Noon.
Yin Wuwang took Xie Qingyan to the noodle shop Little Lu had recommended. Small storefront, wooden tables and chairs, handwritten menu on the wall. Quite a few customers at lunchtime; they found a table against the wall and sat down.
"Two bowls of beef noodles." Yin Wuwang told the owner.
"Spicy?"
Yin Wuwang glanced at Xie Qingyan.
"No."
Xie Qingyan looked at the menu without objecting.
Yin Wuwang knew he didn't eat spicy food. Not from the character bio—the bio said "Shen Han has mild tastes." But he knew Xie Qingyan himself didn't eat spicy. Three thousand years of observing his enemy from across battlefields—some things you just noticed.
Two bowls of beef noodles arrived. Yin Wuwang lowered his head and took a bite—the broth was indeed savory. He looked up to see Xie Qingyan holding his chopsticks, moving slowly, as if studying the bowl of noodles.
"What is it?"
"Mortal food." Xie Qingyan picked up a noodle with his chopsticks, examined it, then put it in his mouth. "More flavorful than the Fasting Pills at the way stations."
Yin Wuwang nearly laughed out loud.
Fuguang was complimenting the noodles. In a way only cultivators would understand.
He lowered his head and continued eating, suppressing his smile.
They ate in comfortable silence. The shop was busy with the lunch crowd—office workers grabbing quick meals, construction workers on break, a few elderly folks chatting over their bowls. The sounds of slurping noodles and clattering dishes filled the air, creating a mundane backdrop that felt strangely peaceful.
Yin Wuwang glanced up occasionally. Xie Qingyan ate slowly, methodically, the way he did everything—precise and unhurried. Even eating noodles, he maintained an elegance that seemed out of place in this cramped little shop. The contrast was almost absurd: the world's greatest Sword Sovereign, sitting in a plastic chair, eating beef noodles from a chipped bowl.
And somehow, watching that, Yin Wuwang felt more content than he had in three thousand years.
Back in the car, Yin Wuwang suddenly remembered something.
"By the way—" He pulled the keys from his pocket. "You forgot your access card this morning when we left."
Xie Qingyan's hand paused on the seatbelt buckle.
"I used yours to swipe us in." Yin Wuwang inserted the car key into the ignition, tone casual. "When we get back, I'll go up first to open the door. You can wait downstairs for a moment."
He said it matter-of-factly. As if this sort of thing didn't need discussion, didn't need special mention—it would just naturally be arranged this way.
Xie Qingyan buckled his seatbelt and looked at the windshield ahead.
"When did you notice I didn't have my access card?"
"When we left. You only took your folder and phone."
"You remember what I bring when I leave every day?"
Yin Wuwang's motion of starting the engine paused for half a second.
This question wasn't easy to answer.
Because the answer was: yes, he remembered. Not just the access card—phone in left pants pocket, keys in right, notebook tucked in the folder, a glance in the mirror before leaving to check if the collar was straight.
But he couldn't say that.
"The character setting is two years together." Yin Wuwang started the engine. "These are the basics."
Xie Qingyan didn't respond.
The car pulled out of the noodle shop's parking spot and merged onto the main road. Afternoon sunlight came through the windows, drawing a bright dividing line on the armrest between them.
After one intersection, Xie Qingyan suddenly spoke.
Very soft—almost drowned out by the engine. But Yin Wuwang heard it.
"'Han-ge.'"
Yin Wuwang's heart lurched, missing a beat, then slammed hard against his ribcage—so loud he almost thought it would drown out the engine's rumble.
He turned to look at Xie Qingyan. Xie Qingyan's gaze was still on the road ahead, expression unchanged.
"'Han-ge.'" Xie Qingyan repeated the two syllables, tone as flat as if discussing an academic question. "That's the term of address in the character setting. No need for it in front of Sister Wang, but if we run into unfamiliar neighbors, you calling me this would be more natural."
Yin Wuwang took two seconds to get his heartbeat back to normal.
"Okay." He said, voice carefully controlled.
Xie Qingyan gave a slight nod, then turned to look out the window.
Yin Wuwang stared at the road ahead.
Han-ge.
Two syllables.
He silently repeated them in his mind. Then again.
Not "Shen Han." Not "Dr. Shen." It was "Han-ge."
An intimate form of address—the kind only people close to you would use.
Xie Qingyan had brought it up himself.
The reason was "more natural with unfamiliar neighbors."
But he could have not mentioned it at all. They'd been in this world for days now and had never discussed this before.
Why bring it up today?
Yin Wuwang thought about the morning. The coffee mistake. The immediate correction. The green tea with sugar. The small things that had accumulated over the past few days—learning what Fuguang actually liked, not what the character was supposed to like.
Maybe that was why.
Maybe Xie Qingyan had noticed that Yin Wuwang was trying. Really trying. Not just following a script, but paying attention to who he actually was.
And maybe... this was his way of responding.
Yin Wuwang glanced sideways at Xie Qingyan's reflection in the window glass. He was turned away, looking outside. The afternoon light traced a bright edge along his profile. His expression wasn't visible.
But Yin Wuwang noticed one detail.
The tips of Xie Qingyan's ears were a little redder than usual.
Just a little.
Yin Wuwang pulled his gaze back to the road ahead.
The afternoon sunlight filtered through gaps in the roadside trees, casting fragments of gold across the windshield. The light danced with the car's movement, like something invisible laughing softly.
He didn't say anything more.
Some things didn't need to be said.
Just remembering was enough.
[End of V2_Chapter 32]
Next: The real director emerges from the shadows, a cleaning schedule that doesn't add up, and a voice that's "very pleasant to listen to."