Dragon Boat Secret Realm 24: Fish

Chen Manor was destined for a restless night.

In Falling Spring City, even across the entire island, the Chen family was among the most prominent.

Their lavish mansion, with its sprawling pavilions and towers, occupied half a street.

Lord Chen Qiang, the patriarch, had countless wives and concubines, producing many children.

Though now in his sixties, his youngest daughter had just come of age, a beauty in her prime.

In his youth, Chen was dashing and talented, paired with beautiful consorts.

His daughter, renowned since birth for her stunning looks—snow-white skin, delicate brows, peach-like cheeks, and a graceful figure—captivated all who saw her.

From age nine, Chen confined her to an embroidered tower, forbidding public appearances, preparing her for marriage.

The longer a daughter was secluded, the more valuable she became.

Chen regretted not locking her away sooner, fearing her worth might diminish.

Thus, the ornate two-story wooden tower became her world.

Her only pastime, when tired of embroidering, was standing on tiptoe to gaze out, imagining the outside.

Time seemed frozen for her, as if only marriage could restart it.

She longed for marriage—not for a handsome suitor, but for a new life, to escape the stifling, suffocating tower.

But when she learned Chen planned to marry her to Lord Li—a man older than her father, with children older than her—she realized the tower, despite its misery, was her safest haven. Her first fifteen years, bleak as they were, were her most peaceful.

Imagining herself trapped beside a decrepit old man, her youth and beauty drained, she couldn’t eat or drink.

Three days later, her flower-like face withered. Servants force-fed her water and medicine. A month later, she was a skeletal figure, barely alive.

She couldn’t even die—Chen ensured her survival, her life not her own.

One night, exhausted, she closed her eyes and awoke changed, the household said.

How?

She sat up abruptly, her sorrowful demeanor gone. Her curved brows and moist eyes vanished, replaced by icy blankness.

Same face, different person.

Upon waking, she hoarsely demanded, “Water.”

After three pots of honey water, still parched, she asked for food. But the servants dared not feed her—her long fast risked stomach damage, and Chen forbade it, saying, “She can’t die when she wants or live when she pleases. Starve her until she learns!”

Relayed tactfully, she understood, her expression colder, lips cracked like ravines.

At midnight, a maid, pitying her, snuck digestible pastries to her.

That changed everything.

Regaining strength, she grabbed embroidery scissors and charged downstairs, drawing blood from anyone who blocked her. Blood dripped from the second floor to the first, too sudden for anyone to stop.

She burst from the tower, disheveled, skirts fluttering, pursued by frantic servants with yellow lanterns, pleading, “Miss, come back! The lord will be furious!”

No one could stop her, especially as she reached the main hall.

Beyond it lay Chen’s quarters, elegantly austere. A notable detail: a black-gold sword hung on an ebony wall cabinet.

Chen didn’t wield swords—his wealth came from ruthlessness. The sword, unsharpened, was decorative, its ornate scabbard meant to impress guests with martial flair.

The miss, ghost-like in the night, gripped the hilt and drew it, its silver gleam dazzling like frozen moonlight.

Emaciated, her beauty faded, but her sword-holding stance was neither awkward nor unfamiliar.

She stopped running. Now others fled.

Her scissors were deadly; with a sword, she was unstoppable. Servants whispered she’d visited the underworld, possessed by a demon star.

No one dared approach, awed by her presence.
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She asked only, “Where’s the dog-thief who starved me?”

A servant stammered, “Miss, that’s your father! How can you speak so? The lord will be angry—put it down!”

She paused, then repeated firmly, “Dog-thief.”

A quick-witted servant ran to alert Chen, too clever for his own good. The miss, amnesiac, didn’t even recall her name or Chen’s location. Without his tip, she might not have known he was in the quarters.

Sword in hand, she charged in, confronting Chen, eyes locked.

“Rebellious daughter!” Chen slammed the table, tea splashing, veins pulsing. “I had high hopes, yet you defy me, unfilial and unladylike. What will become of you?”

“Come on!” he sneered, fearless, arms spread. “Stab me, if you dare.”

He knew her well—raised sheltered, she might harm herself but lacked the nerve to hurt others. Even with a sharpened blade, she’d turn it on herself.

