Chapter 150: Flour and Faces
Morning Mischief
Hei Long woke to the smell of something suspiciously sweet and the sound of pans colliding in a rhythm that could not, under any circumstances, be called cooking. He opened his eyes to find Zhu standing by his bedside, holding a wooden spoon like a spear.
"Up," she ordered. "The pancakes are attacking."
He arched a brow. "Or the cooks?"
She grinned. "Same thing."
By the time he entered the kitchen, the war had already begun. Yexin, hair unbound, was dusted in flour from head to toe like a ghost caught mid-festival. She wielded a sifter like a weapon, shaking white clouds into Yuran’s carefully measured bowls.
"Sabotage!" Yuran snapped, moving with surgeon’s precision to shield her batter from contamination. Her apron was immaculate—until a sudden puff of flour from Yexin landed squarely across her chest. She exhaled through her nose and calmly reached for another bowl. "You will regret that."
Across the room, Qingxue stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with martial precision. Each one landed in its stack with military neatness, golden and perfect. She ignored the chaos behind her—until Yexin "accidentally" bumped the counter, sending a splash of batter across her arm.
The sword maiden turned her head very slowly. "That was a mistake."
Yexin blew her a kiss. "Come make me pay."
Before Qingxue could move, Hei Long stepped into the doorway. Yuran looked up, saw him, and immediately said, "Don’t you dare."
Too late. Yexin had already launched a spoonful of batter at his chest. He caught it in his hand, flicked it back, and hit her square on the nose.
For three heartbeats, silence reigned.
Then flour flew in every direction.
The War of White and Gold
Zhu, shrieking with laughter, climbed onto the counter and began pelting everyone with fistfuls of sugar. Yexin ducked behind Hei Long, using him as a shield, while Yuran launched pancake after pancake like thrown discs. Qingxue joined at last, not with flour but with a thin stream of water from the kettle, precise as sword strokes—enough to paste flour onto skin and hair until everyone looked like half-finished sculptures.
Hei Long didn’t pick a side. He was the battlefield. Yexin clung to his back, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. Yuran stood on his other side, wielding a whisk like a blade, her hair falling loose for once, her expression somewhere between fury and fondness. Qingxue, calm as always, squared her shoulders and advanced through the chaos, white streaks across her cheeks like war paint.
He caught Zhu as she tried to vault from counter to table. She wriggled in his arms, covered in sugar, and declared, "We win!"
"We?" Hei Long asked. "Which army do you belong to?"
She thought about it, then said with solemnity, "Whichever one feeds me first."
The Portrait No One Planned
The kitchen was a disaster. Flour coated the counters, sugar crunched beneath their feet, and pancakes leaned precariously in towers. But in the middle of the mess, someone—probably Yexin—shoved them all together, crying, "Wait, wait—stand still, this is perfect!"
She dragged Hei Long to the center, Qingxue to his right, Yuran to his left, Zhu perched on the table in front, and then jumped herself onto the counter behind him, leaning over his shoulder. White dust hung in the air like mist.
"Look," she said, pointing at the window.
The morning sun caught their reflections in the glass: Hei Long dusted with flour but smiling, Yuran trying to look composed but failing, Qingxue dignified with streaks of sugar across her jaw, Zhu grinning wide with both thumbs up, and Yexin leaning into the frame, wild-haired and triumphant.
A family, messy and impossible and whole.
"Accidental portrait," Yexin whispered, suddenly soft.
Hei Long didn’t move. He didn’t need to. The moment would stay carved in them whether anyone painted it or not.
Breakfast Aftermath
They ate standing up, sharing stacks of pancakes that tasted faintly of battle and entirely of belonging. Zhu insisted on taking the middle of every stack. Yexin demanded syrup in scandalous amounts.
Yuran, despite the chaos, managed to arrange a proper spread with fruit and tea, because order was as natural to her as breath.
Qingxue cut her pancakes into precise triangles, but when Hei Long stole one from her plate with his chopsticks, she let him without protest.
The morning passed not like duty, or like cultivation, or even like romance—but like something rarer, quieter, and harder to earn.
Home.
The morning after the flour war, the Cloudpetal Retreat looked less like a noble getaway and more like a battlefield abandoned mid-siege. Empty syrup jars littered the counters, aprons were hung like defeated banners, and sugar still clung stubbornly to the floor.
