Chapter Thirty-Six: Arranging Her Silky Hair by the Window, Adorning Herself with Golden Blossoms Before the Mirror

The palanquin was the predecessor of the sedan chair, appearing very early in history. Its prototype should have existed as far back as the Xia Dynasty; when Yu the Great controlled the floods, he rode in a simple conveyance borne by two men called the "lei," which was the most basic form of palanquin. After a millennium of development, by the Jin Dynasty, Huan Xuan created a grand palanquin that could accommodate thirty people and required two hundred porters, rivaling the later carriage of Zhang Juzheng.

The group of blade-wielding warriors from the Zhan clan were momentarily stunned. Someone took the lead, and after a brief confusion, nearly all of them knelt down, their voices in unison: "Greetings, Fourth Lady!"

The palanquin moved slowly through the kneeling crowd. Eight robust porters, bare-chested and wearing only wide-legged, tied trousers below, displayed their iron-hard muscles, embodying the very essence of strength and power.

Flanking the palanquin were two delicate and charming maids clad in crimson gauze skirts, adorned with slender tassels at the hem, embroidered wind shoes on their feet, and their hair styled in spiral buns with floral ornaments and a golden forehead patch. They seemed like elves walking through moonlight, captivating any gaze that fell upon them.

The tassels, a decorative element fixed to the lower hem of garments, were usually made of silk, wide at the top and pointed at the bottom, layered to reach the calves or ankles, resembling a swallow’s tail and fluttering gracefully as one walked. The golden forehead patch, known as "flower yellow," was a popular adornment among women, as mentioned in the Ballad of Mulan: "Before the window she arranges her cloud-like hair, before the mirror she applies yellow flowers." It was a thin, yellow paper ornament, easily affixed to the forehead, not only convenient but also versatile in shape, as it could be cut into various designs.

Of the two maids, one bore an expression of cold serenity, her brows seemingly gathering millennia of unyielding ice; the other smiled with the brightness of a flower, her glances lively and cunning.

It was this flower-like maid who had uttered the words that shamed Zhan Ting.

Zhan Ting slowly turned around, his movements exceedingly difficult. Through the thick layers of his clothing, one could sense his trembling hands and feet, every inch of his skin radiating a suppressed, soul-deep anger.

Staring at the crimson gauze palanquin, his eyes were as if seeing a ghost; beads of sweat instantly poured from his forehead.

Quickly, Zhan Ting realized his reaction was too conspicuous, risking exposure. He immediately turned his head, not daring to look at the palanquin, and shouted fiercely at the smiling maid, as if to muster his own courage.

"Baihua, what did you say?"

The maid giggled, made a face, and replied, "Turns out not only are you worthless, but you can't even hear. How pitiful!"

"You—!"

Without another word, Zhan Ting snatched a ring-handled saber from a kneeling subordinate, first assuming a holding posture, then lunged forward, slashing it in an arc toward Baihua’s head.

Xu You, an expert in martial arts, could tell from Zhan Ting’s movements that he had only learned some rudimentary skills. His body was frail, and in a real fight, he might not fare better than a sturdy farmer.

Baihua’s smile did not falter; she even stuck out her tongue, scratched her cheek with her finger, and said, "Always bullying weak girls—aren't you ashamed?"

Clang!

A graceful figure flashed before Baihua, raising two slender jade fingers to catch the saber's blade mid-air.

From between her brows, cold radiance seemed to erupt, threatening to turn the entire courtyard into a frozen wasteland.

"Wanqi, you—!"

Baihua poked her delicate face out from behind Wanqi, smiling. "What do you mean, 'you'? Snow Slave, you’ve tried to kill me eighteen times now, but Wanqi always stops you. Why never learn your lesson?"

"You wretched maid! One day, I’ll tear you to pieces!"

Baihua patted her chest, feigning terror. "Oh, I’m so scared!" Then, sticking out her tongue again and wrinkling her nose, she added, "But your martial arts can’t even defeat maids who only serve tea and water. When will you ever manage to kill me?"

Zhan Ting, consumed by rage, exerted all his strength, but could not budge the saber from Wanqi’s grip. He released it and grabbed another blade nearby, attempting to circle around Wanqi and strike Baihua again.

Yet, to the amusement of all, perhaps the knife form he learned always began with a holding posture. Regardless of the situation, he started by hugging the blade to his chest before attacking, with predictable results.

Wanqi flicked her jade hand, sending the discarded saber flying back; its handle struck Zhan Ting in the chest, forcing him to stagger back, his face turning pale.

