Song Tieniu was cooking in the kitchen, while Chu'he dragged Ninth along and led Chongyang to the riverside to wash up.
Chongyang sat on a rock by the stream, his pant legs rolled up, his feet soaking in the cool, refreshing water. Chu'he crouched beside him, wetting a handkerchief to roughly comb through his messy white hair before wiping the dirt from his face.
Chu'he asked softly, "Are you cold?"
Chongyang shook his head, his clear eyes fixed on her without blinking.
Ninth stood behind Chu'he, backlit, his figure distorted by the dappled shadows of the trees. His eyes, however, gleamed an eerie red, making him look like a true demon.
Chongyang shuddered and lowered his head again.
Chu'he glanced back. "Ninth, can’t you help out a little?"
She pulled him forward and made him crouch down. "Wash Chongyang’s hands for him."
Ninth turned his face away. "I won’t—"
"Learning to care for children is the first step to being a good parent. If we ever have a little one of our own, you’ll have to do plenty of this."
Ninth turned his face back, eyeing the boy’s grimy hands with disdain. After living with Chu'he for a while, always being cleaned up by her, he had almost forgotten that he, too, had once been filthy beyond recognition.
Disdainful as he was, the thought of their hypothetical future child made Ninth pinch the boy’s hands between his fingers and dunk them into the water. "Scrub them yourself."
Chongyang, yanked with such force, nearly toppled face-first into the river.
Chu'he whipped her head around. "Ninth!"
Afraid of her temper, Ninth’s lashes fluttered slightly, but he stubbornly retorted, "If it were my child, by this age, they’d already be fighting beasts for food, ripping out hearts and guts, crushing bones, ruling the Poison Mist Forest as its king."
He chuckled. "They wouldn’t need someone to take care of them like this."
Chu'he massaged her temples. "Is that how normal children grow up?"
"What’s not normal about it?" Ninth said. "That’s how I grew up."
Chu'he paused.
Gradually, Ninth grew slightly uneasy under her gaze. "Why are you looking at me like that? Do you want to hit me again?"
Chu'he let out a quiet "hmph" and went back to wiping Chongyang’s face. "I’m not that bored."
Before long, Song Tieniu called them for dinner, and Chu'he led the two back to the house.
Three dishes and a soup were laid out on the table, along with bowls and chopsticks.
Chu'he looked at Song Tieniu and couldn’t help but think he grew more domestic with age.
Song Tieniu smiled. "I’m not much of a cook, and ingredients are limited. Please bear with it."
Chu'he replied politely, "We’re not picky. Your cooking looks delicious."
Chongyang, already starving, sat on the stool and shoveled whatever Song Tieniu served him into his mouth, eating with gusto.
Ninth, accustomed to feasting on rich meals with Chu'he, eyed the food critically, hesitating to pick up his chopsticks. Under the table, Chu'he kicked his foot.
Ninth reluctantly picked up a piece of lotus root stem and popped it into his mouth. The next moment, his expression twisted. "...Poisoned."
Then he slumped onto the table.
Song Tieniu was at a loss.
Chu'he found him overly dramatic. "Brother Song, don’t mind him. He’s just fussy. I think your cooking is great—"
After taking a bite of meat, her face turned ashen, and she, too, collapsed onto the table.
Song Tieniu was devastated. "Is my cooking really that bad?"
Chongyang, clueless, nibbled on his chopsticks.
Heartbroken, Song Tieniu remembered that Chu'he and Ninth’s horse hadn’t eaten yet. He kindly gathered some hay and mixed it with homegrown vegetables to feed it.
The horse took one bite of hay, staggered, and nearly face-planted.
Song Tieniu: "..."
"I think he might be a culinary assassin," Chu'he muttered, lying on the wooden bed. She pushed open the window, watching the rain outside, and sighed. "Who’d have thought someone as refined-looking as Brother Fang could make food so lethally bad?"
The dishes appeared ordinary, but they were either unbearably salty or sour—far beyond what any normal person could stomach.
Ninth chewed on dry rations and mumbled, "Chu'he, don’t misuse idioms."
Chu'he glared. "I didn’t misuse anything!"
Ninth: "But—"
"Who knows the Central Plains’ language better, you or me?"
Ninth fell silent.
The rain poured outside, and Chu'he quickly shut the window. She rubbed her chin. "This village still feels off to me. The rules are strange, the people are strange, and everything that happens is strange."
Ninth, sitting on a chair, let out an "oh" and took another bite of his dry biscuit. Gripping a brush clumsily with all five fingers, he scribbled on a sheet of paper.
