Ji Lanxue stood before the weather-worn façade of the Celadon Teahouse, its wooden doors aged by time and silence. Once a social spot for the upper circle, it now lingered at the edge of forgotten—still open, but just barely. The faded signage whispered secrets from decades past, and the lanterns overhead flickered as if resisting the pull of dusk.
She adjusted the hem of her coat, long and pale gray, sleek over her slender frame. Her fingers, gloved in soft leather, tapped once against her phone screen. She had been standing there for five minutes, as though hesitating, but in truth, she had been waiting for the right moment.
She opened her messages and composed one quickly to Xiao Lin.
*"If the tea's bitter, call me. I may have wandered too far from the kettle."*
Vague enough to pass scrutiny. Specific enough for Xiao Lin.
Ji Lanxue didn't believe in coincidences—especially not when they came wrapped in the form of Ji Chengyu.
He hadn't contacted anyone in the Ji family in years. Not a letter. Not a call. Yet now, he chose to return right when things were most volatile—when the veiled musician was stirring storms, when Bai Lanyue was moving like a woman possessed, and when her brother had finally started to act like the heir he'd been raised to be.
Ji Chengyu always circled where power brewed.
She slipped the phone into her coat pocket, exhaled slowly, then reached for the door.
The old brass knob was colder than she expected.
As she stepped inside, the scent of aged wood and faint oolong lingered in the air. The front parlor was dim, lit by only a few hanging lamps with amber shades. An old server gave her a nod without question, motioning subtly toward the stairwell at the back. Ji Chengyu had clearly paid for privacy.
Each step she took was measured. Poised. Graceful, but sharpened at the edges—like the tension beneath her composed features.
The second-floor room was quiet, save for the faint instrumental music playing on an old phonograph. Ji Chengyu was already there, seated beside the open window, city lights glimmering far in the distance behind him. He was nursing a cup of tea he hadn't touched.
"Lanxue," he drawled, without rising. "I had my doubts you'd come. But you've grown sharper, haven't you?"
She took the seat across from him without a word. Her gaze, calm but alert, swept across the table. No food. Two untouched teacups. A simple envelope resting at the center.
"I don't enjoy being toyed with," she said finally, her voice crisp.
"Nor do I," he said, smiling faintly. "That's why I invited you. No riddles. No tricks. Just clarity. I thought you might be curious about what I know."
"You mean what you *think* you know." Her eyes flicked to the envelope. "And you like playing prophet too, now?"
Ji Chengyu chuckled, swirling his cup. "Always so skeptical. But skepticism is a useful shield in the Ji family, isn't it? Especially when your brother is dancing too close to a flame, and no one dares tell him."
She didn't rise to the bait.
"Your interest in the veiled musician is transparent," she said. "But what I'm unclear about is your goal."
He leaned forward slightly. "Isn't it obvious? You're all guarding her like she's some lost crown jewel. But secrets rot when kept in the dark too long. And I've learned… when the truth is too heavy for the wrong hands, the fallout is worse."
Ji Lanxue's expression didn't shift, but inside, she began calculating.
"You want leverage," she said softly.
"No," he said, voice suddenly quiet. "I want balance. If your brother's set on protecting her, fine. But there are others watching—Bai Lanyue, for one. She's chasing ghosts. What happens when she finally digs up bones the Ji family buried?"
"You don't care about Zhiqi's safety," Ji Lanxue said coolly.
"No," Ji Chengyu agreed. "But I care about the storm she's dragging with her. And I don't like standing in the rain without an umbrella."
He slid the envelope toward her.
"In there are some questions. Not answers. I don't play god. But you might want to read them before your loyalty blinds you to something darker."
Ji Lanxue didn't reach for it.
Instead, she stood slowly, her chair scraping quietly against the wooden floor.
"You always did like playing with knives," she said. "Just don't act surprised if you cut your own hand this time."
And with that, she turned and left—her coat swaying behind her, her phone already in hand as she sent a second, shorter message to Xiao Lin.
*"The tea was poison. Get ready."*