When Ye Yu finally came to her senses, her face had gone gray with rage and disbelief. She, a proud daughter of the Night family, was afraid of a cripple.

Snarling, she summoned her spiritual power, flooding it into her sword, ready to drive it through Qingge’s heart.

But Qingge moved first.

Her hairpin pushed forward, the silver tip biting into Ye Yu’s pale neck. Blood welled instantly—brilliant red against white skin, flowing like the blossoms of the underworld’s riverbank.

“With my useless life in exchange for yours, Second Miss,” she said lightly, “I’d call that a fair trade.”

Her smile was serene—but beneath that calm shimmered a killing intent so sharp it made Ye Yu’s pulse stutter.

For a terrible instant, she no longer saw a disgraced girl before her—but a phantom drenched in blood.

“Ye Qingge!” cried Ye Qingqing, horrified. “How dare you raise a hand against your own sister!”

Qingge turned her gaze upon her, cold and wordless.

Ye Qingqing fell silent. Her breath caught in her throat. For reasons she couldn’t name, that single look chilled her marrow—it was the gaze of death itself.

“Ye Qingge, you wouldn’t dare,” Ye Yu rasped, her voice trembling despite herself.

Qingge’s smile deepened, soft and bright as spring sunlight. “Wouldn’t I?”

The hairpin pressed deeper. Blood streamed freely now.

For the first time in her life, Ye Yu felt death’s shadow looming close. Her knees trembled. Sweat trickled down her spine. She—a renowned genius—cornered by a girl the world called trash.

Qingge might not wish to die, but Ye Yu still wanted to live.

“I won’t strike you,” Ye Yu whispered finally, her tone faltering. “Put the pin down.”

Qingge said nothing. She merely glanced at the sword still clutched in Ye Yu’s trembling hand.

Understanding, Ye Yu let it fall. The blade clattered against the stone floor.

Only then did Qingge withdraw the hairpin. Calmly, she wiped the blood clean with her sleeve before sliding it back into her hair.

Then, without another glance, she turned and walked away—her steps steady, unhurried.

Blood trailed down her back in crimson ribbons, but her composure never wavered.

By the time her shadow vanished beyond the gates, silence blanketed the arena.

Throughout it all, her eyes had never once lingered on Beiyue Ming.

The prince watched her go, thoughtful, something flickering behind his cool gaze—a depth no one could read.

Ye Qingqing noticed. Jealousy seared through her chest like wildfire. Her hands clenched until her nails drew blood.

If looks could kill, Ye Qingge would have died a thousand deaths on that spot.

Ye Yu sheathed her sword, schooling her features into grace. She turned to the prince with a practiced smile.

“Forgive the display, Your Highness,” she said. “My family’s discipline has clearly… slipped.”

Beiyue Ming’s eyes were cold as winter. “You should tend to your wound, Second Miss.”

Her smile faltered. “And you, Your Highness?”

“The hour grows late,” he said, turning away. “I’ll take my leave.”

Each movement—calm, elegant, distant—radiated an effortless nobility that made approach impossible.

Ye Yu inclined her head. “As you wish. Qingqing, escort His Highness out.”

Ye Qingqing’s heart leapt. “At once, Your Highness—this way, please—”

“No need.”

A single sentence. A clean, brutal slap.

Her face drained of color as the prince walked past her without so much as a glance.

Ye Yu’s voice followed, quiet and cutting:

“The prince despises women who throw themselves at him. Your simpering only disgusts him further. If even Ye Qingge is unworthy of his regard—what makes you think you are?”

Ye Qingqing’s face flushed red, then white. The humiliation burned like fire beneath her skin.

But Ye Yu’s sneer was not for her sake. It was a reminder—cold and merciless.

Even if Ye Qingge could never be the prince’s consort…

Ye Qingqing was even less deserving.