"It started right after the class ended," Hàn Zài began quietly, his voice a low, perfect pitch that seemed to cut the air in the dimly lit room.
His fingers traced the cold, porcelain rim of his teacup, a delicate, almost nervous gesture that belied the stillness of his demeanor. "The halls still smelled like burnt ink and sandalwood… a heavy, cloying scent that pressed against your lungs."
His words were an incantation, and the world around him dissolved. The subtle scent of tea and dust vanished, replaced by the long, echoing corridors of the senior wing. This wasn't merely a memory he was recalling; it was a scene he was reliving, sharp and weighted with sensory detail.
The cool, polished stone of the senior wing's floor reflected Hàn Zài's measured, silent steps. The reflection was distorted only by the high, vaulted ceiling and the faint, unsettling atmosphere of the academy.
The air was a complex tapestry of scents: the sharp, lingering trace of burnt candle wax from a late-night study session, the heavy, comforting residue of costly sandalwood incense, and beneath it all, the subtle, metallic tang left by the previous hour's rigorous blood-writing lesson. It was the ghost of effort, failure, and power that clung to the stone.
Tucked securely under his arm, the leather-bound notebook felt heavier than mere paper and ink. It was not just a prop; it was a liability, a secret, almost alive. It carried a faint, rhythmic pulse against his ribs, charged with the weight of something unsaid, something dangerous he had procured for the sake of his flawless record.
Hàn Zài's eyes, the cold, clear blue of a winter sky over a frozen lake, were sharp. He scanned the near-empty corridor briefly, his movements a study in contained tension. He was seeking any hint of undue attention, but there was none. He moved with the calm, terrifying precision of a blade cutting air.
As he reached the window alcove—his usual, sun-drenched seat—two familiar, lengthened shadows fell across the stone ahead of him. One was the sharp, dramatic silhouette of Yǐng Huō, and the other, the more familiar, solid presence of Wù Yàn.
"You're sitting at my seat, Yǐng Huō," Hàn Zài stated, his voice flat, devoid of question. He followed it with a murmur, low enough to be a private thought yet perfectly audible, like the quiet clink of dropped steel: "That's only my seat."
Yǐng Huō's laughter was a bright, brazen chime, an immediate declaration of victory. He was already comfortably reclining with a casual, proprietorial ease that seemed to melt into the alcove's stone. His golden eyes shone with mischief as he dramatically swept back his thick, dark ponytail.
"Your everything is mine, don't you remember, dear Zài?~" he teased, his tone a velvet snare of mock affection.
Wù Yàn, already occupying the adjacent seat, was doubled over, smirking and thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. His permission to tease was familial; he was the son of Hàn Zài's father's close friend, one of the precious few who could risk such impertinence without strict consequence.
"What do you mean by it, idiot?" Hàn Zài demanded. The accompanying murmur was softer, almost a wounded plea. "Didn't tell me it's about my personal things, too." He said it while pointedly looking away, a signature habit for his most unguarded and honest remarks.
Yǐng Huō chuckled. "Yes… everything means every. Thing, dear Hànie Zài. Even wives! If you have ten, they're mine too, and if it's a hundred, they're still mine too! Just don't crack the bed so I can be done properly next."
His outrageous declaration caused a sudden wave of stifled giggles among the few early-arriving seniors. Sharing a wife? The sheer audacity was exhilarating!
Wù Yàn playfully slapped Hàn Zài's back, unable to contain his mirth. "God! I'm in that contract too! Let's seal it, right?~ Somebody make a document! Where is my brush?!"
Hàn Zài huffed, his blue eyes narrowing into a sharp glare. "Shut. Up or I'll peel you like beans! I'm not in the mood for those… and forget about having my wife or anything! I wouldn't even touch one that had your marks over her body! Useless…" He punctuated the insult with a low mumble. "I'm tired after the class with those chatters… I would never even go there but for the sake of the test… now let me breathe for a while."
Yǐng Huō moved, rising with an exaggerated sweep of his hand toward the seat, a theatrical bow. "Yeah, yeah, your highness, you may sit down… Do not remove our beautiful skin from our body."
"Thank you," Hàn Zài replied through a tight, measured smile, then added in a quiet sneer, "For pissing off from my territory."
They both gasped dramatically, hands flying to cover their mouths, playing up the shock for the benefit of the surrounding students.
"Oh my God, Hànie!!" Yǐng Huō exclaimed, his golden eyes wide with mock horror.
"Stop calling me Hànie!" Hàn Zài snapped lightly, then muttered, "It's weird and annoying."
"How could you speak such a thing like that?! Didn't you remember the rule number… rule number…" Wù Yàn trailed off, genuinely forgetting the regulation he was trying to cite. He looked thoughtfully away, finger resting on his lower lip.
"Rule number 35…" Hàn Zài supplied, murmuring as he settled into his chair. "Forgot it already?"
"We are humans, it's normal!" Wù Yàn protested, crossing his arms over his chest, his face burning with embarrassment.
Hàn Zài smiled, a faint, fleeting thing, as he began his lecture in a professorial tone. "No, we are men… and men can't forget things like any pregnant woman." He continued, adopting a lecturing tone, "Rule number 35: Never say bad words to anyone."
Wù Yàn groaned, burying his face in his hands. "If you remember it, then why are you breaking it? You've just said, 'piss off'!"
"I didn't say it. I said it under my breath… and in the rule, there was written 'not to say it,' not 'not under the breath which people can barely hear.'" He said proudly, fanning himself with his hand-fan. He concluded with a soft, dismissive murmur, "It's not my fault if you've heard it."
Yǐng Huō chuckled, placing a heavy, easy hand on Wù Yàn's shoulder, watching the poor guy grumble. "Alright, alright… now back to the main topic before our own class starts. How was your teaching test, Hànie?"
Hàn Zài rolled his eyes and let out a sigh that sounded like he'd finally found clean air after a suffocating dive. He held the notebook a bit tighter as he remembered the small, hot surge of irritation when Huā Yǐng's palm had turned red after he'd slapped the hand-fan down silently but hard. Yet, he still felt confident and certainly not guilty.
"Boring," he stated. Then murmured, "Worse type test in my life… especially in that class."