At the Murong estate, nestled within the eastern wing where Zhao Ming’s courtyard lay, a heavy stillness hung in the air. Beyond the estate walls, the chaotic thunder of the riot drew ever closer—its rage swelling like a tide. The sound of distant shouting and crashing drifted in, growing louder as noon passed.

In the courtyard’s main hall, Qing Mei, ever the calmest among them, gathered the others with a firm tone, “Everyone, come here. Don’t wander off.”

The six maids—Qing Mei, Qing Lian, Qing He, Qing Tao, Qing Rou, and Qing Zhen—huddled together, their faces pale, their hands clenched in worry. Qing He and Qing Rou clung to each other, eyes wide with fear.

“I-Is that shouting getting louder?” Qing He whispered, her voice trembling.

Qing Rou nodded, her lips barely moving. “It sounds like they’re coming this way…”

“Enough,” Qing Mei said gently, placing a reassuring hand on Qing He’s shoulder. “Panicking will only make it worse. We’ll stay together, just like we practiced.”

Qing Tao stepped forward, carrying a tray with a steaming clay pot and several cups. “Here, drink a little ginger broth. It’ll warm you up and calm your nerves.”

As the others quietly sipped, Qing Tao hesitated before asking, “Mei-jie… what do we do if they really break in? Do we have a real plan?”

Qing Lian, who had taken on most of the security planning, nodded firmly. “Yes. If anything happens, we go into the storage room—behind the drawer in the main hall. The entrance is narrow and hidden. Once inside, I’ll block it with my buckler. They won’t be able to rush us easily, not in that tight space.”

“We’ve stashed two poles in there too,” Qing Zhen added, standing straighter. “If they get through, we won’t go down without a fight.”

The maids exchanged anxious glances, but there was determination too. They had rehearsed this, whispered through contingency plans when Zhao Ming wasn’t around.

As the sun reached its highest point and the light poured harshly through the windows, they knelt briefly in prayer, whispering hopes that the riot would pass them by.

But fate had other plans.

A sudden, guttural shout broke through the still air—closer now, just outside the outer gate.

“Kick it down! This must be a noble’s house! There’s gotta be food and treasure inside!”

Another voice, more vile, jeered, “Heh! And maids too, maybe even a beauty or two! We’ll have some fun today!”

The blood drained from Qing He’s face. “Th-they’re here…”

Qing Mei didn’t flinch. “Inside. Now.”

She opened the concealed entrance behind the main hall’s drawer, revealing the tight, narrow passage into the storage room. One by one, the girls slipped inside. Qing Lian stayed for last, gripping her buckler with both hands.

As she crouched in position, Qing Zhen whispered behind her, “We’re with you.”

The outer doors creaked. Heavy boots stomped into the courtyard.

“Where is everyone? Empty?” a man growled.

“Search! Check the side rooms! Grab anything that looks valuable!”

Drawers were flung open. Pots overturned. A vase shattered.

Inside the storage room, not a breath was heard. The girls held their hands over their mouths, trying not to shake. Only Qing Lian remained in view, hidden just enough behind the disguised drawer—silent, unmoving, ready to block with her body if needed.

The looters were close. Very close.

And outside, the estate burned with the anger of a city in revolt.

The looters were nearly done ransacking the outer hall. Wooden drawers lay broken, cushions torn apart, and decorative vases shattered on the floor. Their laughter rang loud, drunken with the thrill of lawlessness.

Just as one of them kicked over a chest of scrolls with a disappointed grunt, another paused, eyeing the low table where the girls had last gathered.

“Wait a second,” he muttered, stepping closer. His eyes narrowed. “Oi! There’s a clay pot here—and cups. Still warm.”

A silence swept over the group. Then another looter, a lean man with a scar across his jaw and the gait of someone who’d spent years in the wild, lifted his head and sniffed the air. “I smell something sweet… Like flowers. Girls’ perfume.”

He sniffed again, walking in a slow circle, then stopped. His face twisted into a grin. “They’re here. Hiding.”

“Where?” someone asked, tightening their grip on a stolen spear.

The scarred man turned, sniffing toward the main hall. His eyes gleamed. “Behind that drawer.”

In one violent motion, he threw the heavy drawer aside, its wooden legs scraping against the floor as it crashed down. A faint gasp echoed from within.

“Found ’em!” he bellowed. “Girls! Hiding like rabbits!”

“Ha! Finally! Thought we’d have to go back empty-handed!”

Voices rose in a cacophony of jeers and vulgar jokes.

“Bet there’s a busty one in there!”

“Let’s see if they scream pretty!”

Inside the narrow corridor behind the secret entrance, Qing Lian stood firm. Her face was pale, but her grip on the buckler was like iron. She positioned herself squarely in the center of the passageway, blocking the only path in. Behind her, the others pressed close, Qing Mei wrapping her arms protectively around the trembling Qing He and Qing Rou.

“She’s got a toy shield!” one looter laughed. “Is she serious?”

“She thinks she’s a soldier?” another added mockingly.

Qing Lian didn’t answer. Her eyes didn’t flicker.

The first man lunged forward with a shout, only to be met with the solid clang of the buckler ramming into his chest. He stumbled back with a curse.

Another looter tried to force his way in, but the narrow corridor allowed only one at a time. From behind Qing Lian, two poles jabbed out with surprising force—one catching a looter in the stomach, the other smacking a man’s hand.

“Damn it! They’ve got sticks!”

“Get those from them!”

The girls gave it all they had, but they were smaller, and not trained. One by one, the poles were wrested from their hands. Still, Qing Lian held her ground.

