The grand hall of the Zhēnbǎo Gé was a portrait of stunned silence. The newly placed staff stood frozen, their worldviews shattering as they watched the radiant, furious young woman who held the authority they had been told to fear dangling from her hand. Only the two snooty guards and the gasping imposter on the floor had known the fraud. They were not masterminds; they were crude tools, and the hand that wielded them was still hidden.
Yisha's anger, so uncharacteristically cold and violent, had surged from a deep, protective well. This was her second home—her sanctuary. They had disrespected her mother. For that, there could be no forgiveness.
Wù Fēng, though he had enjoyed the theatricality of her entrance, now saw the dangerous glint in her eyes—and her aura was full of killing intent. "Shāshā," he called, his voice a quiet anchor in the storm. He walked toward her, his steps measured. He gently touched the arm that held the imposter aloft. His touch was not a restraint, but a reminder. "Not yet."
Yisha's gaze flicked to him, the ice in her eyes meeting the calm warmth in his. The connection grounded her. With a final contemptuous look at the choking woman, she opened her hand.
The imposter dropped to the floor with a thud, coughing and gagging. She immediately tried to scramble away, crawling desperately toward the door on hands and knees.
Wù Fēng merely shook his head, sucking his teeth, a mild expression of disappointment on his face. He didn't gesture, didn't speak a word of command. But the woman's body slammed flat against the polished wood, pinned by an invisible, immense weight—the sheer, effortless will of a High God. She could only whimper, trapped.
The tension in the room broke with a sob of relief. Old Yù dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor in a deep kowtow. "Èr Xiǎojiě!" he cried, his voice thick with emotion.
"Lǎo Yù! Please, get up!" Yisha rushed forward, interrupting the gesture to pull the weathered man to his feet. She held his arms, her anger melting into tender concern. "Are you hurt?"
"Thank the heavens you're here!" Old Yu exclaimed, patting her hand. "Yǒngshèng is in turmoil. And this… this nitwit," he said, wagging a furious finger at the pinned woman, "sold us all out! Tried to turn this house into her gaudy little court!"
"I'll go fetch the others," Wù Fēng said, already turning toward the door. He gave Yisha a small, reassuring nod.
Old Yu's sharp eyes followed him, then darted back to Yisha. "He is…?" he asked cautiously, a knowing twinkle cutting through his distress.
"Lǎo Yù, this is Wù Fēng, my…" Yisha began, the explanation suddenly feeling complicated.
"Shīfù," Wù Fēng finished from the doorway, his tone playful, throwing a wink over his shoulder before he disappeared down the stairs.
Old Yu's face broke into a wide, understanding grin. He chuckled, wiping a stray tear from his cheek. "I see. I see. Has my Mistress come? Your sister? And my mean, frosty little protégé? Have they all come? I've missed you all terribly."
Yisha nodded, still holding the old man's arm. She noticed a thin, bleeding cut on the back of his hand and immediately fretted over it, her light instinctively beginning to glow at her fingertips.
"Oh, never mind that! Just a souvenir from a broken dish. It's nothing," he protested, but he didn't pull away, savoring the care.
Assured he was okay, Yisha's attention finally swept the room. Her nose wrinkled. Her eyes, now sharp with a critic's displeasure, darted from a garish vase to a lurid wall hanging. The frustration returned, this time edged with utter disgust.
"And could someone with marginally better taste have been hired to impersonate my mother?" she groaned, her voice dripping with disdain. She stalked over to the main table and pinched the edge of a cheap, scratchy tablecloth between her fingers. It was a violent, clashing pattern of lavender and mustard yellow. "My goodness! Look at this atrocity! Was this bought from a roadside stall selling nightmares?"
In that moment, amidst the conspiracy and the danger, the heart of the Zhēnbǎo Gé began to beat again—not with grandeur, but with the familiar, comforting rhythm of family, loyalty, and a shared hatred for ugly decor.
