The string tilted its head. It had the tiniest pair of gray eyes—mirrors of Chóng Fēi's own.
The spiritual power wasn't really healing power. It was something between a spider's web and the mark of his nail—mostly used to hunt down prey, but it could sometimes work as a bandage for wounds. For having this ability, he was called the "claiming snake of spider web," a generational title passed down through his bloodline.
He brought it closer to Lìngxiāo's finger. The thin string carefully examined the holes over his fingertips, as if counting them, before slowly wrapping around until they were fully covered.
Once done, he brought his finger close to his mouth and cut the string away, his gaze never leaving the fabric where Lìngxiāo's face should have been. The rest of the string quickly tangled over Lìngxiāo's finger before going lifeless without Chóng Fēi's connection.
Lìngxiāo's finger twitched—probably from the gentle press of the strings, his fingers rubbing against each other before stopping again. Or maybe he wasn't fully asleep either.
Chóng Fēi slowly glanced at the tiny window facing the corridor. When he found no one else, he exhaled and drew another snake web to the window to pull the curtain closer. Once done, the string disappeared back under his nail.
'I am acting like I am about to do something really embarrassing..'
His cheeks warmed again faintly at the way he was hiding. He shook his head and reframed the thought: he wanted peace here, and he just didn't want his father or anyone else peering in like a ghost.
After a few seconds of silence, he spoke to Lìngxiāo, checking if he was still awake. He came back to his awareness too, so he could catch him lying. "Are you asleep?"
"H-mpn.." Lìngxiāo hummed faintly—almost weakly. Not loud, but it didn't sound like he was going to make any small conversation easier.
"Let me check if you have invited any illness while the whole damn citizen have put their useless hope on you." Chóng Fēi gripped the blanket lightly to pull it down.
At first, Lìngxiāo didn't let go. His hand was visible from outside the blanket, gripping it tightly.
"Oi. I mean it. You don't even appreciate my rare kindness even after being beaten by you for no reason." He pulled a little harder—and Lìngxiāo's weak grip couldn't survive this time.
Lìngxiāo's face was revealed, a few strands of hair messily falling over his face.
His eyes were shut tight, one hand over his forehead, lightly gripping his hair, the other hand—which had been gripping the blanket—falling heavily onto the bed with a soft thud. He was lying hard over his waist, his legs lightly hooked under the blanket, the fabric carving over his lower body like a statue waiting to be shaped from white soil.
At first, Chóng Fēi forgot what to say by his guardless bed-head—as if the blanket pulling had just made him look more real, soft, and unguarded.
'Maybe zhù fù was kinda right. I am getting crazy. But I still won't stop stealing back my every novel he takes away.'
But he blinked, as if removing the extra frames that made the scene too eye-catching.
He spoke calm, soft, almost gentle. "Stay like that. I would check. I'm not wishing for any rooster fight like before." He reached out his hand slowly, carefully toward his forehead, moving Lìngxiāo's hand out of the way.
He hadn't even finished explaining before Lìngxiāo gripped his hand to push it away. His voice came out lower, another softer layer of his actual voice—guarded, but gentle. "I will be fine after a nap, Gōngzǐ. Apologies for everything earlier. I was not feeling better. You do not have to trouble.. just.. kindly do not spread anything to outsiders.. that is the only thing I wish for."
Chóng Fēi couldn't help it—the frustration from earlier just melted away at his apologies. They were the same words, but the way his voice wrapped around them changed their meaning entirely. It gave them the weight they had been missing. In a clan where everyone bowed to him, where thanks and apologies felt flat, this single soft apology felt real among all of them. If he could frame apologies into physical form, he was sure only Lìngxiāo's would pulse faintly, like it meant something.
'He's.. not lying.'
"Still. I.. maybe.. I.." Chóng Fēi's expression softened, yet he tried to keep it natural and guarded as always. He couldn't believe he was babbling like a child. "I perhaps have gone a little too far, so just.. so just don't get in my way when I actually try to do something."
"Fēi.. Gōngzǐ.." Lìngxiāo's words softly died on his lips when Chóng Fēi still pushed his hand back and checked his temperature fully. His eyes shut again, his soft, thin brow covered under Chóng Fēi's palm.
He was warmer than normal, yes. His nose, lips, and cheeks were still flushed deep red—the same as when he had removed his hand from his mouth. His hands would clench into fists every time he accidentally touched more than his face—his jawline, his cheek, his ear.
'Maybe he is having a little.. fever.'
"You have still invited it." Chóng Fēi held his warm hand toward his own forehead, which felt colder than Lìngxiāo's warmth sticking to his skin. "It was just some edges of hair."
But Lìngxiāo looked at him a little coldly again when he said "just some edges of hair"—as if it meant something more to him than that.
He surely hadn't liked it.
Understanding the unwanted tension, Chóng Fēi changed the topic and cleared his throat. "Anyways.. your hair, your problem. It is none of my concern more than the part I have kept. You just.. focus on healing. You have a lot of work to do, you know."
He stood up to bring some water and a bowl to lower his fever. Then he realized he had just said the clipped part of his hair was his concern.
"What do you.. mean by that part of my hair is your concern, Fēi Gōngzǐ..?" Lìngxiāo asked softly, his voice not properly revealing his anger now. He was looking at the bandage Chóng Fēi had made over his finger.
"Um.. because I would make a calligraphy brush with it. The hair texture is actually.. smooth enough." He quickly reasoned and moved toward the washroom.
Lìngxiāo blinked, left thoughtful by his strange reasoning.
And he knew it.
Perhaps it sounded like he had any sort of brushes—while there were a lot left untouched. Some gifted, some given by his father to master the skill of "dragon of ink tears," where he had to dance with a sword, brush on a big scroll, and move in a way so the ink would flow intentionally and create the illusion of a dragon.
'Since when did I become ridiculously honest and a liar at the same time?'
He didn't look back. Just peeked into the washroom, which felt haunted—no lights, no warmth, just dark and cold. His shoulders tensed like he was preparing to run backward if something lunged at him.
'He fixed everything as his own except this haunted place in this room.'