Taotao stood before Ling Feng, both hands extended, offering the delicate hairpin resting on a piece of satin.
The piece was carved from fire obsidian, dark glass faintly luminous beneath the candlelight. The material was rare to the point of near impossibility, prized not only for its beauty but for the difficulty of obtaining and shaping it.
Ling Feng’s gaze rested on the man before him, not the hairpin.
He had relied on its rarity, counted on it. The task had not been meant to be fulfilled, not within the time given, and certainly not by a mere mortal with no cultivation to his name, no connections, no standing.
The conditions had been deliberate. And yet Taotao had returned, hairpin in hand, in remarkably little time.
Ling Feng’s expression settled into a disdain he did not bother to conceal. His design had been disrupted by an insignificant man, a pathetic mortal.
How?
The question lingered in the space between them, unspoken. Ling Feng’s pride would not allow him to voice it, but his thoughts sharpened as he pressed for an answer. This was not chance, nor effort alone. There were limits to what desperation could achieve, and Taotao had exceeded them.
That meant only one thing. He had help.
Ling Feng’s gaze hardened as he came to a conclusion. There was only one person within reason who could have made this possible, one who possessed both the means and the motive to interfere.
The Silver Thread of Shifting Stars.
The title did not need to be spoken aloud. It existed clearly enough in thought, carrying with it enough weight to disrupt Ling Feng’s composure.
The disdain that had rested so openly upon his features now faded into something more controlled. Without a word, he reached forward and took the hairpin into his hands.
His thoughts turned inward.
I was right after all.
The realization settled into place with insulting clarity. It explained too much, too neatly.
Ah... the talismans in Nana’s possession.
Why else would the two humans be in the residence, so out of place? Songhe’s departure, framed as something casual, something temporary, now revealed itself as nothing more than a calculated move. A ten-day absence. A closed space. Two fragile lives placed within his reach.
Ling Feng grimaced with anger.
It is a design—
He sighed, releasing some of the mounting fury. Under different circumstances, these maneuvers might have stirred something akin to interest in him. He might even have found them engaging.
But knowing Songhe was behind it changed everything. Instead of intrigue, he felt betrayal. And as the full shape of the scheme revealed itself, what surfaced was not excitement, but a quiet, growing displeasure.
Ling Feng’s fingers tightened slightly around the hairpin. He dismissed Taotao without another glance, his tone even, as though nothing of consequence had shifted in him.
Ling Feng’s thoughts drifted back, unbidden, to the moment of Songhe’s departure.
To the words that had been spoken, the promise that had been drawn from him.
At the time, it had seemed insignificant, an empty formality, easily upheld. But now, viewed through the lens of this arrangement, the intent beneath it became impossible to ignore.
That request had not been made in good faith.
It had been a test.
A provocation, perhaps?
Songhe had been pressing against a boundary, waiting to see whether he would yield to it, whether he would submit to the old laws that governed spirits—the binding weight of an oath once given.
A quiet, disbelieving breath escaped Ling Feng.
It was rather laughable.
Songhe, of all people, should have known better.
I am not merely a spirit.
Many rules were not so absolute when measured against what Ling Feng was in his entirety. No oath could fully bind him, and no promise could reduce him to obedience.
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Songhe was playing games with him, and Ling Feng felt the terms were unfair. There was no balance. The old man had already accounted for too much, arranging the pieces before the first move had even been made. It was not a contest, but a constraint dressed in the illusion of choice.
In that moment, the shape of Ling Feng’s decision became clear.
I won’t play.
The lives of those two pitiful humans remained well within his grasp. He could take their blood at any moment, without effort or consequence. The act itself held no meaning for him.
And yet...
He did not want to do it.
Not if it meant moving in accordance with Songhe’s design. Not if it meant conceding, even indirectly, to a game he had never agreed to play.
Three days remained.
That was all.
After that, Songhe would return and see what he wished to see. He would believe that his test had been passed, that the humans had survived not because of restraint, but through adherence to the rules he had set in place.
The oath he had drawn from him...
Let him believe it.
Let him think the outcome is his doing.
