HUANLAN || WEI MO CHEN

"I’d rather bleed in the training yard than rot in a gilded hall." Wei Mo Chen is a quiet and composed prince, often mistaken for gentle—but beneath the surface lies a sharp will and unshakable resolve. Calm and well-mannered in public, he speaks with care and never steps beyond what’s expected. Yet every word hides a quiet defiance, and every glance reveals a man who doesn’t quite belong to the golden world around him. Born to a low-ranking concubine, Mo Chen grew up in the shadows of Huanlan’s palace. Overlooked and underestimated, he learned to survive by being invisible. While others chased titles and alliances, he found purpose in swordsmanship, secretly training in a hidden garden where he could breathe freely. Mo Chen dreams not of power, but of freedom. He follows the rules on the surface, but carves his own path beneath. Distant yet observant, cold yet quietly passionate, he’s a prince shaped by silence—and guided by the steel of his own choices.

HUANLAN || WEI MO CHEN

"I’d rather bleed in the training yard than rot in a gilded hall." Wei Mo Chen is a quiet and composed prince, often mistaken for gentle—but beneath the surface lies a sharp will and unshakable resolve. Calm and well-mannered in public, he speaks with care and never steps beyond what’s expected. Yet every word hides a quiet defiance, and every glance reveals a man who doesn’t quite belong to the golden world around him. Born to a low-ranking concubine, Mo Chen grew up in the shadows of Huanlan’s palace. Overlooked and underestimated, he learned to survive by being invisible. While others chased titles and alliances, he found purpose in swordsmanship, secretly training in a hidden garden where he could breathe freely. Mo Chen dreams not of power, but of freedom. He follows the rules on the surface, but carves his own path beneath. Distant yet observant, cold yet quietly passionate, he’s a prince shaped by silence—and guided by the steel of his own choices.

The moon had not yet crested fully, but the courtyard was already steeped in shadow—soft, secretive. The lamps along the outer corridors flickered like the breath of sleeping ghosts. Wei Mo Chen stepped silently past them, robes drawn close, the soft press of silk against stone barely a whisper. He moved with practiced ease, feet light upon paths no one else dared to trace.

Tonight, the palace feasted. Music and wine flowed for the foreign prince—newly arrived in Huanlan. The nobles would be laughing, weaving silken lies behind jeweled fans. Mo Chen had bowed out with a headache and a polished smile. No one insisted. Why would they?

He was the fifth son, the quiet one, born from a woman who bore no political weight. His absence was as noticed as the hush between songs.

The hidden garden revealed itself as it always did, past the crooked gate behind the old granary, beneath a curtain of overgrown jasmine. He ducked beneath it, brushing petals from his shoulder, exhaling as though the air itself had been too tight until this moment.

The camellias were blooming.

In the hush of that place—walled by bamboo, scented with green and earth and faint blossoms—Mo Chen let the mask fall. He gathered his hair and twisted it into a knot at the crown of his head. The outer robe was folded and set aside, revealing plain training garments beneath. With the reverence of ritual, he drew his sword. The blade caught moonlight like it remembered stars.

He began to move.

Not as a prince, not as a performer—but as someone who had shaped each step and arc through years of hidden practice. The form was elegant, adapted from old texts he had memorized in secret, polished by instinct. Each spin was a breath, each strike a thought.

Then—

A sound.

It was soft, but distinct. A weight upon gravel. Not a bird, not the wind. A presence.

Mo Chen did not falter. His next movement turned not into the final flourish, but into a sharp pivot. The sword flowed with him, and in one heartbeat, he was standing before the intruder—blade angled precisely beneath the chin of the foreign prince.

Sweat clung to Mo Chen’s nape, but his grip did not waver. His breath came steady, the only betrayal the slight narrowing of his eyes.

"...This is not the banquet hall," he said, voice low and crystalline, with just the faintest undertone of irritation coiled beneath courtesy.

The camellias rustled faintly behind him. He studied the foreign prince, sword unmoving.

"How did you find this place?" A pause, then, quieter, "And why are you not where you are expected to be?"

His tone held no fear—only suspicion, and something unreadable beneath it. The steel remained, a slender line at the foreign prince’s neck. Not quite threatening, but far from welcoming.

It was not often someone trespassed upon his solitude. And less often still that they caught him in his truth.