After the Ordinary Me Was Coveted by the Crown Prince - Reviews

Can we talk about that goose scene for a second? Because I was NOT prepared for that. Liu Yun is just out there picking flowers, having a nice spring day, and this goose gets shot out of the sky and lands on her milk vetch. Blood on green grass. She's staring at it, processing the death of something she's never even seen alive before. The author writes: "It was jarring. Not only did it ruin the spring ambiance, but it also forced her to witness the passing of a life." And then immediately after this moment of quiet horror, the Crown Prince rides in like a storm. The contrast is insane. One moment she's mourning a dead goose, the next she's on her knees before the most powerful man in the empire. But what really got me was the scene where Liu Yun goes home and breaks down in front of her mother. She held it together through the entire humiliation at the spring outing—through County Princess Rong'an's mockery, through the staring eyes of every noble lady in Yanjing—but the moment she sees her mother, she crumbles. "Sobbing intermittently, she told her mother about how County Princess Rong'an had ridiculed her." And then the reversal—she wipes her tears and puts on her usual sweet smile to comfort HER mother. That detail killed me. She was the one who was humiliated, but she still goes back to taking care of everyone else's feelings. That's who Liu Yun is. She's not some plucky heroine who fights back immediately. She's a girl who endures, who absorbs the pain, who smiles through it. The romantic tension here is... not what you'd expect. There's no fluttering heart, no blushing, no accidental hand touches. There's a jade piece thrown like a coin and a girl who dreams about running away from it. And somehow that's MORE romantic in its own weird, unsettling way. Because the Crown Prince has no idea what he's done to this girl, and she has no idea what he's capable of.

I need to address the pacing because this author is a menace in the best possible way. Chapter 7 starts with something that feels almost like a slice-of-life scene—girls picking flowers, making swings, having a nice spring day. Very cozy. Very low stakes. And then a goose gets shot and dies on page two. The tonal whiplash is incredible. You go from "let's pick flowers" to "oh god there's blood on the grass" to "the CROWN PRINCE is here and he's looking at you" in the span of a few paragraphs. Then Chapter 8 continues the spring outing scene but pivots hard into social hierarchy drama with County Princess Rong'an's entrance. The humiliation scene is brutal but short—just enough to make you furious, then the chapter ends with Liu Yun going home. No drawn-out revenge fantasy, no immediate resolution. Just... she goes home and cries. Chapter 3 (which seems to be a later chapter that loops back) picks up with the Liu parents' conversation and then jumps to the next day's court session. The transition from the intimate family scene to the grand court scene is seamless but jarring in its own way. You're in a bedroom with a mother comforting her daughter, and then suddenly you're in Tianyuan Hall watching the Crown Prince navigate politics. What I love about this pacing is that the author never lets you get comfortable. One moment you're in a personal, emotional scene, and the next you're thrust into the wider political world. The chapters are short enough that you want to keep reading, but each one ends on a note that makes you stop and process what just happened. Also—the dream sequence! Liu Yun dreaming about the Crown Prince watching her run while County Princess Rong'an tries to hit her? That's not just a cute romantic dream. That's her subconscious processing the power dynamics she experienced that day. And it's placed right after the humiliation scene, which makes it hit even harder.

