The door to Songhe’s residence was slightly ajar. Haoran paused for a moment before calling out, “Elder Songhe?” His voice echoed through the stillness, carried on the winter breeze, but there was no response.
Stepping inside, he found the common room as serene as ever. The faint scent of sandalwood incense lingered, mingling with the pink blooms through the open windows. The room was neat and orderly, a reflection of its meticulous owner.
At the center of the room was a low table. Its surface was adorned with an open text, a half-filled cup of tea now gone cold, and a delicate brush lying beside a drying inkstone. It looked as though the elder had been in the middle of his studies before being suddenly called away. The lingering stillness of the room suggested he might return at any moment.
Haoran frowned slightly, waiting a moment longer as if expecting the elder to emerge from the corridors. But there was no sign of him. The silence persisted, and it became clear that Songhe had indeed left on business.
Deciding not to linger, Haoran stepped fully inside, his boots making only the faintest sound against the polished wooden floor. The warmth of the room stood in stark contrast to the biting cold outside. He moved toward the bookshelves that lined the wall of the common room, his fingers grazing the smooth edges of the dark wood as he searched for the proper place to return the borrowed text.
His hand paused as it found the familiar spine. Carefully, he slid the book into its place, but his mind had already begun to wander.
Elder Songhe had once been the greatest master of his generation. Haoran had read of his many exploits in the sect’s archives. Every tale seemed larger than life, each battle a turning point in the fate of realms. To be taught directly by such a master would have been the highest honor imaginable.
But that dream would never be realized. Long before Haoran had entered He Yu Zong, the immortal had ceased taking students. Haoran respected that the elder must have had his reasons, perhaps a vow of solitude or a desire to remain detached from the burdens of mentorship. Even so, the disappointment still ran deep.
Still, moments like this—simple tasks such as returning a book—offered Haoran a fleeting sense of connection to the legend. Brief though they were, they mattered.
After he placed the book back in its proper place, a strange tingling sensation crept over him. It was subtle, like a shimmer at the edge of awareness, a shift in the air that made his skin prickle. He couldn’t quite place it, but it filled him with unease. Pausing, Haoran glanced around the room, his brow furrowing.
What Haoran did not realize was that, in his absence, Songhe had placed a powerful boundary spell over the residence. The enchantment had been crafted to confine Ling Feng within the estate, preventing his escape while arousing no suspicion from those who might enter uninvited. It was delicate, like an invisible spider’s web strung silently throughout the residence, undetectable to all but the most discerning.
The spell was bound to Ling Feng’s essence, responding to the slightest shifts in his movements and tightening its unseen grip whenever he neared its limits. To all others, the residence appeared unmarked. The courtyard was free to enter, the door left open, and there was nothing that might provoke even the faintest suspicion. Songhe had been careful—too careful.
Though Haoran could not perceive the spell’s intricacies, he could sense that something was amiss. The air within the residence felt heavier than usual, and the stillness carried a strange tension. He paused for a moment, unsettled, before dismissing the feeling and attributing it to the lingering disappointment of standing within the home of a master he would never truly know.
For Ling Feng, the spell was both prison and shield. Yet it did nothing for the hunger twisting inside him, the ache coiling tighter with each passing day. Seven days of silence. Seven days of stale air and thirst no charm could still.
From the shadowed corner where he brooded, Ling Feng had heard the man earlier, calling into the empty halls for Songhe. The voice was unguarded, unpolished—almost naïve. Youth carried a sweetness he seemed to have forgotten, and despite himself, it drew him closer. To listen. To watch.
Now his eyes lingered on the man as one might trace an unfamiliar script. He found Haoran’s robe plain, his posture steady but hardly commanding. No ornament, no prideful weight in his bearing.
In the heart of the cultivation world… this is what passes for a disciple?
Amused, though not impressed, Ling Feng lingered. What held him was not Haoran himself, but the novelty of it all. He had read extensively, preparing for the day he would confront He Yu Zōng—but this reality was pale beside the theory.
Lost in thought, the young man eventually turned away, intending to leave the mansion.
More silence.
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More confinement.
The thoughts made something inside Ling Feng rebel. Impulse broke through caution, and he stepped from the shadows, his figure emerging into the dim evening light of the common room.
But Haoran did not turn. Not even a flicker of recognition crossed his face. He simply walked on toward the door, unseeing.
Ling Feng’s brows lifted. Truly? Had Songhe cloaked him in invisibility as well? Clever. The old man preferred his shackles concealed. The thought excited him. To have such an advantage with his power sealed filled him with a wicked sense of opportunity.
