The Weeping Moon: The Moon That Sheds Vermilion Tears

It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. That voice had weight—cold and commanding, the kind that makes your soul sit up straight and apologize for existing. If death had a tone, it might borrow this one for formal occasions.

They froze mid-squelch.

All four of them slowly—painfully slowly—turned their heads in perfect, awkward unison, looking like misbehaving disciples caught sneaking snacks out of the offering hall.

Linyue blinked.

He Yuying blinked.

Song Meiyu blinked.

Shen Zhenyu blinked… and winced slightly as something in his boot wiggled again.

They stared at the blood-smeared man, unsure whether they were about to be arrested, scolded, vaporized, or exorcised.

And then the man moved.

His steps were slow, deliberate, and entirely too elegant for someone coated in what might've been three different kinds of demon blood. He didn't make a sound. Not even the clack of a heel on stone. It was like the very ground was scared of him and politely refused to echo. The breeze, sensing the tension, wisely chose to sit this one out. His robes fluttered faintly, just enough to remind everyone that dramatic entrances were clearly his specialty.

As he approached, the four couldn't help but examine him back—after all, they weren't exactly known for minding their own business.

Shen Zhenyu's eyes narrowed with a tactician's instinct. Definitely military. High rank. Possibly royalty. Also, possibly the type who doesn't smile unless it's during a duel —or right before one. Then he simply shifted into a position where he could both bow respectfully and flee if necessary. Whichever saved his dignity first.

He Yuying stepped a little closer to Song Meiyu. Not out of fear, of course. Just… strategic positioning. In case he suddenly drew a weapon. Or sneezed threateningly.

Song Meiyu gave the man a slow, deliberate up-and-down glance. Then she leaned in and whispered, "If he turns out to be a reclusive sword immortal with a tragic backstory, I call dibs on writing his biography."

Linyue, who hadn't even turned her head, replied without moving her lips, "You already have three unfinished biographies. One of them is about a heroic duck."

"Still counts," Song Meiyu muttered.

From up close, the man was even more shocking—not because he had horns or glowing eyes or a sinister tail waggling behind him (thank the heavens)—but because of how unnervingly perfect he looked beneath all that dried demon blood.

Like, unfairly perfect.

He was tall, with sharp, imperial features that seemed carved rather than born. His eyes were sharp, cold, calculating the kind that measured the room, your flaws, your life expectancy, and probably your last five mistakes. He couldn't have been more than twenty, probably, yet he radiated a silent authority that made you want to stand up straighter, fix your collar, and question all your childhood decisions.

His aura carried weight, and that weight said: I talk, you listen. I look at you, you flinch. I breathe, and everyone else panics politely.

Linyue squinted at him, her brow furrowing. There was something painfully familiar about that face. She'd seen it before—maybe in an overly dramatic tapestries, or one of those history scrolls written by a very enthusiastic monk.

She stared harder. This was a man who had definitely never been caught in a swamp. Never slipped on a mossy rock. Never emerged dripping with shame and mysterious green goo.

She didn't trust him already.

He stopped few paces in front of them. Not close enough to share air. Just close enough to judge them properly. His footsteps were slow, precise—like he didn't want to get any closer than he had to. His gaze slid over their sorry, moss-cloaked figures with the slow, clinical interest of someone trying to decide if what he was looking at was human, or just some seaweed monsters in disguise.

His eyes landed on Shen Zhenyu's leaf-adorned shoulder, flicked briefly to Song Meiyu's sock full of swamp algae, and then back up with an expression that very nearly said…Really?

The corner of his mouth twitched. Just barely.

Was it amusement? Horror? Deeply disappointed on a spiritual level?

No one could tell.

Nobody said a word.

Because when a blood-smeared nobleman, who walks like a death poem and stares like an executioner trying to decide if you're worth the paperwork, tells you to "stop"—you listen.

Even if your boots are still full of swamp.

Even if something is still moving in your sleeve.

Even if you're pretty sure moss is evolving on your belt.

Linyue didn't speak. She just stared—hard. Studied him like a suspicious beasts or a suspiciously perfect peach at the market. Because, frankly, the man in front of her wasn't just handsome.

He was unreasonably handsome.

The kind of handsome that made you feel personally attacked just by looking at him. Tall and slender in that effortless way that made his blood-soaked robes look less like battle aftermath and more like high-end trend from the "Murder but Make It Fashion" collection. His face was pale beneath the smears of dried crimson, but it only made his sharp features stand out more—chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and lips pressed in a line that suggested he smiled about as often as thunderstorms asked permission to roll in.

Even his hair—dark, simple, tied back with nothing fancy like he didn't care—had the audacity to gleam dramatically under the weak palace light. His eyes were cold, calculating and disturbingly focused. He looked at them like they were a problem he intended to solve. With a sword. Or possibly fire.

To make matters worse, the blood on him—thick in some places, smeared like war paint in others—was clearly not his own. There wasn't a scratch on him. Not even a wrinkle in his robes, which was especially insulting to four people who had just been bested by swamp algae and a snarky spirit beast.

In short, he looked like someone sculpted by a vengeful god who thought the world had too many average faces. He was the kind of man who would walk into a battlefield and somehow still look ready for a portrait. If tragedy had a spokesperson, it might just be him.

It was unfair, really.

The four—soggy, algae-adorned, and spiritually bruised—could only stare.

He stared back, expression blank, utterly unreadable. Possibly judging them for crimes they hadn't even considered committing yet.

Song Meiyu leaned toward Linyue and muttered out of the corner of her mouth, "If he tells us we're the disgrace to the realm, I swear I'm going back into the swamp. At least the algae didn't glare."

Linyue didn't answer. She was too busy trying to figure out whether the man's aura was naturally oppressive or if it just felt that way because her boots were squishing at the heel.

He radiated "extremely important and potentially lethal" energy. High-ranking general? Possibly. A noble of terrifying authority? Maybe. But with the bloody robes, soul-piercing gaze, and the suffocating pressure he radiated just by existing… there was only one reasonable conclusion.

Shu Mingye. The Demon King of Shulin.

The one who people whispered about in corners of inns, the one said to have personally wiped out an entire demon horde before breakfast and gone back for seconds. The nightmare. The reason some soldiers spontaneously developed anxiety.

Linyue wisely said nothing. Because if you think you might be standing in front of the most terrifyingly famous person in the realm—someone with a blood-soaked résumé and no visible sense of humor—you do not make jokes.

You pray your boots don't squelch again.