The wind was sharp, free, and commanding. Each gust froze his eyes and tore at his hair where he stood in the center of the ship with Wèi Yīlíng. He couldn't sit, though his throne stood empty behind him—a tightness in his chest held him rigid.
Wùjī drew a deep breath, eyes closed, as if stealing a moment of life for himself. Questions crowded his throat, stifled by the spectacle of the day's celebration.
It wasn't just the fanfare. It was the robe, and the way his father looked suddenly, suspiciously happy… and young.
His father sat upon his throne, one leg crossed over the other, arms resting comfortably on the armrests. That signature dimpled smile—more smirk than sincerity—played on his lips. The young child, Wàng Wèi, sat nestled beside him, while from the opposite throne, the boy's mother giggled at the way he clung to his father.
Hàngwō's great ship sailed behind the vessel of the Zhèng Shì clan, both decks buzzing with music and thrumming with theme songs—a tradition deep in the cultivation world.
The great drums beat: Dham! Tak-dhum-dham! Dham tak-drum dham!
A lone guqin answered: Ta tak-ting ting-te tak.
Where Hàngwō's music was commanding and raw, the kind ice-bar breakers might roar, the Zhèng Shì's melody was its opposite: no less commanding, but dramatic and heavenly—fit for a sect that traced its lineage to celestial officials.
The Hàngwō theme, "We, Hàngwō," split the clouds with its force.
"Raise up your hands! (Raise up your hands!)
With swords~ (With swords!)
Step on the battlefield! (Battlefield!)
We, Hàngwō! (We, Hàngwō!!)
Why would we betray our own blood, our own existence~
Who raised us alone~
Who holds no jade~
Whose arms are the jades that never cracked?!~
Our heads rest in his hands… (Our heads in his hands)
He's the savior in our eyes! (In our eyes!)
We, Hàngwō, are always ready to cradle your bloody, bare feet in our palms!~
(We, Hàngwō~ we Hàngwō~)"
Women in red and white danced in a circle around them, veils streaming behind like ribbons of smoke. They moved as if he were the sole focus of their performance, not the captured yào trembling at his side.
Wùjī felt Wèi press closer, hiding behind him from the women and their proud, pounding song.
"Wèi still hates female insects," Wèi hissed, voice soft with a mix of fear and alertness. Even as a shell of his former self, he was still the Wèi Yīlíng that Wùjī knew—a yào whose very nature recoiled from women.
Wùjī's attention snapped sideways at the sound of small, rushing footsteps. His heart leapt with a sudden, overprotective instinct. Without turning, his hand shot out and caught the boy's arm perfectly. So now he was managing two children: Wèi Yīlíng, and Wàng Wèi.
"Zhù fù—" Wùjī began, but his father was already beside him. A hand fan half-obscured the man's face, and his other hand came to rest on Wùjī's shoulder. The familiar scent of sandalwood and cold tea filled his senses.
"Everything is fine, son," his father said, his smile wider, more genuine than the political mask he wore within Hàngwō's walls. "Your mother is growing worried. You look… pale." He was pointing out, gently, how worry and exhaustion were etched into Wùjī's face. The skipped breakfast was clearly visible.
Wùjī blinked, his own skin feeling tight and wind-dried. He adjusted his eye veil, suppressing the curl of discomfort he felt at the mention of his stepmother. "My apologies, zhù fù," he murmured, the words automatic. He barely knew what he was apologizing for. It was scripted, a performance where he and his father played parts, not family.
His father produced a small candy from his sleeve—a huàn—as if sharing a tiny secret. The dimple in his left cheek deepened. His eyes, barely visible behind a dark violet eye veil like Wùjī's own—though not white—held a glint. He offered one to Wàng Wèi, who snatched it happily, and then, with a deft motion, pressed another between Wùjī's dry lips.
