The Inner Garden Banquet was a spectacle of opulent horror. The air, already heavy with the perfume of exotic blooms, was now laced with the cloying scent of roasted meats and expensive wines. Golden lanterns, shaped like blooming lotuses, cast a warm, deceptive glow over a scene of grotesque indulgence. Female elders, their faces painted with intricate patterns of spiritual qi, reclined on silken cushions, attended by young, beautiful disciples.
But the true spectacle was at the center of the garden. Here, on raised platforms draped in crimson silk, knelt rows of male slaves. Their bodies, though well-fed and oiled, were stripped bare, save for thin loincloths. Their mouths were sewn shut with fine, golden thread, a brutal aesthetic choice that silenced their humanity. Their eyes, dull and vacant, stared into the middle distance as female elders, with casual cruelty, compared their aesthetic and spiritual appeal, discussing their "qi resonance" and "bone structure" as if they were livestock.
Jianyu, as Niánmei, navigated this scene of casual barbarity, a serene smile fixed on his face. His internal monologue was a storm of disgust, a cold fury that simmered beneath his perfect mask. He suppressed it, focusing on the intricate dance of power and politics. He observed the subtle gestures, the veiled insults, the silent hierarchies. Every breath was a performance, every glance a calculated risk.
He moved through the throng, his senses heightened. He overheard whispers of a veiled figure, accompanied by terrifying spiritual guards, attending the banquet. His System, ever vigilant, confirmed the presence of a powerful, familiar qi signature. Gong Xuelan. She was here.
Mistress Hansu, her crimson robes flowing like liquid shadow, led Niánmei directly to where Xuelan sat, veiled and surrounded by her formidable retinue. Hansu's smile was thin, almost predatory. "High Priestess," she purred, her voice dripping with practiced deference, "allow me to present a rare blooming talent from my garden. Disciple Niánmei."
Xuelan, a figure of cold, veiled power, turned her head slowly. Her eyes, visible through the sheer fabric, narrowed. Jianyu felt her gaze, sharp and piercing, rake over him. It was a moment of profound tension. He held his breath, willing his body to remain utterly alien to her memory. The transformation was too complete, he prayed. His Absolute Body Control had been flawless.
Xuelan's gaze lingered, searching, probing. She could not recognize her failed experiment, the male corpse she had discarded. Her eyes held a flicker of something—intrigue, perhaps, or a faint, unidentifiable unease—but not recognition. She gave a curt nod. "A delicate bloom, indeed, Mistress Hansu. May it not wither too soon."
As Hansu led him away, Jianyu overheard a fragment of conversation from Xuelan's guards, a hushed whisper that chilled him to the bone. "The Moonbone envoy is coming," one muttered to another. "To claim the vessel. Says it resembles their long-lost saint."
A cold dread settled in Jianyu's spirit. His female form wasn't just a disguise; it was a target. He now knew, with terrifying certainty, that multiple powerful factions were hunting his female form, each for their own dark purpose. The banquet, far from being a mere social event, was a chessboard, and he was the most coveted, and most dangerous, piece.