The next morning, the sun fought its way through a thick blanket of mountain mist. Xiaowei woke up to find a fresh basin of warm water and a silk cloth by her bedside. Beside it lay a dress of pale peach silk, embroidered with delicate white lilies.
"He truly thinks of everything," she murmured, dressing herself.
As she explored the manor, she realized that while the downstairs was pristine, the top floor remained a mystery. At the very end of the hallway was a narrow, winding staircase leading to the attic. It was the only part of the house Lu Chen had not mentioned.
Driven by a sudden spark of curiosity, she climbed the stairs. The air here was heavy with the scent of aged paper and dried herbs. Dust motes danced in the single beam of light hitting the floor. In the center of the room sat a large, heavy chest made of dark cedar, bound in iron.
Xiaowei knelt and brushed the dust from the lid. There was no lock, only a symbol carved into the wood: a rose entwined with a crescent moon.
"The seal of my ancestors," she whispered.
She pushed the lid open. Inside were old scrolls, a tarnished silver mirror, and a rolled-up canvas. She reached for the canvas first, carefully unfurling it. Her breath hitched.
It was a painting, centuries old yet the colors remained vivid. It depicted a woman standing in a garden of white peonies. The woman wore the robes of a high-ranking noble from the Tang Dynasty. She had Xiaowei's nose, her slight smile, and most importantly, her dark, inquisitive eyes.
Standing behind the woman, dressed in the heavy armor of a General, was a man. His hand was resting protectively on the hilt of a sword at his hip. Though his hair was styled differently and his expression was stern, there was no mistaking the sharp jawline and the piercing gaze.
It was Lu Chen.
"His name was not Lu Chen then," a cool voice spoke from the shadows behind her.
Xiaowei jumped, nearly dropping the painting. Lu Chen was standing at the top of the stairs. He didn't look angry, but his face held a profound, ancient weariness.
"You were a General?" Xiaowei asked, her voice trembling. "And this woman... she is the one you mentioned? The one who gave you water?"
Lu Chen stepped into the light. He looked at the painting with an expression of pained glass. "His name was Lu Wangji. He was a man of war who bled for a King who did not care for him. And she... she was the Princess of a fallen state. She saw a monster dying in the mud after a battle and treated him like a god."
He walked over and touched the face of the woman in the painting. "When I was changed—when the curse of the night took me—I could not stay by her side. I watched her grow old. I watched her fade. And I promised that if the stars ever saw fit to bring her back, I would never leave her again."
Xiaowei looked from the painting to the man standing before her. "Is that why you are here? Not because of a debt, but because of a ghost?"
Lu Chen turned his gaze to her. The red in his eyes was gone, replaced by a deep, aching black. "I am here because you are not a ghost, Xiaowei. You are real. You are warm. And for the first time in a thousand years, I have a reason to keep the sun from burning me to ash."
He suddenly stiffened, his head tilting toward the window. His refined, English-style composure returned in an instant.
"However," he said, his voice regaining its crisp edge, "it seems our moment of reflection must be cut short. It appears Prince Zhao did not take my warning to heart. He has returned, and this time, he has brought a 'Specialist' from the Imperial Temple."
Xiaowei felt a chill that had nothing to do with the attic's draft. "A specialist?"
"A monk with a soul-binding chain," Lu Chen explained, checking his silver pocket watch. "How dreadfully tedious. I suppose I shall have to postpone lunch. Please stay here, Little Rose. I would hate for you to get dust on your new silk."
He turned and descended the stairs with a speed that made him look like a flickering shadow.
Xiaowei did not stay. As soon as the sound of Lu Chen's boots faded, she turned back to the cedar chest. If the man in the painting was her protector, then the items in this box were her heritage.
She dug deeper beneath the scrolls until her fingers brushed something cold and heavy. Wrapped in yellowed silk was a short sword, its scabbard made of white bone. When she pulled the blade free, it didn't shine with the silver of ordinary steel. Instead, it glowed with a soft, milky light, like a trapped piece of the moon.
"The Moon-Slayer," she whispered, the name appearing in her mind like a forgotten memory.
Outside, the air had turned thick and heavy. Xiaowei ran to the small attic window and looked down. Prince Zhao was there again, but he stayed far back near the tree line, hidden behind a wall of shields. In the center of the courtyard stood a man in saffron robes. He carried a heavy iron staff wrapped in golden chains that pulsed with a strange, sickly light.
Lu Chen stood on the porch, his hands folded neatly behind his back. He looked like a bored gentleman waiting for a carriage.
"I told you yesterday, Your Highness," Lu Chen called out, his voice carrying perfectly across the wind. "The Mistress is not receiving visitors. Your persistence is becoming a stain on your reputation."
"Silence, monster!" the Monk shouted, his voice booming like a temple bell. "I am Master Shen of the Golden Pillar. I have tracked your kind across the northern wastes. You are a rot upon this land!"
The Monk swung his staff, and the golden chains flew outward. They didn't fall to the ground; they hovered in the air, glowing brighter as they sensed Lu Chen's presence.
"Soul-binding chains," Lu Chen remarked, though he took a single step back. "A bit barbaric, don't you think? They are so difficult to get out of silk."
"Die!" Master Shen roared. He slammed his staff into the stone path.
A wave of golden energy rippled through the ground. Lu Chen leaped into the air, his black coat fluttering like the wings of a giant bat. He landed on the roof of the well, his movements blurring. But the chains followed him, twisting and turning like snakes.
