Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Maomao drew in a deep, lungful breath of the frosty air. It was crisp and sharp, carrying the faint, nostalgic scent of dry leaves and woodsmoke - the unmistakable fragrance of that threshold where autumn yields to winter. A few more days, and winter would officially claim its rights. Another year in the Outer Court was drawing to a close, leaving behind the distinct, heavy impression of a wheel spinning in place.

Life in the medical office flowed with a deceptive, predictable rhythm. Soldiers arrived with fevers, sprains, and reopened war wounds, only to depart just as steadily, leaving behind a word of thanks or a silent, respectful bow. They fell ill and they recovered, not without the skilled hands of Maomao and the other women. Everything was familiar, expected... almost too much so.

Lately, the influx of patients had increased. Significantly. Most people chalked it up to the recent reshuffling among the generals' ranks, and indeed, that was the easiest conclusion to jump to. Maomao, however, merely snorted to herself. She had already been forced to dive into the bushes several times while returning from her rounds; that old bastard had started appearing on the training grounds far too frequently. It wasn't for show. It wasn't for supervision. It was for something else entirely - but she preferred not to dwell on it.

The young princes and princesses grew in peaceful ignorance, knowing nothing beyond their childhood games and the schedules of their first tutors. The Emperor, fortunately, enjoyed robust health and a stable constitution - at least as much as his age and status allowed. The court desperately needed this illusion of stability, and it held on with surprising, stubborn tenacity.

Per their schedule, Maomao continued her routine visits to Jinshi. Formally, it was for an examination - to check his pulse and update his medical records. In truth, the majority of their time was spent over dinner, discussing critical matters of state. Or, to put it more accurately, they gossiped. They talked about the Outer and Inner Courts, about bizarre edicts, about officials who had suddenly vanished from sight, and about those who had begun to surface far too often.

Their conversations were light only on the surface. Glances lingered just a fraction longer than propriety deemed acceptable. The pauses between their words sometimes carried more weight than the dialogue itself. Poetically, their relationship could be described as "neither left nor right" - a step forward felt perilous, yet a step backward had long since become impossible.

Maomao was thoroughly accustomed to the daily routine. It was comforting, like the steady thrum of a heartbeat, yet it brought an underlying anxiety; the rhythm was simply too perfect. Too clean. Too flawlessly orchestrated not to suffer a sudden disruption.

The only genuine piece of novelty was the arrival of a new doctor - Ryo. He had come from across the sea, from the distant eastern lands where the gaze of most courtiers never bothered to wander. He had been personally invited by the Emperor to share medical expertise, but Maomao knew better: the Emperor never did anything for a single reason alone.

Ryo was somewhere between his mid-thirty and forty. He was unmarried, a detail that ignited a flurry of intense speculation not only among the medical staff but also among numerous court ladies, who suddenly found themselves "coincidentally" fascinated by herbs and pulse diagnostics.

Unlike them, Maomao cared nothing for his fine manners or his exotic accent. Instead, she hung onto his lectures with a ravenous hunger, studying his hands during practical applications and committing every unorthodox technique to memory. Only one thing frustrated her - he had brought far too few medical treatises with him. His knowledge far eclipsed the paper she had to show for it, and the lack of reading material irritated her almost physically.

Standing on the threshold of the medical office, Maomao took another breath of the freezing air. A sudden premonition brushed against her: winter would not be arriving alone.

And the truth was, she was rarely ever wrong.

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Maomao, Yao, and En'en sat together in a room of the medical office, where the warm air was thick with the scent of dried herbs, crushed roots, and freshly brewed tea. Beyond the narrow window, the snow fell in slow, hesitant drifts - sparse but persistent, as though winter were gently tapping against the palace walls, a quiet reminder of its arrival.

They were animatedly discussing a surgery they had recently witnessed. Yao spoke rapidly, gesturing with her hands, her eyes bright with a mixture of awe and lingering dread. En'en, ever the composed one, listened intently as she poured boiling water over the tea leaves, ensuring they didn't steep a moment too long; she was meticulous in everything she did, down to the smallest detail.

In the corner of the room, Yo and Changsha were busy preparing medicine. The dull thud of wooden pestles hitting mortars established a familiar rhythm that Maomao had long since learned to tune out. Medicine was always in higher demand during the winter, but this year, the Imperial Court had ordered truly staggering stockpiles. After all the recent upheavals, the directive felt... prudent. At the very least, Maomao couldn't call it unnecessary.

