Two months had passed since Ling Feng arrived at He Yu Zong, but to him, it felt like an eternity.
Every attempt he made to step outside Songhe’s residence was thwarted by doors that wouldn’t budge, boundaries laced with energy that repelled him, and then the constant, watchful gaze of Songhe himself.
It was the silence that was most stifling.
The House of Thousand Charms had never known quiet. There were always voices bleeding through the corridors, laughter, music; the doors never stayed closed.
Now, here, even the air felt locked in place.
Ling Feng hadn’t wanted to leave, but Xi Lihua had insisted. There was also fear in her voice, something wholly uncharacteristic of the nine-tailed fox Spirit. When she told him his life was in danger, Ling Feng believed her.
“Huahua, how is this man supposed to save me?” Ling Feng had asked softly, confused.
“By being your father,” she replied. “He is the only one who can protect you now.”
Even then, Ling Feng wasn’t convinced. If the man truly cared enough to protect him, why had he never appeared once in his life?
However, he did not argue any further. The urgency in his mother’s voice left no room for argument.
Xi Lihua spent weeks preparing for his departure, tending to every detail. On the day he left, she pressed a small wooden box into his hands.
“Keep it safe, A-Ling. Only give it to Qiang Zhenwu.”
She offered no further explanation. Instead, she kissed his forehead.
“You are most precious, and loved.” Those were her final words.
His new home was painfully dull. His room was sparse: a soft bed, a single table, and a small window that let in only a thin slice of light. He spent hours staring out that window, hating the snow, cursing time.
Ling Feng also watched Songhe with sharp wariness. Though the old man made no further hostile moves, Ling Feng did not dare test him. Songhe, for his part, observed Ling Feng just as closely, his calm, unreadable expression betraying none of his intentions.
Even though Songhe provided for him—meals left untouched, clothing too formal for his taste, and safe shelter—Ling Feng couldn’t bring himself to feel the slightest gratitude. What he needed was simple: for the old man to keep his promise. If he behaved, Songhe would help him find the person he was looking for.
Yet there had been no effort toward that matter, no progress. As the days turned to months, the silence between them only grew heavier.
Soon, resentment began to override both Ling Feng’s fear and hope.
One evening, after yet another meal had gone cold and untouched, Ling Feng’s patience finally snapped.
“What is your deal, old man?” he spat, his voice taut with restrained anger. “Plan to lock me up here forever?”
Songhe slowly set down his teacup, his steady gaze meeting Ling Feng’s.
“You are, indeed, a prisoner,” he said simply, his tone even.
Ling Feng’s fists clenched beneath the table.
“And Qiang Zhenwu? You promised to bring me to him.”
“Grandmaster Qiang Zhenwu has been in seclusion for the last six years. I cannot say when he will return.”
Ling Feng stared at him.
“In the meantime, you will remain here, at my residence, under my watch and protection. When he returns, I will take you to him.”
A cold weight settled in Ling Feng’s stomach as he realized there would be no quick escape from this place.
“And if I don’t want to stay? If I want to leave this hell, then what?”
Songhe regarded him in silence before answering.
“Ling Feng, now that I have seen you and the threat you represent, I cannot allow you to leave.”
“I am a threat?” Ling Feng echoed, incredulous. “To you?”
He rolled his eyes, anger flashing across his face. “What do you plan to do with me while I’m here?”
Songhe’s expression softened, though it offered no comfort.
“I have not decided yet.”
Ling Feng left the table that evening with cold anger simmering beneath his skin. But in this house, anger was not a weapon. It was a liability.
He returned to his room, which felt as welcoming as a prison cell, and sank onto his bed. Lying flat on his back, he stared at the bare ceiling while his thoughts churned with regret, longing, and a fear that seemed to seep deeper into his bones.
The thought of escape flickered once again through his mind like a distant spark of hope. He began entertaining wild ideas, anything that might return his freedom, but cold reality extinguished them one by one. Songhe’s boundary spells were unyielding. There was no door, no window, no crevice left unsealed.
How could Xi Lihua have sent him here?
How was he supposed to exist in a place like this?
The questions came as they always did, but this time, they lingered.
The House of Thousand Charms had never been a safe haven. Ruheng was its master, and he was not someone to be taken lightly. Yet Ling Feng had lived there for half his life, surviving the deadly man day after day. So what had changed? What had Ruheng done to make his mother afraid enough to send him away?
Ling Feng let out a slow, unsteady breath, the tension in his shoulders finally easing as defeat replaced resolve. There was no point in resisting what he could not change, no purpose in endlessly circling the past.
Bitterly, he realized that he could not fight this fate.
Acceptance settled over him like a heavy blanket. For the first time since his arrival, he allowed himself to face the truth.
