Your chest pressed into the palm of my hand.

Chapter Title: 001 Your Chest That Fell Into My Palms

On the third day of the third lunar month, after a night of spring rain, the peach blossoms in Shengjing suddenly bloomed in full, their branches flaunting a dazzling display. Against the first warm rays of the rising sun, petals still wet with rain looked like maidens, having awakened from a night of spring dreams, gazing at themselves in the mirror, their eyes brimming with coquettish charm.

Such allure was most welcome, especially on this day—when the laws of the Yao Tian Kingdom decreed that men and women without the six rites of formal betrothal could meet openly and honorably. To be anything but enticing? That would be a waste!

So, the young women and widows of Shengjing, still tingling from the thrill of last night’s spring rain, dressed before their mirrors, each conjuring in her mind the image of the man she wished to “entice.”

Yet, these imagined suitors—one, two, or any number—had already gathered last night, before the rain had ceased, at the entrance of Shengjing’s most renowned business: the World Embroidery Hall.

Today was the day its sole heiress, Guan Shiyin, would publicly choose a husband.

In the eyes of the people of Shengjing, Guan Shiyin was not only the very embodiment of beauty and talent; she also stood for the unimaginable wealth of the World Embroidery Hall—the richest family in the kingdom, bar none!

Thus, ever since Miss Guan had turned fifteen, the family’s high threshold had been trodden by matchmaking madams from all directions, replaced month after month, without any success.

Five years had flown by, and just as the city gossiped that Miss Guan, now twenty, would soon become the first “old hen” in the kingdom to lay no eggs, the Guan family posted a notice everywhere: on every street, in taverns, brothels, even outside privies.

It read: “Regardless of age, status, or rank, any unmarried man may participate in Miss Guan’s embroidered ball toss on the third day of the third lunar month. Whoever catches the ball will marry her immediately, the wedding night to follow, with the century-old reputation of the World Embroidery Hall as guarantee!”

The city erupted. Fortune had fallen from the sky, and everyone had a chance to take a bite—who wouldn’t try their luck?

So, the young master Yin Chunzhi from the Prefect’s household came, placing an imperial rosewood Eight Immortals table front and center of the stage since the match had begun, and specially bringing with him his father’s most skilled bodyguard to keep order. From the moment he arrived, his eager, triangular eyes were fixed on the stage, intent on piercing through Guan Shiyin’s knee-length bridal veil, burning with anticipation for the wedding night.

Fugui Embroidery Hall’s manager, Fu Dagui, the sworn enemy of the World Embroidery Hall, also came. Observing the unwritten rule that civilians should not challenge officials, he set up his ambush with four small tables forming a semicircle behind the Eight Immortals table, briefing his four handpicked guards on how to snatch the ball. He cared not for the heiress’s rumored beauty; his interest lay solely in when the World Embroidery Hall would bear the surname Fu.

On the outermost edge, peddlers, servants, brothel boys, beggars, and rogues had all gathered, each brimming with confidence. First, because of the “no restrictions” in the notice; second, for compared to Young Master Yin’s dissipated, puffy eyes and coffin-like figure, or Lord Fu’s bald head, pot belly, and wrinkled face, their own youthful, robust bodies—though shabbily dressed—were decidedly superior.

On stage, Guan Yue, helping Guan Shiyin with her red bridal veil, gritted her teeth. “Mistress, are you really going to choose one of these riffraff to marry?”

“Don’t insult Lucky,” came a teasing voice from beneath the veil. Guan Shiyin twirled the embroidered ball on her knee, a visible smile on her lips. “Lucky’s had three litters already, and your mistress hasn’t even found a nest yet!”

The bright red ball spun lightly. Guan Yue twisted the corner of the veil hard—mistress might find a nest, but she’d never lay eggs.

Without looking, Guan Shiyin knew what she meant and laughed again. “What, are you doubting your mistress’s abilities?”

“Guan Yue wouldn’t dare.”

“Yeah, right.” Suddenly, Guan Shiyin gripped the ball tight. “Fine, just for pride’s sake, today I must pick one who can give me a child as soon as possible! Start the drums!”

With that command, the husband-selection ceremony officially began. When the drum stopped, whoever held the ball would be the one to share her wedding chamber tonight.

The crowd surged forward, no one noticing a procession of monks emerging from a nearby alley.

Guan Shiyin raised the ball high. “Dear Embroidered Ball, go find Lucky’s… no, find the father of my child.”

With a flourish, the ball arced through the air, heading toward the left rear of Yin Chunzhi, right of Fu Dagui, and straight for the outermost front.

Yin Chunzhi snapped his fingers. “Now!”

His bodyguard leapt skyward, and before the ball had begun to descend, snatched it from the air.

Fu Dagui waved his hand—a silent command to seize it.

His four guards, relying on brute strength rather than martial skill, rushed forward, locking the bodyguard in a bear hug.

Guan Shiyin saw through it at once. “Using human shields against a government guard—Fu Dagui, you’re cheeky, aren’t you?”

Yin Chunzhi cursed, “Fu Dagui, you dare play dirty!”

Fu Dagui smiled obsequiously, “My men are so unruly, I’ll deal with them at once,” while swiftly reaching for the ball.

Three inches, two, one! He almost had the tassel in hand.

His wrinkled face twisted with glee. The World Embroidery Hall would soon be his!

Yin Chunzhi suddenly shouted, “Throw it here!”

Fu Dagui immediately tensed. No! He lunged forward, but failed to stop the bodyguard from tossing the ball.

The ball flew again.

