After the carriage disappears around the corner, the beggar slowly rises to his feet.
His movements are stiff—old injury, old pride, old hatred.
Pedestrians skirt around him with wrinkled noses and disgusted glances.
Some mutter insults under their breath.
A few spit near his feet.
None recognises him.
None even tries.
To them, he is just another ruin left behind by war—
a man with *one arm missing* and no future.
He walks on, unbothered, expression locked in cold silence.
Eventually, he slips into a narrow alley where sunlight barely reaches.
Moss clings to damp stone, and the air smells of rust and secrecy.
At the end of the alley stands a weathered wooden door.
He knocks.
A moment passes.
The door creaks open.
A woman stands there—not ordinary, not natural—her arms made of articulated puppet wood and metal threads, joints clicking softly.
She looks at him with hollow, gleaming eyes and bows.
"*Crown Prince,*" she says in a quiet voice, "are you finally willing to work with us?"
The beggar—no longer acting—raises his gaze.
In his eyes burns a barely restrained storm.
Hatred.
Grief.
Ambition.
And a decision that has been simmering for far too long.
---
Meanwhile—
The carriage pulls up in front of the smaller palace Yuelan now calls home.
A maid hurries forward, helping her down from the carriage step.
Once her feet touch the ground, Yuelan asks,
"Where is Lord Kong?"
The maid bows slightly.
"Lord Kong is still in his cultivation room."
Yuelan merely nods.
It is not unusual.
Sometimes Lord Kong cultivates for a week without appearing.
Less than a day is nothing.
"Call Chen Wei to see me."
"Yes, Lady Shen."
The maid turns to carry out the order.
Yuelan takes her time walking through the marble corridors.
Sunlight filters through carved lattice windows, tracing patterns across polished floors.
Eventually, she reaches the back courtyard.
There, an open pavilion overlooks a quiet garden.
Inside, her son sits cross-legged with a book in hand, listening intently as Chen Li explains the text.
It is a peaceful scene.
A gentle one.
She allows herself the smallest smile.
Then she turns to leave—
—but the child senses her.
"Mother!"
He leaps to his feet and rushes toward her, cheerful and bright, his footsteps echoing across the courtyard tiles.
She turns—just in time for the small body to gently collide with her leg.
Arms wrap around her knee, warm and desperate.
"*Mother!*"
His voice is soft but full of relief—as if she had been gone for years rather than minutes.
Yuelan lowers her gaze, expression softening—
Then vanishes behind controlled calm.
She gently untangles his arms.
"Chen Juan."
Her tone shifts—stern, composed, queen-like.
"Why did you run? You left your teacher mid-lesson."
The boy freezes.
His eyes widen—round and startled.
Then his lips push into a pout, and he whispers,
"Because… I missed my mother."
Yuelan exhales slowly, suppressing the smile that tries to surface.
"Acting cute won't work."
She flicks his forehead lightly.
"Return. Study properly."
He drags his feet back toward Chen Li—small shoulders drooping, muttering under his breath about unfair mothers and cruel lessons.
Yuelan waits just long enough to ensure he sits again, back straight, book open.
Only then does she turn and leave.
---
Inside her private chambers, the quiet feels heavy.
She removes her outer robe, then the inner layers—movement precise, practised, controlled.
Bare shoulders pale in the lantern light.
She retrieves a storage bottle from a lacquered shelf, uncorks it, and pours the medicinal liquid into the steaming pond.
A faint herbal scent spreads—metallic, bitter, and slightly sweet.
She steps into the water.
It embraces her skin—warmth settling into muscle and bone.
She exhales softly and sinks deeper, letting the medicinal bath swallow the tension wound into her body.
The medicine energy spreads—not like fire, but like silk dissolving into water.
It touches her skin first, threading through cells like invisible embroidery, binding to the dormant life force within them.
Then—it pushes deeper.
Muscle fibers tighten, refine, reshape.
The coarse, mundane strength softens into something elegant—dense yet flexible, smooth yet powerful.
Every strand becomes more aligned, more responsive, more perfect—as if sculpted deliberately rather than grown by nature.
Her breath grows faint.
Her pulse becomes slow, steady, refined.