The sweet-and-sour flavor burst on his tongue, summoning saliva—a scant burst of energy he desperately needed. He blinked, then slowly began to suck on the candy, trying to maintain his composure. Perhaps he was even more starved than Wèi.
"Don't make me seem cruel in front of her," his father mumbled with a sigh, a reminder of the house rule: meals were taken together, on time. If you were late, you waited until the next. He shook his sleeve, tucking the hand fan back into his robe.
A soft, almost sad purr-whimper from Wèi made Wùjī turn.
The snake was hungry again. His lips were visibly wet, saliva gathering at the scent of the rare blood—both Wùjī's and his father's, for they shared the same mysteriously potent lineage. Yàos were crazed for such blood. Wèi's gaze was locked on his father's wrist, mouth slightly parted, fangs gleaming.
Huīxiě's smile vanished as quickly as a snuffed candle, his eyes sharpening. "Have you not fed that creature this morning?" he asked, gaze narrowing as he observed Wèi's fixation. "He seems to know just how good my blood would taste."
Before Wùjī could answer, he turned sharply to Wèi, clicking his tongue in quiet disappointment. "No attacking," he warned, reminding him of their deal.
Wèi's mouth shut with another soft whimper—dejected. He licked his lips clean, but his large, doe-like pupils shifted, now fixed on the pulse in Wùjī's neck. He shuffled fully behind Wùjī, away from his father's gaze, his movement tugging the chain that bound their wrists together.
"Only the herb dragon fruits and… my blood, zhù fù," Wùjī answered truthfully.
His father raised an eyebrow. "Your blood? No wonder his tongue has grown so… eager."
"As he can no longer hunt for fresh blood himself—as he did when he was… free—I made a deal with him regarding my blood," Wùjī explained, casting a faint side-long glance at Wèi. "He is… half-tamed. He will not harm anyone, nor will he run. He's… addicted to it."
"Hmm." His father hummed thoughtfully, then sent Wàng Wèi off with a gesture toward his mother. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, thin register that carried unmistakable weight. "Take him to the cabin. I will… check something."
With that, he turned and walked away, flicking his hand in a careless, dismissive gesture toward the dancers. The women halted their steps around them, drifting only a little distance away.
Wùjī felt the sharp pinch of Wèi's nails digging into his wrist—panic rising again. But it was an order. He bowed his head slightly. "As you say, zhù fù."
When he pulled on the chain, Wèi planted his feet, every line of his body rigid with refusal.
"Wèi has a bad… feeling about this… dark violet insect," Wèi mumbled, nervously licking his lips clean. His throat worked tightly, and his chest rose and fell with faint, ragged breaths. "Don't force Wèi…"
Wùjī looked at him for a long moment. Then he gave the chain a sharp, decisive tug. Wèi gasped as his forehead struck Wùjī's collarbone through the red silk of his robe.
He's just scared of everyone, Wùjī thought silently. "Shh!" he hissed, his violet eyes sharpening. "He will not torture you. Stop acting like this." Without another word, he pulled Wèi toward the cabin, his long strides eating up the deck.
"W-Wèi will NOT go!" Wèi insisted, a faint, dove-like "pho-pho-pho" of panic escaping him as he groaned and tried to dig in his heels, his white boots scuffing against the deck.
"I did not ask for your opinion," Wùjī said, never slowing his pull. "Do not invite your own punishment by disappointing me."
Wèi's soft panting hitched. The struggle lessened, as if he had finally understood what that punishment entailed: rougher handling in the night, and the withholding of the blood he craved.
**
They stood in the ship's corridor, lined with imposing portraits of Hàngwō's past Dàozǔs—men who had come before his father.
They stopped outside a grand-looking room. Inside, his father stood by the window, a silver pipe in hand, blowing slow, contemplative streams of smoke into the air.
Wùjī watched him with a mixture of respect and… something else. Tenderness, perhaps. His gaze lingered a moment too long before he finally broke the silence. "I've brought him, zhù fù," he whispered, his voice pitched not too low, nor too high.
