Yueying shook her head slowly.
"No," she said. "He made it clear he did not wish to be known."
Shen Jinzhao's brows drew together. "Clear how?"
"He never showed his face," Yueying replied evenly. "His voice was… distant. As if coming from very far away." She hesitated just enough to seem uncertain rather than evasive. "He said names create entanglements. That anonymity was safer—for me."
Her father released her wrist at last, but his hand hovered there, reluctant, as though part of him still expected her pulse to change if he looked away.
"A master powerful enough to identify sealed meridians…" he murmured. "And vocal cords."
His gaze sharpened, turning inward now—not toward her, but toward memory.
"I examined you dozens of times," he said slowly. "From the time you were an infant until you were old enough to sit upright on your own." His jaw tightened. "Your meridians were always… narrow. Weak, yes—but never sealed. There were no scars. No residual traces. Nothing I could isolate."
Frustration edged into his voice—rare, and sharp.
"If they had been forcibly sealed, I would have known."
A quiet, steady presence stirred in Yueying's mind.
Of course he wouldn't, Bai Xuan said calmly. The seals were crafted to deceive him.
Yueying kept her expression neutral, eyes lowered.
Whoever did this, Bai Xuan continued, did not merely block your meridians. They layered the restraint so that it would mimic natural deficiency—and keyed it specifically to his spiritual signature.
Her fingers tightened under the blanket.
Your father was never meant to find it.
Shen Jinzhao exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair for the first time since entering the room.
"…If this master could see what I could not," he said at last, voice quieter now, "then his cultivation must far exceed mine."
The frustration faded, replaced by something closer to relief.
That, at least, had an explanation.
He looked at Yueying again—not as a fragile daughter this time, but as a physician assessing a patient whose case had suddenly changed.
"And he accepted you?" he asked. "As his disciple?"
"Yes," Yueying said softly. "He said my body was… compatible. That it would have been a waste otherwise."
Shen Jinzhao's lips pressed into a thin line.
"For someone to intervene without demanding compensation," he said, "to restore what was taken and leave no trace…" He shook his head once. "That is not ordinary benevolence."
Yueying met his gaze.
"He teaches medicine," she said. "Cultivation through healing. He said power that cannot preserve life is meaningless."
Something flickered in her father's eyes at that.
Recognition.
Slowly, he straightened.
"If this master wishes to remain hidden," Shen Jinzhao said, "then we will respect that." His voice hardened, carrying the weight of authority he rarely used within these walls. "No one else needs to know the details."
Yueying felt a subtle loosening in her chest.
Shen Jinzhao turned slightly, as if only now truly seeing the room.
His gaze swept over the narrow bed, the thin mattress, the worn blanket that had been mended too many times to hide its age. The small table by the wall held a cracked teacup and a single, half-burnt candle. Even the brazier in the corner was cold, its ash old and undisturbed.
A faint crease formed between his brows.
"…Why are you staying here?" he asked.
The question was quiet, but it carried weight.
Yueying followed his gaze, then looked down at her hands. She let her shoulders slope just a little, her posture shrinking in on itself the way the old Yueying's body remembered how to do all too well.
"Mother said it would be better," she replied softly. "That the main courtyard was too lively for someone with poor health."
Shen Jinzhao's frown deepened.
"Better," he repeated, as if testing the word and finding it wanting.
He stepped farther into the room, fingers brushing the edge of the table. The wood was rough beneath his touch.
"I was told," he said slowly, more to himself than to her, "that you were housed comfortably. That physicians were assigned to you. That your needs were attended to."
His jaw tightened.
"That is what your mother reported."
Yueying's heart thudded once—harder than she liked—but she kept her eyes lowered. She could feel the temptation rising, sharp and dangerous: tell him. Tell him about the servants who ignored her. The medicine that never came unless Shen Rui intervened. The smiles her sister wore in public and the cruelty she saved for closed doors.
But she also remembered the household.
Remembered how easily stories twisted. How blame flowed downhill.
If he doubted her—even for a moment—it would be enough for her stepmother to turn this against her.
So she chose another path.
"I don't need much," Yueying said quietly. "I'm used to being… out of the way."
The words came easily. Too easily.
She clasped her hands together, fingers pale. "Mother said it was safer if I stayed somewhere quiet. That my condition was… troublesome."
Shen Jinzhao's gaze did not leave the room.
Something in his face tightened further—not fury, not disbelief, but a thin, controlled displeasure that made the air feel sharper.
He did not argue with her. He did not accuse her of lying.
He simply turned toward the door.
"Get up," he said, voice even.
Yueying blinked. "Father?"
He looked back at her, and for the first time his expression held no distance—only decision.
"You will not stay here."
The words struck like a bell.
Yueying's fingers curled against the blanket. A part of her expected resistance—expected him to soften, to retreat back into duty and silence.
Instead, he stepped closer and held out his hand.
Not a grand gesture. Not gentle.
Practical.
As if this were the most reasonable thing in the world.
