Chapter 34:

For a long time, Yan Zhi remained silent. This noblewoman, born into a prestigious family, had weathered the storms of power struggles and understood the cruelty of the immortal cultivation path. She had once laughed beneath a tree of blooming pear blossoms, casually erasing the lives of a branch family—all for the sake of the Yan family’s thousand-year glory. She had also held a rattle drum, bowing her head like an ox for children, just to coax a smile from a young child.

She didn’t mind bloodstained hands—whether it earned her infamy or praise, she would use any means to achieve her goals. If a mere performance could secure the Five-Colored Divine Feather, why not?

After hearing Xue Ying’s lines, Yan Zhi immediately changed her tune. “No, this is too harmful to the body. If I’m not mistaken, this brother…”

Xue Ying was certain. “It’s the Prime Minister. By the way, Prime Minister, to help us get into character faster, you don’t mind me calling you ‘brother,’ do you?”

Slender fingers pressed against the script as Yan Zhi took a deep breath. “Zhi…”

Duyi Zhou interjected, “Even without your dragon clan, my Taichu Sect can still take down the Female Marquis.”

Yan Zhi quickly amended, “Of course you can.”

It was just acting—she’d give it her all.

Xue Ying was overjoyed. “Then, brother, let’s rehearse a few scenes. It’s rare for all the leads to be present. If there are any issues, we can address them. Don’t you agree, brother?”

Yan Zhi instinctively took a step back. “That won’t be necessary, I think…”

Xue Ying clapped her hands together. “Brother agrees! Then let’s begin. I especially love this scene.”

Yan Zhi: Did anyone even listen to her?

A scholar meeting a soldier—reason lost in the chaos. That was the essence of it. Under the combined pressure of two sword cultivators and one spell cultivator, Yan Zhi’s objections as a scholar were ignored. She had no choice but to pick up the script and act alongside Xue Ying.

**Scene 46:** Xue Ying returns from a night out and encounters Wen An, who had been waiting all night.

Wen An, holding a book, gazes at Xue Ying as she approaches. When he sees Xue Ying smile at Yan Zhi, his heart shatters. “You spent last night stargazing with Yan Zhi.”

Xue Ying purses her lips in a smile. “I just spent the night with brother, nothing more~”

Wen An looks haggard, swaying unsteadily. “I waited outside your room all night, watching your light until dawn. You liar!”

Xue Ying hides behind Yan Zhi, tugging at her sleeve. “Senior brother is being mean! I don’t want to be friends with him anymore. Brother is better—he never scolds me QAQ.”

Now it was Yan Zhi’s turn. She glanced at her lines—nothing unusual. “You misunderstand, Daoist. I only see Xue Ying as a younger sister.”

Xue Ying: “It’s all my fault for getting brother scolded. Don’t blame brother—blame me instead!”

Yan Zhi finally grasped the essence of these lines: brother and sister by day, “darling” and “sweetheart” by night. Even if there was nothing between them, this script would make it seem otherwise.

The first rehearsal concluded smoothly, leaving only the question of where to perform. Duyi Zhou suggested they act in front of Ao Fugui a few times, letting the Female Marquis catch glimpses by chance.

Xue Ying said, “To ensure nothing goes wrong, I’ll move next to the Prime Minister today. Senior brother, pay up.”

The request sounded reasonable, but Duyi Zhou felt inexplicably aggrieved—as if he’d been cuckolded without cause. Using his money to chase another man? What kind of world was this?

Even worse, he’d have to prepare Xue Ying’s dowry later. His Taichu Sect wasn’t a charity.

A sense of crisis arose. After seeing Xue Ying and Yan Zhi off, Duyi Zhou pulled Wen An aside to draft a script for the upcoming Cen Wuwang—a tale of two men fighting for one woman.

*”The path of the sword has always been mine alone.”*

*”I respect you—as a teacher, as a rival, and as a lover.”*

The two sat there, line by line, until halfway through, Duyi Zhou suddenly asked, “By the way, now that Martial Uncle has become a woman, which side does that put her on?”

