The Substitute Groom

The first rays of sunlight cut through the clouds that embraced the mountains around Qinghe City, dyeing the jade roofs of the imposing Ye Clan Mansion a vivid green. Behind the high white walls and meticulously planned gardens, the estate was already buzzing with activity.

In the main courtyard, dozens of disciples lined up under the strict supervision of the elders, the air cut by the sharp whistle of blades in training. Shouts of concentration echoed off the stones:

— Faster!

— Concentrate your spiritual energy!

— Do not waste your qi!

While sweat bathed the main arena, far away from there, in a forgotten nook at the back of the west wing, the world obeyed a completely different rhythm. Kneeling directly on the damp earth, Ye Ziqi carefully brushed away some dry leaves around an isolated flowerbed. He wore only simple white linen clothing, devoid of any embroidery or symbol that could expose his noble blood. His sleeves, rolled up to his elbows, exposed thin arms and delicate hands, marked by subtle scars and superficial cuts left by handling thorny herbs. A soft sigh escaped his lips when he finally spotted the small miracle sprouting among the green: a light blue flower with translucent petals, which emitted a faint and melancholy glow. It was a Serene Moon Herb, of impressive rarity.

With fingers trembling with anticipation, Ziqi pulled a small leather notebook already worn by use from his belt and scribbled with neat calligraphy: “First bloom after fifty-two days. Aroma more intense than expected. Possible increase in medicinal properties”. Upon closing the diary, a genuine smile illuminated his face. To him, that forgotten piece of land was infinitely more valuable than any ostentatious pavilion in the mansion. There, no one looked at him with disdain. The plants did not murmur about his failure to reach a high level of spiritual cultivation, nor did they treat him like a living shame. In that green silence, he found the peace that the rest of the clan denied him.

However, the calmness of the west wing could never erase the echoes of the power that sustained his family. As morning progressed, the noise in the main courtyard changed tone, transforming into reverent murmurs as everyone cleared a path. Ye Zichun crossed the gates of the training arena wearing deep blue attire, impeccably cut and embroidered with pure gold threads that gleamed under the sunlight. Tall, with a haughty posture and striking features, he embodied the very image of the perfect heir. As he unsheathed his sword, a gust of wind laden with dense spiritual energy swept across the space, drawing thunderous applause from the disciples around. — Incredible! — As expected of the Young Master! — The future Patriarch!

From the top of the main terrace, Master Ye watched the scene with paternal pride he had never bestowed upon his younger son. Beside him, one of the elders smiled with satisfaction, stating that the boy would elevate the clan’s name to unprecedented heights, to which the patriarch nodded with conviction.

At that exact moment, ignored by the currents of applause, Ye Ziqi crossed the immensity of the courtyard with his head down, returning from the vegetable garden with a slightly heavy bamboo basket pressed against his hip. To the eyes of those who were there, he simply did not exist. One of the disciples, distracted by the euphoria of the training, rudely bumped into his shoulder, causing the basket to tilt and scatter some precious roots over the stone slabs.

— Watch where you’re going, trash — grumbled the disciple, without even stopping his pace.

Ziqi did not retort. He merely swallowed his frustration in silence, groping the floor to collect each plant fragment with surgical care. In his world, nothing could be wasted.

Back to the domains of the west wing, the alchemy laboratory awaited him like an old refuge. It was a cramped, dusty, and almost forgotten space, where shelves crammed with ancient tomes shared space with cracked vials and bundles of dried roots hanging from the ceiling by frayed ropes. In the center, a modest cast-iron cauldron rested on a stone base. Moving with the familiarity of someone who had spent years talking only to his own reflection in infusion pots, Ziqi placed the harvested herbs inside the container and fueled the base with a spark of his own spiritual energy. A flame of a bluish tone, calm and steady, embraced the bottom of the cauldron. Closing his eyes, he regulated his breathing, guiding the faint flow of his internal qi into the mixture, stabilizing the heat according to the cadence of his heartbeat.

Minutes later, the heavy aroma of the vegetation turned into a clean, sweet fragrance. When he lifted the lid, the thick liquid inside had shifted from a dark green to a translucent gold.

— Something is still missing... — he muttered, groping the shelf beside him until he found an amber glass bottle.

