Songhe, though a formidable presence within He Yu Zōng, held no formal seat of leadership. At the request of his oath brother, Qiang Zhenwu, now in deep seclusion, he oversaw the sect’s arcane affairs. In Zhenwu’s absence, his wife, Lady Qiang Lian, stood as acting sect leader, though she seldom involved herself in daily matters unless they demanded her hand.
When Jietang summoned Songhe regarding the found boy, he rose without hesitation. His white robes flowed behind him like drifting mist as he moved through the stone corridors toward the infirmary.
Shadows traced the walls in the flickering light of the brazier, casting the small room in a gentle glow. At the center, the boy lay unconscious, delicate and pale.
For a long moment, Songhe observed the child in silence, his expression unreadable.
Though he appeared no older than thirty, Songhe had lived for centuries, carrying an air of timeless authority.
He was a striking figure, towering above most men, his presence alone enough to command the room. His sun-kissed skin spoke of battles fought beneath unforgiving skies, a vivid contrast to the cascade of white hair spilling down his back like liquid silver—unbound, impossibly pristine.
“Immortal Songhe,” the healer called, his voice gentle but insistent.
The call broke through his thoughts. Songhe blinked and turned to the old man, the haze of reflection fading from his mind.
Noting the depth of Songhe’s silence, the healer bowed again and stepped forward to deliver his findings.
Jietang, who had remained near the doorway, observed the scene with detached curiosity. With his arms crossed behind his back, he gave the healer and the immortal space, stepping aside to allow the conversation to unfold.
Ye Xin began cautiously. “Immortal Songhe, there is something very peculiar about this child. There’s more here than meets the eye.”
Songhe’s gaze moved again from the boy’s hair to his face. The child’s features were disarmingly delicate, dark lashes casting shadows over pale cheeks framed by the mane of unyielding crimson. There was no hint of dye or artifice in the color; it was too vivid, too exacting.
The healer hesitated, his hands trembling slightly as he continued. “I have never encountered anything like this in all my years of practice. The boy has two hearts.”
Songhe’s brow furrowed, but he remained silent.
“One heart beats rapidly, likely due to fever. But the other…” The healer paused, swallowing hard. “It beats slowly and steadily, almost as though it has no connection to the boy’s body. This second heart lies beneath a powerful concealment charm. It cannot easily be detected, but it is undeniably there.”
Stepping closer, Songhe placed a hand gently over the boy's chest. His spiritual energy flowed into him, confirming the healer’s words. The second heart pulsed with a power that was both ancient and deliberate.
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The earlier thoughts returned to him, unshaken—the crimson jade hairpin—
Songhe’s fingers trembled, just barely, as he reached for it, but he stopped himself. The pin bore an uncanny resemblance to one his oath brother, Qiang Zhenwu, had once treasured. But that artifact had been lost long ago. A hundred years ago. Why was it here now, tucked into the hair of a demon?
Despite his growing unease, Songhe's instinct was never to strike first, even when faced with undeniable danger. Still, his decision came swiftly: the boy would be taken prisoner. He would be watched, investigated, and, if necessary, interrogated.
Straightening, Songhe allowed his expression to harden with quiet resolve. “Healer Xin,” he said with deliberate politeness. “Your work here is done. Please attend to your other duties.”
The old man hesitated, his brows drawing together as if about to question the command. But the weight of Songhe’s presence compelled obedience. He bowed low, murmuring a soft acknowledgment before turning to leave.
Songhe moved swiftly and silently. He conjured a silver talisman from thin air, its intricate engravings glowing faintly, and cast it toward the retreating healer. The talisman struck without sound, causing the old man to pause for only a moment, as though trying to recall something he had misplaced. By the time he reached the cubicle door, all memory of the boy’s abnormalities had vanished, replaced by a vague recollection of routine treatment.
“False alarm,” Healer Xin said as he stepped outside, his tone casual as he addressed Jietang. “Just an ordinary child.”
Jietang’s jaw clenched. “You made me lose face in front of Immortal Songhe! It seems you’ve grown desperate for attention, old man.”
The healer said nothing, bowing respectfully before walking away. Jietang watched him go, irritation simmering beneath his composed exterior. With that, he resolved to involve himself no further.
* * * * * *
Haoran and Hui Fen made their way toward the infirmary, the scent of crushed herbs and faint smoke thickening through the corridor with each step. They passed between alcoves, peering into the cubicles in search of the frostbitten child.
They both froze.
Songhe stood in the doorway of the seventh cubicle like a mountain that had always been there.
“Elder Songhe,” Haoran was the first to recover, stepping forward with a low, practiced bow. His voice carried equal measures of respect and surprise, sharpened by polished etiquette.
Hui Fen bowed a heartbeat later, just as deeply. “Elder Songhe,” he echoed, his tone polite but restrained.
Songhe turned to regard them, his silver hair glinting faintly in the dim light. He nodded once in acknowledgment.
“Elder Songhe,” Haoran began cautiously, youthful curiosity evident even in his measured tone, “are you here regarding the boy found at the Eastern Gate?”
Songhe’s gaze flickered between them, lingering a moment too long as he considered his response. Telling the truth wasn’t an option.
Songhe’s voice carried its usual serenity, though a subtle edge beneath it discouraged further inquiry. “I was here on other business when I heard about the child, so I have come to ensure everything is in order. The healer has found nothing of concern. Once the boy wakes, Elder Jietang will see to the rest.”
Both Haoran and Hui Fen lowered their heads in acknowledgment.
“Yes, Elder Songhe,” Hui Fen replied, inclining his head once more. “Thank you for your diligence.”
“Thank you, Elder Songhe,” Haoran echoed, though his gaze lingered on the room for a moment before he followed Hui Fen away. The encounter lingered, incomplete in a way he could not name, but he chose to let it go.