The first light of dawn was a pale, cool gold at their backs as they approached the gates of Yǒngshèng Jīng. The air was crisp, carrying the distant smell of woodsmoke and the uneasy murmur of a crowd. Before the massive, iron-banded gates, a line of people stretched back along the road—merchants with carts piled high with goods, families clutching bundled possessions, all waiting with a patience that felt heavy with resignation.
From a distance, the scene looked almost normal: city guards in polished armor checking passes, waving some through, holding others for questions. But the normalcy was a thin veneer. There was a sharpness to the guards' movements, a predatory focus in their eyes as they scrutinized each person, looking for something that wasn't written on any parchment.
Xuán Líng observed the scene with the stillness of a deep lake. Her gaze swept over the crowd, cataloguing, assessing. Then it snagged. Near the front of the line, two figures hunched slightly under the weight of a loaded cart. They appeared to be simple human laborers, their faces drawn with weariness. But Xuán Líng saw what others did not. Her people. Two of the junior workers from the Zhēnbǎo Gé, their low-level rabbit-demon aura unnoticeable by mere humans.
At her side, Yisha and Qianyi subtly shifted. Their newly awakened divine senses, no longer just sight but a deeper knowing, pierced the mundane veil. In the early morning sun, they didn't just see two weary men; they saw the faint, tell-tale outline of long, twitching rabbit ears in the shadows the men cast on the dusty ground, a secret betrayed by the angle of the light.
"They made it out," Qianyi murmured, relief and concern warring in her low tone.
Xuán Líng did not call out. She did not need to. She simply let her attention rest upon them, a gentle but unmissable shift in the world's weight, like the moon's pull on the tide.
The two rabbit-demon brothers, Sū Jīn Fēng and Sū Mù Yǔ, felt it instantly. Their long ears, hidden beneath glamour, twitched in unison. They turned, their handsome faces marked by weariness that melted into stunned relief at the sight of their Matriarch and her daughters.
"Zhǔrén!" Jīn Fēng breathed, his expression lighting up like the sun breaking through clouds. His younger brother, Mù Yǔ, merely let out a heavy sigh—a sound of profound relief tangled with fresh anxiety.
With a subtle inclination of her head, Xuán Líng guided them into the relative privacy of a covered merchant's alley stacked with empty crates. Her presence there did not feel like a concealment; it felt as if the alley had suddenly become a throne room.
"Report," she said, the single word holding the space for their entire story.
The words tumbled out of Jīn Fēng in a rushed, hopeful whisper. "The Fāng Huá Gé is sealed, Zhǔrén. We've shut the surface operations. Mother and the others… they're safe underground. It seems the new power doesn't know it exists. Or at least, they haven't found the entrance yet. We've been using the old tunnels to hide any demon or hybrid we can find."
Mù Yǔ, ever the anchor to his brother's breeze, added softly, "But it's only a matter of time. They're systematically cleansing the city. The energy… it seeks out life that doesn't fit their pattern. They haven't looked down because they…they want more. I think."
Xuán Líng listened, her expression betraying nothing, but her silence was a deep, absorbing well that took in their fear and steadied it. She didn't offer platitudes or bark orders. She simply was—an unmovable truth in the chaos.
"You have done well," she said, and the praise, though quietly given, made Jīn Fēng stand taller and eased a line of tension from Mù Yǔ's brow. "Zhēnbǎo Gé?"
Mù Yǔ shook his head, his ears drooping slightly. "Silent for three days. The wards are holding, but no one comes or goes. It's a fortress, but… we don't know who's inside."
Xuán Líng absorbed this. Then, her focus softened a degree, a mother's concern threading through the Matriarch's resolve. "Your mother is well?"
Jīn Fēng's smile returned, warm and genuine. "Worried, but well. She's keeping everyone's spirits up. She said you would come."
A faint, almost imperceptible warmth touched Xuán Líng's eyes. "Lead us to her. We require a council of the hidden."
They merged into the back of the line, but a subtle unease passed between the sisters. Qianyi leaned close to her mother, her voice a mere breath. "Niáng, the guards. We don't recognize any of them."
