Morning brought no sun—only clouds, thick and unmoving, casting the Zhao estate in pale gray.
Shen Lan stood by the well, rope in hand, slowly lowering a bucket. His movements were unhurried, ordinary. But his thoughts danced several steps ahead.
He had spent the past nights mapping the estate in his mind—who walked where, who spoke with whom, who carried coin far beyond their station. The servants whispered of shadows, but shadows had names. And soon, names would bleed.
Today, however, was for something simpler.
A lesson.
It began when Zhao Feng, the youngest son of the Zhao branch family, rode into the courtyard on a new spirit colt—a beast barely tamed and wildly expensive. His posture was proud, chin raised, gaze sharp with arrogance.
Behind him trailed his usual entourage: two flatterers and one bruiser. Shen Lan had seen them before—mocking servants, breaking vases and blaming maids, and always laughing.
Today, their eyes found Shen Lan.
"Hey, you," Zhao Feng called, dismounting with dramatic flair. "Stable rat. Is the beast ready yet, or did your filthy hands ruin his coat?"
Shen Lan bowed his head low. "The beast is cleaned, fed, and waiting, young master."
Zhao Feng sneered. "Then you're not entirely useless."
The others laughed.
Shen Lan's face didn't twitch. Inside, though, he had already chosen the exact moment Zhao Feng would fall.
"You trained this colt?" Zhao Feng asked, approaching. "They say it bucks even spirit handlers."
"I brushed its mane," Shen Lan replied humbly. "Its nature remains… spirited."
Zhao Feng turned to his friends. "Watch this."
He mounted the horse again, tightening the reins. The colt snorted, hooves scraping the stones.
Shen Lan stepped back, calm, waiting.
Zhao Feng kicked.
The colt reared, eyes wide.
And then—it threw him.
A full spin, a mighty buck, and Zhao Feng hit the ground with a crack of pride and bone.
Gasps. Shouts. A scurry of motion. The guards ran to him.
But Shen Lan… simply stood there.
One of the servants looked at him. "You said it was ready!"
Shen Lan bowed again, eyes lowered. "I said it was fed."
No one saw the thin sliver of thorn Shen Lan had hidden under the saddle blanket—a simple irritation, perfectly placed.
Zhao Feng was carried away, howling in humiliation.
The colt calmed moments later under Shen Lan's touch.
He whispered into its ear:
"Even beasts hate fools."
From behind the stables, Lin Xue watched everything. She didn't speak. She didn't smile.
But she understood.
And that was enough.