Fanfic Lovers

A.k.a The Corporate Clean-Up Crew

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Xie Wu, Xie Jiu, and Xie Qi are not related by blood.

They are, however, united by something much stronger:

Shared workplace trauma.

Specifically, the trauma of keeping Xie Zheng's double life from exploding.

Xie Wu — Human Resources Department

Professional Qualifications:

Large-scale troop deployment.

Military logistics.

Battlefield discipline.

Keeping thousands of soldiers alive under impossible conditions.

Actual Job:

Accidentally safeguarding the future Empress of Great Yin without knowing it.

Pretending not to notice that his Supreme Commander has a suspiciously complicated relationship with a certain butcher girl.

Stopping other romantically clueless members of the Xie Army from "helping."

Protecting the Marchioness at all costs.

Creating opportunities for Hou-ye and his wife to spend time alone without making it obvious.

Managing the consequences whenever those two inevitably create chaos.

Most importantly:

Maintaining a professional expression whenever someone asks inconvenient questions about why the Marquis of Wu'an is secretly working as a matrilocal husband.

This responsibility is, technically speaking, above his pay grade.

Xie Wu's greatest strength is adaptability.

Unfortunately, nothing in military training prepared him for Fan Changyu.

Imagine spending years mastering warfare, logistics, and command strategy only to discover your greatest challenge is writing an incident report that says:

Marchioness Fan administered knockout soup to the Marquis of Wu'an, stole his armour, impersonated a soldier, and personally joined the battle.

Without making the entire army sound completely insane. Even worse, all of it was true.

At some point, Xie Wu likely stared at the report for half an hour before deciding that future historians could deal with the problem.

His daily responsibilities also include preventing well-meaning idiots from exposing Xie Zheng's identity.

This is harder than it sounds. Half the army wants to help. The other half wants to congratulate Hou-ye on being married. Neither group understands the concept of secrecy.

As a result, Xie Wu spends most of his time intercepting conversations before they become disasters.

In another life, he would have made an excellent military commander.

In this one, he is effectively the Human Resources department for a family of emotionally compromised war heroes.

Every morning, Xie Wu wakes up hoping for an enemy ambush.

At least enemy ambushes follow logic.

Fan Changyu does not.

Xie Jiu — The Traumatised Actor

Professional Qualifications:

Counterintelligence.

Deep-cover operations.

High-risk infiltration.

Actual Job:

Community theatre.

During the military tribunal, Xie Zheng's identity must remain hidden from Changyu. Therefore the obvious solution is:

Put Xie Jiu in the Marquis's armour. Hide him behind a curtain. Give him a script. Tell him to pretend to be the most feared military commander in the empire. What could possibly go wrong?

Everything.

Absolutely everything.

The moment Changyu arrives, the script dies. Jin Yuanbao and the 'fan' club only make it worse. Then, Xie Zheng barges in. Changyu goes off-script. The fake Marquis is suddenly presiding over a domestic argument between a husband and wife who are both trying to volunteer themselves for punishment.

Xie Jiu spends the entire scene improvising like a man trying to defuse a bomb while being judged by Heaven. 

Xie Jiu is drafting his will and preparing to lose control of his bladder.

Frankly, surviving enemy assassins was probably easier.

Xie Qi — The Professional Third Wheel

Professional Qualifications:

Shadow operations.

Reconnaissance.

Message interception.

Actual Job:

Relationship support staff.

Because Xie Qi is competent, he is constantly assigned the most ridiculous errands.

Need a secret letter delivered?

Xie Qi.

Need somebody to check if the Marchioness is still angry?

Xie Qi.

Need emotional damage assessment after a marital disagreement?

Unfortunately. Also Xie Qi.

FULL VERSION HERE

The empire believed the Marquis of Wu'an was dead.

His fall had been necessary—an ending written in blood to quiet rebellion and steady a fractured throne. A hero buried, a name sealed into history.

But death, it seems, was only the beginning.

When he awakens, the man once feared on the battlefield remembers almost nothing. No court. No enemies. No past worth reclaiming.

Only a name that feels distant—and a life that no longer belongs to him.

Because waiting for him… is a woman who calls him husband. And in her arms—two children who bear his face.

