The royal forest stretches endlessly beneath the climbing sun, its dense canopy filtering light into shifting patterns of gold and green.
Ancient trees crowd close together, their trunks thick and gnarled, roots coiling through the soil like the veins of the land itself.
The air is heavy with the scent of pine, damp earth, and crushed leaves, warmed steadily as the sun rises toward its peak.
At the edge of the forest lies a wide clearing, carefully carved out and enclosed by a tall wooden fence.
The fence is sturdy, reinforced with iron bands, and spaced at regular intervals with watchtowers.
Each tower is manned by guards in polished armour, eyes sharp, scanning both the forest and the gathering within.
Banners bearing the emblem of the royal family flutter lazily from the towers, snapping now and then in the breeze.
Inside the fenced clearing, order replaces wilderness.
Horses are tethered near the fence, their coats gleaming, tack carefully maintained. Guards stand in loose formations nearby, weapons resting against their shoulders, their presence both ceremonial and vigilant.
Rows of tents line one side of the clearing, simple but well-made, bearing the insignias of noble houses.
Nearby, larger wooden platforms have been erected, raised slightly above the ground and covered with sloped wooden roofs to shield occupants from the sun and sudden rain.
On these platforms sit the noblewomen.
Their chairs are arranged neatly, cushioned and draped with fine cloth.
Women dressed in elegant robes of silk and brocade fill the seats, colours ranging from soft pastels to rich jewel tones.
Children cluster near their mothers, some fidgeting, some watching with bright curiosity, while young women move about the platform edges, whispering, laughing softly, or adjusting each other's hair ornaments.
This outer clearing belongs to the royal family's extended circle, close enough to observe, far enough to remain removed from danger.
Yu Diexin sits among them on one of the raised platforms.
Despite the shade overhead, she shifts slightly in her chair, unable to find a comfortable position.
The wooden planks beneath her feet feel too solid, too grounded, as though pressing her into stillness. She exhales softly.
"Men and their competition," she murmurs under her breath.
The hunt for the Blood Deer, an event that occurs only once in a decade, has been turned into a grand contest.
Teams have been formed from noble houses and outstanding talents drawn from the common people.
Each team competes to accumulate points by hunting beasts within the royal forest.
Different creatures are assigned different values, and among them all, the Blood Deer carries the highest reward.
Victory brings prestige, influence, and favour from the royal court.
To ensure fairness and heighten competition, ancient arrays buried beneath the forest have been activated.
Their power suppresses the spiritual energy of the land, sealing cultivation and forcing everyone within the royal forest to rely on physical strength, instinct, and skill alone.
Mortals, for the duration of the hunt.
Diexin feels the suppression keenly.
The usual flow of spiritual energy through her body is muted, distant, like a river heard through stone. It leaves her feeling strangely hollow, grounded in a way she dislikes.
She sighs again.
Her gaze drifts toward the forest edge, where teams have already begun to move out, disappearing one by one beneath the trees.
She wonders if Merin has reached his destination by now, whether he has settled into his new post, and whether the road treated him kindly.
And she wonders, quietly, selfishly, when she will be able to join him.
Without Merin, the capital feels dull.
Once, she did not mind staying behind.
There had been Shen Ling to investigate, secrets to uncover, threads to follow.
But now that she has completed her investigation and confirmed what she needed to know, the city offers her nothing but waiting.
At night, when she lies down alone, the absence is more pronounced.
She has grown accustomed to sleeping beside Merin, to the steady presence of another body, the warmth, the quiet certainty.
Habits form faster than one expects.
"Sister Wenji," a gentle voice interrupts, "why the sigh of sadness on such a joyous occasion?"
Diexin turns her head.
The noblewoman beside her smiles knowingly. Diexin recognises her as a member of the Lin family, graceful, observant, always aware of the undercurrents in a room.
Before Diexin can respond, another voice joins in.
"Sister Wenji," another noble lady says, laughter dancing in her eyes, "are you missing Lord Duan?"
A ripple of giggles passes through the women nearby, light and teasing.
Diexin feels heat rise to her cheeks. She lowers her gaze, suddenly very aware of herself, of the way her fingers rest in her lap, of the faint smile she failed to suppress.
Another noblewoman speaks, her tone half-joking, half-complaining.
"Lord Duan is truly cruel," she says. "Leaving his newlywed wife behind just to advance his career."
At that, Diexin lifts her head.
Her eyes meet those of the speaker, a woman from the Yang family. Diexin's expression is calm, composed, but firm.
"Sister Yang," she says evenly, calling the woman by her family name, "the advancement of our husbands' careers is only good for us."