His father turned. A lazy, commanding smile touched his lips. "Very well," he purred. "I have not examined him myself yet. I've been… preoccupied." He spoke the last word while letting his gaze settle on Wèi—the look of a predator sizing up wounded prey.
"Move," Wùjī ordered, pulling Wèi forward. He could feel the yào's body go cold under his father's stare.
Wèi took a panicked step back, eyes wide behind his veil, darting frantically around the room. As Huīxiě took a step closer, Wèi let out a faint, useless hiss.
Huīxiě chuckled low in his throat. "Pathetic little snake." He reached out and tugged Wèi's veil away.
The face revealed was one of weak yet sharp defiance, the delicate spider lily painted at the corner of one eye now smudged.
Wùjī did nothing. He only watched his father's movements, keeping his own careful gaze fixed on Wèi.
"Such a pitiful face," Huīxiě mused. "My son's artistry on you does only a little to make you look alive." He glanced at Wùjī, his expression a confusing blend of danger and mockery—or perhaps a twisted tenderness. It was always hard to tell.
Wùjī kept his eyes lowered. He is too obsessed with perfection, he thought. Sometimes he crosses every line.
"Hm." His father turned his attention back to Wèi. "Perhaps… it would die if I…" he said deliberately, then moved with sudden violence, his hand closing around Wèi's throat.
A sharp, bird-like cry of pure panic tore from Wèi, piercing the room.
Wùjī's eyes snapped to him. That cry was different—sharper. It meant real pain. He saw the tears welling in Wèi's eyes, saw the whites tinge red with strain.
"Zhù fù, he's frighten—" Wùjī began, a warning forming. Wèi was too weak, too traumatized. More terror would only make him sick, and then they would get neither a cub nor the repaired qì they needed.
"I know," his father said, not looking at him. The grip on Wèi's throat did not relent. "I am not your zhù fù for no reason. He was the vessel for the System Tearstone. He is damaged. So I have every right to be rough with him… do I not?"
Wùjī let out a faint, controlled exhale through his nose. Wèi was now looking straight at him, mouth hanging open in silent, panicked pleading, soft whimpers catching in his crushed throat.
"Of course you do, zhù fù… at least, you…" Wùjī agreed quietly. He knew nothing if not obedience.
His father smirked, satisfied. "That's right, my son." He tilted his head thoughtfully, then pressed his thumb against Wèi's lower lip, forcing it down to expose the fangs, glistening with thin venom. Wèi's eyes fluttered, shutting and opening like a captured bird in shock. He looked utterly broken, highly alert, and—with the scent of royal blood now thick in the air—ravenously hungry.
"Yàos usually conceive within hours of mating," Huīxiě said, his voice lower now, thoughtful. He pressed his thumb under Wèi's chin, forcing his mouth shut with a click. "Is he still flat?" His eyes dropped to the yào's stomach, visible beneath the white-and-red robe.
Wùjī cleared his throat. "His fertility is rated much weaker than sixty percent of spatial-grade yàos. It may take time. That is… according to my calculations from last night."
His father's grayish-violet gaze flickered to him, then back to Wèi. "Sixty percent, you say…" he whispered, turning the number over in his mind.
A heavy silence fell.
Then, suddenly, Huīxiě yanked Wèi toward a nearby bed. Wèi cried out again, weakly. Wùjī gasped faintly as he was jerked forward by the chain that bound them.
"Shut. Up." Huīxiě hissed at Wèi, delivering a sharp, open-handed slap to his face. The sound cut off the cry instantly, leaving only the desperate, beast-like rasp of Wèi's breathing. Pale cheeks were now streaked with tears.
Wùjī tightened his own grip on Wèi's neck, holding him still, preventing any frantic lunge.
"Keep him like this," Huīxiě ordered, pressing a firm hand against Wèi's lower abdomen to examine him. Wèi went perfectly still, mouth open in a silent scream. No sound emerged—only a faint, hollow rush of air from his throat.
