After her unpleasant parting with Yun Xuan, Yun Chuji tried to visit him several times, only to be turned away at the door. There was nothing she could do; she couldn’t very well pry the door open.
Yun Chuji tried to contact him through her optical computer, but he never answered her calls, and her messages were left on read.
As time went on, Yun Chuji began to grow angry. What she had done wasn’t unreasonable; she had merely expressed her own thoughts. Yet her brother acted as if he hated her more than he hated the Third Princess.
It made her wonder if he had ever truly considered her his sister. Or was their sibling bond so fragile that it couldn’t tolerate the slightest defiance?
Disheartened, Yun Chuji stopped trying to visit him.
She only sent a gift on his birthday.
He accepted it.
But her messages were still left on read.
Yun Chuji was dejected for a while, but during that time, she finished her graduation thesis.
She had found an answer to the topic of chastity in the Great Liang Dynasty, though she suspected it was an answer that would make her Elder Brother fly into a rage. The thought was a mixture of self-mockery and vexation.
Still, she wouldn’t change it. For her, this was the answer.
Yun Chuji lowered her head and looked at the bolded title on the transparent screen: On the Chastity of Great Liang Women—The Birth of a Lie.
That’s right. A lie. It was a lie. That was the only answer.
Yun Chuji had read many records about the Great Liang Dynasty—folk, official, and even fictional. These materials were incomplete and weren’t primary sources; most were analyses and summaries of original historical documents.
But by combining these materials with her own personal experiences, Yun Chuji had filtered through them and arrived at a conclusion: chastity itself held no value. What was valued was a woman’s self-awareness of her own inferiority.
Yun Chuji didn’t limit herself to the historical records of the Great Liang; she also studied the histories of women whose circumstances were similar to, or completely different from, those of Great Liang women. And so, the answer presented itself with crystal clarity.
Whether it was the women of the Great Liang or those of other eras and places, it was not uncommon for them to have affairs after marriage. It was only later, as the rules of female conduct grew stricter and many adulterous couples were drowned in ponds, that the social climate seemed to change.
But given that so many adulterous couples were drowned, it seemed the climate hadn’t changed all that much.
But were these women, labeled as adulteresses, truly so contemptible? They had relied on their chastity to marry, yet they failed to uphold their wifely virtues, ultimately losing that very chastity.
But there was a later era, the one before the Federation, an era when productivity had not yet developed to the point where society could fall into decadence and still function. The people of that time were full of vitality; they were exploring, striving, and breaking through.
By the standards of the Great Liang, the women of that era who explored, strove, and broke through were all adulteresses. Yet they achieved great things, and the loss of their chastity seemed to cause no defect in their souls. They were sincere, kind, and brave—good people who, by any measure, met the standards of a person of virtue.
Therefore, chastity was a lie.
In her thesis, Yun Chuji cited numerous historical sources, providing evidence piece by piece for why women chose chastity and why they came to believe in it.
There were many reasons, but none were for the sake of chastity itself. Therefore, chastity was a lie, a pretense, a pledge of allegiance, a white flag of surrender.
Yun Chuji used this thesis to summarize her life in the Great Liang. She had certainly had many happy days there, but a happy pet was still a pet.
After she finished her thesis, the graduation ceremony was not far off.
And after the graduation ceremony would be her wedding to Tang Jianxi.
Yun Chuji set aside her turmoil over Yun Xuan. Getting married was a momentous occasion, and she couldn’t afford to be distracted. In fact, she was a little too nervous.
After discussing it, Yun Chuji and Tang Jianxi decided against a large wedding. They disliked both crowds and hassle, and a large number of guests would guarantee both.
They planned to invite only close family and friends for a simple ceremony on the lawn of the old Yun family residence, where Tang Jianxi had grown up.
The suggestion had come from Yun Chuji. Tang Jianxi had wanted to take a spaceship into outer space and get married on a night with a meteor shower.
Yun Chuji felt that if the meteor shower was too beautiful, they might only remember the shower itself. It would be better, she argued, to find a place where they would best remember each other and hold a wedding that was truly their own.
Yun Chuji’s answer for such a place was where Tang Jianxi had grown up.
Tang Jianxi’s answer was their bed.
Yun Chuji won by a landslide.
For the wedding, the Yun family hurried back from Golden Phoenix Star. Yun Chuwan seemed to have emerged from the gloom of being forced to withdraw from school and even asked Yun Chuji to join her on a video call with her classmates, who were supposedly fans of Yun Chuji.
Yun Chuji got a taste of the enthusiasm of undifferentiated youths. She didn’t get a chance to speak the entire time, essentially serving as a decorative vase.
This was perhaps inseparable from Golden Phoenix Star itself. As the headquarters of the Omega Legion, it provided a strong backing. The differentiated and undifferentiated omegas there were exceptionally cheerful and straightforward, a stark contrast to the omegas of the Imperial Capital Star, who valued quiet beauty. It was the difference between a flamingo and a red-crowned crane.
In any case, Yun Chuwan had become much more lively.
