The sound of the door being pushed open was not loud, but in the quiet morning mist, it rang out with unusual clarity.
Zhang Yiwei stood in the doorway, a perfectly measured smile on her face—like a meticulously painted mask, every curve of her lips carefully calculated.
Her clothes were impeccable, her hair neatly pinned without a strand out of place.
Only the faint red veins lingering in her eyes betrayed the fact that she had not slept last night.
“It seems I’ve come at an inconvenient time.”
Her voice was gentle as her gaze lightly swept between Shuang Feixue and Nanxi before finally settling on the boy’s face.
“Little Brother Xiaoxi is awake? I thought I heard you discussing something important from outside the door just now.”
Shuang Feixue nearly shot upright, frantically pulling the quilt over herself and Nanxi.
Her cheeks flushed a deep red—a color born of shame, panic, and fear all mingled together.
Nanxi, however, remained far calmer than she.
The boy slowly sat up, letting his silver hair cascade over his shoulders as he met Zhang Yiwei’s eyes without flinching.
“Is there something you need, Miss Zhang?”
Nanxi asked.
The words “Miss Zhang” caused the smile on Zhang Yiwei’s face to freeze for an instant, but she quickly recovered.
She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her with a soft click.
Her movements were unhurried, as though this were her own bedroom rather than Nanxi’s Listening Bamboo Pavilion.
Zhang Yiwei sat down at the table, poured herself a cup of cold tea, and idly traced the rim with her fingertip.
“I was thinking that since it concerns life and death, I ought to hear the details. After all, Little Brother Xiaoxi is still nominally the future son-in-law of our Zhang family. I couldn’t possibly let my younger sister be heartbroken, could I?”
Her tone was light, almost teasing, yet she emphasized the words “son-in-law” with particular weight.
They landed like a thin needle, pricking gently into Shuang Feixue’s heart.
Shuang Feixue gripped the edge of the quilt tightly, her lips pressed into a pale line.
On any other day, she would have lashed out long ago.
But not now.
She did not dare meet Zhang Yiwei’s eyes.
The wild passion and tender intimacy of last night had become sins branded on her skin, impossible to hide in the morning light.
Nanxi smiled faintly, the expression as thin as the first layer of ice melting on a spring lake.
“Since Sister Zhang already heard, there’s no need for me to conceal anything.”
The boy rose from the bed and straightened his slightly disheveled clothes.
“I have a way to deal with Madam Xuanji.”
As he fastened his belt, Nanxi turned to face Zhang Yiwei.
“But it requires borrowing power—not the power of ordinary mortals.”
Zhang Yiwei’s brow lifted almost imperceptibly. “Oh? I’d love to hear the details.”
“In the depths of the peach grove on the outskirts of town, there’s a hidden pool. A dragon is sealed there.”
Nanxi recalled the memory.
“I think she was some princess from a dragon palace—I’ve mostly forgotten the details. Her name should be Ao Xian. She was sealed here centuries ago by a senior from the Daoist sect.”
“Only the cold qi of the Daoist tradition can break her seal. I cultivate cold qi as well, and Master is even more proficient in it. We should be able to help her escape. In exchange, we ask her to deal with Madam Xuanji.”
Silence filled the room for a moment.
Zhang Yiwei lowered her gaze to the tea leaves floating and sinking in her cup.
After a long pause, she let out a soft laugh.
“A dragon? That certainly is unexpected.”
She lifted her eyes, letting her gaze linger on Nanxi’s face.
“Little Brother Xiaoxi always manages to surprise me. But how can you be sure that dragon will keep her word? And how can you be certain she’s truly capable of standing against Madam Xuanji? According to Mr. Shuang, that woman is far stronger than even he is.”
“That’s why I’m not certain,” Nanxi admitted frankly. “But it’s the only path to survival we have right now. Waiting for death is certain doom; taking a gamble at least offers a chance. Besides…”
He paused, walked to the window, and pushed one shutter open.
Morning wind rushed in, stirring the stray hairs at his forehead.
“That dragon has been imprisoned for two hundred years. Her longing for freedom is overwhelming. Killing one person in exchange for liberty—that deal is far too good for her to refuse.”
“As for her strength, she once scorned the waters of the great river. Even sealed, her foundation remains. Most importantly, the Red Snake Sword has no idea such a being exists here.”
