Chapter 6: Rules, Swords, and Other Dangerous Things
Later that morning, Mei Xiao found herself being marched through the estate by two silent servant girls who looked like they trained in kung fu during tea breaks.
"Where are we going again?" she asked, trying not to trip on her dress. Or was it a robe? Honestly, the fabric had more layers than her dating history.
"The Lady must be trained in the customs of the martial world," one of them answered.
"Does that include walking like a penguin in silk armor?"
Neither laughed. Tough crowd.
They brought her to a training hall so vast, it could host a concert. Banners with ancient calligraphy hung from the rafters, and a group of young disciples were practicing sword forms in perfect synchronicity.
Mei Xiao felt very out of place. Especially since she was still wearing embroidered slippers that looked like museum exhibits.
"Ah, the new mistress," a voice called. A tall, graceful woman approached, eyes sharp, lips smiling just enough to look polite — and not a drop more.
"This is Elder Su," the servant whispered. "She will teach you etiquette, swordsmanship, and how not to embarrass Lord Murong."
"Charming," Mei Xiao muttered.
Elder Su eyed her critically. "Hold the sword."
Mei Xiao took it with two hands. It was heavier than expected.
"Posture."
Mei Xiao tried. The sword dipped.
"Back straight."
She straightened.
"Legs firm."
She wobbled.
"Eyes fierce."
She blinked rapidly. "I haven't even had caffeine today."
Elder Su sighed. "We have much to do."
A few hours — and several bruises — later, Mei Xiao dragged herself toward the pavilion, arms aching, feet sore, and ego thoroughly stomped.
To her surprise, Murong Jing He stood waiting in the courtyard, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Did you survive?" he asked.
"Barely. Your sword instructor's a terminator."
"Elder Su is considered gentle."
"Gentle?" She held up a bandaged wrist. "She yelled at me for breathing too loud."
Murong looked at the bandage, then stepped closer. "Let me see."
She hesitated but extended her arm. He examined the wound carefully, then turned his hand slightly — not touching her, but close enough that his warmth brushed her skin.
"You bruise easily," he murmured.
"I'm not from around here, remember?"
His gaze locked with hers. "I'm starting to."
For a moment, something passed between them — awareness, heat, something that made her forget the aching and the silk and the insanity of it all.
Then he stepped back. "Rest. The real training starts tomorrow."
She watched him walk away, confused by how a single man could be so cold, yet make her feel so… alive.
"Ugh," she groaned to herself. "This is either a dream or a drama. And I'm the underdog heroine with no script."