Guan Shiyin tapped her knee. “Hah, so Young Master Yin isn’t all brawn and no brains.”

Yin Chunzhi grinned smugly. “If it’s mine, it’s—”

Bang! A loud collision cut him off.

A battered wooden bowl had shot through the air, striking the ball.

The ball swerved for a third time, hurtling toward the outermost crowd—peddlers, brothel boys, beggars, and rogues—stunning them all.

A beggar, puzzled by who’d thrown their eating bowl, was first to dive for it, but the ball’s many tassels caught easily in the hands of three or five others, who yanked it away and threw him to the ground.

Groaning, he ate a mouthful of dirt while the crowd’s feet trampled over him.

Heads bobbed up and down, and so did the ball.

“It’s mine! Mine!” they shouted.

A brothel boy reached out with a smooth, fair arm. “Mine!”

A peddler kicked his way through. “Mine!”

Rogues pushed and shoved. “Mine!”

Their earlier “what if I win” hope, their sense of unfairness at the officials and merchants bringing help, and now the excitement of the ball within reach—all became a frenzy of energy, making them fight with reckless abandon.

They grabbed anything—arms, shoulders, hair—as leverage to leap. Whoever they grabbed didn’t matter; whoever got the ball could pay them back tenfold.

Still couldn’t get it? Then make sure no one else did! Trip, block, even bite—anything to stop others from seizing the prize was now the best possible strategy. Hurt someone? Fine, once it’s yours, a hundredfold compensation.

Madness reigned, and so, driven by the collective will of “if I can’t have it, neither can you,” the ball was sent flying out of the scrum yet again, colliding with something—or someone.

And then, naturally, it replaced what it struck, landing in a pair of palms.

At that moment, the drum stopped.

The dust settled.

“Ahhh!” The disappointed crowd, just about to vent their rage, fell silent as soon as they saw the winner.

They had considered the possibility of Young Master Yin or Lord Fu winning, or some nobody with outrageous luck. Never had they imagined the winner would be—a monk!

A real, bald-headed, robe-clad monk!

The crowd was stunned. The monk was stunned.

Fang Rulai blinked, instinctively turning to look at the ancestral tablets that the ball had just knocked from his hands.

That was today’s task—conducting rites for two lovers who had never been united in life.

In return, he would receive a handsome offering, enough to buy new clothes, and when the widow next brought him braised pork, he could gift her new garments in return.

But now, everything was ruined. He didn’t believe for a second that the crotchety old lady who had been persuaded for a month to permit the rite would now forgive him for being interrupted by the taboo of the embroidered ball.

His money, his new clothes, his braised pork, his gentle widow—all gone!

Fang Rulai raised his eyes in fury. Who did this?

Across from him, Guan Yue pushed Guan Shiyin forward.

The wheelchair’s wheels creaked as it rolled. Fang Rulai’s accusation stuck in his throat—disabled?

“Master, you must truly be blessed by Buddha,” Guan Shiyin spoke, her voice not sweet but melodious, like a winter-starved peach tree eagerly drinking in the pulse of returning spring—deep and resonant.

Fang Rulai glanced from the ball to the red veil. That voice…

“Since it is fate, I cannot resist,” Guan Shiyin said, laying her sleeve-covered hand on the ball. “Master, let us marry.”

What? Fang Rulai was dumbfounded. Even if she couldn’t see his bald head through the veil, wouldn’t her maid tell her?

Sensing the hesitation, Guan Shiyin continued, “So what? As long as you’re not a woman! Or… is Master a woman?”

“Of course not…”

“Good.”

“But…”

“Or do you find me, a cripple, unworthy?”

“No…”

“Then what are you waiting for? Guan Yue!” At the command, Guan Yue spun the wheelchair. “Master, this way, please.”

Dragged along for three steps, Fang Rulai finally remembered to stop.

He turned his head, and the veiled woman turned in unison. Though they could not see each other, Fang Rulai could feel her clear disdain, as if saying, “Play hard to get three times and it’s cute; any more and you’re just being insufferable.”

He nearly snorted. Was she so desperate for a child that she’d marry him without his consent?

Before the thought finished, pain bit into his wrist—five fingers, strong and insistent, from beneath the red sleeve.

Such strength! Fang Rulai’s gaze became calm and steady. “Amitabha.”

He raised his elbow, breaking free, then leaned close to whisper in Guan Shiyin’s ear, repeating word for word—down to the pauses—what she had just said: “Fine, just for pride’s sake, today I must pick one who can give me a child as soon as possible!”

The air turned icy, suffocating, as if a murder were about to be committed.

But Fang Rulai only smiled warmly, released his grip, and let the ball fall back into Guan Shiyin’s lap.

This time, he spoke loudly. “Amitabha. I am already a monk, and worldly matters are no longer for me. Farewell!”

He turned to leave. Ambition had never been his—best to stay far from this aristocratic deep water.

Guan Yue stomped her foot. “Mistress?”

A dangerous smile spread beneath the veil. So, this monk was more skilled in martial arts than she—and had threatened her not to force things? How interesting! The first time in her life anyone had dared threaten her—and now he wanted to walk away? Impossible!

Suddenly, Guan Shiyin shrieked, “Master!”

“Ami—” Fang Rulai, hands together, turned.

Before he could finish, Guan Shiyin pushed off with both hands, lunging the short distance toward him.

He fell back, and beneath the red veil, his mouth was silenced by the perfect curve of her chest landing in his palms.

An apple!

Ahem, I wanted to write a lighthearted, funny romantic comedy this time.

Dear readers, welcome to add this to your shelves~

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