Ling Feng's consciousness drifted like a feather upon the wind, suspended between dreams and waking as the world gradually came into focus. Exhaustion clung to him, the lingering imprint of a powerful spell that had cast him into oblivion and stripped him of all defense.
How long had he been asleep, he wondered.
A soft bed and warm sheets cradled his body, yet the unfamiliar surroundings set him on edge. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim morning light, taking in the tranquil chamber around him. Dawn filtered through delicately crafted paper windows, casting pale shadows across the polished wooden floor. The room was unnervingly calm.
I am inside the Trine Spires. I made it...
He tried to sit up despite the dizziness clawing at him, his gaze sweeping the room with growing unease.
A figure sat beyond the candlelight.
A man in flowing white robes, watching him.
Ling Feng stiffened beneath Songhe's calm, assessing gaze.
“Would you like some water?”
At the word water, Ling Feng’s throat burned with thirst.
Not—water. But for now, that will do...
He hesitated, then nodded slowly.
Songhe rose with unhurried grace, filled a cup, and set it before him. The boy drank in measured sips despite the sting in his throat. When he lowered the cup, he could still feel the cultivator's gaze resting on him—quiet and patient.
“Who are you?” Songhe asked gently.
The question seemed distant as Ling Feng's thoughts raced.
Who was this man?
Had he brought him here?
How long had he been unconscious?
Most troubling of all, what had the man discovered about him while he lay unconscious?
Authority clung to the figure before him as naturally as breath. Could he be the leader of the sect? No. Surely, if that were the case, Xi Lihua would have mentioned that the man he sought possessed such a striking appearance—such silver hair.
Ling Feng’s breathing faltered. What would happen if his true identity were discovered in this dreadful place?
Every instinct urged him to guard his secrets, yet nothing in the room suggested immediate danger. The scent of incense lingered alongside faint traces of medicinal herbs, grounding him. Despite the quiet authority the man before him carried, there was gentleness in his expression.
Ling Feng sighed and chuckled at the same time, the sound carrying more weariness than mirth. A faint smile reshaped his cracked lips, though it never reached his eyes.
He decided to surrender the smallest part of himself—if only to see where it would lead.
“I am Ling Feng,” he said, looking Songhe directly in the eyes.
The name settled into the silence between them.
Songhe nodded once, though his expression remained thoughtful. He returned to his table and extinguished the candles from the previous night one by one. Thin ribbons of smoke curled into the dawn light as his gaze drifted once more to the boy seated upon the bed—the fox demon he had woven lies to conceal.
There had been a time when such deception would have disgusted him. Once, in his youth, he had been a man of absolute principle, punishing others swiftly for even the slightest falsehood.
The irony was not lost on him. Moments ago, he had assured Hui Fen and Haoran that the boy was of no consequence, weaving the lie with practiced ease.
He was meant to be a man of wisdom, honor, and restraint—virtues refined over centuries. Yet moments like this left him wondering what time had truly made of him.
Had he grown wiser, or merely more cunning? And if the latter... at what cost?
Ling Feng, meanwhile, wrestled with his own thoughts. He had come to the Trine Spires in search of his father. Whatever came next, there could be no turning back.
The plan.
Of course, there had to be one. No darkling in their right mind would walk willingly into the Trine Spires without preparation. The mountains were a fortress, hostile at every turn. To survive, every step had to be measured.
It was not a simple matter. But Xi Lihua had assured him the danger was worth it.
He would begin by appearing weak—harmless, wounded, unworthy of notice. The simplest disguise was always the most convincing. To maintain it, however, required a concealment spell of considerable power. That had already been done; Xi Lihua’s Charm, woven into the hairpin, had held firm.
He was inside.
From here, patience was essential. He would move through the sect carefully, sustaining the illusion of frailty while searching for the sect’s leader. The difficulty wasn’t merely logistical; it was a matter of survival. If anyone discovered his true nature, he wouldn’t just fail his mission—he would be executed on the spot.
Ling Feng understood the brutal reputation of cultivators from the major sects all too well. They would not take kindly to a darkling slipping past their defenses, regardless of his intentions.
The final part of the plan would begin once he had safely located the sect leader. He would reveal his true identity and boldly claim to be his son, the result of a one-night stand from a hundred years ago.
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It was a gamble, born of desperation and necessity.
Xi Lihua had prepared him for the possibility that the Grandmaster, Qiang Zhenwu, might deny it outright or dismiss his claims entirely. For that contingency, she had given him a small box to deliver to the sect leader—a token she swore would erase all doubt. Its contents remained a mystery even to Ling Feng. She had refused to reveal its secrets, insisting he hand it over only if his words were not enough to convince the Grandmaster.
Those were the three steps. In theory, the plan seemed achievable. In practice, however, even the slightest misstep could bring disaster.
He was inside, alive, and unrecognized, sheltered under the guise of a sickly boy.
Ling Feng’s hand moved instinctively to his hair.
It was loose.
His breath caught.
Panic surged as he searched through his robes, his movements turning frantic with realization.
He was already discovered.
Songhe, watching him closely from across the room, knew exactly what he was searching for. While Ling Feng had lain unconscious, Songhe had removed the pin from his hair and tucked it away. He now reached into his sleeve and pulled it out, holding it for Ling Feng to see.