The group of warriors who had accompanied Zhan Ting hung their heads so low they nearly touched the ground; not one dared intervene, not even Li Yifeng, the ghost-catching officer, who stood silently by.

"Baihua, how much further? Have you met them yet?"

A languid female voice drifted from within the crimson gauze, not particularly melodious, even slightly androgynous. Baihua hurried to the palanquin’s side and replied, "Madam, we’ve arrived at the Guest Pavilion and met the young gentlemen. But... Snow Slave is here, along with the household’s warriors."

"Is it Ninth Brother? And Baihua, I’ve told you many times not to call him by his childhood name—he dislikes it."

Baihua pouted inwardly: "Zhan’s old steward gave him that name—why shouldn’t he like it? Precisely because he doesn’t, I insist on calling him that!" Out loud, she said, "Understood, I’ll remember next time!"

"Good. Let me down."

The eight porters knelt on one leg, as careful as women threading a needle, lowering the palanquin from their shoulders. Baihua and Wanqi lifted the crimson gauze from either side, and a woman emerged, wearing a cage crown and military attire, handsome and poised.

Xu You’s eyes lit up. The first thought that came to his mind was Lin Qingxia’s portrayal of the Invincible East.

Her slanted sword-like brows, high and straight nose, chiseled features, and even her lips—unlike the small mouths favored by beauties of the era—were slightly elongated. Her eyes, inlaid like jade, lacked seductive allure or girlish softness, emanating instead a steadfast and mysterious calm.

Most striking was her height, matching Xu You’s own. Her long, straight legs, shaped by the military garb, showed not a trace of excess flesh or imperfection.

Xu You finally understood why He Ru, when describing Zhan Wenjun, rated her as "above average in beauty." He had not lied; by contemporary standards, had Zhan Wenjun been a man, she would have been a top-tier handsome youth. But as a woman—not to mention her pronounced features and slightly wide lips—her height alone quashed all interest in evaluating her looks.

Aesthetics is a complex concept. In later times, people embraced diverse forms of beauty, but in a patriarchal society, beauty is defined solely by mainstream preference.

Zhan Wenjun’s features, wild with a trace of nomadic blood, clearly strayed from Jiangdong’s ideals; He Ru’s "above average" was already an act of kindness.

But to Xu You, she was nothing short of a modern mixed-race supermodel—world-class, no less!

"What a waste..."

He Ru’s ears perked up. Turning his head, he asked, "What did Seventh Brother say?"

"Uh, nothing... This must be the real Zhan Wenjun, right?"

"It shouldn’t be wrong, so Seventh Brother, don’t secretly criticize me anymore."

Xu You couldn’t help but scratch his head. "What did I say against you?"

"When you saw Lady Song earlier, you thought she was Zhan Wenjun. Didn’t you secretly suspect I was lying? Lady Song’s appearance could never be just ‘above average’... Now that you’ve seen the real Zhan Wenjun, you know my assessment was correct, don’t you?"

Damn!

Xu You never swore, but this time he couldn’t help wanting to curse. These people—wasting a girl’s face and legs that are centuries ahead!

Zhan Wenjun yawned lazily, as if just awakened from sleep. Her gaze swept over the crowd. "Zhao Quan, Zhou Yang, why aren’t you in the manor but here at the Guest Pavilion?"

The two men responded promptly, stepping forward several meters and kneeling again. "Ninth Brother said there were troublesome guests in the pavilion who injured someone. He asked us to come reinforce the group..."

"Ninth Brother sent you? Oh, then it’s fine. Go back, all of you."

Zhao Quan and Zhou Yang glanced furtively at Zhan Ting but did not rise.

Zhan Wenjun frowned. "So, you no longer listen to my orders?"

"No, no! We’re leaving now!"

Without waiting for Zhan Ting’s response, the two quickly summoned their men and vanished into the night beyond the courtyard.

Even Li Yifeng, the ghost-catching officer, left with them.

From start to finish, he had neither spoken nor acted.

Zhan Ting stared blankly at the unfolding events, only snapping to attention when Zhan Wenjun stood before him. He recoiled as if facing a viper, his voice trembling. "You... weren’t you supposed to be in Fuchun County?"

Wanqi’s figure appeared suddenly before Zhan Ting, her outstretched finger nearly touching his neck, her voice cold as an icy blade. "How did you know Madam was going to Fuchun County?"

Zhan Wenjun sighed softly. "Ninth Brother, on my way back, I worried that Wanqi had wrongly accused you, but I never expected those assassins truly had something to do with you!"