Okay so let me just say this first—Xiao Heng is one of the most interesting Crown Princes I've ever read. Not because he's some swoony romance lead, but because the author keeps him completely unreadable. He gives Liu Yun a dragon-patterned jade jue as COMPENSATION for crushed milk vetch. Like. A single, priceless imperial jade piece worth more than her entire family's annual income, tossed at her like it's nothing. And then he just rides off. No explanation, no lingering gaze, no dramatic moment. Just... gone. And Liu Yun's reaction? She's terrified. Not flustered, not blushing, actually scared. She thinks he's going to punish her. Her dream that night is literally her running away from County Princess Rong'an while the Crown Prince watches with a mocking smile. That's not a girl who's secretly thrilled— that's a girl who thinks she's in danger. Then there's He Xiang. Ugh, she's the kind of character who makes you want to throw the book across the room. The way she looks at that jade jue—not because she cares about Liu Yun, but because SHE doesn't have anything of the Crown Prince's. That line hit me hard: "She didn't have any of her Crown Prince cousin's things!" It's not even really about love. It's about possession. About status. About being the one who gets what the other person casually discards. The Liu parents are also surprisingly layered. They're not just "worried commoner parents"—they've spent eighteen years surviving in Yanjing where "nobles were as common as dogs." Liu Shiwen's moment where he hesitates and asks "Do you think the Crown Prince might have feelings for our daughter?"—that's not naive hope. That's a father trying to understand why his family is suddenly in the crosshairs of someone that powerful. And his wife's response? Brutally practical. She shuts it down not because she doesn't want that for her daughter, but because she knows the world they live in. I'm already obsessed with how these relationships are set up. The power dynamics alone are enough to make this a thousand chapters long.

I've been thinking about this novel for hours after reading these chapters, and the symbolism is SO rich I can barely contain myself. The milk vetch. This ordinary wildflower that Liu Yun spends time finding, only to have it crushed beneath a dead goose. It's such a perfect symbol for her entire existence in this world—common, beautiful in its simplicity, and instantly destroyed by forces she can't control. The Crown Prince doesn't even notice he's crushing her flowers. He just rides through and everything beneath him is ruined. And the jade jue he gives her as compensation? That's the ultimate irony. He gives her something priceless to replace something worthless, but the gift itself becomes the source of her suffering. The jade is a symbol of the very system that oppresses her. County Princess Rong'an doesn't hate Liu Yun for being poor—she hates her for HAVING something precious that she herself doesn't possess. The jade becomes a mirror that reflects everyone's desires and resentments. The goose itself is also significant. The text explicitly calls it "a symbol of loyalty." A loyal creature, shot dead in spring, its blood staining the green grass. There's something deeply unsettling about this image—loyalty destroyed, beauty marred, life cut short. It feels like a preview of what's to come in this story. And then there's the theme of worthiness. County Princess Rong'an keeps emphasizing that Liu Yun is "unworthy" of the jade, of the Crown Prince's attention, of existing in the same space as nobility. But Liu Yun's parents tell her she's "perfect in every way." Who is right? The novel seems to be asking: what makes someone worthy? Is it bloodline? Is it status? Or is it something the nobles can't even recognize because they've never had to earn it? The dream sequence at the end is the most powerful symbol of all. Liu Yun isn't dreaming about romance—she's dreaming about being hunted. The Crown Prince isn't a prince in her dream; he's an observer, watching her suffer with a mocking smile. This suggests that beneath all the political maneuvering and social hierarchy, this story is really about power—and how the powerful watch the powerless struggle without ever understanding why.