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Despite Xie Wu’s best efforts, the forest path proved only marginally less murderous.

The carriage bounced. It rattled. It personally insulted their ancestors. And then—They hit it.

The pothole. A crater. A declaration of war. 

The carriage launched—Gongsun flew from his seat like a scholar achieving enlightenment mid-air—straight into Xie Zheng’s lap. Changyu toppled sideways, wedging Qi Shu firmly between herself and the wall. Somewhere in the chaos, dignity died.

“Are you alright?” Qi Shu asked immediately, pushing herself upright and pulling Changyu with her.

“I’m—”Changyu stopped. Everyone stopped. Because at that exact moment—A very unmistakable gush of water followed.

Silence. Qi Shu froze. Gongsun froze. Even Xie Zheng, who had been half asleep, suddenly looked wide awake—as if his memory loss had politely stepped aside for sheer panic.

Qi Shu turned, eyes sharp. “Your water broke.”

Gongsun went pale. Xie Zheng went paler. Between the two of them, it was unclear who looked closer to giving birth.

“What do we do?!” Gongsun demanded, his voice climbing several scholarly octaves higher than usual. Meanwhile, Xie Zheng sat there, utterly still—like a man who had just been personally selected by fate for something he did not remember signing up for.

In the span of a heartbeat, he went through all four stages of emotional rollercoaster: Denial—This has nothing to do with me, Doubt— …Does this have something to do with me?  Realisation—His gaze shifted, slowly, to Changyu. To her hand, that automatically gripped his. To the very obvious situation unfolding—This definitely has something to do with me. Regret—I should have shown more self-restraint.

“Find a quiet place. Now,” Qi Shu ordered, trying to keep everybody in check.

“Shouldn’t we turn back to a village?” Gongsun blurted. “Somewhere with… people? Facilities? Basic sanitary… and sanity?”

Qi Shu looked at him flatly. “And announce to the entire population that the Marquis of Wu’an’s wife is about to deliver in the middle of their street?”

“…When you put it that way—”

“You insisted on secrecy,” Qi Shu continued calmly but dangerously. “You made the entire academy swear not to breathe a word about this! You made General He raise the salary of all his servants to keep a tight lip or die. Congratulations!”

Gongsun closed his mouth. “Right,” he said faintly. “Panic noted. Regret ongoing.”

“Xie Wu, Xie Qi—faster!”

The horses surged forward at a speed that suggested they, too, understood the situation—and wanted no part of it.

Inside the carriage, another contraction hit. Changyu sucked in a breath, gripping the edge of the seat.

“Here,” Qi Shu said quickly, grabbing Gongsun’s hand and offering it to her. “Squeeze this.”

“Wh—why is it my hand?!” Gongsun protested, horrified.

“Because your hand is currently contributing nothing to society!” Qi Shu replied briskly, already rubbing Changyu’s lower back while instructing her how to breathe through a contraction. Occasionally, she would wipe the droplets that appeared on Changyu’s forehead with her handkerchief and whisper, “You are doing great.”

Changyu turned her head and looked at Gongsun’s hand.

She paused. Considered.

She was, after all, a woman who could stun a large pig with one strike. She had the strength to carry a man nearly twice her size, and that happened not just once. Gongsun’s hand, on the other hand, looked like it had never survived anything more violent than turning a book on advanced algebra too aggressively.

“…Perhaps not,” she said diplomatically.

“Wise choice,” Gongsun whispered, immediately retracting his hand like it had just narrowly escaped execution.

And then—Another hand reached out. Steady. Unhurried.

“Take mine,” Xie Zheng said.

His voice was calm, almost gentle, as though they were discussing tea rather than imminent childbirth in a violently shaking carriage.“It’s only a minor injury,” he added, before anyone could object, though the bandage wrapped around his hand told a quieter truth.

Changyu looked at him. 

There was something in that steadiness—something unchanged, even now. Stripped of memory, of past, of everything that had once defined him… and yet still the same at his core—He was always kind and dependable. Just like the first time when he suddenly said yes to marrying into her family before she asked him. 

But was this a good idea?

For a fleeting moment, she hesitated—uncertain whether reaching for him would mend something in her… or break it further.

