The walk from the pavilion to his private quarters was a study in controlled breathing. Yun Yi kept his steps measured, his expression an impassive mask of thoughtful authority that he hoped didn't look as constipated as it felt. Servants and guards pressed themselves against the walls as he passed, a silent, rippling wave of deference that followed him down the long, gilded corridor.
He reached the towering doors of his chambers, where two attendants stood waiting. He gave them a curt, dismissive nod, a gesture he'd practiced that was meant to convey power but probably just looked rude, and swept inside.
The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind him, the facade shattered.
His first act as a free man was to attack his own clothing. His clumsy fingers fumbled with the intricate jade clasp at his collar, pulling at the heavy, layered silk of his formal robes. They were a cage of fabric, a costume for a role he was spectacularly failing to embody. With a hiss of pure frustration, he finally tore the main belt loose, the sudden release of pressure doing little to ease the tension coiling in his gut.
He didn't collapse onto the Imperial Cloudwood bed so much as splat, arms flung wide, robes twisted, face-up and glaring at the carved golden canopy above, as if it might offer an answer to the question clawing through his skull:
What in the cultivation was that meeting?!
Silence answered. Rich, padded, velvet silence. The kind that judged you quietly.
Frustrated, he mentally swiped the air, and a familiar blue screen materialized before his eyes, visible only to him. The log from the meeting was still open. He forced himself to scroll through it, reliving the horror.
He stopped on the entry for the young maid.
[Name: Lin Meimei]
[Loyalty: 82%]
[Notes: A loyal but weak follower is nothing but an insect.]
He groaned. That 82% was so close, a beacon of hope in a sea of mediocrity. But the system was right. What could a Body Tempering maid do against Qi Condensation assassins? Serve them poisoned tea? The thought was almost tempting.
His finger dragged through the list until it stopped on another file, the one that still sent a jolt of pure, genre-bending dread through him. The note on Lin Xuan's profile hadn't changed. It was a single, terrifying word that had no business existing in a world of swords and immortality: Yandere.
The term was a tactical nightmare, a promise of obsessive, dangerously competent devotion that could flip to murderous rage at a moment's notice. He'd take a thousand screaming cannon fodder over one sweetly smiling psychopath. How did one even manage that? There was no manual for handling that kind of chaotic energy, especially when it was attached to someone who could probably level a city block.
With a vicious swipe of his hand, he dismissed the screen, the blue light vanishing as if it had never been there.
Minions. He needed minions. Not frightened kitchen girls or glorified aesthetic tyrants. Real followers. With loyalty high enough to actually matter.
He groaned and rolled over, burying his face in the pillows like they were the System's punchable face.
Maybe I could just walk into the city and start scanning random people. Spam the function until something sticks.
Then came the catch: loyalty. Not to the Yun name. To him. Personal loyalty. Sixty percent. That number might as well have been a heavenly tribulation. How was he supposed to inspire loyalty when his greatest social achievement so far was not panicking in public?
This quest is insane.
He let out a long, muffled groan into the embroidered silk.
What kind of system gives you a villain role and then refuses to give you villainous lackeys?
He flopped onto his back again and stared blankly at the ceiling, waiting for divine intervention, a plot twist, or maybe just sleep.
Meanwhile, far removed from Yun Yi's spiraling descent into existential dread, another chamber within the sprawling Yun Manor of Cloudveil City lay steeped in midnight tranquility.
The full moon hung overhead, casting a cool, silver light across a low lacquered table arranged on the open-air balcony. At its edge stood a woman whose presence could make the stars falter. Lady Xue of the Yun household, Yun Yi's mother, was the kind of beauty that needed no adornment. Her gaze held the stillness of ancient glaciers. Her cultivation, spoken of only in whispers, was so profound that even the high lords of the imperial family measured their words carefully in her presence.
Her temper was legendary. Her fury, rare but absolute, had rewritten borders and erased dynasties. Entire clans had vanished under her smile. Yet now, she hummed a quiet melody while sipping tea, her expression light, almost girlish, as if the moon itself had leaned in to listen.