By sheer habit, she picked up her own pestle. Her hands moved automatically while her thoughts drifted down their own paths.

"I wish I could study under the eastern physicians too," Yo sighed, her eyes glued to her mortar. "It's a shame Changsha and I weren't invited. Youth can be a cruel joke sometimes," she added with a wry smile.

"I wish I had your problems," Changsha dismissed pragmatically. "Have you seen the prices of salt and meat? How did they skyrocket so fast?"

Maomao pressed her lips into a thin line. She had noticed. And she hadn't remembered to care. Was that a bad sign? Was she becoming too wasteful?

"Doctor Ryo is such a professional..." Yao murmured dreamily. "And so handsome, too!"

En'en merely offered a quiet sigh, pouring the tea into cups.

"Maomao, back me up here!" Yao frowned.

"His knowledge is indeed impressive," Maomao agreed placidly, not looking up from her herbs. "Especially considering his age."

"You know that's not what I asked you to back me up on," Yao grumbled.

"My religion forbids me from calling men handsome," Maomao replied without a hint of jest.

"What kind of religion is that?" Yao asked, incredulous.

"The kind that requires me to paint on freckles," Maomao reminded her.

She was genuinely grateful that Yao didn't associate with the Moon Prince. If Yao were to babble to him with that same enthusiasm about how attractive Dr. Ryo was, Jinshi would likely turn entirely gray before the man even set sail back across the sea. At the thought, Maomao’s face contorted slightly - not from irritation, but from a strange, unwelcome warmth blooming beneath her ribs.

As if summoned by their words, the door opened quietly, and Dr. Ryo himself stepped into the room.

"An afternoon snack?" he asked with a smile, scanning the room.

"Would you like some tea?" Yao offered instantly, already reaching for the kettle.

En'en shot her a sharp, warning look.

"If there is one thing I can never turn down, it is a good cup of tea," Ryo replied, seating himself beside them as if he had always belonged there.

He spoke with an easy grace, readily answering their questions, explaining concepts, and sketching diagrams directly onto prescription paper. The girls listened with bated breath. Even Changsha briefly forgot about the market prices.

"I hope that one day I will know even a tenth of what you do," Yao said dreamily.

"It is all a matter of experience," Ryo replied with the measured courtesy of a man well-accustomed to flattery. "By the way, the three of you are already quite skilled. I noticed you some time ago."

I wonder why he was looking at us in the first place, Maomao thought, her hands never pausing their grinding.

As if reading her mind, Ryo continued, "To be frank, I am not here merely to exchange expertise."

The girls exchanged bewildered glances.

"I am tasked with selecting a group of talented young women to take back to my country for an apprenticeship," he explained. "You would undergo training, gain vast practical knowledge, and even receive the official status of a doctor upon your return."

"Really...?" Yao gasped.

"It was the Emperor’s personal initiative," Ryo confirmed. "And the three of you are currently on the roster."

Maomao, who knew perfectly well where the Emperor’s "personal initiatives" usually originated, silently thanked Jinshi. Yet, a sudden knot of anxiety tightened in her chest.

Ryo carefully cradled his teacup, warming his palms against the clay, and paused for a moment as if deciding where to begin.

"In my homeland," he finally spoke, "winter is far more severe than it is here. The frost holds the land for so long that the earth hardens like stone; we often have to dig for roots almost blindly. Because of this, we learned long ago to work with plants that survive where others perish."

Maomao froze involuntarily, forgetting her mortar. Such words were not the preamble to idle pleasantries.

"Take the blue ice lily, for example," Ryo continued, tracing the outline of a flower on the table with his finger. "It grows only on the northern slopes of the mountains. Its root breaks fevers that standard decoctions cannot touch, and it prevents blood poisoning after severe trauma."

"Is it... poisonous?" Maomao clarified carefully.

"Deadly," he nodded calmly. "If you miscalculate the dosage by even a hair's breadth."

Her lips twitched almost imperceptibly. It wasn't fear - it was pure professional rapture.

"And then there is the bitter pine resin," Ryo leaned closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. "We use it to treat deep, suppurating wounds. It burns, it leaves deep scars... but the patients survive. Even those who would have been written off elsewhere."

The room grew noticeably quieter. Even the wooden pestles seemed to slow their rhythm.

"We have adapted to work with whatever we have," he added softly. "Seaweed to purge poisons from the body. Mountain mushrooms to combat lung afflictions. There are plants that allow a person to stay awake for three consecutive nights... without losing their sanity. And there are those that restore sleep to men hunted by nightmares."