So, he stared her down, unafraid, his gaze venomous.
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“Dare you?”

For the first time, the frail miss didn’t flinch. Her sword flashed, striking with vicious force, as if shattering his organs. Chen was flung back, crashing to the ground.

Incredulous, he gasped, clutching his abdomen, retreating. “Unfilial wretch! You’ve rebelled! Raising you was for nothing!”

Unfazed, she swung again, aiming for his neck. Chen scrambled, terrified, crawling. “I’m your father! Call the authorities—I’ll pay a thousand taels!”

A servant, hearing the commotion, turned to fetch help but was silenced by hands covering his mouth and nose, a swift strike to his neck knocking him out.

Su Qing emerged from the shadows, addressing the skeletal miss. “Tian Ning, spare him for now. I have questions.”

From her familiar swordplay, Su Qing recognized Tian Ning.

But Tian Ning, hearing her, didn’t acknowledge her. Instead, she turned, wary. “Who’s Tian Ning? Who are you?”

Su Qing blinked, meeting her gaze, puzzled. The emotionless face, the slight frown when annoyed, the downturned lips when alert—it was unmistakably Tian Ning. Had she lost her memory?

Amnesia was common in illusions, trapping cultivators in false identities until their lifespan ended.

Su Qing sighed, recalling their three-year bond. Had it all been for nothing?

Suddenly, Chen, sprawled on the floor, pointed shakily at Tian Ning. “I knew you weren’t my daughter! Where’s my real daughter?!”

Tian Ning’s form flickered, as if something around her collapsed, shaking her.

She grimaced in pain.

This clashed with the illusion’s rules.

Entrants must play their roles—Su Qing as a village nobody, Tian Ning as Chen’s daughter. There was room for error, but explicit exposure of their true identities was forbidden.

Su Qing acted swiftly, kicking Chen and pressing a knife to his neck, drawing blood mixed with cold sweat. Pinning his trembling shoulder, she whispered, “Say that again. Is she your daughter? You’re smart—give me the right answer.”

“Yes, yes!” Chen stammered, eyes rolling, afraid to move. “She’s my daughter.”

Tian Ning’s form stabilized instantly.

Su Qing raised a brow. The rules allowed significant leeway, as long as breaches weren’t blatant.

“You wanted to spare him?” Tian Ning said coldly, sword in hand. “He looks close to dead.”

“Accident, accident.” Su Qing grinned, tossing the knife and kicking it away, wiping blood on Chen’s clothes, ignoring his near-fainting terror.

She’d been too eager, misjudging her strength.
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She stomped on Chen, glaring: *Dare faint and see what happens.*

His squinted eyes snapped open.

What misfortune for an old man—two female fiends invading his grand manor, unstoppable.

Su Qing turned to Tian Ning. “You seem to trust me?”

Tian Ning nodded slightly. “You have a trustworthy face.”

“Good for business, then.” Su Qing flashed a toothy grin. “You can trust me fully.”

She glanced at a cowering servant, who paled as if she were a demon.

“We’ve got a lot to do. For now, let’s eat.”

Soon, digestible dishes piled up. Tian Ning ate ravenously, cheeks puffed.

She was truly starved.

Su Qing found Chen Manor deplorable—starving a young woman to this state.

The food’s aroma overwhelmed the hall’s refined, martial ambiance.

Chen’s neck was bandaged, mainly to ensure he survived questioning.

The manor was sealed, under Su Qing and Tian Ning’s control. For cultivators, overtaking a mortal household was easy.

As Tian Ning ate, Su Qing interrogated Chen. “What do you know about the Flower God Festival?”

Kneeling, he shook his head. “It’s a daughters’ affair, irrelevant to my house. I know nothing.”

“Oh?” Su Qing twirled her knife. “Try again. My patience is thin—one more chance.”

Chen shrank, eyes trembling, silent.

The room fell quiet, only the sound of Su Qing’s knife-twirling and Tian Ning’s chopsticks.

Finally, Chen spoke, his neck wound throbbing, a reminder of her brutality. He swallowed, but Su Qing cut him off. “Sure it’s what I want to hear? Your neck can’t take another cut.”

His resolve crumbled. He knew she’d follow through. Shaking, he cried, “I can’t say! If I do, I’ll turn into a fish!”