for you, miss," she replied, voice flat.

"Please, your highness, listen to her highness Zhao Qingmei," Su Huaron finally spoke pleading.

"This has nothing to do with me," Mingyao said. "Congratulations, by the way."

"If you don't listen to me…" Qingmei's voice wavered. "This might be the last time we meet."

Mingyao's heart lurched. A beat of hesitation.

Qingmei seized it.

"I—I am a political bride." Her voice trembled. "I'm to be married to the Third Prince of the Northern Qi Kingdom."

Silence.

The words sank deep. Mingyao turned, her gaze flickering to Su Huaron, searching for confirmation. His clenched jaw and lowered gaze were answer enough.

She exhaled, closing her eyes for a brief moment before helping Qingmei to her feet. "Come inside."

They spoke over tea, unraveling the cruel reality of their fates. Mingyao had misunderstood—Qingmei and Su Huaron were not to be wed, but both were to be given away as political hostages. Pawns in a grander game, shackled by duty. The weight of it settled over Mingyao like a suffocating shroud. She had fought so hard to keep her sister safe, only to see her thrown into a gilded cage.

Before she could fully process the implications, a commotion erupted upstairs.

"Please, Jiejie," Qingmei whispered. "You are the only one who knows where my brother is. Let me say goodbye."

Mingyao met her sister's tear-filled gaze. "Go home for now. Don't worry—I will take care of it."

"Thank you," Qingmei said, her voice trembling with relief. "Please… visit me too."

Mingyao turned away, climbing the stairs toward the disturbance. Her mind was a storm. How was she supposed to handle this? Qingmei was a pawn, a mere distraction in a game played by powerful men. And their father—was he truly so heartless? To use his own daughter as nothing more than a bargaining chip, a tool to buy himself time in his ceaseless ambitions? 

The thought made her stomach twist in disgust. Was there truly nothing she could do?

Then she saw him.

Ye Ziyang.

Drunk. Sloppy. And utterly revolting.

Ye Ziyang stood in the center of the hallway, his expensive robes disheveled, the stench of wine thick in the air around him. His movements were sloppy, barely coordinated, yet his arrogance remained intact. His maid cowered nearby, fresh bruises marring her delicate skin—his handiwork, no doubt. But what made Mingyao's blood boil was the trembling young woman backed against the wall, her face pale, terror stark in her eyes.

A member of Yin Lian. One of her own.

Mingyao exhaled slowly, smoothing her sleeves before stepping forward, her expression unreadable. "What seems to be the problem?"

Ye Ziyang barely turned his head, waving a dismissive hand. "They refuse me service." His words slurred together, arrogance lacing every syllable. "I want this one," he gestured toward the Yin Lian woman, gripping her arm harder when she recoiled, "but she dares deny me? Does she not know who I am?"

Mingyao tilted her head, the corners of her lips twitching ever so slightly. "Our establishment prides itself on choice," she said evenly. "Our sisters decide who they share companionship with. Since she has refused, allow me to ask you something—" she stepped closer, lowering her voice to a sultry whisper—"what do you think of me?"

The hall stilled. Eyes widened.

Ye Ziyang's head lolled as he turned to her, his drunken gaze slowly traveling down her figure. A sluggish grin split his lips.

"Is that a yes?"Mingyao's asked her smile very much present as she gently took his arm.

"Come with me."

The attendants watched stunned in silence as Mingyao led Ye Ziyang away. Ye Ziyang followed with a sloppy eagerness, his gait uneven, but he was too intoxicated to notice the subtle tension in her posture—the quiet coil of a predator leading prey.

When they reached a secluded chamber, she pushed open the door, motioning him inside.

Once inside a private chamber, he barely made it past the threshold before she could stop his stumbling and guide him to the bed before shutting the door behind her. 

A slow breath. The soft click of a latch sealing them away from prying eyes.

Her moment of reverie snapped.

Mingyao had wanted to indulge in the violent scene playing in her mind—to break him, to tear through his arrogance with her fists, to make him feel the powerlessness he forced onto others. But she held back. He was the Prime Minister's son. That kind of scandal would only bring unwanted attention.

Instead, she took a different approach.

She stepped forward, close enough that the heat of her body grazed against his. His breath hitched, his pupils dilating as her fingers trailed lightly down his chest, teasing the fabric of his robes. His anticipation was almost palpable, his drunken mind mistaking dominance for seduction.

Then, her hand shot up to his throat.

His gasp was sharp, choked off as she pressed her fingers against his windpipe—not enough to cut his air, but enough to remind him of the fine line between pleasure and pain. His body stiffened beneath her grip.

With her other hand, she drew a dagger, its cool steel catching the dim light as she traced it down his body, slow and deliberate.

He quivered.

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

Then—

The blade struck with a sharp, menacing thud.

Just inches away from his groin.

The color drained from Ye Ziyang's face. His body convulsed once before he slumped forward, unconscious from the overwhelming stimulation.

Mingyao scoffed, catching his dead weight before it collapsed completely. "Pathetic."

She brushed off her sleeves as she turned away. There was no satisfaction in this. No relief.

She had more important matters to attend to.

Steeling herself, she slipped out of the room. Tomorrow was a very important day for her.