Thankfully, Gu Mingrong had already left—sparing her from hearing Gu Yanshu's narcissistic murmurings, lest she combust on the spot.
While Gu Yanshu admired his reflection, another scene unfolded across the city:
Third Prince Qin Lu was finally preparing for the bridal procession.
His manor, though draped in the customary scarlet silks, lacked the joyous atmosphere of the Marquisate. The austere architecture swallowed the festive decorations whole; were it not for the glaring double-happiness characters plastered on the walls, none would guess a wedding approached.
Qin Hao watched his elder brother don the vermilion groom's robes with growing impatience.
"I half expected you to skip fetching the groom entirely," he remarked.
Indeed, while most grooms would've been ready at dawn, Qin Lu had waited until the last possible moment.
"An imperial decree demands proper observance," Qin Lu replied, adjusting his sash.
Qin Hao blinked. That sounded almost like... "Had it not been His Majesty's order, would you truly have refused to go?"
Qin Lu paused mid-motion, meeting his brother's gaze with unsettling calm:
"Had it not been His Majesty's order, I wouldn't be marrying him at all."
With that, he strode out—precisely on schedule, as always.
One Block From the Prince's Manor
Every teahouse along the main thoroughfare overflowed with spectators. Even private booths were shared among noble young masters who'd normally scorn such proximity.
All had come for the same reason: to witness the unprecedented male bridal procession.
Yet their chosen vantage point—a full block from the manor—spoke volumes.
Who dares loiter at the War God's gates? whispered the crowd. Those mounted guards don't carry halberds for decoration!
This carefully calculated distance offered safety while ensuring a clear view of the procession route to the Marquisate.
But as hours crawled by without movement, murmurs grew:
"Has the Third Prince gotten cold feet?"
Were it not for the scarlet banners and double-happiness characters adorning both residences, the spectators might have doubted they'd mistaken the date entirely.
Finally, someone broke the tense silence:
"Isn't the auspicious hour nearly past?"
Like floodgates opening, murmurs erupted across the teahouse:
"Not yet—but close. Barely an hour remains."
"Then why no movement from the manor?"
"If I knew, would I be sitting here?"
"Do you think... the groom... might not come at all?"
"Impossible! Tianqi customs demand the groom fetches his bride—unless deathly ill!"
"Since when has he ever followed conventions?"
The whispers multiplied, yet conspicuously avoided direct names—only "the groom" or "that one," as if speaking Qin Lu's title aloud might summon the man himself.
When even these oblique references grew too dangerous, the crowd's focus shifted to the wedding's other participant:
"If he doesn't come, we've wasted our morning!"
"Hardly! The Marquisate's procession must depart regardless. Though Young Master Gu's humiliation would be legendary."
"Serves him right! Remember how he sneered at commoners? Now he cowers indoors like a whipped dog!"
"I'd die of shame in his place!"
Unlike their fearful murmurs about Qin Lu, discussions of Gu Yanshu flowed freely—laced with schadenfreude that revealed much about the young master's dismal reputation.
Just as anecdotes about his past misdeeds reached their peak—
"Movement at the manor!"
The teahouse plunged into silence so absolute one might hear a pin drop. All necks craned toward the distant clop of hooves and ceremonial music.
There, leading the procession in crimson bridal robes that did nothing to soften his battlefield aura, rode none other than the Third Prince himself.
Every last spectator suddenly found their teacups fascinating.
Qin Hao, riding half a length behind his brother, observed the terrified onlookers with a humorless smile.
"They say Third Brother's reputation alone can silence crying children," he murmured. "Seems the rumors hold truth."
His jest carried no mirth. Watching the petrified crowd, something dark flickered behind his eyes—a calculation best left unspoken.
Qin Lu ignored the remark. Accusations of brutality and bloodlust had trailed him for years. He'd seen grown men soil themselves at his mere glance; this cowed silence was mundane by comparison.
The crowd's fear proved unexpectedly useful—their frozen deference let the bridal procession advance unimpeded, arriving at the Marquisate's gates a full quarter-hour ahead of schedule.
Custom dictated playful obstruction of grooms, but no one dared impede a prince. Marquis Gu wouldn't have intervened even if protocol allowed—not with Qin Lu's infamous temper looming.
Thus unimpeded, Qin Lu reached the bridal courtyard—only to find his path blocked at the final threshold.
"This humble subject greets Your Highnesses." Gu Yanli bowed deeply before the archway.
"Young Master Gu." Qin Lu recognized him instantly—his spies had mapped every branch of the Marquisate's family tree. "You have words for this prince?"
Gu Yanli's throat worked before he forced out the plea: "My brother... was spoiled since childhood. If he ever offends Your Highness... I beg tolerance..."
The request bordered on treason. Under normal circumstances, Qin Lu would have dismissed such impertinence outright.
Yet something stayed him—perhaps that remembered report: "Father's clan, mother's clan, wife's clan... Is the Mu family not also innocent? Can Elder Brother bear it?"
These brothers, too, were victims of circumstance.
After a weighted pause, Qin Lu granted measured mercy: "So long as he remains obedient, this prince will not trouble him."
Gu Yanli exhaled—his brother would live as a pampered ornament in the prince's household, spared the worst fates. "This subject thanks Your Highness's boundless grace."
With the final obstacle withdrawn, Qin Lu entered the bridal chamber—
And froze.
There, bathed in crimson silks and morning light, sat Gu Yanshu. The infamous beauty—already legendary in the capital—now glowed with otherworldly radiance. Even Qin Lu's battle-hardened pulse stuttered.
The young master turned at their entrance, his gaze locking onto Qin Lu with startling intensity.
