The sky outside was still pale when Liú Tiānyuè rose.
The house was quiet.
Seven uneven child-breaths drifted from the adjoining room. One deeper, controlled inhale—Zhào Dàfēng. Even in sleep, he remained alert.
Good.
She stepped silently from the bedroom and entered the small kitchen.
It was little more than a corner partitioned by a half wall. A clay stove. A cracked pot. A wooden ladle worn smooth with use.
Sparse.
Insufficient.
She stood there a moment.
She did not remember much of human routine. Hunger had driven her for three centuries, but that was different. Violent. Consuming.
This was quieter.
Humans required regular feeding.
Especially children.
Especially malnourished ones.
Her gaze shifted toward the thin wall.
Their stomachs would not tolerate heavy food.
Too much oil would cause pain.
Too much meat would overwhelm weakened digestion.
She had learned that much from the medical floor in her space.
She closed her eyes briefly.
The kitchen blurred—
—and she stepped into her dimension.
*****************************
She returned only seconds later, though no time had passed outside.
In her hands were rice, fresh and polished.
Eggs, still warm.
Powdered milk formula.
And something else.
She moved efficiently.
The rice simmered into congee, thin and gentle. She stirred slowly, allowing it to soften completely. No rough grains. No heavy seasoning.
When the porridge reached the proper consistency, she paused.
From within her palm, a bead of shimmering liquid formed—no larger than a tear.
Spiritual water.
Dense. Potent. Overwhelming if misused.
She allowed a single drop to fall into the entire pot.
The liquid vanished instantly upon contact.
The steam shifted subtly—fresher, cleaner.
The energy dispersed evenly through the congee.
Not enough to expose anything unnatural.
Just enough to stimulate cellular repair.
Improve nutrient absorption.
Strengthen weakened organs.
Slowly.
Carefully.
She boiled several eggs until firm.
For the older children and Dàfēng, rice congee and one egg each.
Protein was necessary—but controlled.
For the baby—
She prepared the bottle first.
Powdered formula mixed carefully with boiled water cooled to proper warmth.
Before sealing it, she let the faintest mist of spiritual energy brush through the liquid—less than a drop this time.
The bottle would nourish.
The energy would build.
Then she peeled one egg, separated half, and mashed it thoroughly into tiny pieces—smaller than grain kernels. No choking risk.
She infused only the smallest trace of energy into it.
The infant's body was fragile.
Too much would overwhelm her.
Gradual correction was safer.
She placed it aside.
The congee finished cooking.
Steam rose gently in the dim kitchen.
The smell alone was richer than anything this house had known in months.
Footsteps shuffled behind her.
Small.
Cautious.
She did not turn immediately.
She sensed them first.
Zhào Mínghào, ten years old.
Trying to be silent.
Trying to assess.
Then Zhào Mínguó, eight, hovering behind him.
The twins whispering.
The four-year-old's light steps.
The toddler's uneven shuffle.
Finally, Dàfēng's rougher movement as he dragged himself upright.
The children froze.
They stared.
The smell of food had reached them.
Real food.
Not thin broth.
Not reheated scraps.
Zhào Mínghào spoke first, voice wary.
"…Stepmother?"
It was cautious. Unsure.
They had not known what kind of woman she would be.
The previous one had left.
Adults were unreliable.
Tiānyuè turned.
Her expression was calm.
Neutral.
Measured.
"The food is ready."
Her voice was steady.
Clear.
The children froze again.
Dàfēng's eyes widened slightly from where he sat braced against the wall.
He stared at her.
But no one spoke of it.
Not yet.
The children's attention shifted to the bowls.
Congee.
Eggs.
Real eggs.
Zhào Míngjié, two years old, stared openly.
The twins swallowed visibly.
Tiānyuè gestured.
"Sit."
They obeyed instantly.
Not out of affection.
Out of habit.
She distributed bowls carefully.
Watched their hands.
Watched their eyes.
Zhào Mínghào hesitated before eating.
He looked at his siblings first.
