Zhangli did not disappoint the trust placed in her.
Whether it was the cultivation of spiritual creatures on Xiaozhu Mountain, the bustling business of the ghost-run marketplace, or delicate negotiations with the SEIU over spirit souls and artifact trades, she managed each task with quiet mastery.
She didn't ask for direction. She didn't need reminders.
Only a week into her new role, she gently approached Miaozhu and said, "Miss, the spirit souls you prepared imprinting techniques for last month have reached maturity. Would you like to initiate a trade?"
Miaozhu nodded, and without delay, Zhangli reached out to Zhao Huoyan, arranging a meeting for the following afternoon at Anshou Hall Paper Shop.
It would be her first time conducting an external transaction on Miaozhu's behalf. But when she stepped into the shop's reserved room, clad in an ink-blue robe and silver-etched belt, not a hint of inexperience showed.
Zhao Huoyan, sharp-eyed and notoriously difficult, tried to make small talk. He circled around Zhangli's origins, hoping to extract some trace of background, some slip that would unravel the mystery.
Zhangli answered, calm and direct, "I represent Miss Song."
Just that, no embellishment.
Zhao Huoyan raised an eyebrow and tried a different tactic. "And what exactly is your relationship to her?"
Zhangli tilted her head slightly, polite but unshaken. "I am Miss's servant. The steward of Xiaozhu Mountain."
The simplicity of it made Zhao Huoyan pause. The answer was so unguarded, so dryly sincere, that for a moment she wondered if Zhangli had truly been raised by Song Miaozhu herself—perhaps a loyal orphan adopted long ago.
When Zhao Huoyan attempted to bargain down the price of the spirit souls, Zhangli didn't flinch.
"If that were the case," Zhangli said evenly, "Miss would not have accepted the deal. These souls have been stabilized with a unique technique and can be refined directly into cultivation cores. Their market value is clearly higher."
With a faint, nonchalant smile, she raised the price by ten percent.
In the end, Zhao Huoyan gave in and finalized the purchase.
Later that day, Miaozhu's WeChat account received a message:
[Zhao Huoyan]: Master, your steward really is cut from the same cloth as you. Are you sure she's not someone you raised since childhood?
What Zhao Huoyan didn't know was that Zhangli now also handled Miaozhu's communication tools. The moment the message arrived, a little paper servant delivered the report. Zhangli reviewed it with the same calm she used for everything else, then replied:
[Zhangli]: Thank you for your praise. Once Miss completes her cultivation session, I will relay your words to her.
The little paper servant, who also served as an informant for Lingcheng's artifact regulation department, later reported: Zhao Huoyan had muttered under his breath, "Zhangli's even harder to deal with than she is—completely immovable."
That was how people saw her from the outside. A perfect steward. Unshakeable.
But Song Miaozhu knew the truth. What made Zhangli exceptional wasn't just her efficiency in work or her ability to manage spiritual affairs. It was the care she showed in matters far more personal.
In the morning, she opened the curtains in Miaozhu's studio without a word. At night, she closed them again, always after confirming Miaozhu had finished for the day.
When the weather was gentle and the wind light, Zhangli would move her paper crafting tools to the most scenic corner of the mountain—beneath blooming pines, beside a flowing mist stream, or under the wisteria-covered archway near the back garden.
There, Miaozhu could work in peace, accompanied by birdsong and sunlight.
She ordered spiritual delicacies from cultivator-chefs through the SEIU app, storing them in a Yin-wood box to keep them fresh. Whenever Miaozhu completed a new piece of work or broke through an imprinting barrier, Zhangli would bring one out and offer it with understated celebration.
When frustration built during bottlenecks, she would share amusing gossip from the mortal world—updates on shopkeepers arguing over soul coin rates, or ghost pets going viral in spirit forums. Enough to make Miaozhu laugh, relax, and remember that there was still a world beyond blueprints and spirit runes.