Perhaps he's hurting again. Perhaps he hasn't recovered from last night's brutal treatment, or the incident with the eggs, Wùjī thought, watching his father's clinical probing.
Suddenly, Wèi cried out—a sharp, high-pitched sound of pure, unadulterated pain. His father must have pressed directly on a sensitive spot that hadn't yet healed.
The pain broke something loose. Wèi jerked with a sudden, startling burst of his fractured yào qì, tearing free from Wùjī's grasp. Before anyone could react, he lunged, sinking his fangs deep into Huīxiě's forearm.
Wùjī's eyes widened at the sudden, violent strength. He understood in that instant—the yào was still formidable when driven by unbearable pain. Perhaps he is only half-tamed by me, he realized. He obeys me sometimes, but he has never accepted my father.
"You beast," Huīxiě hissed, his grayish-violet eyes sharpening into points of cold, calculating fury as they locked onto Wèi's panicked, watery red gaze.
Blood fell in silent, fat drops. Huīxiě tried to twist his wrist, but Wèi held fast, driving his fangs deeper. The dilemma was clear: they could not risk permanently damaging Wèi's body, not when they needed it for qì generation. Yet controlling an animalistic yào in a blind fury was nearly impossible.
"Wàngjī, I am losing my patience! I might very well kill this creature!" his father groaned through clenched teeth. His bitten arm trembled, bloody, and violet lightning crackled sporadically around his skin—a visible sign of his rising anger. The very air in the room grew dense and heavy, thick with threat.
"Let go of his arm!" Wùjī commanded, his voice sharp with a mix of panic and forced authority.
He grabbed Wèi by the neck and yanked, once, then twice, with brutal force. The yào clung to his father's flesh like a blood-sucking leech.
When it still didn't work, Wùjī's voice rose to a shout. "I. SAID. LET. GO!"
His own qì flickered unsteadily. He swore he hadn't consciously summoned it.
Yet, from nowhere, a bolt of cerulean lightning streaked through the cabin. It was not overwhelmingly powerful, but precise and shocking. It struck Wèi's leg with a sizzling crack, more a sharp sting than a crippling blow.
Wèi shrieked and released Huīxiě's arm instantly, recoiling into the blanket on the bed, his whole body trembling violently.
"Wèi hates the dark violet insect… Wèi hates the dark violet insect…" he chanted in a broken, fading voice, before his words dissolved completely into the guttural, clicking tongue of the yào—a language no human present could understand. Whimpers punctuated the alien sounds; he was clearly in pain.
Wùjī panted lightly, trying to process the chaos. He couldn't comprehend where the blue lightning had come from. No one else was here.
He looked at his father. Huīxiě was also breathing heavily, like an enraged dragon—more from fury and sheer disbelief that this broken yào possessed such violent defiance. That, too, shocked Wùjī.
The lightning… they both chose to ignore it for now. It could have been a stray discharge from a sky dragon, those celestial guardians known to intervene against demonic cultivator aggression. Perhaps Father's blood simply roused too much of his latent energy, Wùjī thought, grasping for any logical explanation.
He quickly loosened the sealed chain around his own wrist for more mobility and rushed to his father's side. Taking the bitten arm, he inspected the wound. "Zhù fù, I apologize for his violence. You must have pressed an injury that was… unbearable for him," he said quickly, his voice composed though slightly rushed and unsteady. "He is truly injured lower down. That is why I could not… proceed with many rounds last night."
His father said nothing at first, merely staring at the bite mark. It had torn through the violet silk of his sleeve, the fabric now stained a dark red that appeared almost black.
Wùjī's silent worry mounted with the lack of response. His father's silence was always a prelude to something far more dangerous.
"Zhù fù…" Wùjī said softly, channeling his own weak, slow qì into the wound to aid healing. "Please tell me if you feel light-headed from the blood loss."
