Chapter 29: The War for the Bedroom (and the City)
The night air in the Qingshui manor was heavy with the scent of medicinal herbs and unresolved tension. Wei'an lay propped up on silk pillows, his body a map of bandages and stubborn pride. He was finally alone—or so he thought—until the door creaked open.
Shen Yao entered, wearing a robe that was far too thin for a warrior and holding a bowl of soup like it was a live grenade. Her face was the color of a ripe pomegranate. She had spent the afternoon "studying" Lian'er's movements, and now, it was time for the execution.
"I... I have brought you nourishment," she stuttered, sitting on the edge of the bed. She remembered the courtesan's trick: Be soft, be close. She leaned in, attempting to "soothe" him by brushing her hair against his shoulder. However, Yao'er's idea of a gentle touch was closer to a wrestling maneuver. She accidentally leaned her full weight onto his bandaged side.
"GAH! My ribs!" Wei'an yelped, his eyes bulging.
"Oh! Sorry! I was trying to be... alluring!" she cried, panicked. In her rush to adjust, she tripped over the silk hem of her robe. Her momentum sent her colliding into Wei'an, who—in a desperate attempt to avoid the soup—rolled backward.
THUD.
Wei'an hit the floor with a muffled groan, tangled in blankets. "Yao'er... if you want me dead, just use the spear. It's more merciful than 'soothing' me to death."
The door slid open, and Lian'er glided in, taking in the scene with a predatory grin. "Master! Is the warrior-wife playing 'clumsy assassin' again?"
Lian'er didn't wait. She scooped Wei'an off the floor with practiced ease and tucked him back into bed, immediately curling into his side. "There, there. Master needs a cat, not a tiger." Wei'an, exhausted and in pain, leaned into the courtesan's warmth with a comically clingy grip, mumbling about "insurance policies" and "workplace hazards."
The Mother's Son
The next morning, Wei'an limped to the inner garden to meet his Mother-in-law, the Madam of the Shen House. Unlike the rest of the clan, she looked at him with genuine, tearful eyes. To her, he wasn't a "merchant son-in-law"—he was the son she had lost, reborn with a silver tongue.
"Sit, child," she said, gently patting his hand. She looked at his pale face and sighed deeply. "Honestly, you shouldn't have married into this family. You've carried a mountain of debt and blood on your back for a name that didn't even welcome you at first."
"Mom!" Shen Yao, who had been lingering nearby, stomped over with a heavy blush. "Don't say that! I... I love him!"
The Madam didn't even look up. "I wasn't talking to you, Yao'er. I was talking to my son-in-law. Go check the kitchens; your husband needs proper broth, not the charcoal you produced last night."
Yao'er froze, her mouth agape. She let out a frustrated huff, her heart a mess of affection and embarrassment. She stomped away, muttering internally, Even my own mother has been bought by his 'merchant charm'! I'm the one with the spear, why am I the outsider here?!
Wei'an laughed, the sound a bit raspy. "Mother, I need more than broth. I need the city."
With her and the Patriarch's full support, Wei'an mobilized his forces. He now led a combined unit: his 25 Elites, the 70 veterans, and 145 newly equipped Iron-Shield adventurers. A total of 240 men—small, but lethal and loyal.
The Tyranny of the Yan
Meanwhile, inside Jianghe City, the House of Yan had descended into a fever of greed. Believing Wei'an was dead and the Shen family was broken, the Yan patriarch had sat himself in the City Lord's chair.
"Double the market tax!" Master Yan shouted to the trembling elders. "The Shen scoundrel is rotting in a grave. If the citizens want grain, they pay in silver. If they want protection, they pay in blood."
The Yan militia, a 200-strong band of thugs, patrolled the streets, seizing carts and harassing shopkeepers. They were arrogant, thinking they had won the "Vacant Throne." They didn't see the low-level clerks quietly recording their crimes. They didn't see the 240 shadows gathering at the city's western gate.
The Hook
At midnight, a single fire-arrow streaked across the sky over the City Hall. It wasn't a signal for a riot. It was a signal for the "Restoration."
Wei'an, dressed in his stark white robes and sitting atop a horse held steady by Commander Sang, looked at the city gates. The 30,000-silver debt was ticking. The Main Branch was watching.