Xiaowei watched from above, her heart in her throat. She saw a chain strike Lu Chen's arm. Where the gold touched his skin, a hiss of white smoke rose, and Lu Chen winced in pain. The "immortal" was being hurt.
"Lu Chen!" she cried out.
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers for a split second. Even in the middle of a fight, he managed a small, reassuring nod. But the Monk saw the distraction. He threw a handful of paper talismans into the air, and they burst into flames, forming a circle of holy fire around the well.
Lu Chen was trapped. The fire was not hot like wood-smoke; it was a spiritual flame meant to burn the soul of the undead. He collapsed to one knee, his skin beginning to pale even further.
"I have you now, blood-drinker!" Master Shen laughed, raising his staff for the final blow.
Xiaowei didn't think. She gripped the white bone sword and scrambled out of the attic window onto the sloped roof of the manor.
"Leave him alone!" she screamed.
She slid down the tiles, her peach-colored silk dress catching on the wood, and jumped. She landed in the dirt between the Monk and the trapped vampire. As she stood, the Moon-Slayer blade in her hand flared with a blinding, brilliant white light.
The golden chains recoiled. The holy fire around Lu Chen flickered and died.
Master Shen staggered back, his eyes wide with terror. "The Blood-Seal Blade? That weapon was lost five hundred years ago! How can a mere girl wield the light of the Heavens?"
Xiaowei stood her ground, the sword feeling light as a feather in her hand. "He is my butler," she said, her voice steady and cold. "And you are trespassing."
Behind her, Lu Chen rose slowly. He brushed the ash from his sleeve, his eyes glowing with a pride so fierce it was almost terrifying.
"You heard the Mistress," Lu Chen whispered, stepping up behind Xiaowei. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch providing a strange, grounding strength. "And if I were you, Master Shen, I would run. My patience has run thin, and my Mistress has a very sharp toy."
Master Shen's face contorted with a mixture of greed and fear. He gripped his iron staff so hard his knuckles turned white. "That blade... it belongs to the Temple! It is not meant for the hands of a disgraced noble's daughter!"
He lunged forward, the golden chains whistling through the air like lashes. But Xiaowei didn't feel afraid. It was as if the sword was guiding her movements. She swung the Moon-Slayer in a wide arc. A crescent of white light sliced through the air, and the golden chains shattered into a thousand useless links of lead.
"Impossible!" the Monk screamed.
Lu Chen moved then. Now that the holy fire was gone, he was a blur of lethal elegance. He appeared behind the Monk in a heartbeat. He didn't use a weapon; he simply placed a hand on the Monk's shoulder. The sound of frost cracking filled the courtyard as a layer of ice began to creep over Master Shen's saffron robes.
"You speak too much," Lu Chen whispered into the Monk's ear. "And you have made the mistake of making my Mistress cry. That is a sin no god can forgive."
With a powerful shove, Lu Chen sent the Monk flying backward. Master Shen hit the ground and scrambled to his feet, his pride broken and his "holy" tools in ruins. He looked at the pair—the girl with the glowing sword and the vampire with the ancient eyes—and realized he was no match for a legend reborn.
"This is not over!" the Monk cried, clutching his frozen shoulder. "The Emperor will hear of this! You are harboring a monster, Lin Xiaowei!"
He turned and fled, disappearing into the mist. Prince Zhao, seeing his "Specialist" run away like a beaten dog, didn't wait for a second invitation. He barked an order to his guards, and the entire unit retreated in a cloud of dust, the golden carriage bouncing violently as it sped down the mountain.
Silence returned to the manor. The white light of the Moon-Slayer faded, and the blade returned to its dull, bone-like appearance.
Xiaowei's knees suddenly gave out. The adrenaline left her body in a rush, but before she could hit the dirt, Lu Chen caught her. He gathered her into his arms, lifting her as if she weighed no more than a petal.
"Easy, Little Rose," he murmured. His voice was thick with an emotion she hadn't heard before—gratitude. "You saved me. I believe that makes us even for the water a thousand years ago."
"I couldn't let him hurt you," she whispered, her head leaning against his cool chest. "You're my butler. Who else would fix my tea?"
Lu Chen laughed softly, a sound like silver bells. He carried her back toward the house, his stride steady. "Quite right. And speaking of tea, your peach dress is ruined. I shall have to spend the evening mending it."
As they reached the porch, Xiaowei looked up at him. "Lu Chen? The Monk said the sword was lost five hundred years ago. How did it get into my family's attic?"
Lu Chen paused at the threshold. He looked at the sword in her hand, then at the house he had spent the night restoring.
"Because, Xiaowei," he said gravely, "your family were not just nobles. They were the Wardens of the Night. They were the ones who kept creatures like me in check. And it seems the blood of the Warden has finally woken up in you."
He set her down in her favorite chair by the fire. "But that is a story for tomorrow. For now, you must rest. I shall go and prepare a dinner that does not involve pomegranates."
He bowed, but as he turned to leave, Xiaowei caught his sleeve. "Lu Chen? Promise me you won't leave. Even if the Emperor comes himself."
Lu Chen reached out and touched her cheek, his fingers lingering for just a second too long for a servant. "The stars will fall from the sky before I leave your side, Mistress. I have waited a millennium for this moment. I am not going anywhere."
As he walked toward the kitchen, Xiaowei looked at the Moon-Slayer resting in her lap. She was no longer just a girl in a crumbling house. She was a Warden. And she had a vampire king at her command.