April 19th, Grain Rain.

The sky hung low beneath heavy clouds. Rain waited, biding its time in the belly of the sky, not yet fallen to earth.

Yu Shaomiao was brewing tea on the top floor of his lakeside pavilion. That floor opened out onto a viewing terrace; windows and doors stood ajar, letting in the cool mist of drifting rain.

There was some noise outside—a brief burst of commotion, then swift silence. At last, only a single set of footsteps ascended the stairs.

Yu Shaomiao listened, then poured a cup of tea and set it on the table. He stood, flicking out his sleeves—cranes embroidered on the cloth seemed to stir their wings. Without waiting for the visitor, he walked toward the terrace.

Just as he stepped over the railing, the bedroom door opened. Yu Wangling stood at the threshold, his face bright with spring-like ease.

Perhaps it was the peace that comes with losing everything—he even found the nerve to tease. Yu Shaomiao arched one brow, waved lazily, and said,

“That quick? I take it more than half the inner court has already turned against me?”

Yu Wangling didn’t answer. He looked gaunt, his illness etched deep into his frame, fragile both inside and out. Yet his bearing was proud, a man long accustomed to command. On others, such thinness might seem cruel; on him, it was cold nobility. Even now, having pushed someone to the edge of the terrace, his tone remained gentle.

“What are you doing?” he asked, as though truly puzzled.

Yu Shaomiao turned his head, swung his other leg over the railing, and replied lightly,

“Ending it myself.”

Yu Wangling laughed—softly, but clear in the quiet room.

“You think I’d kill you?”

“You’d best,” Yu Shaomiao gazed out across the lake. “Better I end myself than wait for your hand.”

He glanced back at Yu Wangling. “I lost. I won’t stay to watch the tower fall.”

Yu Wangling, ever composed, took the jab with a smile and replied politely,

“Why not stay, then? See for yourself if it truly falls.”

“No need. I’m tired,” said Yu Shaomiao, and with that, he leapt.

A great splash followed—waves rippling violently across the lake.

Yu Wangling walked slowly to the terrace, gazing down at the water below. His men, stunned for a heartbeat, then dove in after Yu Shaomiao.

A while later, a disciple hurried upstairs to report: “We couldn’t find him.”

Yu Wangling looked relaxed. He studied the lake’s surface and said slowly,

“No need. Inform the spies across Lijiang—not to pursue Yu Shaomiao’s whereabouts.”

The disciple hesitated, then ventured,

“Master Yu is the one most familiar with how Jin Zhan Pavilion’s intelligence flows. If he stirs up trouble in Lijiang, there may be consequences…”

Yu Wangling gave a short laugh, as though amused: “Leave?”

The disciple fell silent.

Yu Wangling turned, returned to the tea table, picked up the cup that had gone cold. He examined the color of the tea with faint interest and said,

“If he leaves, so be it. But if he stays, he’ll return to this stage soon enough.

Smart men often weave their own snares—don’t you think it’s funny?”

The disciple said nothing. Yu Wangling wasn’t asking for an answer.

He downed the tea in one motion, his gaze distant.

“Notify Prince Li’s residence,” he ordered.

Two days later, Jin Zhan Pavilion issued a public mourning:

Its former master had died in an unexpected accident.

His younger brother, Yu Wangling, would temporarily assume his place.

Grain Rain had passed. And now, the rains over Lijiang would fall without end.