The jade jue. That little piece of warm, translucent white jade. It shows up once and then it's EVERYWHERE in my head. On the surface, it's just a gift. Xiao Heng gives it to Liu Shiwen, Liu Shiwen tries to return it, Xiao Heng refuses, and then... takes it back when Liu Shiwen blocks his path. Simple transaction, right? But nothing about this court is simple, and the jade is the perfect symbol for everything that's wrong and right about this world. The jade represents favor. In this society, a gift from the Crown Prince isn't a kind gesture—it's an obligation. It's a hook. Liu Shiwen understands this viscerally: "The Liu family is humble and of low standing. Even the flowers and plants casually discarded by Your Highness would be a hot potato for the Liu family." A hot potato. That's the perfect phrase. The jade is something you can't hold and you can't drop. And the fact that it's a dragon jue—dragon being the imperial symbol—makes it even more charged. This isn't jewelry. This is a piece of the emperor's authority, temporarily loaned to a fifth-rank official. What does that mean? It means Liu Shiwen is now connected to the highest power in the land, whether he wants to be or not. Xiao Heng's refusal to take it back initially is fascinating. "What I have given, I do not take back." This is a statement about power. When you're this powerful, you don't retract your gifts. It would look weak. But then he DOES take it back when Liu Shiwen insists. Why? Because he's reading the situation. He sees that this man is genuinely terrified, not scheming. And in taking the jade back, Xiao Heng is making a choice: he's choosing not to bind this family to him. Or maybe he's choosing to bind them in a different way. The jade also connects to the theme of visibility. Liu Shiwen wants to return it because he wants to be invisible. He wants his family to live quietly. But the moment Xiao Heng gives him the jade, he becomes visible—to enemies, to rivals, to anyone who wants to climb the ladder by stepping on the Liu family. The jade is a target. There's also the contrast between the jade and the cherry biluo. One is cold, hard, valuable, dangerous. The other is sweet, perishable, simple, shared between siblings. The jade represents the political world—transactional, threatening, inescapable. The cherry biluo represents the personal world—warm, generous, chosen. Liu Yun carries the cherry biluo like a secret treasure all the way to the Imperial College, resisting the temptation to eat it. That's love. That's not obligation. That's something you give because you want to, not because you have to. And then there's County Princess Rong'an, who is defined entirely by her visibility. Her status, her connections, her arrogance—all of it makes her a target. And when Xiao Heng reprimands her publicly, he's stripping away that visibility. "Being chastised by the one she admired was the most heart-wrenching blow of all." The public nature of her punishment is what destroys her. In a world where reputation is everything, being publicly shamed by the Crown Prince is social death. I keep thinking about how the jade jue mirrors the entire structure of this story. It's beautiful but heavy. It's valuable but dangerous. It's a gift that feels like a burden. And Xiao Heng, who gives and takes back, who is both terrifying and strangely protective—he's like the jade himself. Valuable, cold, sharp-edged, and impossible to hold onto. The author never says any of this outright. There's no narrator moralizing about the symbolism. It just... accumulates. The jade appears, disappears, reappears, and by the time you're done with the chapter, you realize it's been the emotional center of every interaction. This is what good symbolism does. It doesn't announce itself. It just sits there, glowing faintly, until you notice it's been there the whole time.

I'm still thinking about how this opening section paces itself. It's like a slow exhale for six chapters and then — WHAM — Chapter 1 ends with a horse almost trampling your protagonist's peace of mind. The first three chapters are basically a single continuous morning-to-afternoon timeline. Chapter 1: waking up, getting dressed, saying goodbye to mom, the carriage ride, the encounter. Chapter 2: arriving at the Wei River, meeting Zhenzhen, the swing, the hairpin. Chapter 3 starts to expand the world a bit more. There's no rushing, no info-dumping, no forced drama. The author just lets Liu Yun LIVE her day and we get absorbed in it. But here's what's genius — the Crown Prince isn't just a random encounter. He's mentioned in the first chapter as someone Liu Yun has seen at banquets before, and the text explicitly tells us "This was just that this time it was too close; she couldn't handle it." The author is laying groundwork. This isn't a surprise appearance, it's a RETURN of something already established. And the pacing of that reveal — the procession stops, the eunuch speaks, Liu Yun hesitates, THEN the horse appears — it's deliberate. Every beat lands. I stayed up way too late reading this. Not because of cliffhangers, but because the prose is so comfortable it feels like falling asleep and the story won't let you stop.

