The next stop was Qiyan City.

Its castle rose on a high escarpment, a cliff hooked like an eagle’s beak, with tangled rock below like a broken chessboard. Easy to hold, brutal to storm—hence the name.

Since its founding, no one bothered to besiege it. In every warlord’s eyes, it was a bone too tough to chew, a rock you don’t waste picks on.

During the founding war, the rebels skipped it and ran straight for the royal capital. By the time its lord woke, Brunkia had already fallen.

So Qiyan lost no soldiers and won no laurels, a lucky drift of leaves and a blush of shame.

You ask what came after? They surrendered, of course. Same country, different crown—an emperor is an emperor, rain or shine.

Lingcai’s party docked at this very city, its face wearing a Buddhist shrug, a “let it be” written across stone.

They’d burned time on the road. Kelor wouldn’t linger. She wouldn’t visit the city lord; she booked an inn on the outer ring, quick as a sparrow.

The innkeeper had never seen a scene like this. Armored cavalry led snorting horses into her yard; her knees turned to jelly, like wax in summer.

“Don’t be scared.” Kelor patted the landlady’s shoulder, her tone warm as tea by the hearth. “We’re decent. We pay. Just do what you always do.”

“Landlady, a reminder.” Xueyu stood beside Kelor, hands resting on her sword, frost in her eyes. “Don’t look where you shouldn’t. Don’t talk when you shouldn’t.”

“If you slip,” she added, voice like a blade laid on silk, “you know the ending.”

Kelor shot Xueyu a glare, then soothed the trembling woman again, voice like a soft lantern in rain. “You don’t need anything special. Just the usual service.”

“The deposit’s paid. Our knights keep to their code. They won’t harm civilians, not even a feather.”

Xueyu’s face stayed dark as a stormfront. “We keep the code. We fear you won’t. Understood?”

Seeing the landlady shrink under Xueyu’s words, Kelor fanned her hands, her calm a gentle breeze. “She always talks like that. She only scares with words.”

“She won’t lay hands on common folk.”

Xueyu snorted, a cold wind through bamboo. “Sure. As long as you only do what common folk should.”

Smack.

Kelor slapped the doorframe, breath pulled tight like a bowstring. “Xueyu, are you picking a fight with me today?”

Xueyu stood straight, sword planted like a marker stone. “No, Your Highness. I’m thinking of your safety.”

Kelor forced half her fire back down, coals under ash. “Then what’s with that attitude?”

“In my view,” Xueyu said, steady as rain on tile, “stating consequences is part of negotiation.”

“Can’t expect ivory out of a dog’s mouth!”

Kelor stepped in and snapped a kick at Xueyu, her temper a brushfire.

This wasn’t without cause. A figure like Her Highness resting outside a castle was tinder in the wind; one leak, and knives would flock like crows.

An inn like this—one spark, and half the place would turn to ash.

So at times like this, Xueyu doubled her vigilance, eyes drawn like a bow, spirit burning at two hundred percent.

As for her attitude—yes, she was picking a fight.

On the road to Qiyan, she and Kelor had clashed over the long delay in Sata City. She played it straight, but she sulked hard, a winter shadow.

Especially the line where Kelor told Lingcai to drive the carriage into her—Xueyu chewed that thorn for days.

She’d followed Kelor for years, yet an outsider got the soft words. Feelings, like tea left out, had gone cold.

She was mad—truly mad, a summer storm over slate.

Today, she meant to go all in. Like a dead pig in boiling water, she wouldn’t flinch, even if you swung for her head.

“Ah, so now you strike me by striking someone else.” Kelor narrowed her eyes, seeing through the mountain to the cow. “You’re not warning the landlady.”

“You’re needling me.”

Xueyu didn’t rush. Her reply was slow as dusk. “I wouldn’t dare. I’m following regulations.”

Kelor’s anger blew hot. “Bullying civilians to feel big—does that make you shine?”

“I wouldn’t dare. If you’re not satisfied, I’ll change.”

Her calm, like stone under rain, set a sharp contrast to Kelor’s smoking fuse.

The landlady stood in the yard, head bowed, hands twisting like vines, afraid to speak.

Kelor clenched her fist, then forced a friendly smile, smooth as lacquer. “You can go back.”

“After I teach this rude subordinate, I’ll make her apologize.”

The landlady blinked, then bobbed a frantic nod and backed toward the door like a startled deer.

“Don’t go.” Xueyu’s face stayed iron. “We still need to brief you. And question you.”

Smack.

Kelor erupted. “Xueyu! Planning to rebel?”

Xueyu stood ramrod straight, sword braced like a pillar, voice even. “I wouldn’t dare. If I’ve failed my duty, punish me.”

“Oh, I can punish you.” Kelor snapped at the nearest knights, heat shimmering off her words. “I’ll cut you today! Sword!”

The knights hesitated, stone statues under sun. Kelor grabbed a random one, ripped her sword free, drew with a hiss, tossed the scabbard hard.

She swung at Xueyu.

When Kelor’s blade fell bright as lightning, Xueyu slipped aside by reflex. Clang rang out as steel bit the stone mill.

Sparks leaped like fireflies, and the edge rolled ugly.

The knight whose sword was seized winced, heart squeezing like a bruised peach.

Xueyu jolted, voice pitching high. “You really swung?!”

Kelor lifted the nicked blade again, fire in her eyes. “Not just swing! I’ll kill you today!”

“And you still dare posture—”

Before it boiled over, Lingcai and Scarlet Leaf moved like water. They seized the women’s arms and pulled them apart to opposite sides of the yard.

“Enough, enough. Breathe. Calm down. It’s not worth blood over a pebble.”

The surrounding knights didn’t move, faces dull as old walls. They’d seen this. It wasn’t the first. It wouldn’t be the last.

“Cool your fire. No need to spill lives over this.”

Lingcai drew Kelor aside, patting her shoulder like brushing dust off silk, voice low and steady.

Kelor hadn’t meant to truly cut Xueyu, but her words were already out, and pride was a stubborn horse. Lingcai offered a step down.

Kelor took it, tossing the sword to the ground with a thud. “Fine. For you, we stop here. We’ll settle this later.”

Xueyu rolled her eyes, contempt naked as frost. She spilled the truth, raw and bitter. “Your little secrets—you tell Lingcai, not me.”

“Whatever I say, you shout. You even told Lingcai to hit me with the carriage.”

“I’ve been with you since we were kids. How many kind faces have you shown me?”

At that peak of feeling, she tore off her belt with the hanging sword, metal and leather heavy as a fallen branch, and slammed it to the ground.

“You never cared about me anyway! I’ll go, alright?! I quit!”