A heavy pause hung between them.
"I am merely thinking," his father said finally, his voice climbing to a dangerous, thoughtful pitch as he looked at Wùjī. "How powerful the cubs could be if they are all healthy… when the source is this… energetic, even in its broken state."
Wùjī swallowed lightly. "Yes, zhù fù. And… I believe it will not take too long to become reality."
His father's gaze drifted to Wèi, who was still hiding beneath the blanket. He gave a slow, thoughtful nod, his eyes slightly bloodshot from anger.
"He is not fertile yet… but something new felt as though it died some hours ago, when I pressed his abdomen," Huīxiě whispered, his tone purely analytical.
New? Died hours ago? Was it those again…? The question was clear on Wùjī's solemn face.
His father broke the thought with a sigh, lowering his now-healed arm. The teeth marks remained on his sleeve, a stark reminder of the violence that had nearly erupted. He gave the silk a futile shake, as if the gesture could erase the damage.
Wùjī's hand hovered for a second before falling to his side. He lowered his eyes, waiting.
"Check him again," his father said, a faint thread of disgust in his voice. "I believe it is not something I wish to see… or touch myself."
Wùjī understood. His father already loathed touching Wèi, much less examining such private matters. Wèi's male yet genderless form was an affront to his sensibilities.
"And feed him something. He is too starved," his father added as a final command before turning to leave, heading back upstairs toward his wife and son.
Wùjī watched him go, bowing silently to his retreating back. "Yes, zhù fù."
Once alone, he stood and looked at Wèi, who had now peeked out from the blanket. His eyes were a mess of clear tears—not the inky black blood of before. His mouth was smeared with blood, and the spider lily Wùjī had so carefully painted was washed away by the tracks of his crying. Wùjī's skin prickled with the itch of imperfection, but he suppressed it. The task at hand came first: checking Wèi's injuries.
He made the sealed chain short again as he approached. Wèi's lips trembled with silent whimpers, one eye squeezed shut. He had spoken far less today than last night, and the unusual quiet worried Wùjī.
He raised a hand near Wèi's face. Wèi parted his lips, baring his teeth, but the aggression was muted now. A faint hiss escaped before he nervously licked the blood from his mouth. The pained expression never left his face.
Wèi remained frozen, as if any movement would amplify his agony. He even breathed in slow, measured drafts.
"Shh… that's it. Don't. Move." Wùjī's whisper was close to his ear, not quite tender, but a soft, firm warning. His voice made Wèi's eyes flutter shut tightly.
Wùjī hoped Wèi wouldn't leave another serious bite. The yào's earlier feeding, combined with the recent violence, had already weakened him further through blood loss. Slowly, he peeled the blanket away.
His stomach dropped.
Fresh blood spotted the sheets, scattered with tiny, undeveloped eggs. They weren't rotten this time, but new—glistening and frail. His eyes widened slightly. The damage was significant.
"Let me see," he said, his voice low, as he carefully parted Wèi's robe to examine him.
Wèi whimpered faintly, blinking as fresh tears welled. Wùjī exhaled, a sound of quiet hopelessness. The eggs had been on the verge of developing after last night's session. Now, his body had expelled them, along with blood.
Wùjī clicked his tongue and pinched the bridge of his nose, his habitual gesture of frustration. Why won't he take? He had been so close to securing a cub, and now it was destroyed again. Was it natural, or was it his father's rough handling?
But then, a realization settled, cold and clear. It was tied to yào biology. He remembered Wèi's broken words from the night before: "Wèi would rather die than be touched."
The meaning was now obvious. To instill in Wèi a desire to live—to make his body accept life—Wùjī would have to make him desperate to return to his former, vibrant self. Another truth presented itself: Wèi was physically capable of carrying a pregnancy, but his body was rejecting it due to profound despair.
This led him to the next layer of the performance. He could not just be a keeper or a breeder. He had to become someone Wèi would never think to disobey—someone for whom he would do anything.