Xuán Líng, with Qianyi leaning on Xuán Chè for support, finally made their way up to the private chambers. Qianyi, still pale but with a spark returning to her eyes, released a weak chuckle as she took in the garish room. "This décor is... a choice, Mèimei. When did your taste become so... violently floral?" she joked.
Yisha was not amused. "It's an assault on the senses. We're burning it all later."
Straight to business, Xuán Líng knelt gracefully on one knee beside the prone imposter. The movement was silent, predatory. "So," she said, her voice a velvet murmur. "You're me."
The girl, still pinned by Wù Fēng's will, managed to raise her head to look at the real Xuán Líng. The woman was smiling, but it was a smile that held no warmth, only a profound, ancient stillness. It wasn't rage the girl saw, but something far worse: the absolute certainty of her own insignificance. A terror so pure it short-circuited her mind, and her eyes rolled back as she fainted dead away.
Later that day, Old Yu had assembled the entire staff in the main hall. The new hires stood in a frightened clump, while a handful of familiar, tearful faces—the old kitchen maids and stable hands—stood together, their relief palpable.
"Mistress, this is everyone," Old Yu reported. "Our old senior staff were either replaced outright or relegated to the scullery and stables. Some... some just disappeared."
"On whose authority were these changes made?" Xuán Líng inquired, her gaze sweeping the room like a winter wind.
Qianyi nudged the unconscious imposter in the center of the floor with her foot. "Wèi!" she called. "Wake up. Who hired you to impersonate my mother?"
The girl groaned back to consciousness, her words slurred through sobs and panic.
"How is it?" Yisha asked, crouching down with a cruel, glittering smile. "Weren't you so mighty earlier? Where's all that pride, fraud? We can always give you a real reason to cry."
"So, spill," Qianyi added, her tone cooler but no less pressing. "Who is your employer?"
The girl sniffled, unable to wipe her smudged, garish makeup. "H-he told me to call him Lǎo Hǔ," she stammered. "I don't know his surname! He's not from here!"
"Tell me about him," Qianyi pressed. "What does he look like? How did you meet? What did he want you to do?"
"He's older, maybe in his 50s. Rich. Powerful. Oh, he has a scar on his left cheek, like a claw mark. He saved me from being snatched by the imperial guards one night."
"Oh?" Xuán Líng's interest was genuinely piqued. "Continue."
"He said I could repay him by pretending to be some wealthy noblewoman named Xuán Líng. He said no one knew where the real proprietress was, so he was... 'assuming stewardship.'"
"What did he tell you about... me?"
"Nothing! Except that you were mysterious, liked long trips, and one day you left and never came back. All I had to do was sit here, look important, and not talk to anyone who seemed like they might actually know you. He had his men remove everyone who was a problem and placed me here."
"And why keep Lǎo Yù?" Xuán Líng asked, her eyes shifting to the old chef.
"Mistress," Old Yu interrupted, stepping forward and bowing deeply. "He did toss me out. I... I convinced him that no one, not even the Emperor's own chef, could run the Zhēnbǎo Gé's kitchen or manage its cellars. That the reputation would collapse without me. It was the only way to stay. I tried to get messages out, but so much changed, the networks were dead... This old man was useless. Please forgive my failure."
Xuán Líng looked from the weeping imposter to her loyal, heartbroken chef, observing the building she had built centuries ago. Lǎo Hǔ.
Xuán Líng looked from the weeping imposter to her loyal, heartbroken chef, her gaze taking in the grand hall of the building she had built centuries ago. This was not just an impersonation; it was a violation of her legacy.
"How do you normally contact Lǎo Hǔ?" Qianyi inquired, her voice deceptively calm.
"I don't," the girl whimpered. "He contacts me."
"In person or by messenger?"
"A messenger. A man... Shěn... something." She screwed up her face, trying to remember. "Shěn... Shěn Míngzhì? Yes, that's it. He was always very stern."