Inside, seated just beyond the balcony in the soft lamplight, Yun Ranyang sorted through a modest stack of reports and jade slips. Every motion held the same quiet precision he brought to matters of law, diplomacy, and legacy. His night robe was crisp, his long hair tied back in a scholar's knot, and his brow carried the faint, permanent crease of a man who solved problems faster than others could name them.
He was a man of balance. Courteous to the humble. Firm with the proud. To the people of Cloudveil, he was a steady and beloved ruler. But to those who remembered the bloodbath of the Western Ming Purge, he was something else entirely. The tale of the City Lord who razed six sects in a single night still drifted through smoky taverns, passed between travelers in tones that hovered between awe and warning.
Tonight, though, he was not a general or governor. He was a husband first. His eyes drifted often toward the silhouette of his wife seated beneath the moonlight. His expression softened each time, as if seeing something sacred. Lady Xue in a good mood was rare. When it happened, the world itself seemed to pause and watch.
The senior retainers of the Yun household took their places with practiced ease, arranged throughout the chamber in silent formation, their presence restrained but unmistakably potent. These were Yun Ranyang's most loyal followers.
They had accompanied him through storms both political and bloody. They had witnessed firsthand the incandescent fury of the man who once razed six sects in a single night. They had stood with him in the fire, unleashing doom upon those too arrogant to fear him.
And now?
They sipped tea.
They spoke in low voices, their laughter warm and familiar. The camaraderie between them was not born of gentleness. It had been forged in battles survived and chaos silenced. The history they shared, brutal and infamous, was never spoken aloud. That silence was the truest bond of all.
Among them sat the Head of Trade, a bulky man whose robes were of a decadent, foreign cut. His meticulously braided black beard was threaded with thin gold wire, and the heavy rings on his fingers were not just precious metal, but carved from the bones of exotic spirit beasts, each a trophy from a "forceful negotiation."
Across from him, the Diplomat Head, a woman in her forties, projected the serene calm of a retired housewife. The illusion was shattered by the details: her hands rested in her lap with an unnatural, absolute stillness, and her gentle smile never quite reached her eyes, which held a chillingly precise understanding of political leverage.
The Alchemist, an old man with wild tufts of white hair sprouting around a bald crown, hunched over a softly glowing scroll. A faint, sharp smell of ozone and rare herbs clung to him, and the fingers on his one complete hand were stained with a silvery, metallic residue.
Near the chamber's entrance stood the Commander of All Guards, a man whose mid-forties likely hid decades more. He stood like a scarred monument, his weathered face marked by faded battle-lines and a missing piece from his left ear. His gaze never truly rested, constantly and subtly sweeping the room, assessing angles and exits out of a lifetime of ingrained habit.
Nestled near a stack of ancient scrolls, the Scroll Archivist, a terrifying figure who also served as inventor and talisman creator, polished a small talisman made of an unknown, dark metal that seemed to drink the light. Strange, faint script squirmed on its surface, visible only at the edge of one's vision.
And flanking the low jade table stood the two pillars of the manor's internal security. Lin Ke was a fortress of loyalty, his stillness that of a patient mountain, ancient and unmovable. Standing just a step behind him was Lin Xuan. In her arms, she held a neat stack of scrolls, her posture that of a dedicated aide or disciple. While her deference to Lin Ke was clear, her sharp, analytical gaze missed nothing in the room, her own presence like that of a coiled spring, ready to snap into action at a moment's notice.
"Honestly, old ghost," muttered the Commander of All Guards, elbowing the Scroll Archivist with a crooked grin. "Scared another learning disciple again, didn't you? Poor girl nearly tried to exorcise her workbook."
The Archivist didn't even blink. "She asked if the Wu Emperor was my grandson. I considered letting the ghost take her."
From the balcony, the Trade Master's voice rang out, dry as aged wine. "Since we've dealt with scaring children, shall we move on to things that'll terrify sect leaders instead?"