The Weeping Moon: The Moon That Sheds Vermilion Tears

The four unlikely travelers made their way toward their rented carriage with the air of a squad on a mission—though admittedly, one made up of two calm faces, one living ball of enthusiasm, and one poor soul buried under enough luggage to supply a small troop.

The carriage waiting for them was perfectly unremarkable, just the way Shen Zhenyu planned it. Modest, sturdy, and just plain enough to avoid catching the wrong kind of attention. Not luxurious enough to tempt bandits, but not so shabby that it creaked in protest every time a wheel turned. In other words: perfectly forgettable.

With a few heaves, grunts, and some very creative rearranging from He Yuying, all the luggage was finally stowed away. One by one, they climbed into the carriage. The interior, to everyone's mild relief, was quite spacious. Roomy enough for all four of them to sit opposite each other without bumping knees or needing to fold themselves like laundry. A miracle, considering how much Song Meiyu had packed "just in case."

With a low creak and the soft clatter of hooves, the carriage rolled forward, beginning its journey south toward Shulin—a place famed for its endless greenery and even more endless catalog of medicinal plants. It was a healer's paradise, an herbalist's dream.

The journey would take about seven days—more, if Song Meiyu insisted on stopping to inspect every promising leaf. Less, if they were lunatics with no need for rest, food, or sleep. Fortunately, none of them were in a rush. Song Meiyu had her herbal quest, Shen Zhenyu had his quiet observations, He Yuying had... luggage to manage, and Linyue… was just hoping no one would fall into a swamp.

The road ahead promised adventure, botany, and possibly mild poisoning. After all, for every miraculous healing herb in Shulin, there was an equally persuasive plant waiting to paralyze you "just a little." But with this group? Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Probably.

Shen Zhenyu sat quietly by the carriage window, the way only a man with far too many thoughts and far too little context could. His gaze rested calmly on the passing scenery, but his mind was leagues away—five days back, to be exact, when the imperial court exploded with the kind of news that usually made Linyue yawn.

The emperor had announced a marriage alliance: the Second Princess of the realm would marry the King of Shulin.

It was the sort of announcement that usually brought with it a mountain of gossip and drama across the eight states. Linyue, however, was not usually the type to give a single embroidered sleeve about it. So, when she turned to him—eyes sharp, voice calm—and asked, "Is it true?" he nearly choked on his tea.

As any good loyal and increasingly concerned—or slightly paranoid—Senior Brother would, Shen Zhenyu went digging, for information of course. And for him, gathering imperial-level gossip was child's play. He wasn't called reliable for nothing. What he hadn't expected, though, was Linyue's reaction after he delivered the facts: a silent nod… and then the announcement that she would be heading south.

To Shulin.

To replace the Second Princess.

He'd blinked. Twice. Then waited for her to say she was joking.

She didn't.

And so, here they were.

He never asked why. Not because he wasn't curious—he absolutely was—but because he knew better. This Junior Sister of his, despite her quiet demeanor, was chaos with a calm voice. She was the kind of person who'd fight a demon with one hand while calmly correcting your grammar with the other. If the world burned down tomorrow, Linyue would probably sip tea in the ashes and say, "Well, that's inconvenient." In short, sweet as plum wine, sharp as a sword, and as predictable as a cat in a room full of scrolls.

So, when she decided to impersonate a Princess for reasons known only to her and the heavens above, Shen Zhenyu did what any wise man would do: he stopped asking questions and started packing.

The only thing Shen Zhenyu truly worried about—the one variable he couldn't quite calculate or prepare for was the King of Shulin, Shu Mingye.

Thirteen years ago, when the current Emperor, Fu Jingtao, had first taken the throne, he wasted no time cleaning house. Among the many so-called "loose ends" was Shu Minglan, the former King of Shulin—loyal to the previous Emperor, proud as a lion, and just inconvenient enough to be labeled a threat.

Shu Minglan was thrown into prison faster than you could say "imperial decree," thanks in large part to his own brother, Shu Wenxu, who personally submitted evidence of treason against the new Emperor. Family loyalty, it turned out, was not a strong suit in the Shu household.

The trial was short, the execution even shorter. Shu Minglan and his wife were made an example of—public, brutal, final. Their heads displayed for all to see.

But then, the emperor made what people called a "merciful" decision, he spared their young son, Shu Mingye. No sword. No poison. Just exile. A boy stripped of title, home, and family, banished to the northern frontiers where the snow didn't care who your father used to be.

 The court called it compassion. The poets sang ballads about the emperor's mercy. "A heart as kind as it is wise!" they said. "A leader who forgives even the children of traitors!"