Chu'he got up and walked over, watching as his strokes—more like drawings—slowly formed the rough outline of a character. Though crooked, it was surprisingly recognizable.
Ninth asked, "Chu'he, what’s this character?"
"‘Jǐ.’"
Ninth: "‘Jǐ’?"
"As in ‘to squeeze.’" Chu'he draped herself over his back, wrapping her arms around his neck. Gazing at his handsome profile, her heart stirred. "Ninth, stop writing. Let’s kiss instead."
Ninth lifted his face, pecked her lips perfunctorily, and went back to "drawing" characters.
Chu'he pursed her lips, displeased. She shook him by the shoulders. "Ninth, play with me!"
Unfazed, Ninth remained as steady as a mountain, not even looking up. "Be good, Chu'he. Go play by yourself for a bit. I’m busy."
For a moment, Chu'he felt like their roles had reversed.
She leaned her full weight on him, watching his strokes with curiosity. "Why are you suddenly so into writing?"
Ninth shoved the half-eaten biscuit into her mouth and said solemnly, "I found a ‘Three-Character Classic’ for learning characters, but I can’t read the words. I only remember what they look like. I want to learn."
"Wow, Ninth is so studious!" Chu'he kissed him, giving him ample encouragement.
Pleased, Ninth tossed aside the paper filled with one oversized character and started "drawing" another on a fresh sheet. This one was more complex, taking him longer.
He looked up, eyes bright. "Chu'he, what’s this one?"
"‘Fèng,’ as in ‘crack.’"
"And this?"
"‘Chì,’ as in ‘blazing.’"
"This?"
"‘Huàng,’ as in ‘to sway.’"
"And this?"
"‘Xiāo,’ as in ‘rapturous’..." Gradually, Chu'he caught on. She cupped his face, staring into his beautiful eyes. "Ninth, is this ‘Three-Character Classic’ you’re learning from... decent?"
Ninth looked utterly innocent. "Are there indecent versions in the Central Plains?"
Chu'he pressed, "Where’s the book? Show it to me."
"Fang Songhe took it back."
Chu'he: "Brother Fang?"
"Indeed." Ninth blinked her eyes. "While Chu'he was tidying up the room, Fang Songhe lent me his book for a while. I glanced through it and memorized quite a few characters, but he didn’t let me read much before taking it back."
Chu'he looked skeptical. "You’re not falsely accusing the great hero Fang, are you?"
"Why would I do that?" Ninth set down the brush in her hand, pulling Chu'he onto her lap. Her strikingly beautiful face wore a serious expression. "Fang Songhe and I—no, he goes by Song Tieniu now—Song Tieniu and I are friends."
Chu'he asked, "Like the kind of close friends you are with Third Blade?"
Ninth nodded. "Exactly."
"Achoo!"
Song Tieniu had just returned to his room when he suddenly sneezed. He rubbed his forehead. "Could I have caught a chill from getting caught in the rain?"
Outside, the rain grew heavier, showing no signs of stopping anytime soon.
Yet beyond the thick fog enveloping the village, the night was filled only with the chirping of insects and the rustling of wind—not a single drop of rain fell.
Sang Duo stared intently for a long moment before taking a step forward, only for Cang Yan to seize her arm. His grip was ironclad, leaving her unable to advance further.
"The young master and his wife are inside. I must go in!"
Cang Yan remained silent. His hand, wrapped around her arm, was unyielding, and she couldn’t break free.
Sang Duo grew impatient. "Tell me, who’s the master here—you or me?"
Cang Yan gave no response.
Of course, he was merely a puppet, devoid of independent thought. His actions were driven solely by the instinct to protect his master when danger arose.
An elderly woodcutter passing by kindly asked, "Miss, are you trying to enter Wutong Village?"
Sang Duo nodded. "Yes."
The old man shook his head. "They say over sixty years ago, a white-haired ghost suddenly appeared in the village. He slaughtered everyone, and ever since then, there have been rumors of hauntings. No one who enters ever comes out. If it weren’t for the mushrooms growing nearby, I’d never dare approach this place. I’d advise you to take another path instead—lest you lose your life."
With that, the old man shouldered his basket and walked away.
H-Haunted?
Sang Duo shuddered, inching closer to Cang Yan and clutching the hem of his sleeve. "I’m sure the young master is more than capable of handling himself. Let’s take a detour and wait for them at the village exit instead!"
Cang Yan wrapped an arm around her waist and soared into the air, vanishing into the night in an instant.