Then at his father.
Only after Dàfēng nodded did he lift the spoon.
They ate slowly at first.
Cautious.
Then faster.
Not frantic—but hungry enough that restraint required effort.
As they swallowed, the spiritual water began its quiet work.
It did not create sudden vitality.
It did not cause dramatic change.
But warmth spread gently through weakened stomachs.
Absorption improved.
Cells stirred.
Their bodies recognized nourishment again.
She monitored their reactions.
No stomach cramping.
No gagging.
Good.
Controlled portions had been correct.
Dàfēng accepted his bowl last.
He looked at the egg as if it might disappear.
He did not ask where it came from.
He simply said quietly,
"Thank you."
She inclined her head slightly.
Acknowledgment.
Nothing more.
Then she turned toward the baby.
Zhào Míngyuán lay on a thin blanket, eyes open but unfocused.
Seven months old.
Severely underdeveloped.
The infant's limbs were thin.
Skin slightly dull.
Head lolling weakly when she attempted to move.
A child her age should sit unsupported.
Roll easily.
Attempt to crawl.
Some already pulled themselves up on furniture.
Míngyuán could not even hold her head steady.
Her muscles lacked strength.
Her bones likely under-mineralized.
Her growth stunted.
The malnutrition had been prolonged.
Tiānyuè crouched.
She lifted the baby carefully.
Shockingly light.
Too light.
Míngyuán blinked up at her.
Not crying.
Just watching.
Too quiet for a baby.
Energy conservation.
Tiānyuè supported the child's head easily in one hand.
She brought the bottle to her lips.
Míngyuán latched slowly.
Then drank.
This time, after several swallows, something shifted.
Not dramatic.
But steadier.
The infant's sucking grew slightly stronger.
Her tiny fingers twitched with faint new energy.
The spiritual water was working.
Slowly.
Safely.
Tiānyuè adjusted the angle to prevent choking.
When the baby finished half the bottle, Tiānyuè paused her gently.
Then she fed her the finely mashed egg—tiny portions pressed carefully against her tongue.
No choking.
No resistance.
Afterward, she held the baby upright to aid digestion.
She allowed the faintest thread of spiritual warmth to flow from her palm into the infant's spine.
Just enough to stimulate nerve response.
Not enough to reveal anything unnatural.
The other children stared openly now.
Zhào Míngxī whispered to her twin,
"Stepmother knows how to feed babies…"
Dàfēng watched in silence.
His gaze was not suspicious.
It was confused.
The mute girl he had married yesterday—
Was speaking.
Cooking.
Handling the infant with confidence.
He did not question her aloud.
But his eyes were sharp.
Observing.
Tiānyuè ignored the scrutiny.
She gently adjusted Míngyuán's posture, testing neck strength.
Still weak.
But there—
A flicker of resistance.
Improvement had already begun.
Fixable.
Entirely fixable.
Gradually.
She handed the now-content infant to Zhào Míngyù.
"Hold her upright. Like this."
She adjusted the girl's arms into proper support.
The twins nodded seriously.
Eager.
Careful.
Tiānyuè stood slowly.
She looked at the six older children.
Dirt embedded in fingernails.
Hair thick with lice.
Clothes stiff with old grime.
Malnutrition evident in their limbs.
Her gaze sharpened slightly.
Food was step one.
Hygiene would be step two.
Medical evaluation, step three.
Zhào Dàfēng cleared his throat quietly.
"You… can speak."
It was not an accusation.
Just confusion.
She looked at him steadily.
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
The children watched between them.
She offered no explanation.
He studied her.
Then, after a long moment, he simply nodded.
"…That is good."
He did not press further.
Interesting man.
Trust given cautiously—but given.
Tiānyuè turned back toward the kitchen.
The first meal had been accepted.
No fear.
No rejection.
No chaos.
Just quiet astonishment.
And beneath it—
Recovery had begun.
Invisible.
Certain.
Her lips curved faintly.
Perhaps—
Motherhood would not be inefficient after all.