Scarlet Leaf agreed to Lingcai’s request and followed her into the palace, its jade eaves glinting like calm water under a pale dawn.

Xueyu ushered them in, moving like rain slipping through bamboo leaves.

It was the palace, stern as winter stone, so weapons couldn’t pass; Scarlet Leaf left the Crimson Cherry Blossom Blade at the inn like a sleeping ember.

Tracing the cannon barrel’s origin was state business, heavy as thunderheads, so Princess Korol put down her work even in a frantic handover to see it herself.

After thirteen chapters away, Her Highness returned looking worn—eyes veined red like riverweed and dark circles pooled like ink at the rims.

Even so, hearing Lingcai had a way, Korol waited in the courtyard at first light, dozing on her feet like a crane, snapping awake only when Scarlet Leaf arrived.

“You’re here? Then let’s just look,” she said, cutting the ribbons of ritual like a blade through silk. “Spare me the frills.”

Korol yawned long, arms rising like a cat stretching in sun; the last few days had hit her like rolling sand.

If this could be solved, solve it; if not, toss it and find another road. Her mood was ash-dry; polite words felt like empty shells.

Under everyone’s gaze, Lingcai dragged the metal cannon barrel from a shadowed corner into the center, iron scraping like a crow’s cry on stone.

She hauled it to Scarlet Leaf, clapped her rust-smeared hands, and let out a breath like steam.

“Leaf, this is the barrel. See if anything’s off,” she said, eyes bright like flint. “Best case, tell us where it was made.”

Scarlet Leaf studied it a moment, her brow clouding like a sudden squall.

“A’cai… I can’t read this thing,” she said, the words dropping like wet sand.

Lingcai’s heart sank halfway, like a kite losing wind. “It’s all steel, isn’t it? How can you not? You said you could!”

Scarlet Leaf’s voice turned helpless, a willow bending in rain. “You told me steel. I thought rebar, rods, ingots… You didn’t say it’d be a whole cannon.”

She was right. With bars, rods, ingots, molds differ across regions like dialects in mountains, and Scarlet Leaf could trace those grooves back home.

She hadn’t expected Lingcai to plunk an iron cannon down like a stubborn ox, and the sight tied her hands.

Lingcai hadn’t expected it either, but she’d boasted to Her Highness, and now she could only smile wryly like frost over wine. “Just look. Say whatever comes. A dead horse still might gallop.”

“Then kiss me,” Scarlet Leaf murmured, mischief blooming like plum blossoms in snow. “Kiss me, and I’ll tell you.”

She closed one eye and tapped her lip, a playful fan flick.

Lingcai flushed crimson, heat rising like sunset on stone, and glanced around in panic. “Leaf! Don’t. Everyone’s watching!”

“Nope,” Scarlet Leaf puffed, sulking like a small storm. “If you won’t, your heart’s gone astray. Hmph.”

Korol and Xueyu just stood there, faces flat as ink slabs, lines of exasperation sinking like brushstrokes.

Xueyu spoke first, voice dry as winter reeds. “Can you save the flirting for home? Broad daylight’s one thing, but you really don’t treat Her Highness and me as outsiders, huh?”

Korol rubbed her aching eyes, her words bristling like a cactus. “It’s fine. Before marriage, love looks like fireworks; after, I doubt you two will laugh at all.”

That barb lodged in Lingcai’s chest like a thorn. She sighed. “Your Highness, that sounds like a curse.”

Xueyu added, offhanded as a drifting leaf, “Marriage is the grave of love. The ancients wrote it first.”

“Then may you find love’s coffin lid soon,” Lingcai shot back, her tone cool as moonlight.

Scarlet Leaf picked up a fist-sized stone from the flowerbed, tapped the barrel twice—ting-ting—then tilted her ear, listening like a hunter to wind in reeds.

A thought flickered. She measured the wall thickness with her hand, palm sliding like a crane’s beak along ice.

Then she hefted the whole barrel and dropped it to the ground like a falling millstone.

Thud.

The sound was dull as packed earth. The barrel didn’t warp much—just a small dent blooming like a bruise.

“What trash,” Scarlet Leaf said, face twisted like bitter tea. “This thing’s shoddy, too shoddy.”

Before Lingcai could speak, Korol stepped in, voice cutting clean like a spearpoint. “How’d you read that? What exactly is wrong?”

Scarlet Leaf answered with certainty, steady as a mountain bell. “The raw stock is poor. High-phosphorus and high-sulfur ore or coal make iron brittle—like glass under a hammer. Fine parts will fail; a cannon will burst its own heart. The makers probably knew and thickened the outer wall beyond spec. It’ll last a few shots at best. It’s a throwaway.”

“So if we thicken more, it matches a standard cannon?” Korol folded her arms, her brow knotting like twisted rope.

Lingcai bent to check again and saw the wall truly thicker than usual, yet she hadn’t linked it to weak toughness forcing a clumsy fix.

She rose, dusting her hands like snow off sleeves, and answered Korol. “That’s the idea. But thicken more, and soldiers can’t lift it. A weapon for one becomes a burden for two, and your force bleeds away.”

Korol exhaled hard, breath like wind pressed through bamboo. She pinched her temples and paced the courtyard, thoughts lining up like ranks.

“First,” she said, fingers counting like beads, “the makers knew the flaw and thickened the barrel. So the mastermind knows ordnance like a seasoned smith.”

“Second, they used cheap stock. If they had good ore, they wouldn’t haul rubbish; they were forced to use poor iron and coal. Maybe to hide intent, maybe because it’s cheap and abundant—perhaps near lean iron deposits…”

“Third—”

Her eyes sparked, an idea snapping like lightning, and she bolted for the gate with skirts flying like a flock of swallows. “I’m going to find Xia. I think I’ve got it. Xiao Xue, you handle the rest.”

“Uh—huh? The rest of what…?” Xueyu blinked like a startled deer but nodded anyway.

Seeing Korol rush off like a sudden gust, Scarlet Leaf leaned to Lingcai, pride chiming like a silver bell. “Impressed? Praise me.”

“Alright, alright, praise,” Lingcai said, patting the wind. “Leaf is great. Leaf is the greatest.”

“So the money?” Scarlet Leaf whispered at Lingcai’s ear, voice sly as a cat. “They won’t stiff us, right?”

Of course she remembered.

“The one with gold isn’t her,” Lingcai muttered, glancing at the doorway like a thief. Only when Korol was gone did she grumble. “You don’t know. She’s a pain—short-tempered and stingy. Princess Sia pays with both hands. We’ll ask later. Easy money.”

“Hey—watch it,” Xueyu glared, then slid toward the door, voice dropping like a reed flute. “You really think Her Highness’s ears are dull when you badmouth her that loud?”

Lingcai waved it off, casual as drifting smoke. “She’s gone. Why sneak? I could call her a stunted flat-board princess and she wouldn’t hear—”

From deep in the palace, Korol’s voice rolled back, drawn long and hot as thunder: “I—can—hear—you—!”

Crap.

Lingcai froze, clapped a hand over her mouth, and waited for the echo to fade like rain off tile. Then she hissed again, small but sharp. “She never hears praise, but insults land like arrows. With that petty heart, karma’s coming.”

From afar, Korol’s shout cracked the air once more, as clear as winter stars: “I—still—hear—you!”