“Is this what you’re looking for?”
Ling Feng's breath hitched the moment he saw it. Fear and anger twisted together inside him as he struggled to rise, nearly collapsing in the attempt.
“Give it back,” Ling Feng demanded, his voice hoarse but firm.
“Where did you find it?”
Ling Feng drew a ragged breath, his fingers digging into the sheets as he forced himself to move. Only then did the full weight of his condition settle over him. His limbs trembled with weakness. He cursed softly and turned inward, gathering his will as he reached for the pin—not with his hands, but with qi.
Nothing stirred.
The man before him still appeared calm, almost detached, yet Ling Feng understood now that he had already been cornered. His spiritual meridians had been sealed.
Silence thickened between them.
Songhe studied the boy more carefully. Even weakened and disheveled, his appearance struck with unsettling force. His features were too fine, too sharp. Red hair spilled loosely across his face, wild and unbound, lending him the look of a fox wearing human skin.
Dark lashes framed expressive brown eyes filled equally with defiance and vulnerability. There was something painfully familiar in them.
Finally, Ling Feng spoke.
“It’s a gift from my mother,” he murmured, locking eyes with Songhe. “It’s mine. Give it back, old man!”
Songhe’s expression did not change as he tucked the hairpin back into his robes, though the little fox’s response raised every alarm.
“Who is your mother?”
The pieces were beginning to fall into place, and the picture they formed was unthinkable.
Ling Feng’s eyes flashed with frustration. He pressed his lips into a thin line and remained silent.
“Do not worry too much, Ling Feng,” Songhe said, his voice firm, almost soothing. “You will get the hairpin back—in time.” He paused, his expression turning contemplative. “But first, you must answer my questions.”
Ling Feng grimaced.
The elder sighed softly. “You are not here for mundane treatment.” Songhe leaned slightly forward over the table, his eyes narrowing with growing intensity.
“You came here to find someone. At great risk, no less. But there is more to this than you are willing to reveal.”
Reveal?
Ling Feng blinked, anger simmering in his chest.
Songhe pressed on, his expression growing more severe. “All these intricate layers of deception and calculation—for what, Ling Feng? Why risk entering this place, knowing you are marked by a deadly omen?”
He paused briefly before asking the final question, his tone turning colder, more analytical.
“Who is your father?”
Ling Feng’s lips pressed into an even thinner line, his eyes hardening as the cold edge within them sharpened.
Dangerous.
The man before him had laid bare every one of his secrets in a single breath.
Ling Feng smiled.
There was no point in clinging to the charade any longer. The careful path Xi Lihua had laid for him had already fallen apart. Strangely, the realization brought a measure of relief.
For reasons even he did not fully understand, he no longer feared the man before him. His smile widened—not with amusement, but with quiet defiance.
Almost mocking.
Songhe returned the smile.
He could see the fox had decided to test his boundaries, to assert his autonomy even in the face of palpable danger.
Reckless, Songhe thought, but expected of a fox... demon.
A proper introduction seemed overdue.
“Ling Feng. How rude of me. It is only proper that I introduce myself. You deserve to know the old man who is both your savior and your captor.”
His voice remained steady, commanding without cruelty.
“I am the Silver Thread of Shifting Stars, Immortal Songhe of He Yu Zōng.”
Though the title carried unmistakable weight, his gaze remained composed, betraying no malice.
“You are marked by a dark omen, little fox, but I trust that need not define your intentions. Listen carefully. Cooperate with me, and I will return the hairpin. Perhaps I may even help you find the person you seek.”
He paused, allowing the offer to settle between them like a test.
“But make no mistake. If I discover that your purpose here is harmful, you will not leave this mountain.”
He said it softly, but the threat struck deep. Ling Feng flinched, just slightly.
“It’s all right,” Songhe added, the edge in his tone fading. “You need not answer everything now. But do keep those two promises in mind.”
Silver Thread of Shifting Stars.
The title lingered in Ling Feng's mind.
Of course he had heard of him. How could he not? The Silver Thread of Shifting Stars—the immortal whose mastery of spiritual arts and legendary wisdom was known far and wide. Even the demons dwelling in the darkest corners of the realms spoke that name with respect—or fear.
For a brief moment, the realization that he was in the presence of that Immortal Songhe unsettled Ling Feng.
So this was the Trine Spires—the heart of a force diametrically opposed to his kind.
Everything, the stolen hairpin, the probing questions, the immortal's reputation, all warned him that defiance could lead to his downfall.
Yet still, deep within his bones, Ling Feng felt the urge to test him.
His movements were rigid as he forced himself to meet Songhe's piercing gaze. He gave a stiff nod at the warning, though the faint smile never left his cracked lips.
Songhe studied him for one long moment, sharp eyes lingering on the anger Ling Feng could not fully conceal. Then he rose from his seat, his expression unreadable.
Not a coward...
The little fox was determined to guard his secrets. But Songhe had lived longer than most and understood the value of patience. With time, the whole truth had a way of revealing itself.
For now, that was enough. He turned and strode toward the door, leaving the boy alone with the weight of their encounter.