Xuán Líng's gaze sharpened. She had made fewer trips herself in recent decades, delegating the city's affairs to her children and a few trusted stewards. The girls were right. The faces at the gate were all new, their armor a slightly different cut, their bearing too rigid, like soldiers occupying a foreign post rather than men protecting their home.
When they finally reached the front of the line, the two guards assigned to inspect them froze. Their eyes landed on Xuán Líng, and a palpable shockwave of conflicting emotion hit them. Her beauty was a devastating, timeless force, but it was her aura that truly ensnared them—an ancient, predatory depth that whispered of cosmic power and inspired a primal, knee-weakening terror. They were men caught between awe and dread, utterly and helplessly captivated.
The lead guard, a man with a scar across his jaw, tried to muster professional coolness, his voice gruff. "Papers. State your business." But his eyes kept flickering back to her face, a mixture of fear and longing.
Xuán Líng handed over the documents with a grace that made the parchment seem like a royal decree. "The Zhēnbǎo Gé expects its shipment," she said, her tone implying that any delay would be a personal slight.
The guard scanned the papers, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. He cleared his throat, attempting to assert a dominance he did not possess. "The city is under new… management. Regulations are strict."
"We have always followed the city's laws," Xuán Líng replied, her smile not reaching her eyes. It was a challenge and a promise.
The guard's resolve crumbled. The desire to win a flicker of favor from this terrifying goddess overrode his caution. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Look, between us… several months ago, some mysterious big shot arrived at the palace. Things changed. Laws got tighter, people got weaker. Folks started disappearing, mostly women. They executed a bunch of the old guard for treason, theft… anything." He glanced around nervously. "And you didn't hear this from me, but there are rumors the king isn't even alive. No one's seen him for months. The twin little princes and princess… vanished. The Crown Prince was dispatched to Ānshùn Xiàn to manage the flood relief a year ago and should have returned already, but he has not shown up. It's chaos."
The other guard, unable to resist adding his own piece to the conversation with the captivating stranger, chimed in, his voice even lower. "And one night, coming back from Fāng Huá Gé, I saw this… woman. She was surrounded by this weird, dark energy. Beautiful, but wrong. And every step she took…" he shuddered, "the grass beneath her feet just… died."
Xuán Líng's expression remained serene, but a glacial coldness entered her eyes. She gave a slight, regal nod. "Your candor is noted." It was neither thanks nor threat, but something far more potent—acknowledgment.
The guards, simultaneously relieved and terrified, stammered a quick "Proceed," and waved them through with undue haste, eager to be free of her overwhelming presence.
As they passed through the shadow of the massive gate, the vibrant, oppressive silence of Yǒngshèng Jīng's once vibrant, bustling streets enveloped them. It was like stepping into a painting where the vibrancy had been leached away, leaving only the faded, desperate lines. The people of Yǒngshèng Jīng moved through the streets, but it was a terrible pantomime of life.
Their steps were heavy; their shoulders bowed under an invisible yoke. Their eyes, when they could be seen, held a glassy emptiness. They were not living; they were being drained, their vital essence siphoned away drop by drop, leaving hollowed vessels that some relentless force compelled to shuffle onward.
The air itself was a tapestry of silent suffering. It hung thick, not with fog, but with the cloying miasma of a thousand muted despairs—the sour tang of resentment, the metallic chill of fear, the slow-burning ember of helpless anger. It was a perfume of oppression, beautiful in its intricate, awful composition.
For Qianyi, the experience was not just observation; it was invasion. As they moved deeper into the city's heart, a terrible pull began in the soles of her feet. It was the earth itself, screaming in a language only she could understand. The very soil beneath the cobblestones wept. Each blade of grass struggling between the stones was a whispered plea; each ancient tree lining the avenue was a groaning pillar of agony. Their voices were not sounds, but sensations—a sharp, psychic ache that vibrated through her bones.