To outsiders who knew nothing of the emperor's true thoughts, the decision seemed like a shining act of kindness. A gesture of pure benevolence. Mercy in its finest form. The people admired him even more. To them, he was a ruler with a generous heart, a leader who put compassion above all.

But anyone who had spent more than ten minutes near the imperial court would know: kindness in politics was rarely just kindness.

Sending Shu Mingye to the freezing north wasn't kindness, it was slow-motion execution. He wouldn't grow up among courtiers or scholars. He'd grow up among wolves and wind and soldiers with nothing to lose and the occasional frostbite. It was a perfect plan: the boy wouldn't die immediately. That would be too simple. He'd live. Long enough to remember everything. Long enough to dream of revenge. But not long enough—or powerful enough—to ever make it back.

After all, the emperor didn't need Shu Mingye dead.

Just forgotten.

But, four years ago, Shu Mingye hadn't just returned. He had erased his uncle's regime like a name wiped clean from ancestral tablets. What was meant to be a symbolic exile had instead become the boy's crucible. Out there in the frostbitten wilds, he hadn't just survived, he had become something terrifying.

When he finally returned to Shulin, he didn't bring troops or shout rebellion from the rooftops. There were no banners, no trumpets, no heroic speeches. Just a night of smoke, silence, and the unsettling realization that by dawn, Shu Wenxu and every trace of his bloodline had vanished, like they had never existed.

The imperial court, naturally, panicked. People muttered about curses, demons, and divine retribution. But most stayed silent—because the one person who should've died, hadn't.

And then, the icing on this very unsettling cake: a petition.

Neatly written. Stamped with all the right seals. Signed by every single minister in Shulin.

The ministers, those so-called wise men of Shulin, had chosen to live. And they had chosen their new king: the very one the emperor had exiled. Not out of love. Not even out of respect.

Just fear.

And nothing is harder to uproot than a ruler whose throne is held together by terror.

Now, Shu Mingye ruled the southern state like a wildfire no one dared approach. He wasn't a puppet. He wasn't a loyal subject. He was a threat, and a constant headache for the emperor—who couldn't remove him without tearing apart the fragile balance of the realm.

The thorn was no longer just sharp.

It was bleeding.

So, to keep him under watch and tether him to the imperial court, the emperor used the oldest trick in the book: marriage. Princesses and noblewomen were sent to Shulin under the guise of royal union. But everyone with half a brain knew their real job: to smile sweetly, spy thoroughly, and keep the terrifying king on a tight leash of wedding vows and imperial surveillance.

It was all very traditional. Very civilized. Very "please don't burn down the capital."

But if marriage was supposed to bind Shu Mingye, it failed spectacularly.

Princess Fu Yuxin was not the first bride chosen for him. She was the seventh.

The six before her had all met grim ends. Four had taken their own lives, and two died in what were officially called 'accidents'. But no one truly knew what had happened behind the sealed wall. The palace only whispered—and what the whispers said was enough to freeze anyone's blood.

He accepted the marriage like one accepts an inconvenient gift. With silence.

No one knew if he even looked at the brides before they vanished. No one dared ask. And so, the legend grew—of a young ruler carved from ice and vengeance, whose palace swallowed princesses whole.

But the emperor kept sending them. Because sometimes, in the name of peace, one must sacrifice pawns.

Even if they have imperial blood. His own blood.

The Princess wasn't just any girl, she was the emperor's daughter. That meant if anything happened to her—if Shu Mingye dared breathe too close to suspicious—the emperor could twist it into an excuse. A reason for punishment. Or war. It would all look perfectly just on paper, no matter how carefully Shu Mingye played his hand.

This wasn't just a marriage—it was a trap, wrapped in red silk and sweet words, waiting for someone to step in too deep.

And no one laid traps quite like Emperor Fu Jingtao.

The Emperor, Fu Jingtao, didn't rise to power through noble means or a grand destiny. His path to the throne was built on quiet deals, clever tricks, and just enough rebellion to push him ahead. It wasn't clean, but it worked.

Most people didn't know the full story of how he got there. But that didn't matter. In the world of politics, results often mattered more than the method.

He acted calm, wise, and generous in public, playing the role of a kind and capable ruler. But behind closed doors, he was always watching, always calculating. The truth of his rise was hidden behind smiles and silk robes.

And as long as everything looked perfect on the surface, no one dared to question what really happened in the shadows.

And now Linyue was heading straight into that mess.

As a replacement bride.

Of course she was.