And in that small space of uncertainty—His hand moved. Slowly, gently, he closed his fingers around hers, as though the choice had already been made—just not by her. As though, even without remembering why… he still knew to hold on.

Outside, the carriage thundered through the forest, wheels protesting against every bump and root.

Inside, it was chaos—orders barked, breaths counted, pain rising and falling like waves.

And somewhere amidst the jolting, the panic, and the rapidly approaching reality of parenthood—Gongsun came to a deeply unfortunate realisation. 

If anything went wrong today…

He was going to be remembered as the man who brought a labouring woman on a scenic detour through potholes.

------------------------

In less than an hour, the carriage screeched to a halt beside what could only generously be described as a seasonal fishing hut—meaning it was useful in summer and utterly abandoned in winter… much like Gongsun’s courage at the moment.

By the time they got Changyu inside, things had escalated from “slightly concerning” to “this is definitely happening.”

Changyu was in no condition for dignity. She was bent over in pain, breathing unevenly, gripping Xie Zheng’s hand like it had personally signed a lifelong contract.

To his credit, he did not pull away. To his misfortune, his hand was probably no longer his.

“Xie Wu—boil water! Xie Qi—get the brazier going, she must stay warm!” Qi Shu snapped.

The two men fled with impressive efficiency. No matter how joyous the occasion was, no man in his right mind wanted to partake as an honorary guest in the delivery room.

Inside the hut, Qi Shu turned to Gongsun. “Lay everything down. Coats. Silk. All of it.”

Gongsun blinked, brain processing.“…All of it?” He stared at the state of the floor, which certainly did not just look vintage with a lot of signs of wear, but also was not exactly clean.

“Yes, unless you’d like her to give birth on this filty floor and personally haunt you afterwards.”

That decided it.

Moments later, layers of outrageously expensive garments—each worth enough to buy a respectable home in Lin’an—were unceremoniously sacrificed to the cause. If wealth could talk, it would be screaming.

They helped Changyu down.

Xie Zheng followed, still holding her hand, now promoted from “support” to “lifeline.”

Qi Shu checked quickly between her legs.

“Good. Very good,” she said. “We are nearly there.”

“Nearly?” Gongsun echoed faintly as Qi Shu just declared Armageddon was coming, the sky was falling, and he got only minutes to live.

“Towels," Qi Shu ordered instead of answering his question. It was best that these clueless men knew as little as possible of what was coming. "And something sweet. She’ll need energy. I left some persimmon juice in the top left corner of the carriage.” 

Gongsun obeyed. Because at this point, disobedience felt like a worse decision. He rushed out, tripping over absolutely nothing on the way.

Inside, Qi Shu arranged Changyu to lean on a tower of cushions and then pointed sharply at the direction of the Marquis. “Jiuheng. Come here! Hold her legs.”

Xie Zheng froze like a man who had just been told to negotiate with death itself.

“…Must I?”

“Yes.” If this were a better situation, Qi Shu would find it very funny to see the formidable national hero who had performed a massacre on thousands of soldiers was about to pass out in the delivery room.

“I—” Xie Zheng opened his mouth and closed it again. What happened to that plan not stressing him out? 

“I need my hands to catch the baby,” Qi Shu said sternly. “You don’t have to look.”

This was, unfortunately, not as reassuring as she intended. He stepped forward anyway. Slowly. Reluctantly. Like a man about to be executed.

And then—He looked. Just for a second. A fatal mistake.

His face drained of colour so quickly it was almost impressive. If this continued, they might need another physician.

“Scared?” Qi Shu said dryly. “You helped start this process. It’s only fair you stay for the delivery,” and even had the guts to add. “It’s a bit unfair if men only join the fun and never take the part of knowing the consequences, no?”

Xie Zheng opened his mouth—Closed it again. Wisely. He was about to say the fun Qi Shu was referring to—he didn’t remember any of it. 

Beside him, Changyu was too busy surviving labour to notice his ongoing existential crisis.

Outside, Gongsun returned, clutching towels and a canteen of juice like a man bringing offerings to appease higher powers.

“Here!” he said, a little too loudly. 

