“The bride is an imposter!” Nie Wanqiu shrieked, her voice echoing shrilly toward the open courtyard, cutting through the frosty air. The guards froze, their gazes flicking nervously between the commander, his new wife, and the hysterical woman. This was exactly what the spies lurking at the gates needed to hear. Gu Beiyuan, still holding Chuyin in his lap, did not move. His expression, usually a mask of detached authority, now held a chilling stillness. A single, almost imperceptible shift of his weight was all it took. One of the Beiyuan guards, a man with the scarred face of a seasoned veteran, moved with the swiftness of a hunting panther. He caught Wanqiu by the back of her neck, striking a pressure point that left her gasping, eyes bulging, but unable to produce a sound. He dragged her, limp and sputtering, away from the doorway. Chuyin felt the tension in Beiyuan’s large frame, a coiled readiness for violence that made the air crackle. She watched Wanqiu disappear, then looked up at Beiyuan. His eyes, the color of winter ice, held hers. There was no panic, only a predatory calculation. “An inconvenient truth,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear. “Easily spun into a desperate lie.” “A lie that invites an Imperial inquiry if not handled properly,” Chuyin replied, her tone dry. “The Censorate delights in such spectacles. And your ‘paralysis’ has only sharpened their appetite.” Beiyuan’s lips quirked, a flicker of dark amusement. “Then we give them a spectacle. A show of unity. A public declaration that silences all whispers.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over her face. “You will play the doting wife. I will play the newly recovered, devoted husband. The fortress will host a banquet. Immediately.” Chuyin considered this. A banquet, hastily arranged, would broadcast strength and dismiss Wanqiu’s cries as the ravings of a spurned woman. It was a risky gamble, but a direct, brutal approach was often the most effective. “And Nie Wanqiu?” “Our honored guest,” Beiyuan said, a chilling emphasis on the word. “She will be present. And she will witness the futility of her efforts.” *** The Grand Hall of the estate shimmered with an unnatural warmth. Crimson silks draped from the massive timber beams, and lanterns carved from jade glowed with a soft, inviting light. A hastily assembled feast lay across tables laden with roasted meats, steamed river fish, and winter fruits. The air, however, was taut. Every laugh seemed a fraction too loud, every clink of porcelain too sharp. High-ranking tribunal delegates, identifiable by their somber indigo robes and guarded expressions, mingled with Beiyuan’s own officers, a taut stillness humming between the two factions. Nie Chuyin, draped in silken robes embroidered with silver frost-lotus blooms, moved through the hall with an effortless grace that belied her inner vigilance. She offered polite courtesies, her smile a thin, impenetrable veil. Beside her, Gu Beiyuan, still seated in his heavy, darkwood wheelchair, exuded an aura of calm, formidable power. He seemed entirely at ease, sipping a spiced wine, his gaze sharp, missing nothing. The sight of him, upright and aware, rather than the comatose invalid they had expected, had already unnerved the Imperial delegation. Across the hall, forced into a pristine, pale green gown that did nothing to hide the resentful slump of her shoulders, Nie Wanqiu stood stiffly beside one of the visiting delegates. Her eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, darted constantly towards Chuyin, brimming with a venomous mix of fear and hatred. She had been given the opportunity to ‘redeem’ herself, the envoys had told her, if she offered irrefutable proof of Chuyin’s deception. Chuyin watched as Wanqiu’s handler, a stern-faced official named Feng, accepted a small, polished jet disc from her. The artifact, known as a Blood-Scent Stone, was a relic from ancient alchemical sects, designed to verify kinship through trace botanical meridians. It would glow with a pure, white light if the blood matched the expected pedigree, and flicker erratically if it did not. Wanqiu held it with trembling hands, frantic hope in her eyes. “My Lords,” Wanqiu’s voice, though shaky, carried through the hushed hall. “This imposter claims to be my trueborn sister. But the Nie bloodline… it is unique. I possess proof. A Blood-Scent Stone. It will reveal her true origins.” The air thickened. All eyes turned to Chuyin. Feng approached, holding the dark disc. “Lady Nie Chuyin,” he stated, his voice devoid of emotion. “For the sake of clarity, and to dispel these… unfortunate accusations, would you consent to this simple test?” Chuyin offered a serene smile. “Of course, Sir Feng. My bloodline is beyond reproach.” She extended a hand, palm up. As Feng reached to prick her fingertip, her sleeve subtly brushed the dark disc. Within that fraction of an instant, her thumb, hidden by silk, traced a barely visible sigil on the stone’s surface—a pattern of minute depressions that inverted its botanical energy flow. The original creator of the Blood-Scent Stone, the Great Alchemist Jin Li, had designed it with a concealed polarity reversal, a protective measure against forced use. Chuyin, in her past life as Ren Muxue, had been the only one to ever decipher Jin Li’s true intent. “Allow