"Hey, hey, hey! Little junior brother! The porridge is here!"
Ju Fufu's voice bubbled with joy she couldn't possibly suppress. She slipped in like a nimble yet overexcited little tiger—whoosh—and then immediately eased the door almost shut behind her, as if even the corridor's cool air might upset the fragile balance inside the room.
She carried a redwood tray with both hands. On it sat a warm white porcelain bowl of thin rice porridge, steam curling upward in delicate strands. A few goji berries—little red gemstones—floated among the pearly grains, and the faint scent of rice rose soft and clean.
Fufu hurried to the bedside, but her steps instinctively lightened. Even her tail, which usually whipped around like a metronome, restrained itself—only the very tip trembled, betraying how excited she really was.
"Senior sister…" Qianye saw her and tried to pull up a reassuring smile, but the corner of his mouth only twitched weakly.
His gaze drifted to the bowl. His throat was painfully dry. He raised a trembling hand on reflex, voice hoarse like it had been sanded raw. "I can do it myself. Sorry to trouble you…"
"No!"
The protest exploded out of Fufu so fast it was practically a reflex.
She set the tray on the low side table with a soft tap, then planted her hands on her hips and puffed up her chest—what little there was to puff—assuming the full, uncompromising posture of "Senior Sister Authority."
Her tiger ears snapped straight up and quivered, as if the emotion alone could sharpen them into spears.
"You're a patient right now! Patients rest!"
She raised her voice, trying to make it sound more official—more persuasive.
"Even holding a bowl takes strength! What if you spill it? What if you burn your hand? That would make everything worse!"
As she spoke, she picked up the bowl again and sat down carefully on the embroidered stool beside him. The warmth of the porcelain against her palm soothed her nerves.
She took the spoon resting on the rim. In her slightly chubby hand, the delicate white spoon looked almost too refined.
Lowering her head, she stirred the steaming porridge gently so the heat would even out.
Then she puffed her cheeks like a squirrel storing food and leaned close, blowing—seriously, diligently—one breath at a time. The surface rippled with each warm puff, and the soft fuzz at her forehead trembled.
"Let senior sister take care of you properly!"
Her words carried a stubborn gentleness—and, buried underneath, a small hunger she didn't fully recognize herself: the desire to be closer, to feel needed, to make sure she mattered.
She stole a glance at Qianye.
He had his head slightly turned, exposing the graceful line of his neck and the pallor of his cheek. His long lashes were lowered, casting a small fan-shaped shadow beneath his eyes. His lips—dry, colorless—pressed together faintly…
Seeing him like this—so fragile, so breakable—sent a surge of protectiveness through her, mixed with an aching tenderness she couldn't name.
And then, without warning, a thought—bold enough to be blasphemous—flared in her mind like a spark in darkness.
If… if it wasn't this cold spoon, but… my lips…
If I carefully passed the warm porridge to him like that… what would it feel like? Would he… remember my taste?
"Pff—!"
The idea alone made her face ignite.
Heat flooded up her cheeks in a violent rush, burning all the way to her ears, even down her neck. She shook her head so hard she nearly sloshed the bowl, and a few drops of hot porridge splattered onto the back of her hand.
The sting snapped her back to reality.
Fufu steadied the bowl in a panic and scolded herself silently.
Ju Fufu! Shameless tiger! He's sick—he's weak! How could you think something like that?
And then—
The warmth in her chest, tinged with shy hope, was doused by a sudden sour coolness.
She glanced again at Qianye's clear, mist-veiled emerald eyes, and her heart sank.
Whatever she felt, it was only her own one-sided longing.
He was too clean. Too pure. Like snow on a mountaintop, like a new moon in the clouds—
And he already had someone: Jane.
That woman—mysterious, elusive, always doing things in her own strange way—was still his acknowledged, legitimate partner.
If Fufu asked for anything more, anything that crossed that line, it would only burden him. It would make him uncomfortable. It might even make him hate her—and ruin the fragile senior-and-junior bond they'd only just begun to build.