"Make it stop…"
"Help us…"
"It hurts, it hurts, it hurts…"
The whispers were a chorus of anguish, rising in a crescendo that drowned out the city's noise and filled the universe inside her mind. It was a love song for a dying world, and each note a blade. The beauty of the connection twisted into unbearable pain. The world's whispered confidences became a crushing weight.
Her vision swam, the grand facades of the buildings blurring into streaks of grey. The chorus became a single, piercing shriek. Her knees buckled, the strength leaching from her body as swiftly as it was being stolen from the land.
She did not hit the hard stone. A strong, steady arm caught her, wrapping around her waist and gathering her close. The world of agonized whispers receded, momentarily muffled by the solid, warm presence that held her. It was Xuán Che. He cradled her against him, his other hand coming up to support her head.
"Qiānqiān!" Yisha's voice, sharp with alarm, cut through the haze.
"Qianyi!" Xuán Líng was at her other side in an instant, a cool hand pressing against her daughter's forehead, her eyes scanning for a wound that was not physical.
In the shelter of that momentary human embrace, with her mother's touch on her skin and her sister's light bathing her face, Qianyi hovered on the edge of consciousness.
They finally reached the Zhēnbǎo Gé. Its familiar, imposing facade stood like a silent sentinel, but the air around it felt watchful and strange.
"Shāshā, would you be a dear and see who is home?" Xuán Líng asked, a knowing glint in her eye.
Yisha smiled, a spark of mischief already dancing in her own. "Gladly."
"I'll come with you," Wù Fēng volunteered, stepping forward. "I'm very curious to see who these brave souls are."
Yisha and Wù Fēng ascended the grand stairs, only to be halted at the top by two finely dressed gentlemen she did not recognize. Their postures were rigid, their expressions a blend of officiousness, pretentiousness, and poorly concealed anxiety.
"Zhēnbǎo Gé has not yet opened for the day. State your business."
"How long have you worked here?" Wù Fēng asked, his tone light and conversational as he scanned the men, wearing a charming, disarming smile. He already knew they were in for a seriously rude awakening.
"Not that it's any of your business," the taller one sniffed, puffing out his chest, "but we've served here for more than ten years! If you have no appointment, please leave before we have our patroness remove you from the premises!"
"Your... patroness?" Yisha asked, her amusement bubbling up. "Who is your patroness? I'd love to meet her to discuss... proper business etiquette."
The men launched into a tag-team, rehearsed speech. "We have the honor of serving the indomitable, wise, and powerful Mistress Xuán Líng! Her beauty stops all in their tracks. Her business acumen puts seasoned merchants to shame! And she is currently occupied with very important matters."
Wù Fēng and Yisha exchanged a look of pure, shared amusement. But Yisha could no longer contain it. A bright, ringing laugh escaped her. "She sounds absolutely amazing. Is she inside? I must meet her," Yisha mused, playing along.
"She is, but she is not accepting visitors. She is far too busy for commoners. Now, leave." The man's patience had worn thin.
Yisha's laughter grew louder, but the tone shifted. The mischievous sparkle hardened into something sharper, colder—a laughter that danced on the edge of murderous intent. Wù Fēng, sensing the dangerous turn, gently touched her arm, a silent, calming suggestion.
It was ignored. With a fluid, contemptuous motion, Yisha pushed both men aside. They stumbled and fell to the polished floor in a heap of fine silk and shock. She placed her hands on the great double doors and pushed them open. Wù Fēng, with a playful shake of his head, stepped gracefully over the sputtering men and followed her inside.
The main hall was a cavern of opulent silence. Beautiful but weary attendants dusted priceless vases and polished already-gleaming wood. Yisha recognized none of them. Her heart sank a little as she walked the familiar floor, her eyes inspecting every detail of the place that had been a second home. The artifacts were the same, the layout unchanged, but the soul of it was absent. It felt like a museum, not a hearth.
Then she saw it. Above the central dais, the grand family portrait still hung. There they were: a younger Yisha, radiant and laughing; Qianyi, serene and elegant; Li Wei, stoic and protective; and Xuán Líng, the magnificent center of their universe.