Hei Long rose before the others and cleaned in silence. Not everything—just enough so that when the women woke, the memory of laughter would outweigh the evidence of chaos.
By the time Yuran stirred, the sun had already touched the sea. She leaned against the doorframe, watching him quietly. "You aren’t supposed to do chores."
"Neither are you," he answered, folding away a towel.
Her lips curved. "Then perhaps we’ll both pretend we didn’t see each other."
By midday, the group was ready to return to the mainland. The isle’s ferrymaster bowed low when Hei Long stepped aboard with the women at his side. It wasn’t only reverence—it was awe. The sight of them together, clad in travel cloaks with blossoms tucked into their hair, drew whispers from the waiting passengers.
The Capital’s Streets
By evening, the ferry docked at the capital’s southern pier.
They should have gone directly to the palace, but Hei Long took a different route. He led them through the bustling merchant district, lanterns just beginning to glow, colors flickering across the cobblestones.
Children darted past with kites. Vendors called out wares—sweet rice, candied fruits, talismans inked on the spot. And everywhere, people’s gazes followed them: Hei Long flanked by women of rare beauty and sharper will.
"Master Hei Long," one merchant greeted, bowing low. "Your... companions are most radiant. Might I offer complimentary sweets, as a blessing for your household?"
Household. The word lingered.
Yexin was the first to snatch the skewered sweets, grinning like a victorious fox. "Did you hear that? Household. He thinks we’re a family."
"Because we are," Zhu chimed in from Hei Long’s other side, happily licking sugar from her fingers.
Qingxue, however, frowned slightly. "Words can bind as well as flatter. Be cautious, Master."
Hei Long said nothing, but the faint smile tugging his lips was answer enough.
At the Tea Pavilion
Later, they stopped at a tea pavilion overlooking the central lotus lake. A table was quickly prepared—too quickly, almost—as though the staff had anticipated their arrival. Other patrons pretended to look away but kept sneaking glances.
Yuran poured tea with calm, deliberate motions. Across from her, Yexin leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice teasing. "Careful, or they’ll write songs about us before dessert arrives."
"They already have," Zhu announced, waving a pamphlet she’d picked up from a street poet. She read aloud: ’Dark star in black robes, followed by phoenix, blade, and blossom—’
She broke off with a giggle. "I think the blossom is me."Qingxue raised a brow. "Or it’s the flower vendor on the corner."
"Jealous," Zhu shot back, sticking out her tongue.
Hei Long reached over and took the pamphlet from her hand. He folded it once, tucked it into his sleeve, and said only: "Songs fade. Memories don’t."
The women went quiet—not because they were silenced, but because they understood exactly what he meant.
The Portrait Revealed
As they left the pavilion, a group of apprentices darted up, bowing low. One unrolled a canvas with trembling hands.
It was a painting—hastily done, but vivid. Their reflection from the isle’s kitchen window, translated into color: Hei Long in the center, Yuran poised, Yexin laughing, Qingxue calm, Zhu wild with joy. A family, caught in a single stroke of chance.
"Someone saw us that morning," Yuran murmured.
The apprentices stammered apologies. "We meant no offense—only, the sight was too rare not to preserve. The painter gifted it to us to share with the city."
Hei Long studied the painting for a long time. Then he nodded once. "Keep it safe."
The apprentices bowed so deeply their foreheads touched stone.
By the time the group returned to the palace, word had already spread. The city had seen them not as individuals, not as rivals orbiting one man, but as something larger: a whole.
Night Reflections
Later that night, Hei Long sat alone in his quarters, the city’s noise distant beyond stone walls.
One by one, they came to him.
Yuran, to bring him tea and press his hand in quiet reassurance.
Yexin, to curl against his side and whisper, "If we’re already a story, I’ll make sure it’s the one where you never forget me."
Qingxue, to stand at the window, arms folded, watching the moon, and finally say, "If the world calls us a family, then I’ll protect it as such."
Zhu, last of all, tumbling onto his lap and declaring, "Then it’s decided—we’re unstoppable."
Hei Long held each moment, let each touch linger, each vow echo.
And though no one spoke it aloud, the truth settled like the tide: the world had already chosen how it would see them.
Not as scattered rivals.
But as Hei Long’s.