Chapter 18

Chapter 18: Day One of the Chastity Defense War

The door eased open on a thin slice of darkness.

Xiao Man bent low, slipped in sideways, and—quick as a thief, quiet as a shadow—closed it again behind her.

Cool air washed over her, laced with heavy sandalwood. The scent carried an invisible weight that tightened around her lungs and set her heart hammering.

She didn’t dare look up. All she could see was the dark wooden floor, polished to a shine that swallowed reflections.

At the edge of a meditation cushion rested a pair of plain white monk’s shoes, clean as new snow.

Above them, the hem of a wide, equally plain white robe hung stiff and flawless, not a wrinkle to be found.

Holding her breath, Xiao Man followed the strictest etiquette she’d ever learned. She sank into a deep curtsey and kept her voice smooth, steady, obedient—exactly the right amount of humble.

“This servant, Xiao Man, comes under Old Madam and the First Madam’s orders to serve the eldest young master at the Auspicious Cloud Residence. This servant reports for duty today.”

She stayed bowed, eyes lowered, fixed on that strip of white cloth and those snow-bright shoes.

The room was so quiet it hurt. She could hear her blood rushing through her veins.

Then the gaze landed on her—like a lantern swung close, bright and merciless. It weighed her, searched her, tried to peel her open and read what was written inside.

Every hair at the back of her neck stood up.

Time stretched, thin and endless.

At last, his voice came again, cool and even, without the smallest ripple of feeling—each word dropping into her ear like a stone.

“Lift your head.”

Xiao Man’s heart pinched hard.

[Here it comes.]

She rose slowly and obeyed.

Her eyes crashed straight into a pair of dark, pool-deep eyes.

Lin Qing Xuan wasn’t seated cross-legged. He sat upright behind a broad purple sandalwood desk.

On it lay only a few open sutras, an inkstone, and a purple-tipped brush. Nothing more. Simple to the point of severity.

He wore a spotless white monk’s robe, which only made his face more unreal—handsome as carved jade.

His black hair was gathered with a plain wooden pin. A few loose strands fell across his brow—not messy, just sharper, colder, more distant.

He was looking at her.

Those eyes were the ones she had stared into countless times in her dreams—deep and still as an ancient temple pool, calm on the surface, swallowing on the inside.

But there was none of the dream’s heat in them now. No haze. No crimson struggle. Only a clean, freezing clarity that seemed made to see through a person.

Prayer beads—deep purple sandalwood—rolled between his fingers. Slow. Steady. Each bead slid past with a soft, regular rasp.

Their gazes locked.

Xiao Man couldn’t move. It felt like he’d nailed her to the floor.

That look cut through her forced composure like paper, saw the little “chastity defense war” plan she’d been clutching in her fist, saw her shame at that ridiculous spring dream, saw her resistance—

and, damn it, she had the sick, crawling certainty it saw deeper than that. Deeper than flesh. Deeper than name.

The air went thick. Even the sandalwood felt sticky in her throat.

His gaze lingered on her face, not on her half-worn blue shirt, not on the pale yellows and greens she’d refused. To him, it all might as well have been air.

As his fingers crossed one bead, there was the faintest hitch, so small it might have been imagination.

Then his voice broke the silence, calm as water, impossible to read.

“Mm. I heard you.”

“From now on, you’ll serve in this courtyard.”

“Granny Chen will teach you the rules.”

He withdrew his gaze and returned it to the sutra as if the moment had never happened, as if she were no more than another object delivered for use.

“You may go.”

Xiao Man dipped into another curtsey, almost fleeing with it.

“Yes. This servant takes her leave.”

She didn’t dare look into those eyes again. She turned, opened the door, slipped out, and gently shut it behind her in one smooth motion.

Only then did she realize her back was damp with sweat.

Inside, the prayer beads seemed to turn slower, heavier, as if each bead carried more weight than before.

Lin Qing Xuan didn’t focus on the sutra at all. His gaze rested on a point in empty space, and in the depths of those still eyes, something unnameable stirred—one thin ripple, spreading, vanishing.

“Amitabha Buddha.”

Outside, Xiao Man’s thoughts exploded the moment the door latched.

[Pretend.]

[Keep pretending.]

[Fake prude.]

In the dream, he’d called her “good sister” so sweetly, even demanded she call him “good brother”—so tangled their generation lines turned into a mess.

And now he wore that dead, cold face like: who are you? I don’t know you.

Who was he trying to fool?

But fine. Fine. If he wanted to pretend, she could pretend too.

Her defense war had fired its first shot today.

She sprinted back to her room, dug paper and brush from her bundle, and slapped a big poster on the wall in bold, wild strokes:

“210 days! chastity defense war!”

Then she mouthed her battle slogan like a prayer.

“Getting it for free in a dream isn’t a loss. Losing it in real life is brain-dead.”