Qianyi's eyes widened. She shared a sharp, knowing glance with her sister. The name was a blade of ice. Shěn Míngzhì—the younger brother of Patriarch Shěn Qíngcāng, and uncle to her treacherous ex-husband. A man known to be the family's "fixer," operating in the shadows of the capital.
"Think harder," Qianyi said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Where does Shěn Míngzhì meet you? What does he say?"
"Here! Usually in the back office! He just checks on things, takes the account ledgers, and gives me my allowance. He never stays long. He always seems... nervous. Like he's being watched."
Xuán Líng finally spoke, her voice filling the hall without effort. "So. The Shen clan's reach extends from attempting to steal a celestial seal to stealing my home. Their ambition is as endless as their stupidity." She turned her focus back to the imposter. "You will send a message. Tell Shěn Míngzhì there is an urgent matter with the southern silks that requires his personal attention. You need him here, tonight."
The girl's face went pale. "B-but if he finds out I've been discovered—"
"You should be more worried that I found out," Xuán Líng finished, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Comply, and you may walk out of this city with your life. Hesitate, and you will learn exactly what happens to those who try to wear my skin."
The message was sent. The Zhēnbǎo Gé, once a gilded cage under false management, had now become a trap. And the Shen clan, it seemed, was about to walk right into it.
With the imposter secured and the message sent, a tense calm settled over the Zhēnbǎo Gé. The immediate threat was contained, but the larger mystery of Yǒngshèng Jīng pressed in from all sides.
"Is it safe to walk the streets?" Yisha asked, her divine senses already reaching out toward the door, eager to see the city's sickness with her own eyes.
Old Yu, wiping his hands on a clean cloth, shook his head with grave concern. "You can walk, Èr Xiǎojiě, but do not draw attention. And whatever you do," he leaned in, lowering his voice, "do not flare your qi. There are… feelers in the air. Hungry ones. It's like they're sniffing for a spark to extinguish."
Xuán Líng nodded her agreement. "Go. Observe. Be our eyes. And if you can, find the girl you mentioned. I know you worry about her. We will secure the house." She would remain with Old Yu and the few discreet Moon Shadow Sect men who had infiltrated with them, erasing every trace of the imposter's gaudy reign and preparing a welcome for Shěn Míngzhì.
As the younger trio prepared to leave, Xuán Líng drew Qianyi aside into a quieter antechamber. Gently, she pressed a cool hand to her daughter's forehead. "The earth screamed for you," she stated, not asked.
Qianyi leaned into the touch, the memory a fresh wave of nausea. "It wasn't just a feeling, Niáng. It was voices. The soil, the grass between the stones, the roots of the trees… they were weeping. Begging. It was a chorus of agony, and I was the only one who could hear it." A shudder ran through her. "It's being drained, slowly and utterly. There's a force here that isn't just killing life; it's consuming its very essence."
Xuán Líng's eyes darkened, seeing not just a city in peril, but her daughter's spirit bearing its pain. "Then we will find its heart," she vowed, her voice a low promise, "and we will stop it."
Outside, Yisha, Wù Fēng, and Xuán Chè melted into the sluggish flow of the city's traffic. The vibrant market street was a portrait of quiet despair. Stall owners moved with the lethargy of deep illness, their smiles forced and fleeting. Shop workers leaned against doorframes, their eyes hollow. The people whispered to each other about a strange "wasting sickness" sweeping through, unaware that the life was being siphoned from them with every breath they took.
They stopped at a humble stall for scallion noodles, run by an elderly couple whose movements, though slow, held a stubborn warmth. As they waited for their food, their attention was drawn to a group of children sitting listlessly on the dusty curb nearby. The children had a ball, but it lay forgotten between them. Their eyes were a dull sheen; they had the wistful look of wanting to play but none of the vital spark to begin.
"They should be causing mischief," Xuán Chè observed, his voice heavy with sadness. "Running, shouting… not sitting like little ghosts."
Wu Feng and Yisha nodded in silent agreement, the sight a sharp pang in the otherwise resilient Yisha.
