Chapter Text
The next few months dissolved into a season of warfare. A quiet, stubborn, exhausting clash between two souls who knew each other entirely too well, and refused entirely too much to back down.
Every single time Maomao crossed the threshold into Jinshi’s office, she found a way to steer the conversation back to the upcoming military campaign. Sometimes she did so cautiously - weaving it into medical observations; sometimes sharply, without any sugarcoating; and sometimes almost jokingly, as if in passing. She caught every fleeting moment, every shift in his intonation, every glance - and she pressed, testing to see if a fracture had finally formed in his resolve.
Her sheer persistence grated on Jinshi more and more each day.
During their last encounter, he didn't even bother to lift his eyes from his paperwork.
"You come here to work," he said, his tone biting and cold, "not for idle chatter."
Maomao froze mid-step. The very air in the room seemed to solidify.
"I will remember that," she replied evenly. "And I will most certainly use it against you one day."
He merely pressed his lips into a tight line - the universal sign that the conversation was dead and buried.
So, she tried speaking to the others.
Suiren listened in silence, wearing the same sorrowful patience one reserves for children who have stubbornly chosen the wrong path.
Chue offered a crooked, strained smile and averted her gaze.
Maamei could only shake her head - without judgment, but utterly devoid of hope.
Jinshi, however, refused to hear a single word.
When the day of departure finally arrived, Maomao accompanied Yao, En'en, and a small group of women to the docks. The morning air was crisp and salt-kissed, seagulls cried overhead, and the sails snapped impatiently against the wind.
She was genuinely happy for Yao. Happy that her friend would receive the exact opportunity that Maomao herself might never be granted. She knew Yao would return a changed woman - stronger, recognized, and possessing the hard-earned right to speak with a voice far louder than she could now.
"Come back," Maomao said, squeezing Yao's hands tightly. "And become better than all of us."
The ship cast off, and the horizon slowly swallowed the familiar silhouettes.
Her own daily routine remained largely unchanged.
The same herbs, the same wounded soldiers, the same endlessly long nights. Her hands moved with practiced precision and absolute certainty, her head remained cool, and her face was a mask of unbothered calm.
Yet the moment silence settled in, her thoughts slipped right back to the one place she desperately tried to bar them from entering.
Perhaps Jinshi is right.
Perhaps my place truly is here - in safety, surrounded by familiar walls and stable supplies. Perhaps it is better to remain the one who heals, rather than the one they might not reach in time to save. She tried to convince herself of this. She concocted arguments the way she prepared medicinal recipes: logical, precise, and thoroughly tested.
But her heart refused to obey.
She knew herself. She knew she could never just work and wait for scraps of news from the north. She knew that every single day without word would erode her from the inside out, that every rumor would twist like a knife, and every delay would become an agonizing form of torture.
She would not be able to live with herself, imagining him marching into battle without her. She would not sleep in peace, knowing that out there, they were short on hands, short on knowledge, short on medicine - and she could have been useful.
The rational mind lost. Completely. Without a fighting chance.
One evening, as she sat beneath the warm glow of her lamp, sorting through dried herbs, Maomao suddenly realized: the hesitation was over.
She was no longer seeking permission. She wasn't waiting for the perfect moment. She knew exactly what she was going to do.
Her plan was simple. Risky. And utterly inevitable.
Maomao let out a slow, steady exhale and smiled - for the first time in what felt like an eternity.
It wasn't a cheerful smile. It wasn't defiant. It was resolute.
Forgive me, she thought, not entirely sure whom she was even addressing. But my mind is already made up.
And now, all that remained was to act.
💜 🌗 💚
Empress Gyokuyou’s pavilion was drenched in light and absolute stillness. Thin silk curtains stirred faintly against the spring breeze, letting in the crisp scent of blossoming plum and warm tea. Porcelain cups clicked softly as a maid discreetly withdrew, leaving the two of them alone.
Maomao sat perfectly straight, clutching her cup with both hands as if it might somehow escape her. She took a sip - the tea was mild, slightly sweet, and soothing. It was utterly mismatched with her internal turmoil.
"The children..." she began, only to falter immediately. "Do they sleep well during this time of year? I have read that in spring, they often experience... er... restless dreams."
Gyokuyou blinked in surprise, then offered a gentle, knowing smile.
With a jolt of horror, Maomao realized just how terribly awkward that had sounded.
"They are doing quite well," the Empress replied smoothly. "They are growing fast. Far too fast."
Maomao nodded as if this piece of information were matters of life and death. She spent the next few minutes rambling about trivialities - the medicine, the weather, how the workload in the medical wing had increased. All the words were proper, yet entirely hollow.
Finally, Gyokuyou set her cup down and regarded her with a sharper, more focused gaze.
"I know why you are here," she said with a faint, almost apologetic smile. "But I am afraid I cannot help you."
There was no harsh refusal in her voice - only a sorrowful understanding.
"Yes... I understand," Maomao said quietly, a faint flush creeping up her neck. "The Emperor is scheduled to visit you today. Is he not?"
