The Weeping Moon: The Moon That Sheds Vermilion Tears

In the early morning—when even the crows had decided it was too early to start yelling about their problems—Shu Mingye received what could generously be called an "invitation" from the emperor.

It bore a message that, in fewer words, said: Bring Second princess to the capital. The emperor wishes to see his daughter.

His daughter.

How touching.

Shu Mingye leaned back in his chair, the golden light of dawn creeping across the floor and catching on a smudge of dried blood along his sleeve. He didn't notice. It was left over from last night's "diplomatic meeting" with… bandits? Rebels? An overeager assassin? Or possibly just a very unlucky dinner guest? At some point, it blurred together. He'd stopped keeping track somewhere between the fifth duel and dessert.

Princess Fu Yuxin, the so-called Second Princess, had never once stepped foot in the capital. No fancy palace tea parties. No formal flute recitals. No tearful father-daughter reunions at festivals. She was the royal version of that mysterious vase in the back of the storage room—technically valuable, completely ignored, and now suddenly important because someone remembered she existed.

And now, out of nowhere, the emperor wanted to see her?

So, he mused silently, the old man wants to give her an "order."

Shu Mingye had seen this performance before. Many times. It went like this: A pretty bride with trembling hands and too much perfume would be sent south to his palace, eyes wide with fear, mouth full of lies and sweet honeyed greetings. Sometimes they were spies. Sometimes they were just noble daughters someone wanted to exile politely. Occasionally, they came with poisoned hairpins or tear-stained scrolls with instructions like, "marry the demon, spy on him, and if the stars aligned, stick a knife in his ribs while he was distracted by tea."

And yet, time after time, those fragile dolls crumbled like pastries.

One of them had fainted just by looking at him. Without him saying a single word. Another one, who turned out to be an assassin, tried to poison his drink but ended up drinking it herself out of sheer nerves.

Useless. All of them.

But this one…this Princess Fu Yuxin… She'd shown up at his gates looking like a seaweed monster. Insulted him with candy by accident, and then somehow survived without trembling, swooning, or throwing herself dramatically off a balcony while screaming "I cannot marry such a monster!"

She hadn't schemed. She hadn't tried to kill him. Yet.

She hadn't even tried to flatter him.

So now came the questions. Would she obey the emperor's will like a good little daughter? Would she pull a hairpin and lunge for his throat mid-tea?

Or… would she do something utterly unpredictable? Something no one in the capital, not even the emperor himself, could foresee?

Shu Mingye smiled faintly—sharp, amused, and entirely unreadable.

He was very much looking forward to this game.

A faint knock echoed at the wooden door of his study, polite enough to be proper, but not quite bold enough to demand attention. He already knew who it was—there weren't many in this palace who would dare disturb him at this hour unless they had a death wish or an imperial decree. Or, in this unfortunate case… both.

The door creaked open, and there she stood.

No longer cloaked in swamp slime and aquatic shame, the "Princess" had scrubbed herself into something vaguely noble. The tangled seaweed had been replaced with neatly brushed hair, delicate pins glinting in the light like tiny weapons disguised as accessories. The moss-colored memory of yesterday was gone, and her dress was clean, elegant, peach-toned—subtle enough not to scream for attention, but refined enough to whisper "imperial blood."

Now, she looked like someone who belonged in a palace. Someone who might stab you with a smile.

He studied her in silence, eyes cool and precise, as if mentally checking for hidden knives, secret scrolls, or maybe some sneaky swamp moss she'd smuggled in just to make a point. Then, in a tone so dry it might've caused drought, he said, "You look more like a human now."

Linyue didn't blink. She was immune to snide comments from men who couldn't even be bothered to change out of their bloodstained clothes before holding meetings.

"Yes. You too," she said simply.

That caught him off guard.

A flicker of something—not quite a wince, not quite a grin, somewhere between a smirk and a muscle cramp—twitched at the corner of his mouth. He had not expected that. Few people dared speak to him like that. Fewer survived it. And none of them ever looked so earnestly unimpressed while doing it.

He glanced down, as if only now remembering the crusty streaks of dried demon blood decorating his sleeves. And the collar. And—was that an eyeball? Never mind. He also recalled the candy she had offered him the day she arrived, like he was a grumpy toddler in need of sweet bribes.

He let the moment pass. Reacting would only make him look bothered, and he had his pride. He was not about to lose to this little peach-dressed countryside princess in a battle of composure.

Then she stepped into his study.

And stopped.

Ah.

There it is, Shu Mingye thought.

She hadn't seen it from the outside. The windows had been misleadingly clean. The hallway didn't scream danger. The scent of blood was masked by incense, because he had manners.

But now… she saw it.

Two bodies lay casually like very unfortunate interior decor. Right there on the floor beside the door like someone had decided "carpet? No thanks, corpses are more dramatic."

One was a man with his neck cleanly sliced, blood still dripping in slow, lazy lines like it had nowhere better to be. The other was a woman—probably a maid, though at this point, her career path was hard to confirm—missing a hand. The said hand was lying not far away, almost politely placed, except for the large pool of blood around it really ruined the presentation.

What…was this supposed to be?

A welcome gift? A message? A warning?

Linyue stared at the two blood-soaked bodies on the floor.

Should she scream? Cry? Pretend to faint? Or maybe just… back away and pretend she walked into the wrong room?

Behind her, Song Meiyu did what any loyal, emotionally fragile handmaiden would do in this situation: she gasped dramatically.

A flawless gasp. Ten out of ten for following the emotional script.

Shu Mingye, on the other hand, had almost forgotten about it.

It started innocently enough—well, as innocent as these things went. Last night, when the princess mentioned some "entrance fee," he'd called the palace accountant to ask what that was about. But before he could even say a word, the accountant dropped to his knees, trembling like a leaf in a storm, and confessed to embezzling palace funds.

"I DID IT! I TOOK THE MONEY! I'M SORRY! I BOUGHT A HOUSE! AND A HORSE! AND AN EMOTIONALLY SUPPORTIVE GOAT!"

Shu Mingye hadn't even glared yet. He was still mid-blink.

Frankly, it was disappointing.

He didn't even get to use his "I will end your bloodline" voice.

So naturally, the man went straight to prison. Swift. Simple. Standard.

Curious now, Shu Mingye had spent the night digging through palace ledgers. It wasn't the most thrilling activity for someone known as the Demon of Shulin, but sometimes the real terror came from columns that didn't add up.

Turns out, the missing funds were supposed to go toward maintenance on some of the more forgotten palace buildings. Remote courtyards. Crumbling pavilions. Places so far off the main paths even the ghosts had stopped bothering with them.

He'd never checked them before. Maybe he should've.

So, he summoned the servants in charge of those areas.

Simple. Routine. Harmless.

Right?

No.

Turns out, one was a spy.

The moment he entered the room, he pulled out a dagger and slashed his own neck without hesitation. Shu Mingye didn't stop him. Why bother? If the man wanted to save him the trouble, that was considerate.

The second one—a quiet woman—entered gracefully, bowed, smiled, and promptly reached into her sleeve for poison needles. Probably aiming for his face. Bold move.

Unfortunately for her, Shu Mingye had seen that trick before. At least six times. He casually flicked his sword, slicing her wrist mid-motion. The needles clattered to the floor before she could throw them. He'd planned to interrogate her… but she bled out too quickly.

And now both bodies were still there. Shu Mingye hadn't asked anyone to clean up.

Not out of malice. He'd just gotten distracted. There were reports to read. Tea to drink. Demons to deal with. And now a princess to argue with.

He glanced at the princess.

This was unintended, but… interesting.