The Mirror of Startling Beauty: Her courtiers are everywhere

The clear night was like a tempering process, and the frost-covered blade seemed to solidify.

The moon washes the jade-like branches, and all is silent.

Even though it's snowing tonight, Baiyujing remains as if sculpted from ice and snow, with the full moon resting on the glazed tiles, making the world a vast expanse of unrestrained, clear light.

It flowed over a thousand palaces, over the undisturbed Sword Washing Pool, and over the solitary figure on the poolside, now dressed in a more sleek outfit.

Emperor Shengchen of Tangxi will not be in the Chengtian Hall to review memorials tonight.

Shen Cuo stood in the lamplight three zhang away, his hands hanging down, his gaze passing over the half-frozen pool of cold water and landing on the man's back.

The black dragon robe had been removed, leaving only the narrow sleeves of the dark color binding her body. Her black hair was tied up high, revealing her long and neat neckline.

As the furnace was first lit, the leaping orange light gilded the emperor's incomparably handsome profile with a thin layer of flowing gold.

He was not the king who calmly refuted all the old ministers in the court, nor the Asura who stood with his sword in the snow in the north and commanded the army to fall silent.

At this moment, Tangxi Ye is merely a swordsmith bending down to select materials.

He was taking something from the shelf.

It's not a vermilion brush.

It is not a memorial to the throne.

It was an uncut snow cloud crystal, the raw ore rough, yet the cross-section faintly revealed a cool, clear light, as if it had sealed the soul of an entire snow mountain.

"His Majesty?"

Shen Cuo lowered his voice, carefully choosing his words.

Tangxi did not respond that night.

He held the ore in his palm and examined it against the moon, his pupils reflecting a faint, silvery light, before placing it on the forging table.

As his fingertips traced the rough, uneven surface of the raw stone, a subtle yet profound solemnity lingered—like touching an old wound, like knocking on an unopened door.

I picked up another starry gem.

With a gentle twist of the fingertip, it rests on the hilt of the sword.

He crossed the line for three points.

It returns to seven-tenths of the way up.

The emperor's hand is always extremely steady.

When criticizing Zhu, he judged life and death; when wielding his pen, he defined boundaries and limits, never wavering even slightly.

At this moment, it is as if they are setting up an extremely important and extremely fragile object.

Extreme caution is required.

Every adjustment was made with almost reverence.

Shen Cuo followed him for ten years.

Over the past ten years, I have witnessed His Majesty's ruthless and powerful leadership in the northern border, where he personally led the charge and slew down enemy generals with a single sword stroke.

I have witnessed His Majesty's clear and concise pronouncements in the court, which commanded the utmost respect from all officials with just a few words.

I have seen His Majesty kneel alone before the Buddha for seven days, just to pray that his Zhizhi would wake up.

But I have never—never seen him open the furnace himself.

"...Is Your Majesty going to forge a sword?"

Tang Xiye responded faintly.

That "hmm" was as soft as a snowflake falling into a pond.

Shen Cuo's gaze swept over the materials lined up on the forging table: Snow Cloud Crystal, Galaxy Stone, Ice Soul Sand, Moon Essence Marrow, Mermaid Tears, and Tempered Black Iron Essence...

He silently counted them one by one.

For the royal family of Tangxi, the forging of swords by emperors was a ritual of extraordinary significance.

The founding emperor once personally forged the Phoenix Sword for his empress. Every emperor has used the forging of a sword to prove his unwavering loyalty.

The sword's edge remains untarnished, and the heart's passion burns ever bright.

Giving you a three-foot sword is like giving you a seven-foot body.

And Your Majesty…

Shen Cuo hesitated for a moment before a sudden inspiration struck him.

"Your Majesty, could it be that you—" He paused, a look of surprise flashing in his eyes, "are preparing to forge a token of love for your future Empress?"

The fire in the stove blazed brightly, illuminating the smile lines that Shen Cuo couldn't suppress.

"You've finally come to your senses!"

Heaven knows how bland and tasteless his emperor's life is.

Those gossipy people outside should quickly send a memorial to the Imperial Hospital, asking if His Majesty is unwell and needs treatment.

Tang Xiye paused slightly in the hand holding the starry river stone.

He turned his head and gave Shen Cuo a cold look.

The gaze held no anger, only a gentle glint, like brushing away a wisp of drifting catkins that had disturbed the tranquility.

"Too talkative."

Shen Cuo quickly lowered his head, but the corners of his lips were still curved.

He thought: "Our Emperor has already started making the tokens of love himself, yet he's still putting on airs."

I wonder what kind of celestial being she is, to have won His Majesty's heart?

She must be the best woman in the world to be worthy of him.

