The Weeping Moon: The Moon That Sheds Vermilion Tears

Shen Zhenyu turned his gaze to his Junior Sister, who sat by the window looking as serene as a cat in a sunbeam. Her long hair fluttered gently in the wind, her half-lidded eyes barely open—somewhere between sleepy and philosophical.

She looked like she could doze off at any moment, and yet, there was a quiet strength in her posture. Despite knowing exactly what kind of mess she was walking into—namely, the infamous royal nightmare known as Shu Mingye—a man with a haunted-house reputation for chewing through brides like candy… most people would be panicking. But Linyue? She looked like she had nothing more serious to worry about than whether lunch would involve dumplings.

Shen Zhenyu knew it well.

For all her sleepy charm, Linyue had the stubborn resilience of a pine tree in winter—unshaken, a little frosty, and totally unimpressed by storms.

He could already picture it: Shu Mingye showing up with dark robes, scary eyes, and voice that could probably make thunder nervous. He'd lean in, say something dramatic like, "Bow or perish," and Linyue would just blink at him slowly, like he'd interrupted her nap and better have a very good reason for it. Honestly, if anyone could survive impersonating a princess, navigating palace politics, and babysitting a demon king on the side—it was her.

Unbothered. Unmoved. Maybe a little hungry. Or sleepy.

Just as silence settled in the carriage like a cozy blanket, Song Meiyu broke it with a dramatic gasp of exasperation. "Sister Linyue, are you really, really not going to tell us anything?"

Linyue blinked slowly and lifted her head, looking at Song Meiyu like a cat that had been woken from a perfectly good nap. "About what?" she replied innocently, as if she hadn't just signed up to replace a runaway princess and marry a man rumored to chew through wives like snacks.

Song Meiyu leaned in, full of righteous worry. "Your plan, Sister Linyue! There's nothing good about that man. That's why the Princess ran away! Why in the name of steamed buns would you volunteer?"

Linyue paused, her eyes drifting away, her expression softening into something distant—like she was remembering the smell of old plum blossoms or a childhood secret. "There's a promise I want to keep," she said quietly.

Shen Zhenyu watched quietly. He had learned long ago that when Linyue got that particular look in her eye—dreamy, distant, and stubborn—it was already too late for logic. Once she decided, not even an ice-blooded bride-murdering demon king could stop her.

The carriage fell into stunned silence.

Of course, that cryptic answer only made things worse. Song Meiyu exchanged wide-eyed glances with He Yuying, who had stopped chewing on his dried plum mid-bite, a piece of dried plum still dangling tragically from his mouth. Shen Zhenyu just narrowed his eyes slightly, thoughtful and unamused.

Linyue said nothing more. Clearly satisfied with her vague reply, she leaned back against the carriage wall, her eyes closing again like she hadn't just dropped a mysterious bomb of mystery on the group.

The moment Linyue drifted back into her mysterious silence, her three companions exchanged looks that screamed: She knows something, and we are going to dig it out, even if it kills us.

Song Meiyu, never one to shy away from chaos, launched into theory mode. She clutched her herb list like a sacred scroll and gasped, "What if she's actually a long-lost princess? Like, not our princess, but a secret one! Maybe she and the Second Princess were switched at birth, and now fate is correcting itself!"

He Yuying, who had been chewing on dried plum again, nearly choked. "Wait, wait, wait—what if she's not replacing the Princess because of duty or secrets—but because she's in love with the Demon of Shulin?!"

Shen Zhenyu slowly turned his head, giving He Yuying the kind of look that could freeze soup. "You think Linyue is in love with someone who allegedly threw a tea set at his sixth bride's head?"

He Yuying looked genuinely pained. "People change! Maybe she sees the wounded soul behind the blade! A tragic love story, you know?"

"More like a tragic concussion," muttered Shen Zhenyu, rubbing his temple.

Unfazed, Song Meiyu was now fully in drama mode. "Maybe she's going to assassinate him!" she whispered excitedly, as if the carriage walls could hear. "She's just pretending to marry him, but once he lets his guard down—bam! Poisoned soup! Classic!"

"That's not classic," Shen Zhenyu said. "That's just your obsession with suspicious broth again."

"It's a legitimate method!" Song Meiyu huffed.

Meanwhile, He Yuying had moved on to an even wilder guess. "What if… hear me out… what if she's going to the south to awaken an ancient spirit sealed under the imperial palace, and only Shu Mingye has the key because his bloodline is cursed?!"

Everyone stared.

"… I may have read too many story scrolls," He Yuying admitted sheepishly.

Song Meiyu sighed dramatically and leaned back. "She could at least give us a hint. A clue. A riddle! I'd settle for a vague poem!"

But Linyue said nothing—eyes closed, expression peaceful, as if she were meditating…or napping. Probably napping.

The others fell into a grumbling silence, their brains spinning with increasingly implausible ideas.

By the end of the day, the working list of theories included: secret vengeance, royal bloodlines, magical curses, accidental betrothal due to ancient prophecy, and—maybe she just really likes tall, broody men with unresolved trauma.

Shen Zhenyu groaned. This journey was going to be long.

....

The carriage rumbled past the old stone archway marking the border of Luyan, creaking triumphantly like it deserved a medal for making it this far. Beyond it stretched the endless green embrace of the southern forests—trees tall enough to gossip with clouds, leaves dancing like they were showing off, and birds chirping a cheerful tune far too energetic for anyone except Song Meiyu.

The scenery rolled by in waves of jade and gold, sunlight filtering through leaves like it had something poetic to say. It would've been the perfect setting for quiet reflection—if one could ignore the frequent and increasingly urgent shouts of:

"Stop the carriage! That's definitely a Spike bitter grass! No, wait—might be just a pointy weed. But still, stop!"

She leapt from the carriage like it was on fire. Song Meiyu had transformed into a full-blown roadside enthusiast. Every vaguely suspicious leaf, oddly shaped mushroom, or glorified dandelion was a potential life-saving miracle plant, and absolutely none of them could be ignored.

And so, the carriage rolled. Then stopped. Rolled again. Then stopped again. Sometimes Song Meiyu leapt out enthusiastically, sometimes she just leaned halfway out the window and shouted facts (some real, some clearly made up).

The others… adapted.

Shen Zhenyu sat quietly, arms folded, expression unchanged, as if he could become one with the carriage and disappear. Linyue leaned back with her eyes closed, looking like she was practicing some form of emotional detachment from reality. He Yuying, after the fourth sudden stop, had resigned himself to the role of official herb-basket-holder, staring longingly at the road ahead like a man questioning every decision that had led him here.

Still, no one truly complained. Because they all knew: this was just Song Meiyu in her natural habitat. And frankly, it was better she found joy in misidentifying herbs than in testing them on them.

At least for now.