And the thought of Jane—his partner—being absent at the very moment he woke up…
Fufu's cheeks puffed out angrily. Her lips pursed, her little face swelling like she'd stuffed two pinecones into her mouth. Even her blowing grew a little resentful, harder than it needed to be.
As if the steam rising from the spoon was a stand-in for some irresponsible woman who left her junior brother waiting—someone she wanted to blow away with one long, furious breath.
She scooped a spoonful that had finally cooled enough, raised it carefully to Qianye's lips, and stared at him with a look full of insistence—soft, stubborn, impossible to refuse.
"Here. Open up, little junior brother. Ah—"
Qianye looked into those green eyes—so full of worry, so full of determination—then at the spoon hovering by his mouth.
A faint helplessness crossed his pale face.
But in the end, he yielded. He opened his mouth slightly.
Warm porridge slid past his dry throat, and the heat settled into him like a small, gentle balm.
Outside, the moonlight threw a long, slender silhouette across the cold ground.
Jane leaned against the rough wall of Pingxin Hall, her body tipped back until she nearly merged with the darker shadow behind her.
Her jacket hung open casually, revealing a close-fitting black tank beneath. Between her fingers she turned an unopened energy bar, over and over, the plastic wrapper making a faint shh-shh as it rubbed.
A few strands of hair fell across her brow, obscuring part of her expression—but her ash-gray eyes looked like dusted glass, reflecting the restless churn beneath: worry, tension, impatience.
A secure message from within the Public Security bureau had just come through—an update that the boundary readings of Hollow C41 had again fluctuated abnormally and now appeared to be shrinking back toward decline.
In theory, it was good news.
It did nothing to lighten the weight in her chest.
What gnawed at her wasn't the numbers on a report.
It was what she'd seen in Leimnian Hollow—those Ether-corrupted monsters reacting in a way that was wrong. Wrong enough to make the skin crawl.
They hadn't attacked her like normal.
They'd hesitated.
Some of the weaker ones had even backed away—instinctively, fearfully—as if she carried a scent their souls recognized as taboo.
At first, she'd tried to rationalize it away.
Maybe the Ether environment had mutated in that sector. Maybe the hollows' behavior had shifted. Maybe she was exhausted and imagining patterns where none existed.
But no excuse survived her instincts.
Her experience pointed to a single answer she didn't want to touch—
Qianye.
It had to be Qianye.
It had to be the nights she and he had shared—when identity, duty, and masks were stripped away, when breath and heat tangled, when sweat soaked the sheets, when the world narrowed to two bodies clinging to each other as if that closeness was the only proof of being alive.
Something in him—his power, his blood, or something deeper—had branded her.
An invisible "mark," carved not onto skin but into the soul.
And even mindless Ether aberrations could sense it.
The thought slid up her spine like a cold-scaled snake and tightened. Not fear of power—
But fear of loss.
Fear that he would walk into a darkness she couldn't reach.
Fear that one day he would vanish like mist, leaving behind only riddles.
Jane clenched her fist until her nails bit into her palm, sharp pain anchoring her before the sour helplessness could spill out.
No.
She couldn't keep circling this with guesses and dread.
She couldn't keep letting him carry secrets alone—whether those secrets were sacrifices he couldn't speak of, or sins that would never wash clean.
She needed the truth.
She needed it now.
And then—whatever lay ahead, abyss or endless night—she would go with him.
That was her choice.
Her vow, as "Jane," as the person who had exchanged breath and warmth with him and would not pretend that bond meant nothing.
She exhaled slowly and forced the chaos inside her down. Her eyes sharpened again—steady, decisive, honed like a blade.
Then she turned and walked toward the room where Qianye was resting, footsteps crisp in the night. The tap, tap of her boots carried down the quiet corridor like an announcement, like a promise.
But the moment she reached the familiar door with the dim light behind it, her steps stopped as if she'd run straight into an invisible wall.
Ju Fufu was there.
Arms crossed, back pressed to the door like a stubborn little guardian statue.
Her small body was rigid with resolve. Under the lantern glow, her golden fur looked edged in fire. Her round tiger eyes were wide, vigilant, unblinking as they met Jane's.
