Kage Ou leaned against the window frame, black-gold curtains half drawn, the afternoon sun spilling across his figure in a defiant blaze. His gaze wandered the courtyard, but his mind circled back, again and again, to the same man.
Língxi.
Always Língxi.
No matter how he tried, he could never catch him alone. The Dàozǔ clung to his daughter, never left Xiò's side—especially now, with the boy injured. Even the air seemed to shield him. Kage felt the sting of exclusion, a childish frustration he rarely allowed himself. The memory of fleeing Xiò's room before dinner, just to avoid the awkward familial scene, dragged a sigh from his lips.
"Tonight," Língxi had said earlier, his voice clipped, unyielding. "At night. Not now."
Kage pressed two fingers to his brow, a crooked smirk tugging his mouth. "Impossible," he muttered. "You're utterly impossible."
His cheek rested against his palm, but his chest ached with a strange, persistent weight—an itch of memory half-lost. He knew there was something vital between him and Língxi, a vow or a promise that should never have been forgotten. And if anyone would remember, it was Língxi. He always did. Why not this time?
The thought made Kage Ou's heart skip—sharp, traitorous—because he recalled how Língxi sometimes looked at him across the dining table. Those royal-blue eyes, framed by pale lashes, seemed to shift with moods and unspoken truths—like colors caught between dusk and dawn. And every time, they asked silently: Don't you really remember?
Kage Ou exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose with a frustrated sigh.
"Gods… what am I even forgetting? And that Lù Yèyǐn—always speaking with his damned eyes. Can't he just use his mouth like everyone else? Or is he testing my memory… or my patience?"
His gaze dropped back to his desk—sprawled with forbidden manuals, their gold-scripted spines tumbling into disorder. Chaos suited him. Yet whenever Língxi came near, the chaos bent, quieted—like storms bowing to moonlight. He hated it. He needed it.
He reached for a brush, elbow knocking a book to the floor. The thud jarred him.
"Fuck—"
The curse died instantly. Língxi loathed such words. Only refinement belonged near him. Kage Ou grimaced, bent to retrieve the book—then froze.
Not a manual. His diary.
Heat shot up his neck. His hand hovered as if the leather would burn him.
"Why the hell did I leave this out—"
The door opened.
His pulse spiked. In a snap, the diary vanished beneath a thicker tome. He straightened, body taut, face carved into calm indifference, but his eyes were sharp with controlled panic.
And then—
Língxi entered.
The room shifted at once, drenched in his presence: silent, heavy, soft as velvet and iron at once. The faint scent of roses clung to him, threading into the pale fragrance of the chamber. Sunlight caught the Lan Qíyuè crown at his brow, scattering cold fire, yet it was the natural gem at his temple—blue, luminous, alive—that stole the light, pulsing like a star pressed into his skin.
Without thought, Kage Ou tugged the curtain lower, shielding Língxi from the direct sun. He never thought around him; he simply reacted.
Silence. Weighted, unbroken, yet somehow intimate.
Finally, Kage Ou's voice cut through the quiet, smooth but edged with his usual authority.
"Done caring for your son?" His question wasn't about Lànhuā. His gaze was sharp, pointed directly at Xiò, testing the limits of Língxi's care.
Língxi's lips curved faintly, the smallest trace of relief tugging at them, acknowledging the subtle shift in focus. His royal-blue eyes flickered, a subtle shift in hue that spoke of quiet contentment. The tiny gem at his temple caught the light, a faint, steady gleam.
"He's fine," Língxi said softly, voice brief, almost indifferent. "Lànhuā is with him. Sleeping right now. I hope that yokai will not get unsealed again."
Kage Ou's expression softened just a fraction, though a faint crease appeared in his brow. "And… Lànhuā? The way she was trembling and crying earlier…" His tone carried an almost unfamiliar edge of care—not genuine concern for a child, but a subtle courtesy toward Língxi.
"She's fine too… I hope so," Língxi replied, almost in passing, taking a seat opposite Kage Ou. He pushed back his long white hair gently, a movement so natural it felt private. "…Besides… it's almost normal for demonic cultivators. Dark shadows are always around us." Língxi's words were thoughtful, a reflection of their shared, long history.
A silence settled between them, heavy but comfortable, before Kage Ou cleared his throat and tried to lighten the mood. "Well… then it's fine. She's still young… not experienced like us, who wear young skin but carry long histories, right?" His tone was tender, teasing—a shared joke about their longevity.
Língxi's smile was faint, quiet, yet profound. One subtle nod, a soft exhale through his lips, and the unspoken understanding of their powerful, ancient lives passed between them. Kage Ou caught it, and a shadow of admiration crossed his face—here was a remnant of purity in a world that often demanded otherwise.
