Morning at the Murong Estate – Zhao Ming's Courtyard

As the first golden threads of sunlight slipped through the carved wooden lattice of the bedroom window, the chirping of birds began to echo gently from the garden trees. The warm light filtered through the gauzy curtains, washing the room in soft amber.

Qing Mei’s eyes fluttered open, her breath slow and even. For a moment, she simply lay there, her head resting on a familiar warmth—Zhao Ming’s bare chest, rising and falling rhythmically. His arm was tucked under her, a sturdy yet gentle pillow through the night.

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze tracing the contours of his sleeping face. His features were relaxed, eyes closed, hair slightly tousled. Her cheeks warmed as she felt his scent linger on her skin.

He’s still asleep, she thought, a shy smile forming at her lips. With a soft hum, she nestled closer, burying her face lightly into his chest, her fingertips gently clutching the front of his robe.

Her heart beat fast, the fluttering of nerves still not fading. I didn’t go all the way last night… Her thoughts drifted guiltily but sweetly. But next time… next time I’ll have the courage. I want to become his woman… fully.

What Qing Mei didn’t know was that Zhao Ming had awakened long before her.

Lying still, he kept his breath steady, curious to see what she would do. Feeling her press close, sensing the soft tension in her body mixed with growing affection, his heart stirred with warmth—and satisfaction.

She’s not running away, he thought with amusement. She’s slowly accepting me.

As Qing Mei shifted, lifting her head from his chest and brushing strands of hair behind her ear, Zhao Ming opened his eyes—then, without a word, leaned in and caught her lips in a gentle kiss.

“Mm…!” she gasped softly at first but then melted into it, her fingers curling against his chest.

Their morning kiss was unhurried—sweet and warm, like the rising sun. Qing Mei's breath hitched slightly as they parted, and when she pulled back, her cheeks were rosy and glowing, her eyes dazed and sparkling.

“I-It’s morning,” she mumbled, half a scolding and half a whisper, before quickly getting up and pulling her cloak over her thin nightgown.

Zhao Ming chuckled lowly, sitting up and stretching lazily. “So diligent. Are you going to dress me now too?”

Still red-faced but smiling, Qing Mei came over and helped him slip on his outer robe, her fingers quick and practiced. The intimacy of it—such simple actions—made the air between them hum with quiet joy.

Before they could say another word, a voice called out playfully from behind the door.

“Master and Madam,” Yu Ying’s teasing tone rang through, “would you like your bath drawn now—or shall I wait until your legs can stand straight again?”

The door creaked open before either could protest. Yu Ying stepped in with a wicked grin on her face.

Qing Mei’s jaw dropped. “You—!”

She flushed bright red, remembering the prank Yu Ying had pulled the night before with the incense and “accidental” forgetting of certain bedclothes. Her glare was sharp, but not truly angry—just indignantly embarrassed.

Zhao Ming arched a brow with amusement.

“Seems like Madam has reason to punish a certain maid,” he said, voice amused as he used his light footwork to appear behind Yu Ying in a blink. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he smiled. “What do you say, Qing Mei?”

Catching the signal, Qing Mei stepped forward eagerly, grinning now despite herself. “Hmph. I’ll show you what happens to naughty girls!”

“No! Mercy—!” Yu Ying squeaked as Qing Mei pinched her waist, not once but twice, her nimble fingers finding just the right spot to make Yu Ying squeal and squirm.

“I bruise easily! This delicate skin—Master, Madam! Have mercy on a poor maid!”

Zhao Ming laughed softly. “Then stop stirring trouble so early in the morning.”

Yu Ying pouted, rubbing her side. “Yes, yes. I’ll go prepare the hot bath… before Madam finds a stick instead.”

With a mock bow and a dramatic exit, she darted out of the room before either of them could retaliate further.

The room quieted again.

Zhao Ming turned to Qing Mei, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Since the bath is ready… shall we take it together?”

Qing Mei froze, then looked at him—his eyes playful but tender. Her heart skipped again. Slowly, she nodded, her voice nearly inaudible.

“…Alright.”

Her blush deepened again, but this time, it wasn’t from embarrassment—it was from anticipation.

