Chapter 115
Chapter 115: She Was More Captivating Than Any Man
The morning cold still clung to the air, but the small kitchen had already filled with the warmth of honest fire and rising steam.
Xiao Man couldn’t stop thinking about Third Miss’s “masterpiece” wontons from the night before.
She went to inspect them—and sighed softly. The skins, thin as cicada wings, had dried overnight. Their edges curled and split into fine cracks, like a failed piece of pottery left in the sun.
Third Miss’s effort—wasted.
Carefully, Xiao Man peeled away the broken skins, revealing filling that was still fresh. She separated out the plump shrimp one by one and arranged them neatly on a clean white plate.
“Fortunately, Miss Yu Ning wrapped only a few,” she thought. “Today will be noisy—Dong Chun, Old Chen Tou’s family, and the three cousin misses as well. There’ll be no time for delicate work. Better to make one big, hot pot of everything. Warm bellies first.”
Her gaze swept the kitchen: sweet winter napa cabbage, minced pork, the shrimp she’d salvaged, and finally the small jar of pickled vegetables she’d made herself.
That would be the bright, salty note—the finishing touch.
Xiao Man smoothed her plain cotton jacket and skirt, neat and clean. No splendid silk, no jeweled hairpins—yet she carried herself with a quiet order that made the room feel steadier.
She took a cloth tie and rolled up her sleeves in practiced layers, binding them snugly above her elbows until her forearms were bare—slender, strong, unencumbered.
Then she began.
Flour went into a clay basin. Clear water waited in a bowl.
She dipped her fingertips and flicked droplets into the flour with patient precision while her other hand stirred quickly. The flour broke into countless small clumps—uneven in size yet evenly formed—bouncing through the basin like pale fish eggs.
She heated the pan, cracked in eggs, and with a turn of her wrist spread a golden sheet thin as paper. Once cooled, she sliced it into fine threads.
Water celery followed, chopped into tiny pieces, releasing a fresh green fragrance that brightened the whole kitchen.
Tomatoes went into the pot, stir-fried until they melted into a thick red sauce. She poured in water.
When the broth boiled hard, Xiao Man lifted the basin of dough bits in one hand and—like a heavenly maiden scattering flowers—sprinkled strip after strip of “little noodle fish” into the rolling red.
Cabbage stems, minced pork, shrimp, and chopped pickles followed.
When the noodle fish floated, she added tender cabbage leaves and the last handful of celery.
A final pinch of salt, then she ladled the soup into large bowls and topped each with a small mound of egg threads.
The bowl in her hands steamed and fragrant. Tomato’s gentle tang bloomed into the air, warmth rising like a promise: winter, for now, could not touch you.
In her boudoir, Third Miss Lin Yu Ning was still drooling over the album of handsome men when her stomach let out an unmistakable growl.
Only then did she remember: she hadn’t eaten.
“Second Sister,” she said, eyes wide with sudden misery. “I’m hungry.”
She turned her head, ideas sparking.
“Let’s go straight to Xiao Man. She always makes noodle-fish soup in the morning.”
Then her gaze slid to Miss Zhao, and she smiled as if she’d arranged the world with a flick of her sleeve.
“Sister Zhao came today anyway. Come with us. We’ll bring the album, let Sister Xiao Man take a look. As for whether Sister Xiao Man wants to share our cousin’s ‘secret gossip’ with you—that’s her business.”
Lin Yu Jiao shot her a startled glance, as if wondering whether hunger had finally sharpened her sister’s brain.
For once, it was workable.
“You take Miss Zhao over,” Lin Yu Jiao agreed. Then she frowned at Yu Ning’s feet. “But put your sock on first. Look at yourself. Eldest Sister will come too, and she’ll scold you.”
Yu Ning looked down and realized, with sudden horror, that she’d been so excited she’d forgotten a sock entirely. Her toes curled in the cool air.
Zhao Lü Liu laughed without restraint.
“Third Miss, you’re adorable. A true muddle-headed miss. I say you and Cui Zhan should be a pair. My next storybook will be called ‘Muddle-Headed Miss and the Cold Young Lord.’ How about it?”
“Terrible!” Yu Ning shot back instantly. “Didn’t you say Cui Zhan likes men? Don’t write me together with him!”
Cheeks puffed, she hopped off the bed and scurried behind the screen.
“I’ll change—Sister Zhao, wait for me!”
Lin Yu Jiao stood to leave.
“Eldest Sister should be practicing spear work at Father’s training field right now. I’ll go call her.”
But Zhao Lü Liu grabbed her sleeve, eyes suddenly shining like she’d spotted a rare gem.
“Jiao Jiao—wait. You said she’s practicing a spear? Can I watch? It’s rare to see a woman wielding weapons. It could be new material for me!”
Lin Yu Jiao hesitated, then waved a hand with a sigh that was half indulgence, half resignation.
“Fine, fine. You’re possessed. Everything becomes material to you.”
They walked together, laughter and chatter trailing behind them like a ribbon. Before they even reached the training field, the air began to cut with sharp, urgent sounds—hissing strikes that carried weight and authority.
Then they saw her.
Lin Yu Wan stood in fitted training clothes, posture straight as a drawn bow. The long spear in her hands moved like a living creature—thrusting, spinning, snapping through the air with cold precision.
Leaves on the ground lifted in the wake of her spear wind, flung up and whirled as if the world itself had been caught in her momentum.
Her eyes were bright and focused. Every shift, every turn, every step carried the confidence of a general’s daughter. It wasn’t only skill—it was presence, fierce and undeniable.
Zhao Lü Liu stopped breathing.
In the span of a heartbeat, all the plans she’d carried—Buddhist Scion secrets, storybook sales, gossip rankings—were tossed into the farthest corner of her mind.
There was only that figure in the field.
She had painted countless handsome scholars and charming young heroes and believed she knew beauty in all its forms. But Lin Yu Wan’s beauty was not soft. It did not invite.
It seized.
The spear’s hiss through air struck Zhao Lü Liu’s heart harder than any music.
Sunlight caught the sweat at Lin Yu Wan’s temple and flashed along the spear tip’s cold gleam. For an instant, she looked as if she were glowing—bright, sharp, impossible to ignore.
Zhao Lü Liu clenched her hands so tightly her nails dug into her palms. She didn’t feel the pain. Her thoughts overturned like a table kicked in rage.
“Wrong… I drew everything wrong,” she whispered, voice trembling with shock.
“What’s worth painting about those men? One pretends to be deep, another drips with slick talk. How could they compare to even a fraction of her presence?”
“No—my next storybook must be about a woman. About a woman like her.”
Her eyes burned, as if the world had split open to reveal a new road.
“Learned and martial. Skilled in strategy. Commanding troops on the battlefield, plotting in the tent. I’ll make her proud spirit so dazzling that every woman in the city will fall for her—admire her—go mad for her.”
She stared as Lin Yu Wan moved, and in her gaze was a kind of devotion that frightened even herself.
“The Capital Beaux Album,” the “Buddhist Scion Secret Chronicle”—in that moment, they turned dull and tasteless.
A new door had opened in her mind, and it had opened with a crash.