Mockery Is the Queen’s Duty

Everyone turned in shock toward the direction of Huanluo, including the maids and footmen who were serving tea and water. After all, no one had ever witnessed such a thrilling scene as someone openly provoking General Burton in their lifetime. One footman, about to refill Lance’s tea, was so startled that he dropped the teapot lid into Lance’s cup, splashing water everywhere, followed closely by the sound of a cup shattering on the floor. The live performance of a broken waltz successfully rescued everyone from the “unbelievable dream” that had just occurred.

Meanwhile, the heroine of the dream savored her tea with serene composure. She pinched the rim of the cup with her thumb and forefinger, supported the base with her middle finger, and reclined comfortably, dividing the scant amount of tea—barely enough to wet anyone’s palate—into three small sips. Her posture and demeanor embodied the essence of Xia Kui’s teachings.

General Burton, still bent in a bow before her, did not dwell on the matter, merely attributing it to his own wayward son’s sins and bowing even lower.

When the flustered servants had finally cleaned up Lance’s spilled water, gathered the shards, and brought fresh tea, Huanluo finished the pitiful dregs in her cup. She calmly lifted her head, yet made no move to rise from her seat. Her face remained an ancient, unchanging poker mask, her gaze still cold and fearless, as if the person who had just repeatedly bowed and urged the old general to stand was not her at all.

Liangyin, for instance, could hardly bear the sight anymore. The bent old General Burton stood in stark contrast to Huanluo’s relentless, icy demeanor, and Liangyin, provoked, longed to rush forward and bite Huanluo to vent her anger. Unfortunately, though she was eager to strike, she was powerless; Moumou and Lance gripped her firmly on either side, restraining her from lunging. Liangyin struggled in vain and had to give up.

“Have Andy come out and apologize in person,” Huanluo said, leaving behind a statement so cold it bordered on cruelty, utterly oblivious to any impropriety in her behavior.

“General, you may not know, but my unfilial son has not recovered at all since he was gravely wounded in the war. He is bedridden and truly unable to move…” Burton’s words were cut short by Huanluo: “I will only accept Andy’s personal apology. No substitutes, no delays.”

Liangyin, who had just been pacified, felt her fury flare again at these words. With a twist of her right hand, she summoned a water orb, intent on teaching the insolent Huanluo a magical lesson. Sensing this, Huanluo tilted her head slightly toward Liangyin. “Even if you wish to fight me here today, I still insist Andy must apologize in person.”

Liangyin gave Huanluo a fierce glare, her water orb fluctuating between forming and dispersing. Remembering Huanluo’s still-unhealed wounds, Liangyin found herself unable to strike. Moumou and Lance continued their arduous task of soothing the irate Liangyin, while Moumou managed to throw Huanluo a look: “Do as you wish, I’ll handle things here.”

After only a few minutes of contemplation, Burton made his decision. This was a hurdle Andy would have to cross eventually; one could evade it for a moment, but not a lifetime. “You, bring Andy out,” Burton ordered a maid beside him.

“But, sir…” The maid, dissatisfied with Huanluo’s demand, nevertheless closed her mouth in reluctance under Burton’s stern gaze and went to fetch Andy.

“Remember to tell him that no one is allowed to help or support him. Otherwise, I will not accept the apology.” Once the switch of Huanluo’s tyrannical queen was flipped, there was no stopping her.

The maid hesitated, hoping Burton would intervene, but when he offered no support, she had no choice but to reluctantly summon Andy.

“Please, sit,” Huanluo gestured to the seat beside her. “General Burton, if you continue standing like this, you’ll shorten my life.”

Seeing her resolve, Burton understood Huanluo’s intentions. He forced a bitter smile, nodded at Huanluo, and sat down.

Inside the room, Andy lay lifelessly on his bed.

His once healthy, rosy cheeks had turned waxen and withered, his eyes dull and spiritless. His dry lips looked as if he hadn’t drunk water for days, though he had just been forced by his family to swallow a bowl of medicinal soup. Andy’s entire body had been crushed by the Rockspine Beast; aside from his face, there was hardly a patch untouched. Survival itself was a miracle, but Andy found no joy in it.

Saving Huanluo in that moment was partly instinctive, partly due to a deep sense of relief as the massive beast bore down upon him. Though on the battlefield he could smile and fight alongside Huanluo, comforting his comrades to keep morale steady, it could not erase the intense guilt he felt. It was his fault that a manageable situation had become so disastrous. Though no one spoke of it, Andy could keenly sense the pain in the mournful gazes of those around him.

He had lost family, lost comrades, his home nearly destroyed.

Remnants on the battlefield, blood, grim tidings, tears.

Each stimulus sent Andy’s nerves into overdrive, making his scalp tingle and his head spin, robbing him of breath. Yet all these emotions, which he had struggled to hide, vanished in the instant the Rockspine Beast attacked him. As darkness claimed his vision, Andy thought the nightmare would end with his life.

Yet he continued to struggle in a dream of agony. In that dream, countless fallen comrades reached out with bloody hands from the darkness below, groaning, struggling, pleading for rescue. Andy was immobile, unable even to sink into the darkness with them. He could only watch as his comrades were swallowed by the shadows, powerless because of his own weakness.

He awoke with a cry, discovering he was still alive. His entire body was bound in bandages, stiff and unmoving on the bed, pain washing over him in waves. Andy stared at the ceiling; whether awake or asleep, it felt the same—he could do nothing.

For days, Andy lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling. No one told him the death toll or losses from the war. His father and grandfather would scold him for his vacant state at first, but as it persisted, all that remained was a sigh.

Andy tried to rally himself, but every time he opened his eyes, it felt as if everyone were pointing and whispering about him, sighing in disappointment. When he closed his eyes, his mind was filled with nightmares from his unconsciousness—bloody hands and hopeless moans threatened to explode his thoughts.

Family and friends offered comfort, but he could not shake the guilt within him. It clung like seaweed beneath the waves—once entangled, never to break free. Countless voices passed through his ears, the distinction between day and night lost all meaning. Amidst this haze, he still caught two crucial facts.

Andy’s body would never return to the battlefield.

The losses from this war were—too great.

So be it. Gradually, Andy learned to empty his mind, to think nothing, feel nothing, to simply be buried and forgotten.