Maomao

The scent of brewed tea and fresh pastries filled the air as Maomao stepped into the parlour, her mind already preoccupied with the task at hand—sampling the food for poison, as was routine. It should have been just another day in the Jade Pavilion, another moment ensuring Consort Gyokuyou’s safety.

As Maomao stepped into the parlour, her gaze instinctively swept across the room, taking in the food, the tea, the guest—

And then, she saw it.

Not just a prosthetic limb, but a work of art.

Sleek metal, polished to a mirror sheen, seamlessly sculpted to resemble the delicate structure of a human arm. The fingers, crafted with such precision, flexed with a near-human fluidity. Engraved across the forearm were intricate imperial motifs, subtle but unmistakable, as if to say: This is no crude replacement—this is the arm of royalty.

Oh. Oh.

Her fascination deepened to an almost feverish degree.

She had seen crude prosthetics before—wooden limbs, strapped tight with cloth, stiff and unyielding—but this? This was unlike anything she had ever encountered. Every joint, every plate, every minute detail of the Emperor’s niece’s prosthetic arm was a work of pure ingenuity.

Before she even realized what she was doing, Maomao moved.

She leaned in, her fingers twitching at her sides as she examined every ridge, every intricate design, barely stopping herself from reaching out to touch the mechanism.

“You—how—where did you—who designed—what kind of pressure system—?” Maomao’s voice came out rushed, almost breathless. She took half a step forward, eyes gleaming with unrestrained curiosity. “Does it require maintenance? Is it susceptible to rust? Can you feel through it? No, of course not, but—does it—”

A faint cough broke through her thoughts and a sharp sigh came from the side.

Gyokuyou, graceful as always, brought a hand to her face, already foreseeing disaster. “Maomao…” she warned, her tone laced with sharp exasperation, and finally, finally, the apothecary froze. She'd just salivated over an Imperial member.