Chapter 195

…

Before Xiao Sese went to Xiongzhou, she hesitated for a long time, then finally said to Xiao Pixian: "You… be careful of Wang Fei."

Xiao Pixian was far too clever not to understand—during this time, Zhao Yu had not summoned her to his bed solely because Zhang Chun was behind it.

Moreover, Xiao Pixian had already noticed that Zhao Yu favored Zhang Chun; he consulted her on many matters, and Zhang Chun was among the very few women who could influence Zhao Yu.

This made Xiao Pixian curious about Zhang Chun, and she began to observe her.

The result was that Xiao Pixian easily saw through Zhang Chun: outwardly sharp-tongued, inwardly soft-hearted, not a formidable figure at all, even lacking jealousy or any malicious intent.

Xiao Pixian smiled faintly: "What's there to fear in a woman like this? At most, she's just spoiled by favor."

Xiao Pixian quickly grasped the root of Xiao Sese's problem: "You abandon Song Zhu and pit yourself solely against Wang Fei—you'll be trapped by your status, restrained by her, and constantly controlled by her."

Xiao Pixian thought: "All I need do is bypass Wang Fei and approach Song Zhu directly. Then, when my status equals hers, what is there to fear?"

Realizing this key point, Xiao Pixian refused to engage with any of Zhang Chun's moves, responding only with courtesy—graceful, composed, magnanimous. Zhang Chun's attacks, though seemingly fierce, struck her like cotton, losing all force.

Zhang Chun tried to mold Xiao Pixian as she had molded Xiao Sese, but found herself utterly inept. Whenever Zhang Chun attempted to corner Xiao Pixian with words, the latter would respond with a calm, wisdom beyond her years, a faint smile redirecting the conversation effortlessly—neither aggressive nor submissive, yet preserving her dignity with perfect finesse.

Zhang Chun had felt this sensation only once before.

That person was Zhao Yu's Empress, Zheng Xiansu.

Previously, Zhang Chun had believed she could not defeat Zheng Xiansu due to differences in status and rank.

Now, encountering another "Zheng Xiansu," Zhang Chun realized that in true political struggle, victory never depended merely on status or rank—but on wisdom and character. Watching Xiao Pixian's composed, effortless demeanor, Zhang Chun's heart rippled with unease. She began to reflect: her own once-prized tactics, though seemingly shrewd, were nothing but the antics of a clown before a true sage.

Once she understood this, Zhang Chun stopped trying to mold Xiao Pixian—no point in humiliating herself further.

Now, when Zhao Yu asked Zhang Chun how she had molded Xiao Pixian, Zhang Chun smiled bitterly: "Your humble concubine lacks the strength. Only Your Majesty himself may teach her to submit."

Zhao Yu's eyes lit up, as if spotting his desired prey: "Even you cannot subdue her?"

Zhang Chun admitted frankly: "Your humble concubine is incapable. I beg Your Majesty to punish me."

Zhao Yu ignored Zhang Chun and turned to the attendant: "Bring Xiao Pixian to me. I wish to see what she's truly like."

Not long after, Xiao Pixian was brought before Zhao Yu.

Having been cast into the cold palace for days due to wearing a flamboyant red wedding gown upon arrival, Xiao Pixian now chose discretion—so upon entering, she lowered her head.

Seeing Xiao Pixian no longer flamboyant and radiant as before, but now demure and obedient, Zhao Yu—who knew exactly what kind of formidable woman she was—smiled faintly. In a low, magnetic voice, heavy with unchallengeable authority, he said: "Raise your head."

Zhao Yu was wrong. Xiao Pixian's demeanor today was not entirely feigned—she had truly been conquered by Zhao Yu.

Xiao Pixian was born to admire strength; since childhood, she had dreamed of marrying a towering hero.

Previously, Zhao Yu had led Song forces to repeated victories, besieging Yelu Yanxi within Yanjing. Now, with over seven hundred thousand Liao troops arriving, Zhao Yu still won against overwhelming odds, crushing the Liao army and forcing Yelu Yanxi to send envoys to surrender.

These glorious deeds had erected a towering monument of heroism in Xiao Pixian's heart, transforming her former disdain for Han people into admiration and reverence for Zhao Yu.

Thus, Xiao Pixian was willing to lower her proud head before Zhao Yu.

Now, when Zhao Yu ordered her to raise her head, Xiao Pixian did not hesitate or prevaricate—she lifted her head directly.

