“Your Majesty, someone has arrived,” a man’s voice rang out in the quiet bedroom.

The bedroom rarely featured bright, rosy hues; its dominant tones were white and black, or yellow and brown. The entire room was strikingly uncluttered, with no sheer curtains or beaded draperies—items that young ladies of the boudoir so often adore. In one corner stood a black ebony marble writing desk, upon which several books and calligraphy brushes were casually piled, while a inkstone carved from jadeite rested on one side. A painting of a bamboo grove at midnight hung on the wall, signed “Feng Ju,” and to its right was a finely crafted dongxiao flute. In the far corner stood a self-striking clock. The bed itself was an ancient acid-wood platform, remarkably spacious; yet its three-sided railings bore no elaborate carvings, merely a few layers of simple openwork.

The room exuded an air of grandeur and freshness without losing its sense of status—it was indeed quite beautiful. But to claim it was a young woman’s chamber would be hard to believe. After all, a daughter’s room would invariably include a dressing table, whereas this room didn’t even have a mirror. How could anyone possibly think it belonged to a young lady?

Unfortunately, that was precisely the case. On the ancient acid-wood bed, a figure lay completely wrapped in blankets, her head entirely concealed; one could only tell someone was there by the slight bulge of the covers, leaving one rather worried that she might suffocate inside.

Strangely, though one could hear her voice, no one could see her. There was no sign of the man who had spoken just moments before.

At that moment, the blanket shifted, and a fluffy little head emerged—clearly someone who slept restlessly, her dark hair tousled and stray strands sticking up in every direction. Her thick eyelashes fluttered, and slowly she opened her eyes, revealing a pair of amber-colored pupils that looked both puzzled and bewildered as they surveyed the space before her.

Indeed, Qiu Huan had guessed that her ethnicity might be one of the minority groups—and there was a reason for that: her irises were much lighter than most people’s, a marvelous amber-like hue, and paired with her large, phoenix-like eyes, they were simply irresistible.

“Xiao Mo?” Perhaps because she hadn’t quite caught what he’d said earlier, or perhaps due to the helplessness of being alone in bed after waking, she mumbled the name Yuan Mo in a daze.

“…Shang Rong and the others have arrived,” Yuan Mo repeated.

Qiu Huan pouted slightly, feeling too lazy to move. Just as she was about to tell him to ask them not to come in, she happened to catch sight of the self-striking clock in the corner. After a moment’s thought, she finally crawled out from under the blankets and said, “Tell them to wait a bit—I’ll change my clothes.”

Yuan Mo, unaware of her inner turmoil, simply obeyed and leapt down from the rafters, then opened the door and stepped outside. Seeing his movement as she struggled to get out of bed, Qiu Huan couldn’t help but burst into laughter—but deep down she felt helpless. Despite having told him countless times, it still did no good; he stubbornly kept perching on the rafters, as if he weren’t afraid of snapping the beams in her room.

Meanwhile, Shang Rong and the others were inside. Duan Yunhe was excitedly darting around, examining the swords here and touching the picture frame there, before finally fixing his gaze on the signature. Shang Rong, who considered himself half the host, had already poured out the cold tea from the teapot and replaced it with fresh brew. As for someone’s habit of “not washing the teapot after drinking tea”—well, he supposed one just had to get used to it…

“Brother Shang, who wrote the inscription in the main hall?” Duan Yunhe suddenly asked, his attention fixed on the painting. Shang Rong, lost in his own “sorrow,” was momentarily taken aback.

“Huh? Oh, that ‘Clear Sounds Echo in the Empty Valley’—I wrote it.”

Duan Yunhe nodded knowingly: “Was it ‘Clear Sounds Echo in the Empty Valley, Submerged Waves Ripple in the Cold Pool’?”

“Yeah, exactly. I first came across that line when I was a child. Miss Duan—Ms. Yunhe, you’re so eloquent that you can recite it right away!” Shang Rong burped and paused, recalling how Duan Yunhe, after asking their ages, had solemnly declared, “Let’s not be so formal. Since I’m older, let’s just call each other brother and sister—plus, I don’t even have a younger brother.” He couldn’t help but feel frustrated. After half an hour of arguing, he finally managed to avoid being forced to call her “sister.” Well, Yunhe was Yunhe—after all, Qiu Huan called her Yunhe too, Shang Rong quipped wryly.

Still, the two had only known each other for a day, and there was no sense of instant rapport or deep connection. Although Shang Rong was genuinely amazed by Duan Yunhe’s breadth of knowledge, such praise was merely perfunctory, lacking any real warmth. Yet as a noble young lady, she found herself somewhat uncomfortable hearing such insincere compliments; her expression turned awkward, and she didn’t reply, prompting Shang Rong to give her a curious look.

End of Chapter 3: How Can One Distinguish Between One’s Thoughts?