Two days later, they arrived at the Yè ancestral home.
Qiū Huà Bǐ stopped at the gate.
Not because it was imposing—there were no towering guards or dramatic carvings screaming wealth—but because of what it didn't do.
The place didn't try.
Grey stone. Dark wood. Courtyards layered like quiet thoughts. Roof tiles curved gently, the way old things do when they've learned not to argue with time.
"How old is this?" Qiū Huà Bǐ asked, eyes tracking the beams, the symmetry, the way every corner seemed intentional.
Yè Yī didn't answer immediately. "Old enough that no one remembers who paid for it."
Qiū Huà Bǐ clicked his tongue. "That means expensive."
Factor IV had done their work well.
No broken lattices. No scorch marks. No sense of intrusion. The house was squeaky clean—almost offensively so. Like someone had apologized to it in advance.
Violet noticed. Of course she did.
"They were careful," she said, stepping inside. "They know better than to disrespect a bloodline house."
Qiū Huà Bǐ hummed. "Polite ghosts."
Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar and dried herbs. Calm. Heavy. The kind of calm that made you lower your voice without realizing it.
Violet dropped into a woven chair like she owned the century. Leaned back. Crossed her legs.
"Yè Yī," she said, casual. "Cook."
He paused mid-step. "Cook what."
"Chinese." She tilted her head, thinking. "Chicken and beef."
Qiū Huà Bǐ looked between them. "Is this—"
"Yes," Yè Yī cut in. "This is happening."
He headed toward the kitchen, sleeves already being rolled up, muttering under his breath.
Am I a cultivator, or a mother?
And whose budget does this fall under? Mine? The ancestors'?
The sound of oil heating soon filled the house. That sharp, comforting sizzle. Ginger hit the pan. Then garlic. Then something darker, richer.
Qiū Huà Bǐ's eyes lit up.
"Oh. This is serious cooking."
Violet watched him watch the kitchen.
Interesting.
When the dishes were nearly done, she spoke again—slow, measured, like she was deciding how much truth he could carry without cracking.
"The Specialists," she said, then chuckles
Qiū Huà Bǐ turned fully toward her.
"Nicer way to put it... They're not heroes, not villains. More like people who broke the rules of nature and decided to organize afterward."
She rested an arm on the chair's frame.
"Some bend science until it screams. That's ET. White rooms. Clean hands. Numbers over names."
Qiū Huà Bǐ nodded. "Figures."
"Factor IV," Violet continued, "doesn't ask why you can do something. Only how fast and how quietly. Technology. Systems. Surveillance. They watch so others don't have to. Doesn't mean they're the bad guys though."
"And you?" he asked.
A faint smirk curved her lips—gone almost immediately.
"I don't belong to either."
The clatter of a wok interrupted them.
Yè Yī appeared with plates, the smell alone doing half the convincing. Dark soy glaze. Tender beef. Chicken crisped just right.
Qiū Huà Bǐ stared. "I retract all previous skepticism."
They ate in the open hall, evening light slipping through the paper screens. No rush. No alarms. Just old wood listening.
"So," Qiū Huà Bǐ said between bites, "this house gets attacked, cleaned up by a shadow organization, and then we come back like nothing happened."
"Yes," Violet said.
"That's insane."
"Yes."
He laughed softly. "I like it."
Yè Yī glanced at Violet. "You didn't tell him everything."
"I won't," she replied, then faces Qiū Huà Bǐ. "Not yet."
Qiū Huà Bǐ leaned back, satisfied. "Good. I hate spoilers."
Outside, the ancestral home stood quietly, unbothered.
It had survived worse.