Zhao Yu looked closely. He saw:

When Xiao Pixian lowered her gaze, her brows and eyes were like carved ice blades, the corners of her eyes arcing upward in a dark stroke, like a northern bow slicing through cold clouds. Moonlight glided over her high, straight nose, gathering into a cold gleam at its tip; when her thin lips pressed together, they exuded the chill of jade. Unlike the delicate grace of southern women, she bore the distinct vigor of the Khitan—her silver hawk ornament at the temple trembled with each motion, her amber irises swirling with the mystery and majesty of the deep steppe.

Her youthful face resembled a newly bloomed wolf's bane flower—still tender with girlhood, yet secretly holding the power to command ten thousand troops. Her black brocade Khitan robe clung to her slender waist; as she rose, silver bells chimed softly, her wide sleeves swirling like waves, revealing a bracelet of wolf-bone beads wrapped around her wrist. When she brushed her hair behind her ear, her supple form cast a sharp silhouette in the candlelight—feminine in curve, yet her eyes held the regal aura that silenced ministers.

In one glance, the word "Queen" formed in Zhao Yu's mind.

Zhao Yu had encountered many types of women—but never one like this Queen.

Thinking back, in history, when Xiao Pixian governed Northern Liao, though nominally Empress Dowager, she was in truth an uncrowned Queen.

Zhao Yu's gaze grew fiery. He saw in Xiao Pixian an untamed expanse of steppe—wild with storm and passion, yet deep with tranquil stillness.

Zhao Yu rose slowly, circled the desk, and walked step by step toward Xiao Pixian.

Each of Zhao Yu's steps seemed to land upon Xiao Pixian's heartbeat.

As Zhao Yu drew nearer, Xiao Pixian clearly felt the powerful aura radiating from him—the pride and confidence of a victor, making her pulse quicken. Yet she remained composed, her eyes steady and calm, like a resilient flower standing firm against gales and waves.

Zhao Yu stopped before Xiao Pixian, their distance so close they could almost share breath.

Zhao Yu raised his hand gently, his fingertip brushing across Xiao Pixian's cold, exquisite cheek.

Xiao Pixian was unaccustomed to such intimacy; her body instinctively trembled slightly, yet outwardly she maintained her calm—only a flicker of hidden panic in her gaze betrayed her true feelings.

Not wanting to surrender so soon, Xiao Pixian forced herself to steady her breath, lowering her lashes like fans, casting soft shadows that concealed the turmoil beneath.

Zhao Yu keenly sensed her discomfort and true emotions. A wry smile curled his lips—satisfied by her reaction, and eager for the conquest of a true historical Queen.

"You… are special."

Zhao Yu's voice was low and magnetic, each word striking Xiao Pixian's heart like a thousand-pound hammer.

To Xiao Pixian, his words carried both admiration and undeniable authority—as if declaring: you are already mine, with no escape.

Xiao Pixian's lashes trembled. When she raised her eyes again, her clear, watery gaze had returned to its usual calm and resolve. She bowed slightly, responding with neither humility nor arrogance: "Your Majesty flatters me. Your humble concubine is but a willow of humble grace. To earn Your Majesty's favor is my fortune."

Xiao Pixian's directness startled Zhao Yu—he blinked, then burst into laughter.

Then Zhao Yu fixed his gaze on Xiao Pixian's eyes and said: "Since you speak plainly, I shall not beat around the bush. Let me be your hero—how?"

'Be my hero?!'

Xiao Pixian was instantly transported back to childhood.

Back then, the Khitan sky was vast and high, the grasslands an endless green sea stretching to the horizon. As a child, she often rode her beloved pony, galloping freely across the steppe, wind roaring past her ears, carrying the freshness of grass and the scent of freedom. Each sunset, golden light bathed the earth, and she would lie on the soft grass, gazing at the crimson-streaked sky, filled with longing for the unknown and a thirst for heroes.

In her dreams, the hero stood tall as an eagle, his eyes deep and resolute, wearing a silver-edged leather helmet, clad in black chainmail beneath a crimson battle robe that snapped like a banner in the wind. When he charged, his curved blade flashed amid arrows like rain—he shattered enemies with surprise tactics. In peace, he shed his armor, visited nomad tents to comfort the people, taught children archery, helped repair felt tents—fierce as wildfire on the battlefield, gentle as a stream across the steppe. He would protect her, lead her to conquer the world, making her the proudest woman alive.

The first man who matched her image of a hero was Yelu Chun.