Okay so let me just say this right now — the moment Liu Yun locks eyes with Crown Prince Xiao Heng on that horse? I literally gasped out loud. Like, the entire setup of Chapter 1 is this gorgeous, peaceful spring outing day, right? Dew on apricot blossoms, maids giggling, Liu Yun picking out her hairpin. It's all soft and warm and you think, okay, this is a cozy slice-of-life story. And then — BAM — a black horse lunges into her视野 and this guy looks at her like she's nothing. "Those were eyes that radiated control and aggression." The author doesn't even try to hide it. This isn't a meet-cute, this is a collision. And the structure here is so smart. The Crown Prince's procession stops, lets all the ladies go first, and Liu Yun — who literally says she most fears people with sharp, piercing personalities — decides to be bold and ride ahead. Of COURSE she does. That's such a human choice. She's terrified but she still moves forward. Then right as she's at the city gate, galloping horses appear and... well, we know what happens. The plot doesn't rush into drama, it lets you breathe first. You feel Liu Yun's world — her mother's lychee drink, her father spending eight hundred guan on a house, her friendship with Zhenzhen — and THEN it cracks open. That's how you build tension. Not by throwing conflict at page one, but by making us care about what's about to be disrupted.

Let me just say this upfront: the stakes in this section are quietly devastating and I am not okay. On the surface, nothing explosive happens. No one dies. No one is exiled. A princess gets house arrest for three months and a minister returns a piece of jewelry. But the tension? The tension is off the charts. Take Liu Shiwen's scene. He's a fifth-rank official—basically mid-level bureaucracy. He has a daughter, a family, a reputation. And the Crown Prince, the future emperor, gives him a jade jue. That's it. That's the inciting incident. But Liu Shiwen understands immediately that this small act could destroy his family. Not because the jade is dangerous, but because in this world, favor from the Crown Prince IS danger. It makes you a target. It makes you visible. It makes you someone who has something to lose. The text says: "An anomaly in events often signals trouble. Having been cautious for most of his life, he could not afford to stumble over this." This is the core of the conflict. Liu Shiwen has survived eight years in Yanjing by being invisible, by not offending anyone, by keeping his head down. And now the most powerful young man in the empire has handed him something precious and terrifying. Every second he holds that jade, he's one misstep away from ruin. And Xiao Heng? He's the one holding all the cards. But here's the thing—he's not being malicious. He's just... existing. He gives the jade, he doesn't mean anything by it. But his mere existence is a force of nature that reshapes everyone around him. That's the real conflict: ordinary people trying to survive in a world shaped by people like Xiao Heng, whose smallest gestures carry enormous consequences. Then there's Rong'an. Her conflict is more direct. She bullied Liu Yun, she was cruel to palace maids, she thought she was untouchable. And then Xiao Heng appears and destroys her reputation in one afternoon. Three months of house arrest. A public reprimand. The implication that she's unworthy of marriage into the Eastern Palace. For a young woman in this society, that's catastrophic. The text makes this clear: "Few families would dare to marry a woman denounced by the imperial family as lacking virtue and propriety." But what's interesting is that Rong'an's punishment comes from the one person she wanted to impress. "Being chastised by the one she admired was the most heart-wrenching blow of all." This isn't just about social consequences. It's about emotional devastation. She wanted his approval and instead she got his contempt. That's a different kind of stakes—personal, intimate, brutal. The examination hall scene is lower stakes on the surface but the author handles it with the same care. Liu Yun's brother is fourteen and already a Xiucai. The family is proud. The future looks bright. But the imperial examinations are described with such gravity—supervising officials, censors, the whole machinery of meritocracy—that you feel the weight of what's at play. This is how careers are made and broken. This is how families rise or fall. Liu Ying's success or failure will determine his family's trajectory for generations. And Liu Yun? Her conflict is the smallest and the most relatable. She wants the cherry biluo. She shouldn't eat it because it's for her brother. She almost does. The internal struggle is rendered with such specificity that you feel her hunger. This is the kind of conflict that seems trivial but is actually profound—it's about love, sacrifice, and the small daily choices that define who we are. What I love about how the author handles stakes is that nothing is wasted. Every scene raises the tension, even the quiet ones. The Liu Shiwen scene makes you anxious. The Rong'an scene makes you grimace. The sibling scene makes you smile and then... the hoofbeats. The interruption. Something is coming. The author doesn't tell you what, but you feel it. The stakes are always rising, always present, always just below the surface. And the best part? The author never melodramatizes. There's no overwrought narration about how dangerous things are. The danger is in the facts. Liu Shiwen is scared. Rong'an is finished. Liu Ying's future is uncertain. The jade is heavy. That's it. The author trusts you to feel the weight. I'm genuinely anxious to see what happens next. Because if this section is any indication, the stakes are only going to get higher. And I'm here for it.