That was the nature of spatial-grade yàos. Not easily tamed, but if tamed… they became an extension of their master, another half of one's own body moving independently. Together, they could overturn the world, if only he could plant his throne within that wild mind… or perhaps, one day, within that wounded heart.
If I truly desire to breed him, I must change my approach entirely. I cannot treat him like the others. I must change the pattern, the very rhythm of this pursuit. I cannot be slow. I must walk with purpose, he thought, the strategy crystallizing in his mind.
He took a deep breath, as if inhaling the very elements of patience and manipulation he now required. This taming would not be achieved by bloodlust alone.
Wèi parted his lips warily as Wùjī lowered his hand. The injury, and the shock of the blue lightning, seemed to have damaged what little control Wùjī had established.
So, he began to act with a suspicious gentleness. He did not yell at Wèi for attacking his father. He did not scold him for ruining the meticulous, beautiful artistry that had made him resemble a cursed glass doll.
Wèi grew visibly confused, his eyes darting around with panicked whimpers, braced for the slap his father had delivered. But it never came.
Instead, Wùjī leaned close again, his lips nearly brushing the shell of Wèi's ear so his deep, cold voice would be unmistakable. "You're still as daring as before," he whispered, the words clear and intimately quiet, devoid of drama. "But now with a different purpose… one not about tearstones, but something much more… fresh."
Wèi responded with a faint click of his tongue and a soft hiss, like a parakeet, and rubbed his lips together in a bird-like gesture—an acknowledgment, but no words. He was retreating further into animalistic behavior. He blinked slowly, his breathing beginning to steady.
Yet his shoulders remained tense with alertness and disbelief at this sudden shift in tone. Wùjī could see it: the yào was torn, half-resisting the lure of this gentleness, half-starving for it. He was so weak, so emotionally raw, that his eyes glistened with moisture at both kindness and cruelty.
Wùjī sighed softly, his sharp violet gaze softening a fraction as he leaned in and pressed his forehead against Wèi's.
Wèi blinked rapidly, a thoughtful, almost frightened-bird look in his eyes. What is this snake thinking now?
Wèi reacted as he had the previous night, as if the forehead touch were a secret, soothing pressure. A low purr rumbled in his throat. The hand bound to Wùjī's twitched, lifting hesitantly as if to reach out or pull closer—but then it fell back, limp and silent.
It's working. He's softening, Wùjī observed silently. He stayed still for a moment, simply breathing in the new, complex scent that clung to Wèi—a mix of blood, fear, and something uniquely his. He had no idea how long it would take to make Wèi believe this act, even if it was an act. Spatial-grade yàos could take six months, even a year, to tame with patience. But a yào who had been a vessel for a curse… that was an unknown.
Suddenly, Wèi spoke, the words a useless, grinding warning born of lingering anger. "W-wèi will… tear off the dark violet insect's arm next—"
Wùjī didn't let him finish. He slid his thumb between Wèi's lips, the pad already bleeding from a deliberate, tiny cut. "Shh. Silence. No talking while eating," he whispered, his own eye shutting briefly as a wave of weakness washed over him.
Wèi stopped immediately. He began to suck gently at the offering, cooing like a dove, savoring the treat. He might have recognized the same fragile reaction Wùjī had shown in the sealed room earlier, for after a moment, he released the thumb, sealing the small wound with a careful lick of his saliva.
Wùjī drew back just enough to study Wèi's face—beautiful, pale, and etched with confusion. He tilted Wèi's chin up lightly, his gaze fixing on the half-ruined spider lily at the corner of his eye. "You've ruined it," he murmured, almost to himself. Then, with a fresh cloth, he gently wiped away the tears, blood, and smeared makeup.
Wèi's eyes fluttered shut as if even the soft napkin caused him pain.
Wùjī, however, could not restrain his peculiar obsession. His fingers itched with the need for order, for beauty. He retrieved the small box and delicate brush, and with meticulous strokes, redrew the spider lily in its precise place.
