Chapter 42: Challenge Her!

When Yue's last note died, the hall was drunk on sound. A skilled woman beloved anywhere—prettier still. Men's side—first year too young—second and third years watched. In looks Qin Qing topped the school—but Qin was proud. Yue was soft.
"Your sister plays well," Feng Anning admitted unwillingly. "Wonder which master she hired. I'll ask Mother for a famous teacher too."
Young blood loves contest. When Shen Miao became empress she had been broad—except Fu Xiuyi's heart. One kind glance from him to another woman and her chest tore. Harem full of pins behind backs. She paid back at once—made enemies. That temper unchanged—but no need now to wound herself doing it.
"Second Miss Shen—rare beauty and talent," Prince Zhou said, impressed. Then: "Pity."
*Pity*—common folk might miss it. Princes did not. Yue was lovely and gifted; such a companion would be joy—wrong womb, wrong branch, not main line.
Shen Xin held armies—and fathered Shen Miao the fool. Today's polish might be coat and coach. They still believed the core empty.
Pei Lang had settled after Yan left. First time such mirroring—unexplained, he forced calm. Zhou's words pulled his eyes to purple again.
She held a stone, head bent in thought—far, yet he felt audit and weight, the same look she gave him. How could she be a rough pack?
People do not change overnight. Had stupidity been act—and why?
Even he could not answer.
Women's **show** ended on Yue's moon. **First grade** again—yet today brought no joy, only sting.
She glanced at Shen Miao—buried in chess, not watching. Yue knew Fifth could not read the board; the focus was insult on purpose. Chen saw her face, whispered, "Yue'er—you're losing composure."
Chen demanded calm in any storm—real or painted. Composure was upper rank; panic was not great-house bearing. The teaching worked on Chen; Yue was young, never tasted failure, never learned swallow.
At the whisper Yue smoothed anger. Shuxiang offered tea. "Miss, wet your throat."
Yue took it, met the maid's smile, understood, smiled true. "Warm. I'm very interested in **challenge** later."
Qing was pleased with chess first grade. "No men's/women's split this year, no year split—fights will be fiercer."
**Challenge** was always the waited round. **Draw** might not show your best; **show** was strength displayed; **challenge** landed between the two brightest. Women played polite—light touch, as if results hardly mattered. Boys loved comparison; this age hungered win and loss—so **challenge** burned hottest.
This year—all together, any student any target. Still, men challenging women—almost never.
Literary **challenge** drew no volunteers. Weight fell on martial.
That nearly barred women. Some general's daughters trained—but strength gap to boys made success unlikely.
From the men's seats Cai Lin was first on the stage.
"What subject?" the judge asked.
"Foot archery." He pointed to the slip.
Of course. The local bully—blank in letters, strong in martial. Foot archery his best—every arrow center, last year's first grade here too.
Whom would he call? No better archer in sight.
Cai Lin lifted his chin, arm stretched to the women's seats.
Shock—women's row, not men's. Mouths opened. Silence.
He shouted it again: "I challenge *her*—Shen Miao!"
The girl in purple looked up from the board—clear eyes on the stage. No ripple. Hands steady. As if the sky had only said hello—and answer was beneath her.
Chen Ruoqiu's brow knit. She trained Yue; Shen Miao had learned still water.
Far pavilion—the handsome boy sipping tea sprayed it full, playboy mask cracked: "Has the Cai boy gone mad?"
Shen Miao stood. On the table a black stone had crossed the river, advancing on her side.
First pawn—moving.
She lifted white. Black swallowed. Stone tossed into the bowl, clean.
"I accept," she said.