The Weeping Moon: The Moon That Sheds Vermilion Tears

As the carriage rattled along the stone-paved road toward the palace, four soggy cultivators sat in silence—each one clinging to the same perfectly synchronized, unspoken thought:

Should we stop somewhere first? Maybe change? Pretend this day never happened?

Song Meiyu was the first to break the silence, pulling at a clump of unidentified green goo clinging to her sleeve like a very clingy ex.

"I look like I lost a fight with a cabbage field," she grumbled.

"I'm not convinced we didn't," He Yuying muttered, flicking a piece of swamp off his boot. He watched in despair as it slapped against the window with a wet splat, then slid down slowly like it, too, was ashamed.

Shen Zhenyu ran a hand through his miraculously still-elegant hair and said, "There's an inn two streets before the palace gate. We can sneak in, bribe the keeper, burn our robes—start a new life."

"Too late," Linyue sighed. She stared out the window with the weary gaze of someone who had seen too much moss. "We've reached the stage where public humiliation is just part of the itinerary."

Song Meiyu nodded solemnly, peeling swamp slime off her eyebrow. "Maybe if the King of Shulin sees us like this, he'll assume we've been cursed. Or attacked. Or cursed and attacked. Maybe he'll just send us away out of pity. Or horror. Either way, that's a win."

Shen Zhenyu looked thoughtful, which was dangerous. Thoughtful Shen Zhenyu usually led to things like detailed strategies, moral lessons, or, in this case, terrible truths.

"Or he'll think we're some kind of bold, eccentric group that specializes in swamp-based cultivation."

He Yuying muttered, "On the bright side, we've officially founded the Swamp Style Sect. Our motto can be 'We Sink Together.'"

Linyue, still dripping faintly, replied in a flat voice, "Swamp Style Sect. Has a nice ring to it. We should make matching robes—moss green. Embroidered with regret."

Song Meiyu snorted and flopped back against the carriage wall. "Great. We'll go down in history as the cultivators who mastered swamp diving. Fear us. We float slightly."

Shen Zhenyu sighed, rubbing his temple like he was already mentally designing the sect's recruitment banner. "Swamp Style… the cultivation path no one wanted, but here we are. Our legacy will be mud and poor life decisions."

They all let out the same exhausted sigh, perfectly in sync. There was a long pause as the carriage bumped along, and then all four of them collectively nodded. Grim. Resigned. United by determination shared by people who know they've already hit rock bottom and might as well keep digging.

"Let's just do it," Linyue said at last, voice flat. "Show the imperial decree. Claim a room. Disappear before anyone can sniff us."

"Pretend we're cursed," Song Meiyu added helpfully. "Maybe they won't come near. No one wants to talk to cursed people."

Thus, with their fate sealed and their self-respect firmly abandoned somewhere back in the swamp—probably still floating face-down next to a cursed lily pad—the four cultivators made no further plans for dignity, grace, or even basic dryness.

They were going to walk straight into the lion's den.

Or, in this case, the King's palace—drenched, green, squishy, and somehow… strangely proud.

After all, if they couldn't arrive in glory, they might as well arrive in style.

… A questionable, mossy, possibly moldy style. But style nonetheless.

The carriage came to a dramatic, creaky halt in front of the towering gates of Shulin Palace. It was the kind of stop that said, "This is as far as dignity goes. Please exit with caution."

One by one, they stepped down.

Each squelch of their boots hit the stone like a sad, wet drumbeat—served as a reminder of dignity lost.

They looked… not great.

Moss clung where moss had no right to be. Robes were soaked, wrinkled, and vaguely glowing in spots that really shouldn't glow. Linyue had what looked suspiciously like a swamp snail stuck to her sash.

Shen Zhenyu's hair was still somehow perfect. It would've been impressive if not for the large, dramatic leaf clinging to his shoulder like a badge of shame.

And then came the drums of fate.

And then—just as they tried to slink toward the side gate unnoticed—the drums of fate began.

No, really. Actual drums.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Followed by the steady clatter of hooves and armored boots on stone.

A unit of soldiers emerged, marching back toward the palace. Bloodied, bruised, but upright—they had clearly just returned from a demon-slaughtering. Their armor was scratched and dented, their swords stained with dried blood. Some limped. Some helped their comrades. They were the image of valor, of sacrifice, of doing the hard thing and surviving to tell the tale.

And that was when the two groups saw each other.

The four swamp cultivators froze on the palace steps.

Green. Dripping. Glowing slightly in a way that really shouldn't have been possible.

Song Meiyu muttered under her breath, "Maybe if we stand really still, they'll think we're part of the scenery."

