It was morning, but the sky bore no trace of light—as if the sun itself had abandoned the mortal realm. The heavens wept in ceaseless torrents, as though mourning in advance what had not yet been lost but was already slipping through desperate fingers. The inn stood under the downpour like a solitary shrine—drenched, silent, and soaked in the taste of foreboding thick as blood on tongue.
The heavy door creaked open like the groan of suffering souls.
Lingque stepped inside, soaked from head to toe, the rainwater trailing behind her like a thread of misfortune connecting her to darkness outside. Her hair clung to her cheeks like wet silk, her robes smeared with dirt and cold mud that spoke of desperate searching, her eyes hollow as if something vital had been scraped clean from inside her divine soul.
Chen Xinyu had not slept a single breath the entire night. He had paced the inn's corridor like a caged beast, eyes flicking to the door each time the wind so much as whispered through its hinges with cruel promise. Now, at last, she was here—but the relief died before it could fully bloom.
"Lingque—!" Xinyu stepped forward, grabbing her by the arms with hands that trembled despite their strength. His fingers were cold, but his voice shook with desperate warmth. "Where have you been? Are you alright?"
Lingque raised her eyes to him, and they were brimmed with the kind of guilt that knew no language, no absolution. Then, without warning, she broke—shattered like porcelain dropped from heaven. Heavy, raw sobs tore through her chest as she cried out with voice breaking, "Xinyuuu—!"
Xinyu had never witnessed her like this. Not the mischievous spirit who could tear into elders without blinking. Not the fearless creature who would throw herself between friend and demon without hesitation. She wept like a child who'd lost everything, her shoulders shaking with the rhythm of her heartbreak.
He pulled her into his arms, steady and warm as shelter in storm. "It's alright. It's alright. Tell us what happened, Lingque," he murmured, his voice soft but urgent as prayer.
"I—I lost her," she sobbed, her words stammering between gulps of air that couldn't seem to fill her lungs. "She got lost. Tang Tang. I couldn't find her. I'm a terrible person—I shouldn't have fallen—I should have never let her hand go..."
"Lingque." Xinyu held her tighter, his voice grave and low as winter thunder. "We will find her. No matter what it costs, we will find her. Don't blame yourself for this."
Behind them, the sound of knees hitting wooden floor made both turn.
Butcher Tu had fallen to the ground. His eyes were wide, as if someone had cracked open the shell of a dream he refused to awaken from, forcing him to face nightmare reality. For a moment, he didn't cry, didn't speak. He simply knelt there, shoulders stiff and unmoving, as though his bones could not bear the weight of this terrible truth.
Then his head bowed low like a penitent before altar, and tears began to fall—silent and without ceremony, grief too deep for sound.
Xinyu released Lingque and knelt beside the broken man. He placed a steady hand on his shoulder and said with solemn conviction, "Tu laoban, don't surrender hope. If this demon is truly behind the disappearances, then it's likely he hasn't harmed her yet. He needs something. That means there is still time."
From a distance, Hua Ling had been watching everything unfold like a silent guardian. His pale figure stood near the railing, unreadable eyes locked on them beneath the shadow of rain-soaked eaves. When Xinyu met his gaze across the room, he saw no expression—only determination sharpened to a blade's killing edge.
"I'm coming with you," Hua Ling said, voice brooking no argument.
"I as well," Butcher Tu rasped, struggling to rise on trembling legs.
Xinyu quickly stepped forward, pressing him back down with gentle firmness. "No. It's far too dangerous. You should remain behind. Let us handle this."
Just then, the door opened again with gust of cold wind. A man entered, soaked but still dignified in posture. He looked to be a few years older than Butcher Tu, with a broad build and the weathered air of a laborer who'd known hard work. When his eyes fell on Tu, he quickly crossed the room.
"Tu, what are you doing here like this? What's wrong?"
Butcher Tu raised his eyes, utterly broken. "A'Xu... Tang Tang... she's gone. I can't find her."
The man's face paled like death itself had touched him. "You sit. I'll go look for her."
Xinyu interjected, "Sir, we're searching too. Why don't we combine our efforts?"
The man—Xu—nodded with grim determination. "Good. More eyes, more chance of finding her."
Lingque tugged on Xinyu's sleeve with desperate fingers. "I'm coming with you."
Xinyu looked at her soaked, trembling figure that remained somehow upright through sheer will. "No, you should—"
"I have to come," she insisted, eyes fierce through the storm of tears. "This is my fault."
