Chapter 533: Chapter-533
The Curiosity: The younger politicians and intelligence spies were leaning forward, their eyes shining with dangerous calculation. They were actively scanning her posture, her expression, and her aura, desperately trying to figure out how to exploit her newly publicized "weakness" regarding Samuel.
The Audacity: And then, there were the others. A handful of arrogant, overconfident noblemen were looking her up and down with an entirely different kind of gaze. It was a lingering, predatory, insulting stare that completely dismissed her martial authority and instead measured her purely as a woman.
Heena’s right hand twitched, her fingers instinctively curling toward the hilt of the sword she wasn’t allowed to carry in the Emperor’s presence.
’That one over there in the purple silk,’ Heena noted mentally, locking eyes with a particularly bold nobleman who was smirking at her. ’That bastard should absolutely be blind. If he looks at me like that for one more second, I am going to figure out how to surgically extract his eyeballs using only a calligraphy brush.’
Grandpa Marcuset, entirely oblivious to the complex, silent psychological warfare happening around him, simply puffed out his massive chest. He placed a heavy, armored hand on her shoulder and forcefully guided her directly into the center of the hall, practically daring anyone to say a word.
The morning court session had not even officially begun, but Heena could already tell—today was going to be an absolute bloodbath.
The tense silence in the grand hall was suddenly broken by a sharp, highly condescending scoff.
A middle-aged scholar wearing the deep blue silk robes of the Ministry of Rites stepped forward. He snapped his folding fan open with a flick of his wrist, lazily waving it in front of his face as he looked at Heena and her grandfather with a gaze full of sheer, unadulterated mockery.
"It is truly a tragic sight," the scholar sighed loudly, ensuring his voice echoed perfectly off the jade pillars so the entire court could hear. "It reminds me of a classic proverb regarding those who try to buy what they cannot naturally possess."
He paused, a smug, arrogant smile curling his lips as he recited:
The rusted blade may dream of golden sheaths,
And buy a crown with what the soil bequeaths.
Yet blood and mud will never wash to white,
The brute remains a beggar in the light.
A ripple of low, mocking laughter spread through the ranks of the civil officials.
Grandpa Marcuset’s face instantly darkened into a terrifying shade of crimson. The old warlord might not have spent his youth memorizing flowery poetry, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew an insult when he heard one. The scholar was blatantly calling the Marcuset family crude, bloodstained tools who were desperately trying to buy their way into high society with their recent spending, while praising the civil court as pure and untouchable.
Grandpa Marcuset didn’t have the literary vocabulary to elegantly spar with the man. But he did have two massive, heavily calloused fists.
"You sniveling little ink-drinker," Grandpa growled, his hand dropping directly to the empty scabbard at his waist before he simply cracked his knuckles with a sound like snapping firewood.
Behind him, several other military generals—men who had spent their lives bleeding on the borders rather than studying in libraries—also stepped forward, their faces twisted in fury, fully ready to turn the Imperial Courtroom into a physical brawl.
But before Grandpa Marcuset could take a single step forward to physically flatten the scholar, a slender, black-leather-clad arm blocked his path.
Heena stepped smoothly in front of her grandfather.
She didn’t look angry. In fact, she looked completely relaxed. She tilted her head, looking at the sneering scholar with the calm, deadpan expression of a professional editor who had just been forced to read a terrible first draft.
"Oh, my," Heena said, her voice cutting through the rising tension like a blade of ice. "What a deeply uninspired poem. The rhyme scheme is incredibly basic, and the metaphor is... well, terribly cliché."
The scholar’s smug smile vanished. He glared at her, his eyes filled with pure disgust. "How dare a crude, love-crazed brute of a woman critique the literary arts of—"
"I am not a poet," Heena interrupted smoothly, her voice rising just enough to command the absolute attention of every single person in the hall. "But since you insist on communicating through bad metaphors, I suppose I must respond in kind."
She raised her hand, signaling for her grandfather and the furious generals to stand down. They hesitated, but Grandpa Marcuset eventually crossed his arms, glaring daggers at the blue-robed man.
Heena took one slow, deliberate step toward the civil scholars.
She wasn’t the ’Desperate Brick Wall’ right now. These ancient scholars thought they held a monopoly on words? They were about to get a crash course in literary destruction.
Heena clasped her hands behind her back, her posture perfectly straight, her eyes locking directly onto the arrogant scholar with a dangerously taunting glint as she delivered her retort:
The polished scribe who worships his own pen,
Forgets whose blood secures the lives of men.
You flaunt your silk and hide behind our steel,
Yet when the wolves arrive, it’s you who kneel.
So keep your spotless white, your trembling breath—
This rusted blade is still the lord of death.
The Imperial Courtroom went completely, violently silent.
The low murmurs of the civil faction vanished. The scholars who had been laughing just seconds before now stood frozen, their mouths slightly agape.
They frantically processed the verses in their heads. It wasn’t just a perfect, rhyming counter-poem. It was a flawless, devastating political deconstruction of his insult. She had taken his exact metaphor—the rusted blade and the pure white silk—and completely weaponized it. She reminded them that without the military (the blade), their precious, arrogant high society (the white silk) would instantly collapse under the pressure of real, physical threats (the wolves).
The blue-robed scholar’s face drained of all color. He snapped his fan shut, completely unable to utter a single word of rebuttal as the sheer weight of her taunt crushed his ego.
Grandpa Marcuset blinked, staring at his granddaughter’s back with a look of absolute, profound shock. The other military generals exchanged wide-eyed glances, practically vibrating with a sudden, overwhelming sense of pride. Their Madam hadn’t just thrown a punch; she had beaten the scholars at their own pretentious game, and she had done it effortlessly.
Heena offered the pale scholar a cold, razor-sharp smile.
"So, tell me, Lord Scholar," Heena murmured, the taunting threat dripping heavily from every syllable. "Are you absolutely sure you want to test the patience of the rusted blade today?"
The blue-robed scholar pointed a trembling finger at her, his face flushing an unhealthy, mottled purple.
"You? You?!" he sputtered, completely losing his aristocratic composure. "How dare you threaten me?! You—you insolent woman!"
Hearing that, Heena didn’t scowl. Instead, her sharp gaze softened into a perfectly pleasant, entirely innocent smile. She tilted her head, looking at him with wide, mocking eyes.
"Ah, what happened now, Uncle?" Heena asked, her voice dripping with fake, sugary concern. "Did you become so upset over a few little words? Come now, My Lord. I was simply taught that if someone graciously gifts you a poem, it is only proper manners to respond with one of your own. Was my etiquette flawed?"
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