Little Pink Starfish

As the final act of the evening, Head Constable Jin naturally wouldn’t appear on stage right away. Instead, he stood at a distance, observing Hua Rongyue’s every move from across the river. He was curious—curious enough to want to see firsthand what kind of strength she truly possessed.

He found a quiet place on the riverbank to stand, cloaked in a rain cape that hid the uniform underneath. Others who shared his intentions were also scattered and concealed among the crowd.

When the umbrella was folded shut, the light rain gradually began to soak Hua Rongyue’s robes. While the rain slightly blurred vision, it was still very light—nothing that would affect a martial artist.

There is always a difference between masters and common folk. Hua Rongyue was composed as ever. Each stroke of her blade seemed casual, yet each carried the grace of a crescent moon in the sky. Even her flowing sleeves moved like drifting clouds.

To the untrained eye, it might just look “pretty.” But what mattered was that it was mesmerizing. Rather than dispersing, the crowd actually gathered closer, drawn in from across the river to watch from afar.

Hua Rongyue understood. She stayed on the bridge, just far enough to remain visible but not accessible. That maintained the illusion—her figure becoming the center of the stage.

Above her, the faint moon hung behind a veil of misty rain. Lantern light shimmered on the river’s surface. Altogether, it formed a breathtaking tableau. Though this era lacked the concept of photography, the whole scene felt like a painting—misty, impressionistic, in cool tones. The clash of blades, though noisy, seemed to fade into silence amidst the aesthetic.

Ask anyone in the crowd why they were so captivated, and they probably couldn’t explain. They just felt it was beautiful—so beautiful they couldn’t look away. Many kept their eyes glued to Hua Rongyue’s silhouette, feeling an inexplicable sense of satisfaction. From nearby pleasure boats, even dancers paused and looked up, as if time had frozen in that moment.

“…I can’t believe that’s really Hua-ge,” Li Zixin said, watching from the sidelines. He had the benefit of observing the crowd’s reactions, and he noted with wonder that everyone—men and women alike—was utterly entranced. They stood still, watching intently, as long as Hua Rongyue remained on the bridge.

Hua Rongyue’s distance from the crowd meant most couldn’t see her face. To them, she was a blur—a perfect, painterly figure. And yet, in the minds of the onlookers, a shared image was forming: Yi Linglong, standing on the bridge, was a man of stunning beauty, with a hidden madness behind his eyes.

A beautiful lunatic.

It was difficult to pinpoint what exactly made him beautiful—because it wasn’t just a face, but an entire presence. His body language, expressions, costume, and emotions all contributed to a single, complete aesthetic.

No matter how violent his personality might be, to those who felt they were “safely removed” from the drama, he was still the most captivating figure of all. Hua Rongyue had immersed herself so deeply into Yi Linglong’s mindset that even viewers couldn’t dismiss him as just a madman. Because madness wasn’t his only defining trait.

What he had… was emotional resonance—a magnetic presence that drew people in.

“…He could be even faster,” Head Constable Jin muttered. “He’s holding back a little… probably to accommodate the others. But that’s not a fault—he’s been sharp and precise the entire time.”

Normally, when someone plays a role very different from themselves, it shows. Like asking a delicate soprano to suddenly perform a bass role—people pick up on the mismatch, and the illusion falls apart.

But not Hua Rongyue.

She was naturally different from Yi Linglong in temperament, yet she fully embodied the role. Honestly, if Jin hadn’t known the truth, he would have been completely fooled. Especially because of the emotion. That deep, obsessive, erratic energy that so perfectly echoed Yi Linglong’s character—it was seamless.

Hua Rongyue’s blade was swift but restrained—not at full speed. His looks were striking, though the drizzle obscured his face. And unlike what Jin had expected, Hua Rongyue didn’t try to force extra dialogue into the performance. He let his movements speak. And they did.

Everything—his posture, expression, and presence—screamed emotional volatility. He was a madman. An obsessive madman. And everyone could feel it.

At this moment, everyone on site—willing or not—was being pulled along by Hua Rongyue’s rhythm. To a casual observer, Yi Linglong’s movements might appear overly dramatic, even stylized. In less capable hands, such exaggeration might’ve seemed awkward or fake. But with Hua Rongyue, it all felt natural.

Of course it’s exaggerated, one would think. That’s just how Yi Linglong is.

And so, led by Hua Rongyue, more and more people felt as if they were “getting to know” Yi Linglong for the first time. This man bore the twin imprints of assassin and lunatic. He was obsessive—maybe dangerously so.

He was mad. He was dangerous.
And… he was breathtakingly beautiful.

So beautiful, in fact, that even Head Constable Jin found himself distracted. He’d been prepared to oversee a performance, even to nitpick and critique.

But now…

“…Maybe we should bring him down a notch?” Jin murmured, suddenly struck by a pang of reluctance. And that unsettled him. If I’m feeling this way, what about everyone else?

Others didn’t seem to think that much. Zhang Yue was already in a daze. He hadn’t been present during the earlier incident with Wang Lingchao, so this was his first time seeing Hua Rongyue in this mode—and he was completely stunned. He had no mental capacity left for deeper thought.

And on the far bank of the Qinhuai River, another man was equally shocked. He stood frozen, eyes locked on the figure on the bridge.

“…So that’s it,” Head Constable Jin whispered. He realized now that Hua Rongyue didn’t just rely on looks, nor on superior martial arts like back on the boat. What he truly understood—deeply and intuitively—was Yi Linglong’s psychology.

Hua Rongyue conveyed Yi Linglong’s obsession and madness—not just on the surface, but with a full sense of history and trauma. His every motion implied a backstory, a pain the audience couldn’t name but could feel.

And that “story” gave him tremendous charisma. People believed this character had suffered something unspeakable. They didn’t know what—but whatever it was, it had driven him to the edge. And Hua Rongyue didn’t hide it—he channeled it. He made it a part of his beauty.

Jin continued watching until someone behind him reminded him it was time. He finally tore his gaze away and even rubbed his eyes—he felt a sharp discomfort, like waking from a trance. That’s when he realized how long he’d been staring.

It made him feel a little embarrassed. He was here to assess flaws, yet had been utterly absorbed instead. It felt like being caught snooping into someone’s private diary.

“My sword?” he asked. Someone handed it over. He’d gotten so distracted that he had to rush off in a hurry.

“Head Constable Jin’s finally stepping in,” Li Zixin commented. “Though honestly, I kind of wish he’d waited longer…”

He glanced at the sword Jin had set aside earlier and sighed, “I’ve almost never seen him put that sword down. And now—he did it for this.”

“What’s so special about that sword?” asked Zhang Yue, who hadn’t been able to join the performance.

Li Zixin chuckled. “You don’t know? It has a mechanism inside. I’ll show you—don’t be scared…”

He unsheathed his own sword and began demonstrating, carefully pressing the tip. “You push gently here—this part’s packed with cinnabar. If you press too hard, it’ll burst out and ruin everything…”

Zhang Yue watched with growing confusion as Li Zixin fiddled with the sword, pushing again and again, but nothing happened. The blade didn’t react at all.

Then suddenly, Li Zixin’s face changed. Alarmed, he muttered, “Wait, what’s going on? It’s supposed to retract…”

Just as he spoke, a commotion exploded behind them. Cries of alarm rose from the river.