The Weeping Moon: The Moon That Sheds Vermilion Tears

Problem was—she didn't carry money. Shen Zhenyu was the group's official treasurer. He held the pouch. The sacred, jingly pouch of bribery and budgeting. He Yuying was the luggage manager—meaning he mostly guarded their robes and occasionally forgot where he packed them. And Song Meiyu… she guarded the medicinal herbs.

So. Should she ask Shen Zhenyu to pay the bribe? Was that too forward?

And then it hit her.

Oh right—the candy.

The cursed sweets Master Yin Xue had shoved into her hands before they left Xuanyi Pavilion. She didn't even like sweets. Everyone knew that. Which meant, naturally, Master Yin Xue had given her extra. Double. Triple. Enough to survive a siege. "In case of emergencies," Master Yin Xue had said. "Or diplomacy," she'd added, which was worse.

And now? Now was apparently both.

Linyue, having long since given up on understanding how the day had spiraled like this, did what any logical, dignity-deficient disciple covered in swamp would do: she reached deep into the swampy void of her sleeve—which now contained two pebbles, a half-dead leaf, possibly a bug, and something she really hoped wasn't alive—and retrieved a slightly squashed, slightly sticky piece of candy.

She dropped it into Shu Mingye's hand. When he murmured, almost to himself, "A candy?" she assumed—naturally—that he wanted more. So she reached back in and gave him another. Because when a blood-drenched man stares at you in silence, it's always better to give more sugar.

Another long silence.

Linyue squinted. No reaction. Ugh. This is how taxation begins, she thought grimly.

So, Linyue did what any reasonable fake princess covered in swamp juice would do—she gestured at He Yuying with subtle urgency.

He Yuying, who had long since mastered the ancient art of interpreting Linyue's wordless distress signals, blinked once and nodded. Wordlessly, he pulled out a small cloth pouch from his inner sleeve—one originally intended for emergency snacks, bribery, or rogue squirrel attacks—and handed it over.

It was full of candy.

Sticky. Slightly melted. Lightly scented with swamp and regret.

Linyue accepted it and—without even pausing to reconsider—dumped the entire rainbow-colored mess into Shu Mingye's palm.

There were… a lot. At least a dozen. Maybe more. They sparkled under the fading light like a tribute from a sugar-addicted forest sprite with no understanding of royal customs.

Shu Mingye stared at his hand. Or more accurately, he stared at what had become of his hand. A bewildering cocktail of blood, moss-slime, pastel wrapping paper, and confusion.

He did not move.

He did not speak.

He just stood there, betrayed by both diplomacy and glucose.

Next to Linyue, Song Meiyu leaned in and whispered with the grave tone of someone watching the final collapse of centuries-old etiquette, "I don't think he wanted offerings. That was a 'let me walk you inside before you embarrass the realm' kind of gesture. Not 'feed me sugar and moss.'"

Linyue blinked.

A slow, thoughtful kind of blink. The kind that said: Oh no.

"Oh," she muttered at last, staring at Shu Mingye's hand—which was now awkwardly holding a small pile of rainbow-colored sweets. Her voice was painfully flat, like someone discovering they'd just watered a fake plant for three months.

She looked at the candy. Then at his hand. Then at Shu Mingye's face—a complex painting of confusion, disbelief, and faint spiritual betrayal—and added with a straight face. "... Well. Too late now. I thought he was asking for an entrance fee."

Shen Zhenyu, standing just behind Linyue, let out a sound that could only be described as a snort—half laugh, half sigh, all resigned amusement. His junior sister never failed to deliver chaos—just never in the way anyone anticipated.

In his heart, he was convinced Linyue's mind had been crafted by a divine artisan with a very eccentric sense of humor. Strategically brilliant. Emotionally composed. Spiritually unshakeable. But in conversation and social awareness? Somewhere between confused baby goat and a forgotten old shoe someone had lost during a thunderstorm.

He Yuying and Song Meiyu had long come to terms with one universal truth: Linyue operated on a frequency no one else could hear. It wasn't just rare—it was divine. A wavelength reserved solely for celestial pranksters, slightly drunk immortals, and very confused birds who flew into windows twice and kept trying anyway.

Meanwhile, Shu Mingye stood before them with an expression so blank, even stone statues might've developed performance anxiety just trying to match it.

Was it shock? Anger? Bafflement? Mild indigestion?

No one could say for sure.

Shu Mingye had received many strange things in his life—threats, curses, flaming swords flung lovingly at his face —but this? A handful of sticky candy from a swamp princess? This was new.

And he genuinely didn't know what the correct response was.

Should he arrest her? Lecture her? Marry her immediately and declare today a national holiday?

What he did know—with absolute clarity—was that this moment would haunt him forever.

In front of him stood a girl who claimed to be the Second Princess of Yunyue. She looked less like royalty and more like a seaweed merchant who'd lost a bet with a swamp spirit. Her clothes were still damp. She smelled faintly of moss. And yet, she stared up at him like someone who believed the world owed her at least two dumplings and a nap, completely unfazed by the living embodiment of death.

And had she—had she really just said something about… an entrance fee?

Shu Mingye blinked, just once. No scroll had ever prepared him for this. Not the secret assassination reports. No training, no battle, not even the haunted blade that whispered ancient truths.

There was no entrance fee. There had never been an entrance fee. Was there a secret one? Had he missed a memo? Was this a prank? Had the palace accountant finally snapped under pressure and implemented a candy-based toll system? His mind raced. It hit a wall. Reversed. Crashed again.

And then—as if to lovingly shove salt into his brain wound—the swamp-drenched woman tilted her head slightly.

Her tone was gentle. Polite. Casual.

"Can we come in now?"

Somewhere in the distance, a bird gave a confused squawk.

Even the wind paused, as if it too wanted to hear what would happen next.

If Shulin had a sacred gong reserved for historically ridiculous moments, it would have struck then and shattered into pieces.

And with that, against all logic, pride, and possibly divine warning—the gates of fate—or at least the palace, began to creak open.