That last word hung in the air, far too heavy to be a coincidence.

Maomao exhaled slowly. In her mind, thoughts, formulas, and possibilities ignited one after another. This was knowledge she would never find within the treatises of the Outer Court. Knowledge for which, under any other circumstances, she would have traded half her life.

"Did you bring all of these with you?" she asked quietly.

"Only in my head," Ryo replied with a faint smile. "Some plants cannot survive the long journey. You must see them, touch them, learn to recognize them by scent and taste. And..." He held her gaze intently. "...we need someone who can comprehend them without destroying themselves in the process."

Maomao looked down at her hands, stained with a greenish powder. She felt it with almost physical intensity: it wasn't mere curiosity - it was a calling.

"How long would the training last?" she asked, lifting her eyes.

"Only a year," Ryo answered. "But in that time, you will have countless opportunities to perfect your craft..."

He kept speaking, but his words began to dissolve as if submerged in water.

A year. Only a single year.

To knowledge, it was a mere blink.

To life, it was an absolute abyss.

Maomao stared at the crushed herbs in her mortar, and for the first time in a very long time, she didn't know which emotion gripped her tighter - rapture or dread.

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Maomao was almost grateful to fate that she was required to check on the health of the Emperor’s younger brother this very evening.

The chambers were warm. The lamps glowed with a soft, golden light that made the shadows on the walls seem alive yet tranquil. Beyond the windows, the snow fell in slow, silent drifts, muffling the sounds of the palace as if someone had draped a thick blanket over the world. Everything around them breathed comfort - a comfort far too flawless not to be deeply disquieting.

Their evening together was passing with a strange, flat quality. There were no sharp retorts, no light play of words. Jinshi sat opposite her, his posture immaculate, his face calm and nearly detached. He spoke in monosyllables, moved with measured deliberation, and offered no jokes or his usual ironic remarks. Yet he looked neither tired nor distracted. Rather... he simply did not seem to want to speak to her.

Maomao caught herself thinking that this wasn't the first time. Lately, such evenings had begun to stretch between them more and more frequently - evenings as smooth as the surface of a frozen pond, beneath which a treacherous depth lay concealed.

Her own composure, however, was entirely feigned. Her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she picked up her food; her movements were precise but overly sharp. She swallowed without tasting anything, and finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, she broke it.

"Are you planning a diplomatic mission to the eastern lands?"

The words sounded mundane, almost casual, as if spoken in passing, but her heart struck hard against her ribs.

Jinshi snapped his gaze up to her, a flash of surprise crossing his features. "No. What made you think that?"

"Just this new physician," Maomao replied, chewing slowly. "It doesn't feel like his presence here is a coincidence."

He went quiet for a moment, then let out a faint sigh. "Yes, we have signed certain agreements regarding medical exchange. We require more qualified physicians," he explained in a level tone.

So he knew, Maomao realized coldly.

"A year-long apprenticeship, seriously?" The words escaped her lips before she could rein them in.

"What is so wrong with that?" Jinshi asked, tilting his head. "If you are worried about your father, I will assign people to him. They will ensure he eats properly and doesn't fall ill. Besides... you have traveled before."

With you, Maomao wanted to say. And suddenly, it hit her - she could no longer imagine embarking on a journey without him. Without his presence, without this strange, precarious balance between intimacy and prohibition.

"And what about your medical examinations?" she asked, her voice dropping lower. "Who will treat you if something happens...?"

"I will do my absolute best not to fall ill," Jinshi replied simply.

He spoke as if it were a trivial matter. As if her absence were a trivial matter, too.

"We can always recall you if something unexpected occurs," he added. "And in the worst-case scenario, I will consult your father. I know he is someone who can be fully trusted."

Maomao watched him in silence. The lamplight traced the familiar contours of his face, but tonight he seemed miles away, as though a thin, invisible wall had risen between them.

Why had he become so silent lately?

Why was he so ready, so perfectly calm, to let her go?

Maomao suddenly felt the winter chill from beyond the windows seep deep into her bones. She averted her gaze, clenching her fingers into the fabric over her knees. And for the first time in a very long time, it wasn't knowledge she hungered for, nor travel - but an answer he refused to speak aloud.

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Yao - and even the usually tightly-wound En'en - were positively glowing with excitement. The opportunity to study abroad felt to them like a stroke of divine luck, a dream they wouldn't have dared to utter aloud. They spoke in a rapid flurry, cutting each other off and spinning grand plans, as though the future were already reaching out to embrace them.

