The Weeping Moon: The Moon That Sheds Vermilion Tears

When Shu Mingye received the imperial decree two weeks ago, he didn't slam the table. He didn't curse, shout, or even frown. He simply read it. In silence.

The corner of his eye twitching just slightly as the words marriage and Second Princess burned themselves into his memory. A royal bride—his bride. Sent straight from the east. Not the imperial palace, but from some quiet corner of the realm that might as well have been a countryside peach orchard.

He imagined her instantly: a fragile, spoiled, wide-eyed porcelain doll of a girl. The type who'd cry if her tea leaves steeped a second too long. The type who fainted if a sword so much as glinted too aggressively. She'd probably arrived with a tiny dog in a silk jacket. Or worse, a jade mirror she consulted more than actual people.

Shu Mingye had already mentally drafted the disaster.

She'd arrive at the capital gates, burst into theatrical tears, and throw herself at some elderly minister's feet. Or maybe she'd travel all the way to the imperial palace, throw herself dramatically in front of a golden throne, and plead with a father she'd never met. Maybe beg him to spare her from the horrifying fate of marrying the Demon of Shulin—a man who, if rumors were to be believed, bathed in demon blood and slept on a bed made of severed horns. (He didn't. It was silk. He had standards.)

If the Emperor thought he, Shu Mingye—the so-called "Demon of Shulin"—would just nod along because the girl had an imperial title and imperial bloodline, he had another thing coming.

Shu Mingye had considered many, many scenarios that day. None of them good. All of them thoroughly unpleasant for the princess in question. He'd drafted a list—one hundred and three highly effective methods to terrify a dainty noblewoman back to her gilded cage. Intimidating silence, taking her on patrols at midnight, casual demon head-counting… he even rehearsed his most ominous stares in the mirror.

But reality, as it often does, defied even his most cynical imagination and had once again chosen chaos.

Now, standing before him, was the Second Princess herself—absolutely not wrapped in brocade, not trembling or sobbing, but absolutely drenched in something vaguely green, unidentifiable, and wildly un-princess like. Hair tangled, streaked with swamp residue. Her face was streaked with what he hoped was just dirt. Dress? Unworthy of the name. If someone told him she had been fished out of a decorative koi pond that morning, he wouldn't have doubted it.

And still, she stood straight-backed, calm, and oddly composed in her… condition.

No tears. No trembling. Not even a dramatic faint.

Just… composure. And algae.

Shu Mingye stared at her, and for a long moment, said nothing. His brain, despite years of battlefield experience and political calculation, had short-circuited.

He hadn't even done anything yet, and she already looked like a tragic cautionary tale.

One of the guards behind her shifted awkwardly. The taller one cleared his throat in what might've been an attempt to pretend none of this was happening.

Shu Mingye narrowed his eyes and thought dryly, Well… this marriage is already a disaster. Saves me the trouble of ruining it myself.

Shu Mingye continued to stare, the imperial decree still in his hand—now slightly soggy, much like his expectations. His mind trying—truly trying—to reconcile the image in front of him with what was supposed to be the Second Princess of the Yunyue realm.

Surely… surely she didn't know. That had to be the only explanation. There was no way—no possible way—she knew who he was.

Because if she did—if she had even the faintest idea that the man standing before her was Shu Mingye, the infamous Demon of Shulin, the ghost story parents used to scare their children into studying—then she would not be standing there, covered in swamp muck, looking so maddeningly… indifferent.

She wouldn't be looking at him like he was the one who needed a bath.

Which, frankly, was far more dangerous than fear.

Maybe, Shu Mingye mused darkly, the girl's brain had gone soft from too much poetry and too many sweet buns in some peaceful little courtyard out east. A gentle life. A spoiled one. One where the most dangerous thing she'd ever faced was a teacup too full. It was the only logical explanation.

So, he asked—slowly, coolly, and with a sharp voice, "Princess, do you know who your future husband written in this decree is?"

The wind chose that exact moment to tug gently at the moss stuck in her hair, like nature itself was trying to wave for help.

But the girl only blinked once and answered without hesitation, "Of course. That's why we're here, talking."

She almost tacked on something else—something like "obviously" or "awkwardly"—but stopped herself just in time. A miracle in and of itself.

Shu Mingye narrowed his eyes, as if he could peer through the swamp residue and straight into her soul. Was she bluffing? Was this ignorance? Bravery? Some rare, third category known only to celestial beings and cabbage farmers who'd seen too much?

But her eyes were clear—unshaken, bright. And, tragically, utterly unimpressed.

Not a trace of fear. Not even polite dread.

She was either the bravest woman Shu Mingye had ever met…

Or she had absolutely no idea what kind of mess she had married herself into. Behind her, one of the guards—Yuying, if Shu Mingye remembered correctly—sneezed. Sending a spray of green droplets to the ground.

The 'princess' still didn't even flinch.

Shu Mingye folded the decree slowly. Well, he thought, if she's not afraid of me now… she might be by the end of the week.

Then he extended his blood-slicked hand toward the moss-covered girl who dared call herself Princess Fu Yuxin. The blood was real, thick, still fresh enough to suggest he'd fought something unspeakable just before dinner. It dripped slowly from his knuckles, each drop hitting the ground with the rhythm of distant doom.

It wasn't an invitation.

It was a challenge.

A test.

An unspoken let's see how fast you regret being born.

Would she scream? Gasp? Go pale and faint dramatically like a true daughter of courtly breeding? Shu Mingye had seen it all before. He had a long-standing record of causing noble ladies to reconsider their entire personality in under five seconds.

And—yes—there it was. She froze. Just a flicker. A heartbeat.

Shu Mingye felt a wicked, anticipatory curl of satisfaction rise in his chest. There it is, he thought. Here comes the trembling.

But then… she didn't tremble.

She twitched.

She extended her own swamp-slicked, slightly shaking (but not in fear?) hand. Shu Mingye tilted his head, curious. Was she really going to—

No. Of course not. She didn't take his hand.

Instead, she paused just above it, so close they nearly touched, then—plop—something small, round, and suspiciously sticky landed in his open palm.

He blinked.

"… A candy?" he muttered, low, confused, barely audible.

Behind Linyue, Song Meiyu made a sound halfway between a gasp and a snort.

He Yuying turned sharply to face a tree. Any tree. His shoulders shook slightly.

Shen Zhenyu immediately studied the clouds. He would not be involved in this.

Shu Mingye stared down at the cheerful, pastel-wrapped sweets now soaking gently in the blood pooling in his palm. She must've heard him—either through some swamp-enhanced hearing or the sheer comedic timing of fate—because before he could say another word, she reached back into her sleeve and pulled out a second one. With solemn precision, she dropped it into his hand beside the first.

"Two candies," she said. "East specialty."

There was a pause.

A long one.

He said nothing.

Because really—what was there to say?

Linyue, meanwhile, had her own set of confusions.

When Shu Mingye first extended his very blood-slick, very dramatic hand toward her, she had genuinely startled—not that anyone could see it past the algae mask glued to her face.

What does this mean? she thought, eyes flicking to the hand, then back to his unreadable face. Does he want something else? Does the palace charge an entrance fee now?

She had given him the imperial decree. That should've been the end of the transaction. Decree received. Princess handed over. Everyone goes home to scrub moss out of their underpants.

But no. He was still holding out his hand. Still staring. Expectantly.

Is this a test? A secret palace ritual? A bribe? A demand? Does he want… a handshake? No, impossible. Too bloody. Too weird. Unless this is some terrifying southern custom where you exchange bodily fluids to seal a contract… What to do? she wondered.