"If they were me, Qiānqiān, and A'Wei," Yisha said, a fond, distant smile touching her lips as she watched the still children, "we would have had the entire street in an uproar. We'd have been chased by at least three brooms before noon."
Her comment about her own vibrant childhood seemed to hang in the air, an invitation to a happier time.
"It reminds me of two other mischievous children I once knew," Wu Feng said softly, picking up the thread she'd offered. His gaze grew distant, seeing not the bleak street but a starlit courtyard from a lifetime ago. "They snuck into the family kitchens one night, ravenous after playing under the stars. The boy, trying to impress the girl, insisted on lighting the stove himself. He fumbled with the flint, and a spark caught the hem of his fine silk robe."
A small, fond smile touched his lips as Yisha listened, her own nostalgic smile still in place. "It was only a small flame, but the girl panicked. Instead of a basin, she grabbed the largest soup pot she could find, filled it from the water barrel, and dumped the entire thing over his head."
He chuckled, the sound warm. "The boy was left standing there, utterly drenched, soup vegetables in his hair, the fire well and truly out. They were both so stunned, and then… they just laughed until they cried."
Yisha laughed too, the sound bright and immediate at the ridiculous image, a direct contrast to the listless children before them. But as the laughter faded, her smile froze. It didn't just disappear; it was swallowed by a sudden, profound blankness. The story… it itched in her mind. The sensation of cold water, the smell of wet silk and startled laughter—it felt like an echo of her own earlier reminiscence, but sharper, more specific. A ghost of a feeling, a dream she'd once had but could no longer grasp. She stared at him, her eyes wide with confusion and a flicker of panic. Why does this feel so familiar? Why does he feel so familiar?
Wu Feng saw the shift—the laughter dying, replaced by dawning, frustrated recognition that couldn't quite break through. His heart ached, but he simply gave her a gentle, understanding look and took a sip of his tea, letting the moment pass. The memory was a seed; he could not force it to grow.
It was then that the old wife, who had been watching the tender exchange, beamed at them. "Ah, to be young and in love," she sighed happily. "You make such a handsome couple. Your husband has a way of making you laugh, young miss. A good sign for a long marriage!"
Yisha's head snapped up, her mind still reeling from the almost-memory. "Oh, we're not—"
Before the words could leave her lips, Wu Feng's hand closed over hers on the rough wooden table. His touch was warm and firm, a silent request. He gave the old woman a charming, grateful smile. "You are too kind, Lǎo Tàitài. We are just… very fortunate."
Yisha fell silent. The warmth of his hand was a tangible reality over the ghost of a memory. She didn't pull away. The fiction of the old woman's assumption wrapped around them, a fragile, present lie that felt strangely solid against the elusive truth of the past.
Xuán Chè's face held a polite smile that betrayed the defeat he felt in his heart. To add insult to injury, the couple now fixated on him.
"And don't you worry, young master," the old man said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're so good-looking. Nice, strong physique. You're still young. You'll find a wife in no time."
Xuán Chè's defeated smile morphed into one of deep embarrassment. "I, uhh—haven't really thought about marriage. I'm focusing on... other things," he said, his voice trailing off as he glanced at the intertwined hands of Yisha and Wù Fēng.
As they were finishing their meal, a commotion erupted not far from them. A girl was being chased by a squad of men in dark, functional uniforms—personal guards, not imperial soldiers. Her two long braids whipped behind her as she darted through the street, her hands bound in front of her. As she drew closer, they saw her face.
"Línglóng!" Xuán Chè shouted, lurching to his feet.
Línglōng heard his voice, her eyes wide with shock and fear. But instead of running to him, she instantly pivoted, trying to lead her pursuers away from them.
Without a second thought, Xuán Chè darted out, planting himself squarely between her and the oncoming guards.
"Move out of the way!" one of the guards barked.