Maomao, however, was at a complete loss as to what she felt.

Her thoughts resembled murky water; everything seemed clear on the surface, but the moment she tried to look deeper, the bottom vanished. And so, she left. She sought out perhaps the only place where she never had to explain herself with words - where her feelings were understood even without her own consent.

That is, if one excluded Jinshi - who was currently, for some infuriating reason, proving to be utterly useless.

The room was warm and cramped. The air was thick with the scent of incense, sweet wine, and that familiar, comforting blend of perfume and cosmetics. It was always too loud here, too vibrant - but that was precisely what soothed her. The world within these walls was simpler. More honest.

"It really is a wonderful opportunity," Joka said, settling more comfortably into her seat and fixing Maomao with a keen look.

"But it's for an entire year," Maomao countered stubbornly, crossing her arms.

"So what?" Joka shrugged. "You’ve traveled before. Besides, you’ll be with your friends."

Maomao barely managed to suppress a glare. Was there some sort of secret conspiracy against?

"Oh, what's so hard to understand?" Pairin chimed in cheerfully, appearing at her side as if on cue. "She doesn't want her friends. She wants..."

"Keep your mouth shut," Maomao warned dryly.

"But am I wrong?" Pairin asked with a sly smile, tilting her head. "Isn't that exactly why you're here today? So we would talk you out of going?"

Maomao clicked her tongue in sheer irritation.

Yes, Pairin was too perceptive. And entirely too right.

Maomao couldn't find the right words for her own emotions. They were too complex, too fragile. But one thing she knew with absolute certainty: leaving him for such a long time felt... wrong. It felt like tearing something vital from her chest and leaving nothing but a hollow space behind.

Pairin suddenly burst into a light, genuine laugh.

"What do you find so amusing?" Maomao muttered, throwing a sharp glance her way.

"Just love," Pairin replied with a soft smile. "It's a beautiful thing. It shuts down the brain of absolutely anyone - even a prickly little creature like you. That poor boy."

"Save your pity for your own," Maomao grumbled.

"Mine is doing exceptionally well, as a matter of fact," Pairin said smoothly, her voice warm and confident. "I'm not shy about showing him how much I love him. And he..." She paused for a moment, as if savoring the words, "...has started visiting much more often. He even said that by next year, he might finally be able to buy out my contract."

"My word..." Maomao found herself smiling. This time, it was a sincere, gentle expression. She was truly happy for her sister, even though she knew perfectly well that Pairin never worked merely for the coin. "Where did all this confidence come from?"

"It's just that when a man loves you," Pairin said, her gaze drifting elsewhere as if she could see someone very important standing just out of sight, "he is willing to do absolutely anything. Even let his beloved go away to study, all for the sake of her future."

She shifted her gaze back to Maomao and added in a softer tone, "And you know... separation isn't always a bad thing."

Maomao nodded slowly. Deep down, something throbbed with a dull ache - but the edge of the pain had dulled.

She felt a profound gratitude toward Pairin. For her bluntness. For her faith. And for the exact words she had needed to hear. Maomao really let her feelings get the better of her mind.

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The month slipped away unnoticed - the way things always vanish once you grow accustomed to them too quickly. Talk of selecting the most worthy candidates was everywhere: in the corridors, behind folding screens, in the whispers of the maids, and in the overly loud sighs of those who already envisioned themselves across the sea. The topic became an obsession, as if the palace itself had resolved to live for nothing but this anticipation.

Maomao appeared in Jinshi’s chambers toward evening. The lamps were already lit, casting a warm glow over documents, silk screens, and the dark wood of the desk.

"Good evening, my lord," she greeted, bowing her head low.

"That remains to be seen," he replied, not looking up from his papers.

His voice was level, but cold. Suiren was just setting the table, arranging the dishes with that quiet precision that always masked her caution. Chue hovered nearby, helping with far too much enthusiasm; Maomao realized instantly that she simply didn't want to miss a single word.

"I have delivered the results of the medical trials to the Moon Prince," Chue chirped cheerfully. "And he is just a ti-i-ny bit upset that his most personal physician turned out to be... incompetent."

Maomao didn't flinch. She had expected this.

"Incompetent doesn't begin to cover it," Jinshi interjected sharply. "According to these results, she cannot tell the heart from the liver. Let alone hemlock from catnip."

He finally lifted his gaze.

"Maomao, are you aware that you make a rather... abysmal APOTHECARY?"

The words cut her. Not because they were insulting, but because they were deliberately spoken aloud. Jinshi hadn't addressed her like that in a long time.