“Lower your voice,” Qi Shu snapped. “She’s giving birth, not attending a banquet.”

Gongsun immediately shrank. Between them—One woman in labour. One physician in command. One marquis who was on the verge of fainting. And one scholar was rapidly reconsidering becoming a celibate.

Qi Shu clicked her tongue.

Honestly.

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It was a spring morning, a few weeks after the battle that would later be recorded in the history as decisive, though for those who lived through it, it felt less like a conclusion and more like the long exhale after holding one’s breath too long.

The rebellion had been broken, Qi Min taken into custody, and Wei Yan imprisoned. Order, for now, had been restored.

Afterwards, Changyu and Xie Zheng returned briefly to Lin’an. There were farewells to be made, faces to revisit, and a quiet obligation to the people who had once sheltered them in simpler times. Only after that did they turn their path back toward the capital—he to resume his duties as Prince Regent, and she as a military general whose name no longer needed explanation.

Gongsun and Qi Shu, for reasons that were never fully clarified, decided this would also be an appropriate moment to pay tribute to Lin’an’s massacre victim. Whether that tribute required their presence was debatable, but they arrived nonetheless.

It was Changyu who suggested Mr. Lu’s noodle shop.

It was not a place that would ever be described as refined. The tables were worn smooth by years of use, the bowls mismatched, the walls marked by time rather than care. No court inspector would have approved of it, and no palace chef would have recognised it as cuisine.

And yet, when the broth was served, there was something honest in it. Something steady. The kind of simple warmth that did not pretend to be more than it was, and therefore needed no apology. Fresh noodles, made by hand. Soup simmered long enough to carry memory in its steam. The sort of food that made people pause, not because it was extravagant, but because it quietly insisted on being remembered.

She, her husband and Gongsun Yin arrived at the establishment at the peak of lunchtime.

Changyu did not miss the way the shop owner kept glancing at them—Or more specifically, at her husband.

It was not subtle.

Then again, how could he forget? A man like that did not simply pass through a noodle shop unnoticed. Tall, composed, and offensively handsome, he possessed the sort of face that could inspire admiration, suspicion, and at least three contradictory rumours before the noodles finished boiling.

The last time he had come, the entire street had practically held a conference on him.

A kept husband, they had whispered. Using his face and living off his wife’s butcher stall.Probably can’t even lift a cleaver.

The same allegedly decorative husband had calmly placed a gold ingot on the counter.

Not slammed. Not flaunted. Just… placed.

The gesture carried the same quiet authority as a royal decree. It did not argue. It ended the discussions. The gossip had died so quickly it could have been chopped up and served with vinegar on the side.

Now, the shop owner’s gaze slid, slowly, cautiously, toward Gongsun.

Silk robes. Refined posture. Fingers so smooth they had clearly never negotiated with menial work, which begged a question:  Why were rich people collecting in his noodle shop like rare birds migrating for the season?

His gaze moved between the two men, then briefly toward Changyu, as if trying to solve an equation that kept producing increasingly illegal answers.

“Is it a table for three?” he asked carefully, in the tone of a man tiptoeing across social uncertainty.

“Four, actually,” Gongsun replied with ease. “My fiancée is a little late.”

“Did the palace forget to prepare her carriage again?” Xie Zheng asked mildly. “She’s usually punctual.”

This had apparently happened before. Multiple times. As though palace negligence was simply an inconvenient weather condition. “You should’ve offered your carriage,” he continued. “Your driver is always ready.” Which begged the question whether the poor man ever ate, slept or took a shower. “You should offer him a promotion.”

Gongsun waved it off. “That would be inappropriate. The palace might take offence.”

The shop owner stared at him. At the silk. At the posture. At the unmistakable aura of someone who had never once argued over noodle prices in his life.

So, a princess. And… this man.

The word matrilocal rose in his mind again—this time louder, firmer, practically pounding on the inside of his skull like an unpaid debt collector.

He swallowed slowly. He could’ve been wrong like he was the last time. So, let’s not make an assumption.

“Right… this way,” he said, guiding them toward the best table in the shop.

Which, unfortunately, had been designed with absolutely no consideration for hosting royalty, questionable domestic arrangements, or existential crises of matrilocal husbands. It had been designed with only two things in mind: noodles and airflow.

