SU TANG (素醣)

  Day 8, 4th Month of the Lunar Calendar, 6000th Year of the Yun Dynasty, Taishan Province, Tian’an Sect

  “biǎozǐ,” the Empress scowled, towering over Ze Lujin like a bad omen wearing too much rouge. Her shadow alone probably had enough political weight to force a false confession out of a corpse.

  I folded my arms. Huh. That lady was much sturdier than she looked. Ze Lujin had the kind of body that could be folded in half and stuffed into a basket, no questions asked—scrawny, all joints and nerves, wrapped in robes two sizes too big. But she’d endured, what, twenty? Thirty lashes? Too many, that was for sure.

  This had been my first banquet. And I decided that I didn’t like it. Too much blood, not enough dumplings. Ying Yue had sworn up and down that banquets were about good food, but all I had gotten was the scent of roast duck and a front-row seat to a public execution.

  The Crown Prince wheezed.

  Oh, he lives. I didn’t know what poison he’d swallowed, and frankly, I didn’t care. First lesson of poison class: how to test your food. Clearly, he missed that lesson. At any rate, he should’ve been training his body against poisons; he’s a member of the royal family.

  The Emperor kept whispering his son’s name like it was going to raise the dead. That was all it appeared he was good for. I dropped my cheek into my hand. If this was the so-called pillar of our nation, we might as well hand the country over to a cabbage.

  At least the Empress had initiative. Misguided, sure—beating people into compliance rarely improves anything—but it was something, nonetheless.

  Ah…I really shouldn’t be making these kinds of assertions. Lao Zhe would tell me to be careful about jumping to a conclusion. Quick judgement only led to poor appraisals. I should just watch.

  I shifted my attention back to the old tortoise himself. He was turning his shrivelled, tear-stained face toward my friend, clutching his son’s hand like it contained state secrets. “Will he survive?” he asked, barely above a croak.

  His lips trembled—two long folds of parchment masquerading as a mouth. Once, maybe, they had been full and imperial. Now, it lay as a bunch of skin stretched thin to make a mouth shape.

  “Your Majesty, you need not worry. His body just needs rest. He is through the worst,” the Blossom Deity said.

  Calm and composed, the voice of reason in a hall full of theatrics and blood. Honestly, I didn’t know how she did it. Where did she store her patience? Probably in the same place she kept her limitless grace, poise, and tips for perfect skin.

  Maybe it helped that the entire court seemed to breathe differently when she walked in. When she entered the hall earlier, I watched as the heads of every underpaid court official and overentitled noble swivel in unison, necks cracking like dead branches in a storm. A collective sigh followed. Longer than any poem and louder than necessary.

  She didn’t need to try. Just floated in like a celestial goddess dropped from a scroll painting, wrapped in silk and cold logic.

  It was easy to be patient when the world adored you.

  The Emperor finally stood, shaking off his grief like an old robe. “Take my son to his quarters. Empress Huangmei, please return to your seat.”

  Now, that got interesting. I caught the fire in the Empress’s eyes—red-rimmed and sharp enough to gut a fish. Her aura flared like a furnace, thick with fury. She clenched her fists so hard I half-expected her ornamental nail guards to pierce through her own hand. Stylish weapons, really—if one were planning to kill a man.

  “Your Majesty…” she began, her voice tight with rage disguised as decorum.

  He waved her off her plea. She bowed, if that flop at her waist could be consider a bow, then stomped to her throne with the grace of a spoiled child. Her every step screeched against the floor, the way only shoes too expensive and too pointy can. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and her jewelled headpiece jingled with the overenthusiastic misery of a thousand wind chimes in a typhoon.

  A new noise arose as the Emperor’s thundered, “This day has been an absolute disaster!” He stormed toward the exit, his sleeves flaring, his words barking over his shoulder. “Spread my order. Investigate everyone here. I want an answer.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the Imperial Guards chorused, already pivoting into motion with discipline and blind loyalty.

  With one final flourish of his robe, he vanished past the great doors, his son’s stretcher gliding dutifully after him like a loyal pet. A single procession of pain and power, disappearing out the hall.

  Qi Qi’s gaze met mine across the chaos, steady and impossibly calm. Her clothes danced with her ever movement, the fabric trailing behind her like the silk portrait of a celestial maiden had come to life. It all seemed quite befitting. After all, she was escorting a dying prince.

  “It's her! It must be her! She must have poisoned His Highness!”

  Before my brain could catch up, I was on the floor.

  Pain flared across my scalp—sharp, hot, and immediate. My hair was being yanked from its roots like weeds in a royal garden.

  Lady Ze, the wilting daisy herself, was pointing at me with a trembling finger like she’d just uncovered a conspiracy.

  “It's her! She was responsible for the floral decorations! The flowers are everywhere—they must have been poisoned!”

  “What—?”

  Smack.