This was his life now.
* * * * * *
As Songhe continued his quiet observation, each passing day painted a clearer picture of Ling Feng’s growing frailty.
The little fox’s once-defiant spirit had been completely fractured.
A shadow of fear colored his every action, revealing itself in small, unguarded moments. When he emerged for meals, for instance, it was not out of hunger or desire, but grim obligation, as though something terrible would happen if he failed to appear.
At the table, Songhe harbored a quiet hope that perhaps this would be the day Ling Feng relented and finally partook of the food before him. But he never did. His eyes would flicker toward the dishes, disgust passing briefly over his delicate features before he looked away.
Not once did he reach for a bite.
Even a fox spirit could endure only so long without proper nourishment. Ling Feng’s youthful features grew more hollow with each passing day, while the faint tremor in his hands, folded tightly in his lap, betrayed what his body could no longer conceal.
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Songhe could see that this was unsustainable. Though he remained outwardly stoic, Ling Feng’s hunger weighed heavily on him.
He found himself faced with a difficult choice.
Giving Ling Feng human blood was out of the question. It was a transgression too grave to consider. Taking the blood of another darkling was equally unthinkable. To kill was one thing, but to drain another’s blood merely to sustain someone else was an act of dishonor and cruelty.
That left only one option: animal blood.
It was a natural source and widely used in certain rituals. It would have to suffice.
One evening, Songhe placed a small jar on the table in front of Ling Feng. The fox eyed it suspiciously, but the scent of blood drew his attention. Hunger overpowered his misgivings, and without a word, Ling Feng reached for the jar. His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted it to his lips and drank.
At first, the blood seemed to satisfy him, its warmth spreading through his veins. But moments later, a sharp pain knifed through his stomach. His body violently rejected the foreign substance. He doubled over, coughing as he vomited the blood onto the floor. The rejection was immediate and complete, leaving him even weaker than before.
Ling Feng wiped the blood from his mouth and slowly lifted his eyes to Songhe. His gaze narrowed, no longer with hunger alone, but with something darker. A predatory instinct took hold, urging him to attack and claim the source of the blood he truly craved.
He could see the pulse in Songhe’s neck.
For a moment, Ling Feng considered his chances, his gaze fixed on that steady pulse. Every instinct screamed at him to strike, to take the blood he so desperately needed, but reason reminded him of the threat Songhe posed.
The man was powerful. Far beyond his reach.
To attack him would mean certain death.
Slowly, Ling Feng forced himself to turn away, every step heavy as he retreated to his private rooms.
Though Songhe respected Ling Feng’s restraint, he could see that the situation was spiraling beyond control. The darkness in the fox’s gaze had been a warning. Ling Feng was slipping into madness, and if something was not done, the consequences could be dire.
By the following morning, Songhe had strengthened the boundary spell, restricting Ling Feng to his quarters. He departed soon after, leaving no explanation, only the silent confinement of the spell as his parting gesture.
Five days passed.
Whether it was hunger, confinement, or both, Ling Feng was driven to the edge. Each hour brought fresh waves of agony, a gnawing pain that tore through his body as his hunger intensified and his sanity began to fray.
On the third day, he hurled himself against the walls, clawing and striking as though brute force alone could break the barrier. He tore the room apart, overturning the bed, ripping the bedding, and breaking anything within reach.
By the fifth day, he lay sprawled on the cold floor, his breaths shallow, his body weak and trembling. His vision blurred as the last threads of consciousness slipped away, leaving him in darkness.
When Songhe returned, he found Ling Feng utterly still, his face ashen. His red hair lay scattered across the cold floor, dull and disheveled against his pale skin. Every trace of defiance, every spark of the fiery spirit that had driven him this far, had faded. What remained was only a fragile, exhausted little fox.
A quiet sigh escaped Songhe as he knelt beside him, his expression touched with solemn resolve.
Songhe drew a small blade and opened his robes, pressing the edge against his chest. He felt the brief sting as it pierced his skin, then watched as blood welled from the wound, dark and potent. He gathered it into a shallow bowl, where it pooled into a swirling crimson elixir.
Carefully, Songhe lifted Ling Feng into his lap and steadied him as he brought the bowl to his lips. Gently, he let a few drops of blood touch Ling Feng’s mouth.
For a long moment, there was no response. Ling Feng’s lips remained still, his body unresponsive. Then, faintly, he stirred. His breathing deepened by a fraction, a small sign that the blood had reached him.
Songhe continued to cradle him, his gaze softening as he watched the subtle signs of life return. By the time the bowl was empty, he was satisfied that the blood was doing its work.
He carried Ling Feng to his private chamber and laid him on his bed.