It was a slightly elevated veranda overlooking the road, which, in theory, meant a pleasant breeze and a good view.

In practice, it meant they were the view. (Well, Marquis of Wu’an to be precise).

From the left, from the right, from the suspiciously slow-moving passerby who had absolutely no business walking that slowly. It was less a dining experience and more… a public exhibition titled: “Beautiful men against everyday backdrop.”

Changyu, blissfully unbothered. 

After surviving the Fan pork stall at Yixing restaurant—where customers were more interested in getting a two-second interaction with the “mysterious handsome butcher behind the counter” than actually buying pork—she had developed a very specific kind of emotional immunity.

At this point, she considered public attention less as surprise and more as “seasonal weather.”

So she did what she always did when chaos unfolded around her: she ordered tea, picked up the menu, and studied it with polite seriousness despite already knowing every ingredient, cooking method, the life story of the man kneading the noodles in the back kitchen, down to the approximate age he had cried the first time he cut chilli too aggressively.

“So when are you leaving for Hejian?” she asked casually as though she had not just kicked open the gates to Gongsun’s personal battlefield.

Gongsun sighed. Not an ordinary sigh. This one arrived with ancestral disappointment, romantic suffering, and at least three future arguments with in-laws already pre-installed.

“Not sure,” he admitted. “She’s willing. Her family… less so.”

“Because it’s far?” Xie Zheng asked mildly. “Or because it sounds like a social descent performed without safety ropes?”

“Both,” Gongsun replied with the weary calm of a man who had already lost this debate several times in private and once in a dream.

Then came the pause. A dangerous pause. The kind of silence Changyu had learned to fear in marriage—the silence before Xie Zheng said something that sounded logical but would emotionally injure everyone within hearing distance.

She turned slowly to look at him with the kind of glance that said: I know that expression. Do not speak. Choose peace. 

Naturally, Xie Zheng chose violence.

“You could always marry into her family,” Xie Zheng said calmly, with the same tone one might use to suggest adding more vinegar to noodles, or setting fire to a bridge for practical heating.“Take her surname.”

Gongsun froze. Blink. And blink again.

Then, very carefully, like a scholar stepping onto thin ice. “You mean… become a matrilocal husband?”

The phrase landed on the table with all the grace of a brick through a glass window.

Gongsun Yin. Headmaster of Luyuan Academy. A man of scholarship, dignity, and carefully curated reputation. A man whose standing had been polished over decades like an heirloom jade ornament..…Now considering a career shift into a resident husband, benefits included.

Xie Zheng, meanwhile, looked entirely untroubled by the social catastrophe he had just released into the world.

“It resolves several issues,” he said reasonably. “Your clan’s oath won’t restrict you, you won’t need to carry their surname, and you can return to politics freely. It’s efficient.”

Efficient, yes. Socially, however, it was roughly equivalent to announcing: “Congratulations. You have been successfully absorbed into your wife’s family business.”

Gongsun’s expression became deeply complicated. Part horror, part temptation, part man discovering his moral principles had unexpectedly hit a tsunami.

And then, as though he had not already detonated enough damage, Xie Zheng added, almost lazily, “I am the Prince Regent now. Please don’t tell me you plan to abandon court and hide in some countryside library.”

Gongsun stared at him. That was unfair. Deeply unfair.

Because now the choices had become:

Betray the clan’s oath and enter politics.

Become a matrilocal husband.

Both.

It was no longer a crossroads. It was extortion with philosophical consequences.

“You make it sound like becoming a matrilocal husband solves all life problems.”

Xie Zheng leaned back slightly. “It solved mine.”

Across the table, Changyu nearly choked on her tea.

The surrounding customers, who had long since abandoned all pretence of minding their own business, visibly leaned closer as one collective organism. Tomorrow, “Dayin Prince Regent is a proud matrilocal husband” would make the local news headline.

Somewhere near the entrance, the noodle shop owner closed his eyes briefly.

He had wanted to sell noodles today. Instead, heaven had sent him wealthy men publicly debating whether marriage, political ambition, and social ruin could all be solved with the power of a competent wife.

Not that Xie Zheng cared about noodles.

