“If you ask me… it’s a storm in a teacup… is it worth all this?”

Lingcai said it to Xueyu, her voice falling like cool rain off the eaves.

After Xueyu and Kelor blew up, she tossed the job aside like a lantern snuffed mid‑festival.

People blocked her again and again, herding her like a skittish goat into a side room to cool like tea set off the boil.

When Lingcai finally stepped in to check, shock hit her like opening a door onto winter.

Xueyu had let her hair down, a dark waterfall spilling like midnight over her shoulders.

She wore white burial robes, pale as frost on river stones.

A white headband cinched her brow, thin as a strip of moonlight.

She slouched against the bed, sulking and chewing an apple like a fox with nothing to hunt.

“Come on… why put yourself through this…” Lingcai rubbed her temple, her hand circling like a tired moth at a lamp.

“Couldn’t you just hold it in and let it pass, like a cloud across the moon?”

Xueyu bit the apple halfway, then tossed it behind her like a pebble skipped into a pond.

“Hold in what? It’s been years like this. I’m done serving,” she said, her anger rising like steam under a tight lid.

Lingcai glanced at the rectangular thing by the door and shook her head like a willow in wind.

“You can’t do it like this,” she said, voice thin as reed-flute breath.

That rectangular “thing” at the door was a coffin with its lid off, sitting like a black boat at the dock.

Who knew where she’d gotten it, like driftwood washing up after a storm.

Most likely she’d had her people haul it in, like porters moving a stubborn trunk.

“She never cared about me anyway. Living or dead, I’m the same to her,” Xueyu muttered, the words dull as rain on slate.

Bitter heat pushed first, then she stood in that white shroud like a ghost rising from morning mist.

She opened the door, stepped both feet into the coffin like boarding a cold skiff, and lay down as straight as a ruler laid on snow.

While lying down, she still rattled on like a sparrow scolding from a branch.

“I’m warning you, Lingcai, don’t stop me. If she wants to kill me or slice me later, just toss me in and bury me, clean as a winter grave.”

“Or she can grant me poison, and I’ll drink it like bitter tea. Or toss me a rope; a clean cut of fate is fine.”

“Either way, I won’t serve her anymore. Whoever loves serving her can serve, like geese lining up to cross a lake.”

Lingcai’s head throbbed, the ache pulsing like a drum under cloth.

“I’m not even stopping you… but you can’t die in someone else’s yard like a fallen branch. Come out,” she said, her plea soft as fog.

Xueyu lay stiff in the coffin, eyes bulging like brass bells on a temple gate.

“Not coming out,” she said, stubborn as a stone in a stream.

“What’s going on, Lingcai?” Scarlet Leaf heard the ruckus rise like cicadas at noon and set down her half-packed bundle like a cloud dropping rain.

She stepped out and saw Lingcai by the coffin, wearing helplessness like a thin cloak in wind.

Lingcai spread her hands like a sparrow with empty claws. “Leaf, you’re just in time. Talk some sense into her.”

“What can you call it when a healthy person insists on lying in a coffin, like a fish jumping into a basket?”

Xueyu lay ramrod straight, but her tongue still flew like a gust through dry leaves.

“She really means to kill me this time. Hurry up and finish me, then bury me somewhere quiet like a stone under moss.”

“Then she’ll never have to see me again, clean and fast like a blade through silk.”

Scarlet Leaf thought a moment, her brow furrowing like ripples spreading on a pond.

“In the end, she’s a princess. She needs face like a tree needs bark,” she said, words careful as stepping stones in rain.

“If you don’t give her a way down, won’t she go at you like a hornet from a shaken nest?”

“Her face is face, and mine isn’t?” Xueyu shot up from the coffin like a startled carp breaking the surface.

Her eyes burned like twin coals, and her snort cut the air like a cold wind.

“She calls me over time and again like a bell on a short rope, and I always have to give ground like a shoreline in tide.”

“That’s bullying the patient, isn’t it? Do the quiet ones deserve to be pushed, like grass under boots?”

She flopped back down as she had been, stiff as a board laid on frost.

“She can be sweet to outsiders, a couple of soft words like warm sun through leaves, but to me it’s always one tone, hard as iron.”

“What kind of person is that? I won’t speak to her this life, nor the next, like doors barred in two worlds.”

“She’s probably in her room writing an edict now, like a scribe carving on bamboo. The death decree will be here soon. Watch,” she said, her voice flat as ash.

“Don’t lock horns with her like rams on a cliff…” Lingcai sighed, the breath thin as winter smoke.

Right then, from Kelor’s room came an elf guard with light brown hair, her stride straight as an arrow on string.

Two attendants followed behind her like ducks in a row, and the guard held a white scroll, bright as bone.