Shen Cuo lowered his eyes, gently brushed away the scattered mineral shavings by the forging table, and added two more pieces of silver bone charcoal to the furnace.

Sparks flew up and then went out.

In the blink of an eye, his thoughts drifted back to a very, very distant place.

When he was a child.

The winters in Lintai are as cold as a dull knife cutting through flesh, scraping inch by inch through the bones.

At that time, he wasn't called Wujiu yet; he was called Shen Cuo.

--wrong.

His father was the prime minister of the court, wielding immense power and having numerous protégés.

But his father never wanted to look at him.

His father never said that he disliked him, but everyone knew it.

His name is a testament to his crimes to the world.

He was wrong, an object misplaced, a typo written badly but too painful to tear up.

This word had been ingrained in his bones for many years, and no one had ever wanted to change it.

He never argued.

Because they didn't know how to argue.

The corridors of Lintai were long and cold, so he always chose to walk in places with fewer people.

Someone poured overnight tea into his inkstone, and the tea stains soaked into the freshly ground ink. He silently replaced it with a new ink stick.

Someone tore up his homework, which he had copied for three nights, and pasted it on the window. He peeled it off one by one; the paper was filthy, but the handwriting was still clearly legible.

He said nothing, but simply smoothed out the pages and tucked them into an old, neglected book, as if hiding a handful of ashes.

"Look at him, he doesn't look like the son of a prime minister at all. He's clearly a piece of scrap iron."

"Nobody really expected him to be born."

"Isn't that right? His name is Shen Cuo, hahaha..."

"How could someone have such a name?"

"How detestable and unpopular is he? Even a talented scholar like Prime Minister Shen couldn't afford to give him a proper name?"

"Young Master Shen, your name is Xian... that is the name that embodies the boundless affection of Prime Minister Shen."

"Look at his clothes, they're not even as good as those of the servants in the Prime Minister's mansion."

"..."

He stood there, saying nothing.

The gazes around him were like whips dipped in salt water, scraping him one after another, but he was already used to it.

He had nothing left to lose—he had never owned anything in the first place.

Later he learned not to stand where there were people.

That year, he served as a halberd bearer at the end of the Crown Prince Tangxi's night ceremonial procession.

From the first snowfall to the arrival of spring.

Always keeping his head down and his eyes fixed straight ahead, he lived his life like a breathing wooden stake or a dull, dusty blade.

The Crown Prince never glanced at him; in that prince's eyes, there was only the lovely Princess Jing behind him.

He thought that was good.

He didn't deserve to be seen by anyone anyway.

Until one day...

He knelt on the veranda, with the knife broken in two beside him.

The blade was chipped like canine teeth, and the hilt was still tightly gripped in his palm, leaving deep bloody marks.

He didn't look up, but stared at the tiny blade of grass that had sprouted from the crack in the floor tiles, counting its veins.

The footsteps stopped in front of him.

He didn't move.

"Who taught you the swordsmanship?"

The voice was not loud, even rather bland, yet it was like a thin but sharp blade, cleaving through the silence of the corridor.

"...without a teacher."

"To have reached this level without a teacher."

His knuckles, gripping the broken knife, turned even whiter.

The person did not wake up.

It paused for a moment.

"Come to the East Palace at Chenshi (7-9 AM) tomorrow to collect your new sword."

He looked up abruptly, only managing to catch a glimpse of a black robe disappearing at the end of the corridor.

He later learned that it was the first time the Crown Prince had asked Lintai for people.

The crown prince wanted a discarded son from the prime minister's household.

No need to give a reason.

On the day he was to receive his sword, the head of the Eastern Palace spread out the register, dipped his wolf-hair brush in ink, and held the tip of the brush a few inches above the paper:

"Name?"

He opened his mouth, but his throat felt rusty, and he couldn't make a sound.

"...Shen Cuo."

There was a soft thud as a vermilion brush was set down behind the curtain.

Extremely light, like snow falling on snow.

He was granted a courtesy name.

He was startled and looked up.

The Crown Prince did not look at him.

He was looking down at some kind of document, his handsome profile bathed in the winter sunlight filtering through the window, his features as faint as distant mountains, like an unsigned painting.

"No blame."

There was no fault on their part.

There's no need to blame anyone.

He knelt on the spot.

He held those two words between his lips and teeth for a long time, until a bittersweet taste rose on his tongue, before finally responding softly.

"……yes."

"Wu Jiu thanks His Highness the Crown Prince for bestowing upon him a courtesy name."

The daylight was very dim, and the hall was filled with the scent of burning aloeswood incense.

He held the new knife in his palm, the blade reflecting his eyes—for the first time, he felt that what lay there was no longer just a wasteland.