"I was nervous," she answered, not even understanding why she bothered.

Lying made no sense. Everyone - even those she had competed against - knew that Maomao had blundered on purpose.

"Doctor Ryo was deeply disappointed," Jinshi added coldly.

"He'll survive," Maomao said curtly.

Silence hung over the room like a heavy shroud. Sensing the tension, Suiren gently intervened. "Why did you do it, Xiaomao?"

Maomao slowly straightened her posture. "I didn't want to go," she answered honestly.

"Why?" Jinshi pressed.

"I am perfectly fine here."

He rose from his desk abruptly. His chair scraped against the floor - the sound seemed jarringly loud in the quiet room.

"I invited that man specifically for you."

For the first time, a trace of anger surfaced in his voice - not his feigned, courtly irritation, but something raw and genuine.

"I never asked you to do that."

"But you were the one who used to complain that women couldn't become official doctors," he shot back. "What changed?"

Maomao clenched her hands inside her sleeves.

"People change," she said calmly. "Perhaps it is no longer the dream of my life."

"And what, pray tell, is your new dream?" Jinshi asked with cold curiosity.

Maomao lifted her head. For the first time all evening, she looked him dead in the eye.

"To serve as a field medic in the war against the barbarians in the northern lands," she said, each word crisp and clear. "Right where you intend to go..."

She paused, letting the silence stretch.

"...while I am supposed to be safely across the sea."

The air in the room turned to ice. Even the lamps seemed to burn in stunned silence.

Chapter Text

High supply prices. A mounting influx of wounded and exhausted soldiers. The abrupt reshuffling of command. Lakan’s constant, looming presence on the training grounds. Lihaku’s whispered promise. And the staggering, almost frantic stockpiling of medicinal stores. All it took was a little pressure on Lahan - or rather, a well-placed bribe - and he readily spilled everything he knew.

She should have pieced it together much sooner.

Maomao stood in the center of her room, feeling the fragments of the puzzle finally lock into place, forming a coherent and terrifyingly logical picture. But Pairin had been right - her mind hadn't been operating at full capacity lately. She was no longer hungry. She no longer woke with the crushing anxiety of whether her father would have enough to eat. Comfort and stability had taken root so deeply within her heart that they had dulled the sharp edge of her survival instincts.

And then, there was that foolish Doctor Ryo. Jinshi had known precisely how to distract her.

It was infuriating. And yet... it was maddeningly sweet.

"I cannot believe you intended to deceive me with such a cheap trick," Maomao said coldly.

"Believe me, the trick was anything but cheap," Jinshi replied. If only she knew the sheer number of hellish hoops he had been forced to jump through just to negotiate the terms between two foreign nations and arrange everything so it appeared entirely natural.

He braced his hands against the desk and rubbed his temples - the universal gesture of a man whose illusion had just fallen flat. In the lamplight, his face looked far more exhausted than usual.

"When exactly were you planning to tell me about the war?" Maomao shot back, her tone laced with indignation.

The moment it ends, obviously, the thought flashed through his mind, but Jinshi bit his tongue. Saying that now would only pour oil onto the fire.

"Maomao, with all due respect," he said, keeping his voice level, "what do you have to do with military maneuvers? Why do you even require this information?"

Suiren let out a displeased sigh. Chue quietly set her plate aside.

Everyone in the room understood: the conversation had just crossed the line past which no safe words remained.

"Are you mocking me?!" Maomao’s voice finally broke through her restraint. "Then why did I have to accompany you to the hunting grounds in the North? Why did I have to handle the political schemes of the Western Capital? Why did I have to deal with your countless suitors who constantly needed saving?"

Jinshi spoke even softer, his tone turning dangerously flat - an ominous sign.

"You always provided exceptional professional assistance," he said. "That is why."

He understood perfectly what she meant, but he deliberately chose to answer her literally. A dirty tactic. And Maomao couldn't even blame him too harshly for it; usually, she operated the exact same way.

"Right now, we do not require that sort of assistance. You are contributing to the stockpiling of medicine. That is a grand undertaking. Thank you."

"When does the campaign begin?" Maomao asked, her voice dropping as she forced herself to calm down.

"At the beginning of spring."

"Are you truly planning to lead the army yourself?"

"I see no other man whom I could entrust with this operation."

The words fell heavily, like stones.

"I want to work in the field hospital," Maomao stated clearly.

"That is entirely out of the question," Jinshi cut her off. "Maomao, you are staying in the capital."

