The lake lay still beneath the pale moonlight, its surface veiled in drifting petals that floated like whispered secrets. His words—"My mother was a human"—still echoed within her chest, burning beneath her ribs like a truth too sharp to hold.
The green messenger gem trembled in her palm. So small, yet unbearably heavy, as though it carried not just her hope but the weight of every unanswered question from the past five years. Would it bind her closer to him—or only remind her of the gulf he never let her cross?
He had given her nothing else.
No name.
No kingdom.
No yokai form.
Only fragments, dropped into her hands like a sudden fruit falling into still water, leaving ripples without ever showing the tree it came from. She struggled to digest it, like trying to read a novel with only its prologue and its ending, the middle chapters forever withheld.
For five years she had tried—gentle words, small gestures, repeated offerings of these glowing gems. And yet, never once had he spoken of himself. Did he care for her at all, or was he only twisting her into this endless cycle of waiting? Was it truly because of the vast difference between sky and earth, yokai and human—or something deeper, hidden behind the mask of his silence?
Still, she could not let go. She was already intoxicated by him, addicted to a faceless ghost: the hood that hid his eyes, the voice that never revealed identity, the presence that came and vanished like mist without address.
"Shocked you?"
His voice was calm, smooth as silk, carrying that quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly how each word unraveled her.
Her breath caught. Fingers tightened around the gem as her lips parted in a small gasp. This ritual was not new—she had offered him the gem three times before, each time acting afterward as though nothing had happened, as though she had not bared her heart. Yet five years had slipped away in this same secret dance, unknown to her father or to Xio.
"Not too much," she answered softly, hiding the storm in her chest. The words felt clumsy, dishonest—like snow falling in midsummer, out of place yet undeniable.
From beneath the hood, his gaze flicked sideways. Moonlight brushed against the faint gleam of his eyes, but not enough to reveal their color. He removed the hood in a slow, almost careless motion, and a rush of air stirred the night.
Beneath, his robe was plain: black, unadorned, the fabric clinging cleanly against his frame. The belt around his waist rested with natural ease, yet there was precision in the way it bound him. Too disciplined, too sharp to be just an ordinary yokai of the lower domains. He could have been a guard, a soldier, perhaps someone of higher rank. And yet—no crest, no emblem, no symbol marked him.
It was deliberate. He was too wise to leave clues, too careful to let her questions find answers. Just as he had been for five years.
"I see," he murmured, lifting his hand to catch a drifting petal. "At least you've learned to swallow some of my words. That's good. Otherwise, the world will crush you long before you make it back home."
His tone was strange—speaking yet saying nothing, warning and mocking in the same breath.
Lànhuā exhaled softly, a sigh caught between politeness and frustration. He was impossible. Twisted. He drew her in like a lake whose surface promised nothing, yet whose depths tempted with the unknown. It was maddening, beautiful, heartbreaking.
Her composure faltered. She stepped closer, her jaw tightening, eyes burning with tears she refused to release. Her fingers clutched the gem so tightly her knuckles whitened, as though her very life depended on it.
He turned toward her at once, pulling his hood back over his head, veiling himself again in shadow. One step back, his sigh heavy with unspoken weight, like a man already knowing which chapter awaited next.
"What are you even thinking?" she whispered fiercely, her voice trembling with the effort of restraint. "You come from a yokai kingdom I cannot even name. You neither kill me nor let me die. Yet still, you dismiss me as nothing. You don't reject me, but you don't accept me either. And all the while, you still take the gems I give—sometimes even cast them aside as though they mean nothing!"
Her voice rose before she realized it, breaking against the quiet lake air.
At once, his finger lifted to his lips. A sharp shush. A warning.
The reminder hit her instantly—where they stood. This was yokai ground. If others heard her outburst, they would descend in an instant, and both of them would pay the price. Ordinary yokai here were no weaker than high cultivators. They would not hesitate to devour human power, flesh, or soul.
His other hand shifted beneath the hood, energy gathering, ready to shape into a blade if needed. His voice dropped low, edged with quiet severity.
"Do I need to remind you again? That fifth meeting might vanish before it even begins—if you insist on calling fate to crash upon us. The fate that should have claimed you five years ago."
Her shoulders trembled. Embarrassment stung her pride, but deeper than that was the ache of how easily he dismissed her emotion, how swiftly he cut her down with that smooth, unyielding calm.
She turned away, her long white hair brushing against his lips as she moved. He did not flinch, but she felt the ghost of contact—so close, yet untouchable.
"I'm going back to my sect. Farewell."
Her voice was low, her steps soft upon the damp grass. Without looking back, she tossed the gem behind her as though it were worthless, the way people discard what they secretly value most when they feel unseen.
He caught it in one hand, effortlessly. His gaze lowered to the glowing stone with a look that was almost—knowing. He had seen this before. He knew she would return, no matter how cold her words or how stern her mask of demonic composure.
"You don't need it anymore?" he asked, voice tinged with dry humor. "Do your treasures already struggle for space in your closet, that you throw them like trinkets at my feet?"
She did not turn. Her steps did not falter. In her mind, though, she screamed at him: For five years I have brought them only for you—after Father, after Xio—only you. And still, you treat them like leftovers.
The words never left her lips.
Behind her, his humorless smile slipped away, replaced by sharp intensity. His hand clenched within the hood, energy forming and coiling. The air trembled as his spiritual sword took shape: white, its edges embroidered with pale blue like the tides of the sea.
With a swift motion, he hurled it past her.
The blade whirled through the night air like a whisper of lightning.
She gasped, talisman snapping between her fingers, preparing to defend—was this the moment he turned on her at last?
But the sword did not pierce her.
It sliced clean past, severing a lock of her hair with a sharp hiss before striking something behind her.
A scream shattered the night—shrill, furious, like glass splintering against stone.
And the lake, silent until now, rippled as though a thousand eyes had opened beneath its surface.