Yisha's mind raced. We're not supposed to draw attention, but it's a bit late for that. She swept forward, her demeanor shifting into that of a spoiled, imperious young mistress. "That's my servant girl! She's been missing for days! Who are you? Why are you chasing her?"
Wù Fēng joined in seamlessly, playing the part of a harried, wealthy husband. He smoothed the rich, embroidered silk of his own robes—a deep azure patterned with subtle silver cranes—and gestured to Yisha's equally fine attire. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find someone who can make a proper Bāzhēn Gāo? That girl is the only one who can make it for my wife." He leaned in close to the lead guard, his voice a stage whisper. "Do you know how miserable she's made me these last few days over that cake?"
Yisha shot him a look that was only half-acting.
The guards eyed their obviously expensive clothing from Jǐnxiù Zhèn, hesitating. "We caught her stealing. We need to bring her to justice. We didn't mean to offend, but we have our orders."
"And just who is 'we'?" Yisha demanded, putting her hands on her hips. "My girl would never steal! Did you even ask her who she worked for?"
A guard stepped forward from behind the others, signaling his men to slowly encircle the trio and Línglóng. The exhausted people on the street watched with dull curiosity. "I think you will all have to come with us to speak to our master, Lord Shěn."
The Shěn family. Again. Yisha's annoyance spiked.
The guard's eyes narrowed, making a slow assessment. "You...don't look like you're not from here."
"We're not," Wù Fēng said, his tone cool and imperious. "We're from Jǐnxiù. We came to conduct business, and our servant vanished. Now you have her." The guards' circle tightened, forcing the trio and Línglóng closer together.
Wù Fēng leaned toward Xuán Chè, his voice a whisper meant only for his disciple. "Xiǎo túdì," he said, a playful challenge in his tone. "I know you've been busy being unconscious and all, but it's time to show me what you've learned." With a sudden, encouraging laugh, he gave Xuán Chè a firm shove forward, right into the center of the tightening circle of guards.
Panic flashed in Xuán Chè's eyes for a heartbeat. Then, instinct and recent training took over. He planted his feet, remembered Wù Fēng's lessons on resonance and grounding, and stomped down hard.
THOOM.
The earth beneath the cobblestones gave a single, convulsive shudder. A wave of force, visible only as a ripple of dust and loose pebbles, erupted outward. The encircling guards cried out as the ground seemed to lurch beneath them, their disciplined formation dissolving into a tangle of stumbling, off-balance bodies.
"Now!" Wù Fēng didn't shout, but his command cut through the chaos. He gave Xuán Chè another push—this time toward the opening where Línglóng had fled—and in the same fluid motion, his hand found Yisha's.
The three of them burst through the chaotic ring, Xuán Chè scooping up a wide-eyed Línglóng as they passed. They raced into the maze of narrow streets, leaving the shouting guards floundering in the dust.
And for a few, stolen heartbeats, they were not gods, a demon matriarch's heir, and a fugitive in a forlorn city. They were simply young, breathless, and alive. They wove through the lethargic crowd, a streak of impossible color and motion in a world painted in weary greys. The onlookers, their own energies sapped, watched them pass with a dull curiosity, as if witnessing a dream they could no longer remember how to have—a dream of speed, of laughter caught in the throat, of hands clasped tight and feet flying over stone.
The wind whipped Yisha's braids behind her. The solid warmth of Wù Fēng's hand in hers was an anchor and a thrill. The shared, breathless grins on Xuán Chè's and Línglóng's faces were a contagious spark. It was a moment of pure, undiluted aliveness, a rebellion against the oppressive stillness that choked the city.
And in that rush of wind and shared pulse, the feeling slammed into Yisha once more—a dizzying sense of déjà vu. The grip of a hand, the frantic race through unfamiliar streets, the gasping laughter of a chase… it was another ghost of a memory, a shadow-play from a past she couldn't grasp. This joy, this reckless freedom, felt like something she had known—not that of her usual exploits with her Qianyi and Li Wei, but something else. Something that was lost long, long ago.