The boy’s analysis was clear and logical, impossible not to find convincing.
Shuang Feixue stared blankly at her disciple’s profile.
Suddenly, he felt a little unfamiliar.
This was the child she had raised, yet now it seemed he had truly grown up.
Zhang Yiwei listened in silence, her fingertip tracing circle after circle along the cup’s rim.
Her face still wore a smile, but the warmth did not reach her eyes.
It floated on the surface like a film of oil, beneath which lay depths of unseen darkness.
“It sounds like a fine plan…”
She finally spoke, her voice soft.
“Since Little Brother Xiaoxi has made his decision, I will naturally offer my full support. However…”
She stood and walked over to Nanxi.
Reaching out, she smoothed his collar with intimate familiarity, as though she had done it a thousand times before.
“One must always leave a way out. If things go wrong—if Madam Xuanji proves stronger than expected—we’ll need a means of escape.”
Her fingertips lingered for a moment on the side of Nanxi’s neck, where a faint red mark remained from the night before.
Her eyes darkened briefly, but her tone stayed gentle.
“Here’s what we’ll do. You two go negotiate with the dragon girl. I’ll make some preparations on my end. The Zhang family has business ties on the northern grasslands, and I know several hidden trade routes. If we arrange horses and provisions in advance, even if something goes awry, we can quickly withdraw north.”
She stepped back, her smile growing even warmer.
“What do you think, Little Brother Xiaoxi?”
Nanxi looked at her, the woman’s lovely features reflected in his dark eyes.
After a long moment, he nodded.
“Thank you for the trouble, Sister Zhang.”
“Then it’s settled.”
Zhang Yiwei turned and walked toward the door.
At the threshold, she glanced back, her gaze brushing over Shuang Feixue’s pale face.
“Mr. Shuang doesn’t look well. You should rest more. Later, I’ll have someone send over some tonics.”
The door closed softly.
Her footsteps gradually faded down the corridor until they vanished entirely.
Only then did Shuang Feixue let out a breath, collapsing back onto the bed as though her spine had been pulled out.
She covered her face, muffled whimpers rising from her throat.
Nanxi returned to the bedside and sat down, pulling her into his arms.
“What is Master afraid of?” the boy asked.
“I’m afraid…” Shuang Feixue’s voice was muffled. “I’m afraid she knows. I’m afraid she’ll…”
“Afraid she’ll ruin me?”
Nanxi finished for her.
“She won’t. Sister Yiwei isn’t that heartless. It might sound shameless of me to say, but she wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.”
Shuang Feixue lifted her eyes, a trace of sourness in her gaze as she looked at him.
Nanxi knew full well that his master was jealous, but he offered no explanation.
He simply patted her back gently, soothing her like a frightened child.
Outside the window, morning light had fully banished the night, bathing the courtyard of Listening Bamboo Pavilion in brightness.
Bamboo shadows swayed across the stone path, rustling softly as though whispering some secret.
At that very moment, Zhang Yiwei walked slowly along the covered corridor, the smile long gone from her face.
Her nails dug deeply into her palms, leaving four crescent-shaped blood marks.
Everything she had heard outside the door last night—those gasps, those murmurs, those unbearable sounds—replayed over and over in her mind.
Each repetition carved another wound into her heart.
She remembered the cold, distant look in Nanxi’s eyes at the Eight Treasures Pavilion.
She remembered how he had restrained himself in the carriage.
She remembered how, over these two years, he had instinctively pulled away every time she tried to get closer.
Yet with Shuang Feixue, he could be so forward, so passionate, so utterly unguarded.
Why?
Just because she had raised him for twelve years? Just because she was his master?
Zhang Yiwei’s steps halted before the moon gate in the garden.
She pressed a hand against the cool stone wall and drew a deep breath.
Jealousy coiled around her heart like a poisonous vine, tightening with every beat.
Hatred fermented within her, brewing into a cask of bitter, fiery wine.
She truly would not destroy Nanxi—she could never destroy the one she loved.
But she could destroy other things.
The plan, for instance.
Or… Shuang Feixue.
A glint of shadow passed through Zhang Yiwei’s eyes.
She turned and hurried toward the study, her steps quick, her skirt brushing over the bluestone path with a faint rustle.
She needed to write a letter and call in a few favors.
Since the boy wanted to gamble, she would make this game far more interesting.