Ling Feng’s gaze softened, just slightly. After all, the truth did not require acknowledgment.* * *
Nana laid out the meal with a sense of ceremony. It was not extravagant by any noble standard, yet within the narrow walls of their circumstances, it felt almost indulgent, abundant and deserved in a way that made it all the more precious.
Taotao did not wait to be told. He sat, drew the first bite to his mouth, and made a deliberate show of it, eyes closing slightly as his expression lifted in exaggerated satisfaction.
“This,” he declared with unmistakable emphasis, “is the finest meal you have ever made.”
Nana glanced at him, already reaching to add more to his plate, the faintest curve touching her lips despite herself. “Get used to it. In three days, this will be nothing compared to how we’ll be living.”
There was a note of certainty in her voice, not exactly confidence, but something held firmly in place because it had to be.
Taotao looked at her more closely then, the humor in his expression softening into something warmer. “It seems I did not only marry a hardworking woman,” he said, his tone easing into quiet admiration, “but an intelligent one as well.”
Nana’s reaction was immediate.
Her hand paused mid-motion, her eyes narrowing as she scoffed at her husband. “Hardworking? Intelligent?” she repeated, her voice edged with offense. “Had nothing to do with my good looks?”
Taotao, for once, had no ready answer. He hesitated, caught between honesty and consequence, and in that brief silence, his expression betrayed him. There was no cruelty in it, only the simple, unguarded truth that he did not know how to disguise.
Rather than attempt to mend it with words, he reached instead for action. He picked up a piece of meat, carefully chosen, and placed it onto her plate before lifting another toward her lips, holding it there with insistence.
“Eat, my dear,” he said.
Nana accepted it almost reflexively, and with that, the argument dissolved before it could take shape, her indignation muffled behind the simple act of chewing.
Taotao allowed himself a small breath, then straightened slightly, his tone shifting into something more sincere.
“You did well,” he said, more plainly this time. “The idea to contact the immortal, it was the right one. Without it...” He paused, the thought unfinished but understood. “I do not know what I would have done.”
Nana’s expression softened into shy satisfaction. She lowered her gaze, reaching again for his plate, using the movement to conceal the flush in her face as she added more food with a hand that had grown lighter.
“I’m just glad you came back quickly,” she said after a moment. “While you were gone...” She hesitated, then clicked her tongue softly. “That little demon troubled me.”
Taotao’s posture changed at once. “Troubled you? How?” he demanded, already half-rising from his seat as though the matter required immediate correction.
Nana reached out and pushed him back down with a firm hand against his arm. “Sit,” she said, her tone cutting through his reaction before it could carry him any further. “And lower your voice.”
He did, though not without resistance, his expression tightening as he leaned closer. “What did he do?” he asked again.
Nana shrugged, the matter both irritating and difficult to explain. “He made me serve tea, and then refused to drink it. He just sat there, as if the whole thing was beneath him.”
Taotao blinked, the tension in his face faltering. “That’s all?”
“Yes,” Nana replied, with a small frown. “That was enough.”
For a moment, Taotao said nothing. Then, slowly, the seriousness slipped from him, replaced by something lighter, incredulous. A laugh broke from him, low at first, then more freely as he leaned back.
“Nana,” he said, lowering his voice, “I think that little demon is afraid.”
Nana frowned, uncertain. “Afraid?”
“Of the immortal,” Taotao clarified, his tone gaining quiet conviction. “It explains everything. Why he hasn’t harmed us. Why he keeps his distance. He knows someone more dangerous is watching.”
The idea settled between them, tentative at first, then firmer as it took shape.
Nana considered it, her earlier unease shifting as she turned the thought over in her mind. It fit, perhaps too neatly, but in a situation where little made sense, even a fragile explanation carried weight.
After a moment, she nodded. “Then we have nothing to fear,” she said, more to herself than to him.
Taotao reached for the drink he had brought back, lifting it with a steadier hand than before. “That’s right. Three more days, and we now know we don’t have to endure them in fear.”
Nana picked up her own cup, and together they drank, sharing not certainty, but something close enough to it to pass for peace.