"Yes… you're right," he said finally, his voice low, threaded with warmth. "They'll be fine in the future… perhaps even better than us."
Kage Ou poured wine, sliding a cup across. His smile here was never the cruel grin the world feared—softer, crooked, almost boyish. Their cups touched, a muted chime, and they drank.
"And yeah, you act like you want to raise a whole orphanage," Kage Ou teased again, brushing a pale strand from Língxi's face just to see him flinch. The contact was brief, reckless, and wholly intimate. "What next, steal my nephew too?"
Língxi brushed the hand away, calm as a frozen lake, yet the faintest colour touched his cheeks.
"Yes," he murmured. "I would have many children, if I could."
The words struck heavier than expected. Kage Ou lowered his cup, the smirk faltering. His voice came rough, reluctant.
"You could. You've power, wealth… You could buy children if you wanted. And maybe—" his throat tightened, the words spilling softer, "—maybe I'd even try to be… kinder to them. For you."
For the first time, Língxi looked directly at him. Royal-blue eyes flickered, shadows stirring under the glow of his temple gem. His lips parted, his voice fragile, almost breakable.
"I don't want love or respect bought with money. I want children who call me 'Dad'… who love me, truly." The cold shell cracked, letting vulnerability bleed through.
Kage Ou blinked, startled, then forced a laugh to steady himself. "How many?"
"More than five." The answer came swift, the same as years ago.
Kage Ou chuckled, shaking his head. "Still clinging to that dream." He leaned in, teasing but weighted, his voice dropping an octave. "And how will you have them? Without a partner?"
The silence thickened, pressing like a storm. Língxi did not look away. His voice dropped—quiet, direct, and devastating.
"You."
The single word shattered the fragile atmosphere.
Kage Ou froze, pulse hammering, breath locked. His mind reeled. Him? A man? His partner—to have children?! A strange chill swept down his spine, dizzying. He forced a rough, nervous laugh, eyes darting aside.
"A-ah… how funny, my friend. Língxi… but how could that even work?" His tone was awkward, cheeks flushed. Dark eyes, usually sharp, softened against his will. His heart pounded into his ears.
Língxi blinked, realizing how it had sounded. He spoke so rarely; double meanings and misunderstandings clung to him like shadows. For a moment, he looked like a startled bird.
"No, no… I meant—you could help me find someone… not with money." He tapped his fingers on the table, a flicker of agitation. He paused, his gaze fixing on Kage Ou, his eyes gleaming with overwhelming affection and determination. "Someone true… I want Xiò—"
The name slipped, and he froze, realizing the new magnitude of the demand.
Kage Ou's face contorted in horror, half real, half mocking. "Wait—you mean my nephew—?!"
Língxi, cheeks faintly flushed, pressed his lips thin and nodded once. Calm, composed again—yet the lingering red at his ears betrayed him.
Kage Ou crossed his arms, feigning indignation to cover the genuine shock. "Unreal. You'd steal my stepbrother's only son. Demanding as ever… my dead brother might be mad by it." His smirk betrayed the act, but the underlying protectiveness was real.
"You're saying no?" Língxi said softly, almost like a childish demand. He knew it sounded audacious. Kage Ou had raised Xiò, he was the second Dàozǔ of the Lanxie clan, and Língxi had only grown fond of him over the last twenty years. Why now?
Kage Ou blinked, looking away, suddenly lost in thought. Originally, his attachment to Xiò was about honouring a promise to his stepbrother and about Xiò's usefulness—he was the most skilled cultivator of the clan, a key to Kage's own critical missions and the continuation of his bloodline.
"Kage… is it you or your body?" Língxi called, recognizing the distant look in his friend's eyes.
Kage Ou blinked, snapping back to reality. He chuckled lightly, almost nervous. He sat properly. "Nothing, nothing… just remembered how many cases I've left to do after today." He cleared his throat as he tried to answer the last question Língxi had asked: "Well… it's me… here… and…"
Língxi huffed faintly as Kage Ou ate up his patience. "Fine," Língxi said simply, sipping his wine, his voice settling the matter. "He's mine. But he stays here—with you."
The words didn't fall like an order. They fell like a vow. Childish, almost—but achingly beautiful. A tether, woven between the three of them, and most importantly, between them.
For a moment, Kage Ou's mockery thinned. His laugh came low, softer than wine.
"Yeah, yeah. Yours. But he stays here…"
His voice trailed, caught by the rare light in Língxi's eyes—unguarded, dreaming. For the first time, Kage Ou thought, the cold man wasn't surviving. He was reaching for a future.
And Kage Ou found himself wanting to hold that look.
The silence swelled once more, delicate, lingering—like the last note of a flute fading into the silent afternoon.