"The temperature dropped. Frost climbed the window frames as Lànhuā screamed one final time,
"I HATE YOUR UGLY FACE! UGLY HANDS—YOU CAN'T HAVE ME!"
Then—silence.
A silence so deep it felt wrong.
Língxi's breath misted in the air. His eyes lifted toward the dark corner of the ceiling, where the shadow moved without a source. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he whispered:
"You shouldn't be here."
The shadow smiled back.
"She says—'She can't live in peace for what she's done… and I'll make sure of it!'"
"SHUT UP!" Língxi roared, his voice cracking between fury and pure terror.
"SHUT UP YOUR UGLY MOUTH!" Xio and Kage Ou shouted together in a sudden, jarring unison. Xio tried to lunge forward, but a searing pain shot through his arm, making him stumble. Língxi caught him with one arm, the silent command clear: Don't push yourself. Lànhuā comes first.
Lànhuā was the only daughter he had left—the only living piece of his bloodline. The thought of losing her again felt like losing his very soul.
He brushed her trembling hair back and took a deep, agonizing breath.
The yokai's presence was violently disrupting her soul's fragile balance. He had no choice left.
From within his sleeve, Língxi pulled out a slender blue jade flute—Shì Ān (时安), Peace in Time. A sacred relic of angelic cultivation, created to calm tormented souls. It wasn't a demonic spell—it was born of pure, radiant light.
For a father, risking dark arts on his own child was unthinkable. So he chose purity instead.
The first note floated through the air—soft, impossibly sharp, profoundly divine. The sound shimmered like moonlight on still water, a perfect sphere of protection.
The yokai shrieked, writhing violently, her dark form flickering erratically as the melody filled every corner. Slowly, agonizingly, Lànhuā's body relaxed. Her frantic sobs softened into quiet, exhausted whimpers.
"Kage ou—now! Use Yún Xǐ (云玺)!" Língxi shouted, his voice strained.
The legendary Cloud Seal sword flared in Kage Ou's hands, its mirror-like blade glowing a cold, lethal blue. The dragon spirit within it stirred, answering its master's silent fury.
Without a moment's hesitation, Kage Ou lunged forward, slashing the sword through the center of the oppressive blackness.
A scream ripped through the room—piercing, desperate, and almost heartbreakingly human.
Then, silence.
The dark fog twisted once, a final, despairing gesture, before collapsing back into the core of the blade.
"Lànhuā! I'll come back again!" The final curse echoed—a human tongue this time, filled with pure, ancient vengeance.
The light slowly, mercifully, returned to the room. The windows stopped rattling. The silence afterward felt heavier than the storm had been.
Kage Ou handed the magnificent sword back to Língxi. Black mist still licked faintly at its edges, rapidly fading.
"Here," Kage Ou said, his lips twitching into a faint, knowing smirk. "Your pride."
Língxi accepted it, his eyes softening immeasurably as he gently smoothed Lànhuā's hair. The faint echo of the yokai's final scream vanished the moment he sealed the blade away.
For a long time, only the sound of Lànhuā's soft, exhausted sobs filled the air.
"I… I thought…" she tried to speak, her voice a brittle whisper.
Kage Ou's eyes softened unexpectedly. He reached out, resting a rough, steady hand on her head—a silent, powerful reassurance. It's okay, dear.
Xio squeezed her hand gently, meeting Língxi's tired, grateful gaze. Both men exhaled—a shared, profound relief washing over them like light after a crushing nightmare.
Xio blinked, watching them. His heart twisted strangely. His uncle's care looked too perfect—too gentle. For a fleeting, sharp moment, he wished it was real… not just an act put on for Língxi's sake.
He rose quietly, sitting close beside Lànhuā and rubbing her back in steady circles. "Sis, don't cry… We're here."
He picked up the food tray from the bedside and held out a black gold jade glass. "Open your mouth… or I won't eat either. You've waited for me all this time, right?"
Lànhuā's weak light blue eyes lifted to meet his. She slowly took a sip, her dry throat finally easing.
"Let's eat together, dear," Língxi said softly, his voice full of paternal love. "Then you may rest."
Kage Ou's expression fell slightly. Earlier, Língxi had made him eat alone because he talked too much—and now, suddenly, he wanted to eat with them.
"Always as always," Kage Ou muttered, crossing his arms and looking away like a sulking, jealous teenager.
Língxi chuckled faintly, a sound of genuine lightness. "Would you like to join us, Kage?"
Kage Ou stiffened instantly. The way Língxi said his name—so softly, like snow melting under sunlight—sent a rush of unexpected heat to his face. He turned away quickly before Língxi could possibly see his blush.
Xio stared at him, speechless. "For real?" he muttered to himself.
Língxi opened his mouth to speak again, but Kage Ou stammered, "N-no, Líng… I'm… full. No space left. I'll… see you when you're done with the children." And he hurried out of the room, leaving a palpable silence behind him.
"Strange man. Still the same," Língxi murmured, a faint, indulgent smile curving his lips as the door clicked shut behind Kage Ou. The echo of his footsteps lingered for a moment, then faded into the hall's quiet.
For a heartbeat, the air felt calm again—gentle, almost tender. Língxi turned back toward his daughter, his expression softening as he brushed a lock of pale hair from her face. His voice was low, steady, filled with the warmth of a father who'd nearly lost everything.
"Rest now, Huā. That thing won't hurt you anymore."
The faint glow from the lantern bathed the room in muted gold. Lànhuā's breathing eased; the storm seemed to have finally passed.
Xio exhaled softly, his tense shoulders dropping as he looked between them and the closed door. For the first time, the silence felt almost comforting—yet something in it still hummed.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
"And I see… everything changes whenever you come," he whispered.
His tone was quiet, almost teasing, but beneath it lay a thread of unease—something that didn't belong in peace. His gaze drifted to the corner where the shadow had vanished earlier, and a faint shiver traced his spine.
Then, under his breath, barely audible:
"I could almost smell something… familiar."
Outside, the wind answered with a whisper against the paper walls—soft, low, almost human.