Inside the chamber, the morning light grew brighter.
"Cough… cough…"
Bibi Dong turned her head slightly, covering her lips with a delicate hand as she let out a soft, restrained cough. Beneath the thin silk of her sleep robe, her slender shoulder blades rose and fell visibly with each breath, trembling faintly.
From the wide sleeve of her robe, she drew out a deep violet silk handkerchief—her movements graceful, unhurried—and gently dabbed the corner of her mouth.
Through the fabric, her fingertips sensed a faint, lingering dampness—slightly sticky.
Her eyes flickered almost imperceptibly to the edge of the handkerchief, where an almost invisible trace of white residue clung.
In one fluid motion, she folded the cloth into her palm and clenched it tightly.
Without glancing back at the rumpled bed still warm with their shared presence, she stepped barefoot onto the cool, smooth black marble floor and walked steadily toward the side door leading to the private bath chamber.
---
Meanwhile, Dai Chengfeng strolled along the path back to his own courtyard.
It was early morning. A thin veil of mist hung over Spirit City, slowly dissolving under the strengthening sunlight.
The air carried the crisp, clean scent of late autumn—dew-damp grass and chilled foliage—filling his lungs with refreshing clarity, gently washing away the lingering haze of last night's tender intimacy.
A faint smile played at the corner of his lips.
He rounded the towering wing of the Pope's Palace, passed through a grove carpeted in golden fallen leaves, the dry rustle beneath his feet rhythmic and soothing.
Ahead lay the secluded residential quarter reserved for him and his companions—quiet, private, and distinctly separated from the grand solemnity of the main hall.
Just as he reached the wooden gate of his courtyard, a faint but rhythmic whoosh of displaced air drifted through the door.
The sound was steady, controlled—each strike carrying coiled power beneath its surface.
Dai Chengfeng pushed the gate open; the hinges creaked softly.
But the figure inside seemed utterly absorbed in her world, undisturbed.
In the center of the courtyard stood Zhu Zhuqing, clad in form-fitting black training attire that perfectly outlined her youthful, already gracefully curving figure. Yet the fabric's taut resilience, combined with her posture—straight as a pine—radiated an aura of sharp, untouchable discipline.
She moved like a shadow cat practicing alone in dawnlight—elegant, swift, brimming with poised intensity.
Before her stood a specially crafted ironwood dummy, dark and heavy. She struck it again and again—clean, precise blows.
Each punch, kick, or finger jab landed with a muffled thud, crack, or thump—sharp and resonant in the quiet morning air.
Her forehead, temples, and the nape of her neck were slick with sweat, strands of hair plastered to her porcelain skin. With every fierce movement, droplets flew off, sparkling like scattered diamonds in the sun.
"She really doesn't cut herself any slack," Dai Chengfeng thought silently, amusement and admiration mingling in his chest.
He deliberately softened his steps, walking to the veranda and leaning casually against a vermilion pillar.
Arms crossed, he watched the black-clad figure dart and pivot—a mesmerizing blend of raw power and refined grace.
The rising sun spilled over the courtyard wall, bathing the central space in a soft golden halo.
Within that light, Zhu Zhuqing's movements became a dance—sweat flying, limbs slicing through air, radiating a breathtaking, razor-edged beauty.
He watched a while longer—until she finished a relentless, no-frills combo of lethal strikes, each move efficient, deadly, without a single wasted motion.
Only then did he speak.
"Take a break."
"You're here."
Zhu Zhuqing's voice came—cool and calm as ever, betraying little emotion beyond the slight breathlessness of exertion.
"Mm."
Dai Chengfeng straightened from the pillar. "You've been working hard."
"But remember—cultivation requires balance. Push too hard, and you'll damage your foundation. That's not worth it."
Zhu Zhuqing slowly lowered her stance, chest rising and falling as she caught her breath. Her clear, frosty eyes turned to him.
Morning light caught the fine beads of sweat on her lashes, scattering tiny prisms of light.
"The moment you show up, my training gets interrupted."
Dai Chengfeng chuckled. He walked to the stone table, picked up a clean, soft towel draped over a chair, and handed it to her naturally.
"That's not an interruption—that's a necessary adjustment."
"Like a bowstring pulled too tight—it'll snap."
Zhu Zhuqing took the towel. She didn't wipe herself immediately. Instead, she looked at him—her tone, for once, carrying the faintest hint of something almost like resignation.
"Nonsense."
"Words of wisdom, actually."
As she pressed the towel to her forehead and neck, Dai Chengfeng's gaze followed the elegant curve of her throat—starkly pale against the black fabric.
The damp training clothes clung to her back, outlining the sharp, beautiful lines of her shoulder blades as they rose and fell with her slowing breaths.
He looked away, toward the ironwood dummy—now bearing fresh marks of impact.
"Seems it's taken quite a beating in my absence."
"It exists to be struck."
Zhu Zhuqing moved to the opposite side of the stone table. She stood rather than sat.
"But you," she added, her eyes sweeping over him with casual precision, "returning so early from outside?"
She'd caught it—the faint, lingering scent clinging to him. Not just morning mist and fallen leaves… but something else.
An extremely subtle fragrance—different from the courtyard's herbal notes. So faint it was nearly drowned out by the crisp autumn air. Only someone with her exceptional senses would have noticed.
Dai Chengfeng remained composed. He poured her a cup of warm water that had been waiting on the table and slid it toward her.
"Went for a walk. To clear my head. The morning in Spirit City has its own charm."
Zhu Zhuqing accepted the cup, fingers resting on the gently warmed ceramic. She didn't drink—only watched him in silence.
Dai Chengfeng felt an odd twinge of guilt under her steady gaze. He rubbed his nose and grinned.
"What? Something on my face?"
"No."
She lowered her eyes to the water's surface, rippling faintly in the cup. Her voice dropped, quieter now.
"I just feel… the place you went to 'clear your head' seems especially nourishing for the spirit."
Suddenly, Dai Chengfeng leaned forward slightly—closing the distance between them.
Zhu Zhuqing's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the cup—but she didn't retreat.
"How so?"
His voice lowered, laced with playful curiosity. His eyes traced the healthy flush on her cheeks—from exercise, not shyness—and the elegant line of her lips, pressed together in quiet composure.
It was too close.
Close enough to see the fine down on her skin, the faint pulse at her throat, and to breathe in her unique scent—sweat mingled with something cool, clean, and fiercely alive.
Not unpleasant at all. In fact, it thrummed with vitality.
Zhu Zhuqing lifted her gaze—and met his smiling eyes.
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