Gyokuyou’s smile turned warmer still. And a touch mischievous.
"You know, you could always ask him for an audience yourself. I highly doubt he would refuse you."
"Never," Maomao shook her head fiercely. It was too terrifying to even contemplate. "Besides... I thought perhaps your presence might help persuade him."
"You are incredibly persistent," Gyokuyou murmured softly. "Hardly the same Maomao who once pretended she wasn't in love."
"I am still not in love!" Maomao flared up, flushing crimson to the tips of her ears.
"Maomao, are you entirely certain you belong out there?" Gyokuyou’s voice dropped to a whisper. "What would the Moon Prince say to this?"
Maomao squeezed her fists tighter against her knees. She was growing rather weary of these circular conversations. These people had relied on her heavily during the darkest, most terrifying periods of their lives. Yet now, they treated her as if she had lost her mind. She meticulously calculated her response, careful not to cross the line into outright insolence.
Right at that moment, the heavy tread of guards echoed from outside, followed by a restrained announcement. The Emperor entered quietly, without any grand pageantry, yet the pavilion instantly felt narrower. His curious, sharp eyes immediately darted toward the unexpected guest.
Maomao rose and bowed deeply.
"Forgive my intrusion, Your Majesty."
"I see no reason to be surprised," the Emperor replied, studying her closely. "You appear in the most unexpected places far too often for it to startle me anymore."
He took his seat beside Gyokuyou, accepted a cup of tea, and gestured for Maomao to remain.
Her heart was hammering against her ribs. Maomao feared him - not as a tyrant, but as a man whose single word held far too much gravity.
"Your Majesty..." She paused, gathering her resolve into a tight fist. "I request permission to deploy to the military field hospital as a physician."
The Emperor arched a brow. A spark of genuine amusement lit his eyes.
"Intriguing," he murmured. "Do go on."
"The Prince's body..." Maomao swallowed hard. "No one but me is permitted to examine him. I know every single one of his weaknesses, his physiological reactions, and the lingering effects of his past wounds and poisonings. I can be of use."
The Emperor chuckled. This entire conversation seemed to genuinely entertain him.
"You do realize," he said calmly, "that both I and his mother..." He deliberately spoke in broad terms, omitting names, "...will be worried about him?"
"I do," Maomao replied.
"Maomao," Gyokuyou chimed in, her gaze searching. "Do you truly believe the court physicians will perform their duties with insufficient competence? They are all strictly accountable for the Prince's life."
"I do not wish to be there in the event that medical treatment is required," Maomao said softly. "But rather in the event that a miracle is needed."
Gyokuyou and the Emperor exchanged a startled glance. Maomao shifted nervously; even to her own ears, the words sounded absurd.
"I do not know how else to explain it," she forged ahead. "You see... your Rear Palace had plenty of overseers," she said, addressing the Emperor directly. "Yet it only truly flourished when the Moon Prince was managing it."
"That is true," the Emperor conceded.
"One cannot understate his intellect or organizational skills," Maomao said. "But the primary reason was his personal investment. He loves you. And he loves your children." She caught herself for a fraction of a second to avoid uttering a forbidden title. "That is precisely why it worked. It is not enough to be clever or diligent. One must possess... a personal devotion to the cause. Protocols, unfortunately, do not always suffice."
The Emperor sighed, setting his cup aside.
"Be that as it may, I am afraid my hands are tied," he said. "He is blackmailing me."
Maomao froze.
So, Jinshi knew. He knew I would push this far.
"And I have no desire to test whether he will follow through on his threats," the Emperor continued. "We all know what that stubborn mule is capable of once he sets his mind to something."
"I understand," Maomao said quietly.
Now that his legendary stubbornness was directed squarely at her, she felt for the very first time just how incredibly infuriating it could be.
Jinshi knew her too well. He had learned to anticipate her every move.
Well then, Maomao thought, taking a slow, steady breath. I suppose it is my turn to surprise him.
💜 🌗 💚
It seemed Maomao was losing on every single front. Any other person would have thrown up their hands and surrendered long ago.
But Maomao couldn't. Not when she still held Go stones in her hands.
The military strategist's office was drowned in semi-darkness. The light from the oil lamps fell at a sharp angle, leaving the corners of the room steeped in shadow, as if the space itself refused to bear witness to this conversation. The massive Go table stood in the center - cold, perfectly level, and ruthless. Black and white stones already littered the board, arranged in a configuration that would look chaotic to an outsider, but to the two players, it was a fiercely contested battlefield.
Maomao sat perfectly upright, almost frozen. Her back was straight, her shoulders tense, and her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she picked up another stone. Her gaze was sharp and intensely focused, as though she were trying to read not the board, but the future itself.
Across from her sat Lakan. He was barely managing to contain an expression of sheer bliss.
And why wouldn't he?
His daughter. His own flesh and blood. His absolute pride - had come to him of her own volition. She had sat down at his table. She had challenged him to a game of Go. And they were playing for a favor.
Yet, no matter how much his paternal heart rejoiced, he knew perfectly well that she wasn't here for the game.