He dripped just a drop of that concentrated essence onto the broth. There was a luminous snap, a golden flash that briefly illuminated the dark wooden walls before the liquid completely quieted down. Ziqi cracked a tired, yet victorious smile. — It worked.

The abrupt knock on the loose wooden door shattered the moment. A servant with a rigid expression invaded the laboratory without asking permission.

— Second Young Master. — said the servant.

Ziqi straightened his body at that very instant, wiping his hands on the simple fabric of his robes. — Yes? — The Patriarch summoned your presence in the main hall. Immediately.

The smile on his face evaporated at the exact same speed with which he had lit the flame of the cauldron. In the silent hierarchy of that family, orders coming directly from the top never brought good news for someone like him.

When he stepped into the vast main hall, the air felt dense enough to suffocate. Master Ye occupied the highest seat, with a stony expression; right below, Ye Zichun kept himself upright, surrounded by half a dozen elders whose faces formed a wall of expectation. Ziqi advanced with measured steps, stopped a few meters from the central platform, and bowed in a deep and automatic respect.

— This son greets the Patriarch.

Not a single word of recognition descended from the family throne. The silence weighed like lead on the carved beams of the ceiling. Before the discomfort could turn into sound, the double solid wood doors tore open in a dry creak. An official messenger, wearing the heavy robes embroidered with the imperial dragon in gold threads, entered haughtily into the hall, escorted by two guards in silver armor that jingled with every step. In the very same second, all the occupants of the hall, with the exception of the Patriarch, bowed in reverence to the envoy of the throne. The man withdrew from inside a brocade sleeve a voluminous scroll, sealed with the red wax of the royal family.

— Imperial Decree! — said the official messenger. — By order of His Majesty, aiming for the enduring harmony between the throne and the great cultivation clans: the marriage between His Imperial Highness Lan Xichen and the heir of the Ye Clan is officially decreed, to be consummated within the period of one moon.

The words had barely finished echoing and the hall transformed into a sea of murmurs and restrained celebrations. The elders smiled at one another with eyes shining with ambition, seeing in that the definitive coronation of family prestige, while the servants exchanged wide-eyed glances. Master Ye sported a smile of absolute triumph.

However, isolated in the center of that atmosphere of glory, a single person remained like an ice statue. Ye Zichun had not outlined a single smile. On the contrary, his face contracted into a mask of fierce repulsion, and the fists clenched at his sides trembled with such force that his knuckles had turned white. Standing on the periphery of the hall, Ye Ziqi observed his older brother’s reaction. An inexplicable chill descended down the spine of the second son, squeezing his chest in a painful way. He knew Zichun’s arrogance; he knew his brother would never accept bowing before a prince surrounded by dark rumors and war curses. Looking at Zichun’s distraught features, Ziqi had the absolute certainty that, behind that festive decree, there was something terribly wrong.

Hours later, in the heirs’ residential wing, the noble wood door was locked with so much violence that the doorframe snapped. Ye Zichun hurled the most expensive vase of his collection against the stone wall, shattering the porcelain into dozens of colorful shards that spread across the carpet.

— I will never, ever marry that monster of the north!

With slow and calculated steps, Master Ye crossed the threshold, observing the shards on the floor before fixing his cold eyes on his son.

— Control yourself, Zichun.

— You heard the decree! I’d rather cut my own throat than step into that frozen palace!

— This is not a request you can accept or refuse.

— Then use your influence and have them refuse the imperial decree!

The patriarch advanced a step, his countenance hardened by the disdain for others’ weakness.

— Do you want to condemn the entire Ye Clan to decapitation for treason against the crown?

The silence plummeted over the room, dense and suffocating. Zichun turned his face toward the window, with his eyes bloodshot with rage and despair, hissing through clenched teeth:

— Then find someone else to send in my place.

Those words hung in the air for a few moments. Master Ye remained motionless, his calculating brain weighing the cost and benefit of such a subtle treason behind closed doors. Then, like the shadow of a predator that finally finds the perfect prey, a name echoed in the patriarch’s mind, Ye Ziqi, a son whose weak cultivation made him useless for combat, whose interests boiled down to plants and cauldrons, and whose absence would never be lamented by anyone in the halls of power.

On Master Ye’s thin lips, a cold and strictly calculating smile drew itself in the dimness of the room.