The scent of warm congee, steamed buns, and stir-fried greens drifted softly through the quiet halls of Zhao Ming’s courtyard. In the open-air corridor just outside the main room, Yu Ying, Qing He, and several other girls busied themselves with laying out the morning meal, their movements swift yet lighthearted. Fine porcelain bowls clinked softly on the lacquered table, while baskets of fresh mantou were placed beside pickled vegetables and thin slices of pork.

Laughter flitted through the morning mist.

“Careful, don’t drop the vinegar dish again,” Yu Ying teased Qing He, who stuck out her tongue in return.

Before they could say more, footsteps sounded from the inner chambers, and all heads turned.

Zhao Ming stepped out, his posture relaxed, his long robe freshly donned. Beside him walked Qing Mei, her eyes lowered, lips tinged with color, her fingers lightly clutching the sleeve of his robe as if seeking cover from the gazes.

The courtyard fell silent for a moment, before the silence was broken by knowing giggles.

“Well, well…” Yu Ying smirked, folding her arms as her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Good morning… Madam.”

The other girls joined in with soft laughs, all exchanging amused glances. Qing Mei flushed immediately, the color rushing from her cheeks to her ears. She moved a little closer to Zhao Ming, trying to hide her embarrassment behind his arm.

“Stop that,” Zhao Ming said with a chuckle, giving the girls a mock-stern look. “Let’s eat. It’s not good to start the day with gossip on an empty stomach.”

“Yes, Young Master!” the girls chorused playfully.

They all took their seats around the long, rectangular table set under the veranda. Steam rose from the dishes, and chopsticks clicked as bowls were passed around. Qing Mei sat quietly next to Zhao Ming, occasionally sneaking glances at him, her heartbeat still a little fast from the teasing.

As they ate, the mood gradually settled into a sense of familiarity and comfort—until Yu Ying, chewing on a mouthful of pickled cabbage, broke the silence with a more serious tone.

“Young Master,” she began, “what do we do now? The rioters are still running wild in the city… and Beihai’s army hasn’t moved at all. We can’t just stay here forever.”

The others nodded in concern, their faces showing hints of unease.

Zhao Ming put down his chopsticks and leaned back slightly. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he said. “Yu Ying—what about moving the girls to Jade Elegance Pavilion for the time being?”

Yu Ying hesitated, her brows furrowing. “Crossing the city from here to the pavilion would be risky now. Normally, we’d go through the northern noble district, but since the scandal with Zhao Feng’s manor came to light… the riots are worst in that direction.”

She glanced toward the outer courtyard, her voice lower. “Looters are roaming freely around that area. It’s chaos—some people are even pretending to be guards.”

Zhao Ming frowned. He tapped a finger against his teacup in thought. “What about Prosperity Hall? It’s well-fortified, and we have allies there.”

“It’s safer than most places,” Yu Ying agreed, “but it’s near the southern gate. If the Yellow Scarves attempt to infiltrate through the south, it could turn dangerous fast.”

Zhao Ming nodded. “Still, it’s our best option for now. We can’t risk staying here if the estate becomes a target. Let’s move to Prosperity Hall first. Tell everyone to pack only essentials—clothes, documents, and any valuables that can be carried easily.”

The girls exchanged glances, but nodded in understanding. Qing He stood up, her expression determined. “We’ll start packing right away.”

“Good,” Zhao Ming said. “Make sure we’re ready to move within the hour. The fewer trips, the better.”

The breakfast ended swiftly after that, the easy laughter replaced by a quiet focus. Bowls were cleared, and the group began to disperse to their tasks.

Qing Mei and Yu Ying followed Zhao Ming back to his room, where they immediately began to prepare his belongings.

“Do we bring the silk robes?” Yu Ying asked, holding up a finely embroidered one.

Zhao Ming shook his head. “No need for showy things. Just the comfortable ones. Pack the scrolls and my inkstone too.”

Qing Mei silently folded a set of his outer robes, carefully tucking in sachets of medicinal powder and a change of boots.

As she brushed past his desk, her eyes lingered briefly on the folding fan he had once gifted her—painted with peonies and butterflies. She placed it delicately in a side pouch of the luggage.

Moments later, their preparations finished, they stepped into the carriage waiting in the courtyard, flanked by a few guards Murong De had lent them earlier. Behind them, the other girls followed in another cart, each one carrying bundles and satchels.