“I dislike my house,” Xie Zheng continued, with the calm determination of a man clearly running a personal marketing campaign. “It’s cold, impersonal, and full of things I would rather not remember.”

He paused—just long enough to build momentum, then straightened slightly, as though unveiling a masterpiece.

“But now,” he said, with unmistakable satisfaction, “since I married her… I have options.”

By this point, Changyu had already decided she no longer knew these two men. As far as society was concerned, she was simply an innocent noodle enthusiast who had tragically been seated nearby.

She lowered her head and devoted herself entirely to her meal with the determined avoidance of an ostrich burying itself in sand during a thunderstorm—except the thunderstorm was a social debate between the Marquis of Wu’an and his war strategist, and unfortunately, they were sitting at her table.

Meanwhile, Gongsun already didn’t like where this was going.

“Would I prefer a simple, quiet life in Lin’an?” Xie Zheng went on, counting on his fingers as though presenting official choices, “or a rather elegant residence in the capital?”

A beat. Then, as if delivering the final, devastating argument. “It also comes with a hot bath.”

Clack.

Changyu’s chopsticks slipped clean from her fingers and hit the table. 

Xie Zheng paid absolutely no attention. In fact, the man looked faintly proud of himself.

Gongsun stared at his friend.

Ah yes. The now legendary bath.

Originally, it had been commissioned by Changyu for her sister’s health—a perfectly wholesome and respectable reason. Noble, even.

Then fate, aprodisiac, poor planning and pent-up marital enthusiasm entered the picture.

One disastrously timed incident later, a deeply traumatised member of the Blood Clad Cavalry had witnessed something he absolutely should not have witnessed, reported it with the vivid emotional suffering of a war survivor, and accidentally transformed a private bathing space into a legendary folklore.

From that day onward, the mighty Marquis of Wu’an—terror of battlefields, undefeated commander, guardian of the realm—Had also become known, unofficially but permanently, as: The Marquis of the Bathhouse.

Gongsun pinched the bridge of his nose like a man trying to physically hold his sanity inside his skull.

“…Are you suggesting,” he asked slowly, “that I should marry into her family… and request a bathhouse as part of the arrangement?”

Xie Zheng shrugged with infuriating confidence.

“Why not? A good bath improves quality of life.” He paused thoughtfully. “And marriage.”

Changyu nearly inhaled a noodle into the wrong tract.

Meanwhile, Xie Zheng continued speaking with the calm certainty of a man who had clearly converted his entire worldview around heated water and domestic bliss.

“I’m sure Shu’er wouldn’t object,” he added. “You’re excellent at maintaining household order, you understand accounts, and your tidiness alone probably increases property value.”

Gongsun stared at him. Was he being recruited into a marriage… or a management position?

Then Xie Zheng leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice the way merchants did right before revealing the premium package. “Shu’er also owns property near the edge of the capital. Plenty of space. Already approved for expansion.”

Expansion. The word landed with terrifying implications.

“And, imagine living with your parents,” Xie Zheng continued with lethal smoothness.

Gongsun visibly flinched.

“No privacy, ever.” Xie Zheng said softly, like a scholar reciting ancient torture methods. 

That struck critically.

“That will not be a problem with Shu’er’s family estate. The place is so large you could wander for half a day and still fail to encounter a relative.”

A pause. Then came the execution blow.

“And if you break the bed every night,” Xie Zheng added casually, “they can simply replace it with the new one every time.”

Silence. Absolute silence. Even the noodles seemed stunned.

Gongsun’s mind spiralled.

Prestige. Reputation. Independence. Bathhouse. Freedom. Unlimited replacement beds. All of them entered the arena like rival warlords. None emerged alive.

Across from him, Xie Zheng observed the collapse with quiet fascination, like a man feeding philosophical bread crumbs to a duck and watching it accidentally develop a moral crisis. He could practically hear the internal debate raging inside his friend’s skull: Dignity vs. Destiny: A Dayin Matrilocal Tragedy in One Act.

And then, for reasons no scholar, strategist, or divine entity could justify, Xie Zheng added, a little too loudly, “Even I, Marquis of Wu’an, enjoy being a matrilocal husband.”