Once he was certain the fox would recover, he placed another jar filled with his blood beside the bed, ensuring it would be within reach when Ling Feng awoke.
* * * * * *
Ling Feng sipped the warm blood from the jar, and the taste overwhelmed him. It was richer, sweeter, not merely iron and life, but something more profound, something transcendent.
It was unlike anything he had ever consumed.
Haoran’s blood had been potent, rich with vitality, but this was something altogether different. It carried a power that demanded reverence. He felt it spread through every part of his body, reaching his fingertips and the roots of his hair before sinking deep into the marrow of his bones, invigorating him.
Ling Feng licked his lips, slow and deliberate. Light flickered in his eyes, sharp and alive, as energy surged through him in steady waves. The weakness that had hollowed him out was gone, replaced by something fierce and primal.
A pressure rose within him, coiling tight before suddenly loosening all at once. His spiritual meridians, sealed and dormant for months, had finally opened.
Ling Feng dropped to the floor, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat. His body trembled, then convulsed as bones shifted and muscles tightened and reformed. Within the span of a breath, his human form collapsed, giving way to the shape of a fox.
Small, but not fragile.
Three tails fanned out behind him, their red fur rich and vivid beneath the lamplight. For a moment, he remained still, adjusting to the sharpness of his spiritual senses.
Then he rose.
The garments he had worn remained discarded on the floor, forgotten. His ears twitched as every sound around him came into sudden clarity. A grin spread across his face as his gaze turned toward the door.
It was locked, but there was no barrier. He could sense it wasn’t there. Without hesitation, he turned and leapt through the window, clearing the distance in a single motion. Warm air hit him as he landed outside.
He ran.
The world stretched and bent around him as his speed surged. Trees blurred past, their forms reduced to streaks of shadow and light. The ground barely registered beneath him as the forest closed in around him, dense and silent.
Still, he ran.
And ran.
Until—he stopped abruptly.
Ling Feng stilled, every muscle in his body taut, but not exhausted.
Before him, the forest stood split.
It was not a physical divide, not a path or clearing, but a seam, thin as a blade’s edge, running through the land as though something had carved reality and left it poorly stitched. Ling Feng’s fox eyes could see it clearly: a line where light faltered.
On the other side of the seam, the air curdled, foul and deliberate with malice.
Unbeknownst to him, he was at the threshold of the Blackwood. Ling Feng moved along the edge in slow, measured steps, tracing the boundary without crossing it, his tails swaying behind him.
Then, just as abruptly, he turned and walked away, retracing the path that had brought him there. This time, he moved slowly, testing the ground beneath him.
It was only then that he fully recognized the change.
Winter had receded without fanfare. The forest was loose with renewal. Green pushed through the earth in soft defiance, while small flowers closed shyly in the night. The air around him was gentle and stirring.
Ling Feng took it in as he walked, not with wonder, but with steady awareness, as though reacquainting himself with a world he had been denied for so long.
Each sound, each shift in the air, settled into him.
He slowed when he came close to Songhe’s residence.
No.
He did not want to go there.
Instead, he turned aside and climbed a nearby tree, its broad branches spreading wide enough to hold his weight with ease. He settled there, high above the ground, where the world opened beneath him.
He could not sleep.
He felt his spiritual energy stir as the forest spoke to him in quiet ways: insects moving through dry leaves, the subtle shift of branches in the wind, the soft descent of falling leaves settling against the earth.
When he opened his eyes again, he found he was not alone.
Small creatures lingered at a distance, hidden in the brush or perched along branches, watching. Their attention was fixed on him, cautious yet drawn.
Ling Feng’s gaze sharpened.
“Go.”
The word never left his mouth. It pressed outward all the same. At once, the creatures scattered. The undergrowth stirred as they fled, and the forest returned to its natural rhythm.
He exhaled softly, the tension easing from his frame.
He wanted no eyes on him. No walls. No unseen barriers hemming him in. Only the feeling of pure, unencumbered existence.
He let out another soft breath, the corners of his muzzle lifting faintly as his thoughts drifted to Songhe. The strange kinship the old man had extended toward him, the memory of the gift, the blood.
Blood offered, not taken.
Ling Feng rolled the notion over in his mind like a stone in his palm. It felt strange, yet deeply satisfying.
All his life, he had simply taken what he needed, without hesitation or permission.
The act of taking was part of the thrill, the sudden shock that overcame his prey, their futile attempts to resist. That rush of dominance always brought a deep satisfaction.
What Songhe had done was the polar opposite of everything he had known. There had been no fear or resistance, only willingness, a quiet act of kindness.
Now that kindness filled Ling Feng with an odd warmth he did not know how to name.