The gate of the Murong Estate creaked open—and they departed, heading toward Prosperity Hall under the heavy morning mist, uncertain of what awaited them, but together.

---

Outskirts of Beihai

The first rays of morning sunlight pierced the gray clouds, filtering through the haze of woodsmoke that drifted over the sprawling refugee camp. The scent of thin porridge and boiled greens wafted from a large communal kitchen, where volunteers—mostly tired but willing women—hurried to ladle meager portions into clay bowls.

A long, winding line of people snaked through the center of the camp, barefoot children clinging to their mothers, elderly men leaning on walking sticks, and hollow-eyed youths waiting silently for their turn. Those who had already received food sat along the dirt paths, some cross-legged on woven mats, others hunched against broken carts and crates, slurping their rice gruel in silence. Here and there, mothers carefully spooned broth into their children’s mouths, while a few strong young men handed blankets to the older, shivering survivors, wrapping them gently like they would their own kin.

The atmosphere was subdued, fragile—like a single spark could either ignite hope or set the entire camp ablaze.

Then the door to a low wooden house creaked open.

Old Zhang emerged.

Wearing plain robes of hemp, his long white beard swaying with each step, he had no air of grandeur or authority—and yet, the moment he stepped into view, heads turned. A hush fell over the camp.

Some stood in awe. Others fell to their knees.

“Immortal Zhang… Immortal Zhang…”

The whispers turned into murmurs of reverence, and before long, dozens knelt, their foreheads nearly touching the ground. Even those too weak to kneel bowed their heads.

To them, he was no longer just a man.

He was a symbol.

He was the one who had healed their sick, spoken words of kindness, offered rice and medicine when no one else did. In their suffering eyes, Old Zhang had become something divine—an immortal sent by Heaven to guide them.

He moved slowly, purposefully, through the camp, the crowd parting like waves before him. In the center of the camp, a makeshift platform had been built from discarded planks and cart wheels. Old Zhang stepped onto it, climbing slowly with the help of a staff. His eyes, sharp despite his age, scanned the mass of human lives before him.

When he spoke, his voice was clear, commanding.

“How is everyone this morning?”

A chorus of voices rose in response—tired, but laced with emotion.

“Better, Immortal Zhang! We are fed… we are warm!”

He nodded, solemn.

“How are the sick? Have they improved?”

“They’re recovering,” came the reply. “The herbs you gave helped them!”

“And do you still feel oppressed?” His voice sharpened.

There was a pause.

Then—“Yes!” The answer came, louder now.

“Do you still feel helpless?”

“Yes!” Louder still. Angrier.

Old Zhang’s eyes glinted beneath his heavy brows. His voice rose—not with fury, but with righteous indignation that surged through the crowd like a wave.

“That’s because the officials are corrupt! Because the court is blind! Because the nobles and eunuchs feast while our children starve! They do not care about us!”

He raised his staff high, his robe fluttering with the wind.

“But I care. I, too, was once among you. I, too, suffered loss. I have walked barefoot, I have buried my children, I have watched homes burn.”

The people murmured, stirred.

“We can no longer wait for help. We must help ourselves. It is time… for the people to rise and seize their fate!”

He thrust his staff into the air.

“Blue Heaven is dead!” he roared.

The crowd trembled.

“The Yellow Heaven shall rise!”

The cry burst from him like thunder. And then, from the throats of hundreds:

“The Yellow Heaven shall rise!”

Their voices echoed over the fields, strong and desperate. A storm of emotion swept through the camp—grief, rage, and the unshakable hunger for change. Men clenched their fists, women held their children close, young boys stared at Old Zhang with fiery eyes.

“Let there be Great Peace under Heaven!” he cried.

“Great Peace!” they shouted in return.

Then his voice hardened.

“Today, we march. Today, we take Beihai!”

A cheer broke out—wild and raw. No longer frightened refugees, these were now believers, ready to fight, ready to die. Some picked up farming tools and kitchen knives. Others lifted broken staves and iron hooks. Old Zhang turned, staring toward the distant city walls with unshakable resolve.

“We rise for the people of this world!”

And with the camp in uproar, the rebellion surged forward—not just a movement of desperation, but a tidal wave of the forgotten, rising behind the banner of Yellow Heaven.