Wèi blinked, adjusting to the faint tickle, and looked up at Wùjī. For a fleeting moment, he looked almost peaceful.
Then, the color drained from his face again. It was the instinctive reaction of a spatial-grade yào—an animal sensing imminent danger.
Wùjī's chest tightened. He hadn't expected another threat, not here on the ship.
At the back of his mind, the same cold, commanding voice he'd heard before sliced through his thoughts. "Just kill him already!"
It was so sharp, so loud, his ear rang with it.
Wùjī's eyes flew wide. "What's happening?" His hand went to the hilt of his sword.
Wèi looked as if he were losing his grip on reality. His head whipped from side to side, as if tracking an invisible presence in the room. He hissed sharply, alert, but instead of trying to break free, his form shimmered and collapsed in on itself. In the next breath, a medium-sized black snake was coiled tightly around Wùjī, claiming him as territory. His scales were a sickly ash-gray instead of healthy black, and his mouth hung slightly open, panting. Even the transformation seemed to cause him pain.
Above them, chaos erupted. The ship gave a violent, groaning lurch, sending glass objects shattering to the floor.
"Huīxiě Kùmsūn! Something is very wrong!"
"The outer valley of Qīngyè was supposed to be secure!"
"The sky dragons… they're absent!"
"Where did they go? They should be here!"
Then, his father's voice, razor-sharp with command, cut through the din: "Everyone! Do not attempt to halt the ship! Follow the Zhèng Shì vessel! It's a black-white dragon from the northern wastes. Do not provoke it, or its rage will be tenfold!"
"Yes, Kùmsūn!" came the ragged chorus of replies, mingled with the muffled shouts from the allied ship.
Panicked footsteps thudded down the corridor. The door burst open, and Wàng Wèi stumbled in, followed closely by his mother, who immediately sealed the door behind them with a pulse of her qì—his father's orders, no doubt.
"Gēge, a big, angry dragon came," the boy whispered, his voice trembling as he clung to Wùjī's thigh. "Its eyes were red… and its breath was so hot…"
Wùjī realized he'd been holding his breath only when he exhaled, a wave of relief crashing over him that the boy was safe. He placed a gentle hand on the child's head.
In his serpent form, Wèi Yīlíng lowered his head, his crimson eyes fixed on the boy with a strange, protective intensity. Wùjī felt the intention in the coiled body—a sudden, unexpected display of guardianship he had not anticipated developing so soon.
"Don't worry. Zhù fù and the others will handle it. You stay here," Wùjī said, his gaze flicking briefly to his stepmother before he added, clearer, "With her. Do not come out unless we say." His own body was already tensing, ready to move.
The boy nodded. Wèi's serpentine body loosened just enough to shift closer to the child. Wùjī's hand tightened on his scales subconsciously—a silent command: Do not hurt him.
But Wèi only looked from the boy to Wùjī, his reptilian gaze inscrutable. The child showed no fear, accustomed to the yào that often accompanied his father and brother.
"Gēge is weak, too," the boy said, his innocent logic assigning a solemn duty. "So take care of him."
Wùjī's heart stuttered. Not just at the child's words, but at the way Wèi's coils shifted around him, the body language unmistakable: Prepared. Agreed.
He glanced at Wèi, who now seemed more alert, energized by the fresh blood and oddly unwilling to disentangle.
He huffed, refusing to dwell on the implications, and secured his eye veil. As he turned to leave, the room was sealed once more behind him by his stepmother's qì.
"Let's see if you're really trying to change or not," Wùjī murmured, his eyes hardening back into calculated sharpness as he sprinted for the upper deck, his red robe streaming behind him like a banner of war.
Around his shoulders, Wèi hissed softly, a sound that held neither fear nor submission, but a quiet, daring promise—as if to say, Show me what you offer, and I will show you what I am worth.