Then came the worst of them—three looters who had stolen spears from fallen city guards. Their expressions darkened.

“Enough games. Move aside, little girl.”

“No,” Qing Lian replied, voice low and steady. “You’ll have to go through me.”

The one in front didn’t waste words. He stabbed forward.

Clang! The buckler deflected the first jab. Then another came—thwack!—barely turned aside. A third slipped past, the tip grazing Qing Lian’s upper arm. Blood bloomed on her sleeve, but she didn’t flinch.

A fourth thrust came faster, and she blocked again, but her breath was coming faster now. One more spear slashed toward the others.

Qing Mei lunged forward, shielding Qing Tao and Qing Zhen. The spear hit her forearm, but it skidded against a worn gauntlet—one Zhao Ming had once left behind. The impact made her arm ring with pain, but it had saved them. Still, her fingers trembled. Each strike numbed her grip, and the pain crept deeper with every blow.

“We can’t hold forever,” Qing Mei whispered.

“We don’t need forever,” Qing Lian answered, gasping. “Just until he comes back…”

Another shout echoed through the courtyard—another crash of pottery breaking, more footsteps pounding.

The looters were growing impatient.

But so was Zhao Ming.

And he was already on his way.

Qing Lian’s arms trembled. Sweat beaded along her brow, stinging her eyes. The buckler—once so solid in her grip—now felt unbearably heavy. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. Each time she raised the shield, her muscles screamed.

“Look at her—she’s losing strength!” one of the looters shouted, voice rising with cruel glee.

“Just a little longer, boys!” another jeered. “Soon we’ll have our prize!”

“And I’m taking the little one in the back!” someone snarled, leering toward where Qing He and Qing Rou were hiding.

The spearmen raised their weapons again. “Kill the guard dog, take the rest!”

Qing Lian clenched her jaw, steadying her shield with both hands. Her legs braced against the stone floor, heart pounding, knowing she might not hold out another minute.

Suddenly—
BANG!

The heavy doors to the main hall burst open with a violent kick.

A figure stood in the doorway, light casting his silhouette in sharp lines. His robe was travel-worn, dust streaked across the hem, but the sword in his hand gleamed with deadly clarity.

“Young Master!” Qing Rou gasped in disbelief.

Before any of the girls could cry out, Qing Mei held out her hand sharply, her expression stern despite the tears shining in her eyes. Don’t make a sound. Let him focus.

The looters turned at the noise, startled. “Who the hell—?”

They didn’t get to finish.

With a single stride, Zhao Ming lunged into the narrow corridor, his blade arcing like silver lightning.

Shlick! One man dropped, clutching his side.

Thud! Another gurgled as the blade met his throat.

The third looter tried to scream, but Zhao Ming’s foot crushed his knee, sending him sprawling before the sword pierced him clean through.

The last three with spears backed away, eyes wide.

“Stay back!” one barked. “Come closer and we’ll gut the girls!”

Zhao Ming’s gaze burned cold. “You already did,” he said flatly, voice low as thunder. “You touched what is mine—now I’ll make sure none of you leave this place breathing.”

There was no hesitation.

He moved.

A flurry of steel and speed—one spear flew, and Zhao Ming ducked under it, plunging his blade into the attacker’s chest. Another jabbed, and Zhao twisted, slicing the weapon’s shaft in half and striking the wielder’s neck in one fluid spin. The final looter turned to run, but Zhao Ming threw a dagger from his belt with precise aim. It lodged squarely between the man’s shoulders.

Silence fell.

Only the sound of shallow breathing filled the corridor.

Then Zhao Ming exhaled and called softly, “You can come out. It’s over.”

The hidden panel creaked open, and the girls emerged one by one, their eyes wide with disbelief. As soon as they saw him—whole, alive, bloodied but unhurt—they broke.

Qing He was the first to cry, tears rolling down her cheeks as she clung to his sleeve. Qing Tao and Qing Zhen followed, their sobs wracking their small frames as they collapsed into him, burying their faces into his chest.

Zhao Ming, though stiff and tired, lowered his sword and opened his arms, allowing them to weep freely.

“Shhh, it’s alright now. You’re safe,” he murmured, voice gentler than they’d ever heard it.

Qing Lian leaned weakly against the wall, her knees finally giving out as she slid down, trembling. “I… I tried to stop them…”

Zhao Ming knelt beside her, his eyes soft. “You did. You protected them. I saw it.”

Last to emerge was Qing Mei. Her usual composure shattered the moment she stepped into view. She walked forward slowly, as if in a daze. Then, without a word, she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest, shoulders shaking.

“I was scared…” she whispered. “I was so scared…”

“I know,” he replied, wrapping one arm around her. “I’m here now.”

The moment was tender, emotional—until another voice broke in:

“Well, should I throw myself into your arms and cry too, young master?”

Yu Ying leaned against the doorway, a teasing smile on her lips. Her twin blades were still drawn, a few specks of blood on her sleeves from clearing the courtyard.

Zhao Ming looked at her, deadpan. “If it’ll make you feel better, I won’t stop you.”

Yu Ying chuckled and sheathed her blades. “Nah. I’d rather laugh at your fan club instead.”

Zhao Ming sighed, surrounded by tearful maids clinging to him like vines. “I can’t even move.”

Yu Ying smirked. “Just bask in it. You’re a hero today, remember?”

And for once, Zhao Ming didn’t argue.

He simply stood still—offering his strength and warmth—while his girls cried their fear away.