“See?” Xueyu huffed, lying straighter than a spear on a rack. “The death grant has arrived, neat as thunder after lightning.”

The light-brown elf guard stopped by Xueyu, face pinched like a paper mask, and unrolled the scroll like a banner in wind.

“Lady Xueyu, these are Her Highness’s exact words,” she read, her tone dry as sand.

‘Since you already brought your own coffin, for old times’ sake I’ll send you a lid. Put it on early and bury yourself, so you don’t sit up later and disgrace us.’ So decreed.”

Then the guard flicked her eyes back like a heron signaling, and the two attendants brought up a ready coffin lid, flat as a winter lake.

They set it on, but the moment it touched, Xueyu exploded up like a jack-in-the-box.

“What are you doing? Rebellion? Let’s see who dares put that on. If anyone does, bring her here to do it herself! Mmmph—”

The attendants shoved her back before she finished, hands flapping like startled sparrows, and slapped the lid shut in a clatter like hail on shingles.

The elf guard produced a hammer and nails as if from thin air, iron glinting like cold stars, and set them on the lid to start nailing.

“Lady Xueyu, dodge the nail, dodge like in a hailstorm,” she said, voice steady as a metronome.

“Once you go, we won’t meet again, like rivers that fork and never rejoin.”

“Don’t say we’re heartless. It’s the princess’s order, heavy as a mountain.”

Thunk!

The sound bit into the wood like a beetle burrowing into bark, and Xueyu’s heart lurched like a deer startled in brush.

“Don’t nail! Try one more and see! Xiao Ye! I’m warning you!”

“If I get out… you dare nail again!” she shouted, her palms drumming the lid like rain beating on a drum.

Outside, the elf guard worked unhurried, rhythm steady as tide.

“Lady Xueyu, dodge the nail, dodge like swallows on the wing. If you really regret it, why not admit fault?”

“A smart hero doesn’t take the loss right in front of him, like a sailor who tacks before the squall.”

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

The nails went in one after another, like pebbles dropping down a well, and still Xueyu wouldn’t yield an inch, stiff as a pine in snow.

“I won’t admit it! I’m not wrong!” she yelled, heat flaring like sparks off a grindstone.

“If she really buries me alive today, she can count herself bold, like a tiger that dares leave the cave!”

She pounded the lid a while longer, her blows dull as fists on packed earth.

Soon, from outside came the guards’ send-off, toneless as wooden fish in a temple.

“Lady Xueyu—travel well on your way,” they cried, voices rising like reeds in wind.

“Lady Xueyu—you died so miserably,” they wailed, flat as painted tears on a mask.

“Lady Xueyu—we’ll remember you forever,” they intoned, hollow as a cave echo.

“Quit yelling! Keep yelling and I’ll get out and sort you one by one,” Xueyu howled, trying to kick, her legs cramped like crabs in a jar.

The elf guard kept the same pace, her words smooth as oiled hinges.

“Lady Xueyu, we’ve got no choice. Her Highness told us to cry for you, to send you off lively as a market in spring.”

“If anyone won’t cry, we bury them with you, neat as tying two reeds together. Lady Xueyu—safe travels,” she droned, tears dry as dust.

After a few more hollow wails, she turned to Lingcai and Scarlet Leaf, her face blank as a blank scroll.

“Since you’re here, why not weep a few lines and add to the mood?” she asked, mild as a breeze.

Lingcai waved fast, hands fluttering like sparrow wings. “No, no! You keep crying!”

“We’ve got things to do! We’re going out to play, like leaves riding a stream!”

“Oh, right. Crying alone won’t cut it. Get a small copper gong, blow and beat it till it’s lively, like firecrackers at New Year.”

“Leaf! Let’s go, let’s go… move!”

In the coffin, Xueyu wailed, her voice echoing like wind in a jar. “Lingcai! Don’t go! Come back!”

Lingcai didn’t want to wade deeper into this muck, her reluctance thick as mud on boots.

But Xueyu called, and she trudged back, palm patting the lid like soothing a spooked horse.

“Don’t shout. I can’t help much,” she said, words soft as mist through bamboo.

“Here’s what I can do. I’ll drill a hole in the board, so you won’t suffocate, like a reed straw in a sealed jar.”

“You think up what to say to the princess, something to cool her like rain on embers, and get her to let you out.”

“That’s all I can do. I’m off,” she said, voice light as a leaf on air.

She fished a hand drill from her pack like a magician producing a dove, and bored a thumbnail-sized hole, neat as a knothole in a fence.

Then she grabbed Scarlet Leaf and slipped away like shadows at dawn.

Flat on her back, Xueyu felt misery rise like floodwater in a narrow gorge.

“Don’t… Lingcai… come back,” she pleaded, her voice fading like twilight on a river.