By the time the liquid loses its potency, the water is just water.
She rises—droplets trailing down new skin that seems to glow faintly under the lantern's light.
She stands before the mirror.
A beautiful woman stares back—but not the same one she used to be.
Her skin is clearer.
Her cheeks subtly lifted.
Her eyes are brighter.
Her presence—more magnetic.
She touches her reflection, unable to stop the small, knowing smile.
Even if it were only this… it would already be worth becoming Lord Kong's lover.
Once, she had been a caged songbird—pampered, gilded, and powerless.
Now, she felt her wings forming.
And the sky finally looked reachable.
---
Later—when the sun sinks, and lamps flicker to life—she sits across from Chen Wei.
He keeps his gaze lowered out of respect.
Yuelan calmly recounts everything that transpired in the parliament.
When she finishes, Chen Wei finally speaks—voice low, controlled, but tight with calculation:
"Lady Shen… how likely are they to pay this time?"
Shen Yuelan rests her hands on her lap, thinking.
She weighs everything she has learned—whispers, habits, and fears of the powerful families.
Then she answers:
"They will pay. Most likely."
Chen Wei lifts his head—and sunlight catches her skin.
For a brief moment, she looks unreal—refined, luminous, dangerous.
His thoughts slip—unwelcome, instinctive, pulled by the natural lure of a Charm body in early awakening.
He forces his gaze away, inhales deeply, and steadies himself.
"…But," he says, regaining composure, "Lord Kong ordered us to occupy every spiritual stone mine and rare metal deposit in the Chen Kingdom."
Yuelan nods slowly.
"That must be done gradually. If we demand too much now, they will resist in unison."
Her tone cools, strategic.
"They paid today because they still believe they have leverage. When their habits settle and dependence forms, then we press. Payment becomes an obligation. Control becomes inevitable."
Chen Wei lowers his head again—not in submission, but respect.
"We must think long-term, Chen Wei," she adds softly.
"We are wizards now. Time belongs to us. Decades, centuries—we can afford patience."
Silence settles.
Then Chen Wei rises.
"I should return to the Tang Kingdom."
He turns to leave—but her voice stops him.
"Chen Wei."
He pauses.
"Any news about Chen Yuyan?"
Chen Wei answers without hesitation:
"She is residing in the Royal Palace. Safe."
Yuelan closes her eyes briefly—something unreadable flickers inside them.
Then she says quietly but firmly:
"Try to win her trust. And if possible—marry her."
Chen Wei stiffens.
"She still holds the true name and legal claim of the Chen throne. Nearly every resource once owned by the royal bloodline now sits in the hands of those families. If she joins us… they will be forced to cough it all back up."
Chen Wei meets her eyes.
There is no seduction in them—only strategy.
Ambition.
And a future she intends to secure.
"…I will try," he replies at last.
He turns and walks away—his footsteps fading into the corridor like a closing chapter.
The next dawn rises pale and cool.
Shen Yuelan stands in the courtyard, one hand raised—mana flowing through her veins with growing familiarity.
A magic missile forms at her fingertip, unstable at first, then sharp and clean.
She releases it.
Boom—
The spell hits the practice target, warping its surface.
She exhales, closes her eyes, and examines the spell construct in her spirit space—checking its shape, its mana flow, the pathways that bound it.
Then she adjusts it.
Again.
And again.
Because cultivation alone isn't enough—she needs spells, precision, and control.
And every spell she casts is also a door—linking technique to law.
Nearby, Chen Juan watches her—bright-eyed at first, then bored.
He kicks a pebble, paces in circles, then wanders farther… and farther.
Too far.
He drifts toward a large flowering bush—lush, shadowed, silent.
There are no guards nearby.
Not at this exact moment.
A hand—thin, red, clawed—shoots out and clamps around his wrist.
Chen Juan gasps as another hand slams over his mouth and yanks him into the bush.
He kicks, claws, fights—but the grip is stronger.
Then he hears a whisper trembling with urgency:
"Juan'er… stop. It's me."
The familiar tone freezes him.
He blinks through the leaves—fear giving way to disbelief.
The face before him is worn, thin, but unmistakable.
His voice comes out as a trembling breath:
"…Father?"
---
End.