The laughter fades slightly as attention turns to her.
She continues, her voice steady.
"The higher their position, the greater the honour they bring to their families, and to us."
She glances around the platform, meeting the eyes of the other noblewomen.
"Power protects. Influence secures the future. A successful husband strengthens the standing of his wife."
For a moment, silence lingers.
Then nods follow.
Soft hums of agreement ripple through the group.
Several women smile, their earlier teasing giving way to understanding.
Ambition, after all, is a language they all speak, even if it is often unspoken.
Diexin allows herself a faint smile.
Around her, the noble ladies continue their gentle gossip, voices rising and falling like birdsong beneath the wooden canopy.
They speak of fashion, of children, and which house's team might return with the most points.
Laughter drifts easily through the clearing, light and unburdened.
Yet beneath Diexin's composed exterior, her thoughts drift once more, past the fence, past the forest, past even the capital itself.
They follow the road Merin now walks alone.
And she waits.
The sun begins its slow descent, tilting westward, casting long shadows through the trees.
The light softens, turning warm and amber, brushing the clearing in gold.
The watchtowers glow faintly as banners flutter lazily, and the air cools just enough to bring relief after the midday heat.
Diexin's gaze lingers on the forest line.
She wonders if Chu Feng has succeeded.
If Prince Yuan is already lying wounded somewhere inside the Royal Forest.
Her lips press together slightly, and her brow furrows.
"It would be better," she murmurs softly to herself, "if he were only seriously injured."
Her thoughts sharpen as they unfold.
If Prince Yuan's cultivation were crippled, if his path were severed or stalled for years, then assassination would not be necessary.
A dead Prince Yuan would be like poking a hornet's nest.
The entire court would mobilise.
The king would command full investigations.
Noble families would pour resources into uncovering the culprit. Every shadow would be examined, every whisper chased down.
But an injured Prince Yuan?
One whose cultivation was halted for decades?
That would be different.
For the current king, it would be cause for relief.
If Prince Yuan advanced into the Sublimation Realm, the king's influence would weaken overnight.
The next king would almost certainly not come from his own bloodline.
But if Prince Yuan's cultivation path were blocked, especially for several decades, then the king's grip on power would tighten.
The throne would pass to one of his sons, or perhaps even his grandsons.
And for the noble families, it would be even better.
A permanently crippled Prince Yuan would never rise above them.
Never overshadow them.
Never command them.
In such circumstances, no one would truly want a thorough investigation.
Publicly, they would express concern.
Privately, they would breathe easier.
The matter would be smoothed over, quietly forgotten.
Far better than killing him outright.
Far safer.
Diexin exhales slowly, prays that Chu Feng doesn't kill the Prince, and only injures Prince Yuan severely.
Her attention snaps back abruptly as she feels a faint tremor beneath her feet.
The ground shakes again, this time stronger, rhythmic.
A noble lady near the edge of the platform rises to her feet, shading her eyes as she looks toward the forest.
"They're coming," she says.
One by one, the noblewomen stand, robes rustling as chairs scrape softly against the wooden planks. All eyes turn toward the source of the sound.
Hooves.
Hundreds of them.
The rhythmic pounding grows louder, more distinct, echoing through the clearing as riders emerge from the forest path. Dust rises in pale clouds behind them, illuminated by the low sun.
Excited murmurs ripple through the platform.
"Which team do you think won?"
"It must be the royal team."
"No, I heard the Zhao house had several strong youths."
"They say someone spotted a Blood Deer near the eastern ridge."
Diexin does not join the speculation.
She watches intently, her heart beating a little faster.
Prince Yuan's condition, whether he stands unscathed, wounded, or absent altogether, will determine her next move.
It will mark the true beginning of her actions against Shen Ling and, through him, the Shen family.
For now, she cannot kill Shen Ling.
But she can weaken the Shen family's position within the Song Dynasty.
Slowly.
Precisely.
Once that is done, she will go to Merin.
The thought brings an unconscious smile to her lips, small, fleeting, but genuine.
Then something feels wrong.
The guards near the fence stiffen.
Orders are shouted, short, sharp, urgent.
The atmosphere shifts in an instant.
Diexin's smile fades.
Her eyes widen as she senses panic ripple through the clearing like a sudden cold wind.
A scream breaks out, high, shrill, bewildered.
She looks up just as the sky darkens.
A cloud of arrows arcs overhead, blotting out the fading sunlight, descending toward the platforms and tents below.
For a heartbeat, she is frozen in shock.
Then a hand grabs her arm hard.
She is yanked off the platform as arrows slam into the camp, wood splintering, screams erupting around her, and the world erupts into chaos.