Wen An paused, doodling circles on the paper. “Then… how about this: the junior sister admires Yan Zhi but is rejected. She often confides in Martial Uncle, unaware that Martial Uncle has secretly fallen for her. Bound by societal norms, Martial Uncle buries her feelings and helps the junior sister pursue Yan Zhi. On the wedding day, drunk, Martial Uncle confesses. Unexpectedly, Yan Zhi eavesdrops and, upon learning the truth, proposes that Martial Uncle marry her as well. That way, the junior sister can stay by her side forever, living happily ever after.”

Duyi Zhou set down his brush, expression icy. “Do you know why you’re only fit to be an illustrator and not a writer?”

Wen An blinked. “Huh?”

Duyi Zhou snapped, “It’s disgusting!”

A scumbag and a doormat, plus a fraudulent marriage—even the yuri genre wouldn’t touch this.

—

Meanwhile, Xue Ying and Yan Zhi walked back together. For some reason, the streets were bustling late into the night, vendors hawking their wares. With money in hand, Xue Ying was bold, looking around eagerly, while Yan Zhi was unaccustomed to such activities. “Daoist…”

Before she could finish, Xue Ying returned with snacks, offering them naturally. “Want some?”

Yan Zhi declined. “I’ve achieved cultivation—I no longer hunger or thirst, nor do I indulge in earthly pleasures.”

Xue Ying nibbled on a cloud-slice cake, still immersed in her role. “But I want to share delicious food with brother~”

Yan Zhi’s eye twitched. She’d heard of Xue Ying’s reputation—the unparalleled beauty, the peerless sword skills, the rumors of romantic entanglements with disciples from both Taixuan and Taichu.

Money solved most problems. Though she’d arrived late, she’d gathered plenty of intel: Xue Ying coveted Wen An’s body and Duyi Zhou’s wealth. Now, she was lavishing attention on Yan Zhi—what did she want?

To avoid unnecessary trouble: “Daoist, this is just acting. Don’t take it too seriously.”

Throughout her life, Yan Zhi had endured scorn and mockery without flinching. Yet today, for the first time, she felt the urge to flee.

She wasn’t into women—or men, for that matter.

Thanks!

Men hindered her rise to power, and women were no different.

Xue Ying nodded. She knew beautiful women always ended up with some undeserving man, but that didn’t stop her from admiring the “cabbage” while it lasted. She said honestly, “I’d like to be friends with Sister Yan.”

Few knew Yan Zhi was a woman, and she preferred to keep it that way—a male identity was far more convenient. Moreover, her position as Prime Minister of the East Sea was earned through wit, not looks.

So how had Xue Ying figured it out?

Yan Zhi tightened her grip on her folding fan. “How did you know?”

Xue Ying hesitated. “Intuition.”

She’d recognized Yan Zhi at first glance—no one had told her.

Behind them, cultivators and mortals mingled—a hallmark of Yunmengze, where the two coexisted harmoniously. Rumor had it the Prefect’s wife was a mortal. Years ago, the Prefect had hosted a grand wedding, etching Yunmengze’s name into cultivators’ memories.

But what truly moved people wasn’t Yunmengze’s prosperity—it was the Prefect’s unwavering devotion across lifetimes. To please his wife, the once-otherworldly Yunmengze had adopted mortal touches—candied hawthorns, cloud-slice cakes, maltose. Though cultivators sneered at such things, they still gifted them.

Yan Zhi studied Xue Ying for a moment before accepting the offered treat. The two walked on, Xue Ying now more open, sharing every delicacy she bought.

She picked through hairpins at a stall, eagerly asking Yan Zhi, “Which one looks better?”

In Xue Ying’s mind, best friends shopped together, shared food, and admired beauty. Choosing hairpins was perfectly natural. Under the lantern light, Yan Zhi found herself recalling an old saying:

*Women adorn themselves for those who appreciate them.*

She must be overthinking it.

With a self-deprecating laugh, Yan Zhi focused on helping Xue Ying select a hairpin. As the night deepened, she invited Xue Ying to stay over—partly because it was late, partly because she didn’t want to dwell on her thoughts.

Staying at Yan Zhi’s place meant staying in Ao Fugui’s den. The moment they arrived, Ao Fugui—mid-card game—scrambled over, whining, “Teacher, how could you let an outsider stay here?”