Xinyu sighed. He could not say no to that raw determination. "Alright. Let's go."
---
The search was desperate but methodical, like picking through rubble for survivors. They combed the market streets, taverns, narrow alleyways that smelled of refuse and rain.
They asked every merchant, every beggar, holding up the portrait of Tang Tang with increasingly desperate hope—but each answer was the same crushing refrain: no one had seen a girl being taken. The storm had washed the traces away like tears into ocean.
Eventually, they paused beneath the narrow overhang of a tea house to catch their breath. Xinyu sat on a damp bench, the portrait of Tang Tang limp in his hand like a prayer that went unanswered. Mister Xu walked up and sat beside him with heavy sigh.
"I've known Tu for months now," he said with voice heavy as wet earth. "His girl is everything to him. He raised her alone after his wife died. It's a cruel thing, this."
Xinyu bowed lightly with respect. "I understand."
"You're not from here, are you?" Xu asked with appraising look.
"No, sir. We came from far away. We're cultivators... investigating certain strange events."
Xu looked intrigued, leaning forward. "Ah. So you're here for the disappearances, then?"
Xinyu's brows lifted. "Yes. You know about them?"
Xu chuckled without humor, sound bitter as spoiled wine. "Who doesn't? Everyone's afraid to speak, as if silence could shield them from being next on the list. Me? I have a daughter too. I'd burn this whole town to ash if anything happened to her."
"Oh? Is she alright?" Xinyu asked with genuine concern.
"She's fine. Popular girl. Performer. She was singing at the boat last night—you must've seen her."
Xinyu blinked with dawning recognition. "Ah... so she's your daughter. She was extraordinary."
Xu beamed with paternal pride. "She takes after her mother."
---
Moments later, Xinyu found Hua Ling again—he was surrounded by townswomen, their giggles filling the air like songbirds drawn to frost despite all wisdom. Hua Ling's beauty stood like a snow-laden peak: distant, untouchable, but captivating nonetheless to those who didn't know better.
Xinyu called out, "Dianxia, any leads?"
Hua Ling dismissed the crowd with a single glance that could freeze blood and walked over with fluid grace. "Yes," he said. "Tang Tang's belongings were found near the luxurious boat. Across the river, there's a field. We'll search there next."
"Let's go."
---
As they crossed the river by boat, the sky dimmed further—twilight arriving too early, as if night itself was eager. Xinyu sat beside Hua Ling, his body worn from sleeplessness and worry. His head wobbled once, then settled gently on Hua Ling's shoulder like a bird finding perch. Lingque sat nearby, still nursing the remnants of her tears, hands clutched before her chest in unconscious prayer.
Hua Ling did not move, did not shift away. He only turned his head slightly to glance at Xinyu's peaceful sleeping face, lips pressing into a near-invisible curve of warmth he wouldn't name.
Across from them, Xu studied the scene with narrowed eyes that missed nothing.
"Young man," he said casually, "are you by chance of royal blood?"
Hua Ling replied with cool precision, "You are mistaken."
Xu grinned with knowing expression. "Well, if not, that's a shame. You're far too handsome to be ordinary. If I had my way, I'd marry you to my daughter."
Hua Ling's eyes darkened like storm clouds gathering. "That can't be done."
---
The boat docked with gentle bump. The forest path ahead was dimly lit by scattered lanterns, the muddy road glittering with reflections of ghostly firelight that danced like will-o'-wisps. Xinyu stirred awake, realizing with dawning embarrassment that his head had been resting on Hua Ling's shoulder. He coughed awkwardly.
"Apologies."
"No matter," Hua Ling replied, but something in his tone carried warmth.
They walked in silence through the forest. The night air was still, but Hua Ling's senses felt dulled in ways he couldn't explain—like cotton had been stuffed in his ears, fog poured into his mind. The sharpness that had always guided him through danger now buzzed like a blade trapped in thick fog.
Lingque suddenly stopped. She bent down and picked something from the mud with trembling fingers.
"...This... this is Tang Tang's hairpin!"
Xinyu rushed over. "Then we're on the right track."
Behind them, Xu stood still as death.
A strange light flickered in his eyes—something cold and ancient.
Without a word, he raised a hand behind Hua Ling's back, and a faint glimmer of black qi dissolved into the night like breath on glass—quiet, undetected, deadly. Hua Ling blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his mind like shadow across moon.
Something... was wrong. But what?
He could not yet say—and by the time he understood, it might already be too late.