For Gu Yanshu, reality surpassed memory: The prince's sharp jawline, the shoulders that filled out his ceremonial robes, the latent power in his stance—every detail exceeded his wildest fantasies.
He stared.
And stared.
Qin Hao, entering moments later, witnessed the young master's blatant appraisal—then the unmistakable gulp as Gu Yanshu's throat bobbed.
That unmistakable gulp hung in the air, impossible to ignore.
"Young master!"
Bai Zhu's frantic whisper finally tore Gu Yanshu from his dazed admiration.
"Hmm?"
"Your... your mouth." The attendant gestured desperately at his own chin.
Gu Yanshu touched his lips—damn. A faint but undeniable dampness confirmed his momentary lapse.
Yet where lesser men might fluster, the merchant prince simply wiped his mouth with imperial calm and bowed.
"This humble one greets His Highness the Third Prince. May Your Highness know eternal peace."
Qin Hao's eyebrows shot upward. He'd heard Zhi Ge's reports about this unconventional young master, but witnessing such shameless recovery in person was... educational.
Behind them, Gu Yanli's face darkened to stormclouds. After I begged for leniency, you pull this?! His glare at his brother could have melted iron.
Strangely, Qin Lu himself remained unmoved.
This defied all expectations. Court whispers claimed the Third Prince loathed being ogled—with good reason.
Few knew the full story:
Qin Lu's mother had been legendary—a beauty so transcendent she dwarfed the imperial harem's three thousand blossoms. Her son inherited every ounce of that allure, outshining all imperial siblings by magnitudes.
In childhood, this brought only trouble. Courtiers whispered of his "seductive bloodline." Later, battlefield victories were attributed to "demonic charm" rather than skill.
Most infamously, during his first return to court at sixteen, a drunken duke had pawed at him, slurring about "bedding the war god."
They found the man's severed hands nailed to his own gates at dawn.
Yet now, facing Gu Yanshu's blatant appraisal, Qin Lu felt...
Nothing.
No rage. No disgust. Just faint curiosity at the other's audacity.
Before his frontier campaigns, Qin Lu had been the pampered imperial archetype—untouched by bloodshed, his features softened by courtly refinement.
They say faces mirror souls. Back then, the prince's still-maturing countenance, paired with that innate elegance, lent him an almost androgynous beauty—a trait his elder brothers exploited with relentless taunts.
The battlefield brought no reprieve. Enemy soldiers crowed worse:
"Has Tianqi run out of men? Sending this milk-faced boy!"
"Call him a prince? More like some noble's runaway daughter!"
"Such fair skin—surely a girl in disguise! Hold tight, little maiden, I'll inspect you properly after seizing this city!"
For a full year, such jeers accompanied every clash. Only after his reputation solidified—only when elegance gave way to the aura of a blood-soaked war god—did the mockery cease.
These past two years, his infamy had silenced even the bravest fools.
Which made Gu Yanshu's behavior today... unprecedented.
That lingering gaze. That audible swallow. The way his eyes kept drifting back like compass needles finding north—every signal screamed carnal appreciation.
Normally, Qin Lu would have such offenders blinded. Or at least terrified into lifelong aversion.
Yet faced with this brazen appraisal, he felt...
Nothing.
No fury. No revulsion. Just...
Perhaps it was the purity in Gu Yanshu's stare—devoid of the leering malice he'd endured from others. Where courtiers and enemies had sneered with ulterior motives, this man's admiration held simple, almost artistic delight.
A revelation struck Qin Lu:
It was never the appreciation I hated.
Only the poison behind it.
Gu Yanshu, oblivious to this internal epiphany, grew uneasy under the prince's prolonged silence. Though Qin Lu's expression betrayed no anger, the stillness unnerved him.
Then—
"Rise."
That voice. That damned voice.
Deep as a cello's lowest register, threaded with barely-there amusement—it liquefied Gu Yanshu's spine. Suddenly, he understood those starstruck fangirls from his past life wailing "My ears are pregnant!"
My entire being is pregnant, he corrected internally, even as his outward composure remained flawless. "This humble one thanks Your Highness."
Qin Hao, observing his brother's uncharacteristic tolerance, decided to capitalize on the miracle:
"Third Brother, the auspicious hour approaches."
Delays at the courtyard and this bizarre staring contest had eaten into their schedule. Qin Lu extended the ceremonial silk—one end clasped in those long, battle-calloused fingers that sent Gu Yanshu's mind spiraling anew.
Every detail tailored to my preferences!
Those hands—I could—
Sanity prevailed. With ceremonial solemnity (and inner screaming), he accepted the silk.
As he accepted the ceremonial silk, Gu Yanshu couldn't resist letting his fingertips graze Qin Lu's palm—a featherlight caress over battle-hardened calluses.
Where the young master's hands spoke of pampered idleness, the prince's palms mapped a warrior's history: each ridge marking countless blades wielded, innumerable lives taken. The rough texture sent an electric thrill up Gu Yanshu's arm, settling somewhere behind his ribs.
Withdrawing, he rubbed thumb against fingertips absently—as if to prolong the phantom sensation.
Qin Lu stilled.
His scarred palms, long desensitized, registered only the faintest whisper of contact. Another man might have missed it entirely.
"Brother?" Qin Hao noted the hesitation.
"...Nothing." The prince retracted his hand, though his mind raced.
Memories surfaced—Zhi Ge's report weeks prior, Qin Hao's amused commentary:
"Who knew the Marquis's youngest hid such wit behind that spoiled exterior?"
Now, reviewing Gu Yanshu's brazen appraisal, that audible swallow, this deliberate touch...
Perhaps Fifth Brother had been right all along.