Each step she took sent a jolt through his tiny spine, rattling teeth that hadn't even grown in yet.
Qiao Mingye, the former scourge of the righteous sects and a man who had once bathed an entire mountain range in blood, was currently being bounced around like a sack of potatoes.
He should be furious. He should be plotting her demise.
Instead, he was confused.
The woman holding him was vibrating with exhaustion. Through the thin layers of fabric separating them, he could feel the erratic thrum of her heart and the heat radiating from her skin.
Qiao Ling, the mother he remembered, was a creature of vanity.
She treated pain like a personal insult and inconvenience like a crime. That woman would have tossed him into a ditch the moment her legs gave out.
This woman? She held him tighter every time she stumbled.
'Who is she?'
The question looped in his mind, persistent and annoying.
She wasn't his mother. That much was certain.
The weird box spirit, the blinding light, the sheer grit-none of it matched the records in his memory. She was an imposter.
A body snatcher.
But as the wind bit at his exposed cheeks, he found himself burrowing deeper into her chest.
It was instinct, he told himself. Just survival. A tactical retreat into the nearest heat source.
Grrrrrrr.
A loud, wet gurgle erupted from his stomach, shattering his dignified internal monologue.
Heat rushed to his face. Humiliation washed over him. He was a cultivator; he did not have tummy rumbles.
"Shh, don't cry, baby."
Her hand came up, patting his head with a clumsy, inexperienced rhythm.
Her breath hitched as she whispered, "Momma will feed you after escaping this stupid place. Just hold on, okay?"
'I am not crying, woman. I am merely expressing physiological dissatisfaction.'
He tried to nod, to signal his understanding and perhaps salvage some dignity.
His neck muscles betrayed him. Instead of a stoic nod, his head flopped uselessly to the side.
Damnit. Being an infant was a curse worse than death.
They finally stopped moving. Mingye cracked one eye open, peering through the gap in the cloak.
They were in the outer logistical district of the estate. A lonely horse was tied to a hitching post, idly chewing on hay.
His mother approached the beast with the confidence of a tiger, but the competence of a toddler.
She reached for the stirrup. She missed. She tried to lift her leg, but her body—ruined by childbirth—screamed in protest.
She slipped, her nails scratching uselessly against the saddle leather, nearly dropping him in the process.
'Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.'
It was almost funny. Here was the woman who had just blinded three cultivators with a glance, now defeated by a piece of leather and a slightly tall animal.
"Need a hand, little lady?"
A gravelly voice broke the silence.
Mingye's mental alarm bells rang. Danger.
A carriage had pulled up silently beside them. The driver was a heavyset man with a face full of pockmarks and eyes that darted around too quickly.
He looked like a vulture spotting carrion.
The woman froze. She turned slowly, her grip on Mingye tightening until it was almost painful.
"Where to?" the man asked, leaning down from his bench.
His gaze raked over her disheveled clothes, the bloodstains, and the frantic energy radiating off her.
She stood awkwardly, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.
"I..."
"Running away?" The man interrupted, a knowing smirk twisting his lips.
"Maid who stole something? Or maybe a maid who got knocked up by a young master?"
He laughed, a sound like grinding stones.
"Don't worry. It's common in these big families. Hop in. I'm heading out of the city. I can drop you off for a silver coin."
'No! Don't trust him!'
Mingye screamed inside his mind. The man reeked of dishonesty.
The carriage was unmarked. The offer was too convenient. In this cruel world, there were no coincidences, only traps.
'Kill him with the box! Do something!'
"Okay," she breathed out, her shoulders sagging. "Please. Take us."
'You idiot!'
She handed over a coin—stolen from the room, no doubt—and scrambled into the dark carriage before the man could change his mind.
The door slammed shut, plunging them into darkness.
The carriage lurched forward, the wooden wheels groaning against the cobblestones.
The interior smelled of old wood, stale tobacco, and something faintly metallic.
Mingye was ready to unleash a mental tirade, to curse her naivety until his throat went dry.
Then, the rustling started.
"Thank god," she muttered.
Before he could react, she pulled her blouse down.
Light spilled in from the window cracks, illuminating pale skin.
The scent hit him instantly—sweet, warm, and primal.
Mingye froze. He tried to turn his head away. He tried to summon his iron will, his ascetic discipline, his hatred for the flesh.
'I am a grown man. I will not succumbed to—'
His stomach roared again, a traitorous beast demanding tribute.
"Here you go, little guy."
She didn't wait for his permission. She guided him in.
The moment the nipple hit his tongue, his resistance crumbled.
The grand ambition of the Demon cultivator, the pride of the Regressor, the suspicion of the schemer—all of it vanished, replaced by the overwhelming need to eat.
He drank, his tiny hands latching onto her, his cheeks flushing with a shame that was rapidly being drowned out by contentment.
'Fine,' he thought, his eyes fluttering closed as the rhythm of the carriage rocked them.
'I will eat. But I am still watching you, imposter. I am still... watching...'
Darkness took him, warm and safe.