He moved into the man’s path, studying him with cool detachment. To Ling Feng, Haoran’s features were plain, forgettable—save for a trace of symmetry in his face. His eyes, however, carried a deep longing. Ling Feng mused that, had the circumstances been different, he might have asked him about it outright—just to see if the disciple’s answer would at least be more interesting than his appearance.
On a whim, he plucked the book Haoran had just returned. With deliberate mischief, he let it fall. The thud echoed through the still room.
Startled, Haoran jerked back, his heart lurching. He glanced at the fallen book, then around him. Silence. No movement. His brows furrowed. Had he not placed it properly?
Or was something else there?
Stillness pressed in, and Haoran’s instincts stirred. The residence had always been a place of quiet, but now something was wrong.
Ling Feng leaned against the shelf, watching his unease with the calm of one who had seen this dance before.
Haoran returned, bent down, retrieved the book, and returned it to its place with a faint tremor in his hand.
He barely had time to turn before a powerful hand clamped against the back of his head and drove him into the shelves. Wood groaned beneath the impact, and books and scrolls spilled around him in a muted cascade.
Panic seized him.
Another hand caught the front of his robes, wrenching the fabric aside and baring his neck to the cold air. Before he could cry out—before his mind could even grasp what was happening—a sharp pain pierced his throat.
Then came the pull.
Warmth flowed out of him in steady, relentless waves. His breath caught. His limbs turned weak. It felt as though something far deeper than blood was being drawn from him, each heartbeat carrying away a piece of himself.
Haoran struggled on instinct. He drove his hands against the force pinning him, but it did not yield in the slightest. The body pressed against his own was unnaturally solid, hard as carved stone, and utterly immovable. Whoever—or whatever—held him possessed a strength beyond reason.
His vision began to blur.
Despite the many days of starvation, Ling Feng did not rush. He never rushed. He was no longer the feral cur he had been in the wilderness. He was polished by the century, tempered in the House of a Thousand Charms.
Haoran felt his very essence slipping away, dragged toward blackness. But he was no helpless novice. He was the foremost disciple beneath the Vermilion Bird. Even as darkness closed in around him, instinct answered where thought could not.
His hand fumbled through his robes and found a small glass vial, a protective charm, a ward against evil. His fingers closed tight around it, and he crushed it in his palm.
The vial shattered with a sharp crack, releasing a cloud of noxious smoke that scorched the air. The stench was foul, acrid, burning, and it struck Ling Feng like a blow.
He recoiled with a hiss, staggering backward. His grip slackened, and he stumbled into the shadows, clawing at the air as though he could tear the stench away. His breath came ragged and shallow. Blood stained his lips, now curled in fury.
For a moment, the room held still—Haoran panting and swaying on his feet; Ling Feng crouched in the dim light, his gaze burning.
Haoran could not see, but he heard it: a guttural growl, beastly, the snarl of a predator interrupted mid-kill. He knew the charm would not hold for long.
Blood streamed down his collar. He pressed a shaking hand against the wound. His legs trembled. Each heartbeat pounded like a heavy drum in a fading world. There was no time.
He turned, stumbled, and fled.
The cold air struck him like a slap, but it jolted life back into his limbs. Gasping, he clutched the slit on his neck, trying to stem the flow. Thoughts scattered like startled birds—
Elder Songhe… the others. The hunt. Danger. Escape.
The stone path blurred beneath him as he staggered through the courtyard. Snow crunched beneath his feet, slick and uneven beneath his faltering steps, drawing him ever closer to collapse. His robes, once pristine, clung, sodden with blood, at every staggering pace.
Songhe’s dwelling lay in seclusion; his best hope was to reach Jinlin and the others.
But as he neared the small gate where his comrades waited for the night hunt, his body betrayed him. Vision swam, the world tilting at a dangerous angle, darkness pressing in. He forced a few more steps before his knees buckled, and he crumpled, his breath shallow and ragged.
The others, startled by his sudden appearance and bloodied state, rushed to his side.
“Haoran!” Jinlin cried, dropping to his knees and gripping his shoulder. “What happened?”
But Haoran could not answer. His mind, drowned in pain and blood loss, barely caught the words. His fingers twitched, a feeble attempt to signal something, but the effort slipped from him. His eyelids fluttered, and unconsciousness closed its hand around him.
The last thing he saw was the stricken faces of his friends, their voices fading as he slipped into darkness.