The opening paragraph of this book is a MASTERCLASS in atmosphere. Let me just quote it because it deserves it: "As the morning mist receded, the pale golden warmth of the sun draped over the exquisite, fragrant courtyard below like a thin veil." That's it. That's the whole vibe. You are THERE. You can feel the cool dew, smell the apricot blossoms, see the light through the lattice window. And the worldbuilding is so layered it's almost invisible. You don't get an info-dump about the Liu family's status — you learn it through details. Her father spent eight hundred guan on a two-entrance house, more than half his savings. Lychees are so precious they're distributed by the Emperor to nobles, and Liu Yun only tasted one at fifteen at a princess's birthday banquet. The lychee drink is made from smoked plums and cinnamon instead. These tiny details tell you everything about the economic reality of a fifth-rank official's family without ever saying "they were poor." The Xuanwu Avenue scene is pure cinema. Ten carriages wide, green willows like emerald silk, the Crown Prince's procession stopping dead — it's all so vivid. And then the contrast: Liu Yun in her tender green Banbi "like spring grass" and lotus-pink skirt, and this black horse with a guy in purple-gold crown and jade belt barreling toward her. The visual palette shifts from soft pastels to stark ink-black the moment he appears.

I need to talk about the dialogue in this section because holy shit the author knows how to write siblings. The cherry biluo scene between Liu Yun and Liu Ying is one of the most natural pieces of dialogue I've read in a while. Like, I've had this exact conversation with my own siblings. The push-and-pull, the fake refusal, the underlying affection that neither of them would ever say out loud. Liu Yun: "I almost ate it on the way, but then I thought of how pitiful you were, not having tasted Xu Family's Cherry Biluo for half a month." And Liu Ying just immediately offers it back? Classic. He knows she's lying about not craving it. She knows he knows. And they both pretend they're being selfless. The text captures this perfectly: "Just as the siblings were pushing the treat back and forth, the sound of hoofbeats approached from behind." The interruption is so well-timed too. It's like the author is saying, "Yes, this sweet moment is about to be ruined by the plot, deal with it." But let me also talk about the other dialogue in this section because it's wildly different and that's what makes it work. Xiao Heng's dialogue is sharp, minimal, and loaded. "What I have given, I do not take back. Besides, it is merely a small trinket—there is no need to return it." That's it. Three sentences. But you can feel the dismissal in every word. He's not being cruel, he's being efficient. He's a Crown Prince who doesn't have time for unnecessary conversations. And then Su Lin, his attendant, who's served him for over a decade: "Your Highness, have a cup of light tea to moisten your throat and cool your temper." And Xiao Heng's response? "Do I look like I have a great temper?" This is such a natural exchange between someone who's known each other for years. Su Lin is trying to be helpful but also testing the waters. Xiao Heng is irritated but not at Su Lin. The banter feels lived-in. Chen Wei (Zhenzhen) is a whole different voice. She's excited, gossipy, informal: "It's County Princess Rong'an. She was reprimanded and placed under house confinement, and it was done by the Crown Prince, haha~" The "haha~" and the tilde and the way she dashes in with news like it's the best thing that ever happened? This character has a voice. You can hear her. Liu Shiwen's speech is formal, almost archaic: "Your Highness honors me, and I am overwhelmed with trepidation." But then when he's desperate he drops the formality: "I implore Your Highness to take it back and put my entire family at ease!" The shift in register tells us everything about his emotional state. The author's narrative voice is also doing a lot of work here. It's observant but not overwrought. When describing Liu Yun's internal struggle about the cherry biluo: "No, if she ate it, what would her brother have? After several rounds of internal struggle, Liu Yun finally managed to restrain her craving." This is such a small moment but the author gives it weight. The narrative treats her hunger seriously, which makes it funny and also kind of touching. One thing I noticed: the dialogue never feels like it's serving the plot. It feels like the plot is serving the dialogue. The characters are talking to each other, not to the reader. Even the exposition about Rong'an's punishment comes through Chen Wei's excited retelling rather than a dry narrator dump. That's skilled writing. I also want to mention how the author uses silence. Xiao Heng taking the jade and walking away without another word. Liu Ying's awkward "Was it really necessary to come all this way to see me?" when clearly he's touched. These silences and half-spoken things are where the real emotion lives. The only thing I'd critique is that some of the formal dialogue borders on over-the-top. Liu Shiwen's speech is so carefully polished it almost feels like the author is showing off. But then again, he IS a careful, formal official. So maybe it's justified. Overall? The dialogue in this section is a masterclass in voice differentiation. Every character sounds like themselves. I could tell who was speaking without looking at the name tags.