Yueying hesitated only a heartbeat before placing her hand in his. His grip was steady, warm, callused in the way of someone who handled needles and lives with the same hands.
He helped her to her feet.
Her body moved easily—too easily. She had to remember to sway slightly, to keep her steps cautious, to not reveal how light her limbs felt now.
Shen Jinzhao did not miss the steadiness in her posture anyway. His eyes narrowed briefly, thoughtful, but he said nothing.
He guided her out of the side building and into the wider pathways of the manor.
Servants froze as they noticed them.
Heads lowered. Backs bent. Eyes averted so quickly it bordered on panic.
Whispers tried to start—died before they formed.
Because Shen Jinzhao walked at Yueying's side.
The manor looked different from this angle. Not the courtyards she had stumbled through in fear, but a series of elegant corridors and stone paths leading toward the inner guest quarters—an area reserved for visiting elders, important patients, honored allies.
The guest house.
Yueying's stomach tightened. She kept her gaze lowered, playing the part of someone overwhelmed and uncertain, even as her mind took in every route, every turn, every guard position.
Shen Jinzhao stopped before a set of lacquered doors.
Without raising his voice, he spoke to the nearest attendant. "Prepare the west guest suite. Immediately."
The attendant's eyes widened. "M-master—"
"Now."
The man nearly tripped over himself bowing. "Yes! Yes, Master Shen!"
The doors were opened for them at once.
Inside, the air was warmer. Clean. Fragrant with sandalwood and dried citrus peel. A sitting area with embroidered cushions. A screen painted with cranes. A bed wider than the one Yueying had slept on, draped in pale linen and a light silk canopy.
Her old room had been a place to disappear.
This was a place meant to be seen.
Shen Jinzhao glanced at her, as if gauging whether she would protest.
Yueying swallowed, then bowed her head slightly. "Father… this is too much."
"It is not enough," he replied, almost under his breath.
He turned toward the servants gathering in the doorway, their movements frantic, fearful.
"Bath," he ordered. "Hot water. Medicinal steam. Nothing harsh—no strong stimulants. And bring gowns. New ones."
A maid hurried forward. "What colors does Second Miss prefer?"
Shen Jinzhao's eyes flicked to Yueying again, the question catching him in an awkward place.
Yueying answered softly before he had to. "Something simple is fine."
"Simple," Shen Jinzhao repeated, as if the word left a sour taste. Then, to the maid: "Light colors. Warm fabrics. Proper sizing."
"Yes, Master Shen!"
They scattered.
Within minutes, the suite filled with quiet bustle. Screens were shifted to create privacy. A large tub was brought behind the inner partition. Steam rose in pale curls, carrying the scent of mugwort, ginger, and something faintly sweet—jujube, perhaps.
A stack of folded gowns appeared on the bed: soft inner robes, an outer layer with delicate stitching, and a cloak trimmed with simple fur that looked far too expensive to be meant for a "troublesome" daughter.
Yueying stood near the edge of it all, hands tucked into her sleeves, trying not to look too hungry for it.
Shen Jinzhao watched her for a moment—then spoke, his voice quieter.
"This will do for now," he said.
Yueying blinked. "For now?"
His gaze shifted away, as if it was easier to address a patient than a daughter.
"In the next few days," he continued, "I will have a personal residence arranged for you. Not a side building. Not a borrowed room."
A pause.
"Something appropriate."
Warmth flared in Yueying's chest—sharp, unfamiliar. She lowered her head quickly, letting her hair hide her expression.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Shen Jinzhao's jaw worked once, as if he had more to say and didn't know how to shape it.
Then he settled on the simplest truth.
"You need rest," he said. "Your body has changed too quickly. Even if your master stabilized you, the transition is not without risk."
He looked at her again, eyes narrowing with the clinical focus of a physician.
"You will bathe. You will eat. You will sleep."
Yueying nodded obediently. "Yes, Father."
For the first time, he seemed to accept the answer.
He turned toward the door, then paused with his hand on the frame—hesitating just long enough that Yueying felt it, like the ghost of a thought he couldn't bring himself to voice.
"…If anyone troubles you," he said at last, tone controlled, "you will inform me."
Yueying's lashes lowered.
Not your mother. Not your sister. Not the household.
Anyone.
"I will," she said softly.
Shen Jinzhao inclined his head once, curt and final, as if the matter was decided.
Then he left.
The door slid shut behind him.
The room remained filled with steam and soft footsteps, but Yueying's mind was suddenly very still.
A guest suite.
New gowns.
A promised house.
Outside, the manor would already be churning—questions, jealousy, confusion.
But Yueying stood quietly at the center of warmth she had never been allowed to have, fingers brushing the sleeve of a new robe.
And beneath her navel, the small, dense whirlpool of qi turned steadily—patient and obedient.
Rest, Bai Xuan's voice murmured in her mind, dry as ever. You have won a room. Now win the war.
Yueying exhaled, slow and careful.
"Yes," she thought. "One step at a time."