When the first drop of Haoran’s blood struck the floor of Songhe’s consecrated residence, a ripple of energy coursed through the structure. Songhe, deep within the sect archives, felt the disturbance immediately.
Ling Feng.
The fox had caused trouble. Serious trouble. The moment he asked for blood, Songhe knew things would take a dangerous turn sooner or later.
Songhe's face betrayed nothing, but a simmering tension lined his movements as he rolled up the scroll he had been reading. Without wasting another heartbeat, he turned and made for the exit, his movements swift, as though the air itself parted to make way for him.
By the time he reached his residence, the winter sun had already sunk behind the horizon. Night pressed upon the house. Inside, sandalwood incense had soured under the iron tang of blood and the acrid sting of moonbane ivy. Whoever had been attacked had fought back—and escaped.
Impressive.
Songhe’s gaze swept the room. Scattered books. Shattered glass. A trail of blood arcing toward the door. He knew whose blood it was: Haoran's. The man must have come to return the borrowed text and stumbled into Ling Feng’s hunger.
With a wave of his hand, candles flared to life at once. The gesture tore away another veil: Ling Feng’s invisibility unraveled, dissolving like mist before fire.
Ling Feng had not fled to his room. No. He stood tall and straight, his black robes unruffled, their sharp lines untouched by the chaos around him. He was no longer the bedraggled half-spirit Songhe had first taken in.
Blood still stained his lower lip, and he made no effort to conceal it. Every line of his body radiated a taut restraint, danger barely leashed.
He wanted to be seen like this.
Songhe's gaze rested on him, and the faintest flicker of disappointment crossed the Immortal's face. When he spoke, his voice was even, weighted.
"What have you done?"
Ling Feng shifted, but did not falter. A slow smile touched his lips.
"What I've done?" He drifted toward the shelves, his fingers trailing carelessly across the gaps left by the missing texts. "Let's count. You took me prisoner. You sealed my meridians, reduced me to nothing with a little trick of invisibility? You locked me in this cage, as though I were some beast."
He settled against the shelf, head tilting ever so slightly, the very picture of careless disrespect. A laugh escaped him—low, old, and utterly devoid of mirth.
"Did you really think that would be enough?"
He dragged his tongue across the blood staining his lip.
"Listen carefully, old man. There isn't a charm in the six realms that could ever bind my thirst for blood. No scripture, no prayer, no chain of talismans. So stop wasting both our time. As long as I am here, I will take what I need."
His arms folded across his chest.
"And if some naïve boy wanders where he shouldn't... tell me, how is that my fault, Mmn?"
Ling Feng shifted slightly, his voice sharpening.
“Since you won't find this truth in any withered scroll, take it from me: starve me, and I lose reason. The longer I go without blood, the less control I can keep. So you see, it comes down to what you have done. The blood on this floor…”
Songhe smiled for the first time, but there was no warmth in it. Only the faint, cold curve of a man measuring an adversary with new precision. Quiet danger filled his posture, his fingers flexing like a coiled snake waiting for the right moment to strike.
“You do not seem to grasp the gravity of the situation, Little Fox. You think this a minor transgression. It is not. Any life taken here would be offense enough. But do you know who it is you have struck?”
He stepped forward, his presence filling the room, though his voice remained steady and controlled.
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“Do you believe this matter will simply vanish?”
Ling Feng drew breath, ready to answer, but Songhe cut him off cleanly.
“You have exposed yourself in the worst possible way. I have no choice now but to hand you over.”
A pause.
The weight of his words settled before he continued.
“And if I hand you over… do you think you would stand even a moment before the Guild Tribunal, after attacking one of their most prized pupils?”
Ling Feng’s bravado faltered slightly. A sneer followed a heartbeat later, forced into place. His hands tightened at his sides, nails biting into his palms.
“Hand me over? Why haven’t you done it already?”
Songhe fell silent for a long moment before speaking.
“I see. But you are deluded, Ling Feng. If you think the hairpin can save you—if you think its owner will come out to protect you…”
He drew the hairpin from his sleeve and held it before him.
“This belongs to Immortal Qiang Zhenwu, Grandmaster and leader of He Yu Zong. But he is not here.”
Another pause.
“And he will not come out for you.”
Ling Feng stared at the hairpin, its significance weighing on him. So, the old man knew already. He didn’t remember mentioning anything about finding his father, at least not in the explicit way it was being implied.
Ling Feng’s shoulders tensed, and for once, words failed him.
“Listen to me very carefully. For what you’ve done, you must choose, here and now,” Songhe said, stepping ever closer. “You have two options. You can either accept my protection and put an end to this stubborn defiance..."
Ling Feng held his breath.
“Or I can hand you over to the wrath of the Tribunal.”
The boy released a heavy breath and forced a smile onto his lips. Relief flooded him. For a moment, he had feared the second option would be far worse.
In that instant, something became clear. This immortal cultivator would not harm him, and for whatever reason, he would not allow anyone else to do so either.
Why?
Ling Feng's thoughts turned at once to the hairpin and the name that had just been spoken. The old man knew his father. He knew the secret.
The realization settled heavily in his mind. It explained far too many things.
With a voice dipped in false bravado, he said, “That's easy. I choose your protection.”
“Good,” Songhe answered softly, but his voice held no kindness, only judgment. “Then understand this: while you are under my protection, there will be rules. No misdeed will go unpunished.”
Before Ling Feng could react, a thin silver whip formed in Songhe’s hand, materializing with a flicker of energy. It glowed faintly in the dim light, its slender length hissing like a living thing.
Ling Feng’s eyes widened. He had expected cold lectures, threats, perhaps even harsher confinement—but not this. Never this.
He opened his mouth to protest, but the whip cracked through the air before he could speak. Instinct took over. His lithe frame twisted, foxlike and quick. Yet Songhe’s movements were faster, merciless in their precision.
The strike landed across his shoulder. Ling Feng staggered, a cry escaping him—not pain—disbelief.
Songhe’s expression did not change. He struck again.
“You have acted like a mad dog, Ling Feng,” he said, voice low and even. “So you will be treated like one.”
Another crack. The whip cut across Ling Feng’s side.
He tried again and again to dodge, to escape, but with his meridians sealed, there was no spirit power to call upon, no path left open. His body was quick, but Songhe’s mastery was absolute.
A lash drove him back. Then another.
Ling Feng didn’t know how to cry out properly. He had never imagined humiliation this sharp. Pain, yes—he had known many different kinds of suffering. Yet none had ever reduced him to this. This was unthinkable.
He slumped against the door, shoulders trembling, the exit unmoving behind him. His breath came in short, ragged pulls. The sting on his skin was sharp, but worse was what burned beneath it. The collapse of his pride, raw and total.
He didn’t fight back. Not really. Not because he lacked the will, but because the futility was unbearable. He had never thought he would need to fight this man, never thought things could come to this.
When the final lash fell silent, Songhe lowered the whip, its silver coils still faintly glowing in his grip. He looked down at Ling Feng, who now knelt before him, garments torn, blood trickling through fabric.
“You needed this,” Songhe said, his voice even, quiet, almost gentle in its cruelty. “Your insolence is the fruit of too much indulgence. If you wish to survive under my protection, you will learn discipline.”
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in.
“Defy me again, and you will learn pain far worse than this.”
Ling Feng didn’t respond.
Songhe watched him for a moment longer, his gaze sharp and assessing. Then, without another word, he turned and left the common room, the door closing softly behind him as he stepped out into the winter’s night.