me,” Wanqiu interjected, voice sharp with eagerness. She snatched the delicate silver needle from Feng and lunged for Chuyin’s hand. Chuyin did not flinch, allowing the needle to prick her fingertip. A single pearl of blood welled up. Wanqiu then placed the disc onto Chuyin’s palm, waiting for the tell-tale erratic flicker. Nothing happened. The jet stone remained inert. A murmur swept through the hall. Wanqiu’s face contorted in disbelief. “No! It… it must be broken! Or perhaps… she used some foul trickery!” She glared at Chuyin, then snatched the stone herself. “Allow me! The Nie blood runs pure in *my* veins! My blood will prove its efficacy!” With frantic haste, she pricked her own finger, squeezing a drop onto the disc. The stone, its channels reversed by the pressure sigil Chuyin had activated, reacted violently. Instead of a clear glow, the stone pulsed with a sickly, dark crimson. A faint sizzle emanated from its surface, and Nie Wanqiu cried out, snatching her hand back. Her blood, where it had touched the stone, began to froth, turning a disturbing, bubbling black. A stench like burnt iron filled the air, and Wanqiu’s complexion turned ashen, her body trembling uncontrollably as if gripped by a sudden, intense fever. She swayed, her eyes rolling back into her head, before collapsing in a heap onto the polished floor. The hall fell into a breathless hush. The tribunal monitors exchanged horrified glances, faces pale. Not only had Wanqiu failed to expose Chuyin, but her own attempt had resulted in a public, humiliating display of a tainted, almost poisoned, reaction from the revered artifact. The implication was clear: Nie Wanqiu, not Chuyin, was the one with the doubtful ancestry, or worse, corrupted meridians. It was then, with a soft rasp of wood against stone, that Gu Beiyuan pushed himself up from his wheelchair. Every eye in the hall snapped to him. He stood tall, a formidable figure whose presence instantly dwarfed every other person in the room. His broad shoulders filled the space, the subtle ripple of pure qi radiating outward like heat from a kiln. His gaze swept over the tribunal delegates, each man flinching as the commander's eyes raked past. A suffocating stillness descended over the hall. “This woman,” Beiyuan’s voice boomed, clear and resonant, cutting through the quiet, “is Nie Chuyin. She is the legitimate bride of Beiyuan, and my one true wife. Her blood is as pure as winter snow, her loyalty as unyielding as the mountains. Any who dare dispute her standing or her ancestry challenge the authority of this fortress itself.” His hand reached out, gently taking Chuyin’s and drawing her closer to his side. His thumb brushed over her wrist, a possessive gesture that left no room for doubt. His eyes, sharp as drawn iron, locked onto Feng. “Do I make myself clear, Sir Feng?” Feng, face ashen, bowed deeply, sweat trickling down his temple. “Perfectly clear, General Gu. There appears to have been a grave misunderstanding. We shall relay your assurances to our superiors immediately.” The delegates, their previous arrogance shattered, retreated in haste, keeping their heads lowered. Later that night, in the quiet solitude of the Commander’s private study, a crackling hearth cast dancing shadows across the room. Chuyin, still unnerved by Beiyuan’s public display, confronted him. “That was a dangerous gamble, Beiyuan. Standing up, revealing your recovery… you exposed a crucial advantage.” Beiyuan, seated behind his large, lacquered desk, merely regarded her with an unreadable expression. “Necessary. To fully silence them. They will not dare question you again. My position is now unassailable.” He took a slow sip of tea, then set the cup down with a soft clink. “But your problem, Ren Muxue, runs deeper than a few nosy Censorate dogs.” Chuyin’s facade wavered. “What are you talking about?” “The throne's decree issued after your demise,” he began, his voice low, deliberate. “Your original body was not merely declared dead. It was branded a traitor. Convicted, posthumously, of colluding with Northern nomads to destabilize the Jiyuan Empire, and of concocting lethal poisons intended for the royal court. Your name has been struck from every archive, your estate razed, your family’s remaining assets confiscated.” He leaned forward. “The moment you step outside this estate as Ren Muxue, you will face execution for high treason. There is no freedom for you out there. Not anymore.” A cold dread bloomed in Chuyin’s chest, turning her earlier sense of triumph to ash. She could not simply escape. Her previous life was a cage, one she hadn’t even known existed. The only path forward was through him. She stared at him, her mind racing, the full terrifying implications settling upon her. Beiyuan watched her, a faint, possessive smirk playing on his lips. “So, Grand Apothecary. It seems you are truly mine now.” Before Chuyin could formulate a retort, a sudden, guttural cough tore through Beiyuan’s chest. He clutched at his throat, his body arching forward. His pupils shrank to pinpricks, agony flashing in their depths. A dark, viscous sludge, thick as pitch, erupted from his mouth and splattered across the lacquered desk. It was black blood. His strong form convulsed, and he collapsed, sliding from his chair with a heavy thud onto the floor.

The Baneful Banquet