The worldbuilding in this novel is SO good and I need to talk about it. The author doesn't just describe settings—they make you FEEL the weight of every location. The spring outing scene is a masterclass in atmospheric writing. You've got talented scholars composing poetry, literati playing drinking games, noble ladies playing the qin and painting. It's this picture-perfect picture of Yanjing's elite at leisure. And then—CRASH. A dead goose lands in the grass, blood staining the tender spring green. The contrast between the elegant leisure and the sudden violence is jarring in the best way. It's like the author is telling you: this beautiful world has blood underneath it, and you're about to find out how deep it goes. Then there's the court scene in Chapter 3. The image of the Crown Prince standing among white-haired elderly ministers—"Clad in deep red gauze and purple robes, with a distant-travel crown on his head, the Crown Prince stood out prominently." This is such a vivid visual. He's young, powerful, and surrounded by old men who are all calculating how to use him. The author writes: "If not for the opposition of court officials, His Majesty would have nearly had the dragon robe made for the Crown Prince." That single sentence tells you everything about the political landscape. And the Liu family home—Wuchun Courtyard. Small, humble, but warm. The contrast between the cold, calculating world of the nobles and the warm but powerless Liu household is established so subtly. You don't need a chapter of exposition to understand where everyone stands in this world. The author also does something really clever with the milk vetch. This ordinary wildflower becomes the most important object in the scene because it gets crushed. It's a symbol of everything Liu Yun is—common, beautiful in its simplicity, and easily destroyed by people who don't even notice it's there.

I need to talk about Liu Yun because WOW. She's not your typical protagonist. She's literally described as "fairly speaking, her appearance could only be described as lovely; she did not stand out particularly in Yanjing." She's not the most beautiful girl in the room. She's not the most ambitious. She's soft, kind, a little timid. And that's what makes her so damn compelling. The way she treats her maid Jin He — calling her "Sister," letting her skip powder because her skin is already perfect — that's not performative kindness, that's just who she is. And her relationship with her mother Zhang Yuhua? "Among the items were several of Liu Yun's favorite pastries and a lychee drink chilled with ice." Her mother packs her favorite things, worries about insect bites, and Liu Yun thinks "in her next life, the life after that, and for all eternity, she could be her mother's daughter." I'm not crying, you're crying. Then there's Zhenzhen — Chen Wei, her confidante since age nine. These two feel REAL. The swing scene, competing to pick flowers, Zhenzhen pretending to beg for the hairpin... this is the kind of friendship that makes you nostalgic for your own childhood bestie. And Liu Yun's reaction to the Crown Prince? She doesn't swoon, she's SCARED. "That one look made Liu Yun's heart stop." She's intimidated by power, not drawn to it. That's a character who knows herself.