Chapter 54
She turned toward the door—
But the tiny hands in her hair stopped her.
"No," the child insisted stubbornly, tugging lightly, her voice stretching into a whine, "with youuu…"
Yinghua paused.
Then smiled.
Soft. Resigned. Gentle.
"…Alright," she murmured. "We'll sleep together."
Carrying her in one arm as though it required no effort at all, Yinghua walked back toward the table. With her free hand, she reached for the candle—the flower-shaped flame flickering softly in the dim.
Her fingers moved with quiet precision.
She pinched the flame between them.
And just like that—
Darkness deepened.
Only the pale light of the moon remained, spilling through the window, silver and calm.
She turned and moved toward the bed, her steps unhurried.
Carefully, she placed the little girl against the inner side, near the wall, tucking her small body safely into place. Then she slipped in beside her, pulling the blanket over them both, adjusting it with the same care one might offer something far more fragile than a child.
The little girl shifted immediately, instinctively.
Tiny hands reached out.
And found Yinghua.
She pressed herself close, curling into her chest, her small fingers clutching at her robes as if afraid she might disappear if she let go.
Yinghua's hand moved to her back, gentle and steady.
She began to pat her softly.
Slow. Rhythmic.
A heartbeat made into motion.
And then she sang.
Her voice was low, almost a whisper, yet it carried a quiet clarity—a lullaby shaped not by perfection, but by feeling.
She sang of the moon.
Of how it watches silently from above, following those who walk alone, lighting their path when the world grows too dark. She sang of distant skies and soft winds, of nights that cradle even the restless, and of dreams that arrive like quiet visitors, unannounced yet welcome.
The words were simple.
But the warmth within them was not.
The child's breathing slowed.
Her grip loosened.
Sleep came for her easily—trusting, unguarded, complete.
Yinghua did not stop immediately.
Even after the child had drifted into dreams, she continued for a few moments more, her voice fading softer, softer… until it became nothing at all.
Only silence remained.
But this time—
It was not empty.
The moonlight rested gently over them both, casting a quiet glow across the room—the fallen petals outside, the untouched scrolls, the memorial tablets… and the two figures on the bed.
One who had learned to endure.
And one who had simply learned to hold.
The little girl stirred once more in her sleep, pressing closer, her small face nestled against Yinghua's chest.
And Yinghua—
Did not move away.
She closed her eyes.
And for once, the night did not feel so heavy.
The next day unfolded with a quiet heaviness, as though the estate itself carried the memory of everything that had been said and everything that had not.
In his study, Xuan Katsuro sat before a long wooden desk, his posture straight, composed, and unyielding. The soft scratch of brush against paper was the only sound that filled the room. Scrolls lay open before him—military reports, formations, supply lines—each one bearing the weight of war and order. His hand moved steadily, dipping into ink, writing, pausing, then correcting, his mind threading through strategy as effortlessly as breath.
Outside the door stood two guards—Xuan Yi and Xuan Yin—posted like sentinels carved from stone. Their voices were low, almost blending into the stillness.
"…you think the western side will move?" Xuan Yin murmured.
Xuan Yi exhaled quietly. "They always move. The question is when."
Before the conversation could settle, a sharp cry split the air.
A phoenix's scream.
Katsuro's brush halted.
For a moment, the ink gathered at the tip, then fell—a single drop staining the parchment.
He stood.
Without haste, without surprise—only certainty.
He walked to the window and pushed it open.
Cold air rushed in, brushing against the white winter hanfu he wore, its fabric heavy yet flowing, embroidered with intricate dragon patterns along the shoulders. His hair was neatly tied into a high ponytail, secured with a golden clasp, while a few loose strands framed his face, revealing his sharp features fully beneath the pale light.
From the second floor, his gaze lifted.
There it was.
Hovering in the air.
A phoenix—crimson, radiant, alive with a presence that felt almost sovereign. Its wings moved in slow, deliberate motions, holding it aloft as if the sky itself obeyed it.
Katsuro raised his hand and gave a short whistle.
The sound cut cleanly through the air.
The phoenix descended.
It entered the room with grace and settled upon a long wooden stand placed beside the table—a perch meant for coats, now claimed by something far more magnificent. Its feathers shimmered, deep red with hints of gold, its eyes sharp, aware.
Katsuro stepped closer.
"Hm," he said quietly. "You arrived fast with the reply."
He reached toward its leg, untying the letter bound there. His fingers were precise, practiced.
He opened it.
Read.
His gaze darkened—just slightly.
"The second family is making its way to the Duke… reply fast."
A faint exhale left him.
"Meihua…" he murmured, almost to himself, "if you keep being hungry for power, it will consume you… and the ones who are patient will feast on the victory of your demise."
He turned back to the desk, pulling a small piece of paper toward him.
The brush moved again.
"The wings will be useful to annihilate the Duke."
He rolled the message, placing it carefully into a small cylindrical container before securing it once more to the phoenix.
Then he lifted the bird onto his arm, his hand steady beneath its weight.
"Take care, little bird," he said, patting it lightly.
The phoenix did not move toward the sky immediately.
Instead, it remained perched, its head tilting, its gaze fixed on him.
Katsuro's lips curved faintly.
"What a greedy bird are you?"
His left hand, which had been resting behind his back, came forward.
He opened his palm.
And closed his eyes.
From his hand, an enormous red flame emerged—alive, controlled, pulsing like a heart made of fire.