Even Miaozhu's wardrobe was no longer a chore.
Her Yin Paper Clothes were neatly rotated. Every day, Zhangli selected a different style, adapting the designs based on weather, mood, or even the feng shui of the room. She subscribed to spiritual fashion newsletters, learned from mortals, and even tailored a few pieces herself. Soft silks, layered hems, subtle embroidery—Miaozhu didn't need to go outside to feel beautiful anymore.
When her hair grew too long, Zhangli would bring out a wooden comb made from peach spirit wood, brushing slowly and carefully. A pair of enchanted scissors would follow, trimming her hair with delicate precision. No spells, no discomfort, no effort on Miaozhu's part.
Toothpaste, towels, footbaths, spiritual teas—every detail of life was taken care of.
Whenever she finished a task ahead of schedule, Zhangli would say, "Miss, you have worked hard. Why not rest for the evening?"
At first, Miaozhu resisted. Rest felt like a waste of time. She didn't even know how to enjoy leisure anymore.
But Zhangli always had gentle suggestions.
"Shopkeeper Liang has extended another mahjong invitation."
"Fu Feng's report includes a promising new candidate."
"The cats are growing older, they miss your company."
"There's a new spiritual food hall in Yuanshan Ancient Town… dine-in only."
Bit by bit, Miaozhu allowed herself to enjoy these moments. A meal here. A game there. Even just listening to the cats purr beside her became something precious.
And still, Zhangli never neglected her duties.
Each day, without fail, she reported the treasury earnings:
How many paper goods were sold in the living realm.
How many in the Underworld.
How many contribution points and coins were earned.
How much had been converted into spirit stones.
How many now sat on Spirit Stone Mountain.
And she would bring the new spirit stones—neatly arranged—and place them on the table before Miaozhu, who would run her fingers across their cool, weighty surfaces.
It wasn't necessary. She could check the ledgers herself.
But it made her feel grounded. Real. Accomplished.
Only later did Miaozhu realize what Zhangli had quietly done. She must have sensed Miaozhu's obsession with wealth and security, and kept this ritual to encourage her.
And it worked.
Zhangli kept learning, kept adapting. Her capabilities grew more refined each day. There was nothing she couldn't manage, nothing she let slip.
Thanks to her, Miaozhu's life became not just more comfortable—but fuller.
She now had time to taste rare food, laugh with friends, wander through Fengdu or Yuanshan, play games with old companions, and stay updated on mortal trends and ghost world gossip.
Her cultivation didn't slow. If anything, it accelerated.
Looking back, those earlier years of grueling ascetic practice—isolated and joyless—seemed almost foolish.
This? This was what the life of an immortal was meant to feel like.
Zhangli had given her more than support. She had given her balance.
And eventually, Miaozhu realized something else.
As much as she had obsessed over crafting Zhangli's appearance—elegant lines, a graceful form, eyes drawn from her favorite ghosts, the scent of cedar and spring moss—it was not the outer beauty that stayed with her.
When she thought of Zhangli, she didn't think of looks.
She thought of warmth. Precision. Quiet intelligence.
Reliability.
Her confidence in the Lingxi Art grew stronger with each passing day. She now believed that it truly could craft companions worthy of devotion.
But she wouldn't make another doll in haste.
Not without consulting Zhangli first.
He was the steward of Xiaozhu Mountain now, and no other doll would ever replace that role.
Any new creations would serve to assist her, to ease her responsibilities.
Paper dolls didn't need sleep. But time was still a resource, and Zhangli used hers for more than labor. She read, cultivated, studied. She grew.
And Miaozhu could feel her joy in those moments. Their bond let her sense the subtle shift in Zhangli's energy when she flipped through a rare artisan's manual, or gently traced a line of brushwork in an ancient scroll.
Paper dolls had form.
But they had feelings too.
And Song Miaozhu had no intention of letting hers be consumed by endless tasks.