Her pupils narrowed to slits.
Her fluffy tail snapped against the stone with impatient pap, pap sounds, broadcasting one clear message:
Not. A. Step. Closer.
"Hey! Stop right there!" Fufu barked, voice full of hostility and—just barely—some shaky bravado.
"Little junior brother just woke up. He's still weak and needs absolute rest! Master is inside doing something extremely important for him. Unrelated people aren't allowed in!"
She emphasized unrelated people with crisp, cutting clarity, her gaze sliding over Jane like a tiny knife—guarding, possessive, and resentful in a way she didn't fully understand herself.
And beneath that resentment was a quieter anger: Where were you, the 'real partner,' when he was waiting and hurting?
Inside the room, the air was calm—warm, yet heavy with a seriousness that wouldn't bend.
Yixuan stood at the bedside in plain white robes, sleeves falling naturally. She looked like snow under moonlight—clean, distant, and unyielding.
Only a faint weariness in her eyes betrayed how much strength she had spent.
She watched Qianye quietly. Her orange eyes—ringed with that strange green—held the stillness of deep water and the weight of old decisions.
"Disciple," she said at last, her voice like a mountain spring—soft, clear, and firm enough to be law.
"Release your… special power toward me."
Qianye's emerald eyes flashed. His lashes trembled. Hesitation and fear rose in him at once.
He curled his fingers instinctively, knuckles whitening.
He knew too well what that pink energy was—how it could seduce, how it could warp, how it could slip out of control. He didn't want to use it near his master. He didn't dare.
As if sensing the depth of his resistance, Yixuan didn't press him. She only allowed the faintest curve of a smile—small, but anchoring.
Then she lifted a finger toward the table nearby, where a round little black bird stood—Qingming Bird.
But tonight, its beak's edge was ringed with a thin, rouge-like halo of eerie pink.
The bird seemed to understand immediately.
"Chirp! Chirp!" it declared brightly, as if making a solemn oath.
It flapped its stubby wings and even patted its own fluffy chest in an awkward imitation of heroic reassurance—as if to say: Go on. I've got this. I'm the safety net.
The absurd earnestness of it took some of the sharpness out of the tension.
Qianye's tight breath loosened by a fraction, and warmth slid quietly through his chest. A weak, helpless smile tugged at his lips.
He reached out with trembling fingers and gently stroked the bird's warm, soft head, feeling the unfiltered trust in that tiny creature's presence.
He drew a careful breath—one that sounded almost like a vow—and then lifted his gaze to Yixuan.
The hesitation in his eyes receded, replaced by a fragile but unmistakable resolve.
"Master," he rasped, voice still thin from weakness but clear in its sincerity, "this disciple… offends."
Then he closed his eyes and began to gather himself, searching inward for that hidden ocean of pink.
At first, nothing happened.
Only the tightening of his brows and the fine sheen of sweat at his temple showed the struggle.
Yixuan's Ether began to circulate—quiet, controlled—forming an unseen field around them, protective and precise. Her eyes sharpened, watching for truth beneath illusion.
Even Qingming Bird fell still, its round eyes fixed on Qianye's open palm. The pink ring on its beak pulsed faintly, as if responding to a distant heartbeat.
A few breaths later—
At Qianye's fingertips, the faintest blush of pink light appeared.
Small. Shy. So fragile it looked like it might vanish at any moment.
Yet it persisted, trembling with a living, dangerous allure—like the first bud of an abnormal flower that should not exist.
But this time…
It was controlled.
Yixuan's pupils narrowed slightly. The current of Ether around her turned denser.
Qingming Bird made a soft, puzzled little "gurr," but did not move.
The room fell into absolute quiet.
Outside, the wind continued its tireless song.
Inside, only that delicate pink glow remained—pulsing, breathing, waiting—quietly opening the next, far more perilous chapter of Qianye's fate.
Join here to read ahead.
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Checking In in Demon Slayer 80
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Emiya Shirou, Determined to Slay Every Curse and Evil Spirit 45
The Uma Musume Who Became 40
I'm Definitely Not the King of 45
After Maxing Out Every Class 45
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