Meng Hao sat upright, his expression calm and composed as the early morning light spilled gently across the room. The golden sunlight filtered through the half-open windows, casting patterns over the silk bedsheets and reflecting off Li Yao's smooth skin, which was still flushed from their intense night of dual cultivation.
She had just spoken, agreeing to recount her story.
At that moment, a faint gleam flickered in Meng Hao's eyes—sharp, cold, and fleeting—like the edge of a sword briefly drawn before being sheathed again. His expression, however, remained flawlessly composed—gentle, grateful, and filled with the warmth of a devoted junior.
But within the depths of his mind, storm clouds of calculation rolled with ruthless precision.
"Yes… that's exactly what I wanted, my dear Li Yao…"
"Through your tale, I'll weave the right questions—lead you gently, slowly, until you tell me what I need. About your mother… her temperament, her cultivation, her weaknesses."