Xue Ying, ever dutiful, seized the chance to perform, looping her arm through Yan Zhi’s with a mix of innocence and mischief. “I’m not staying in *your* home—I’m staying in brother’s heart~”

Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, Yan Zhi played along. “Guests must be treated with respect. Don’t be rude.”

Ao Fugui was stunned. Teacher, where was the usual resistance? The “I’m the Crown Prince’s tutor, I can’t fool around with his consort” routine? One meeting, and you’d already fallen for Xue Ying?

Strangely, he was thrilled.

After politely seeing Xue Ying off, Ao Fugui dogged Yan Zhi’s steps, pestering her. “Teacher, what did you talk about with the Sword Immortal’s disciple? She seemed really into you.”

Yan Zhi meant to shoo him away, but Xue Ying’s earlier question—*Am I beautiful?*—flashed through her mind. Before she knew it, she asked, “How so?”

Ao Fugui shrugged. “Just a feeling. Teacher, you don’t know—this Sword Immortal’s disciple looks down on everyone. She’s all gentle with women. That Saintess who challenged her? She went easy on her. But me? A few words, and she beat me half to death.”

So Ao Fugui was genuinely curious—why did his teacher earn Xue Ying’s favor?

Yan Zhi’s heart sank, then chided herself for overreacting. She sent Ao Fugui packing and tried to sleep, only to dream of Xue Ying in bridal red, smiling coyly. “Sister Yan~”

Yan Zhi jolted awake, tumbling off the bed and frantically checking her anatomy.

The nightmare left her sleepless. The next morning, when Xue Ying came to say goodbye, Yan Zhi blurted, “Finding a place in Yunmengze is tough. I’ll go with you.”

Instantly regretting it, she trailed behind Xue Ying, wrestling with how to probe further. Before she could decide, Duyi Zhou’s “summon” arrived.

The master and disciple reunited—and immediately drew swords.

Post-battle, Cen Wuwang seemed in a good mood. Watching Xue Ying pick herself up, he recalled Duyi Zhou’s script and extended a hand. “Does it hurt?”

Xue Ying wiped her bloody nose, baffled. After all these years of beatings, this was the first time Cen Wuwang had asked if she was hurt.

If she said no, would he hit her again? She loved sparring with him, but not *every* day—at least let her digest the lessons first. So she nodded. “It hurts.”

Cen Wuwang consulted his script, deadpan. “Now it hurts? You never begged for mercy before.”

Xue Ying gaped. Had Cen Wuwang been body-snatched? Since when did he talk this much—or care about her well-being? “Are you sick?”

Cen Wuwang paused, then drew his sword. Actions spoke louder than words—he was perfectly capable of beating her half to death.

Perhaps out of pity for her recent thrashing, he went easier this time. Xue Ying soon caught on, trading blows in what Wen An saw as a master’s guidance. To Yan Zhi, it looked like flirting via swordplay.

Post-spar, Xue Ying remembered Yan Zhi and hurried over apologetically. “Sorry! Shall we go house-hunting now?”

Yan Zhi needed space. “Let’s postpone.”

Xue Ying pouted. “Okay… Can I still stay with you tonight?”

Yan Zhi’s scalp prickled. Even through the veil, she felt Xue Ying’s enthusiasm—and Cen Wuwang’s gaze burning into them.

Was it possible? Could it be…?

Alone in her quarters, Yan Zhi replayed Xue Ying’s warmth, her swordplay. They still had a scene to perform—what if it became reality? If she rejected Xue Ying afterward, would those sword skills turn against her…?

Panic mounting, Yan Zhi activated a clan secret art via jade token.

First up: Yan Gou of Taichu Sect. Years since their last meeting, Yan Zhi barely recognized her nephew. After brief pleasantries, she tentatively asked, “Do you know Xue Ying?”

Yan Gou lit up—he was a die-hard fan. “Taixuan’s top beauty! Uncle, let me tell you—”

Yan Zhi cut him off. “Does she have a lover?”

Yan Gou shook his head. “Nope.”

Yan Zhi pressed, “Any close female friends?”

Yan Gou scratched his head. “She’s nice to all the senior and junior sisters. Why?”

Yan Zhi ended the call. After a long silence, she contacted another, voice trembling. “Mom… that Luyeyuan Buddhist master you mentioned—the one with ‘great skills’—is he still available? Yes, I’ve thought it over. I want to be a man.”