The phoenix reacted instantly.
Its wings flapped, not in alarm, but in delight. It leaned forward, bringing its face close to the flame, consuming it eagerly—each flicker devoured, each ember swallowed.
Katsuro watched, amused.
Then—his gaze shifted.
Through the window.
Below, in the courtyard, he saw them.
Wuming.
Xie Zheng.
Wei Zhi.
Laughing. Moving. Alive in a way untouched by the calculations of men like him.
A softness passed through his eyes.
"Wuming…" he said quietly.
Then—
Movement.
Voices.
Guards bowing.
A familiar voice.
Meihua.
The softness vanished.
His expression hardened instantly.
"Hurry up and fly," he said to the phoenix.
The bird gave a small motion of its head, then spread its wings and soared into the sky, carrying the last remnants of flame with it.
Katsuro brushed his hand lightly through the air, as if erasing the moment.
The door opened.
Meihua entered.
She bowed.
"My lord."
She was dressed in a red hanfu with a subtle green hue woven through it, the colors clashing and blending like beauty and venom coexisting. She stepped closer as Katsuro said, "Rise."
He did not look at her immediately.
His gaze remained outside.
On Wuming… and the others.
They were playing archery now.
Elder Gu Weiyang stood nearby, a book in his hand—The Misery of Humans—speaking with Wei Zhi in what seemed like an argument, though a faint smile touched his lips, as if amused by her responses. Yinghua stood close, her hands now healed, watching quietly. All of them, except Xie Zheng and Elder Gu, bore bandages—marks of training, of growth.
Meihua followed his gaze.
"Wei Zhi is a quick-witted maid, my lord."
Katsuro's voice was calm.
"Well, Wuming thinks the other way. She is not just a maid, Meihua… but his friend and teammate too."
Meihua scoffed.
"She is of low birth. Just gaining a bit of knowledge does not make her equal to high nobility."
Katsuro did not turn.
"Yes," he said, "that is why Elder Gu—who has never smiled at any of his students, who carries a presence that makes even enemies bow in respect—is smiling… and amused by that little girl you call a maid. I wonder if what you call a little knowledge is truly little."
Meihua grunted, her gaze lowering briefly.
Then—
"Why are Xie Zheng and Wuming together, my lord?"
"They are cousins. Can they not meet?"
"But you never let any of my children near Wuming. They are your children too."
Katsuro finally turned to face her.
"Yes. They are. But are you sure they won't kill for you?"
Meihua froze.
"What do you mean?"
"Wuming has faced more assassination attempts than the years he has lived," Katsuro said, his voice low, controlled. "Tell me—if you will not order any of your children to draw blood, I will let them meet."
"My children?" she repeated. "Only mine?"
"Meihua," he said, "from the beginning, they have all been yours. Sometimes I feel like you are raising them to be killers… filling them with hatred toward Wuming and Yin Fu."
Shock crossed her face, her posture shifting, rigid, defensive.
"Yes, I admit neither of us wanted this marriage," she said, her voice tightening, "but eight years ago, wasn't it you who agreed beside me? Don't blame me for the mistakes we both made together, my lord."
A pause.
Then, sharper—
"So you know I tried killing Wuming, huh?"
Katsuro said nothing.
His eyes held no warmth.
"I never let any of my children know of Wuming," she continued, her voice rising, "except my eldest son—because it was his right. They have all lived in the same house, yet never truly met him. They have not seen him, nor heard of him. And I never taught them to hate their own blood."
Her voice broke into something fiercer.
"I would rather destroy than pollute the lineage. Do not accuse me of hatred again. It is I who wants Wuming dead—not them. Do not include my children in this. They will not hate… but I can."
She stepped closer.
"I am not Wuming's mother. I have the right to hate him for holding the seat of clan master. He deserves it, my lord."
Katsuro flinched—barely, but enough.
Her words were true.
And that made them heavier.
"Meihua," he said quietly, "you know it is the tradition of my bloodline. I will not sacrifice or break it for your desires."
"You forced that tradition onto Wuming," she shot back. "Why? Because he is the only child of your beloved wife?"
"Yes."
No hesitation.
"You know it too, Meihua… someday, it will be his."
Her gaze hardened.
"Then remember this, Clan Master Katsuro… I will either take that seat… or destroy it."
"Before that," he replied, "beware of death."
She did not flinch.
Instead, she stepped closer.
"You are the worst father," she said.
"I wish I never had your five children—no matter how much I love them. My father treated me like a pawn, like a doll… but at least he knew the name of the daughter he claimed to love. Because of him, I gave both a mother's and a father's love to my children."
Her voice dropped.
"You failed every one of them… even Wuming."
"I did not."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Oh really?"
She moved closer—too close.
"What is his favorite color?"
Katsuro paused.
"…White."
She smiled.
Cold.
"Wrong."
"His favorite color is black."
Silence.
"Ask him why."
Katsuro took a step back, something rare flickering across his face.
He reached forward, gripping her wrist.
"How do you know this?"
Her answer came without hesitation.
"Because if you had paid even a little attention to your so-called precious son… you would know he wears nothing but black and white."
A pause.
Then—
"And prefers black… most of the time."
Katsuro was taken aback.
Not subtly—his composure cracked, just for a moment.
His footing faltered, a half-step back that he did not intend, his hand loosening from her wrist as something unfamiliar crept into his chest.
End of 54