"And what about your..." She caught herself, throwing a brief glance toward Chue. "...Who will treat you if you are wounded?"

"Doctor Liu will serve as my personal doctor," Jinshi replied. "I believe he can be fully trusted."

"They will be taking volunteers," Maomao countered. "And I will enlist."

"Your name will be blacklisted."

"I will use a pseudonym."

Jinshi sank back into his chair, utterly spent.

"Maomao..." His voice finally fractured, losing its cold composure. "You are a walking disaster. You somehow manage to witness crimes or become a victim of a kidnapping out of thin air. Do you truly expect the esteemed Strategist and me to spend the entire campaign doing nothing but guarding you?"

Maomao remained silent.

The rational part of her brain understood that he was right. But the other part - the one currently winning the internal war - refused to back down.

A faint, weary smile touched Jinshi’s lips. He could see she had no retort left.

"What is so funny?" Maomao snapped.

"I just imagined wrapping you up tightly, tying a pretty ribbon around you, and smuggling you off to the eastern lands," he said shamelessly. "It would be so convenient. And so peaceful."

"I would jump into the sea."

"You are a terrible swimmer," Jinshi reminded her.

"Then I would drown. And it would be your fault. You would feel horrible."

His expression softened, turning almost paternal.

Maomao despised him like this. Mature. All-knowing. The kind of man who could neither be persuaded nor rattled.

"Maomao," he asked softly, "do you truly want to test which of us is more stubborn?" He offered a ghost of a smile. "I believe you already know that I am a worthy opponent."

Yes. She knew that. Perhaps better than anyone else.

"In that case," Maomao said, "I will just have to remind you of exactly how dangerous an opponent I can be."

She turned sharply on her heel.

Without a single word of farewell, she marched out the door - leaving nothing but silence in her wake.

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The door slammed shut behind Maomao with a sharp, echoing crack - a dry, borderline insulting sound. A dense silence hung in the room, thick as stagnant smoke.

Chue was the first to read the room. Tensing as if she had caught the scent of an impending storm, she bowed quickly and vanished behind the screen without a single word. She was far too clever to remain where the emotional dams were about to burst.

Jinshi stared at the door for several long moments. He did not move. Only his fingers slowly gripped the edge of his desk, clamping down so hard his knuckles turned stark white. His face remained calm - entirely too calm - and Suiren knew that this was the most dangerous sign of all.

"Clear the table," he said finally, his voice hollow. "I am not hungry."

Suiren nodded silently. She did not rush. Her movements were slow, deliberate, and inherently soothing - the very same way she used to tend to nursery beds long ago, back when fear could still be lulled to sleep.

She cleared the dishes, stacked the utensils, and wiped down the wood.

Jinshi never looked at her. His gaze remained anchored to the empty space where Maomao had stood just moments before.

Poor boy, Suiren thought suddenly. A boy who has been forbidden from showing weakness his entire life.

He had always been restrained. Courteous. Measured down to his very breath. And yet, with only one person - with Maomao - he allowed himself to be real. Sharp. Vulnerable. Alive.

But now, he couldn't. Because he was too terrified of losing her.

"Young Master," Suiren spoke up, her back still turned to him. "Tell me... why were you so harsh with Xiaomao?"

His shoulders tensed instantly.

"She is reckless," Jinshi spat, the words biting. "And entirely capable of doing something incredibly foolish."

Suiren turned to face him with agonizing slowness. Her gaze was soft yet piercing, the kind that brooked no retreat behind titles or status.

"And has it not crossed your mind," she asked quietly, "that she might say the exact same thing about you?"

Jinshi snapped his head up, a flash of pure irritation igniting in his eyes.

"She is worried," Suiren pressed on. "And you are treating her with far too much coldness."

"I am not a kettle," he snapped, cutting her off. "I have no obligation to be hot or cold."

Suiren merely let out a long, weathered sigh.

"You know as well as I do," she said evenly, "that she possesses certain leverage. The kind that even you cannot argue against."

For a heartbeat, the room grew even quieter.

"Maomao would never use that leverage," Jinshi said, his voice dropping into a hard, unyielding register.

He rose from the desk, his posture shifting back into an immaculate, flawless stance - like armor donned in a desperate hurry.

"I am retiring for the night."

He walked out without looking back.

Left alone, Suiren looked down at the now-barren table and slowly shook her head.

Children... So much stubbornness, and so little patience.

And somewhere between the two of them lay a war - one they were both bound to lose if they did not learn to speak to one another before time ran out.

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?