The two men scrambled to their feet and raced inside after them, faces flushed with outrage. Yisha turned slowly to face them, positioning herself directly beneath the grand portrait that so clearly showcased her own face.
Wù Fēng, meanwhile, had strolled over to study the painting as if considering a purchase. He tilted his head, a soft, appreciative smile on his lips. "'The painter captured the form, but the spirit slipped through his brush,'" he recited, his voice a warm whisper that seemed to fill the quiet hall. The ancient line hung in the air—a compliment to the artist that was, unmistakably, a greater compliment to the living woman before him.
One of the men opened his mouth to bark another order. "Ni—"
His partner, face suddenly pale, tapped his shoulder frantically. His trembling finger pointed at the portrait, then at Yisha, his eyes wide with dawning, horrific recognition.
"Fetch this... Xuán Líng. No," Yisha corrected, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Take me to her."
The men, now pale and trembling, led the way to a staircase on the left side of the grand hall. As they ascended, the opulent silence was shattered by sounds from above: a woman's shrieking, the violent crash of porcelain, and a man's voice, raised in desperate frustration.
"This tastes like gutter swill!" A slap rang out, followed by another shattering crash.
"My apologies, My Lady! I prepared it the usual way! Our guests have always praised the Dance of the Five Phoenixes! The harmony of the spices, the aroma that—"
"I DON'T CARE! YOU SERVE ME! AND YOU WILL PREPARE DISHES TO MY TASTE!"
"My Lady," the man's voice grew louder, thick with a lifetime of pride and fresh anger. "I have worked here my entire life. My dishes have earned the praise of two kings and a dozen princes! Being paid to impersonate My Lady does not make you superior. It makes you a fraud! Don't forget where you came from—daughter of a third concubine who tried to sleep her way into nobility and failed repeatedly! You're a joke! And when our true Patroness returns, you'll be thrown right back into the gutter you crawled from!"
Yisha's heart clenched. She knew that voice—Old Yu, the master chef who had fed her since she was a child, whose stories were as rich as his broths.
She and Wù Fēng finally reached the source of the chaos—the doors to the family's private dining chamber. Yisha entered without knocking.
The man's back was to her, his shoulders heaving with fury. The air was thick with the pungent smell of ruined, overspiced food and broken crockery. "I miss the smell of your Dance of the Five Phoenixes," Yisha said, her voice clear and calm, cutting through the toxic air. "The way the aroma of saffron, ginger, and star anise used to fill this entire wing."
The man's body froze. Though Yisha could not yet see it, a smile of profound relief broke across Old Yu's face, his eyes welling with tears. He turned slowly, prepared to kowtow to his second young mistress. Their eyes met. Yisha gave him the slightest, almost imperceptible shake of her head and a faint, reassuring smile. Not yet.
The woman seated at the head of the table—garish in jewels that were too large and silks that were too bright for Xuán Líng's refined taste—sneered. "Fèiwù! I told you I was not to be disturbed!" she shrieked, using the common insult for 'useless trash'.
"Are you the famed Xuán Líng?" Yisha asked, her tone deceptively mild as she slowly walked into the room. She stepped on the broken shards of a celadon plate, the crunch beneath her boots a deliberate punctuation to her advance.
"I am. And we are not hiring..." the woman looked Yisha up and down with contempt, "...entertainment."
"Oh," Yisha said, finally stopping directly before the seated imposter. Wù Fēng leaned casually against the doorframe, scratching his temple, a spectator to the storm he knew was about to break.
"But," Yisha continued, her voice dropping to a venomous purr. In a blur of motion, her hand shot out. She grabbed the woman by the throat, lifting her from the ornate chair and bringing their faces inches apart. "How could you not recognize your own daughter?"
Yisha squeezed. The woman's eyes bulged as she clawed futilely at Yisha's imprisoning hand, her face mottling red and purple as she struggled for air.
"W-who are you?!" the woman wheezed out, terror finally dawning.
"I am the daughter of the true Patroness of the Zhēnbǎo Gé," Yisha hissed, her gaze like shards of ice. "And you… are in my room."