Yun Cheng hadn’t found a new job. His savings were sufficient; while the cost of consumer goods in the Empire was high, the cost of living was very reasonable. He stayed home and began preparing to write a book on the history of agricultural development in the Federation. In his spare time, he studied his daughter’s A-Virtue theory, which resulted in his relationship with his wife becoming visibly more affectionate. If Qin Wan hadn’t already been past thirty-eight, Yun Chuji and Yun Chuwan might have ended up with a younger sibling.
Meanwhile, Qin Wan had started volunteering at the settlement where Helen and the others lived. She would chat with the young omegas, all of whom had endured great suffering, and in the process, she ended up giving away all the herbal foot soak packets Yun Chuji had prepared for her.
These omegas all suffered from sleep disorders to varying degrees. Due to pheromone imbalances and pregnancy, their conditions couldn’t be cured with medication or surgery. They could only rely on sleeping pills of diminishing effectiveness to get through the day, which left their faces looking haggard.
When Yun Chuji heard about this, she stayed up for more than ten nights modifying a few formulas before giving them to Qin Wan.
This way, it probably wouldn’t be considered a violation of the Qin family’s ancestral teachings.
Occasionally, when Yun Chuji was alone, she would wonder why she got along so well with her family in this life, while her relationship with Yun Xuan—her kin for two lifetimes—was only growing colder.
She had an idea why, but just as Yun Xuan couldn’t believe she had integrated into this world so smoothly, she couldn’t believe that her once-indomitable Elder Brother had become so blinded by pain and hatred.
He was definitely plotting something—perhaps to kill the Third Princess, or to make her wish she were dead. In any case, he could never accept her. He had abandoned his only sister over a difference in ideals; there was no way he could fall in love with the person who had dragged him into hell, not even if he went mad.
Yun Chuji waited quietly for the storm to arrive. She hadn’t told Tang Jianxi about this. She couldn’t say why; a simple intuition kept her silent. She had only told her they had argued.
Tang Jianxi had asked if Yun Xuan’s mental state was unbalanced. Yun Chuji didn’t deny it, but she didn’t mention the more serious part—that intense hatred.
But getting married could surely wash away all negative emotions.
Yun Chuji composed herself. Not even Yun Xuan’s refusal of her wedding invitation could shake the happiness in her heart.
She didn’t have many friends, so she only invited Helen, Winona, and Feng Ling. After some consideration, however, she also invited Jiang Xiu, who had worked so hard planning her livestreams—and her wife, of course.
Yun Chuji and Tang Jianxi’s wedding took place in the summer under a brilliant sun. She wore a wedding dress that had taken over half a month of fittings to get just right—mainly because Tang Jianxi had adamantly vetoed her idea of embroidering her own gown.
She stood at the end of the aisle, her wedding dress wrapped so tightly around her that she had to take small, shallow breaths. But she was so nervous that this delicate breathing did nothing to calm her. She felt sweat begin to prickle her skin and prayed it wouldn’t show. After all, her face wasn’t covered by a veil, and sweating during the ceremony would be terribly unseemly.
The music began to play. Yun Chuji had listened to it every day for the past few months, even cheerfully recommending it to her livestream audience. When Tang Jianxi heard about this, she had asked if Yun Chuji was trying to rush the wedding. Yun Chuji had said no; she found happiness in the anticipation as well.
In response, Tang Jianxi had pulled her into bed.
Now, however, the waiting was agonizing. Yun Chuji counted down silently in her heart until, finally, a pure white figure appeared at the other end of the aisle.
Chu Yuexi escorted her—in the Empire, it was customary for an omega parent to accompany their child—down the aisle. Her gown had a long train that trailed behind her, lending her an air of mystery. But nothing could compare to the face beneath the diamond tiara. With her exquisite eyes, delicate brows, and the sensual tip of her nose, she looked like a celestial maiden who had escaped from a heavenly palace.
Yun Chuji instinctively started to walk toward her, but after taking a single step, the constricting dress saved her from her impulse.
She had to wait for Tang Jianxi to come to her.
Two little girls scattered flower petals along the path as Tang Jianxi walked. At that moment, Yun Chuji wished she could be one of those petals—if she were lucky, she might even land on the hem of Tang Jianxi’s gown.
The minutes crawled by in Yun Chuji’s anxious state, feeling like centuries.
But when the woman she had dreamed of finally stood before her, she froze.
The celestial maiden had bestowed her favor upon a mortal, and the mortal was filled with awe and trepidation.
Just then, Tang Jianxi reached out a slender, fair hand and took hers. She tilted her head, smiled, and whispered, “You’re so beautiful.”
Yun Chuji stared, stunned. A blush spread across her already perspiring face.
She whispered back, “You’re more beautiful.”
Sitting in the front row, Tang Jianshen clicked his tongue in disdain.
He earned a glare from a deeply moved Feng Ling—who normally wouldn’t treat an omega that way, but he hadn’t recognized Tang Jianshen as one.
But this minor commotion couldn’t stop the wedding. Under the officiant’s watch, they exchanged vows, promising their lives to each other.
Yun Chuji slid the ring onto Tang Jianxi’s finger. She gazed at her hand for a few seconds, then lowered her head and gently kissed the newly adorned ring finger.
She said, “I wish to be with you, for a long life without end or decay.”
Tang Jianxi didn’t understand the classical phrase, but she replied, “I love you, too.”
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