The wind finally calmed, letting the broken petals drift gently to the ground. The two women stood apart once more Shuren's coat dancing softly in the breeze, while Mischa's blade sparkled under the moonlight.
"I think we should get to know each other a bit first," Mischa suggested, twirling her dagger with a playful grin. "You know, before we dive into being bad bitches, like you ladies from Kurayamiya say."
Shuren blinked, a subtle smirk playing on her lips. "Ouch," she replied softly. "That wasn't really necessary."
Mischa tilted her head, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Maybe not. But it felt right at the moment."
Shuren let out a lazy sigh, crossing her arms. "Alright then. Let's have a chat before I send you off to whatever god you worship."
Mischa's laughter was light and refined, like the sound of a wine glass clinking. "I like your confidence. You're not like the others who came for the Young Master."
"Maybe they just didn't have the right manners." Shuren's hand brushed her hip, feeling the reassuring weight of her pistol.
The wind picked up again, carrying the soft sound of vines scraping against glass. For a moment, they simply locked eyes—smiles concealing sharp edges, courtesy hiding true intentions.
Then, as if responding to an unspoken signal—
They moved.
Mischa made a subtle gesture, and suddenly, the next room was revealed to them.
Shuren stepped inside, and her breath hitched in her throat. The space was like nothing she had ever encountered—a grand chamber reminiscent of imperial China.
Ornate pillars twisted up to a painted ceiling, where dragons danced among clouds, and gold leaf shimmered in the soft glow of the lanterns.
The floors sparkled like polished jade, and intricate screens showcased breathtaking scenes of mountains, rivers, and phoenixes caught mid-flight.
Even Shuren's own office, which she had painstakingly curated, felt ordinary in comparison.
A thought crossed her mind: I could totally swipe some of these, she mused, her eyes wandering over the stunning furniture and lacquered decorations. Sell them. Buy them back. Maybe even triple the price.
Mischa's voice pulled her from her daydream. "Please, have a seat."
She guided Shuren to a long, low table adorned with delicate cups, porcelain so fine it looked almost transparent in the warm lamplight.
"What would you like to drink?" Mischa asked, her tone polite and calm.
Shuren glanced over the cups, the tea utensils, and the bubbling pot. She shrugged lightly, trying to play it cool. "I'm… not really into tea."
But as her aura subtly shifted barely noticeable to anyone but a trained eye she added with a small smirk, "But I've always wanted to try Gyokuro."
Mischa nodded with a graceful bow. "Gyokuro it is. I'll be right back."
As she stepped away, Shuren took a moment to soak in the room again, her thoughts split between the tea and the treasure trove of details around her. Every scroll, every sculpture, every glimmering inlay was a testament to just how wealthy and meticulous Zheng Yan truly was.
Shuren settled into her seat, her fingers gliding over the smooth wood of the table. Not bad. Not bad at all.
Mischa came back just a moment later, balancing a lacquer tray that held two delicate cups of tea. She set them down carefully on the table one in front of Shuren and the other in front of herself.
Shuren leaned in, taking in the fragrant aroma of the Gyokuro. A small smile crept onto her lips. Huh. Not bad. I thought it would smell terrible.
"What tea did you make for yourself?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Mischa's lips curled into a slight smile. "Longjing," she answered with a calm demeanor.
Shuren nodded, appreciating the response. She lifted the Gyokuro cup and took a gentle sip, savoring the flavor as it danced on her tongue.
Mischa mirrored her actions, taking a careful sip before placing her cup back on the tray. Then, with a graceful bow, she introduced herself, "I'm Mischa Chikae—the maid of Young Master Zheng Yan."
Shuren's gaze flicked to her. "I already knew that part," she replied lightly, swirling the tea in her cup.
"You also had a run-in with my employee?"
Mischa tilted her head in confusion. "Employee?"
"That boy," Shuren clarified, "the one who went upstairs with the girl."
"Oh, thanks for clearing that up. He slipped my mind," Mischa said, maintaining her calm.
Mischa nodded as if that settled everything. "Now it's your turn. Introduce yourself."
But Shuren simply took another sip of her tea, her eyes half-closed in a feigned display of boredom. The slow, deliberate sipping stretched the silence like a taut string.
Mischa waited, patient yet alert. "Why are you taking your time? Shouldn't we be… drinking more?"
The only response was Shuren's slow, almost teasing sips, the delicate clink of porcelain punctuating each one.
Shuren took another sip of her Gyokuro, each careful movement stretching the moment like a finely honed blade being drawn from its sheath.
Mischa's fingers twitched with impatience. She was losing her cool. Finally, she slammed her hand on the table, snatched up a knife, and, fueled by anger, flung it toward Shuren.
"You despicable woman! Do you have no manners at the table?"
The knife soared through the air—then suddenly stopped, frozen mid-flight as if time itself had paused. Gradually, it fell, landing gracefully on the floor with a soft clink that resonated in the stillness of the hall.
Mischa's eyes widened in disbelief. She glanced at the knife, then back at Shuren, confusion twisting her features. "What… how—"
Her words faltered as she locked eyes with Shuren's calm, inscrutable gaze.
In Shuren's hand was a sleek black weapon, pointed directly at Mischa's head.
"Ready to learn some manners?" Shuren said softly, her voice cool, measured, and chillingly calm.
Mischa froze, the tension in her chest tightening like a vice. Every muscle was coiled, yet she found herself unable to move.
The air around them seemed to vibrate, holding its breath in the space between them. One wrong move could turn this moment deadly in an instant.
Shuren's finger lingered on the trigger, her composed demeanor radiating a warning that no amount of polite conversation could defuse.