"Open the gates," Wei'an whispered.
Suddenly, from inside the city, the sound of iron bolts sliding open echoed through the streets. The low-level guards he had bribed weeks ago had finally made their choice.
"Master Yan thinks he bought the elders," Wei'an said, drawing his sword—not for combat, but for direction. "He forgot to buy the men who hold the keys."
The transition of power did not happen with a roar. It happened with the cold, rhythmic thud of a thousand boots on cobblestone.
The moon was high when the heavy iron bolts of the Jianghe city gates slid back. There was no struggle. The low-level clerks and gatekeepers, their pockets lined with Wei'an's silver and their stomachs full of his grain, simply stepped aside. They didn't look up; they knelt as the first shadow of the Shen column crossed the threshold.
At the head of the column flew the banner of the Shen Side-Branch—the silver crane of the Viscounty. Behind it rode the Patriarch, his expression unreadable, his armor polished to a dull, intimidating sheen.
Li Wei'an rode ten paces behind him. He didn't wear a helmet. He sat tall in his white robes, his topknot perfectly tight, his face a mask of quiet, unavoidable intent. To his left rode Shen Yao, her hand resting on her spear; to his right, Lian'er, her eyes scanning the shadows.
The atmosphere was suffocating. There were no battle cries. There was no music.
As they moved through the main thoroughfare, the Yan family's hired thugs began to melt away. One guard captain dropped his spear and simply walked into an alley. Another knelt in the mud before the column even reached him. The merchants, who had spent a week in terror under the Yan family's greed, didn't cheer—they stood in their doorways, lanterns held high, watching this new, organized force with a mixture of awe and crushing relief.
The Quiet Anchor
Near the central fountain, the column paused briefly. Wei'an's horse shifted, and he felt a sharp twinge in his side from the stab wounds. He didn't flinch, but his breath hitched.
Shen Yao leaned over, her horse brushing against his. Without looking at him, she reached out and straightened his collar, her fingers lingering for a split second against his skin.
"The blood is stopped, but the city is watching," she whispered, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. "Stay straight."
Behind them, his Mother-in-law, riding in a protected carriage, pulled the curtain back just an inch. "Don't speak unless needed, Wei'an," she said softly. "The city doesn't need a salesman tonight. It needs a Lord."
Wei'an nodded once. He felt the weight of the 1,150 troops behind him—the combined force of his veterans, the adventurers, and his father-in-law's reinforcements. It was a surgical force. Too small to be a threat to the King's throne, but far too large for any local merchant to resist.
The Mass Movement
As they progressed toward the City Hall, the silence began to grow into something heavier. It wasn't a riot, but a gathering.
From the side streets, commoners began to join the wake of the army. They walked behind the soldiers in a massive, slow-moving tide. They didn't carry weapons; they carried the memory of the grain distribution. Their presence was a silent referendum. By the time the column reached the plaza of the City Hall, thousands of citizens had filled the space, their eyes fixed on the lighted windows where the Yan family was still feasting.
The Vacant Throne
Inside the Great Hall, the House of Yan was in the middle of a victory banquet. Master Yan sat in the City Lord's chair, a cup of wine raised to the cowering elders.
"To the new era!" Yan laughed. "Let the Shen scoundrel rot in the dirt while we—"
The doors didn't burst open. They were opened from the inside by a clerk who had been on Wei'an's payroll for a month.
The silence of the army outside finally leaked into the room. One by one, the Yan family members stood up, their faces paling as they looked through the open doors. They saw the silver crane banners. They saw the disciplined lines of infantry. And they saw the massive wall of citizens standing behind the soldiers like an incoming tide.
The Patriarch stepped into the hall first, his boots echoing on the marble. The elders immediately scrambled off their benches, falling to their knees.
"The... the Viscount?" one elder stammered, his head hitting the floor. "The Viscount has arrived!"
Wei'an stepped into the light, walking slowly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He didn't look at the elders. He didn't look at the gold on the table. He looked directly at Master Yan, who was still clutching his wine cup, trembling so hard the liquid was spilling onto his silk robes.
"Master Yan," Wei'an said, his voice quiet, cold, and utterly unavoidable. "You're sitting in my chair."
The 1,150 blades outside shifted in unison, the sound of steel on scabbards ringing through the hall like a final bell.