  My face snapped sideways. A warm trail slid down my chin. Blood. Personal, unmistakable, and now soaking into the embroidery of my robe. I dabbed a shaky finger against my cheek.

  More red came away.

  “Who allowed you to speak in the Empress’ presence?” barked the Imperial Guard, his voice hollow under the weight of metal and self-importance.

  Steel-tipped boots filled my vision as I was shoved into a bow, spine bent like I was about to be served up on a platter. I stared at the ground. I’d never seen my own blood drip onto marble before. It spread out in a delicate little starburst pattern.

  “Let go of her,” came the Empress’ crystalline command. “I want to hear her speak.”

  The pressure eased. I exhaled.

  Words burst out of me, quick and sharp, like water through a cracked dam. Ju Ying and Lao Zhe would have been disappointed at my inability to read the situation. And fair enough. I wasn’t exactly navigating this situation like a political genius.

  But I didn’t want to take the blame for a crime I didn’t commit. Especially not one that reeked of the death penalty. Nor was I about that crazy Lady Ze lying her way into survival.

  She’d been unhinged from the beginning. Grabbing me at the start, accusing me of things I didn’t understand. She looked at me like I was someone else. She thought I was someone else.

  And now she wanted me dead.

  Her Majesty listened, nodding with the sort of patience that wasn’t patience at all, but boredom disguised as courtesy. Then she raised a lacquered hand.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  “Enough,” she said. “I want to ask you one question.”

  Ah, the dreaded singular question. Singular questions were never about curiosity. They were cannons, already loaded, safety off.

  She floated toward me like a painted spectre. Her hànfú wasn’t slim-cut as I had earlier seen, but structured—flared sleeves, thick fabric, reinforced shoulders. It wasn’t a fashion statement. It was armour. Visual proof that she had no intention of showing mercy.

  She grabbed my wrist, her nails cold against my skin, and dragged me upright. Crimson-ringed eyes burned into mine.

  “You swear,” she asked softly, “that you are not involved?”

  A meaningless question. As if my answer mattered. Truth, at court, was like perfume. Chosen to suit the occasion, rarely genuine. If she really wanted to know who poisoned the Crown Prince, there were simpler methods.

  Still, I bowed my head with the humility expected of the guilty and said, “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  “Liar!” she shrieked.

  Before I could blink, she flung me aside. Toward Lady Ze of all people. My hairpin caught the air in a brief, elegant arc before clattering across the tiles. A heartbeat later, an Imperial Guard stepped on it. The delicate wood snapped with a muted crunch.

  My face followed.

  The floor was cold, polished stone, and now my mouth knew exactly how it tasted. They shoved me down until my teeth grazed the tile, and I could feel the guard’s boot pressing into the back of my skull like I was a bug to be crushed.

  In that moment, I learnt three things.

  Number one. Truth is irrelevant. Theatrics are everything.

  I had done nothing wrong. Yet here I was, displayed like a criminal. How laughably na?ve I had been. My body trembled. Not with fear, but fury. Hot, buzzing fury that sang beneath my skin. I wanted to claw my way to Ze Lujin and wrap my fingers around her lovely, lying throat. Just one good squeeze. Enough to silence her.

  The Empress wasn’t done.

  “I trusted you,” she spat. “I gave you the opportunity to display your talents. And you betrayed me. You dared to poison my son—with her?!”

  She jabbed an accusatory finger at Lady Ze, who flinched like a mouse cornered in its own delusions.

  If she knew Lady Ze was the culprit, why bother to drag me into this mess? It was times like this that I wished I had listened more in political discourse class.

  “Please let her go, Your Majesty!”

  It was Ju Ying. She hurried forward. “It was my fault. My fault. My fault! I failed to teach her properly! Please!”

  She began slapping herself: loud, sharp cracks that echoed through the hall like thunderclaps. Her cheeks turned beet-red, swelling with each strike. Her eyes welled, the tears spilling down her face unchecked, a waterfall of pleading.

  “She is a child!” she sobbed. “Spare her, Your Majesty!”

  Her voice had the kind of sorrow that made me ache. I wanted to stop her and hold her. It wasn’t meant to be like this. She’s not a sentimental person. She’s meant to scold me and blame me.

  But there she was, begging in my stead in front of the court.

  And all I could do was lie there with my face pressed to cold stone and look on.

  At last, Ju Ying’s voice cracked like a sun-baked reed. “The floral design didn’t have monkshood! You can check, Your Majesty!”

  Her desperation rang clear, which meant she was either really scared, or really telling the truth. Maybe both. Knowing her, she’d rather fight a demon barehanded than lose an argument about botany.

  But the hall didn’t pause. There was a new sound: an approaching shuffle, slow and steady. The kind of walk that demanded to be listened to, whether anyone wanted to or not. Not the click of the Empress’ wooden heels. No, this one was heavier. Like sandpaper scraping polished stone.

  Then a voice: well-mannered and oozing with the kind of authority that didn't require shouting.