So, disregarding his twenty-year age gap and his Wang Fei, she resolved to marry him—even as a concubine.

Once, she had believed she had found the hero she sought.

But in the end, the truth proved Yelu Chun was no hero—he had handed his own woman over to the enemy. Was that the act of a hero?

Perhaps it was—but not the hero she wanted.

Now, faced with Zhao Yu's soul-striking promise, Xiao Pixian's thoughts galloped like wild horses across time and space. She narrowed her eyes, as if seeing again the steppe that once held her dreams, the Yelu Chun who she once thought was her hero.

Xiao Puxian's thoughts were abruptly pulled back from distant memories by the sight of Zhao Yu before her. She gazed at this man—his eyes held unshakable resolve, yet also a touch of tenderness and dominance; though unlike the hero she had envisioned countless times in her dreams, they somehow matched perfectly.

"The King of Yue is cowardly, always yielding before enemies. He is not so. He governs as if reading the lines on his palm, faces foes like a pine standing firm on a mountain, his gaze fierce as a tiger's, his bearing bold as an eagle's—his aura terrifies all heroes. Though mighty enemies press at the borders, he still draws his sword and advances, expression unchanged, revealing the very aura of a true sovereign…"

Zhao Yu and Xiao Puxian stared at each other for a long while.

After a struggle, Xiao Puxian—lacking experience, too young, and holding an insufficient rank—finally yielded. She couldn't help saying, "Don't bully me, or else…"

Before Xiao Puxian could utter the words that might shatter the current atmosphere, Zhao Yu said, "Fine." Then he pulled her soft waist toward him…

…

The next day.

Zhang Chun rose early, eager to see what Xiao Puxian would become after sleeping with Zhao Yu—the woman she could never bring herself to oppose.

As soon as she entered the bedroom, Zhang Chun saw a scene she would never forget.

There, Zhao Yu sat on the edge of the bed while several palace attendants dressed him, and Xiao Puxian lay curled beside him like a kitten.

At this point, nothing unusual—just a normal daily scene.

But when Zhang Chun looked again at Zhao Yu's hand, she saw it resting gently on Xiao Puxian's head, naturally stroking her hair, even caressing her snow-white neck.

Xiao Puxian, like a kitten being petted, closed her eyes in pleasure, a soft, unprecedented smile lingering on her lips—as if, in this moment, she was no longer the proud, cold, and distant queen, but a woman lost in love.

Zhang Chun murmured in amazement. She had never imagined Xiao Puxian could show such tenderness—so soft, as if her emotions could drip like water—utterly unlike her usual cold, haughty demeanor.

More importantly, the way Zhao Yu stroked Xiao Puxian made Zhang Chun feel dazed—two words surfaced in her mind: "Petting a cat?!"

No matter how Zhang Chun looked, she felt Zhao Yu was treating Xiao Puxian like a cat to be petted.

Zhang Chun was stunned, then a sly smile curled on her lips. This scene wasn't just unexpected—it shattered every perception she had of Xiao Puxian. In her imagination, even after one night of intimacy, Xiao Puxian would remain cold and aloof, as if forgetting it all, leaving no trace. Who could have guessed that after just one night, this queen had become a servant?

"No way!" Zhang Chun thought. "Has Xiao Puxian been completely broken by Zhao Yu?"

Seeing Zhang Chun arrive, Zhao Yu continued petting Xiao Puxian as he said, "From now on, she'll assist you all in handling imperial memorials. You'll guide her."

Zhang Chun replied, "Yes, Your Majesty."

At that moment, Zhao Yu finished dressing.

Without a hint of hesitation, he withdrew his hand and rose to go train.

Zhang Chun clearly saw that the instant Zhao Yu pulled his hand away, Xiao Puxian's face filled with reluctance—as if she cherished the warmth of his touch and didn't want it to vanish.

Once Zhao Yu's figure vanished beyond the door, Zhang Chun turned back to look at Xiao Puxian.

There, Xiao Puxian had already risen—in an instant, she was once again the noble, elegant, cold, and commanding queen who ruled legions and silenced ministers with a glance.

As Zhang Chun watched Xiao Puxian, Xiao Puxian watched Zhang Chun. She smiled faintly, confident and composed: "I'll rely on you, Consort Zhang."

As she spoke, Xiao Puxian unleashed her aura—a sovereign's dominion over all under heaven.

Zhang Chun's breath caught: "The Queen has returned…"

…

(End of Chapter)