Silence. 

Followed immediately by not-silence—The entire street, which had been pretending not to listen, collectively stopped pretending. Heads turned. Chopsticks paused mid-air. A passing man walked into a pillar. 

The entire street, which had been pretending not to eavesdrop, abandoned subtlety like soldiers fleeing a burning fortress.

Changyu stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. Then, with the calm efficiency of a butcher tenderising meat, she smacked his thigh beneath the table.

Again, he ignored it. Naturally. 

The man had survived battlefields, assassination attempts, and a near-death experience. Apparently, public humiliation and marital violence no longer registered as meaningful threats.

He also ignored the rapidly growing wave of whispers surrounding them, which had now evolved into something dangerously close to a neighbourhood council meeting regarding his domestic arrangements.

And then, a bright voice cut cleanly through the chaos.

“Jiefu! Ah-Jie!” Chang Ning arrived like a tiny festival that had escaped official supervision, bouncing toward the table with unstoppable momentum while the Zhao couple followed behind her at the speed of two adults who had long accepted they could not physically compete with her enthusiasm.

Greetings were exchanged. Seats shifted. The atmosphere settled slightly.

Then Chang Ning asked the question that truly mattered.

“Uncle Yin,” she said, then tilted her head. “Where is your Princess Jiejie?”

“She’s on her way,” Gongsun replied, still recovering fragments of his dignity. “Just… a little late.”

Chang Ning nodded with grave understanding.

“Is it because she couldn’t find her shoes?” she asked. “Or her hair tie? I lose mine sometimes. Mrs Zhao said it’s because I’m not tidy.”

Gongsun smiled weakly. “That… could be it.”

Honestly, in an estate so large that encountering one’s relatives required planning and favourable weather conditions, locating footwear probably was a strategic operation.

But Chang Ning had already solved the issue. Undeliberately.

Her face brightened with the confidence of a child who had never once doubted her own brilliance.

“Then you should live with Princess Jiejie,” she declared decisively. “You’re very good at cleaning, folding blankets, and putting things back where they belong.”

Then the fatal conclusion: “If you marry her, she won’t ever be late again.”

Gongsun’s eyes widened.

Across the table, Xie Zheng did not even attempt to conceal his satisfaction this time. He leaned back slightly, arms folded, wearing the faint, smug smile of a man watching heaven itself personally endorse his argument.

You see? Even the next generation supports my proposal.

---------

“So,” Gongsun asked once Chang Ning had finally been carried away by the Zhao couple before she could accidentally reorganise someone else’s future, “how did you propose?”

Changyu opened her mouth, but Xie Zheng answered first.

“She didn’t actually.” He lifted his tea with complete composure. “I overheard her practising on a pig.”

Gongsun blinked once. Slowly. The sentence entered his ears, wandered around his brain for a while, then failed to find any logical exit.

“…I’m sorry,” he said carefully, “what?”

By now, Changyu had already recognised that expression on her husband’s face. It was the expression of a man about to weaponise sincerity for entertainment purposes.

So she sighed and surrendered with surprising grace. “I can lend you a pig if you want,” she offered helpfully.

Gongsun stared at her, and then….at him. Then back at her again, like a scholar discovering two entirely separate books had somehow been written in the same language of madness.

In fairness, looking back now… Changyu had to admit it had been effective.

At the time, Yan Zheng had been half-dead, suspicious of everyone, and emotionally more closed off than an imperial treasury. Asking him directly might have frightened him into another coma.

A pig, however, had offered a safer audience. Less judgmental too.

“You don’t understand,” Xie Zheng added thoughtfully, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “It was very heartfelt.”

Changyu nodded. “I practised several times.”

“She also killed the pig immediately afterwards.”

“That part wasn’t related to the proposal.”

“It did add emotional intensity.”

Gongsun looked genuinely distressed now.

His expression resembled a man watching two cranes gracefully descend onto a lake, only to realise halfway through that both birds were actually deeply unhinged.

“You two,” he said weakly, “cannot possibly be serious.”

“Oh, we are,” Xie Zheng replied. The pig certainly had been a crucial part of their story.  “I found it deeply romantic.” 

Changyu brightened slightly. “Really?”

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