  “Your Majesty, may I speak.”

  “Spit it out,” the Empress snapped.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Articulate, smug, and dressed in that perfectly ironed humility high-ranking officials always wore. “In all my years overseeing Shuishang, I have never seen anyone grow a spiritual flower.”

  Yu Haifei.

  The Grandmaster of Shuishang. The man that every cultivator in Huadu Sect wanted as a master. But his presence didn’t feel like an endorsement. Instead, it filled me with dread.

  “Be direct,” the Empress said. There was a note in her voice—impatience, edged with danger.

  He continued pleasantly, as if the Empress’ threat meant absolutely nothing. “I believe Alchemist Su Tang saved His Highness.” How did he know that?

  “What?” the Empress asked, her voice dropping to a silky whisper. The kind people use before they gutted a fish. “Explain.”

  “Six days ago,” the grandmaster began, “Shuishang celebrated our annual Blossom Day. This girl conjured báilián. As we know, báilián is not merely a medicinal plant—it is a spiritual bloom, and one that cannot be grown by ordinary means.”

  The Blossom Chief cut in sharply. “Your Majesty, he is exaggerating. The Blossom Deity is exceptionally skilled. It was she who found the cure. Not this girl.”

  I wanted to believe that it was just her usual attempts to divert attention from me. But the panic in her tone told me otherwise. No—she was trying to throw a tarp over a fire.

  “I am not lying, nor am I blind,” Yu Haifei replied smoothly, not missing a beat. “Blossom Deity Lingqi took the girl out of the hall before returning with the cure. That is no coincidence.”

  There was a steel edge in his voice I hadn’t heard before.

  Ju Ying’s voice trembled now. “Your Majesty, even though she is innocent of the poisoning, she did not—”

  “I grew it, Your Majesty,” I interrupted.

  Number two. Words are the most powerful weapon.

  I won’t forget that.

  Never again.

  My own words dropped like stones into a pond—quiet, but impossible to ignore. The pressure on my back lightened. Ju Ying turned to me, shaking her head. Don’t. Her eyes said. Don’t do this.

  But I had already done it.

  There was something dangerous about that flower. Something that no one wanted to name aloud. Something not meant to be wielded by someone like me. But this wasn’t about flowers anymore. This was about survival. And maybe, just maybe, it was about learning what else I was capable of.

  Number three. Power is a risky drug. But in a world where mercy is mistaken for weakness, it’s the only thing that makes people listen. The only thing that makes them kneel.

  And I was curious.

  The Empress leaned forward on her gilded throne. Her painted eyes blinked like she was shaking dust off an old memory.

  “You grew báilián,” she repeated to herself, “and saved my son?”

  I didn’t look at Ju Ying. Couldn’t. Her shoulders had sunk, her eyes shined wet. I had never seen my shījiě so defeated.

  Please don’t be sad. It was my decision.

  I exhaled. Then, with all the calm I could muster, I inclined my head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The Empress blinked slowly, then tilted her head. A laugh slipped from her mouth. Not the warm kind. No, this was the brittle chime of polished teeth and performative civility. Her lips curled apart, revealing rows of pristine, bone-white enamel, as if she'd never so much as bitten into a plum wrong in her entire life.

  An odd reaction, especially after she had me pinned like a struggling beetle under a boot.

  An Imperial Guard grabbed me by the armpits and hauled me off the floor with all the gentleness of a sack of potatoes. My knees were shaking, courtesy of being forced to kneel on cold stone like an ornamental statue. I wobbled a little, then straightened.

  The Empress descended from the dais like a silk-draped guillotine, each step an echo of deliberate grace. Her smile was thin—tight at the corners, loose at the centre—and entirely unreadable. “A deal is a deal,” she said.

  This can’t be good.

  She opened her hand, and a spark ignited in her palm. It licked at her skin like it had been waiting all day to burn someone. But with a casual flick, the flame collapsed inward, condensing until it glowed like a dying star—a perfect ember, shaped into a pearl.

  She placed it in my palm, and it pulsed faintly against my skin. Warm. A little too warm.

  “Eight-thousand years’ worth of cultivation,” she said, like she was reading the price tag on a particularly boring antique. “Your reward.”

  Reward. Right. That word seemed to have lost all meaning. There was a time I would have been ecstatic. Instead, I could only think of was how wrong the whole situation felt. After all that, she handed me a glowing orb like some birthday gift.

  Ju Ying’s arms wrapped around me, tugging my head down before I could open my mouth. “Your Majesty, we thank you for your grace,” she said quickly.

  Translation: Keep your mouth shut, Su Tang.

  I gladly obeyed.

  The Empress turned with a rustle of robes and glided back to her throne. “You are excused.”

  Just like that.

  Dismissed.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” I replied automatically, my voice a neutral hum. The ember sat in my palm like it owned the space, gleaming like a badge or a curse.

  I didn’t know which it was yet.