Standing by the window, night wind stirred Bibi Dong's loose violet hair.
She stared at the hidden door, eyes swirling with unreadable emotions—
the lingering warmth of Dai Chengfeng's touch, the heart-stopping near-miss with her daughter, and a helpless fondness for that scoundrel she refused to examine too closely.
"Truly… a thorn in my side," she muttered, fingertips tracing the faint red mark on her neck.
In candlelight, the bruise was subtle—but it pricked like a thorn, weighing her papal dignity against her secret desires as a woman.
Dai Chengfeng was reckless, audacious—yet always struck the most elusive chords of her heart, leaving her torn between fury and nameless longing.
Finally, Bibi Dong shook her head softly, closing the window against the night.
Silence reclaimed the chamber. Alone, she breathed in the fading traces of his scent.
Exhaustion crashed over her. She turned toward the bed, ready to gather her scattered composure and sleep.
---
Meanwhile, beyond the hidden door, Dai Chengfeng walked leisurely through the narrow, shadowed passage—just wide enough for one.
A ghost of a smile played on his lips as he replayed the Supreme Pontiff's chamber scene:
Bibi Dong's flustered glare, her feigned calm, that final look—sharp with anger yet brimming with indulgence. It thrilled him.
This dangerous dance along the razor's edge of mother-daughter tensions left his blood singing.
Soon, he emerged into a secluded courtyard deep within the Spirit Hall—a serene residence belonging to the Angel Clan, now occupied by Qian Renxue.
He knew these paths like his own garden. Slipping past night patrols with silent grace, he glided like a phantom to the outer wall of her chambers.
Inside, Qian Renxue had just finished bathing.
Warm water had washed away travel-weariness and dulled the complex unease from her mother's chamber.
Clad in simple silk sleepwear, damp hair cascading down her back, she sat at her vanity, absently drying her locks with a towel.
The mirror reflected a breathtaking beauty—but her brows were shadowed by exhaustion and uncertainty.
Was Mother truly just unwell?
The doubt nagged persistently.
Reason insisted: as the Supreme Pontiff, her burdens were immense; fatigue was natural.
Yet intuition—honed by years of distant, enigmatic interactions—whispered otherwise.
Especially that parting line: "I'm not lying."
It was less of an explanation… more of a denial?
She shook her head, burying baseless suspicions.
Perhaps she'd imagined it all.
Between them lay an uncrossable chasm. Surface-level peace and respect were all she could—or should—expect.
Rising, she approached the window but didn't open it. She simply stood, gazing into the heavy night.
Spirit Hall's nights were always profoundly still… profoundly cold.
Unlike the Tian Dou Imperial Palace's opulent clamor, here even moonlight on white stone plazas felt sharp, austere.
She sighed softly, turning to extinguish the lamp—
When a whisper-thin sound brushed her ears—near-silent, blending with the wind.
Qian Renxue froze. Her martial soul surged; soul power coiled in her palms.
Who could infiltrate her chambers undetected in the Spirit Hall's heart?
But before she could whirl and strike, a familiar voice—laced with lazy amusement—murmured against her ear. Warm breath teased her sensitive lobe:
"Don't tense up. It's me."
Strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind, pulling her into a broad, solid embrace.
Her body instantly relaxed; the angelic glow of her martial soul faded.
Dai Chengfeng.
Relief flooded her—then shame and nervousness bloomed, flushing her cheeks crimson.
"You… how did you get here?"
Her voice trembled faintly. She tried to pull away—yet craved the warmth, the safety—her resistance half-hearted.
Dai Chengfeng rested his chin atop her damp hair, breathing in her clean post-bath scent—so different from the Supreme Pontiff's chamber's intoxicating incense.
He chuckled, voice deep and velvety: "I heard you returned. Missed you. So I came."
"Am I unwelcome?"
His arms tightened, pressing her back flush against his chest. She felt every rise of his breath, heat seeping through fabric.
"No…"
Qian Renxue's whisper was barely audible. Her ears burned.
She tilted her head, avoiding his hot breath. "It's just… sudden."
"And this is the Spirit Hall—you dare…?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
His tone was breezy, recklessly confident. "The world can't stop me from seeing who I want."
"Besides," he added lightly, "I've slipped in and out of this place countless times."
The casual arrogance made her heart skip.
She knew his strength, his audacity—but this was the Spirit Hall's core! The Hall of Offerings loomed nearby; Grandfather Qian Daoliu stood guard… What if he was discovered?
"Aren't you afraid Grandfather will find out?" Worry edged her voice.
Dai Chengfeng's laugh rumbled against her ear. His lips grazed her earlobe. "So what if he does? At worst, I'll take a beating."
He paused, mischief darkening his tone: "I'm here for you. As long as my little Xue'er stays quiet… who'd know?"
"Who's your—"
She sputtered, flustered—but his arms pinned her fast. She surrendered to the embrace.
His heartbeat thrummed against her back—steady, strong—calming her chaos, replacing it with a fluttering panic of its own.
Dai Chengfeng smiled. "Your hair's still wet. Don't catch cold."
He released one arm, plucked the towel from her hand, and began gently drying her golden locks.
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