When Songhe returned, it was with a tray of food. The aroma of steamed rice, seasoned meat, and fragrant herbs filled the room, a reminder that basic needs could not be ignored, no matter how tense the circumstances. He set the tray down on a small table beside the bed.
“Eat,” he said to the boy. “You'll regain some strength.”
Ling Feng glanced at it, his lips curling with disdain. “I don't eat that,” he muttered, dismissing the offer outright.
Songhe paused, though the refusal came as no surprise. “Oh? What do you eat?”
Leaning back against the bedpost, Ling Feng narrowed his eyes as a small, unsettling smile touched his lips. “I take blood,” he said matter-of-factly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Silence settled between them, thick and oppressive.
Songhe's expression hardened as the words took root, while Ling Feng held his gaze, steady and unblinking.
“I see,” Songhe replied calmly, though steel edged his tone.
This was why he had captured the boy: to uncover the truth about him. Yet truth was not always something one welcomed. Until this moment, some part of him had hoped his suspicions about the boy's nature were wrong.
Ling Feng tilted his head, his gaze fixed and sharp, a faint smirk settling into place.
“I am starving,” he said, his voice smooth and controlled.
Songhe's eyes narrowed slightly.
“Blood consumption. That is not something practiced here. He Yu Zōng does not tolerate such abominations. I will not allow it. Not under my roof.”
Ling Feng only shrugged.
“I'm not from here.”
Songhe fell silent.
For a long moment, he simply regarded the boy. Then he drew a slow breath and uttered the name with deliberate care, as though speaking an ancient invocation.
“Xue Feng Yong Ye.”
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Songhe watched. Not the boy's face alone, but everything. The rise and fall of his breathing. The tension in his shoulders. The slightest movement of his hands. A shift of the eyes. A tightening of the jaw. Every involuntary cue.
Ling Feng gave him nothing.
His gaze never wavered, nor did it stray. There was no flicker of surprise, no trace of confusion, no hesitation to suggest the words were familiar.
Nothing. Or almost nothing.
Songhe's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. It was too little to be certain, yet the absence of a single blink suggested the title had not fallen upon unfamiliar ears.
“There's more water in the jar,” he said.
With that, he left the room, leaving the meal behind.
Songhe's steps were heavier than usual as he made his way to his private rooms.
He needed distance. Clarity.
The air in his chambers carried the familiar scent of sandalwood, usually a steady anchor that now did little to settle him. The boy's words followed, persistent as a shadow.
Blood sustains me.
By every measure, the evidence pointed to the same conclusion. Yet the boy was simply too young to be a Demon. More than doubt, it was hope that had stayed Songhe's hand—hope that Ling Feng was not Yong Ye, for the revelation of the crimson hairpin would force him into matters he would rather not confront.
Songhe settled onto a cushion, his breathing slow and even, and began to meditate.
He reached back through memory to an age when the mortal realm bled beneath the shadow of the Two-Heart Demon, Xue Feng Yong Ye, whose calamity fractured the balance of the world itself.
He searched for the face and found it easily enough.
When he compared it to Ling Feng, there was nothing in common.
Yong Ye's face had been hunger made flesh, cruelty without restraint, greed that consumed everything it touched. Every glance promised suffering.
Ling Feng's face held none of that. Beneath the defiance lay fear. Beneath the anger, vulnerability. It was the eyes. Songhe had seen hatred before. He had seen fear as well. But he had never seen Yong Ye look uncertain.
Songhe sat in stillness, breathing slowly, following each thread of thought to its end. He intended to reach the truth, whatever shape it took. The problem was not finding answers—it was what those answers might demand of him.
The hairpin...
Now the matter had shifted entirely, and curiosity had given way to urgency. The question was no longer who the boy was, but what he might become.
He opened his eyes slowly, letting them rest on the pale paper window where daylight filtered through in muted lines. Ling Feng's arrival at He Yu Zōng carried the weight of an omen—something that might be a curse, or something far worse. And if it came to that... would he have the strength to destroy him first?
The room fell into quiet as his meditation deepened, old memories receding into the background. With each breath, his resolve settled and hardened. He would face both the shadows of the past and the unknown future with patience.