He Yuying whispered, "Too late. They've made eye contact. We're doomed."

The moment hung in the air like the world had pressed pause.

The soldiers froze.

On one side: a regiment of returning heroes. Splashed in red. Bloody, battered, glorious. Their armor was cracked and gleaming, blades still wet with demon blood. The air around them smelled of iron and victory. Their eyes were sharp, their stances straight, each one carrying the weight of battle and the kind of trauma you only earned from stabbing monsters until they stopped moving.

On the other side: a swampy disaster. A group splashed in green. Slimy, soggy, and possibly mid-fermenting. The smell of wet disappointment clung to them. Four utterly swamp-drenched individuals who looked like they'd lost a fight to a particularly haunted vegetable patch. Their robes clung to them in awkward ways, patches of algae and unknown green goop plastered across every available surface. They glistened—not with power, but with moisture and questionable plant life.

Both sides blinked. No one spoke.

The wind whistled.

A single leaf floated down between them—slow, dramatic, unnecessarily theatrical

Then, as if choreographed by fate itself, both groups tilted their heads slightly.

You okay? said one glance.

You don't look okay either, replied the other.

Truly, a meeting of equals.

A tragic standoff between tragedy and comedy, the bloodied and the muddied, the battle-hardened and the pond-soaked.

For just a moment, they understood each other.

And then, as if on cue, someone's boot let out a fresh squelch.

The moment shattered.

"… Is this a new infiltration technique?" one of the soldiers finally muttered, squinting his eyes as if hoping the vision would correct itself if he looked harder.

Shen Zhenyu gave a dignified cough, straightened (as much as one could while dripping), and nodded. "We've already committed," he whispered. "Just… walk like we meant it."

Linyue, who had clearly abandoned the idea of explaining anything ever again, added flatly, "Right. Swamp style infiltration technique."

There was a long silence. One soldier coughed politely. Another took a hesitant step back, perhaps unsure if what he was looking at was really advance infiltration technique or whether they'd all accidentally witnessed the birth of a new plague.

And then—because sometimes the best response is none at all, or perhaps deciding it was best not to get involved in whatever this was—the soldiers marched on. They left behind muddy footprints, scent of blood, and several deeply confused glances over their shoulders.

The four swamp cultivators? They just straightened what was left of their dignity, lifted their squelching boots, and strode toward the palace gates like they absolutely belonged there.

No one dared stop them. Probably out of fear. Or pity. Or the sheer uncertainty of what they were actually looking at.

Except one.

One man stayed behind.

While the rest of the soldiers continued their weary march into the palace gates—clanking armor, groans of sore limbs, and the occasional curse about demon claws in uncomfortable places—this one figure did not move.

He stood tall, like a statue carved by a particularly dramatic sculptor. Two other soldiers trailed behind him, slowly realizing that their very scary leader had turned into a statue halfway to the gate.

His robes—probably gray at some point—were now gloriously stained in splashes of crimson. His face, streaked with what looked like an artistically placed blood smear across the cheekbone, bore no visible injuries—just a steady, unreadable expression. Blood on his collar, his robes, his boots—none of it looked like it belonged to him.

No limping. No labored breath. Just presence.

The kind of presence that made the air feel heavier.

He looked less like a soldier and more like the final boss in a story arc no one wanted to start. The one who shows up in last chapter with a haunting backstory, impossible sword skills, and fans online debating whether he's a villain or just deeply misunderstood.

He did not blink. He did not speak.

He just watched.

The four—wet, smelly, and burdened by various swamp-based indignities—felt the weight of that stare.

Shen Zhenyu narrowed his eyes briefly, calculating. Not a bandit. Not a curious civilian. That posture, that silence, that blood-soaked fashion statement… Definitely someone with rank and the emotional availability of a brick.

He Yuying instinctively adjusted his sleeves, as if trying to cover the most offensive patches of moss. It didn't help. The moss was winning. It had declared sovereignty.

Linyue took one glance, shrugged internally, and returned to contemplating the fastest path to a very long hot bath and eternal denial.

Song Meiyu just muttered under her breath, "Well, someone's having a better hair day than us."

And so they moved on—slosh, squelch, squish—past the man painted in demon blood like it was a new fashion trend. Not because they were intimidated. But because at that moment, the only thing that mattered was getting whatever had just slithered into Shen Zhenyu's boot, out of Shen Zhenyu's boot.

The man in red watched them pass, his eyes unreadable beneath the blood.

He didn't say a word.

But if you listened closely—really closely—you might've heard the faintest scoff. The kind of scoff that said, Even the demons would be embarrassed for you.

And then, the man finally spoke.

A single word, low and commanding.

"Stop."