"You are playing differently today," he finally remarked, forcing his tone to sound gentle, almost casual. "More aggressively."
"Do not lose your focus," Maomao said dryly, keeping her eyes glued to the board. "I have already lost twenty matches. I have no desire to lose another to your idle chatter."
Lakan fell silent. He could see it clearly: her patience was a tightly coiled spring.
She had been coming to him after her shifts, or on her days off, for three consecutive weeks. She would sit at this exact table. She would play. She would lose. Over and over again. At times, Lakan felt a pang of deep, aching shame for taking advantage of her vulnerability just to indulge himself. On the other hand, she knew that he knew. This was a singular, precious chance to spend at least some time with his daughter, even if the means were entirely unfair.
Another stone placed. Another trap sprung. Another defeat.
Maomao slowly closed her eyes.
Outside the window, the night was already creeping toward midnight. The silence in the room grew thick, suffocatingly heavy.
"Dearest daughter," Lakan said cautiously, "I think that is enough for tonight."
"Perhaps..." Her voice cracked, and she forced herself to take a breath. "Perhaps just one more match."
She was utterly shattered. He could see it all too well.
In that exact moment, Lakan despised the Moon Prince with every fiber of his being. He hated him for the fact that his brilliant, perfect, most exquisite daughter was sitting here with a hollow gaze and trembling hands. He wondered if the Оld Сrone at the Verdigris House felt the exact same way whenever she looked at him.
Lakan turned his face toward the window, unable to bear the sight of her eyes.
And that was when he heard it:
"...Father."
The voice was quiet. Soft. Broken. It bore no resemblance to the tone she usually used with him.
He whipped around.
Maomao was on her knees.
On the floor. Before him.
For a fraction of a second, the world ceased to exist.
"Maomao," he began, completely bewildered. "You must understand..."
"No!" she suddenly cried out, the sound cutting through the silence like a blade. "I have heard about the dangers a hundred times already! I am not going to the battlefield! I have no intention of throwing myself into the depths of hell!"
Her shoulders shook, her breathing turning ragged.
"I just want to be there," her voice dropped to a desperate whisper. "Not hundreds of kilometers away. There. Is that really so terrible?"
"Daughter, but..."
"Assign as many guards to me as you like!" she cut him off. "I can live in your tent. I will be quiet. I won't get in anyone's way!"
"Maomao..."
"I will call you Father," the words spilled from her like shattered stones. "I will accept the clan name. I will come to visit you. I will play Go with you. As often as you want!"
She kept talking, a breathless torrent of words.
Because she knew instinctively: if she stopped, she would collapse.
"But if you do not grant my request..." She lifted her head, and her eyes turned predatory, almost wild. "I will never acknowledge your existence again."
She swallowed hard, fighting for air.
"And if he..." The words lodged in her throat. "If something happens to him... I will come to your doorstep to live out my final moments."
Lakan froze.
A profound horror slowly washed over his face. He hadn't felt a terror this gripping even in the midst of war.
He remained silent.
For a long, agonizing time.
Maomao kept her gaze fixed on the floor, her chest heaving. Her eyes stung, tears pressing from within, but she absolutely refused to let them fall.
Every second stretched into an eternity.
She had almost resigned herself to the thought that he would say nothing at all.
"...My grandchildren will know that I am their grandfather," he finally rasped, his voice hollow. "And you will allow me to be a part of their lives."
Maomao’s head snapped up.
"What?.." she whispered, utterly dazed.
"You are planning to follow him into a warzone. You have endured my presence for nearly a month just to get my help," Lakan said. "What exactly surprises you about the word 'grandchildren'?"
Normally, he would never have broached such a topic. The right to his daughter's hand and heart was something that still had to be vigorously earned.
But right now... He saw the state she was in. And this was the only thing he could do to anchor her drifting thoughts. To shock her back to reality.
Maomao flushed a violent crimson. She averted her gaze sharply.
"Our relationship is not like that," she spat defiantly.
"I couldn't care less what your relationship is like right now," Lakan dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Sooner or later, you're going to get around to making me grandchildren. And I want to ensure they know their favorite grandfather."
Her brain automatically began to process and analyze the information. Maomao suddenly pictured the Emperor's face - and wondered how on earth it was possible that these two might be the grandfathers of her future children. Why couldn't they be farmers? Or carpenters? What kind of chaotic mess had she stumbled into?
She grimaced. At least Luomen was normal.
"And everything else you listed just now," Lakan added, thoroughly satisfied to see her face return to its usual detached expression, tinged with a hint of mild disgust.
"Thank you," Maomao said, bowing even lower before she stood up. "It is late, so..."
"Maomao," his voice halted her just as she reached the door.
She turned back.
"I will do everything within my power," he said softly, "to ensure that he, and every single soldier, returns alive."
She nodded silently. A barely perceptible smile touched her lips, though it never reached her eyes. Then she slipped out quickly, because her tears could no longer be held back.
She is so much like her mother, Lakan thought as the air in the room grew entirely empty.
A woman in love, driven to despair. What could possibly be more dangerous?