Morning in the capital was a performance — one Li Yun had seen a thousand times. Birds chirping, servants scurrying, nobles pretending to be busier than they were.
He stepped out of the Li estate gates like a man with nothing to prove and even less to do.
His hair was half-tied, robe slightly crooked, and a wine gourd swung from his hip like a badge of honor.
Onlookers stared.
"Isn't that the Li family's Young Master?"
"Didn't he fall into a lotus pond drunk last week?"
"No, that was the week before. Last week he insulted a temple statue and offered to buy it a drink."
Li Yun smiled at their whispers. Gossip was fuel. The more outrageous it became, the less anyone looked beneath the surface.
He turned down a busy street filled with vendors and silk-clad nobles. Sure enough, standing near a pastry stall, loud as ever, was Zhao Feilong — heir to the Zhao clan, dressed like a walking embroidery disaster and laughing too hard at his own joke.
Li Yun strolled up just as Zhao was boasting to a small audience about how he had "personally trained" his pet hawk to fetch letters.
"Morning, Feilong," Li Yun said, yawning. "Still pretending you have talents, I see."
Zhao blinked. "Li Yun? Surprised to see you conscious before noon."
"Surprised to see you sober," Li Yun replied. "Then again, slurring's hard to notice when your words are this stupid."
The crowd chuckled. Even Zhao's friends looked away to hide grins.
Zhao cleared his throat. "Must be easy insulting people when your biggest accomplishment is surviving hangovers."
Li Yun swirled his gourd thoughtfully. "And yet I still manage to insult you while hungover. Imagine what I could do sober. Scary, isn't it?"
That earned real laughter now.
Zhao's face twitched. "You're lucky your family name still protects you."
Li Yun stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to make Zhao nervous.
"You know, Feilong… I had the strangest dream last night. You were giving a speech in the imperial court. Very moving. Everyone clapped. Then your pants fell off."
Zhao went red. "That's not even—!"
"Oh, it gets worse," Li Yun said, grinning. "You tried to run but tripped on your own ego."
Even the pastry vendor snorted.
Zhao's fists clenched. "You think you're clever, hiding behind jokes?"
Li Yun's smile faded — just a fraction. He looked Zhao dead in the eyes.
"No, Feilong," he said softly. "I think I'm dangerous. The jokes just make me harder to see coming."
And just like that, the air shifted. The laughter stopped. Zhao couldn't tell if he'd just been threatened or embarrassed — or both.
Li Yun turned, raised the gourd to the sun like a toast, and wandered off humming a tune that suspiciously sounded like an opera villain's entrance song.
Back inside the Li estate, Li Yun kicked off his boots and collapsed into a wooden chair under a plum tree.
The ring on his finger was still dull, lifeless. Yet he could feel something — not power exactly, but presence, like an old sword half-buried in earth, waiting to be drawn.
He closed his eyes.
Just for a while.
The real performance would begin tonight — when his father, the Iron General, returned.
And for once, Li Yun planned to be perfectly sober for it.
That would scare them more than anything.